December, the final month of the lunar year, is host to our longest night. When the winter solstice on the 21st marks the start of a hopefully snow-filled season, our heavenly hemisphere is shrouded in dark as deep as a well.
Until we look to the southeast horizon. There, the brilliant white-blue light of Sirius penetrates the night sky to outshine its celestial sisters. Located in the Canis Major constellation, the Dog Star dazzles and dances above our heads. Finally, the spectacle star ascends to its highest destination on the first twilight night of January.
Once, on a frigid December stop at the local feed store, I was attracted to a small plastic crate in the store’s parking lot. My imagination got the better of me. Before peering inside I expected to see a farm animal like a lone rooster or feral cat or maybe a wild baby raccoon!
Instead, hovering and frightened at the rear of her kennel was an innocent soft fluff of black, white and tawny fur without a tail. I queried the store owner about her Australian shepherds and the last of the litter shivering in the box outside.
After a must-see visit to the owner’s ranch, where I met the pup’s parents — a healthy cinnamon hued female and her energetic tricolored mate — I returned to the surviving puppy.
After some analytical back and forth I made a fateful decision. I bought a dog. She wasn’t a rescue because I paid retail, but I felt like I saved her nonetheless.
Dogs like Sophie possess a natural affinity for living in the moment. They seem to understand even if we don’t that making the most of every second on Earth is a critical requirement. In her dog world there was no time for revenge, hatred or malice. Good-hearted antics and joy won the day, every day. To witness and live in her miraculous reality was an unexpected holiday gift.
Our shared time was drenched in grace, curiosity, loyalty and love. It was the perfect recipe for a lifelong bond with man’s best friend. We cherished our year-round outdoor adventures, walking, hiking, riding solo or with friends.
But when it came to animals, wild or domestic, Sophie was antisocial. She showed no interest or patience for other dogs, unless it was Beau. He was her one and only canine friend.
When they were introduced on Valentine’s Day, it really was love at first sight. From that day on they were inseparable. Greetings were frontal chest bumps, followed by affectionate neck tugs. There was no stretch of white sand, flowing river or sheer mountainside they wouldn’t challenge or champion together. They loved the thrill of a good chase. Horses and cattle on the run or shore birds in flight.
But most of all they loved bouncing along the fairways in a golf cart.
If golf wasn’t an option, then a sprint to the hidden staircase at Stillwater Cove and a game of seawater stick toss was in order. Unlike Beau, Sophie didn’t ride waves or like the water. Instead, she’d wade ankle deep in scary moving liquid to snatch a just-retrieved stick from Beau’s jaw.
And while she heroically swam the width of the Green River once, she never took a bath her entire life. Mysteriously, my dog’s natural scent smelled like fresh-mown hay. It one of many special traits I still miss.
Because she was a herding dog, her role as she understood it was protecting and guarding our territory. She despised interference within those instinctive boundaries. Livestock and my favorite 6-year-old neighbor, Elias, were especially threatening to Sophie’s sense of place. Yelping at “intruders” who dared to stroll by our front yard or step too close to the drift-bark log where we perched on a sandy beach was a favorite past time.
Consequently, Sophie was selective with her human associates. Besides Beau, my next-door neighbor was one of Sophie’s best friends. Every morning she slipped over to Gig’s porch to stare intently at the glass door until she was invited in for her breakfast dog treat. A creature of habit, Sophie returned home afterwards to patiently wait by our door for any advanced sign of a forthcoming excursion. Ready to lead the way, she didn’t let a morning pass without a solid walk, hike or ride.
We covered miles and miles during our not-long-enough life together: Centennial Valley, the 910 Cattle Ranch, Carmel Beach, Asilomar, Half Moon Bay, Mount Timpanogas, the Continental Divide, Uintas and Wasatch mountains, Snake Creek, the Northfields and beyond.
Of course, the dog was not without fault. Despite her flowery aroma, she gulped newly flushed toilet water, caught field mice with her fox-like pounce and swallowed them whole, sometimes still squirming. She nervously gnawed through toggles and laces on expensive running shoes her entire adult life and inhaled rather than chewed her dog chow.
In spite of Sophie’s minor shortcomings, her ever-present radiance brightened our lives. She was nearly perfect, an Earth-bound dog star.
This Australian shepherd and protectress never left me or a friend behind. I proudly watched as my aging Sophie and her elderly friend Gig shared time together under the shade of a flowering crab tree and then how they sat on the edge of Gig’s rest home bed, comforted in mutual allegiance.
One early December evening, I noticed changes overcoming my 13-year-old pet. Her impressive strength and agility diminished. Sophie’s signature trot disappeared along with our extended outings. So instead of long continuous walks, we gladly rested in different places along the way where we gazed into the wild to soak up the wonders of our natural world.
In human terms, a lifelong bond will likely entail many decades on Earth. Not so with canines. At best, the loving relationship between man and his best friend lasts a decade and possibly a few extra years. And so it was with Sophie.
After 13 Decembers together, the unbroken bond of our shared and loving experiences came to an end. We said goodbye 24 hours after Christmas.
On that last day together. our vet Jerry said, “If God made dogs man’s best friend, why was our given time so short?” He promised to take this up with his Maker once he reached the pearly gates.
Now, when I look into December’s night sky the promise of new beginnings from a winter solstice are reflected in the brilliant presence and gift of an ever-lasting Dog Star.
Leslie Miller is the co-editor of “Reimagining A Place for the Wild” and a former, long-time resident of Park City who now lives in Midway.