Gunnar left us yesterday. Stubbornly and strongly, as was his way. He was 14 years old. With how hard and fast he lived, and all his injuries along the way, we never thought he’d make it to ten.

We all miss and grieve the loss of our pets, usually claiming “he was the BEST.”

This one was not. He was the hardest. But maybe that’s what made him so engrained in my heart. 

He was the black sheep, in wolf’s clothing.

He wasn’t easy. As a puppy, he was kicked out of obedience school. When we managed to get him into agility class, the other participants would quickly kennel their dogs when Gunnar was out.

He travelled as far south as Esquel, Argentina; as far north as Deadhorse, Alaska

That crazy dog joined me on all my crazy adventures except the last, where for four months he sat on the porch and waited for my return. I returned.

He put on a lot of miles, but didn’t make a lot of friends. 

Other dogs would bark at him, fight or run away. People were more likely to cringe, keep their distance, and shake their head.

He didn’t win popularity contest nor blue ribbons but put on more miles and had more adventures than any dog I know.

Big and loud in body and spirit, he was the fearless heart, and I loved him for that.

He had courage, grit, gusto, and more inner and outer strength than any dog I’ve ever known.

He wasn’t warm and fuzzy, did not like to be touched, but was always somewhere not (too) far.

He’d try anything, go anywhere, and you couldn’t lose him on the trail, though there were times I wished I could.

He was a pain the ass, head strong, stubborn, and never truly tamed no matter how I tried. I tried. He taught me more about dog training than I ever wanted to know.

They say dogs mirror their people, at least that stage of their lives, as we each usually have many. I dunno about that. All I know is I think I’m relieved this part of me is behind. He was my empty nest, menopause, and many moves dog.

Somehow he was my soul mate.

I never want one like him again, and may never love one like him either.