You know, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, California...these places get all the press when it comes to skiing. For my money, if you're looking to terrify yourself, make your way to Crystal Mountain, about 2 hours from Seattle. There are more double-black diamond runs there than almost anywhere I can think, and it's scare-you-stupid difficult. I'm far from extreme when it comes to this, so for those on their twin tips making it look effortless it may be a walk in the park. But I distinctly remember my testicles crawling their way somewhere up near my bellybutton on more than one occasion. The thing that makes it tricky is that they hardly bother with trail markers and instead just point you 'that way' somewhere, which is fine, except you go to the left of the tree and you're loving the powder, you go to the right of the tree and you're in a chute surrounded by polite little "cliff" signs.
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Goodbye, Trudy-Love
It’s been two weeks since we kissed her goodbye, held her as she closed her eyes and was finally without pain, where she could not see us on the floor crying with her in our laps. She once seemed made of steel and muscle, able to pull me across a room in tug of war, but in just six months she lost the battle with a terribly deteriorated spine, and we did what we always promised ourselves we’d do…to never let her suffer.
Trudy was both a friend and family. We knew her from the day when I could hold her across the palm of my hand, her rump resting on my forearm. We cradled her home as she threw up over and over on the drive from the pound. We laughed, yelled and despaired as she tried our patience, ignored our commands and in one willful moment, ripped a pair of my shorts clean in two as she ran past.
If you were lucky enough to know her, she graced you with her excess fur, her submissive ‘pet me’ crouch, and if you were truly of the rarified group who she existed to love, a little piddle might be in order, even at the gallant age of 13. She just couldn’t help herself.
Trudy was our wonder dog, the stunning beauty, Frisbee catcher and first child. And she had a secret kept safe between just her, Traci and me all these years.
In some places, things like this matter not a lick, for people see beyond stereotypes and media hype. But not everywhere. Not here, certainly. And for a dog whose heart we truly knew, it wasn’t worth the mention. And so when we were asked, as we often where, what kind of dog she was—for she was obviously a mutt—we returned each time with a mix that fit her best. “She’s part lab, and part greyhound.” An excited nod would usually follow, and a glance at her long, lithe body would seem to confirm it.
Because really, no one wanted to hear they were meeting a pit bull, even one with a dominant dose of happy-go-lucky lab in the mix.
We heard the pit bull comment first at the trainer when she was a wild pup. We heard it again and again, always from people in the know. And she taught me never to fear those dogs, not as a breed (for certainly as individuals they are raised poorly and gain a poor rep).
I mention it because she deserves it, not because it ever defined her. Nothing defined her but her own love of life, her joy at a broad, open field, her maniacal reaction to the word ‘frisbee’. Her never-ending evening stare that reminded me I’d forgotten her treat. Her stoic participation in a decade of Christmas cards.
Kids come along, and they change your view on so much. Suddenly the attention shifts and priorities are rearranged, and the first child returns to being a dog. But Trudy never stopped being the baby, not for a minute, and she accepted the new role of sister with grace. To her, Ri and Ky were two more sets of hands to pat her head, and that was good enough for her.
We lost Scout two years ago. I remember coming home to just Trudy in the house and wondering if I could ever bear to see her go. The answer is no, but somehow yes. Because she was with us so long, and lived so well, so healthy and so happy, and part of the bargain on that barfy car ride home is that you’ll enjoy it while it’s here and know that it’s never long enough.
It isn’t long enough. Not by a mile. But what she got was all she wanted, and all we could give her. And I miss her too much. But I know the bargain. It was a pretty fair deal.
And should such things exist, she and Scoutie are raising hell somewhere, happy just to be.
