Wrangler Dani

My mom and dad just let me know that Aspen “went for a walk” on Thursday and never came back. I am heartbroken.

When the Linthicum family moved to an undeveloped piece of ranchland in May of 1997, I was not exactly ecstatic. I had yearned for doggies and horses and room to roam for years, but now that the dream had been achieved it seemed less like a dream and more and more like an indefinite camping trip in the rain. (Which, to be fair to my 13-year-old self, it kind of was. I probably could have been a bit more understanding, but than again, I was 13, which translates pretty easily to “undeniably crazy” in every young woman’s life.)

Enter Aspen, a furry little ball of tri-colored fun.

She was exactly what my bruised almost-adolescent heart needed, and she helped us through the months of camping, or travel-trailering, of building and digging and working. She made it impossible to be workaholics despite there being much work to be done. She was smart and sweet, loyal and playful to a fault.

She was a constant companion for me and anyone else who wanted to hike and explore. She loved coming on my solitary horseback trail rides through endless National Forest. She could keep up no matter how many miles I rode and always wanted to come on any ramble, no matter what the destination.

She “helped” us haul hay and herd cows, kept us company when we weren’t sure what kind of mistakes we were making and was always eager to distract us with fetch or a good tummy-rub.

She is part of so much of my formation as a young woman, of those years of becoming the person I am today. I will miss her smarts, her eagerness, her soft fur for snuggling and her ability to make the world all right.  It’s funny to think about the animals that made me who I am, Melody, my Missouri Fox Trotter mare, Jessica, my Saler heifer, Tarshi, our eccentric kitty and Aspen, the rock through every trial and the last of my four-legged friends to say good-bye. Knowing that they are all “gone for a walk” makes me cry, not only because I miss them but because this solidifies my growing up and a certain point of no return. I can’t go back to those tough, beautiful, dusty cowgirl and construction days. I can’t be a kid again who just needed an animal companion to talk to and make the world less lonely.

Although perhaps that’s a misconception on my part. Perhaps all I need is a little love and loyalty like Aspen had, a little thirst for adventure and willingness to take any trail, a complete and utter trust in her master’s wisdom.  I didn’t realize that she was saying good-bye when she put her paw on my knee and looked into my eyes last time I was home, but I’m glad I didn’t. I want to remember the lessons she taught me  – to bound through snow with delight, to find joy in your family, to always follow your nose and to ride in the back of the pickup on warm fall days, bits of hay ripping free of the bales and blue skies in every direction, soaking up the beauty and joy of everyday moments.

We’ll miss you, Aspen. I hope that heaven has pinecones for fetching, cows for chasing and somebody to pet you until we get there.