Indiana Bones

We’re sitting in the dirt again at the first spot Indy chose on the grassy knoll overlooking the river. Everything feels the same: that creamy yellow glow as the sun starts its descent behind the trees, the crickets chirping as the air cools, the familiar togetherness. Except this time, Indy is six feet under.

Turns out, we didn’t get our long goodbye. We had four good days followed by one sleepless night. I was picking up pizza, listening to a song a friend had texted me with the note, “Hey, I don’t know if this will help or hurt, but it’s my song for times like these.” I think we all have one of those. As I listened, Bo called. The moment I answered, I knew. He just said, “Where are you?” and as I pulled into camp, the lyric hit: Love is watching someone die. It both helped and hurt.

Indy wouldn’t eat the pizza. I knew that wasn’t good. She’d eat anything: broccoli, spinach, deer poo from the field. As a last resort, I threw a filet into sizzling oil. For the first time in her life, she refused. That’s when I knew we arrived at the end. I wish I could forget the soft whimpers that followed, but they’ve already taken root.

We made it to morning. Her vet, a former Laney camper and counselor, agreed to make a house call. He kept saying he should’ve caught it sooner, his voice full of regret. I reminded him it wouldn’t have mattered, it was incurable at any stage. He didn’t make it up the mountain in time. 

I sat nose to snout, rubbing her ears and humming ‘Twist and Shout’ when Bo put on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off for a distraction. Then Monty Python and the Holy Grail came on, and I kept humming the tune that accompanies the clanking coconuts. It felt hard, which made me think about all the times she carried me through my hard moments. So I took the chance to tell her thank you, and I started right at the beginning.

I got you for my 30th birthday, during a tough time. I think every 30-year-old says that, the moment we realize our youth is behind us. I was struggling. I needed to move, and then I saw your photo online sitting under a ‘Be Mine’ sign for Valentine’s Day. Bo said in no uncertain terms, “No fucking way.” So I did what anyone would do… I called my sister. 

Ellen and I drove to pick you up, expecting a breeder’s address but instead arriving at an Exxon. When a truck pulled up with crates stacked high, I knew I’d been duped. You smelled like every dog above you, and your ears were brown inside all the way down. The guy smirked, “You don’t have to take her,” but I grabbed you and headed straight to a self-wash. You still stunk, but I brought you home anyway.

I was nervous to bring you inside, so Ellen did. She plopped you on Bo’s chest mid-nap and said, “I dare you to say anything.” And from that point on, we never stopped moving.

There was the time you pulled my friend Claire up a waterfall trail that I referred to as Devil’s Staircase, which, for the record, it was. Why did you help her out and not me?

Or the time we did Hawksbill peak two weekends in a row because Ellen’s fiancé saw our photos and asked if we would go back because he wanted to propose there.

All those ten-hour drives between DC and Camp blur together now, but the Lexington stopovers never do. We’d wake up early, slip outside before Bo was even stirring, and walk down that same country road. You know the one with the wheat field that waved like it was greeting us. That road became our little signal that we were getting closer to the best place on earth.

You always knew when I’d close my laptop for the day. I loved the way you knock on the door from the outside with a thud and a long nail scratch to signal it was time for our walk around camp. 

Bo gave you a car ride every single day, and whenever he was out of town, that job fell to me. I loved your dramatic huff if I took too long tying my shoes after announcing, “car ride!”

I loved waking up with you the morning after our wedding, sneaking out to get Bo coffee, and walking the brow trail above the clouds.

Thank you for helping me move. I tried to return the favor the best that I could, even when you huffed at the ramps we built after your hip dysplasia diagnosis or at the help-me-up harness I used for your last golf cart ride around camp. In the end, I helped you move in the way you helped me. It’s the lesson you taught me: keep moving, even when it hurts.

Moments after I whispered her these thank yous, she put her head on Bo’s knee and took one last breath as I said, “She looks happy.”

The prompt for today was go outside for fifteen minutes, at sunset if possible, and pay attention to nothing but your immediate surroundings. Write down what you see and what it makes you think of.