Missing Osito
This month, we visited Guemes Island, a little speck in the San Juans that we’ve frequented for over a decade. Situated on the northern shore of the island, the Guemes Island Resort is an old fishing resort from the 1940s that retains much of that rustic charm. Setting foot on Guemes is like stepping back in time. The top speed limit is a modest 35 on the handful of roads that criss-cross Guemes’ eight or so square miles. Farmland, orchards, and livestock intermingle with vacation homes. The center of the island contains a church, a community center, and a general store and not much else.
Guemes is nicknamed Dog Island. Partly because of an extinct dog bred by the native Salish people that ran wild on the island in the early days of white settlement, but also because so many residents who do own dogs let them to roam free around the small island. You would see them frequently - dogs of all sizes and shapes, collars dangling from their necks, trotting down Edens or Guemes Island Road, or out along one of the perimeter Shore Roads. Most are friendly and will take a scratch or two from strangers. Others walk on by, content to go about their own business.
In kind, the Guemes Island Resort welcomes dogs and allows them to roam around the property. As long as you pick up after your dog and they don’t get too rowdy, dogs have the run of the resort. It’s a big part of the reason we have made so many wonderful memories there over the years. We roam free - hiking, kayaking, lounging, beach-combing - and our dogs do, too. No leashes or worries about traffic and sidewalks. Just lazy roads, friendly people, and a laid-back life.
When we first visited Guemes in 2009, our first pack, Marley and Fargo, were in their prime. Marley a hale seven, silver just starting to show amongst her black cords. Fargo was an always energized five years old, at his spastic peak. Marley was an indomitable force in our lives from the moment we met her. Smart and fiercely protective, she was our constant companion. Her little half-brother, Fargo, with his goofball personality, complimented her perfectly. They were both family, but Marley was special. She was a bright, burning ember whose glow long outlasted her flame. They both loved running free and taking in the salty air.
There were always other dogs around. Other visitors’ dogs, mostly. The resort is tucked away in the northwest corner of the island, so the resident wandering dogs only made occasional appearances. But on our second trip, that changed.
We arrived that time to find the resort bustling with construction. Three new cabins were being built behind the original, rustic row of low-slung fishing cabins. These new cabins stood on stilts to see over top of the old cabins and would have steam showers and hot tubs once finished. We preferred the yurts nestled in the hillside above the resort, but these looked like they would be really nice.
After checking in, we came out of the office to see an all-white, husky-type dog next to our car, very interested in our pups. Pulis aren’t a common breed, and other dogs are often just as baffled by their appearance as their owners. He followed us all the way up to our yurt, sitting respectfully to the side as we unloaded and settled in.
We walked back down to the main beach area of the resort. The white dog again followed close behind. He simply would not leave Marley alone.
Soon we found out that he belonged to one of the contractors working on the new cabins. The contractor was an island resident and his dog simply followed him to work every day to hang out, presumably because that’s where the action was. His name was Osito, meaning “little bear” or “teddy bear.” Osito had a real, immediate interest in Marley.
He frolicked in front of her, dashed around trying to get her attention, and sat ever so perfectly trying to win her favor. Marley was having none of it. She didn’t chase him off or bark or growl. She just ignored him. He could be sitting inches away from her, desperately hoping for just a glance in his direction.
Marley wasn’t stone-hearted, necessarily. She was just one of those odd dogs who never really cared about other dogs. She wasn’t afraid of them. She didn’t really avoid them. She just didn’t care about them. When we took Marley to dog parks as a puppy for socialization, she would take a single lap around the park and end up right back at the picnic table, taking a seat next to us. Marley thought she was human and didn’t understand why we expected her to associate with dogs.
Osito didn’t give up easily, though. In fact, for the next four years when we came to the resort, he was still there, still smitten. Once we arrived, it was a matter of time before Osito found us. He would follow Marley around until his owner packed up for the day and headed home. Some mornings he would even be sitting on the deck outside our yurt, waiting for his love to wake. He was obedient and respectful. The only thing he wouldn’t respond to was any command to get away from Marley. He was always by her side.
A couple years later, Marley got cancer. She beat it, but slowly lost her sight as a result. He seemed to sense that something was different in her and became more gentle. He would follow from a careful distance as she made her way over driftwood piles and around boats pulled up on shore, making sure to stay out of her way. He would also sit a little closer than he used to, probably because he knew he could get away with it. Marley even seemed to soften and was more welcoming of his attention. She was a tough nut to crack, but once she accepted you, you were family. I don’t know that she ever considered Osito “family,” but she definitely came to expect his presence.
Marley was sick and fragile on her very last trip to Guemes. It was winter. The new cabins had all been built. Other construction and repair work around the resort was over. Osito was nowhere to be found. We were sad, but knew that his presence at that point would only stress a very much reduced Marley. We also knew it would be her last visit and did all we could to make it a good one. In a way, not having Osito around made things a little easier. Still, it was hard to accept that Marley’s verve was fading and that her love had moved on.
