Merle was my first dog. A big German Shepherd, and my first best friend.
The story goes that Merle was the dog of one of my mom’s friends, and some situation came along—like moving, or something like that—where they couldn’t take Merle with them, and so my mom volunteered to take him in. I don’t know if I was born yet at that point or not, but he took to me, and I to him.
Merle and I went everywhere together. We lived on four acres of redwood forestland, and I spent most of my playtime wandering around in it. If my mom ever couldn’t hear me nearby, and I wandered off a bit too far, all she needed to do to find me was call Merle, and he’d bark while staying glued to my side.
I wandered off down the road one day. I remember this. Vividly, actually. We lived on a country road, and I decided I wanted to go visit one of our neighbors. I remember walking up their driveway, which was a good quarter to a half mile or so; gravel, kinda windy. I remember stopping to throw rocks into the pampas grass (that stuff with blades that will cut you, and it grows big stalks with plumes of seeds as tall as a grownup), and reveling in how it went *crunch* into it. Merle was with me the whole time. Mom thought I’d been kidnapped. I think she may have even called the police before Merle finally heard her and started barking. I don’t remember her being upset with me, actually. I remember the pampas grass, and I remember deciding I was going to go off on my own adventure. I wasn’t afraid. I had Merle with me.
I remember the day Merle died, too. We were taking a bike ride into town, mom on the bike, me in the little wagon-thing behind her. For whatever reason, Merle had followed us, and my mom hadn’t noticed until we were pretty far down the road. When she did see him, she told him to go home. He crossed the street just as a car was coming, and he got hit.
I remember him dying on our driveway, up close to the house, laying on his side and panting. And I remember where we buried him; off a little ways in the woods from the driveway. To this day, I remember that mound of dirt, and thinking about him every time I walked past or over it. And remember, too, completely not understanding what death was. Mom said he was sleeping, but he’d never wake up, and that confused me because that wasn’t what sleeping was like at all. I must have been three or four. I definitely wasn’t in school yet. I think I was three.
I bet I’d have absolutely loved Merle as an adult. I wish I somehow could have met him when I was older. But, knowing him as a child was pretty magical. Even then, even that little, I knew he loved me, and he made me feel safe. I’d go anywhere with Merle.
Rest in peace, buddy. You were my first, best friend.