Our Gretchen

Our Adventure Buddy

I’ve had other dogs before. Dogs I loved and took good care of because that’s simply who I am. But no one would have ever described me as an “animal person.”

Until Gretchen.

Eleven years ago, when the opportunity came to bring her into our home, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea. We already had two dogs. Our youngest children had recently graduated. Sky traveled for work. I knew most of the responsibility would fall on me.

Only God knew how deeply this little dog would change my life.

Somehow, Gretchen reached a part of me no other animal ever had. She wasn’t just a pet we owned or a dog who lived alongside us. She became woven into the fabric of my everyday life and somehow straight into my soul at the same time.

It happened slowly at first . . . and then all at once.

The kids moved out. Sky spent long stretches working in Africa. Life shifted into seasons of uncertainty and transition, and somehow Gretchen became my constant companion through it all. She was with us through the chaos of gypsy living — the road trips, RV life, bouncing from house to house, the laughter, stress, exhaustion, and moments when life was too much. She grieved with us when we lost Weiser and Priscilla and celebrated the joys with her signature spin and jump in the way only Gretchen could.

She didn’t just go through life with us. She fully participated in it with her adventurous spirit and yes, sometimes snarky personality.

The second I pulled out the paddleboard, she knew exactly what was happening. She would wait patiently for her life jacket, ready to jump on and head out on the water with me like it was the greatest adventure on earth.

She literally rode in a crate on the back of our motorcycles and in the back of our ATV six-wheeler like she belonged there. Side-by-side rides, kayak trips, snow plowing, walks on the beach, around the property, or in the mountains. . . it never seemed to matter what we were doing as long as she got to come with.

That dog just wanted to be beside her people. If we were too far out of her line of sight . . . the whimpering would start. Just ask any dog sitter we had.

She loved hiking too, which wasn’t exactly typical for a French/English bulldog. She was all in . . . hiking for miles. But when she was done . . . she was DONE. She would plop herself right in the middle of the trail and refuse to move until she was good and ready, even if that meant making all of us sit there for the next half hour while she rested like a tiny stubborn queen of the wilderness.

And then there was snow. Gretchen absolutely loved snow.

She would dive headfirst through snowdrifts, rolling onto her back with pure joy, tossing snow into the air with her nose before eating it. Watching her play in the snow felt like watching pure happiness take physical form. For a dog built low to the ground with stubby legs and a stocky body, she somehow moved through deep snow like a bulldozer.

But as adventurous as Gretchen was, some of my favorite things about her were the little everyday moments.

Like her growl. It wasn’t an aggressive growl. A loving one. It was her “pay attention to me immediately” growl that somehow sounded exactly like a velociraptor.

Or the way she could be dead asleep, but the second Sky put popcorn in the microwave, she magically appeared in the kitchen because she knew her evening treat was coming.

She was jealous of the grandkids getting attention, but protective of them too. She watched over them carefully, tolerated dress-up sessions with surprising patience, and somehow managed to love fiercely while still making it clear she believed she should remain our favorite.

Despite her small stature, she carried herself like a dog ten times her size. Fear simply wasn’t part of her vocabulary. She loved fiercely, protected relentlessly, and if she believed something threatened her people, real or imagined, she was prepared to fight to the very end.

Whether she was attempting to attack the skis on Sky’s snowmobile when the engine started, challenging the chainsaw while he cut down trees, or putting another female dog in her place for getting a little too friendly, Gretchen never questioned the odds.

And then there was my dad.

A man who didn’t particularly love animals either, somehow formed his own special bond with Gretchen. And she loved him right back.

She knew not to get on his furniture. She knew he’d encourage her to chase birds in the backyard. Both of them were equally shocked the day she actually caught one. And yes . . . both were thoroughly scolded by Mom and me afterward.

She understood how to be soft around him in a way none of us ever taught her, learning to carefully step around his oxygen tubes, sit by his recliner when he was sleeping.

The night before he passed, he made sure we told Gretchen that he loved her. And somehow, the next morning, she knew he was gone.

Gretchen loved her sleep and rarely got up before we did. But that morning, before the sun came up and ten minutes before the phone call arrived, she walked into our bedroom and woke us up.

I still can’t fully explain that. Maybe I never will.

But I like to imagine Dad greeting her yesterday with that familiar smile, happy to see his old friend again. And maybe, somewhere beyond my understanding, the two of them finally know what the rest of us don’t. That some things are bigger than explanations.

My Golden Child, as I liked to call her, never really fit the mold of what people expected a French/English bulldog to be. She was tougher. Funnier. More adventurous. More intuitive. More connected. More magical.

And anyone who spent time with her felt it too. She was loved by an entire village of people, and she loved every one of them right back.

Last night, Sky and I sat together scrolling through pictures and videos, laughing one minute and crying the next, telling endless Gretchen stories while trying to wrap our heads around how a presence so constant could suddenly be gone.

And as we watched those memories replay across the screen, one thing became so obvious . . . Gretchen was woven into nearly every moment of the last eleven years. She was simply there.

And that pretty little dog with crooked front tooth and ears that stood straight up whenever she was curious somehow made all of it feel fuller.

The house feels quieter today. No click clack of her nails across the floor. No soft snores coming from the bed beside my desk. No more tug of war. No accidentally tripping over her solid little russet-potato body while making dinner because she always had to be exactly where we were.

No spins and jumps when Sky’s truck pulls up in front of the house. No wandering outside to greet the neighbors then turning up her nose at the other dogs. No more complaining at the stench of cooking her homemade food. No more Montana sunsets.

People say dogs are part of our lives, but some dogs become part of our soul.

Gretchen was that for me.

And I don’t think a love like that ever really leaves.

With heavy but grateful hearts,

Hope and Sky