Not Enough Rocks

Autumn on the mountain was a sweet season. Cool, crisp nights with the smell of woodsmoke in the air, leaves turning almost overnight, darkness that came early and completely. The promise of snow was everywhere and the moon silhouetted the clouds making the night sky look like a watercolor painting.

The dogs, each wearing a bright red vest, took off down the dirt road. The little ones looked back often, making sure they kept me in sight but the retriever headed toward the pine trees like a pistol shot and disappeared into the woods. The woods had a rich, pine scent and there was much to be explored. Wildlife scampered for shelter and the leaves scattered beneath his feet - he was a big dog, colored like pale gold and wildly enthusiastic about his freedom. By the time we reached the rock quarry, he was waiting, standing on the rim, proudly barking into the wind, his fur ruffled and his head held high. As I watched, he backed up a few steps then raced for the edge and launched himself over with fierce energy. A minor avalanche of small rocks and loose gravel followed him down and without even a tumble he ended up on the bottom of the quarry. The small dogs stood at the edge and barked frantically, desperately wanting to join him but not brave enough to risk it, and finally contented themselves with chasing after sticks. For the retriever, the journey up the side of the quarry was slightly more difficult but he was surefooted and strong and made it on his second try.

The sky had turned to several different shades of pink and the sun was nearly gone as we headed back to the cabin. The retriever led the way with the little ones at his heels. They pranced and strutted along the path, tired but not worn out, happy but a little subdued. When a foolhardy squirrel darted in front of them, all three gave ferocious but futile chase and from his perch high in a pine tree, the squirrel scolded them loudly and at length.

They paid no mind, pleased that he had briefly joined their game.

The first symptoms of rage syndrome in my beautiful, golden dog appeared less than a year later. Unprovoked, he would suddenly turn on one of the other animals in a violent and deadly rage. When it passed, he was his old self again and while I knew he couldn't control it, I suspected that he couldn't remember it either. There was no treatment and we had him put down one September afternoon. I knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, and as he was given the lethal injection and his eyes closed and his breathing stopped, I felt my own rage at the injustice of it. That night, I walked to the quarry alone and threw rocks as hard as I could and as long as I
could, hoping to exhaust myself past the pain. But as Tom Hanks was to say in Forrest Gump, Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks.