The Mountain, the Dream, and the Wolfhound Butt

Sometimes a dream come true comes with a giant furry roadblock

Seven and a half years.

That's how long I'd been dreaming of hiking through the mountains with two Irish Wolfhounds.

The dream began before Shamrock ever came home. I'd imagined walking along wooded trails, surrounded by towering trees, with two magnificent hounds exploring the wilderness beside us. There was something almost magical about the picture in my mind, something that spoke to my heart long before I understood just how deeply these extraordinary dogs would become part of my life.

Then Shamrock came home, and everything changed. He was enormous, magnificent, stubborn, protective, loving, and possessed of a personality considerably larger than his already outrageous physical dimensions. He taught me things about Irish Wolfhounds that no book ever could, and somewhere along the way, my little daydream became something much more meaningful.

But life, as it so often does, had other plans. The years passed, circumstances changed, and eventually I lost the magnificent boy who had started it all. The dream remained, quietly tucked away among the things I still hoped to experience someday.

And then came Clover, followed by Hooligan, two young Irish Wolfhounds who somehow managed to bring completely different personalities, equally enormous feet, and an astonishing amount of disorder into our lives.

On Sunday, October 25, 2026, seven and a half years after that dream first took shape, Justin and I finally headed into the mountains with two Irish Wolfhounds.

I had imagined the beauty, the companionship, the peaceful woodland trails, and the majesty of sharing the wilderness with these magnificent creatures. What I had not imagined was how much of the afternoon would involve negotiating with other hikers, watching Justin develop intimate relationships with trees, and trying to prevent 131 pounds of affectionate Irish Wolfhound from sending me swimming in a lake.

Apparently, the dream had come with a few additional features.

A Perfect Autumn Day

We couldn't have asked for a more beautiful autumn afternoon. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, the sun shone through the changing leaves, and a gentle breeze stirred the trees around us. Fallen leaves covered the trails at Winding Hills Park, providing that wonderful crunch beneath our feet that makes autumn hiking so enjoyable.

It was our first hike together as a family of four: Justin, me, Clover, and Hooligan. We'd walked together before, of course, but this was different. We were heading into the wooded hills, following trails that twisted and climbed through the forest, with our two young hounds ready to experience a little wilderness adventure.

I knew these trails well. I'd hiked them many times over the years, and one of the things I loved most about them was their solitude. The wooded paths were often completely deserted, allowing us to enjoy the peaceful surroundings without encountering another soul.

In fact, in all the years I'd been hiking those particular trails, I couldn't recall ever meeting anyone else on them.

Naturally, that was about to change.

We'd barely gotten started when I became aware of a woman following behind us with a smaller dog. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn't have given her much thought, but these weren't ordinary circumstances. I had two enormous young Wolfhounds, difficult terrain ahead, and a very particular idea of how I wanted this adventure to unfold.

I always keep the dogs leashed until we're well away from the roads, and I don't take the decision to release them lightly. These trails are covered in loose leaves, exposed roots, rocks, and uneven ground, with steep inclines that can become difficult to negotiate even without a dog attached to your arm. Add a large, enthusiastic Wolfhound to the equation, and a pleasant afternoon can turn into an orthopedic adventure remarkably quickly.

Unfortunately, with the woman and her dog following us, taking the leashes off wasn't an option I felt comfortable pursuing without first knowing how she would react.

I wanted Justin to ask her.

Justin thought I should ask her.

This became a rather ridiculous debate, conducted while we continued navigating the increasingly challenging terrain.

"Why don't you ask her?" I suggested.

"Why don't YOU ask her?" he replied.

"Justin, just ask her if she'd mind!"

"Well, you can ask her!"

And so the negotiations continued, with neither of us apparently willing to assume responsibility for opening diplomatic relations with the woman behind us.

Meanwhile, Hooligan was behaving beautifully. Despite being only eight months old, he had wonderful leash manners, walking calmly without pulling or tugging. A simple sound from me was usually enough to get his attention, and he remained wonderfully responsive even with all the unfamiliar sights, smells, and excitement surrounding him.

Clover was doing quite well herself, although her leash manners have always been somewhat more dependent on how interesting she finds whatever lies ahead. Justin hadn't done nearly as much leash training with her, and while she certainly wasn't behaving badly, there were moments when her enthusiasm exceeded his ability to negotiate the terrain gracefully.

This became especially apparent on some of the steeper downhill sections, where Justin occasionally found himself embracing a conveniently positioned tree.

