(Photo credit:  Steve Aaron Photography)

He staggered for a step or two.  I saw the concentration in his eyes.  The inward scan and self-assessment.  He seemed to understand that he could not go on.  He seemed to accept it.

Afterwards, we called my son to let him know.  My wife relayed the news, while I tried but could not speak.  Later I dove into a decade’s worth of photos.  Found a special image and sent it to my son.  And began the process of reflection and understanding….

I don’t remember exactly when we first ran together (it might have been 2008), but I know precisely where we stopped — at that three-way intersection, where a steep descent intersects a carriage road.  The surface was loose shale, wet from recent rains, and I needed to adjust the fit of my shoes, which meant tightening the laces, starting at the front and working backwards.  When I looked up, he was gone.

The thick wet forest was silent.  I called his name.  The sound was swallowed up by the brush.

For a moment I waited.  Then started considering scenarios.  Suppose he was already heading home — I pictured him loose on the street and chasing after vehicles — and thought I’d better get after him.  But after running a mile along the muddy carriage road, I noticed there were no prints.  I paused.  Thought for a moment.  Then turned and looked behind me — and there he was, trotting down the mountain nonchalantly.  That a communication breakdown had occurred, I think both of us understood.  It never happened again.

Not to say he wouldn’t sprint off down the trail after chipmunks (I never saw him catch one, but my wife says he did and baby rabbits, too).  Or tear off into the forest after deer, which leapt so gracefully over the fallen trees, while he circled around the long way, whining with frustration.

Once I saw him staring into the forest.  In the distance were two black bear cubs.  “Stand down,” I told him sharply.  Mother bear, when I caught sight of her, seemed as large as a house.  He did not resist when I bent over to clip leash to collar, although I sensed his disdain, for he would have gone after the bear family without hesitation.

One afternoon we pulled into the driveway and found two deer grazing in the garden.  A falling tree had knocked a hole in the fence surrounding our house (or so I assumed) — why not let Odie chase them out the way they’d come in?  We raised the hatchback, and out he sprang.  But there was no hole.  I suppose someone must have left the gate open.

Had those deer stood their ground, it’s not clear what would have happened.  Instead they fled, but there was nowhere to go.  They raced in desperation around the yard, pursued by fifty pounds of snarling teeth and curly hair, until eventually the desperate beasts crashed into the fence and crumpled to the ground and lay there without moving.

Outside of hunting season, our neighbors explained, special procedures must be followed (they wanted the venison).  I got Odie on his leash and took him up the mountain.  On the way back, we heard the coup de grace administered — double tap, execution style.  And then again.  I have an image in my mind of a state trooper bending over to retrieve the casings.

As time went by, my hunger for the mountains grew, and Odie was often my companion.  We ran for hours on soft carriage roads in the Shawangunk Mountains and ventured to the Catskills, where the peaks are taller, the slopes are steeper, and the trails are rocky and washed-out.  In April 2015 we ascended the unmarked southern scramble to Kaaterskill High Peak, took in glorious spring skies from Hurricane Ledge, discovered snow on the summit (he rubbed his face in it with glee), made our way cautiously down the northern scramble which was still ice-slicked (he was sure-footed, while I slipped and stumbled and nearly fell).  And then we ran down the steep rocky road to the trailhead, Odie in the lead, ears flapping, tongue lolling, eyes blazing.

His enthusiasm for the mountains was boundless.  When he sensed that we were headed out — the clue might be me starting the car engine, cracking open the kitchen door, or even lacing up my shoes — he’d race in circles jumping and barking, unable to contain the excitement.

Recently I completed the Catskills All Trails Challenge, which involves covering all 350 miles of official hiking trail in the Catskill Park.  Many of these trails are mellow.  They circle around ponds, or pass by waterfalls, or meander through meadows and fern glades.  I wish he could have accompanied me, but in his later years, his strength had ebbed too far.  A year or two earlier, he still impressed people with his grace, although by this point he was past his prime.  Watching him navigate the sandstone ledges and tangled roots of the Devil’s Path, a pair of experienced thru-hikers, Heather Housekeeper and Scott Weiss, gave him an official trail name — “Mountain Goat.”

We did a lot.  Summer heat and deep snow were limiters, but otherwise Odie was out there with me in all conditions.  I remember on a cold October evening, once again descending from Kaaterskill High Peak, how we got caught in a shower of freezing rain.  Or how his eyes flashed ghost-like in my headlamp’s beam, as he weaved back and forth across a stream on the way to Blackhead Mountain.  I can still picture the wild expression on his face as we ran down snowy Bearpen Mountain in the moonlight.  I can see him prowling through wet vegetation on the saddle below Balsam — then moving out, taking point, checking out the side-trails, locating the summit cairn.  On a bushwhack up the steep flank of Halcott Mountain, through a forest of beech, hobblebush, blue cohosh, and nettle — once he got a sense of my direction, he ranged ahead, tracing out the most efficient line.  And then he came back to check on me, when I was moving slowly.  Or he’d dash back and forth between me and my son Philip, when the three of us ventured out, to make sure we stayed together.

