A Letter to My Dogs

Story and Illustrations by Christopher Smith

I admit that I’ve always talked to my dogs. I suppose we’re all guilty of that. But at one point or another, we’ve all probably wished that they could talk back to us, or at least understand us on a conversational level. That feeling is 10 times greater for those of us who own bird dogs that share our hunting passions. My Labs have always had their own “voice,” which is obviously nothing more than my interpretation of what they’re thinking (but, judging by their behavior, I think I’m pretty close most of the time).

I have no doubt that their perception of me and what I’m saying—even through a limited vocabulary—is spot-on. Frankly, I’ve always felt that my dogs get me more than most of the people in my life do, some family included, and I’m strangely OK with that. In fact, I prefer it.

Considering the capabilities of some breeds, we probably underestimate what dogs understand. After all, some dogs can smell a body submerged in a river or buried in an avalanche. Others can detect when someone is about to have a seizure. Specially trained dogs can open doors, turn knobs, and assist with crossing busy traffic. Many are ferocious protectors. And when a hard day gets us down, a dog can console us in a way no therapist can. Some will even get you a cold beer from the fridge. I mention all of this to help me justify what I’m about to do . . . write a letter to my dogs. One is a 15-year-old black Lab nearing the end of her life, and the other is a six-year-old yellow Lab in her prime.

Dear Mabel and Ruby,

I’m not sure why I’m writing this, since no one will read it, but each of you will hear it when your last day is imminent. Maybe, if I can stretch the fabric of our perceived reality for a brief minute or two, you’ll be able to understand.

Because I’m a guy who works at home painting and writing, I spend more time with you than anyone else does, including my wife. I’ve been there through your best and worst, and you certainly have seen my highest highs and lowest lows. This letter is spurred on more by you, Mabel, because you’re 15 and at the “any day now” stage that all owners reluctantly accept, like an unwritten agreement from the breeder stating that I acknowledge that I’m departing with a puppy that will someday crush me in a way I didn’t think possible. You are dogs, but you yank from us every conceivable feeling.

While you both rely on me for the basics, there’s one bond that will forever link us together: waterfowl hunting. If it’s my true sporting passion in life, then I can only imagine what it means to you, with few other distractions except your next meal or a chance to water the roses. We’ve spent hunts together with hardly a word being said, just two “beings” soaking up every second from our few hours in the marsh.

Ruby, you’re six and everything a duck hunter could ask for, despite my lack of hard-core training. At my age, I’ve boiled down what I need from a retriever to just a few simple things. Retrieving is actually not at the top of that list. Instead, the most important attributes for me are a good buddy in the blind who is quiet and likes to watch the sky as much as I do, who travels well, who takes the occasional post-hunt nap with me on the couch, and who protects the family when I’m not home. You fetch the birds that I shoot, of course. And you do that exceptionally well, thanks to your breeding, and not because of any skill of mine as a trainer. Even though you’ve had your share of incredible retrieves, I enjoy you most when you’re sitting next to me in the blind.

Mabel, you came along as a young whippersnapper and shared our home with a yellow Lab, Libby, who was very old at the time. You spent your first year raising all sorts of trouble. Libby was the first dog our kids ever had, but she passed before their “age of memory,” making you the one they’ll remember as their first dog and the Lab of their childhood. You raised them with patience and kindness, never lifting a lip when they hung on your ears or stepped on your paw, even though I’m sure you were annoyed at times. They learned to love dogs because of you.

But the march of time doesn’t spare any of us, and one recent day you woke up and just seemed somehow older. The whole family noticed it, like a little bit of life was stolen from you one night while you slept. Your gray face and muzzle grew whiter, your ribs showed a little more, the spring in your step wasn’t there on our morning walk. And lately, we’ve noticed other signs of the downhill slide that all old-timers—human and canine—begin taking on the road to what’s next. You were never as affectionate as your yellow counterpart, but lately you seem to be needing more attention from us, and I wonder if you sense what’s coming. I’m afraid I’ll be reading you this letter sooner than I had anticipated.

Ruby, barring anything tragic, it will be many years before I read this letter to you. You’re middle-aged, that perfect blend of training and experience that results in a working machine that is all companion—no teaching, no babysitting, no reprimanding—just hunting buddies in the purest sense. But having driven down this dirt road several times with a handful of Labs that helped me learn what I’ve taught you, I know your time will also be over much too soon. I try not to dwell on it, because it makes no sense spending these perfect moments thinking about when it won’t be perfect anymore.

Mabes, I’ll never forget when you hopped out of the truck and tragically “yipped.” Because you blew out your knee that day, I never had the chance to hunt you and Ruby together. That injury essentially ended your career, because the best thing I could think of to prevent you from going through that kind of pain and recovery with the other knee was an early retirement. You always meant more to me as a family dog than a retriever. I did take you on a couple of hunts over the next few years after you had pitifully watched me from the front door, not understanding why you were left behind as I drove away in the dark. But when you labored bringing back a beautiful greenhead, I knew it was your last retrieve.

The end of your career was the beginning of Ruby’s. I hustled to get her within months of your injury. At the time, I wished that your injury had never happened, but things always turn out as they are meant to, and today I can’t imagine that Rubes could have ever belonged to another family these past six years.

You seem content these days to lie on the deck and breathe in the east breeze from the orchard, or amble around the yard with your favorite bumper. You never chew it or even readjust, seeming satisfied to simply walk with it. I always wonder if it makes you feel like you’re hunting again. Or if you’re remembering better days when everything didn’t hurt and we ran around the country chasing every duck and goose we could. I’m going to miss you, old gal.

If there’s an underlying purpose to this letter, it’s gratitude. I’ve tried to articulate what you’ve meant to me, though I’m afraid that’s not possible. You’ve understood me on a level that no one else has, and you’ve shown your love in every way a dog can—greeting me with wags and wiggles and lowered ears when I walk in the door, sharing a doughnut in the blind, licking my ear as we drive down country roads looking for ducks, protecting my family, and curling up on the couch at the end of the day.

You’ve been right there beside me over the last 15 years, never hesitating and always true, and I just want to say thanks.

Postscript

Mabel, I’m reading this to you while standing by your grave. You died three days ago, and I can finally muddle through it without stopping. We put you on the hillside by the shed, your favorite place when you were not in the blind with me. It’s where I store all the decoys and gear and everything else a waterfowler needs a shed for, and you loved it for the same reason I do—the smells of duck hunting. When I couldn’t find you around the yard, I’d always look there first, and I’d find you sniffing around or lying on the ramp. After a long day chasing ducks, I’d open the big door and start cleaning whatever we’d shot, and you’d come over, exhausted, and flop down next to me. Sometimes you’d sneak off with a mallard or a wigeon and begin plucking it on your own. Even though I always told you to stop, secretly it made me smile.

We’d sit there together on cool fall evenings, each quietly listening for the far-off honks of migrating geese or the feed chuckles of a few mallards heading back to the big water.

Thanks, Mabes, for everything. Until we meet again, it’s OK to whine softly on the next flock of bluebills; just remember to stay steady. I won’t be far behind.