A Friend Is A Friend

Dear friend,

These are the days we live for.  It’s a perfect August afternoon and Atticus and I are sitting out by the garden under the shade of the trees.  I’m on one of the Adirondack chairs and he’s on a folded blanket.  We’re both as filled with contentment as can be.  Just a few feet away the crawl of the pumpkin vines appear to be headed in every direction and the tangle of bright wild flowers is perfect for our humble backyard.  They’re also a good place for old Will to trundle through causing butterflies, bees, grasshoppers, and dragonflies to take flight.  But not right now. He’s inside listening to Beethoven, snoring blissfully away, and dreaming (I imagine) of the life he now has, and not the one that abandoned him.

From time to time one of the chipmunks that shares the rocks around the rustic property scurries to the top of the nearby stonewall, picks up a morsel of food I’ve left out for them expressly, and sits on his hind legs like a prairie dog and watches us.  Atticus returns the gaze and happily we all look at each other while the chipmunk nibbles away. 

Why feed the chipmunks? I must admit that I never did before I moved to Jackson. Atticus and I were in the former library listening to an old Yankee complain about what chipmunks were doing to her garden.  So she filled an old bucket three-quarters full with water, floated a handful of sunflower seeds on the surface, and placed a small piece of narrow wood across the top of the bucket, lining it with more seeds. The chipmunks followed the trail of food and then found the jackpot floating in the water.  When they reached down to get the bounty they fell in and drown.

Although that old woman is very kind to me, we don’t give her much attention.  Instead we give it to our chipmunks and that’s why I feed them.  I’m trying to balance her out.  For some reason I get the impression the little critters know they are welcome with us because they sit and watch us all the time. This morning when I cradled Will in my arms after he had gone to the bathroom, one stood on a high rock just three feet away watching us.  When I moved closer, the chipmunk leaned a bit closer to look at Will. 

“He can’t walk up the stairs on his own,” I said.  “Have a nice morning,” and then I carried Will past and the chipmunk watched us go up the stairs.  (So you see, I not only feed them, I talk to them.)

If we get lucky enough, we’ll see a bear, maybe two.  I don’t think they come looking for what I put out for the chipmunks since the portion is so small, just enough to offer them a gift and to apologize for the actions of your Yankee neighbor, who everyone but the chipmunks seems to like. 

The breeze is gentle and it sends the leaves whirling and turning on the trees. Birds sing, a bee buzzes by us occasionally, and I noticed Atticus licking his paw.  But it wasn’t the one with the three toes.  It was his whole and healthy paw.  Not the one where the digit was amputated because of cancer.  I wondered how that new-look foot would feel today.  It’s only twenty days post amputation and yesterday was an active one for us.  Well, relatively active.  Compared to the last three months when we haven’t been able to hike, it was a big day…just not compared to what we’re used to doing. 

Friday was Atticus’s first chemo treatment and as is the case with chemo, it’s a crapshoot.  Many will say that dogs handle it far better than humans and from what I’ve read they do, for the most part, but it’s still poison being pumped into the body to kill fast-growing cells and one never knows.  Before that first treatment we prepared for the worst and hoped for the best.  We got the best. 

That afternoon Atticus was a bit lethargic but by Saturday morning Atticus and I walked a good flat portion of the Bryce Path.  Later in the day we walked for two miles on the same trail.  By the end he was tired and happy to be back at the car, but it was clear he was also happy to have returned to the woods and the soft paths carpeted with red pine needles.  Sunday we got out for two more walks but they were gentle and Atticus wanted to take it easy.  By Monday he was hopping around and happy.  We took three walks for the first time in months and the total was between four and five miles.  On Tuesday he seemed fine. 

Watching him closely and realizing Atticus never worries about saying he’d rather turn back than go on, I decided to take him to the Black Cap trailhead.  We started out early in the morning on the path we’ve walked a hundred times.  We took it slow and easy and on the way up Atticus stopped far more often than he ever has.  He stopped and panted, his tongue out, his lungs working to move air in and out. 

“You want to go home or keep going?”  I say this to him whenever he is tired.  He knows how to head for home when asked, although he doesn’t chose that option very often.  Yesterday, each time I asked him, he looked me in the eyes, took a pause as if he was trying to decide what he could do, and then moved forward. 