There is something inherently entertaining about watching a grown man attempting to maintain his dignity while 165 pounds of Irish Wolfhound enthusiastically investigates the laws of gravity.

Clover, meanwhile, seemed entirely unconcerned by his sudden interest in forestry.

Eventually, after one particularly difficult climb, we reached the top and stopped near a bench. The woman and her dog were still behind us, and Justin finally summoned the courage to ask whether she'd mind if we let our dogs off leash.

She explained that her dog wasn't always friendly with other dogs.

Well, that settled that.

Somewhere during the exchange, she also mentioned that the bench we were occupying was where she usually stopped to rest.

I practically launched myself off it.

"Oh! You can have it!"

Naturally, I was delighted to offer her the bench. I was also delighted by the possibility that she'd sit down long enough for us to put some distance between her dog and our two enormous companions.

Unfortunately, she declined my generous offer and continued walking.

So we sat.

We figured we'd give her a nice head start, allow her to disappear farther down the trail, and then continue at our own pace.

It was a perfectly reasonable plan.

Until another couple came hiking up behind us.

"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME????"

Of all the days, on all the trails, in all the years I'd been hiking at Winding Hills, apparently everyone had decided that this was the afternoon to discover my little corner of the wilderness.

We waited again, allowing the couple to get ahead before resuming our hike. Unfortunately, despite having two enormous young Wolfhounds accompanying us, we somehow managed to catch up with all three people anyway.

At this point, I was beginning to think the entire mountain had developed a personal interest in testing my patience.

But I knew something they apparently didn't.

There was a side trail coming up.

I'd taken it before, and although it would add approximately another hour to our hike, it offered the possibility of finally escaping our unexpected traveling companions.

As we approached the turnoff, I watched carefully to see whether anyone ahead of us would take it.

The woman continued along the main trail.

So did the couple.

I could hardly believe our luck.

We turned onto the side trail, leaving the other hikers behind, and suddenly there was nothing around us but the woods, the autumn leaves, and the peaceful sounds of the forest.

Just the four of us.

Finally.

The leashes came off, and Clover and Hooligan were absolutely delighted. They weren't racing away from us or disappearing into the underbrush; they were simply free to move naturally, explore the trails, and enjoy the world around them without the restriction of being tethered to their humans.

I was every bit as happy as they were.

Seven and a half years after first dreaming of hiking with two Irish Wolfhounds, the adventure I'd imagined was finally beginning.

And that extra hour?

Worth every minute.

Into the Woods

Clover moved along with the confidence of a young lady who saw absolutely no reason to question her ability to handle whatever the wilderness might throw at her. She investigated interesting smells, studied her surroundings, and generally conducted herself as though she had been personally appointed supervisor of all woodland activities.

Hooligan, meanwhile, had an entirely different approach to wilderness exploration. He was fascinated by everything, particularly anything Clover found interesting, because apparently his big sister possessed access to important information that he could not possibly afford to miss.

If Clover stopped to investigate a tree, Hooligan needed to investigate that tree. If she discovered an especially fascinating patch of leaves, he hurried over to determine what extraordinary secret might be hidden among them. Considering that both dogs possess noses capable of detecting things far beyond our limited human abilities, I can only imagine what kind of information they were gathering.

The two of them were wonderful off leash, staying close to us and checking in regularly as we made our way along the trails. There was something deeply satisfying about watching them move so naturally through the woods, their long legs carrying them over ground that required considerably more attention from their two-legged companions.

But what I enjoyed most was watching Hooligan discover himself.

He was still a youngster, growing into an enormous body and learning what those long legs and oversized feet were capable of accomplishing. The woodland trails presented challenges he hadn't encountered on our ordinary walks. There were loose rocks that shifted beneath his paws, thick carpets of leaves concealing uneven ground, exposed roots, and steep stretches that required him to think about where and how he placed his feet.

At first, he approached some of the more challenging sections with a little uncertainty, studying the ground and adjusting his movements as he figured out how to negotiate it. But with each new obstacle, his confidence grew.

I could see it happening right before my eyes.

There was an excitement in his expression that I found absolutely wonderful, a brightness in those beautiful eyes that seemed to grow with every successful climb and descent. He was discovering that he could handle this unfamiliar terrain, and the realization appeared to delight him.

He wasn't simply accompanying us on a hike. He was having an adventure of his own, learning something about himself with every step.

And he was having an absolute blast.

