Journey sheds even through her turds.  Her droppings throughout the yard are packed with bleached golden retriever blond hairs.  The day to clean them off the lawn is carefully chosen – enough spring sun to convince us the task is pleasant; warm enough so they can be pulled away from the sod; cold enough that they remain frozen and are easily removed with a rake and shovel.

Cleaning dog turds strikes Bob and me as a distinctly urban task.  With thousands of acres behind our house, canine ablutions are traditionally addressed on morning hikes.  Yard elimination is generally only for urgent situations.

But Journey is an urban dog.  And a car chaser.  She lived in Cobleskill with a fenced yard, and chasing cars from inside the safety of her fence was one of her great games.  When our friend Ron got sick last summer and couldn’t have a dog while going through his treatments, she moved up here and joined our pack, bringing our canine count to four.  I was indignant at the idea of a fence.  And Ron’s illness, in my mind, was temporary.  

It was temporary, in that it took his life in nine weeks’ time.  And we were left with a golden retriever who rolled in mud puddles, stole yarn from my knitting basket, stole socks, shredded her toys to messy bits, knocked over furniture, refused to come when she was called, and tried to flatten and hump me every morning when Bob and I would sit down in the woods with our coffee.  

The addition of a dog to our house was only one of the many disruptions brought on by 2020: Closing the cafe, then opening the cafe, then closing the cafe; leaving our farmers’ market; losing processing, losing suppliers…. Corey, Saoirse’s 18 year-old-boyfriend, moved into our guest bedroom in need of a job and some support in completing a high school diploma.  Then Kate, our herd manager of many years, gave notice that she was moving away to start her own farm.  We were devastated.

Soon after, during the spate when the cafe was open, a young couple, Jenn and Nate, showed up on our patio.  With few customers that evening, Bob and I had time to visit.  Then Mom and Dad came down and joined us.  Over beers, we learned they had the small farm dream.  I quipped that we could get them started straight away with Kate’s looming absence. 

Jenn and Nate didn’t waste time.  They offered to start in September.  They were willing to come live above the cafe.  Suddenly, against Mom’s, Dad’s and Bob’s judgment, I pushed them off.  It wasn’t that we didn’t need the help.  The kids were great help, but they needed time to be kids, too.  With Kate’s departure, Bob and I were working seven days per week between the cafe and the farm.  

I can’t understand my resistance fully.  But I think it had to do with the whiplash of the preceding six months, most especially coping with the loss of Kate, who I loved like a sister, and Ron, who I loved like a father.  

I could take one look at Jenn and Nate and see what they needed: community, a sense of belonging, mentors as they started their path.

But I could also take one look and know what would happen.

Bob and I will love them.  We will come to see them as family, as we did with Ron, as we did with Kate, as we’ve done with so many people passing through this community. We hold them fully in our hearts, and when this place stops fulfilling their dreams, they slip away.  Or they just die on us.

I envy people who pack up and move every five years, following jobs and dreams.  I fantasize they have a lighter grip on their relationships, letting friendships flow in and out of their lives, leaving before people get sick and die, leaving troubles behind, never having to settle in with the pain of being left behind.  When a single town is home for the entirety of one’s life, that pain is always present.  And in the upheaval of 2020, it became too much.  I didn’t want to make any more room in my heart.  I made it difficult for Jenn and Nate.  I didn’t offer housing.  I only offered weekend hours.  Take it or leave it.

By September they’d rented an apartment in Cobleskill.  By November they’d put an offer on a house with seven acres near the farm.  In spite of masking and social distancing, they wore me down with their steadfast commitment.  And in December, they asked if they could adopt Journey.  We agreed, but they weren’t ready yet.  Delays with the house closing meant she’d be with us a few more months. Jenn came throughout the winter to take her for walks so they could bond.

It should have been easy to look at this stupid golden, with her matted turds and her mouth full of yarn and socks, as someone else’s problem.  But here she was, one more spirit in my life, and once more, I fall in love.  Bob puts portable fencing around the yard to keep her safe.  Every morning as Bob grinds the coffee, she takes to serenading us with  a special song:

A wooo wooo woo.  

After, I stand from my desk to greet her, and she pushes her head between my knees and stays there, pulling any worries from my body, replacing them with adoration.  When she moves away, we sing the song together:

A woo woo woo woo.

And I get just giddy from it.  We dance around the house, singing, my voice offering lyrics to her tune:

Oh, I’m just a Journey dog

Here to sing for you

A doot do do do do, doot do do do do..

And then she choruses again

A woo wooo woo.

And on our walks, she learns to sit when we get to a certain spot in the woods, where I remove her leash and she can run.  When we sit in the snow beside the frozen stream, I clip her leash back on, and she learns to lean against me quietly for pets, or run and play with the other dogs.  She stops knocking me over.  On our return, she comes back to a special spot to await a leash once more.  

We learn to live together.  We come to love each other.  

The closing happens.  The move begins.  And after each update from Jenn and Nate, I find myself wrapping my arms around that stupid golden’s neck, burying my face into her fur, wondering if I’m doing the right thing.

It’s happening again.  I am falling in love, and I am going to be left behind.

Seeing our growing attachment, Jenn and Nate offer to let us out of the deal.  

One could argue that, in a family with three dogs, three kids and two cats, another dog is just too much.  One could also argue that, in a family with three dogs, three kids and two cats, another dog is easily absorbed into the menagerie.  

Neither argument holds much sway.  Instead, as late winter breaks into spring, one morning while out in the woods, as Journey comes dashing to the sound of my voice, I understand. 

Jenn and Nate are starting their life together.  And Journey will be their first dog, their absolute focus.   If she stays with me, she will be a good dog.  But in their home, she is going to be a great dog.  It’s my job to let her go.  She has a special destiny.

And that’s when I grasp it all, just a tiny bit better.  Bob and I are in place, tied to the woods, the water, the farm, the cafe, each other.  That’s just who we are.  We stay put.  And people and pets are going to go in and out of our lives as long as we stay here.  And it’s our job to love.  It’s our job to feed, care, listen and let go so that each spirit can follow their calling.  And it’s our job to remain still so they can find us once more if they need to.  Like Journey, we, too, have a special destiny.  And until it’s our turn to travel on, when the next soul is in need of a place to call home, we need to be ready.

So we let her go.  And we clean the yard, then turn our attention to cleaning the cafe to make ready to re-open and welcome whatever comes our way this new season.  But later that day, Jenn and I meet up for a video call.  She’s in her new house, and I see Journey’s tail wagging behind her.  She points the phone at her so I can see.  I call out to her.

“Sing me the Journey song!”

And she does.  A woo woo woo wooo.

And there’s laughter and joy in their home.  And that makes me so happy.