For all the trails, all the miles and mountains we’ve traveled together, I think this is the first one we’ve ever walked up side-by-side.  This was his hike and I let him set the pace.  We drank a lot of water along the way.  At the fork where left will bring you to the summit in three-tenths of a mile or right will get you there in half a mile (but it’s easier), we went right – as we always do.  Slowly we moved together like two old friends just happy to be with one another.  From time to time I sat down on the trail next to him, poured him some water, and he drank.  After he drank, I drank from my bottle. 

Halfway up that longer but easier route we stopped at the hidden ledges with the view to Chocorua, Passaconaway, the Moats, and other faded peaks.  We always stop there to enjoy the panorama.  The ledges aren’t really all that hidden but most people pass them by in their hurry to get to the top.  For us though, it’s one of our favorite places, this little hideaway, and yesterday was perfect.  We sat next to wild blueberries bushes and I picked them and we shared.  While I continued to eat he walked away from me, to the middle of an opening in the trees, and sat down and cast those eyes of his out toward the ripple of mountains on the horizon.  I heard his trademark sigh, saw his body relax, took a photo of it and sent it by text to you, and finally let you know what we were up to. 

It wasn’t long before we returned to the trail and made our way up that curl of earthen path that wraps around the western slope of the mountain.  Summer was in full swing and just above the high brush tops of mountains were visible as were an armada of floating clouds sailing the blue sea of sky.  We continued on side-by-side, moving slowly.  One last time before getting to the top I stopped to offer him water but he refused it. Instead he moved ahead of me. 

In the beginning years of our hiking when it was clear we had a mountain to ourselves and we neared the top I used to say, “Do you want to say hello to the summit?”  He’d look at me and then spring forward.  Not quite a run – more of a happy trot – and he’d moved quickly and for the first time leave me behind.  I could see him ahead of me sitting on top of the mountain while I was still climbing.  These days I no longer say it because he does it on his own, but I didn’t expect it yesterday, not with the fatigue and the cancer and the chemo, but that’s exactly what he did.  He bounced along, his ears flopping with every step and his swagger seemed to be saying to the mountain, “Hello, old friend.  I’m home.” 

At the top he waited, turned to face me, and sat when he saw me taking out my camera.  I don’t imagine he intended it but he sat in a proud manner with his left foot, still looking like a three-toed claw, closer to the camera as if showing it off.  I took several photographs and then called Rachael Kleidon, his wonderful vet.  She was with a client and when she picked up the phone she was nervous.  “Is everything okay?” 

“Not all emergencies are bad, Rachael.  Sometimes it’s good to take time out for just the opposite. I just wanted to call and tell you that nineteen days ago you amputated Atti’s toe.  Five days ago we started chemo.  Today, at this very moment, he’s sitting on top of Black Cap Mountain.” 

Her joyous response was why I called her.  She’s been invested in our journey in a way that speaks of friendship more than doctor – client.  Rachael and I talked excitedly for a couple of minutes with wonderment in our voices.  When I hung up I turned to look at Atticus and he was at the highest point watching the clouds and saying hello to the other peaks.  Little Buddha had returned to his summit sitting.  I sat behind him and took it all in.  But this was not just his moment and I think he wanted me to know that because he stood up on that highest rock and looked back at me. 

Spend enough time with any close friend and actions and expressions say far more than words can. I climbed up next to him and sat down just as he wanted me to.  He sat down again, his body pressing into mine, our eyes looking out at hundreds of places we’ve been throughout the White Mountains, many, I’m sure, we’ll never get back to together – not as he gets older.  We sat for several minutes without anyone else there and when I looked at him my heart was filled beyond anything I’ve ever known and all that love spilled out of my eyes.  I wiped away the tears that kept gently rolling down my cheeks and I said the short prayer I think I’ve said on every single peak we’ve ever climbed.  “Thank you.” 

I never know who I am saying it to.  It’s never really mattered to me.  I just say it and it feels good, and it feels right.  

The chemo will continue through the middle of November.  I’m told there will be good days and there will be bad.  I’m told it’s unpredictable to know how he will handle it all and how he will feel going forward.  But I don’t think there will be any truly bad days, because no matter, he and I will be together in land we love and call home.  So cancer and chemo will can continue to be a part of our lives for a few more months but I don’t really care.  We are where we are supposed to be.  Together. 

Thank you for your friendship.  I have relied on you and all our other close friends for inspiration when we needed it most.  It’s been the best medicine for me as I’ve taken care of Atticus and Will.  We look forward to seeing you soon, and sitting on a mountaintop with you.  

Onward, by all means,
Tom (& Atticus [& Will})

Atticus M. Finch, back home again.