Chris Nicholson's Writing Weblog
April 29, 2005 • Friday
Meet my family's Golden Retriever, Dakota.
Since joining our family in 1997, he has been one of the best Retrievers to be a Golden, but not one of the best Goldens to be a retriever; he always loved chasing anything you'd throw, but was reluctant to give it back.
Though he started slowly, Dakota became a great source of joy to my family. These are my five favorite memories of our buddy:
1. My family owns a lakeside house in North Branford, Conn. The house looks over the water from a small, steep hill, about 30 feet up from shore. During an evening snowfall in January 2001, I made one of my final visits to my family before leaving for a two-month trip to Australia. About five inches of snow covered the hill and the frozen lake. Spontaneously, my brother and I carried a sled to the top of the yard and began taking turns down the hill. We gained so much momentum that the sled glided 50 yards out on the ice.
On each run, Dakota followed. He ran next to the sled, panting, racing us down the hill. At the bottom, on the ice, he lost his traction and his legs spread in random directions as he tried to remain upright. Dakota was not a dog that would let gravity and ice interfere with fun, so he tried the descent again and again. He fell more times than not, sliding on his rear, or on his shoulder, or on his side.
Each time again he stood, gingerly, awkwardly, like Bambi learning to walk, and shook the snow from his fur. Then he trailed us on the ice, dashed back up the hill, and began the game again.
2. Shortly after Dakota joined our family, he vacationed with us at a beach cottage in Cape Cod. We hunkered indoors on a Friday evening, shuttering ourselves against a violent Atlantic storm. When morning dawned, the sun shone bright, the sky was perfect blue, and a gentle breeze rolled over the waves toward the sand.
My brother, sister and I walked Dakota to the beach and unleashed him. He ran, kicking sand in the air behind him, running circles of a hundred-yard circumference, chasing sticks, chasing gulls, chasing us.
I had wanted a Golden Retriever for years, and this was exactly how I imagined having one would be. A ideal morning with an ideal dog.
3. Though a typical Golden in most ways, Dakota was atypical in others: He hated riding in the back of my roofless Jeep. He buried nothing, ever. And even at two years old, he wouldn't go in water. The latter problem was unacceptable.
After my mother and step-father bought the lake house in 1999, my brother forced Dakota to learn to like swimming. He carried Dakota into the lake, farther off shore each time, and Dakota skittishly swam back to land. But before long, something changed: Dakota started to enjoy his retreats, and those retreats soon ceased. From then on, Dakota would swim whenever someone gave him the opportunity. (Whether the opportunity was deliberate was irrelevant. More than once a freshly washed and dried Dakota slipped from someone's grasp and promptly plunged back into the lake.)
Unfortunately for me, I didn't witness the success of the swim lessons firsthand.
The following weekend I was treading water at the end of the dock when my sister called to me from the house. When I turned, she released the hound. Dakota, seeing me in the water, hurried off the deck, sprinted down the hill, and, never slowing, ran onto the dock and launched head-first over me, landing six feet out into the lake.
Dakota rarely walked into the water from shore; he dove from the dock. And when Dakota swam, he didn't just swim in the same water as you. He swam with you. He rarely had more joy on his face than when sharing the lake with the humans he loved. When swimming, I swear that dog smiled.
4. Dakota and the lake seem inseparable. If an animal can be soul mates with a geographical feature, then it can be no less than destiny that Dakota befriended that body of water.
In January 2004, on a dark, moonless night, my brother and I skated onto the ice. Dakota and my sister soon joined us at the far end of the lake. I don't know how she discovered Dakota's love for towing, but I turned toward a laugh and saw my sister holding the dog's hips as he trotted along the ice, pulling her, on skates, behind him. We each took turns enjoying a ride, all the way back to the house.
5. We saved Dakota. I don't know what from, but he was in trouble – I believe as a product of a puppy farm and a neglectful pet store.
We adopted Dakota from the group that rescued him. He came to our home, but was reluctant to come into our house. Outdoors he was a furry vessel of vigor. But indoors he sulked. He found a chair to hide behind, a corner to cower in, a table to vanish under. He refused to interact with anyone, even the cats that, outside, he blissfully chased through bushes and around the yard. He lay motionless, expressionless, wary, weary and despondent. I don't know what trauma he experienced in the weeks before he came to us, but it left him unsociable and dysfunctional.
His first night in the house, I knew that the only way to truly rescue this dog was to love him. Though we did not discuss a collaborative effort, each person in my family embraced Dakota with continuous affection. Within days, all signs of sadness were gone. He came to trust us and to love us in return. He became a different dog – a saved dog.
Henceforth he led a life that was happy, playful, spirited and fun. Not only did he welcome affection, he craved it and gave it.
I like to remember how Dakota found joy from our family, and how he returned so much of it to us.
Dakota
March 1, 1997 – April 25, 2005
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Dakota
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