It’s really challenging to own a pet when you’re a wildland firefighter.Â
Even more so when you’re single and/or live alone. As pet owners, I think I can speak for us all when I say it’s a struggle between the desire to have a pet (or five) that brings so much joy and companionship and wondering if it’s unfair to the pet with being gone so much and so often. Even when I have loving and dependable care for them, I still feel guilty.
When I was on the hotshot crew, my mom kept my dog, Ruby, and my sister kept my cat, Ethel. My mom absolutely spoiled her granddog. I’d asked Mom to not feed Ruby any junk, but after a while she didn’t even try to hide
it anymore, telling me Ruby loved Hardee’s hash browns. About three months into the season, when I called to check in on Ruby, Mom said, “She’s really depressed. I think she thinks you died.” Ugh. Mom said she had an idea and held the phone up to Ruby’s ear so I could talk to her. Holding in the tears, I told her what a good girl she was, how much I loved her, and that I would be home soon. When Mom picked the phone back up, she said, “I think that helped. She seems better.” Lawd.
After the hotshot crew I went to work on the Apalachicola NF in Florida.
I was single and still had Ruby and Ethel. When I moved to the very small town of Bristol it was difficult to find a place to rent that allowed pets. In much of the rural South, at least back then, it’s a bit unusual for dogs and cats to live inside homes with their owners. Fortunately, I was able to convince a prospective landlord to allow me to pay more a month if I could have my pets. He wanted to meet Ruby, and I had a good talk with her beforehand that she needed to be on her best behavior. She sealed the deal with her good manners, calm disposition, and adorable good looks (she was a small, curly-haired Springer Spaniel).
In Florida we didn’t have an “off” season; we fought fire and implemented prescribed burns all year round. The guys at work, nearly all locals, got to meet Ruby and started referring to her as my “young’un” because they saw how much we loved each other. As a single woman in a very small town, she was the bright spot I came home to every day. I took her with me everywhere I could, and I would even take her with me to training if I had to travel and could drive. She was always quiet and well-behaved in hotel rooms. When it wasn’t too hot, I’d take her trail running with me, making sure to steer her clear of ponds in case a hungry alligator was lurking. She loved water and swimming, so it was always a challenge to keep her away from those gator holes.
I moved down to Florida in January of 1998, the year of an historic and unprecedented fire season. The Governor declared a State of Emergency on June 14, but up on the Apalachicola NF our first “notable” wildfire started on Mother’s Day. We were running and gunning from then through July. Although I spent nearly every night in my own bed, we were working 16+ hour days fighting lightning-caused and arson fires. And, back then, we only got one day off after 14. Well, Ruby wasn’t having it, and I felt like shit that she was alone for such long stretches. I’d get home late, dirty and tired, and sit on my front steps in my Nomex pants and sweat-stained t-shirt throwing her ball, Ruby happily chasing it into the darkness beyond the porch light.
I remember one evening in particular. It had been a long day, as usual, and I’d played ball with Ruby after I got home. I had just gotten out of the shower when the phone rang. Yep, another fire, and they needed everyone to come back in. Ruby watched me get dressed and then turned around and slowly walked into the living room and jumped on the couch. Her sad brown eyes followed me around the house as I put on my boots and threw some food into my little Igloo cooler. Our routine every time I left her alone was to tell her “Guard the house,” and then give her a kiss on her soft, furry forehead. I walked up to her as she sat on the couch. “Guard the house, Ruby.” As I leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head away from me. Knife in the heart. I felt horrible leaving her.
I didn’t take any off-forest assignments that summer because the show was in Florida. And by the winter I’d found myself a boyfriend who later became my husband. Oh, and acquired another cat and another dog (strays, what could I do?). Though this man had never owned a pet of his own (who grows up without a dog, a cat, even a goldfish?), he loved my pets as if they were his. While he was also in fire, it was a bit easier to care for the pets with two of us. Especially taking fire assignments or traveling for training. Neither of us ever wanted kids, but our pets were our family.
I use to joke that the main reasons I got married were, 1. someone to take care of the pets while I was gone, and 2. someone to remove spiders from inside the house.Â
Matt left fire for timber, and so he wasn’t traveling for work nearly as much as I was. Even though I missed the pets when I was away, I felt good knowing they were loved and happy with their papa in their own home. I remember once in Utah I came home from being gone for a couple of weeks and our cat Bristol, who loved me beyond measure, walked up to me and proceeded to turn around and sit down with her back to me. She wouldn’t acknowledge me except to say, in her bossy little way, “Fuck you for leaving me; I now withhold my love.” I told her, out loud of course because she knew English, that she was only hurting herself by missing out on my cuddles and kisses. She eventually listened and stopped giving me the cold-shoulder every time I came home.
As Ruby aged and her health began to fail, Matt and I made the gut-wrenching decision to put her to sleep. We were fortunate our kind, small-town veterinarian came to the house to send her over the Rainbow Bridge. She was Matt’s first pet, and though she was my soul-dog, I think he cried harder than I did.
Years later, my mom died somewhat unexpectedly and left her beloved cat, Lucy, without a home. It’s a long story, but Matt and I ended up taking Lucy. She suffered from severe asthma and didn’t want anything to do with our four other pets. We made her a cozy space in our guest room with her own litterbox. She could come and go as she pleased but spent most of her time lying in the sunny window on one of Mom’s towels or on the bed. Matt would brush her nearly every night. She was content, but we both knew she missed Mom terribly. Her asthma got worse, and the dust-free litter, special food, and meds eventually stopped helping. Matt was out of town when I had to make the decision to end Lucy’s suffering. I had her at the vet, having rushed her in, still wearing my uniform. Though my heart was breaking, it seemed appropriate that it be only me to send her across the Rainbow Bridge. I wept deeply as I said good-bye to Lucy, and I know I was finally saying good-bye to Mom.
When my marriage broke up, Matt and I went through what many couples do during these times.
The dividing up of belongings exercise was amicable, and we didn’t argue over any items. We even divided up the simple wooden boxes that held the ashes of our deceased pets (Ruby, Ethel, Henry, Lucy, Kiley, Bristol, and Fred). But then it came to the pets. At that time, we had two dogs, Coco and Penny, and two cats, Kevin and Bo. I was the one who decided to leave the marriage, and I was also moving away to Oregon for a job as Fire Staff Officer/Forest Fire Chief on the Umpqua NF. I would be back to being a single person, living alone, and in a demanding fire management position. I suggested I take the cats and Matt keep the dogs. It would be hard enough on the cats, but I knew it would be cruel to take the dogs. At first Matt resisted. He said he didn’t want any of the pets. He felt like they would just
be sad reminders of our once happy life together. I was worried about him being along and told him as much. He shook his head. I remember sitting at the dining room table and telling him he would need the dogs to come home to. To get him out of house and out walking. And that it would be so unfair to them to go with me. Then I said one of the meaner things I said to him during our break-up. “How can you just abandon the dogs?” He got angry and said that wasn’t it. He just couldn’t imagine having them without me. Eventually he agreed to keep the dogs (and was very happy he did), and I know he loved and cared for them as I would have.
The day I left Matt, our house, and our dogs for Oregon stays with me. I was crying hard and was just beside myself over having to say goodbye. To him, to our life together, my job, my friends. But maybe most of all the dogs. I bent down to hug and kiss Coco and Penny, inhaling their individual smells of slobber, soil, and sunshine, telling them how much I loved them and how sorry I was. I cried into their soft fur leaving them wet with my grief. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see them again. It’s not like I was moving across town. I left, full of guilt and feeling like I’d abandoned them along with Matt.
I was fortunate that I got to go back to Asheville for work at least once a year (up until COVID). Matt was gracious in letting me see Coco and Penny. They were always happy to see me which warmed my heart. We’d walk them around the neighborhood or meet for a beer at a local brewery, dogs in tow. It was also a nice opportunity for Matt and I to talk and try to be friends again. The topics were usually pretty superficial – jobs, families, friends – but it was nice to stay connected. Back in Oregon, when our/my cat, Kevin, started having some health issues, I made sure to let Matt know. When I had to make the gut-wrenching decision to end Kevin’s suffering, I texted Matt, and he supported my decision.
I moved back to Asheville about a year and half after I retired, in May of 2022.
It’s a fantastic place to live, closer to my family, and full of good friends. Coco and Penny were both still hanging in there but were also getting pretty old. After I settled in, I asked Matt if I could pick them up and bring them to my house. I hadn’t seen them in three years, and when I walked up onto the porch Penny pranced and whined seeing me. Coco was more reserved. Her eyes were a bit cloudy with cataracts but she slowly wagged her tail once she sniffed me. At my house they were both pretty stressed. I took them into the fenced back-yard and they ran around a bit, smelling all the new smells. Inside they never really settled down but were anxious the entire time. I loaded them up and took them back to Matt’s a little earlier than planned. I told him it was just too stressful for them, that I wouldn’t take them to my place again. He understood and told me I could come see them any time I wanted. I cried a little on the way home. They weren’t “our” dogs any longer; they were Matt’s. Which was okay. All our lives had kept moving forward. Matt had a long-term girlfriend who was kind and loving to the dogs (and to Matt). I was still navigating retirement and what that looked like for me and also traveling quite a lot.
One day in early January 2023 Matt called me to tell me Coco wasn’t doing well. She seemed disoriented and lethargic and it had come on pretty suddenly. Like our other chow-mix, Kiley, Coco had been healthy her whole life, so we both knew it was probably serious. He told me he had made an
appointment for her at the vet but suggested I come see her before in case the news wasn’t good. When I got to the house Penny greeted me exuberantly, but Coco barely took notice. I petted her and spoke softly to her. Matt and I drank tea and talked about a lot of things. Work stuff, old friends, politics. We caught up on each other’s families. It was nice and what I had always wanted, and I think it was for Matt, too. When our life together was shattering, we had both expressed how we’d hoped someday we could be friends, or at least friendly, again.
