Kuma T. Dogue, April 13, 2002 - July 6, 2017

How foolish is it to let yourself feel love for a dog?  From the moment you bring him home, you are guaranteeing yourself eventual heartache.  

   

Kuma was the first member of the family born in the mountains - in a camper in Gordon Gulch, back when the hippies living there were old-timers - veterans of Vietnam and Korea.  Back when town wasn't so full of signs and rules and concrete and pavement.  Before law school and the Iraq war.  Before we ever made tele turns or rode bikes with disc brakes.

Kuma had a unique personality.  When he first came to live with us, he shook in my arms when I held him, and hid from me under the bed, clawing at the carpet as I dragged him out to go on walks around the block.  That uneasiness around strangers slowly subsided, but never fully went away.  It helped define his character and our relationship, as we had to work extra hard to make him feel safe and to include him in activities, and we always worried a little extra about his well-being.

Kuma's mix of breeds also contributed to his unique character.  He could be as ferocious as the fiercest Doberman.  He was as serious and dedicated to his people as the most loyal and hard-working Rottweiler.  He was playful as the goofiest Black Lab.

Kuma skied more powder days than most folks many times his age.  He rafted rivers.  He climbed 14ers.  He shredded singletrack.  He loved to swim. 

           

Kuma would snuggle next to you in his old dog-sized half sleeping bag while the tent rattled in a winter storm.  On a powder day, you'd hear his dog door slap open seconds before he pounced on the bed, nose covered in snow. In the summer, he'd come in from the creek soaking wet and save his shaking until he was close enough to douse you with wet dog smell.

Kuma mellowed as he got older, and, although he skied powder up until his 14th birthday, he also learned to love lounging in his chair by the fire.

And he grew fond of his little human brother, even though at first he wasn't so sure.

I'm going to miss the excited way he jumped into the truck, even if you were just running to the post office; the way he nudged the tennis ball toward you when you told him you couldn't reach it; his love of carrots; the way he'd fly down the trail, one side of his body a little faster than the other, then stop and turn to wait to be sure you were still coming; the way he'd sing along when you played harmonica; the way he porpoised through deep snow; the way he'd start bouncing up and down at the sound of an avy beacon switching on; the way he rested his head on your lap when you read a book on the couch; the way you could tell how he was feeling by the way he held his ears; the way his brown eyes would look up at you just to make sure everything was alright; the way he would insist on sleeping under the covers with you on a cold winter night; the quick way his tongue would dart out and get you; even the way his old toe nails tapped around the house in his old age at 4am, with achy bones, unable to sleep. 

Most of all, I'll miss that scared, shaking little guy, afraid to leave the house, who learned to trust us and became a member of the family and such a big part of the last 15 years of our lives.

How foolish is it to let yourself feel love for a dog?  From the moment you bring him home, you are guaranteeing yourself eventual heartache.  And yet, of course, while the heartache fades, the friendship remains with you for the rest of your life.