Oslo the purebred
Most of the dogs you see in San Rafael are smart, but they’re mutts. Their population strangely dwindles as the circus comes to town (story on that later).
Nothing against them, but I’m a dog snob. I like purebred dogs. I like big dogs. Ten years ago, I gave my son Tim some money to buy a high-bred English golden retriever, the light-colored kind. A cuddly ball of fur. Oslo became his name.
He loved water. We had to keep the gate to the pool closed, or he’d help himself to a swim. If it was locked, he’d make his way to the represa, much to the chagrin of Sebastián, our farm engineer. His claws would slip and scrape against the slick plastic as he climbed out, and each time, there was a risk he’d tear the membrane. A leak in the represa would be trouble. So, we fenced it off. But that dog—he could always find a way in if he couldn’t get through the pool gate.
He grew into a huge, gentle lion of a dog. He knew no strangers. Everyone who visited the farm loved him, regardless of what breed of dog they had at home. Even the most staunch dog snobs would sneak around, trying to see if they could get a mating between Oslo and their own dogs. And sure enough, before long, you’d see his golden genes making their mark all over the valley.
During COVID, we didn’t travel to the farm for more than a year. When we finally returned, he recognized us from afar and came bounding up with that enormous tail of his, which could knock you sideways if you weren’t braced. He leaned in, moaned softly, and you could feel in his bones that he had really missed us, even though he always had a circle of people who adored him. Oslo loved to run beside any vehicle that drove around the farm. When he was young and full of energy, he’d race along the gravel road that circled the property, tongue hanging, tail up, just happy to be alive and in motion. And if there was meat on the grill—which was nearly every day—he’d show up and lay out in the grass, waiting, patient and calm. He knew he’d get his share eventually. But what he loved most was hunting the tomdukeys (gophers) that would burrow through the vineyard, sneaking through the rows and barking with a hunter’s glee as they darted into hiding.
There’s nothing like a dog that loves you and wants to be with you, always the same. No judgments, no grudges. You’re gone a day, a month, a year—it’s all the same to him. He welcomes you back like you’ve been gone for ages. A love that doesn’t waver. A steady, unbroken line through time.
