True Companion - part 1

For ten years, Rajah has been my constant companion. In Colorado, building a horse ranch by myself, every minute of the day he ran beside me: protection, devotion and love, all rolled into one. During my college years, when I would take the summer months and travel, he slept beside me on hotel beds, snuck into the front seat every time I got out of the car, and waited politely at the McDonald's drive-through for the cheeseburger he always knew would be unwrapped and tossed in the back for him. He carried his own backpack when we hiked, for days at a time, exploring the wilds of the Rockies together. Each night in my tent I would wake and look for him only to find him sitting, half in and half out of the tent-flap door, straight and tall, like a sentinel, head moving back and forth, back and forth, seemingly scanning the night for anything that might bring danger to my door. During the days when we stayed in a campsite, he found the tallest perch - a boulder or a large, downed tree - and sat again, scanning. When we hiked, he placed himself, always, 10 feet before me, breaking the trail, the first to scare out snakes or bear or whatever danger he perceived. He's faced down bear for me, more than once, a low "wolf" to let me know, a body at ridged attention, placed between me and the tense, sniffing bear, eyes boring into the bear but no move to threaten, an unspoken shout, "This is mine! Move away and we can leave here in peace! Step forward and I will take you down with me if I must." And the bear always moved away.

He has faced down men for me too, a number of times, when we stumbled across surly or drunken cutthroats deep in the wilds, days from any help. They never gave us trouble. He stood between me and they, as between me and the bears. But this time his threats were not unspoken. Every hair stood on end and his teeth were bared like fangs out of a nightmare. A terrifying growl rumbled in his throat. No-one ever bothered us twice and I never felt afraid.

Around anything non-threatening, however, Rajah has always been a goof. His favorite game is fetch. He chases frisbees, tennis balls and sticks indiscriminately. In recent years, he searches the ranch for the best possible throwing stick he can find (often a ridiculously large, 6-foot-long firewood log) and drag it to anyone who comes by, dropping it hopefully at their feet and racing around, filled with joy, at any poor soul who actually tries to throw the unruly thing. He spends hours following me behind a horse, hours hiking by my side, hours checking out stream-beds and undiscovered hollows as we do our daily work around the ranch - fencing, moving horses, checking water lines. Always he was there. By my side. Like my shadow. Like my spirit and my soul.

Once, when Rajah was less than two years old, he saved my life twice in one winter. I was sick - very sick - and fighting the illness with all the will I had. Mind over matter, right? Surely, I - with so much passion and so much to do - could not be taken down by a mer physical body. So I fought, ignoring this body that got sicker every day. And twice I pushed myself past my endurance, refusing to give up the life I loved, and twice I was caught in winter storms, in the mountains, far from help when at last I could go on no more.

The first time I collapsed somewhat close to home. The snow in the pasture had drifted to 3 feet and more was coming down fast. I collapsed, falling forward, and was buried in the soft, cold blanket of the snow, my mind dimly trying to think of some way out of this, some way to go on. Then Rajah was there, barking, barking, barking. Right in my face he barked, loudly, viciously. The very annoyance of his insistent bark drug me back from sleep. "Go away," I whispered, "I can't. I can't get up from here." But his barking broke through again. Again he barked, that most annoying of dog barks, that one that puts your teeth on edge and cannot be ignored, right in my face, never letting up. "Ok!" I cried and tried to push myself up, tried to push myself through the snow. I couldn't - not enough - but then Rajah was there, teeth clamped to the hood of my coat, dragging, tugging, pulling me on. With little help from me, he drug me to the barn - the closest building to my fall. He pulled me into a large, warm stack of hay, and dropped his body over mine. He stayed there, keeping me warm, until I woke, finally, the next day, rested enough to stumble home.

The second time is fuzzy in my mind. I was partially unconscious for days. I wish I had gotten the story - the full story. I would have liked to know more about how he pulled it off.

I was hiking in the mountains, far up a mountain trail. I loved my mountains and refused to let this body take them away. I knew I was weak. But the snow was fresh and deep and there was nothing I loved more than those dramatic Colorado forests, covered with feet and feet of snow.

I was far from home when I realized I would not make it back. The snow had started again - blowing and strong. A storm was pouring down. Exhaustion was steeling over me like a curtain. Eventually I couldn't fight it anymore. I fell, the snow again surrounding me, engulfing me. I had a clear, fleeting thought that there was no way I would live through this storm, unprotected as I was. And there was no barn here to drag my body to. I don't remember where Rajah was. I had lost track of him, he who was always there. As my mind began to numb I wondered that there was no barking, no insisting I wake and try. Then everything went black.

