A Way Forward
by Denise Hearst

I know, this is a horse magazine, but most of us have dogs, don’t we? We know what it’s like to lose them, the horses and dogs, and what we must do, each in our own way, to look forward again, instead of back.

A year ago, I said good-bye to my Australian shepherd Maddy, who had been a dear friend, companion, and great “horse dog” for nearly 16 years.

The end was as nice as such a thing could be. She and I sat on the lawn in the sunshine, eating cheese and talking about all the great fun we’d had for all those years, and about all the things we’ll do again someday.

Then the vet came and it was time to say good-bye. I rubbed her ears and kissed the top of her little head as she went to sleep, peacefully, on her own front porch with a fresh sea breeze blowing.

A year has passed during which time I felt, along with the sadness of losing Maddy, relieved of the worry and the tending of an old dog. I wasn’t ready for the next 15 year or so commitment. But at the same time, there was an echo in my house. I missed knowing that somewhere, a dog was listening.

So over some months I kept tabs on litters whose bloodlines I liked, and at last a puppy was available at the right between-issue window. A couple of weekends ago I drove the six hours to the breeder’s place near Placerville, California. Met the pup, his father and paternal grandmother, aunts and uncles, and said, “I’ll take him.”

Halfway home a question formed and tore at me. Did I really need or want another dog, or did I really, deep down, just want Maddy back? This puppy was just a little stranger in the back of the car. At that moment, choked with emotion, I pulled over at a truck stop, opened the back of the truck and peered into the crate. Two big soft eyes peered back at me. “Who are you?” I asked him. “Who are you?” he said. I leashed him and took him for a walk around the desolate parking lot, a hot, dry wind blowing. He watched me, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, while I tried to find my connection with him, forcing myself to stop comparing him to Maddy.

When we arrived home that evening, he took a tour of his new home and yard, and then we went to the barn to meet the horses. Copper reached down and blew softly in the pup’s ruff. Pup gave Copper a quick lick on the muzzle. It’s a start, I thought.

The pup, Rio (named for a New Mexico river I love), has been coming to work with me, and in the evenings he helps with the barn chores. Then it’s home for some crazy-wild puppy playtime. He’s different from Maddy in nearly every way but one. He asks, as she did right up to her last day, “What are you going to do now, and can I do it with you?”

And that’s how he answered my question.