After Marley passed, we didn’t visit Guemes for a few years. Life got busy. But we also were reticent to visit without Marley, worried that the magic of the place wouldn’t be quite the same. As the years went by, we assumed that Osito had also passed on, joining his unrequited love. See, despite spending all that time with him, we had no idea how old Osito was. He looked mature the first time we met him, but with an unknown dog, that doesn’t really narrow their age down too much. He could have been a young pup or middle-aged.
Marley’s little brother, Fargo, accompanied us on one more trip to the island. That was also the first trip for our new puppy, an energetic little girl named Sammy. Once again, no Osito.
After Fargo passed, Sammy was a singleton for awhile before we got our newest pup, Oslo. He has become the Fargo to her Marley in our second pack. Their relationship, which is still a work-in-progress, is a vastly different one. Oslo is a calm, goofy, affectionate little bull of a guy, not the affable, ADD-addled runt that Fargo was. Sammy is neurotic and controlling - as was Marley - but she lacks the confidence and smarts of her predecessor. They’re an interesting mix and they are both learning to love Guemes just like Marley and Fargo did. They stir up little echoes of our past in the present. Rekindling good memories while making new ones. Time rolls on.
There are fewer dogs roaming the island nowadays. With the new development of homes and increased population and popularity I guess come more restrictions for our four-legged friends. They’re still around, though, if you look for them.
While chatting up one of the resort owners during our most recent trip, Sara mentioned the white dog that was so smitten with our Marley years ago. The owner perked up and blurted out “That must’ve been Osito! He’s still around, you know…”
We didn’t know. We hadn’t even guessed.
She went on to tell Sara that he still wanders around the island from time to time. But Osito is getting old. His body won’t let him trot for miles and miles like it used to. The Island residents know him well. Sometimes, when folks find him tired or looking a little lost, she said, they pick him up and give him a ride back home. When I was growing up in a rural farm community, we called that sort of thing “being neighborly.”
We were struck to find out that Marley’s boyfriend was still kicking around. We thought he was somewhat close to Marley’s age, which was why we assumed he had died. But the resort owner said he was barely more than a puppy when we first met him, meaning Osito is in his early teens now. Which still makes him pretty old for a husky dog.
We had mythologized Osito so much since we last saw him that it hardly seemed like he could still be real. His love for Marley was central to so many of our stories about Guemes. We both loved sharing how he followed Marley and waited patiently for his desire to be acknowledged. He had hung out with us for hours at a time, going on long beach walks and sitting with us as we lounged on driftwood and stared at the waves. At some point, we forgot his name and resorted to calling him “Marley’s island boyfriend.”
There’s a saying I’ve always appreciated, and goes something like this - each of us die two deaths: one when our physical body ceases to function and a second when our names are spoken for the last time. For years after Marley died, I took solace in the dogs that “knew” her. Fargo was that touchstone for a few years. Our friend Laura’s border collie, Pookah, Marley’s companion for many a lake hang and country party, was another. Once she was gone, though, we assumed there were no more dogs who would hold a memory of her. It sounds silly, I know, finding comfort in the presence of dogs simply because they had been around our dog while she lived. But they were little furry connections to a time and place where she was still a part of our family, little reminders of the joy that Marley had brought us and the life that we all shared together.
Then we found out about Osito. He is now the last companion of Marley’s still alive. Our last, tenuous point of contact. Of course there is no way for him to impart his memories of Marley to us. He can’t relate his affection toward her or even speak her name one last time to keep her memory alive among his canine brethren. He likely doesn’t even remember us as the humans who indulged his quixotic search for love. But if I know anything in this world, it’s that she’s still alive in his heart. Maybe just as a trace memory of her scent, or a flickering memory of the way her cords flew when she dashed around in front of him.
Just knowing that he’s out there was comforting. I’ve never seen a dog so immediately devoted to another the way Osito was with Marley. I doubt I ever will. I hope that we get to see him one more time before he, too, is gone. I want to look into his bright brown eyes, stroke his fur, and remember the good times we shared all those years ago.
Our last night on the island, we hiked up Guemes Mountain to catch sunset. It’s on the opposite side from the resort, and gives a wonderful view of Guemes as the sun sets over the rest of the San Juan Islands. It had been a good trip. A welcome respite from a year that has long since spiraled out of control. On the hike up, my mind kept going back to memories of Marley and her boyfriend. I found myself wondering what kind of life he ended up having, if his owner was good to him, if he sired any pups, if he ever wandered up the trail to the top of Guemes mountain during his jaunts around the island.
After making our way back down from the summit in the growing dark, we drove back on quiet, mostly empty roads. When we turned onto Guemes Island Road, we noticed a car stopped in the opposite lane, lights on, driver-side window rolled down. As we slowly drove by, Sara spotted a dog next to the car. A white one, tall and husky-ish. It was hard to tell for sure in the moment, but the more we thought about it, the more obvious it was. Our old friend must have been out for an evening stroll when someone decided to be neighborly. Osito was getting a ride home.
Osito on the beach - 2011