It was in early October one year, when I woke some time after midnight to find him rummaging through the campfire ashes.  I could not fathom what he sought there.  Or why he stayed with me instead of running off.  It dawned on me how little I understood the workings of his mind.  Maybe he felt the same about me, for he had a habit of staring into my eyes when I spoke.  His pupils would flicker back and forth as he concentrated on whatever it was I had to say.

He got the message when I shrieked “back off.”  We’d stepped upon a slab of Shawangunk conglomerate and found a fat gray rattler lazing in the sun.  Or when I waved him off from a porcupine rustling in the mountain laurel.  Whenever we reached a road crossing, I would order, “stop” and “sit,” and he did so without fail.  At home he’d sometimes get rambunctious — leaping, barking, refusing to come or listen.  But in the forest, this never happened.  When on the trail, he was on a mission, and he had the mindset of a special operator.  In pictures you see me looking one way, while he looks in the other direction, making sure we have 360-degree security.

Whereas in the house there wasn’t much for him to do, but sleep and eat.  It seemed to me that this behavior is emblematic of the modern world, although he didn’t have to work or put up with distraction.

He would not give up, although sometimes he lagged behind in rain or snow.  As a puppy he did not appreciate being grabbed or lifted, but as he got older he recognized that a boost was sometimes necessary, and if he felt uncomfortable with the rocks, he’d whine to let me know he needed some assistance.  During a bushwhack across North Dome and Sherrill Mountains, we came across a ledge too tall for him to leap.  Philip reached up, took Odie in his arms and lowered him gently, with loving care.  I had a photograph of this moment, which is the one I sent to Philip to express the feelings I could not muster into words.  Philip responded that this was the same memory that came back to him when he heard the news.  He wrote that it was amazing to think of all the adventures we’d had together.  He felt so glad that Odie was able to spend his last few years in the country, where he could explore the woods by our house, bark at passers-by, and take long naps in the grass.

I went through a decade’s worth of photographs stored on Google Drive and found another image.  Odie and Philip, who was then a teenager, were sauntering along a country lane in the Catskills somewhere, lined with maples flaming yellow-orange-red beneath an electric chrome blue sky.  To me they personified the spirit of innocence and joy.

In other images, Odie embodied the spirit of the mountains.  His fierce joy burned with the fiery colors of autumn.  Or his confidence shone in cool fog swirling over shadowed forest.  With his loose easy jaunt he seemed so perfectly at home in this wild landscape.

As an older dog, he behaved with dignity.  In the presence of rambunctious pups, he kept mostly to himself, as if to demonstrate that a steady pace was more sensible than impetuousness.  On a hike in Harriman with my friend Steve Aaron and his young dog Lily, we noticed movement in the brush.  Lily froze, unsure what to do, while Odie tore off in pursuit (it was a deer).  Later Steve told me that Odie had a lot of influence on his decision to bring Lily into his family.

(Photo credit:  Steve Aaron Photography)

We never repeated the mistake of our first run.  On a steep bushwhack climb up Sugarloaf Mountain, I watched him closely on the rocks and worried, but he was fine.  On a trip up the snowy path to West Kill Mountain, he struggled with the ledges and uncharacteristically fell behind.  I praised and encouraged him, called out the remaining mileage (figuring he would appreciate the tone of voice even if the digits meant nothing to him), helped him scramble up a sandstone ledge, and felt relieved on the descent when he ranged ahead again.  In August 2018, the two of us climbed Windham.  Typically when we stopped, he’d become restless, eager to resume moving, but this time he curled up on the summit slab and went to sleep.

In July 2020, the family took a trail in the southern Shawangunks.  It was sunny and quite hot, and Odie struggled.  We stopped several times, letting him rest in the shade and pant.

After that, our adventures were limited.  I’d take him for a mile or two along the quiet country roads near our house, and while not particularly enthusiastic to be kept on leash, he seemed to appreciate that this was good for him.  During the winter, he spent little time outdoors, passing the days sleeping on the couch, rising at dinnertime and angling for hand-outs (it was a constant debate how much to let him have).  When spring finally arrived, he ventured outside again.  He’d bark relentlessly at the occasional passers-by, then find a sunny patch of grass and stretch out.  He looked so peaceful lying there, like someone who’s seen and done a lot and earned his rest.

Then that day arrived.  I watched him stagger.  That’s when I saw the look in his eyes.

My wife carried him indoors and lay him on the sofa, but he wasn’t comfortable.  She carried him outside again and laid him back down in the grass.  We sat and watched him.  He tried but could not stand.

Later that evening, he was lying quietly on a gurney, beneath a blanket, while my wife stroked his ears.  The vet had provided us with her diagnosis and briefed us on the options.  The first injection put him into a deep sleep.  After the second injection, his chest rose and fell three times, and then he was still.

In those last few months, there was one particular memory I keep returning to.  In the afternoons I’d go out into the yard to practice shooting arrows, and Odie would often tag along.  First he inspected the target, while I stood by, impatient to begin.  Then after giving me a sly look, he ventured off to explore.

In between shots, I looked up and saw him nosing around in the brush.  Then he crossed a stream on a wooden bridge which Philip and I built long ago.

I took a few more shots and looked up one last time.  He was staring into the forest.  In his eyes, there was a sense of wonder.

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