The Human Roadblock

Of course, Hooligan had apparently appointed himself to an additional position of considerable importance during our expedition.

He was responsible for ensuring that I did not mysteriously disappear somewhere along the mountain.

And he took this responsibility very, very seriously.

Anyone who has ever climbed a steep trail knows that maintaining forward momentum is important. Once you stop halfway up a difficult incline, getting started again can require a surprising amount of effort, particularly when the ground beneath your feet isn't entirely cooperative.

Hooligan, unfortunately, had never attended a seminar on the importance of maintaining momentum.

As we climbed, he'd move several feet ahead of me, then suddenly stop, turn around, and look back to make certain I was still following. It was an endearing little habit, and under ordinary circumstances, I would have found his concern absolutely precious.

Unfortunately, he had an uncanny ability to conduct these attendance checks at the least convenient moments.

Every three to five feet, he'd come to a complete stop, turn around, and present me with an enormous furry backside. Because the trail was steep and he was standing above me, that backside frequently ended up at approximately eye level.

"Hooligan! MOVE!"

He'd look at me with those sweet, expressive eyes, seemingly pleased to discover that I had survived the previous few feet of our expedition. Once satisfied that his mother hadn't been swallowed by the wilderness, he'd turn around and resume climbing.

Then, a few feet later, he'd check again.

I found myself alternating between encouraging him forward, trying to maintain my own footing, and occasionally providing a little assistance to his rear end when he decided to stop in a particularly inconvenient location.

For seven and a half years, I had imagined the breathtaking beauty of hiking through the mountains with two magnificent Irish Wolfhounds.

Apparently, Hooligan had decided that the most important scenery I should enjoy was his ass.

But beneath the comedy was something that made me incredibly proud of him.

As the trail grew more challenging, he kept going. He studied the ground, figured out how to move across the loose surfaces, and gradually became more assured with each difficult section. I watched his initial uncertainty give way to confidence, and with that confidence came an enthusiasm that was impossible to miss.

By the time we reached the top, there was something almost unmistakably proud about the way he carried himself. His expression had softened into what I can only describe as quiet satisfaction, as though he knew he'd accomplished something important.

And he had.

It might have been just another stretch of trail to someone else, but to an eight-month-old Wolfhound discovering the world, it was an achievement.

Watching him reach that point, knowing how much fun he'd had and how much confidence he'd gained along the way, made every difficult step worthwhile.

Even the ones that had required a little assistance from behind.

The Road Less Traveled

At one point, we came upon a particularly steep trail that climbed farther up the mountainside. It wasn't part of the route we'd been following, but naturally, the moment I saw it, I wanted to know where it went.

Justin and Clover were perfectly content to remain where they were while Hooligan and I investigated. I started up the incline, curious about what might be waiting beyond the next bend, and Hooligan immediately came along with me.

Nobody told him to follow. Nobody instructed Clover to remain behind, and Justin didn't hold her collar or issue a command. The dogs simply made their own decisions about where they wanted to be.

Clover stayed with Justin, and Hooligan came with me.

It was such a simple thing, the kind of ordinary little moment that could pass entirely unnoticed if someone didn't understand what it meant.

But I understood.

Over time, Clover had developed a special attachment to Justin. She loved us both, of course, but she had chosen him as her person, and watching that relationship grow had been something wonderful. Hooligan, meanwhile, had become my devoted companion, a sensitive, affectionate young fellow who seemed happiest when he knew exactly where I was and what I was doing.

When Hooligan and I returned, I pointed out to Justin what had happened, and the smile that spread across his face was enormous.

His girl had chosen to stay with him.

My boy had chosen to come with me.

There was no elaborate training involved, no carefully orchestrated demonstration of obedience, and certainly no effort on our part to divide the dogs into teams. They had made those choices entirely on their own, and somehow, that made the moment even more special.

I looked at Justin, standing there with Clover, and felt an overwhelming sense of happiness. After all the years of imagining this very experience, here we were, sharing it with two extraordinary young dogs who had already found their own places in our little family.

And that afternoon, the four of us were exactly where we belonged.

The Celebrity Encounter

Eventually, our hike brought us out of the wooded trails and onto one of the roads winding through Winding Hills Park.

We hadn't been walking along the road for very long when we encountered a woman who was talking on her phone.

Loudly.

Very loudly.

