Let Me Tell You About My Best Friend

“If everyone had a dog like Duke, there’d be no wars.”

He was “Mr. Orange” when I first met him in the poorly lit, dungeoness kennel run of the Albany County Animal Shelter. Of a litter of six sleeping in the chain-linked confinement, he sprouted from the pile of his sleeping siblings and galloped his way to me when I opened the gate. His orange collar was bright and new, and when he licked my face his puppy breath creeped its way through my nostrils and down into my heart. I was young, and broke, and a little uncertain about my future. I took him home, gifted him a blankie and an antler to chew on, and dubbed him “Bo Duke.” Though, I never deviated from his orange collar. Where I went, he went; for thirteen years and he wore a hunter-orange collar until his last day. I never found out when his exact birthday was, so I decided we would celebrate it on the 4th of July every year. On that day I cooked him a steak for supper.  

Through our tech school years, he was welcome at every party. Walking into a living room full of cheerful friends and lifted spirits, Duke always received the loudest greeting. Dudes would offer up portions from whatever fast food takeout they collected in a spout of drunken cravings. Girls would pull him into their embrace and smear their lip gloss on his nose. 

In the Spring, Duke and I would spend weeks camping out of the back of my pickup and hunting for antlers all day. Sometimes he would chase Jackrabbits but would rarely catch them. I once witnessed his success however, when he found one with a bum leg. It wasn’t quite as fast as the others and Duke was able to get the drop on him. During happy hour, we would stroll into town, headed to belly up at the local bar and the tender was always elated to see him. She kept a little jar full of dog treats just for such an occasion. Once we were sporting a good buzz, we would head back to camp near the river and I would pull a couple Rainbows out of the current to cook up for dinner. As I fought the fish on my fly rod, Duke would wade into the water and attempt to “help” in landing it. I was always afraid the hook might slip and catch him in the nose. It’s only one of the many reasons why I fish barbless. 

Down here, in the real world, I had a regular job. So did Duke. Every morning we would hop out of my old Ford in the Peterbilt parking lot and, with a coffee in my left hand I would open the shop door with my right and let Duke in first to routinely inspect for mice or other critters before the lights were kicked on. Mechanics started earlier than the rest of the staff and, as other employees funneled in, he would howl in excitement and greet his friends. He was ecstatic for every arrival. Everyone was Duke’s friend. Later in the day, from a position behind a steer tire, elbows deep into a diesel engine, I would hear Duke howl in excitement again. That’s how the shop crew knew the parts we were waiting on had finally arrived. My pup loved the UPS gal and, on the rare occasion when he hadn’t spent the whole morning in the Driver’s Lounge shaking down customers for a portion of their breakfast sandwich, he had little enough couth to shake her down for a handful of treats. People often commented on Duke’s demeanor. They would marvel at his calm and collected profile, while complimenting his obedience. I always assumed that they were speaking in response to the sense of peace that my dog seemed to inspire in the human soul. I got in the habit of responding with “if everyone had a dog like Duke, there would be no wars.”

In the early days Duke saw a few girls come and go from my life but, when the special one really stuck, I watched him change. He fell in love with Sugarfoot every bit as much as I did. The three of us adventured together, from that point forward. We hunted the Gros Ventre and fished the Green. We climbed to a high point overlooking the Flaming Gorge and stacked rocks into a megalith of our own design. Driving on a two-track that follows the north east corner of the large reservoir, you can still see that monument and I’ll always think of Duke when I drive past it in the future. We relocated to Alaska where I was recruited to lead a small team of mechanics. Coincidentally, Duke was hired on at the same shop. After work on Friday nights, the three of us stayed in Anchorage, where our close friends routinely threw a shindig to celebrate the week’s conclusion. Duke was always the guest of honor. Every other day, we returned home to Palmer and the three of us ventured into the wild lands bordering the Knik River.  

