Losing Kate

Meet Marty. A seven year old hound mix Duncan and I could not leave at the shelter.

I was hard at work scrolling the Atlanta Humane society website when I came across his scraggly profile. He was described as loving people, good with cats, and missing a lot of hair from an untreated skin condition.

So naturally I sent the link to my husband who promptly told me I was playing with fire. He also said we couldn’t talk about him at home because it was too dangerous.

We then talked about him at home every day for a week. At work I kept refreshing the link to his profile, not knowing if I wanted it to disappear or stay live.

We always knew we were going to get a dog, but assumed we would wait until moving to Maryland when we will have more money, time, and space. But this dog seemed like he could slot perfectly into the life we already have.

So on a Friday after work, we drove through the city to see if he was as perfect as he was described.

He was out when we arrived so we walked around and looked at the other dogs. The puppies jumped for our attention. The adults looked up with sad eyes. A 4-50 year old chunky chihuahua mix let out an ancient lamentation for his lost war-time comrades.

While all pulled on my heart-strings, none made me feel the need to drop two hundred dollars at PetSmart to prepare my home.

And then this crusty, old hound came sauntering down the hall towards the visiting room. He walked up to us with sniffs and stray licks to the face.

And with every answer, he was proving to live up to the high expectations we had built.

Somehow, we managed to leave him there when the shelter closed. We went home, called my parents, and knew we were going to cave.

The next day, we arrived at the shelter ten minutes before it opened. There were two other groups waiting. We all hovered by the door wondering who the other was here for. I was fairly certain no one was coming for our patchy dog, but that didn’t put me at ease.

Luckily, no one was in line for Marty, and after thirty minutes of paperwork he was in our car heading to his new home. Still in disbelief that we got a dog, we watched him padding around our apartment, sniffing the doors that held back our cats, and plopping down on the couch.

Slowly it became more real as the cats began to interact with him. We did our best to introduce them slowly, but Opie jumped the gate deciding for everyone that it was time for a face to face meeting.

After only two weeks, they were able to spend unsupervised time together. When Opie was cuddled in my chest, Marty sleeping between my legs, and the knowledge that Coco was doing whatever it is Cocos do at night, I really believed that this was my life.

And then we planned to do with Marty what we had always dreamed of doing with a dog. Go camping.

We bought new gear. A mattress for us, a tethered leash for him, and booked two nights at Red Top Mountain. We had been two times before, but never in such style.

We hooked him up to a tether and got to work setting up camp. He wandered around tangling with all our new gear, confused by his surroundings. He was still pacing, sitting by the car, and watching the road as we roasted hot dogs over the fire.

We watched him, worried that he wasn’t having any fun. Eventually he settled on his new outdoor dog bed as we exchanged old camp songs from summers long past.

Eventually we climbed into bed on our plush mattress and layers of blankets. Marty settled between our legs.

He woke up the next morning a little more at ease. He went straight to his bed outside, only getting tangled in our camp chair twice.

After a leisurely breakfast of Greek yogurt, PopTarts, and the NYT games we still inexplicably play, we set off for the trail.

We chose to head down a mile long out-and-back hike along the peninsula. He kept his nose to the dirt, picking up scents imperceptible to us as Duncan and I played word games.

We sat at the end of the trail, looking at the water, eating pringles, and watching Marty continue sniffing around. We enjoyed the sun, even if it was a little too hot for September.

After making it back to the visitors center, we drove to a boat dock, set out a blanket, and ate our lunch—peanut butter sandwiches, Cheetos, and hard cider.

As we leaned back to look at the clouds, Duncan and I agreed that we were perfectly content.

As the sun crested past its peak, we headed back to our campsite, a little unsure of what to do with ourselves. It had only grown hotter even as the sun began to dip. I tried reading in the tent, but even with the fly off, the sun was baking our little bedroom. Marty laid at my feet, still panting in the heat.

We eventually ventured a little ways into the woods to get into the shade. But even in the shade, Marty was still laying on his side, panting.

As the anxious pet parents that we are, we started frantically looking up the differences between heat stroke and heat exhaustion.

After prodding his gums and dumping water on him, we brought him to the car and blasted the AC. It was still muggy by the time his breathing began to settle. And there was nothing we planned on doing.

So despite the gear, despite the desire to be better campers, when your dog gets hot, you go home.

We probably could’ve stayed. Marty probably would’ve been fine after cooling him down. But what’s the point?

We had already had our perfect moment on the trail. He had already slept next to us in the tent. What was another night if we would just be worrying.

Ten years ago, I was living out of a backpack for eight days at a time in the backcountry, and now I’m going back after one night because my dog got a little warm.

And what a blessing that is.

I do want to go on long trips again. There are things you can’t see from a car campsite that you can with a backpack. But I also don’t get to enjoy my senior dog’s first taste of whipped cream and peanut butter from the peak of a Colorado mountain or the coastal trail of Lake Superior.

So Marty may make me worse at camping, but life is so much more than being the best at something that isn’t a competition. That won’t stop us from taking him back out when fall finally descends on Atlanta. And even if we still can’t make it two nights, I’ll still treasure what little time we have.