A Camino Encounter of the Dog Kind
A Camino Encounter of the Dog Kind
by Angela Darrow Flynn | Pittsboro, NC
I had a mystical moment on the Camino that flowed from the reality of a very hard day.
As the day began, we saw there were hills—including at least one about three hours out of Bruma that looked like a gorge, straight down and up. It was so extreme that I commented that no one could do it—there must be a bridge. (Right. Uh uh. No bridge.)
It was lightly raining, and we were swathed in rain gear. Down was interesting, but not too hard. We walked along a section of roadway, entered a wooded path, turned the corner, and then saw the “up.” Really up. It seemed at least 30 degrees, all uphill!
We began to climb. I could have never imagined such a hill! Each curve led to another incline. We would have a tiny level-ish bit, and then it would begin again. This continued for about a mile. At the top, I happily collapsed beside the path, and we all began to eat the bocadillos we had packed.
Suddenly, a friend came to join us from further up the trail. Years ago, my family had a much-beloved canine companion. Serra was a beautiful Anatolian shepherd who lived with us from puppyhood until she died at the canine equivalent of about 110 years old. Imagine my surprise when, five years later and half a world away, Serra loped toward me!
Now, let me qualify that this was a real dog—a male Serra look-alike. He was too thin, wasn’t receiving regular dental care, and had a too-tight collar. But in my exhaustion, I struggled to separate him from the furry friend who cared for my family for 13 years. My Camino companions tensed at this 130-ish pound dog; I was simply (and perhaps delusionally) delighted.
He nosed around, clearly looking for a handout, so I offered a piece of my bocadillo. Someone commented “you’ll lose a hand,” but I knew better. He came closer, eyeing the rest of my sandwich, which I honestly didn’t want. The ham went. He let me stroke his head. One last piece of bread, and I had a fast friend.
We humans talked a bit more. I explained Anatolian shepherds and their protective, but gentle, ways. Eventually we got up to continue on our way. I invited the dog to walk with us, but he had other plans. The last time I looked back, he was sniffing where we’d been, checking for crumbs.
I don’t know where that beautiful dog came from, what an unusual breed of guardian was doing in rural Galicia seemingly away from any flocks, or who was responsible for his presence that day. But I know that I needed that comfort of an almost-Serra after accomplishing one of the most grueling physical tasks I’ve ever undertaken. It was a spiritual moment, and I walked away encouraged and uplifted.
