Good Dogs, Good Guns & Good Whiskey

The Things That Remain

Good Dogs

A good dog celebrates with you. She is the first one to the door when the shotguns come out for bird season, knowing an adventure is about to begin, even if she doesn’t understand why.

She’s the one who curls up beside you when grief settles into the house. She doesn’t ask questions or offer advice. She simply refuses to let you carry the weight alone.

She looks to you for everything—for food, water, direction, and affection—but somehow spends her entire life caring for you better than you ever cared for her.

There’s a look they give you when they know you’re speaking to them. Sometimes it’s because they hear, “Good girl.” Sometimes it’s because they recognize something deeper in your voice. They don’t understand every word, but they understand you.

When you’re hurting, they know it before anyone else does. They lie a little closer, rest a head on your knee, and quietly stand watch until whatever is troubling you begins to pass.

And when life is good, there’s something that almost looks like a smile. Their tail moves a little faster. Their eyes brighten. They seem to understand that today is a day worth celebrating.

Over time, they become the keepers of your routines. They remind you when it’s time for bed. They wake you when the day begins. They know your habits so well that they become part of who you are.

A good dog asks for very little.

A little food.

A place beside you.

A hand on her head.

And the chance to spend another day with the person she has decided is her entire world.

If we’re fortunate, we spend our lives trying to deserve that kind of loyalty.

That’s what good dogs do.

They don’t love us because we’ve earned it every day.

They love us because, somewhere along the way, they decided we belonged to them. And then they spend the rest of their lives proving it.

Good Guns

The No. 1 is an old friend.

A Ruger No. 1 in 9.3×74R. A falling-block single shot with a compact 1–4× scope sitting atop her.

The bluing has long since faded. The walnut carries its share of dings and scratches. At the muzzle, years of scabbard wear, cleaning rods, and countless rounds have turned the blue to a soft gray.

Missed shots?

Never her.

Those belong to me.

She has never once failed to do exactly what she was asked to do.

She’s a little heavy, but only for the first mile. After that, once your eyes are fixed on fresh zebra spoor and your mind begins reading the country, you stop noticing the weight altogether.

By the end of the day, fine red African dust has worked its way beneath the fore-end, into the checkering, and into places you’ll still be finding weeks after you’ve come home.

She has a way of drawing people in.

Someone always asks to see her.

They work the falling block once or twice. They admire the walnut. They ask why a single shot.

The answer is always the same.

Because one good shot has always been enough.

Good Whiskey

In the evening, cracking open one of the old standbys from the liquor cabinet always brings a smile and a bit of nostalgia. It resets the mind.

The first thing is the aroma.

Before the bourbon ever reaches my lips, one quick breath carries me back to Joe and the Great Wild Turkey Experiment—a story best left around a campfire.

Another deep inhale, and I’m sitting beside Jim Lee, a retired Army Ranger who had more influence on a teenage boy than he probably ever realized. There’s a beat-up flask somewhere, a campfire throwing sparks into an Alaska night, and more wisdom being exchanged than any of us recognized at the time.

The bourbon?

Usually Willett if I’m feeling fancy.

Tonight, it’s Jim Beam.

Jim Beam?

You have bottles in the cabinet worth five or six times as much. Why reach for Beam?

Because she’s honest.

You always know what you’re getting.

Consistent.

Affordable enough to buy two bottles without thinking about it. Good enough to bring to fish camp without anyone complaining. Smooth enough to share with friends around a fire pit, and comfortable enough to pour when you’re sitting alone, revisiting old places, old friends, and good times.

The caramel and vanilla arrive first, followed by that familiar Kentucky warmth that burns just enough before settling in beside the cigar.

After a sip or two, the porch bench quietly disappears.

I’m back in the bug tent in western Alaska, listening to the old-timers tell stories, adding a few of my own. That’s how knowledge gets passed down—not always in classrooms or boardrooms. Sometimes it’s transferred across a folding table with mosquitoes outside the screen and a paper cup of bourbon in your hand.

Another sip.

Mel.

My best friend.

We were married at what was supposed to be a Kentucky Derby party that somehow became our wedding.

I remember the bourbon.

I remember the cigars.

But mostly, I remember how beautiful she looked.

Another sip.

Walking Emily down the aisle to marry her best friend.

We’re Millers.

We don’t cry.

That’s what we tell ourselves, anyway.

The tears had other ideas.

Another sip.

Commander Doug Clower, USN.

Pilot.

Prisoner of war.

His voice still echoes through the years as he tells me the bravest man he ever knew in the prison camp was a Marine.

The Marine took beatings so others wouldn’t have to.

He died from the injuries.

Some lessons don’t leave you.

The glass gets lighter.

The road grows longer.

Boot camp.

Set-netting.

The North Slope.

Joe and the wonderfully questionable adventures of young men who believed themselves indestructible.

The friends who should still be here.

The hunts.

The fish camps.

The laughter.

The mistakes.

The victories.

I realize the road behind me has become longer than the road ahead.

And yet, I’m only halfway through the stories.

There’s still more life to live.

More campfires.

More bottles to open.

More people to meet.

More memories waiting patiently for their turn.

People sometimes apologize for serving Jim Beam.

They shouldn’t.

It isn’t the bourbon that matters.

It’s the conversation it begins.

Epilogue

When I was younger, I thought a good life was measured by what a man accumulated.

I don’t believe that anymore.

A good life is measured by what remains after the years have taken nearly everything else.

The faithful dog.

The worn rifle.

The empty whiskey bottle that nobody wanted to throw away.

The woman still reaching for your hand.

The good men whose voices you still hear when you’re making difficult decisions.

Those are the things that survive.

Everything else is just stuff.