Missing my Chance

Five years with a pack of dogs

Chance arrived shortly after I moved to the farm in rural New Mexico. He looked like a fox on fire, with a thick red coat, piercing eyes, and the gait of a hunter. Clovis, a black Labrador, had already been there for a few weeks, and these two—running away from neighboring ranches—were obviously friends. They immediately settled in without a glitch.

At first, I thought their presence was temporary. Skeptical of dog food, I made them scrambled eggs with buttered toast twice a day. It was more of a “feed them and they will stay” than a “build it and they will come” situation. Living by a river on thirty acres, surrounded by thousands of acres of pastures, I was keen to keep these dogs as wild as possible, letting them roam free. And roam they did, disappearing every morning to patrol their turf and socialize, or fight, with other ranch dogs.

Chance had a sweet wildness about him that made me laugh constantly. He was also quite rambunctious, regularly jumping on me with excitement, scratching my over-baked, paper-thin farmer's skin. My forearms were often bloodied and scarred from his rough, powerful claws. Farm dogs don't get manicured—they just run, dig, and claw their way into perfection.

Chance was a true racing machine, accelerating at an Olympic rate and able to sustain thirty-five miles an hour while chasing my truck every time I left the farm. Clovis was fast, too, but just like a truck, it took him a little longer to reach top speed. I had to be quick when I left, or they would follow me all the way to the highway half a mile away, which would likely have meant their demise.

Chance never let me out of his sight, a sure sign of a protector spirit. He followed me across the river, swam in strong currents, and loved being in water. Both Clovis and Chance slept in my barn tool shed, and I often cuddled with them at night, wearing a one-piece reindeer pajama. They absolutely cherished my furry disguise, and getting them to sleep was like trying to settle sugar-pumped kids after a birthday party.

Jack, Chance's brother, would come around trying to assert dominance, but Chance would have none of it. They were the same size, but Chance was the brainy one, in addition to being a remarkable athlete. I chased Jack away because his constant posturing was disturbing our peace.

Chance soon figured out how to climb the steep steel staircase leading to my living quarters above the barn. After finding him covered in snow one morning, I let him stay in my place. He was content to sleep on a cot by the door. Clovis, curious and a bit jealous, climbed the stairs one day but couldn't go back down. The steel steps, designed to scrape the mud off one's boots, were too painful for his tender paws. I carried his seventy pounds down, a strenuous and dangerous feat, holding him with one arm while gripping the railing with the other. It was one of my most bonding moments with Clovis.

Cleopatra, a gorgeous full-tailed Doberman from a neighboring ranch, soon moved into the tool shed and displaced Chance and Clovis, immediately asserting her dominance over the pack. Within a week, however, she stopped eating and started losing weight. I thought she had worms and gave her some medicine. When I left the farm for a couple of days, I came back to find her on the brink of death. I rushed her to a vet in Santa Fe, ninety miles away, with her head on my lap, crying, fearing I would lose her. After a five-hour surgery to remove ten inches of her twisted, infected colon, Cleopatra pulled through. A true survivor.

A year later, Blublu, a tiny Chihuahua I found lost and wounded during an epic summer monsoon, joined the pack. He squeezed himself comfortably into our ever-expanding family. Rico, a Blue Heeler from another ranch, temporarily joined the pack. He was a complete nut, the epitome of eccentric joy—a truly happy dog. Rico left one day after I scolded him for chasing my neighbor's cows and horses. I was crushed, knowing I'd been a bit rough with him.

I quickly discovered that living with semi-wild dogs who had never seen a leash meant I needed to tap into my alpha instincts to keep the pack in harmony. Two months after Rico vanished, he showed up one day, bouncing down the farm road, happy to see everyone. I hugged him profusely, noticing how good he smelled—he’d obviously moved in with someone who gave him a bubble bath. I soon realized he’d returned to his original owner, a woman who worked in the city. As much as he liked our family pack, he got more attention where he came from. I was deeply relieved when he returned, as if to say goodbye—his owner moved back to Albuquerque soon after. I can hardly imagine Rico living in the city. The one time I tried to put a leash on him to take him back, he chewed through the rope in five minutes!

Keeping all these dogs—more came and were chased away—was a lot of work, but they delighted all our visitors. Our Airbnb reviews were filled with comments about the dogs, attracting more dog-loving customers to the farm. These dogs, in a way, made me money and probably helped pay their food bills. We cooked large pots of rice, adding canned dog meat, turmeric, carrots, garlic, nutritional yeast, and vinegar to keep these beasts healthy and worm-free. After all, they roamed and ate pieces of carcasses from cows that died on the range. Once, Cleopatra and Clovis dragged an aborted calf from a neighbor's ranch and feasted on it for days, until every bone was gone. I was impressed.

