Sandy

It was late afternoon by the time the man and his dog reached the top of the hill.   Kneeling to the ground, the man laid his carefully wrapped bundle on the grass.   Standing up again, he paused to admire the familiar landscape that sprawled below.

A good part of the mile-long marsh could be viewed from this hilltop; and the man and his dog had stood here many times before.   Both were hunters; one a human, the other a canine – a Chesapeake Bay Retriever answering to the name of Sandy.   Day or night, work or play, the two were rarely separated.   Their shared passion was for the pursuit of waterfowl, and this was their favorite marsh.       

Long ago, the man had decided that one day he would dig in this spot.   Today would be that day.   Taking a shovel from the bundle, he put his back to the task.   Although the dense network of grasses resisted the effort, the roots eventually surrendered, allowing the blade to cut deep into the dark soil.   Perched atop a slope too steep for farming, the hilltop was virgin prairie.   In all likelihood, the man was the first person to ever disturb this ancient grassland.

When the excavation was complete, he laid his shovel aside.   Kneeling to the ground once again, the man gently cradled Sandy in his arms before finally lowering her lifeless body into the earth.   Although the man had had plenty of time to prepare for this day, the actual event became more overwhelming than he had envisioned.   Suddenly stricken by the reality of the moment, the man was not ashamed when tears began running from his cheek.

Several minutes passed before the man stood and began somberly closing the grave.   When the task was finished, he carefully replaced the pieces of sod he had saved, gently smoothing each plant back into place.   In the end, there was little evidence that the hilltop had ever been disturbed.

By now, the sun had set and darkness had begun to engulf the marsh.  But the man was not ready to leave this spot – at least not yet.   Time passed without notice until the sharp whistle of wings jarred the man back to conciseness.   Gazing skyward, he could not see the ducks as they passed in the darkness.    But although the flock could not be seen, the sound of their passing triggered a landslide of memories as the mind’s eye turned back to the many seasons he and Sandy had shared on this, as well as many other marshes.   They had been good seasons.   Seasons full of outdoor wonder and excitement.   Seasons that began with the sunshine of September teal and October mallards.   And seasons that ended with blasts of stinging sleet, wind driven whitecaps, and storm tossed flocks of southbound bluebills.

High on the hunter’s list of favorite memories was the blustery, blue finger morning when he and gunning partner, Bob Humberg, had huddled beside the last open air hole on Clear Lake.   Winter weather was closing in and, with the exception of this tiny opening, the lake was completely iced over and covered in six inches of new snow.   Appearing from the north, a mixed flock of late season divers had descended to the decoys and five birds had been dropped from the flock.   Sandy hit the water with gusto, making straight for a wing-tipped goldeneye that had fallen into the center of the spread.   But as the retriever drew near, the duck suddenly dove and disappeared beneath the ice.   Undaunted, the dog executed her own dive, quickly disappearing as well.

One by one, the moments painfully ticked by — each second becoming its own eternity as the dog failed to appear.   Rushing to the water’s edge, the hunters silently watched and wondered, each afraid to speak aloud what both were thinking — that Sandy had lost her way and become disoriented beneath the ice.   If so, there could be little hope.   

Then, like a giant cork bobbing to the surface, the Chesapeake suddenly reappeared.    Equally incredible was the sight of the winged-tipped goldeneye held gently in her mouth.   The retriever’s return was immediately celebrated by a vigorous cheer from both hunters.   

Even though the diving ability of a goldeneye is akin to that of a loon, the retriever had somehow managed to secure her prize.   Although neither hunter would ever know what had actually occurred under the ice that frigid morning, one fact remains.   There had never been a better day for the man to be accompanied by a reliable witness.

Time moves on — the seasons and the years passed all too quickly.  At long last Sandy began to lose ground.    Little by little, the bounce disappeared from her light footed gait; the bright yellow eyes began to dim.   The man realized that her days in the field were drawing to a close, and perhaps the dog sensed it too.   

As a working retriever, Sandy had become indispensable.   But as the years passed, the dog had become much more than a valuable aid to the hunt.  The man realized that it was the constant companionship he would miss the most — the nuzzle of a wet nose, the shared sandwich, the tail that never stopped wagging.   

Most of us have been blessed to have people or dogs come into our lives that, for lack of better words, were simply irreplaceable.   Sandy was one of those and the man suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of loss.   It was the kind of emptiness that you may have already known after sharing the out-of-doors with friends and dogs no longer at your side.

It was hard to say how long the man lingered beside that hilltop grave.  But it was long enough that the night sky had become studded with the brilliance of a million white hot stars.  Slowly rising to his feet, the man began to pick his way down the dark hillside.   Although the path was familiar, the walk to the road seemed long and, above all, lonely.   It was, in fact, the loneliest of my life.