Rajah was there in the woods with me that day. But how he knew that there was no-where to drag me, no safety to be had, I don't know. He left me, right away I think, maybe even before I fell. I couldn't have been in those hills for long, so he must have known immediately that he would have to go. He left me and he left the woods, and the trail we were on. He cut straight through the trees and found a highway and somehow, he stopped a car. I know only bits and pieces of this part of the story - I was mostly unconscious when he brought me help, only vaguely aware of what the man who found me said. Somehow, Rajah convinced a man, driving on the highway, to get out of his car and hike half a mile up a mountain, in the middle of a blizzard, to find me in the snow. I remember the man saying, "I just knew. I just knew he was telling me something, and that it was real. I couldn't get back in my car." He seemed as amazed and shocked as I was, almost confused by what he had done. He kept saying, "He wouldn't let me go and somehow I just couldn't. I just knew it was for real."

The man carried me home and fussed, unsure now what to do. I drifted into consciousness enough to explain my illness and say that I would be safe, now that I was home. I had friends who would check on me tomorrow. He must have stayed a while - I drifted in and out, seeing him there, looking unsure of what to do. But eventually I recovered enough to convince him that I was fine, thank him for saving my life, and he left. And I slept for three days straight, never having herd his name.

Rajah has always been there: Through my Colorado adventures, living on ranches and in remote wilderness cabins or tee-pees, with no electricity and no running water. Through my five years in Chicago, trying to finish my college degree. Through my illness that sapped everything I had, leaving me with nothing but dependence and family and him. He was always there, by my side. I never had to check - he was like a part of me. If I was sleeping, he was laying quietly by my bed. Even when, at the hight of my illness, I slept for days on end, he stayed beside me never rising to go to the bathroom, never rising to eat or to drink. If I slept he was there, beside me, until I was strong enough to get up again and he could follow me outside to play.

When I was well and strong, he hiked or worked or rode horses by my side, or in front of me really, always ten feet ahead, always scouting the trail. He played and loved and protected all that was mine. When we moved to Montana and bought our ranch - married now, it was my dream and my husband's to leave Chicago and that pace of life that seemed so meaningless to us, and find a ranch, off-grid, in the Rockies, at last. Now Dave works from home, by satellite, writing computer software for the Chicago firm he's worked for for years. I opened a business raising what I believe to be some of the finest pleasure horses in the world.

Its been heaven, give or take a few moments of hell. And because I'm me, the place has teamed with animals - chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys, sheep, goats, donkeys, horses upon horses upon horses, every abandoned cat in the county, Rajah, and two additional dogs who have come to be family within the past few years. I am forever taking on mistreated, hurt or abandoned animals, filling the ranch (often more than I can handle, I'm afraid) with all the creatures who need love and care and a safe, free life at last.

My ranch is, as I work for it to be, a haven for life and for health. Every animal here lives the freest, healthiest life I can give it. Our birds free-range over sixty acres (though with all that room, why their location of choice always ends up being our nice, relaxing - now covered with bird-poop - wooden deck, I don't know.) Our horses live in large pastures with creeks, fields and wooded hills. The goats roam free (and these days mostly choose to stand on our second story deck, adding their poop to that of the birds and eying the dog door which they know must somehow lead to the warmth and comfort they see when they - so often - press their wet noses up to the window and glare into the house which is (surely) meant to be theirs. The many barn cats we've taken in, breaking our bank to spay and neuter each dumped, abandoned, feral one, have "cat rooms" in each barn supplied with climbing posts, free-choice cat food, clean litter-boxes and dozens of boxes and baskets, stuffed with blankets. Yet still, these feral cats, eye the house, sure that somewhere the universe has created a warm, comfortable castle with ever present servants to put out the food, scratch their ears and tend the fire - as is their just deserts. And last week two of them finally made the plunge - pushed their way through the cat door and moved themselves inside.

I work all day, when my health allows. This illness is still present, though it eases a lot out here in this mountain climate, especially when I am able able to get some rest. And always Rajah is by my side. We have had dogs come here who threatened the birds or other animals. Most at least have to be taught to leave such things along. But Rajah never has.

He knows what is mine. He always has. He lives to protect that which I have claimed. That is who he is - what he is. I would trust him with my life. I would trust him with my soul. Then last week, something changed.