Friday morning at 7:30 Serge calls me to say that he has found Jack's body. On the old, buried railroad bed below our house. We meet with sheet and sled to move him. He is at least a couple of days dead, but eight days missing, so despite the closure at one level, there are a hundred questions at another.
He was all dog - and never seemed to forget it. He would do anything for food, made sure that he did not stay clean for more than 48 hours, and dragged home every interesting thing he could get his jaw around.
I pull the sled with 110 pounds of dog in it a half mile across a wet soggy hay field while Serge makes the very steep climb back home to get the truck and meet me at the road. It is a heavy load, but I still believe I got the better job of the two.
We have lived a lot here, but have also buried a lot here. Jack has been part of it all and it seems almost wrong to look out the windows the next morning to the back yard. He should be there barking at the deer and tormenting the squirrels.