One of the things we've learned from sharing our lives with Irish Wolfhounds is that going anywhere with them tends to create a certain amount of public excitement. People stop, stare, point, ask questions, and occasionally abandon whatever they were doing because they've just encountered a dog that seems to have escaped from a medieval legend.

This woman was no exception.

The moment she spotted Clover and Hooligan approaching, whatever conversation she'd been having apparently became considerably less important. Her excitement was immediate, enthusiastic, and impossible to miss.

We could hear her reacting to the dogs, and within moments, she'd informed the person on the other end that she needed to hang up because she absolutely had to meet whatever kind of dogs those were.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Somewhere, some poor person was left wondering what extraordinary event had occurred in the middle of their phone call, while the woman hurried over to investigate the two enormous creatures who had apparently justified an immediate interruption of telecommunications.

She had questions.

Lots of questions.

What kind of dogs were they? How old were they? How big would they get? What were they like? We answered her questions while she admired the hounds, and she soon asked whether she could take photographs.

Not just one photograph, either.

Hooligan was delighted by this development, because he has never encountered a situation involving public admiration that he considered excessive.

Clover was polite and cooperative, although I suspect she would have preferred to resume her walk. She seems to regard these encounters as a reasonable but occasionally inconvenient obligation that comes with being a magnificent Irish Wolfhound.

Hooligan, however, approaches public attention as though it were a personal calling.

He doesn't merely enjoy being admired. He seems genuinely fascinated by the idea that complete strangers would interrupt their own activities simply to meet him, and he responds with the enthusiasm of someone who has just discovered that the entire world is filled with potential friends.

By the time we continued walking, I suspect he was beginning to believe that our hike had an additional purpose beyond exploring the mountain.

Clearly, we were also conducting a traveling public-relations campaign on behalf of Irish Wolfhounds everywhere.

And he was the star.

The Disappointment of Passing Motorists

As we continued along the roads winding through Winding Hills Park, Hooligan discovered that our adventure offered another exciting possibility. Every so often, a vehicle would appear in the distance, and our walk would come to an abrupt halt.

You see, Hooligan has learned something very interesting about automobiles.

They contain people.

And sometimes, those people stop their automobiles, get out, and come over for the express purpose of admiring him.

This has happened enough times that he has apparently developed a working theory about the primary function of motor vehicles. While the rest of us understand automobiles as a means of transportation, Hooligan seems convinced that they are mobile delivery systems for adoring strangers.

Consequently, when he sees a vehicle approaching, he pays very close attention.

He'll stop walking, sit down, perk up his ears, and tilt his head as he studies the approaching vehicle. If it appears to be slowing down, his tail begins to wag, and he'll look toward me with an expression of such eager anticipation that I can practically hear his thoughts.

Mom! Look! Here comes somebody! Do you think they're coming to see us? I think they're coming to see us!

Unfortunately, the posted speed limit at Winding Hills Park was fifteen miles per hour, which meant that every approaching vehicle appeared to be slowing down. To Hooligan, this was practically a promise that someone was about to stop and shower him with affection.

Throughout our walk, the routine repeated itself. Hooligan would sit, his ears would perk up, his head would tilt, and his tail would begin wagging with anticipation. He'd look at the approaching vehicle, then at me, then back again, clearly expecting me to recognize the wonderful opportunity heading our way.

But the vehicles kept going. Not one stopped to dispense admirers, and each departure brought that unmistakable look of disappointment before Hooligan resumed walking with us, ready to have his hopes renewed by the next approaching car.

I couldn't help laughing at the whole performance, particularly because he never seemed to consider the possibility that the next vehicle might be just as disappointing as the previous one.

His optimism was absolutely indestructible.

Clover, meanwhile, appeared considerably less enthusiastic about the entire situation. She had come to enjoy a beautiful hike through the woods, and her younger brother had apparently decided that the afternoon should include repeated roadside auditions for the position of Most Beloved Dog in Orange County.

I could almost imagine her wondering whether we were ever going to resume our walk or whether Hooligan intended to remain beside the road until every motorist in the Hudson Valley had been given the opportunity to appreciate him.

Approximately half a dozen passing vehicles, half a dozen opportunities for admiration, and not a single new friend.

Apparently, Hooligan believes automobiles are vending machines that dispense affection.

Unfortunately, the machines at Winding Hills Park were out of service.

Dancing on the Water

Our adventure wasn't quite finished yet.

As we continued around the park, we headed toward the lake and its T-shaped floating dock. I was curious about how Hooligan would react to walking on one, particularly because the experience is unlike anything a dog encounters on solid ground.

