A Year from Hell (written 8/31/24)

As the car pushed north toward Omaha, I leaned back and tried to ignore the ever-present threat of tears. They were never far from the surface. It had been a horrible year. I had lost three dogs, three cats, and a goat with her unborn babies. There had been some discussion as to whether or not I should even keep the goats, or whether I should just sell off the entire herd.  My dad had been diagnosed with a serious liver condition. I had finally slogged through an episode of COVID, a scourge I had somehow managed to avoid for four-and-a- half years. Several of my long-time friendships had faltered and grown cold.

There had been bottomless pits of despair. There had been hard questions, and no answers. Every day of this summer, I had found myself asking what the point of it all was. Getting up and going every morning, only to face yet another day, and yet another, and another, of sorrow and exhaustion and depression like I had never known. Rage, agony, thoughts of ending it all.

There had been tears, and bitterness, and more tears. And then again, still more tears.

I don’t usually talk about sad stuff in these blog posts. But you deserve to know where I have been for the past six months, and I need to tell you. Not just for the share factor, but so that you can get a glimpse of just how dark it had been.

I needed some light. I needed a victory, and I needed it badly.

We pulled into a parking spot at the Companion Dog Club in Omaha, and from the second we walked into the building, it was one of those dog shows when everything went right. That kind of dog show day doesn’t happen very often. I’d say maybe once every ten or twelve years. But this time, I got one.

For starters, we arrived at exactly the right time. Then, Tassie went potty almost as soon as she hit the grass, something which rarely if ever happens at a show. (She is a dog who likes her privacy!) We were assigned the very first seat in the very first blind, which meant that we were first in the ring. That translated to almost no waiting, less stress for me, and leisure to watch the other competitors run their dogs.

And then, it was ring time.

Tassie hadn’t done a barn hunt trial since our disastrous performance in Springfield back in February. She’s been stuck in the Open class for about a year now, mainly because it has not been a good year to travel to events.

So, here we were again, stepping into the start box, and she was on her game. I could feel her calm, intense focus, and her fast-wagging tail feathering against my left leg. I slipped off the lead, handed it off to my mom, and bent down for just a second to remind Tassie what we were doing. She froze there listening, listening, and then: “Go get that rat!” I told her, and she was gone.

It was another of her beautiful runs. All over the course, all over the bales, very business-like and on task. She slammed the first rat tube within about thirty seconds and gave me a good, strong alert so there was no question what she had found.

A galloping climb onto and over a stack of bales, then she had pounced on the second rat tube and let me know about it. Scratching and pawing and rolling that tube, and yes! That was two out of two rats found, and she had ignored all the decoy tubes without a second sniff.

That only left the tunnel. I sent her to it, she hesitated, bounded onto the top of it, flashed back down , looked into the darkness again, and took the plunge.

It was a qualify. In fact, it was a gorgeous qualify. Not only was she truly working and obviously hunting, but there was also a tangible sense of partnership between dog and handler. Between Tassie and me. The Open class provides a total time allotment of two and a half minutes for each dog to complete all elements of the class. Tassie blasted through her run in one minute, twenty-two seconds. She took a first-place ribbon and went high-in-class. And she gave me the dazzling boost I so desperately needed to get through another week.

That’s my girl! I still hurt every day over this terrible year. I still don’t have any true answers to most of the hard questions. There are still mornings when I wonder if I can really stagger through the next few hours, and nights when I fall asleep fighting off waves of despair. But whenever I get to that cliff edge, I remember a special afternoon in Omaha, with a very special little dog. I remember the hope, and the taste of joy. And I know I can go on a little longer.