Samson and I were waiting it out in Redding. Our routine was pretty much the same as it had been, so there is no point in describing the minutiae of our eating or shopping habits. My wife called me to see how I was doing, and she encouraged me to take Samson somewhere for a nice, long walk. Being the internet pro that she is, she quickly found me a number of parks within a half hour. I randomly picked one (I can't recall the name) and the two of us drove off for a badly needed escape from the boredom.
The park was about 25 miles from Redding, and it took us back into the mountains. As I drove along, I couldn't help but notice the reminders of the devastation left by the fires that ravaged the west coast in the late summer of 2020. Charred trunks that used to be healthy trees were simply everywhere. Hills that were once covered by trees were now barren and seemingly lifeless. I knew that the land would recover and would most likely even flourish at a later time, and I felt a sense of peace in that message for me.
We passed a big reservoir and a tiny town on a side road, and then we arrived at our destination. We parked in a spot that wasn't very crowded at all, which suited Samson and his unease with strangers. I let him out, and he instantly began to pull me in the way he wanted to go. This was for him, so he was the boss and I let him sniff his way along.
He took us down by a beautiful creek, the kind that had the sound of water bubbling over smooth rocks. A few times his Corso strength almost pulled me down, as I lost footing on moss-covered stones and wet ground. At one point he stopped what he was doing and just listened to the sounds around us. I'm not sure that dogs appreciate the beauty of nature like we humans do, but I can't eliminate the idea that Samson was pausing to take it all in.
Soon enough, he regained his dog-ness, and off he took me in search of other things to discover. He led me away from the creek back onto the path, and he found a few trash cans that undoubtedly held some tantalizing aromas from discarded foods. He sniffed around there until I decided it was time to go. I pulled him away, and this time he led me to another path that was a bit steeper. After a few minutes of climbing up and up, my lack of conditioning caught up with me, and I was admittedly winded. I had him pause for a minute, and then we started back down the path.
Another path had us cross the creek on an old wooden bridge, and we went that way for about a half-mile or so. Eventually I got him headed back to the car, as our trek among the woods was coming to an end. As we were approaching my car, another vehicle came up with two labs. Samson saw them, and began to get nervous. His anxiety was first demonstrated by panting and swaying back and forth, but as the dogs got closer, he began to bark at them. I hastened him into the car, but he was clearly agitated by the proximity of other living things.
We went back to the hotel and stayed there for the night. I knew that the next morning I would be dropping him off at the boarding kennel, so I tried to make his night as memorable as I could. I bought him some top-shelf wet food to go along with his kibble, and he "somehow" managed to have a few more pieces of my cheddar cheese. Around nine at night, we both got into bed and Samson once again managed to take most of the width of the mattress. I laughed at him, told him it was okay, and wiggled my way in. He fell asleep with his head on my chest, and it was my turn to take in the wonderment of nature.
He looked at me as his eyes slowly gave way to sleep, and then he stayed there, snoring and trusting me with everything that was in him. He was a Corso alright, timid and unsure at first, but then completely yours. I just lay there, watching him sleep on me, knowing that in the morning I would be dropping him off with strangers. That thought was terrible to me.
We humans have this thing that we do with our dogs, and it is called anthropomorphism. Anthropomorphism is the act of applying human characteristics to animals, especially domesticated animals. Amy and I take it to such extremes that we give our dogs accents to match the imaginary conversations we have with them, as well as giving them colorful back-stories.
I've seen enough video footage of disgusting individuals dumping dogs to know how dogs react. They try to get back into the car. They run after the car and only stop when they realize that they can't possibly catch back up. Animals know fear. They know rejection. They have emotions. Perhaps those emotions aren't as complex as ours, but a dog knows when it has been abandoned.
Would Samson think that I was dumping him? Was I just another person who didn't want him? Like every other person on this planet, I too bore the emotional scars of being rejected. I understood the feeling of being treated like a bag of trash that was taken to the curb, of being an object that was replaced by something new and shiny. That thought was too much for me to bear, and the salty tears slid down my cheeks.
The next morning I gave him a nice breakfast, let him go potty, and then I put him in the back seat, loaded up our stuff, and we went to the kennel. It was only about ten minutes away, and I got there a few minutes before the staff arrived. I let Samson walk around for a few, and then a car pulled up. It wasn't the director, as she was running a bit late. We got back into the car, and then she pulled in.
She had two dogs of her own, both mastiffs, and she took them into the building. She came back out, and I got out to talk to her. We discussed the best way to handle the transfer. I got Samson out and he very politely walked into the building. It was noisy in there, as a number of dogs being cared for were awake. Samson wasn't bothered at all by the newness, and he walked into his private kennel without the slightest hesitation. I went back to my car, brought in his remaining food and his blanket, and handed them to the woman.
"Here," I said as I gave her his blanket. "This is from me, and I'd like him to have it."
"Okay." she said. "Would you like to go in and say goodbye?"
Oh, there was nothing more in the world that I wanted to do at that precise moment, than to go back in and hold him to me and say goodbye. But it wouldn't have been fair to him, because I was an emotional mess. What was best for Samson at that point was to let him adjust to his new situation, and for me to resign my role as protector and friend. That was the job of the staff now, and for me to prolong the parting would have been a selfish act on my part. Instead I went back to my car, cried bitterly for about ten minutes, and then left to go back to my in-laws.
Redemption is defined as "the action of saving or being saved." Samson was redeemed somewhere between New Jersey and Redding. I can't speak of his first family, or why they surrendered him to our rescue, but Samson needed to feel worthy again. Worthy of that soft bed and warm embraces. Worthy of food and shelter. And love. The kind of love that requires not things, but time. Not perfection, but the acceptance of imperfection.
In other words, the kind of love a dog shows.
It is amazing how interconnected life is on Earth. As Norman Maclean beautifully penned, "eventually all things merge into one." Even the loneliest have connections in their lives. Without employing too much metaphysics, all living things share the same world. Choices that my great-grandfather Wilhelm Snook made when he came over here from Germany helped shape who I am today, as surly as my choices will shape the lives of my descendants.
There were a handful of people that brought Samson to me, and I drove the rest of the way. We were both dependent upon people to serve us food on our journey, to sell us gas, and to give us lodging. In the end, this isn't a story about Samson or me, but it is a story about us. All of us trying to do the right thing, trying to learn from our mistakes, and trying to be a better person.
Samson deserves a good, loving, forever home. Not because he's an excellent dog, even though he is. Not because he fills a need or because his story has touched your heart. No, he deserves a good, loving, home just because he... is.
And I am humbled to be part of his story.
"To the moon and back, e're we go
through desert trek or mountain snow.
To walk it with ye is all I ask
to make each step, tho' daunting the task.
I'll be by yer side, through jill and jack
All the way, lad, to the moon and back."
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