Golden Years

Ode to an old ski dog.

He stares longingly out the window, then turns to look at me, brown eyes full of questions. The heavy snowdrifts accumulating on our porch taunt us both, yet due to an unfortunate language barrier, it is only me with the understanding of why we are unable to carry out our routine.

Forgive me for being vague; let me explain.

The “he” is a dog. One that I hastily named Staphylococcus (specifically, Staphylococcus aureus, the latter being Latin for “gold”) with my tongue-in-cheek humor due to the majority of his genetics being that of a golden retriever. Like me, he’s not tall in stature nor large in size. Unlike me, he has a thick white fur coat and a tendency to accept food from strangers.

He’d howl with delight as his little paws swam through the deep powder. The howl was less that of a dog and more a blend of both a whale and a seal.

The “routine” that I speak of is one that we had recently acquired after our nine-to-five job. (I say our job because Staphylococcus accompanied me at my desk, meetings, and bathroom. I believe this alone should emphasize the candor when I tell you that we were attached at the hip.) This daily pattern consisted of driving to Bear Canyon, hiking up, and then skiing down. While the exercise was ideal—moreover, something that my destined cardiologist will be quite proud of me for—I didn’t do it for myself. Instead, like many women in their 20s living in Bozeman, I did it for my dog.

Staphylococcus loved skiing. He’d howl with delight as his little paws swam through the deep powder. The howl was less that of a dog and more a blend of both a whale and a seal. He’d bound through the snow no more delicately than a hog in mud, but no matter; grace is unnecessary when an action is accompanied by copious amounts of joy. His floppy ears became elephant-sized in the wind, his grin wide and packed with snow from his latest accidental somersault. He was a dog thriving.

But now, rather than bounding through powder, he sits in yearning while he watches large flakes pile onto the white mounds that beg to be shoveled.

An ill-timed knee surgery has confined me to the couch and left us vying for his favorite spot. Like so many childless women, an unfortunate amount of my own happiness stems from maintaining my dog’s happiness. A dog begging to ski is clearly not as happy as a dog skiing; I can feel failure looming over me more than my unused degree.

These days, as I sit in my truck before taking off to ski, I catch myself staring at the porch window where a much older version of my seal-howling ski buddy stares, eyes heavy with confusion and betrayal.

Staphylococcus, seemingly smelling a panic floating through the room, turns to look at me. His warm brown eyes meet mine before leaving his stance at the window and trotting over to me. He sits beside the couch, putting all of his weight against my good leg and leaning his head entirely backwards and upside down to look at me. He waits for my invitation before curling up beside me on the couch, head resting on my thigh. As I pet his soft, curly ears, his tail slowly wags and his eyes close. Suddenly, we both don’t seem to mind that our ski season is over.

It’s with melancholy that I tell you I wrote this in memory. While Staphylococcus still takes up the majority of my bed, his skiing days are long behind him. His hips, though having once given him the agility to nearly kill quite a few squirrels, have grown stiff with age.

These days, as I sit in my truck before taking off to ski, I catch myself staring at the porch window where a much older version of my seal-howling ski buddy stares, eyes heavy with confusion and betrayal. There are times when I continue on with my plan and drive off to go ski. But there are other times when I decide to instead twist the key and shut off the jalopy’s tired engine before making my way to the couch where Staphylococcus curls up beside me, resting his graying head upon my thigh just as he did before. His tail still slowly wags when I pet his ears. Every so often, he leans his head back, showing me sweet brown eyes that are filled with gratitude.

I would gladly give up alcohol, sugar, doom-scrolling through Instagram, or anything you request to see Staphylococcus bound down pillowed hills like he used to. Unfortunately, as much as I wish it was, re-lengthening his telomeres just isn’t quite in our budget this year. Instead, I’ll graciously take our quiet nights on the couch while I read my book and he occasionally lets out his soft snores and flatulence. Like our ski days, I remind myself that nights like these are also much too limited.