I decided to hike to an unstaffed fire lookout the next day while Matt took Coco to the vet. I wanted to be in the sun and fresh air, in the healing embrace of nature, if the news was bad. When I was nearly back to my car, Matt texted. Coco was in late-stage kidney failure. There was nothing left to do but say good-bye. I thanked him for the time with her and asked him to please tell her I loved her, and he promised he would. I cried all the way home, sad but grateful. Grateful to have had Coco, grateful for Matt for taking care of her and loving her after I left, and grateful to Matt for letting me see her one last time.
Later that summer Matt brought Penny over to see me. She was getting old and had the beginnings of doggie dementia. Matt got to see Bo who was also struggling with chronic illness. We talked and it was easy and nice. Later, when Bo let me know it was time to let him go, I texted Matt and offered to let him come see him. He declined as he’d recently seen him, but sent his love to both of us. I held on to that love as I let Bo go.
I would run into Matt and his girlfriend a few times, and Matt would give me updates on Penny. She was had dementia which manifested itself as pretty severe restlessness and was on some new meds that helped calm her anxiety. We both knew it was temporary. I sent Matt an article about making the decision to let a pet go, hoping he would find some comfort in what I knew would still be difficult, even if it were time.
Just after last Thanksgiving Matt texted me about Penny.  He’d made an appointment with one of the visiting vets to come to the house the next day and asked if I wanted to come over to see her. We agreed on a
time. And then he warned me. “She’s not the same dog, Riv. She’s not herself.” When I arrived, Penny didn’t really acknowledge me. She was pacing the house. I put my hand out and she tried to nibble my fingers. Then she started pacing again. “She’s like that pretty much all the time now,” said Matt. She was keeping him awake with her pacing for hours each night. He was exhausted, and her quality of life was greatly diminished. We sat and drank tea and talked for a couple of hours. When it was time for me to leave, I said good-bye to Penny, hugging her as she tried to pull away, and told her how much I loved her. The next day Matt texted me after Penny crossed the Bridge. He said it couldn’t have been more peaceful or gentle. I was glad for both of them.
Penny was the last pet we’d shared. And her passing signified more than just the loss of a dear pet. It was like the last thread that still connected us had broken. I cried for Penny, but I also cried for Matt and me and us. It had been seven years since we’d split, and we’d both moved on. But this felt different from the other pets’ passings somehow. Our pets had been reasons for us to stay in touch. Reasons for us to sit together and drink tea and talk. Reasons for us to still share a connection. And now that was gone. I think Penny’s dying felt like the last chapter. The final good-bye to my marriage.
But I’m fortunate my pets have helped me connect to my neighbors. I have some amazing neighborhood kids who will pet-sit for short overnights, two nights max, and their parents keep keys to my house just in case. The couple who lives kitty-corner has a key to my house, and I have one to theirs. I can text them to please let Ranger in (or out) if I get stuck somewhere, and I’ve fed their cats and walked their dog numerous times when they needed a hand. I’ve met many of my other neighbors while they’ve walked their dogs past my house. Confession, I usually remember the dogs’ names way before I do the peoples’.
Our 74-year-old neighbor, Sue, died unexpectedly in her home a few weeks ago. Her sweet, tiny dog, Squirt, was by her side. They were both an important presence in our neighborhood, as Sue would walk Squirt at least twice a day, every day. On cold days Squirt would be dressed in a variety of colorful little jackets. Sue had no surviving family, yet four different families in our tight-knit neighborhood offered to adopt that little dog. I think all of us were relieved that Squirt would remain in our lives, in our neighborhood . She belonged here.  At Sue’s memorial, hosted by the wonderful neighbors who live across the street from me, we dressed in bright colors and many people brought their dogs, because Sue loved both. Squirt came with her new parents, dressed smartly in a pink unicorn outfit, and we all fawned over her. It was a bit cold and rainy, and as many of my lovely neighbors told funny and sweet stories about Sue, I held Squirt inside
my jacket to keep her warm and dry. It had been about three months since Penny died, and I still felt a little sad sometimes. But in that moment of remembering Sue, as I felt Squirt’s warmth against me, I reminded myself to be grateful. For not only the unconditional love and companionship of all my pets, past and present, but also for the connections they provide to other people in our lives. To our co-workers, families, our current and former partners. And to our friends and neighbors who love our pets and let us love theirs.
Being a wildland firefighter and pet owner is no easy road, and we all must rely on our families, friends, and neighbors to help us.
They say it takes a village to raise a child, but in wildland fire, probably just in life, it also takes a village to care for our pets, especially so us single folks have someone to come home to. What gifts these furry little beings are! And how fortunate we are to get to spend a short time with each of them and cherish the connections they provide.
Our brains don’t care that the roar of a real train sounds just like the roar of the fire from which we ran for our lives that one time in Idaho. Our amygdala just knows that it’s time to recognize sensations that share cues with past trauma. It functions with the intent to keep us alive.