Our family grew. When a Dane named Beef first arrived, Duke was a bit uncertain but before long, he came to love his new brother. Shortly after, my little Moose came to be. Duke never left his side. My son and my dog grew together like two trunks of two trees that sprouted from the earth in close proximity, until they grew into each other and then formed a weatherproof tower made of their combination. Eventually, my pup stopped recovering from the long antler hunts. His hips hurt and his eyesight began to fade. He stopped running to the door when I geared up to head out. He became a homebody and that was okay with everyone. He stayed indoors and played Legos with Moose. He prowled the kitchen linoleum on the hunt for carelessly discarded food remnants. He layed out and took long naps in the sun, as it shone through the gigantic windows of our A-frame home. 

He never stopped howling in excitement when I returned. 

Now he’s gone and as a result, I’m patching up a gigantic hole in my heart. Duke was the best dog any fool like me could have ever hoped for. He was patient and loyal and beautiful. He was the cool guy in every social setting and his gravity would pull everybody in. Consequently, that gravity maintained our proximity and I was a bit cool as a result of our association though, none of any of that really matters. I’m not saddened by my standing among my peers. I’m saddened by the sight of my pup’s full food dish, for which the other dogs won’t touch. I’m saddened by the lack of shed undercoat on the living room floor. I’m saddened by the absence of an ecstatic howl upon my arrival. 

I am devastated by the fact that I didn’t get to say goodbye. 

So, without the companionship of my best friend, what I am left with is only the cognition and ability to hope. I hope God is taking good care of my pup and, in turn, I hope my pup is taking good care of both my dads. I hope the hillsides are littered in elk horns where he is, and that the streams are all backwashed by beaver dams, so that he has huge pools to play in. I hope the campfire is of lodgepole, and not piss pine, so that he can enjoy its warmth without having to dodge the raining down of hot embers. I hope everyday is like his birthday and they’re feeding him a steak at supper time. I hope all his friends are there. I hope the fishing is good. I hope all the Jackrabbits have bum legs. I hope that he thinks about me from time to time.

I hope that one day, when the Grizzly Bear finally gets me, I will return home and when I do, it will be to the warm welcome of an elated howl. 

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story and all the content associated with it. As an avid sportsman, I hope that this tale inspires you to get outside to enjoy the wild with the ones you love most. I write these stories as a supplement to my lifestyle as a sportsman and guide, and with them comes a certain accountability. The details of my stories are purely based on my recollection alone and in no particular way do they reflect a chronologically factual, indisputable timeline of events. They are in no way intended for official use or as a reference for official purposes. These are simply tall tales meant to entertain the tired mind; best served with a clear evening, a warm fire and, a strong whiskey.

All the photos and content featured in my tall tales are my own, unless expressly cited otherwise, and the unauthorized use or reproduction of them is strictly prohibited. That’s all for now, my friends. If you enjoyed this content and would like to see more like it, I can be found on Instagram by searching “Authentically Wild Out West” and on YouTube by searching the same phrase. Until the next campfire, stay safe out there and look after each other.

On another quick note: I’ve launched a new publication on Substack, specifically to showcase my serialized fiction and poetry! 

I hope you’ll join me there! Follow THIS LINK to have a look. 

Gear, Equipment and Organizations I Advocate For:

Come Fish & Hunt in Wyoming With Me!

If you’ve been reading my tall tales and outdoor articles for a while, you have probably recognized that much of my writings revolve around anecdotes. I live these stories, here in one of the last truly wild places on Earth and now as a full-time guide, I’d like to extend an invitation to you: 

Come experience this prestigious place with me. 

You can do this by reaching out to Wyoming Fishing Company and exploring the many options we have available to accommodate your next fishing, waterfowl, upland bird, small game, or predator hunting adventure. We can facilitate small & large groups alike or offer a one-on-one guided experience. Come make some memories this season! I’m already looking forward to adventuring with you.

If you’re coming out to fish or hunt, don’t forget your license and stamp!

Don’t get caught between a rock and a hard place! Research first! The laws and policies surrounding our game, access, boating, and industry are a huge contributor to maintaining our plentiful resources. APPLY HERE for all your licenses and tag needs.