The docks move.

Not dramatically at first, but enough that you can feel the difference beneath your feet. The farther out you go, the more noticeable that movement becomes as the floating sections respond to the current and the little waves moving across the lake.

I remembered bringing Clover there the previous October, when she was still a puppy. She'd been fascinated by the docks, running back and forth, up and down, clearly aware that the surface was moving but not the least bit intimidated by it.

She hadn't been entirely certain what to make of the sensation, but she'd loved exploring it.

I expected her to react much the same way this time.

She didn't.

Hooligan and I headed out together, taking the right side of the T-shaped dock, while Justin and Clover followed and went to the left. At first, Hooligan was absolutely magnificent.

He stepped onto the floating dock with complete confidence, seemingly unconcerned that the surface beneath his feet wasn't quite as stable as the trails we'd spent the afternoon exploring. He moved forward without hesitation, and for a moment, I thought he was going to take the entire experience completely in stride.

But the farther out we went, the more the dock moved.

And Hooligan noticed.

The solid, dependable world he'd been walking on suddenly seemed to have developed a rather troubling habit of shifting beneath his feet. He slowed, adjusted his footing, and began reassessing the situation.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the dock, Clover was having an entirely different experience.

She wasn't exactly frightened, but there was a definite uncertainty in her response that surprised me. This was the same dog who had happily explored the docks a year earlier, yet now she seemed uncomfortable with the shifting surface and wanted to return to solid ground as quickly as possible.

I couldn't help wondering whether some of her uncertainty was coming from Justin. He's never been particularly comfortable around water, and I knew he didn't care for the sensation of the dock moving beneath his feet. Clover is so closely bonded to him that it wouldn't surprise me if she picked up on his discomfort and became more uncertain herself.

After all, when she'd explored those very same docks with me the previous October, she'd been delighted by the experience. This time, with Justin beside her, she seemed to have an entirely different opinion of the situation.

Whatever the reason, she made it clear that she'd had enough, and they headed back toward solid ground.

I was having my own little adventure with Hooligan.

He had decided that the best possible solution to this increasingly uncooperative floating surface was to come back toward me.

This would have been a perfectly reasonable response if he hadn't been 131 pounds of Irish Wolfhound standing on a floating platform surrounded by lake water.

I was very conscious of the fact that one enthusiastic lean or an accidental bump could send me straight into the lake, and I had absolutely no intention of ending our beautiful autumn hike with an unscheduled swimming expedition.

So when Hooligan moved toward me, I moved out of his way.

Unfortunately, Hooligan interpreted my movement as an excellent reason to move closer.

I sidestepped again.

He followed.

I shifted away, trying to maintain my balance and keep enough room between us to avoid being knocked into the water.

He leaned toward me, apparently convinced that the safest place to be on this strange, moving surface was directly beside his mother.

And so began a rather ridiculous little dance.

There I was, attempting to maneuver around a 131-pound puppy on a dock that was moving beneath both of us, while he repeatedly tried to close the distance between us. Every effort I made to create a little breathing room seemed to inspire him to move closer.

It was becoming increasingly apparent that if I didn't convince him to move in the direction I wanted, our afternoon was going to take a very wet and unexpected turn.

So, once again, I found myself encouraging Hooligan forward, occasionally giving him a little physical guidance while trying to avoid becoming his personal flotation device.

What made the situation so funny was that he hadn't approached the dock with any fear whatsoever. He'd marched right out onto it with complete confidence, only to discover that the farther he ventured, the less the ground seemed willing to cooperate.

And when that happened, he came looking for me.

There was something wonderfully sweet about that instinct, even if I would have preferred him to demonstrate it somewhere that didn't involve the possibility of being deposited in a lake.

Between his determination to stay close and my determination to stay dry, we eventually managed to bring our little dockside dance to a satisfactory conclusion.

I was delighted with how he'd handled such an unusual experience, especially after spending the afternoon watching him gain confidence over rocky, uneven trails. Here was another completely unfamiliar challenge, and once again, he'd approached it with curiosity and enthusiasm.

The moving dock had given him something new to think about, and he'd responded by seeking a little reassurance from someone he trusted.

I couldn't have been more pleased with him.

I was also extremely pleased to still be dry.

One More Admirer

We'd barely finished our dockside adventure when a man who had been fishing with his family called out to us.

He'd spotted Clover and Hooligan and was clearly interested in meeting them. He walked over, and we soon discovered that he was a retired dog handler.

