DOUGLAS — In France, dogs share the status of Very Important People. They nestle against the feet of their owners in fine restaurants, and ride, heads held high, in the first-class section on trains. Dogs are also like VIPs at the canine playground in downtown Douglas.
At Sandy Beach, canine companions from across Juneau gallop, waddle and wade in the water, the surface layer smooth as stone, inviting a jump-on-in with pure joy. Owners chuck tennis balls or sticks of driftwood caught midair in the soft mouths of Labrador retrievers and their cousins. Our recently passed and beloved black Lab, Jacques, hit the doggie jackpot. We live a 10-minute walk from Sandy Beach.
Made up of century-old mine tailings, Sandy Beach has every appearance of a real beach along Gastineau Channel. A kayak paddle across are the bases of steep mountains rising into white alpine slopes these days, autumn rust in the fall and emerald green in summer.
Jacques went to heaven, where all dogs go, on a starry night in early October. He was 113 dog years old, or 16 human years. Gentle Jacques lived twice as long as his dad, crazy Jake, our family friends' black Lab who made a habit of running away from home. Jake was hit by a bus.
He joined our family as a puppy when our daughter, Kaitlyn, was taking eighth-grade French. Jake is Jacques in French.
Sandy Beach aside, if you're a dog, downtown Douglas is the area's most coveted neighborhood. Free-ranging domestic dogs are not uncommon on our sleepy streets. And Jacques got around. He inherited the runaway gene from his dad, and I endured many frantic moments driving around looking for him. I'd return home defeated, and invariably, one of three things would soon happen.
• I'd get a call from Gastineau School down the block that Jacques was playing with the kids at recess.
• The nearby Douglas Depot convenience store would call to report Jacques was hanging out and munching dog biscuits.
• On sunny evenings, some generous neighbor would find our dog wandering the beach and invite him to hop in the cab of their truck before whisking him home.
The only other "missing Jacques" call was from the neighbors on the next street. During one of our few blizzards, Jacques managed to warm up with the only other French retriever nearby. Ten weeks later, Chanel birthed 10 golden retriever/black Labrador puppies.
Despite his wanderings, Jacques was an often obedient and loyal dog. Like many labs, he was obsessed with retrieving tennis balls and snow. His favorite game was "playing tennis" in the snow, leaping up and snapping the ball with his mouth as thick snowy feathers amassed on the driveway. We'd push the snow into a mound on the front lawn. Sometimes Jacques would lose track of the ball as it landed on the mound. On the ball hunt, he'd bury his nose in the fluff and shake his head back and forth before coming up for air.
Jacques had a pretty darn good life. In the months before he died, he was severely hobbled by arthritis. But when he had to relieve himself, Jacques did his best to make his way down and back up the ramp Karl built for him between the back deck and the backyard.
We dubbed him "dead dog walking." Many days I'd come home from work to Jacques lying sideways on the floor, his cataract eye open and still, the only sign of life the rising and falling of his prominent rib cage. But when he finally woke up, he still wagged his tail and wanted dinner.
Our daughter, Kaitlyn, was alone with Jacques when he stopped eating and drinking and could no longer hold his body up. The rest of us were celebrating our son Kanaan's 27th birthday with friends on Shelter Island. We came home to Jacques, on his doggie towel-covered deathbed, lying quietly on his side looking out the sliding glass side door toward Sandy Beach. He cried out in pain occasionally, ameliorated by meds administered by Karl or Kaitlyn, both nurses. Finally, it was time to call the vet for a home-administered and permanent sleeping pill.
I awoke the last morning of Jacques' life to he and Kanaan camping out on the living room floor in a pile of faux down blankets, heads together, their rib cages rising and falling in the sunlight.
That night, Jacques' belly rose and fell with his last breaths. We'd called Vic the veterinarian over for a "home death" visit. Jacques was lying on his pillow in the middle of the living room, the stone fireplace blazing. The four of us and our family friend Beth sat on the floor and encircled Jacques, rubbing his still silky ears and laying hands on his tired body. Dr. Vic looked every bit the part of the home doggy doctor, with his scruffy white hair and wire-rim glasses. He even carried a black satchel. The good vet spoke gently as the death serum was administered through a vein in our four-legged family member's leg. A hoarse and high last bark followed.
After his last breath, I felt the swell of the gift of air rise in my own chest. Karl and Kanaan dug a deep hole in the alder thicket behind our house, carrying Jacques in a burgundy bath towel to his resting place, encircled by lit votive candles in glass jars. His body was placed in the fetal position in the hole; a whitish marble eye open, gazing up through the alder canopy to the stars. We took turns covering him with alternating layers of dirt and seaweed from Sandy Beach.
A raspberry bush with a shawl of seaweed became Jacques' headstone. We encircled his fresh grave and sipped nettle and raspberry tea, imagining Jacques romping in the snow or galloping on the sand of doggie heaven, where everyone's a VIP.
Freelance writer Katie Bausler is a devoted resident of the island kingdom of rainy Douglas.