Yesterday, Jen and I lost one of our best friends. Our dog Jasmine was hit by a car at the end of a day of climbing in the Uintas. A group of people and dogs she had been playing with left, so she ran down the trail after them. A half mile from the crag, she ran out into the road. Two and a half years ago, Jen and I adopted Jasmine. Her papers said Red Heeler, but she was pure mutt, and one of the best dogs anyone has ever met.
She became our partner on climbing and biking trips, and loved nothing more than running through the mountains or the desert. Jasmine made us laugh every day. Whether it watching her have bunny-chasing dreams, listening to her try to howl until she got too excited and it devolved into coyote yelps, or the way she would jump up onto the couch to cuddle, but just squirm around endlessly—paws going everywhere. You could simply not be sad around her. If you were having a bad day, she’s come over and put her head on your leg with more force than was necessary and look up at you with those puppy-dog brown eyes until you pet her. If that didn’t work, she would start to pounce around the room in a clear invitation to forget whatever you were thinking about and come play.
Jasmine loved everyone, and everyone loved Jasmine. She stood patiently and let little kids pull on her ears and tug her tail. She played with big dogs who loved to be rough, and little dogs who were scared of everything except her. She would run up to any stranger and roll over onto her back so they could pet her stomach. When Jen and I left on a trip where we could not bring her, our friends would fight over who got to watch her, and then they’d thank us for the opportunity when we picked her up.
Jasmine’s last day on earth was perfect. She woke up in the van, which is by far her favorite place to sleep. When the sun rose, she climbed into bed between me and Jen, where she was her normal squirmy self—poking us in the face with her paws while she tried to find the perfect position for us to pet her belly. Then we went up to a crag in the Uintas, where she ran up the trail, hoping up rocks and jumping over logs with effortless grace and an ear-to-ear smile. Nearly every group at the crag had a dog, so she got to play the entire day while we climbed. When she wasn’t playing with the dogs, she was playing with two of her favorite people, who had coincidentally joined us for the day. The very last thing she ever did was run down a trail, ears back, tail flat, tongue out—doing what she loved more than anything else.
Jasmine is now forever in the mountains she loved, and we are absolutely heartbroken. All of my friends with dogs, please rub their bellies and give them a treat for me.