Despite his experience working with dogs, he knew very little about Irish Wolfhounds, and he was fascinated by the two enormous youngsters standing before him.

He had questions, too.

Lots of them.

We talked about the breed, their size, their personalities, and what it was like sharing our lives with dogs who seemed to belong as much to another century as they did to our own.

It was lovely watching someone with so much knowledge and experience discover a breed that means so much to us. He was genuinely interested in the hounds, and the conversation was another reminder of just how extraordinary these animals appear to people who haven't had the opportunity to know them.

Hooligan, naturally, was delighted to participate in this educational experience, particularly because the curriculum appeared to involve considerable attention directed toward him.

After spending so much time beside the road waiting for strangers to emerge from passing vehicles, he had finally encountered someone who understood the importance of stopping everything to meet an Irish Wolfhound.

Better still, this particular admirer hadn't even needed a car.

He'd simply called us over.

I could almost imagine Hooligan deciding that the lake was a far more promising location for future social engagements than the park road had turned out to be.

Clover was her usual gracious self, tolerating the attention while undoubtedly appreciating the fact that her latest admirer was standing on solid ground.

It had been quite an afternoon for both of them.

Seven and a Half Years

As funny as so much of our afternoon had been, there was something much deeper happening beneath the laughter.

Seven and a half years earlier, I'd imagined myself walking through the mountains with two Irish Wolfhounds. It was a simple dream, really, but one that had stayed with me through years of happiness, loss, change, and the kind of experiences that alter the way you look at the world.

Shamrock had been the beginning of it all.

He was the magnificent boy who introduced me to the extraordinary world of Irish Wolfhounds, the one who made me understand why people who share their lives with these dogs so often struggle to explain what makes them different.

He never got to take that particular walk with another Wolfhound beside him.

For a long time, the dream remained unfinished, and eventually, I had to accept that the version I'd once imagined would never happen.

But something beautiful about dreams is that they don't always disappear when life changes. Sometimes they remain tucked away in a quiet corner of your heart, waiting for circumstances you couldn't possibly have imagined when they first took shape.

I couldn't have known that one day Clover would come into our lives, or that Hooligan would follow her. I couldn't have imagined their personalities, their relationships with us, or the remarkable way they would become such an important part of our family.

And I certainly couldn't have predicted that the magnificent mountain adventure I'd dreamed about for seven and a half years would begin with an unexpected collection of hikers, involve Justin occasionally clinging to trees, and eventually feature an impromptu dance with an enormous puppy on a floating dock.

But there we were.

We had spent the afternoon walking beneath towering trees, listening to the crunch of autumn leaves and enjoying the freedom of exploring the wooded hills together. We'd laughed at the dogs' antics, watched strangers fall in love with them, and shared little moments that might not have meant much to anyone else but meant everything to us.

And perhaps the most wonderful part was that none of it had needed to be perfect.

There had been unexpected encounters, difficult climbs, moments of frustration, curious strangers, disappointed roadside social engagements, and a rather precarious encounter with a floating dock.

But there had also been discoveries.

I'd watched Hooligan tackle difficult terrain, learning to trust his footing and growing more confident with each new challenge. I'd seen the excitement in his eyes as he explored the woods, and the quiet pride that seemed to settle over him when he reached the top of a difficult climb.

And I'd watched Clover enjoy the freedom to explore at her own pace, discovering new things about the world and occasionally deciding that she preferred the familiar comfort of solid ground beneath her feet.

There was love in all of it.

And there was Shamrock, whose presence I felt in the very existence of the dream we were finally living.

I missed him. I always will.

But as I watched Clover and Hooligan exploring the woods, I couldn't help thinking about how much he had given me, and how something that began with my love for him had continued growing long after he was gone.

That afternoon wasn't about replacing what we'd lost, or trying to recreate something that could never be the same.

It was about discovering that life still had beautiful experiences waiting for us, and that sometimes the dreams we carry through difficult years find their way into reality in forms we never expected.

Seven and a half years.

And suddenly, there we were, all four of us, walking through the mountains together.

I was in heaven.

Not because everything had unfolded exactly as I'd imagined, but because it hadn't. The day had been filled with the kind of spontaneous, ridiculous, wonderful moments that make our lives with these animals so extraordinary.

I wouldn't have traded a single moment of it.

Well, perhaps three or four of the butt-related interruptions.

But only on the really steep parts.