🐕🦺 One last adventure for Uma
It was 2008, the stock markets were teetering on collapse. I’d recently left a job at SAC Capital, a time documented by books like Black Edge and large SEC fines. I'd always wanted a dog, but for a New York City-based, mid-20s hedge fund employee, a dog was not in the cards. I’d decided a move to Telluride, Colorado was the way to purge myself of the indulgences and miscreants and the dog search began.
Telluride, while beautiful beyond belief, is an isolated town at the end of a box canyon. I'd leave town frequently for haircuts, and groceries packed with dry ice. On the way out, I'd stop for a soak in the Hot Springs of Ridgway, and head over to the Second Chance Animal Humane Society. I’d been visiting the shelter the entire snowboarding season to find my dog, but none matched my primal association and love for "dog." One afternoon, I took “Missy” for a stroll and knew she was the one, well except for the name.
Shortly thereafter, I had my new companion, an 18-month(?)-old puppy I named Uma, after the Hindu goddess, and the same namesake of Uma Thurman, the prolific and eccentric actress. She was rambunctious, independent, and somehow still the perfect companion. She loved people, in fact so much that many an unknowing person would inquire as to whether she’d eaten, as a consequence of her convincingly sad and beautiful eyes. She mostly liked other dogs, but she was the boss. In short, she was a bitch, but could chill.
In short, she was a bitch, but could chill.
More than anything she'd loved to run – up and down the mountainsides of Telluride, through the trails of Aspen, and Boulder, and across the beaches of San Diego. Even the shelter had noted, she'd had multiple visits to the shelter because she'd run away – I kinda liked that. She represented a freedom I craved from my years on Wall Street and had unlimited energy.
I was incredibly fortunate to have those first couple of years in the mountains of Colorado because Uma needed a lot of training. She couldn't walk without yanking your arm off, and to let her run around in an unfenced area was a pure risk. I tried every training tool created, with limited success. I couldn't leave her side. We went on cross-country road trips, swam in mountain lakes, and rivers, and hiked mountains. And she ran.
That's how I spent 2008 and the first couple years after, Uma at my side adventuring through the mountains and the world trying to understand each other and what we both wanted from the world. She sat at my feet while I started companies, and worked from home before that was a thing. She needed me and I her and that felt good.
In 2012, things were getting normal with Uma and me, until Margaret, my now wife came into our lives. Uma was no longer the only woman in my life. She adjusted well, but beyond that, there was a bigger wrinkle, Margaret had a dog too, Gonzo. And so the two mountain explorers (Uma and I) now had roommates.
For years, the four of us explored, loved, and cuddled. through Boulder, Denver, Austin, and ultimately our home in North County San Diego. There's a saying that you don't know a dog fully until you have two :). This brought out the best in Uma (and me). Of course, there were jealous moments and quarrel over a treat here and there, but overall, we had our pack.
Margaret and I spent the next several years building our lives through new jobs, bought our first house, got married, and moved a couple of times, but Uma and Gonzo stayed with us. Despite that, Uma was an independent of the highest order and so anytime she nestled up to us on the sofa, in the car, or on the bed, it was as if she'd allowed us into her world.
Despite this wholesome and supportive pack, we could never stop Uma from running. Over the years, I'd picked her up from shelters, firehouses, law offices, and other people's homes countless times. She was chipped, tagged, had a pet tracker, was fenced in, and leashed up -- these were just games to her. It'd gotten so bad at one point, I'd created a flyer, printed up 50 copies, and just kept them in my filing cabinet for the next time she'd run.
When I would find her, I'd generally been through hell and back, convinced "She's not coming back this time, oh well," while she'd look up at you, suggesting "meh, what's the big deal, dad?" She was so many things to so many people. She was of course a therapy dog for me, but more importantly, was there for my friend Charlie and for my grandmother while she spent her final days in the hospital in Baltimore.
Then the Pandemic came.
We were living in Austin, Texas and my wife had just had her first miscarriage. We'd dreamed of adding a little human to our lives but the time wasn't quite right. And so what better time to add a third dog to the pack? Uma, we thought would be a sweet, nurturing older dog and teach Leon the ropes, instead, it was more like "Why the hell did you guys get this asshole?", knowing that she would no longer be our main squeeze.
For nearly two years the five of us roamed the earth, all at varying stages of our journey. Gonzo was in a stroller, Uma cruising slowly, and Leon was always primed for another all-out frisbee or ball session. Uma didn't care much for Leon, but she and Gonzo were still thick as thieves. Last year, almost to the day, we lost Gonzo to Lymphoma and we were back down to two dogs.
Then, after years of frustration and sadness, we added our son Isaac to our pack. – and Uma was still around. Through multiple houses, jobs, cities, states, and dogs, she made it. She had been the common element from a 28-year-old frustrated with work and life to a 42-year-old who had everything I wanted for my family. It of course wasn't without incident, perhaps a stroll out a mistakenly opened fence or even a fall into a pool.
In her 17th year, Uma was doing surprisingly well, mostly spending her time lounging in the sun, enjoying walks to the park, and of course, food. And then she wasn't.
The last 8 weeks have been hard. I would care for her, determined that were she to enjoy just three things, it was a life worth living. Then she started limping a little, then more, then all the time. Her hind legs seemed to get heavy. She stopped wanting to walk up the hill to see the sunrise with me. She'd stopped running, mostly because she couldn't. Even when I would treat her, she'd lost the ability to decipher your hand from the treat. She went to the bathroom in her sleep.
It was time. Age had finally gotten the best of Uma and who knows what else.
When the veterinarian came to our house this week on Tuesday, I took her collar off for the last time and realized it was the same collar I'd had since that first day in Telluride, and that's when I lost it. Even though I knew she was in a better place and at peace, I reflected on all that she did for me, and for us.
As I write this, I realize the growth, the journey, and the change I'd lived through with Uma. I am overjoyed my son met the most important dog of my life and that she saw us where I'd always strived to be. The first couple of days I looked out for those eyes, wanting affection or a treat. It makes me sad that I don't see them, but I know they are locked onto a bird, a squirrel, or a body of water in which to take a dip, or just run.
📷Uma over the years
She also had a penchant for going to the bathroom in extremely weird places.
📻 Music
I could have probably put dozens if not hundreds of songs that make me think of Uma and the journey we went on together, but I picked a few that captured the early days, one, an ode to all of our inevitable demises, and a couple of others in the official TradingMisbehavior.com playlist.
Do You Remember - Jack Johnson - I could have picked any Jack Johnson song from back in our mountain days, but this one just hits right. Because I literally do remember.
I And Love and You - The Avett Brothers - I know, I know, everyone knows the Avett Brothers, but we (my North Carolina crew) heard these guys 20+ years ago and Uma even joined us on a road trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains where these sounds were born (not Brookyln).
Losing My Edge - LCD Soundsystem - Even James Murphy knew (or at least pretended outwardly to know) that we all lose our edge at some point. Uma had hers for a long time.
My Shit's Fucked Up - Warren Zevon - When confronted with trauma, pain, and death, I'd say without question this is my favorite tune that reminds us of our mortality. Written when Zevon had been diagnosed with mesothelioma, truer, richer, and simpler words could not be spoken about the fragility of life.
No Woman, No Cry - Bob Marley & The Wailers - No explanation needed.