"It's Gypsy"

(This is my take on what happened. I wasn't there. My imagination fills in where facts are lacking. I wrote this and put it on hold because I wasn't sure it was my story to tell. I've come to the realization that it is my story. As Nick relayed the events of her death to me I experienced it and was traumatized by what I could see in my mind, and I was traumatized by his grief, and I grieve still).


     I answered the phone. It was our good friend Nick from treeplanting. The one who convinced me to come back for another season after my premature "tree-tirement." My crewboss, and Jon’s right hand man. Our very own Zorba the Greek; an accidental wise man who often muddles the words of common sayings in such a way as to make them less cliché and more true to life.  I was so happy he was calling. It's always great to hear his voice. I wanted to hear about their plans, when he and Carrie would finally be done the berry-pick, finished with the season so they could join us in the Yukon.

I must have joked to him about something. It was always jokes between us. Then silence.
“This isn’t a happy call,” His voice broke. He inhaled and a raw choking, guttural weeping noise came over the phone. “It’s Gypsy.” And instantly my heart was pounding. I was begging him to say she was ok. The words flew out of his mouth. I saw it happen. I witnessed everything through his words. I choked and wailed. Looking back, I have never cried so freely, with such lack of self consciousness. OFten I have cried and become wrapped up in the romance of it and when the sensation of sorrow passes I make an attempt at keeping the tears flowing. This time I did not have to try. The sorrow did not pass. We were in the car, parked outside the ambulance station where Jon works and I didn't care who saw or heard me. I was saying no! No. No. No. The whole time. I was seeing it. Nick is a storyteller. I was there.

They pull up at the side of the dirt road and let the dogs out of the truck. Spade and Gypo run off to do their thing. The four veteran treeplanters amble around to the tailgate. Sit and light cigarettes, and drink strong coffee from dented travel mugs as a sparse rain falls. It's early September and all of the trees are in the ground. These four have paid their dues and so they are granted a few extra weeks work at a decent day-wage for picking berries that will later be processed for the seed, grown in a green house, and replanted as part of forest reclamation projects. It is meticulous, though easy work. There is no quota and the day rate allows lots of time for breaks, making it an ideal cool down to the hardcore pace of the planting season.

There are fresh truck tracks in the mud of the road and the planters don’t think anything of it. The dogs run free, happy to be out of the motel for a day of work. Spade darts into the bush, Gypo  up the road to check things out. 

A few days before Nick came upon Gypsy with a discarded deer head. He took a video. “Here’s my little dog, my little girl," He says affectionately. "I don’t know if you can see what she is doing, but she is eating the brains out of a deer head.” She was not one to frolic with the other dogs, she commanded respect. Not aloof, just damn majestic, a husky-greyhound hybrid plucked as a puppy from the kennel of a legendary Dawson City musher to live the nomadic life of the dog of two treeplanters. I once saw this dog chase a black bear through a clear-cut and bite it in the ass. At the time, terrified, I screamed out her name. She ignored me. She knew what she was doing. At a plant north of Fort MacMurray she flew with us in a helicopter, sitting tall and peering out the window in wonder as we commuted from our remote camp site. Carrie said Gypsy had realized her life long dream of flying like the birds. 
Throughout my time as a planter, I wouldn’t see her for a year and then I would, and I would call to her and she would run towards me at dog-race speed, smiling, teeth barred, she would say a quick hi, take a pat, then go off and do her own thing. She didn’t like to be fawned over.

On this particular day last fall, the group climbs back into the truck and  they continue up the dirt road, looking for a good work site for the day. They round a bend. A pick-up truck appears up ahead in the drizzle and Gypsy is running along beside it on the other side of the ditch. She is getting old but still has an elegance to her stride, her waist tucked in dramatically behind her deep chest, betraying the greyhound genes within her. The planters gain on the truck. (I’m watching it all in slow motion as Nick speaks). Perhaps the occupants of the truck yell out to her, because Gypsy bends her neck ever so slightly, looking over at them. There are two of them. It’s somewhere in Northern Alberta. Lake La fucking Biche or some shit hole. And this beautiful creature is running along side this strange truck. Her strong, graceful neck arched towards them. The group of four berry-pickers get closer and closer. And then they see it. A gun. Pointed at their beautiful dog. There is nothing they can do. They hear it. A single shot. Those red-neck fuckers fucking shoot her. A deafening bang and she falls hard to the ground, her neck twisting back, her bright orange collar visible amongst the luscious wet greyness of her fur. She is heaving in the wet grass of the shallow ditch. The truck drives off. I can hear the incredulous screaming. "You fucking shot my dog!" 
They carry her bleeding into the truck and Carrie holds her. The love of their lives. Their entire universe. They want to follow the truck but are scared of the gun, scared to go anywhere but towards help for Gypsy, bleeding and moaning. They wrap her up and Carrie holds her as they drive to town, her rain gear sopping red with blood. Just blood everywhere and she is in so much pain and she is dying and she does die. She turns cold in Carrie’s arms. And Spade is never the same dog after that. And no one is the same. And I am not the same. I saw it all through Nick’s words. I felt it all through Nick’s grief, as well as through my own.