Grooming these dogs to keep them free of ticks and fleas was a constant effort that involved all the farm residents. It may sound gross—ticks filled with blood—but the many-times-a-day ritual was a sure way to bond deeply with these animals. Without human care, dogs in this part of the country often die young, poisoned by the bloodsuckers.

The four males were unneutered and roamed freely, and Blublu (I had just planted a field of Chihuahua blue corn when I found him!) had, by all standards, the biggest penis, which seemed to deeply impress the other three dogs, who themselves were quite well-endowed. Driving along the county road, I’d often spot puppies bearing a strange resemblance to some of my wild roamers.

One day, Chance vanished for a couple of days, only to return limping and looking unbearably uncomfortable. He’d obviously been romping, and his penis had become stuck in an awkward position. I calmed him down with Bach Pet Rescue Remedy and helped him tuck his dick back inside. Another deeply bonding experience!

All the dogs survived close encounters with porcupines, rattlesnakes, and, for Cleopatra, an attack from a bobcat. She had deep lacerations on her butt and chest—so deep, you could see her lungs’ outer membrane. Unable to afford another visit to the vet, we dressed her wounds with iodine and Trementina, a traditional New Mexican ointment made from piñon sap, beeswax, and herbs. We kept her inside and nursed her back to health.

One day, while plucking fleas and ticks from Chance, he kept twisting and jerking, making my job difficult. Frustrated, I grabbed him by the fur on his back and threw him outside in a fit of anger. I still remember the sound he made from the pain of being handled so roughly. Chance disappeared for the rest of the day and didn’t return that night. He was gone.

I was mortified and remorseful. I couldn’t even tell my crew what had happened. I was ashamed of myself. The next evening, sitting at the bottom of my stairs, I saw Chance coming down the road. My heart leapt, and I opened my arms wide to welcome him back. We cuddled for a long time, and I apologized profusely for mistreating him. I was relieved.

But the next day, Chance was gone again, never to be seen again. Every day, I waited for his return, but it never came. My heart broke more with each passing day. Too ashamed to share my grief, I suffered in silence, pouring my love on the remainder of the pack, who seemed to understand and showed me great sympathy.

One morning, I came down to the barn at dawn and noticed an unusual glare on Clovis’s face. As I turned on the lights, my heart sank—dozens of porcupine quills were embedded in his face and mouth. Cleopatra, too, had suffered the same fate and was hiding in the back of the barn. I had no money for a vet, and Clovis had never set foot in a vehicle. I posted an SOS on Facebook, and a young farmer friend immediately volunteered to come get my dogs with her van and crates, taking them to her vet. The dogs were saved, and my friend, besides driving a hundred and twenty miles that day, insisted on paying the bill. It helped that my dogs were Airbnb and Facebook celebrities!

When I sold the farm a couple of years later, I had five weeks to prepare. I posted on social media and put up flyers looking for a new home for the dogs. I wasn’t willing to separate them or take them away from their turf. Just when I thought I might have to camp on BLM land until I found them a new home, the property buyer offered to keep the dogs. A miracle at the time. She also agreed to let me visit them whenever I wanted. I came to see them three times after the sale, but eventually, the buyer asked for her privacy, saying the dogs were fine. Another tear in my already broken heart.

I was writing to a friend recently and attached an image of Chance, standing in a shallow pool in the Pecos River, just having traced a beautiful signature in the water with his tail. As I told the story of his disappearance, a wave of grief surged in my chest, and I began sobbing—the deepest cry I’d had since he disappeared. I let myself feel the pain, an intense mix of sadness, remorse, and shame.

In that moment, Chance’s spirit came to me. He reassured me that it was meant to be—that he gave me unconditional love as well as this lesson to help me on my journey. He said he was always looking after me. I felt peace and release.

A visitor once asked me what the most significant insight I’d gained from living on the farm was. I paused for a moment and said, "Living twenty-four seven with a pack of dogs has significantly altered my consciousness." She chuckled and asked again, but I repeated my answer.

I still think of my dogs all the time. They were my family—my everyday companions, my protectors, my comedians, and my most loyal friends. Breaking away from the pack was excruciating.

To this day, every dog I encounter is a member of a family I cherish. Warm, receptive, attentive, sweet, and funny—and, when given the chance, and unleashed, they quickly return to the natural order of a pack, with their human alpha an integral part of the hierarchy. Through aches, fears, and grief, I have learned and grown immeasurably from my time with these dogs. Each one had a distinct spirit, sent to protect me, keep me company, and teach me lessons I might not have learned from humans.

I am deeply grateful for having the courage to open my heart to them, and I trust that wherever they are now, they still dream of me, and of all the wild and tender moments we shared together.