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May 27, 2016

For the Love of Gus.

lauren and gus

When you meet Gus, you won’t feel like a stranger: his unassuming welcome is one of his trademarks.

Gus is a pretty memorable fellow. Just a few weeks ago on a hike in Lexington, Virginia, an unknown fellow hiker asked if we frequent Barker Field Dog Park. The hiker recognized Gus not from his gregarious nature. He didn’t identify him from his big Rottweiler head and lithe Labrador body—he knew Gus because of another distinguishable trademark.

I wish I could say that it was a birthmark, a rite of passage from womb to earth. However, Gus’ scar did not in any way resemble a nurturing delivery from past to present.

I’m not sure why I feel inclined to soften the story to protect the feelings of the people who question the cause of the scar. I wish I could provide an affirmative explanation to the speculations I have once or twice overheard about back surgery.

But, the answer about Gus’ scar—which shoots like lightning from between his shoulder blades, down his back, spreading across his sides and ending just before his tail—is that it was caused by a harmful hand.

The bald path is hard evidence of a chemical burn.

Each night before bed, Gus playfully wriggles while I cover the scar with hefty amounts of Vitamin E. On sunny days, the scar soaks up the spray SPF 100 with which I coat it, like the day of our hike on Cold Mountain in Lexington.

Gus has a wandering nature and a roaming spirit. I must be attentive on our walks because of his overpowering strength. His shadowy physique is solid: a powerhouse of pure muscle. He tests the leash along with my shoulder socket at every moving object. Walking Gus will have you believing that the earth breathes just to create distracting movement.

If you leave the front door open, you are asking for trouble! Case in point: the day I had some friends over for some arts and crafts fun. Who knows how much time had passed before we noticed that Gus was no longer knocking over our crafts with his big noggin and kissing our faces when we kneeled to pick up the mess.

That day, I stood in the street hollering for my boy like a lunatic (no new scene to the neighbors) and soon spotted him bounding up the street towards me, spilling over with unadulterated excitement. It was apparent that he was eager to tell me all about his adventure. However, I discovered everything I needed to from the sight of his slick, greasy head and the unbearable stench of rotten fried chicken.

Way to go, Gus!

He has discovered how to hop the back fence, which has now earned him an electric one. His nomadic life seems one with which he is accustomed and he returns home only when he is good and ready, not a minute prior.

Once, after getting loose, I caught sight of him romping about in front of the house in an attempt to impress a couple walking by. They looked bewildered and as soon as I peered my head out to explain and call for him, off he dashed. “Seeing mom means the fun is over in Gus’ mind,” I explained. The couple made an amused remark about Gus’ childlike joy, which has proven contagious.

So, you might imagine my hesitation to let Gus off-leash on our Cold Mountain hike: our first hike ever. Georgie, my beagle, was also on the hike, but I had no fear in letting her free. The only reason I began to leash her was to be fair to Gus!

There were about 15 or 20 of us and my best friend and her husband had brought their chocolate labs, which were running free. When we got to the first summit at mile 1.5, I decided to take the risk.

Gus dashed to the front of the pack, disappearing out of my sight. Georgie and I brought up the rear, and on we hiked. I couldn’t see Gus, but I also could not see half the group, so I didn’t panic. But I started asking myself if I’d actually put his tag on securely and what information was on it.

Then I saw him at the top of the next hill. He stood motionless: statuesque, beautiful, breathtaking. His eyes met mine with a purposeful intensity that was sobering.

He asked my unspoken assurance, took note of my location and disappeared again into the forest.

Over and over again he did this. Sometimes he would shove against the flow of the hikers to the back of the group to find me and give me a nudge and his beagle sister big kiss before leaving again. Toward the end of our hike, his check-ins consisted of a panting tongue that hung from his sprawled-out body which blocked the trail forcing me to step over it before he rose and again parted.

This was when I realized that Gus loves me. This was when I saw that his loyalty to me was a trade bargain for the new life I had given him. This was when I understood the magnitude of my responsibility and I promised him that Cold Mountain and Vitamin E and spray-sunscreen and friends and sprawling stops and walks and greasy, fried chicken with joyful romping would all be just the beginning.

 

 

 

Author: Lauren Brown

Editor: Renée Picard

Image: author’s own

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