B&B Ridge

My winter slumber is broken by a dull scratching. A foggy mind catalogs the sound before I awake. A mouse has made his way in through some fissure in the old miner's berth that is my home. I sit up and swing my feet off the side of the bed, letting them test the dark path to the bathroom. They feel for a white dog that can be seen in the dark, and a brown dog that can’t. But there's nothing there. Just empty space. Both have been gone for months now.

We had one good day, the three of us, a day where sunlight struggled through a cold January haze. A breeze was sweeping across the top of B&B ridge, just enough to push the birds down into the rocky cuts. Blaze and I wove up and down canyons, looking for telltale tracks in the snow. It took longer than usual to find them, but when we did, it was the puppy who did the finding. In a congregation of hoodoos, he wheeled and pointed. My doubts in the nine-month old novice evaporated as I walked into a flurry of tawny wings, the huns shrieking as they spilled over the hilltop.  

It was Blaze’s first good covey find. He repeated the act several times over the next few hours, his finale a 100 yard point on a single airwashed chukar crouched in sage. I promptly whiffed as the bird lifted into the wind, but I had a smile on my face. I could see the years laid out ahead: this fiery dog and me, exploring every corner of a forgotten desert.   

Bailey seemed content in the warm back seat when we returned to the truck, but she was excited when it was her turn. Her wiry coat rippled as she trotted out into the wind, following the rim of a cliff. Soon, old chukar tracks wove through the dry streambed below. They disappeared, but we continued upward into sunny cheatgrass bowls.   

We were about to round a point of rocks when her ears went up. She stuck her nose into the wind, her tail wagging in anticipation. Around the corner, they flew: a dozen chukar sandwiched on a sunny bench between cliff face and arroyo. I made a rare double as the birds split over my shoulders. Back at the truck, I stripped my boots and sat in my socks on the tailgate, basking in the waning afternoon sun- Bailey on my right, Blaze on the left. The past and the future.   

By spring, Bailey could no longer run. The veterinarian couldn’t find the cause. By July, she yelped out in pain if I bumped into her abdomen. She was hardly eating, so we transitioned to wet food, then broth and meat. Eventually she wouldn’t eat at all. Then the veterinarian found a rapidly growing tumor on Bailey’s spleen. I spent every moment I could with her, hugging her warm ruff and yelling into her deaf ears she was a good girl. I did so one last time as we lay together on the cold concrete floor at the veterinarian. She looked worried, but relaxed into my arms and my wife’s hands as the needle pierced her vein. I cried and cried.  

The grief of losing such a faithful friend is only balanced by the knowledge she lived a full life, we had so many good days together. She was just a pup when we brought her home. I thought her first owners had chosen a rather silly name. No doubt some kid named her after a classmate or cartoon character. In the end, my wife and I decided to keep it. 

A name is a powerful thing. It functions as a symbol, representing a catalog of experiences, ideas, and values. Bailey’s life didn’t begin with us. Her name carried more than just our desires for her. It carried her past, her future, and the fullness of her being. How she leapt backwards for thrown snowballs. How she smiled at everyone she met. Her tenacity on birds. Her gentle peace as our children took their first steps in her direction, tottering against her strong frame.  

Blaze has power in his name too. My wife named him for his fiery German eyes, but the name came to capture more of his spirit. At first, it was all zoomies in the yard and puppy joy. In the end, it was his fire that took him away from us. The first warnings came soon after that good day in January. Our little daughter came to him for a good-night pet. He growled and snapped at her, leaving toothy dents in her soft arm and a frightened look on her face. We tried everything we could think of, but soon he was growling at my wife and I. 

And it didn’t stop there. At a holiday picnic, he tore after a small dog, ignoring our cries of fear. The family screamed, their dog’s white fur staining red from a cut. A month later, a backyard pool party turned black as Blaze throttled a neighbor dog he knew well.  

I asked everyone what we should do. Veterinarians, breeders, and trainers all agreed. A young dog showing aggression is a poor fit for a family with kids. I knew if he stayed with us it would be a matter of time before disaster struck. Blaze must live where he can be free of his fears. He deserves a chance to have a happy life. I let him go on a hot August morning. I hugged his brown neck and told him, “you’re a good boy.” I cried and cried.  

Now, months later, it’s still hard to believe I’ve lost them both, the past and the future gone in one week. Bailey and Blaze, their names are moraines, damming up the currents of our lives together. Both of them are severed from my life, but their names are anchors, carrying the story of all our days together. I wonder most about Blaze now. He still carries the name we gave him, even though I am cut off from the current of his life. His name holds the joy of our days together, the sorrow of losing him, and my hope for his future. 

I went back to B&B Ridge with a friend and his dad last week. It is a banner season, and our shots sang out over their dogs as partridge poured from the canyons. Of course, B&B Ridge is named for Bailey and Blaze. I don’t often name wild places, but this name I needed. It marks the edge of an open country, a country I wanted to explore with my dogs.  

I must shore up love and loss with semantics, even if these names carry meaning to no one but me. B&B Ridge holds one good day, a last day in the field with my dogs, when all was right with the world. It was just one good day, but in the end, that is all we ever have- one day, one here-and-now to pour love into dogs, the land and each other. All we can do is speak the names with thankfulness. And hope into the unknown.  

Images by Adrienne Tatman and Josh Tatman