Dante's Golden Tail

My parents got their first giant breed dog when I was 16 and their last when I was 35. I mark to you the passing of their beloved Dante, who was a rescue Newfoundland. A wild-eyed yearling when they got him, he aged into the calm elegance of the breed, a true gentle giant with nothing but love in his great heart which finally stopped last night at the venerable age of 12.

Newfoundlands were bred as rescue swimmers, and their love of water and concern for people is a deep instinct. A Newfoundland was part of the Lewis and Clark expedition, and Lord Byron famously wrote of his Newf,

one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the Virtues of Man, without his Vices.

This community knows the "golden tail" reference, which was Martin Luther's promise of resurrection to his little dog. But I found another golden tail, in Pablo Neruda's poem "A dog has died",

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds
filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy

And that is how I will remember Dante, who in his prime, loved to swim in San Francisco Bay or Lake Anza in the Berkeley hills. Once I went to the beach near Bodega Bay with my parents and their dogs, and Dante plunged into the surf, his massive head fording the waves, his immense tail stretched behind as a rudder, his webbed feet sturdily propelling him, as he set sail for Japan (and was only enticed back with some effort).

Swim strong, dear boy.