What a Working Dog Taught Me

I'm not a firm believer in the afterlife as it was taught me to me as a child. I don't imagine Heavenly choirs, white robes, harps, and sandals. I'm not fond of sandals, anyhow, unless they are of the closed-toe fisherman sort.

When a pet passes, I hear stories on social media of a Rainbow Bridge out of Norse myth. Not my people or myth. I imagine something rural and slightly Middle Eastern. They'd still be wood to chop, meals to cook, chores to do, but no ticks or Copperheads (or if there were, they'd be chill and we'd all get along).

I've a vision of me arriving, in hiking boots, in the hereafter. Before an emotional reunion with my nearest and dearest who have made the journey before me, a guide would greet me. It would be my great grandfather I'd never met, Assad Nasser. I've done a lot of research and found that he lived in Hatay, in what is now Southeastern Turkey. He was nicknamed Assad, or "lion," after he and his Anatolian working dog, Arbede, meaning "work" in Turkish, killed a Caspian Tiger.  Both dog and man nearly died in the fight, but they saved their flock of sheep, on which the big cat had been preying. 

Back to the afterlife: I imagine Arbede running along the road ahead of Assad to check out the stranger, then guide me, as many stories are shared, to the place where my loved ones await my coming. Those loved ones would include all the pets that have shared their lives with me, except one.  

My livestock dog Swede would be with Arbede, to run up as I recall him running to sniff me cautiously. He'd not jump and love me to death, because for dogs like Swede, life was about loyalty and hard work, 24/7. He seemed to count the chickens in our flock, and he'd fret when something was amiss. I called him "The Worrier King," after a Warren Zevon song.

To see Swede run was a marvel. These large dogs lope but are graceful, the movements reminding me of a horse crossing a pasture. And at 150 pounds, Swede could have made a decent miniature pony. His shoulder came to my hip.

Living without Swede will be difficult. He slowed down mightily a year ago, at age 10. When his rear legs began to go a month ago, we knew it was time. The vet was lovely and Swede is now buried beside our first livestock dog, an Anatolian/Pyrenees mix named Vela. I was closer to Vela, who (100 pounds and all) climbed into my lap when I first met her. Her love for me was total and fierce. With Swede it was different. He loved and protected us, would reluctantly lick my nose, usually after a treat and calling him Arbede, but his purpose in life was to patrol our perimeter to protect our chickens. I got told he was an "Anatolian Mountain Dog," perhaps the same huge breed as Arbede. As you can see, Vela loved Swede too, right after me.

These large breeds are, first and foremost, workers not pets. On an earlier visit, our vet said "Swede is a dog's dog." He loved the outdoors and, like me, hated hot weather. Yet Swede never, in his 9 years on our farm, set foot in a building. He would sit down and not budge if we approached a door. He'd sniff around in our barn run-ins but they don't have doors. Show Swede a door, and he'd freeze solid.

We'll manage, poorly, without Swede. An adopted purebred Akbash "White Head" Anatolian named Bessie joined our pack last year, to keep our middle dog, an Italian Maremmano-Abruzzese Sheepdog Mix named Esra, company. Esra is submissive but a good guardian. Bessie looks to be the next Vela, a demanding drama queen. That said, she appears to worship the ground I walk on. That can be a burden. I think I preferred Swede's brotherly companionship. Don't tell Bessie.

As Americans are wont to do with so many other things, we infantalize our animals. I detest the term "fur baby" and get grumpy when people use it. I think of our animal companions as just that: they journey with us. My mom insisted that they have souls, no matter while a nun had just told me. What mom said about nuns generally, and that one nun in particular, cannot be typed here.

The only pity is that animals don't share our entire journey. I feel that way about humans I meet when traveling, people I know that I'd like to see the rest of my life. But then, after a day or a week, they are gone.

Maybe life is not, sorry Americans, about working until you drop at something you hate, then wanting to have endless fun in a childish way (water parks! cruise ships! How I detest that all infantile shit). Instead, what if meaning can be found in one's work, so work does not seem a chore but as natural as breathing? That is what Swede, Vela, and our other livestock dogs have taught me. There's a grace to be found in meaningful work, as compared to mindless leisure.

That picture is a favorite. When I posted it to Facebook, my former student Griffin said "Incarnation of Tenderness comforts Incarnation of Melancholy." Yes. Swede never stopping thinking about his next chore. A week before his passing, he made his usual round, slowly, counting chickens, at sunset. He vanished, very slowly, beyond the brow of the hill in his run just as the sun went down.

It brought me to tears. 

On his last day in this world, I sat with Swede in his giant dog shelter and talked to him while he ate his favorite treats. Swede and I shared his last breaths, later. But before the vet arrived, I told him to greet my ancestors, including Arbede, in that undiscovered country we'll one day find. 

If I get there before you, you'll find the firewood stacked, a humidor of cigars nearby, and the martini shaker ready. Swede will be on the front porch with me, waiting for your visit.