Sailor Man: I told him I'd be home soon

I don’t know what his name was before I got him, but his wavy black-and-white hair reminded me of a Navy deckhand, so I called him Sailor Man.

Sometimes just Sailor. Sometimes I called him Little, or Little Man, because he was little next to my 100-pound golden retriever Barklee.

But when it was just the three of us, which it most often was, I most often called him Sailor Man.

After 18 months together, our goodbyes came on quick. He was lethargic for a day and a half and wouldn’t eat. He never passed up a meal, so I knew something was wrong.

An ultrasound found a giant growth in his chest, by his spleen. They were going to do exploratory surgery on him, but X-rays showed internal lesions all over. Too many to count.

So through my tears, I said goodbye and told him I’d be home soon and we’d never have to be apart again. I truly believe that.

I had thought for years about getting a second dog, mostly as a buddy for Barklee. It broke my heart to see his sad face looking out the window each morning as I headed to my truck to go to work.

That didn’t quite work out the way I envisioned, because the first morning I left after getting Sailor, I had two heartbroken sets of eyes on me as I left. That never changed. Not once.

I didn’t plan on the timing of getting Sailor. I went to the animal shelter in Butte one day to do a story on portrait pictures they were taking of the dogs there in hopes of enhancing their chances of adoption.

They had to coax this one dog out for the shoot, a shy Australian shepherd who seemed afraid of his own feet and jerked at every noise.

That had to have come from his home life before, which could not have been good. The shelter folks said he had run away a few times, and this time, when they called the owner, he said, “Just keep the damn dog.”

I could not understand that, because this dog was the sweetest, most gentle animal I have ever known. But pondering reasons behind hardened hearts and meanness in human beings is a waste of time.

And so are they.

I thought about this dog all that night, and so the next day, knowing it was right, I went down and sprung him free. And our journey began.

It took him a few days to trust me and his new digs, and he never did get used to me ranting at the TV during University of Oklahoma and Dallas Cowboys football games. Didn’t bother Barklee a bit, for he had grown up with it for five years, and sometimes he’d flash this look to Sailor that said, “Hey, kid, don’t worry. He ain’t mad at us.”

But soon, Sailor Man did trust me. So much so he wouldn’t let me out of his sight unless he was out in the yard behind the house. Even then, as soon as I walked out, too, boom – he was at my feet.

Like all of my dogs, the only time he knew a leash was during trips to the vet. Barklee disappears momentarily at times during walks in fields or in the woods, but never out of earshot.

Sailor never let himself get out of eyeshot, and though he’d wander with delight 20 or 30 yards away at a time, sniffing as a team with Barklee, he’d always run back to me, wagging that bushy tail, wanting assurance I was keeping up.

I’d assure him, of course, and he’d dart back to Barklee to find out what he was into now. Then he’d come back and repeat that over and over and over.

Even when he was in his own yard, he wanted to know I was just a doorway away.

To test him, I once left the front gate wide open and slipped back inside, peering at him through a window without his knowing. I waited and waited and waited, and he stayed right there.

When I walked away momentarily and came back to the window, he was gone. So I opened the door to check on him, and there he was, at my feet, head cocked, looking up.

Sailor Man absolutely loved being outside. Of all the dogs I have had, I wished he – more than any other – knew the door knob principle. It would have saved us so much time.

It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, sunny or raining or snowing, Sailor wanted to be outside until it was time for bed. That’s my bed, of course, the same one I sleep in and Barklee sleeps in, all of us taking turns snoring.

Loving the outdoors came natural, I suppose, for an Australian shepherd. I often thought, “Gee, this dog wants to be on a farm. Needs to be on a farm.”

But I knew better. Like most dogs, Sailor didn’t care where he was, as long as it was with me. He was so skittish and scared of everything, unless he was with me.

So as much as my heart breaks, there is a little comfort in knowing we were together until the very end. He was in my lap, our noses touching, when he took his last breath.

I cried, of course, and will cry some more. And like I have with Barney and Cedar before him and will someday with Barklee, I will think of him and cry a little more.

And then I will think of something funny he did, something funny about him, or just remember his face, and I will smile and laugh and feel warm.

And I will go on loving dogs and make room in my heart for others, until the day I fall down forever, too. And then we’ll all play together in the clouds.

God, I miss you, Sailor Man.