Cole come home

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Upon returning to my home in the mountains, I’m reminded of what a joy dogs are–and just how good they have it here. But back in the cities, like the dry dirt of Browntown, my former home–where dogs, forced to be fenced in all day, barked through pickets in a gated yards, isolated from contact with anyone but their passive owners. Prisoners of Suburbs set in a rural land. Where they seemed more prone to bite, to ruin things, to smell up something or offend administrators who would ultimately create policies to keep dogs out of government buildings and off campus lawns. City dogs who went to kennels, or who got tied to backyard swings sets while  parents were away, were left only to romp between doggie doors and chain link runs, snipping through fence slats at anyone who passed by too close to their back alleys.

Cole, who left us this year, had my friend Martin as his dad. They were Symbiotic. They shared fishing holes, a front seat, a couch, a bed. Free as the Antelope that meandered in and out of their ten acres of sage. No need to drive out-of-town to play because out of town was just out the front door. Cole had the run of Bargerville, an eclectic land nestled near the foothills of the Wind River Range, atop the Continental Divide.

This is in honor of Cole. My friend’s best friend, who never stopped running and who I’m sure, got the most out of his time in this magical mountain community.