Rose has been gone more than a week now, and the messages have begun to subside, although they still come in throughout the day and people are still ordering books in her honor from Battenkill. But there is some distance now, and the raw and open experience of grief has softened. One woman e-mailed me to say she was upset that I seemed to be moving on, and that she weeps every day for Rose, and into the night and will never get over her death, and I suggested to her that if she loves Rose more than me, she ought to grieve as much as she needs.

I’ve thought a lot about why Rose touched so many hearts and one reason, I think, is that she conveyed both strength and vulnerability. This is, I think, the drama of the modern woman. This was very true of her – she was almost equal parts of both. I never was certain about where she slept, until I realized that she found a bed in the guest room by a window where she could look out all night at the pasture. Unlike the other dogs, she never came into my bedroom, now our bedroom, and was often in a dark corner of the house by herself. She would show affection tentatively, coming up to shower my hand with  few licks, and then darting off. The other dogs always rushed to get treats, to get attention, Rose never begged for a thing. Most days, she would refuse to walk with Maria in the woods unless I was there, and I know how much she loved to walk in the woods.

I know many strong women who are like Rose, very efficient, brave and focused, yet also vulnerable, covering up their emotions to make their way in what is still largely a man’s world with a man’s angry and topsy-turvy values. People admire and fear tough women, but I think many, like Rose, need to put on some armor when they go out into the world. When she was working, Rose was nearly invincible, taking on dogs, rams, herds of recalcitrant sheep. She never gave up or backed down, and never, in my memory, failed to get it done. And yet she seemed alone to me sometimes, always apart. She was never quite one of the pack, never comfortable in the role of a pet. She watched over me as zealously as any Secret Service Agent guarded a President. She was always around me, shadowing me, nearby.  Whenever I got up to move, outside or anywhere in the farmhouse, she would appear, ready to answer the call, “Rosie, Let’s Get To Work.”

I got a thousand photos of her working in the fields, but only a few that captured what was, in many ways, the beauty of her soul, her special place, her nightime post, where she was only a few feet from me, unseen, but always keeping an eye on her work. Rosie rarely allowed this side of her to be seen.

I got up one day just before dawn, and grabbed my camera, by the bed, and walked down the hall and into the next room, and snapped the shutter. I love this shot, but before I could take another, she was gone. When I look at it, a vein of grief opens, and the spirit of Rose flows, so cleansing, through my soul. Miss you, girl. Good work.