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Jake Hayduke Abbey loved trees. You could even say
he was a tree hugger. Though it was apparent from the start that with his
stubby body, pronounced jowls and manic energy, he resembled his first
namesake, Jake Blues, aka John Belushi, it wasn't until his third spring
that we discovered his noble heart beat in tune with his second namesake,
legendary environmentalist Edward Abbey.
 One
fresh April morning, I opened our backyard gate, stepped inside and called
Jake's name, bracing myself for the onslaught of 55 pounds of leaping,
diving, drooling, loving Springer Spaniel. Nothing happened. No Jake. Less
surprised than annoyed, I muttered, "We should have named him Houdini."
In his overwhelming desire to meet and greet everyone in the world—or at
least everyone within a mile radius of our Sugarhouse, Utah home—there
wasn't a fence Jake couldn't breach or a chain he couldn't slip or break.
He was infamous for his periodic stampedes through local businesses. As
I turned to track him down, dreading still another encounter with the nostril-flaring
maitre'd of the nearby Italian restaurant, I heard a strange noise emanating
from the shady south side of the yard. "Jake, is that you?" I called, stepping
cautiously toward the sound. It increased volume, separating itself into
a dreadful combo of moaning and thrashing.
"Jake!" I yelled, desperately
scanning beneath the overhanging bushes and trees for what I imagined to
be my grievously injured dog. Suddenly, I realized that the noises were
coming from overhead, and I lifted my eyes to behold an amazing sight.
Jake was sitting in a tree.
Twin ropes of drool hung from
his jowls and his stubby tail beat a staccato rhythm, as he shivered and
moaned with uncontrolled excitement. I froze, unable to comprehend the
absurdity of the situation.
"Jake! How did you get up there?"
I asked stupidly, fully aware that I was talking to a dog. "Are you stuck?
How can I get you down?" In answer, he made a great, ungainly leap, landing
in a heap at the base of the tree. Wagging madly, he circled the tree,
rattling the fresh new leaves with is deep-chested, foghorn bark. As I
gaped in amazement, he abruptly halted his circumnavigation, and using
all four feet and attendant claws, he scrambled back up into the crotch
of the gnarled old tree. There he sat proudly, his baggy red eyes madly
glowing with joy. I fell to the ground, clutching my sides with laughter.
After that fateful day, Jake
could often be found perching in a tree. Though apparently none of the
others in our yard suited his needs, on walks to nearby Fairmont Park he
found many that did. From then on, appropriate camping spots were dictated
by the presence of climbable trees, and any mornings I awoke to see his
drooling visage peering from the branches of a gnarled pinion pine.
Jake's love for trees never dimmed. In his later
years when he was too stiff to climb he would spend long hours rolling
in autumn leaves, and in the delicate pink flowers that fell from the hawthorn
tree sheltering his Snoopy-type dog house. After he died, I spent many
hours under his trees, just remembering.
Jake was a great dog. And he really loved trees.
-- Diane Olson Rutter, Salt Lake City
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