On the first day of his fifteenth hunting season, Farley died in his sleep. This dog inspired many of our close friends (and friends we have never met) to acquire their own gun dogs and return to the land to source their meats and satisfy their souls. His work ethic and composure in the field was legendary and I’m thankful this is the dog I learned to hunt behind. He was a true master of game and his comprehension of the upland country we call home was as deep as his bird repertoire. We are glad and thankful we can say we gave him a life most gun dogs can only dream of — we encouraged his instincts and did our best to help him develop his talents and gifts and he lived a truly glorious life as a working dog. When we bought the farm we basically brought him to DOG HEAVEN and his twilight years were spent digging up voles in the hayfield and eating them alive, napping in the sunshine and running the mesa with me. Farley felt affection for us but there was only room in his heart for one true love and his true love was the hunt which is how it should be with a bird dog. He was quiet, sometimes shy, aloof…he never needed to be the center of attention. He went about his work with an air of professionalism and class and loved sleeping bags. I could say a million more things about him but publicly mourning him begins to feel a bit self-indulgent so I’ll save those words for conversations with Robbie.

Robert and I married quite young and we grew up together and Farley grew up with us, too. We ran our household with a true canine pack order and asserted ourselves in alpha leadership positions over our dogs (which is how we still run our pack and household), but I think we also considered Farley to be a peer because we worked alongside him in the field. And maybe that’s what makes a partnership with a working dog so special, it adds complexity to your humanity…it makes your human heart half-dog…I’m not sure this happens when a dog is simply a companion. If you know what I’m talking about, then you know.

I’m taking his death pretty hard but there’s a lot of comfort in knowing that he could not have lived a better life or died a better death. He was one of my best friends. He is buried at the south end of the farm along the fence line between our property and BLM land with old growth sagebrush on one side and my flower garden on the other. Quail will run across his grave and the view over the canyon and the sage steppe is a pleasant one.

I have collected a batch of imagery in this post for you because I know some of you met this wonderful dog and loved him, hunted behind him, or simply came to love him because I spent fifteen years sharing him with you in this space. I also collected this batch of images for Robbie to look through — he flew fire out of Moab, Utah the day Farley died and wasn’t home to bury him or caress his face one last time or speak words over freshly shoveled dirt or weep for the loss. The only time I have seen my husband cry is when his dogs die. So Robbie, sit down somewhere quiet and look through these images and remember this pup of ours and think about how lucky we were to have him in our life and grow up with him. When you get home we’ll spend some time at Farley’s grave with our remaining dogs, say some words, give him a shotgun salute, and we’ll remember him everytime we hunt the canyons he was a master of.

We loved you, Farley, and we’ll never forget you.