We were just walking. It was good for both of us. Right?
Geez.. the clarity that rolls in when there is no noise. No headphones and no one else around allows for nature’s version of quiet. Just me and the dog, crickets, tree frogs and water running next to us on the James River. Simple, just the way I like it.
Until you have a thought like, “Who’s Walking Who?.” Crap. The complex paradoxical question that mires the quiet.
Here I think I’m taking care of an animal; Remo is her name, if you don’t know her, you will if you read to the end of this essay. And then it occurs to you that the care she provides is under this guise of me taking care of her. Manipulation? Misrepresentation?…. Not even close but upon reflection, often the care provided in transfer of food, water and shelter is much less than what was offered back. Unconditional love. The walk included.
For the record, no-one kept Remo. She allowed herself to be corralled. This never became more evident that when she jumped a fence that was supposedly the barrier between her and the rest of the world. She stayed behind it for years, not stepping past the boundary that had been set for her. She allowed for it until she didn’t. The Pyrenees in her needed to wander. Often, I thought, do I need to raise the fence? Quickly realizing, I was missing the point. She stayed and came back because she felt like she belonged. Most would have spent thousands to raise the fence. For whatever reason, I knew it was unnecessary,
As I moved through my convalescence after breaking my heel in late 2025, I was unable to walk her and she become more arthritic. When I was finally able to walk, I noticed that she was hurting more and more. She ’s a very large dog. Large dogs’s are notorious for not living long and their hips going out. It’s hard to watch an animal try to continue to move herself, for you, and equally as hard to let them go after 12+ years. We have hiked/walked perhaps into the thousands of miles together and swam or floated just as many river miles, sometimes involving but mostly forgoing other human interaction because not everyone likes to have a dog around. I never felt that I missed out on anything.
And like all great dependent relationships, it takes an objective observer to snap you into the reality of the situation. Mom…MOM…MOM! How long are you going to do this for? Love is often blind to the realities of a situation. And in fact, we humans often put our own healing on hold for the sake of our relationships where it borders on the codependent.
These last few months with her have been about perspective. The best relationships often transcend logic and functionality—we simply keep showing up because the true measure of love is how much inconvenience we're willing to endure to maintain a relationship. We tend to intellectualize that idea when it comes to people, but animals quietly demonstrate it every day. They show us what unconditional love looks like—they remind us, moment by moment, day by day.
I have often wondered what this felt like from Remo’s perspective. While she never said it, obviously, she had a glare that some have commented, they felt she was seeing through them. I always took it as more of the internal eye roll that communicated, “Really? I love you anyway.” Or when she placed her head on your lap to remind you…. “I got you.” Modeling how to be fully present in whatever the situation was.
Last year, Remo and I went from 7 to 5 to 3 miles at at time to putting her in the car in the shade so I could go back out and complete some training. Then, to zero miles with me and the shattered, right heel. The hardest part was to see the wanderlust disappear from her eyes. The lack of desire to adventure, which had been the cornerstone of our existence together. She was my adventure buddy and the very reason I felt at ease doing many of the outdoor activities I frequented without worry. She never complained.
Not being able to walking her for a solid 2 months, took it’s toll on her and was perhaps, the ultimate sacrifice of our relationship. Once I could drive ,we went for short walks. Initially, I couldn’t even keep up with her on crutches. Folks on the local Greenway’s trail thought I was the most persistent person on the planet but Remo and I have kept each other going for a long time. A little crutch action wasn’t going to keep me from it. Eventually, when I could walk, even just slowly, it became more obvious how bad things had become. Getting to a standing position was a chore, she was dragging her right rear leg, often scratching her nails and limping to put her hip back in place. As hard as this was to watch, I know however, that she would not have had it any other way.
And to the very end she showed me who was actually walking who. She used to run the river banks when she was younger, until she couldn’t anymore and then she rode in the canoe the whole way often tripping when exiting the boat. Our very last river trip she seemed antsy and wanted out of the canoe. So I pulled over. She went to the bathroom and then just started slowly, achingly, walking downstream with the desire for things to be as they once were. She turned and looked at us, as if to say, “you coming?”
We smiled, loaded back up and followed her downstream.
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