I remember that hot and sticky day when I carried Orson’s body up the hill and buried it there. Rose was the only other creature who was with me and she sniffed the body, sniffed the grave and went and collected the sheep. Every once in awhile, I see her running up there and today when I went up to take a photo of the stone marker for my grieving book, Rose came up with me, and I was surprised to see her lie down next to Orson’s grave and sit there for the longest time.

Dogs are blank canvasses, and we often write our stories on them, but I have to be honest and say I can’t imagine what was transpiring between Rose and the grave, or Orson’s spirit. Rose was with Orson every day of her life until he died. Rose doesn’t get close to animals, at least not in the way I can see, but watching her up there, I stood silently and sensed some of the magic of animals and dogs, some of the mystery, the part I can’t see, a place I can’t go.

I can’t imagine what she was thinking or doing, and will be the first to admit that. I love animals for that mystery, the part of them that always has been and always will be beyond our ability to see or know, the part we can’t get to, yell at, cuddle, exploit, corrupt or anthropormorphisize. The part that is theirs. I saw that magic this afternoon, I think.