This month is named for Mars, the Roman god

February is done, its cold, gray relentlessness, and none too soon. Before my discontent took firmer hold, the snow melted, and I can walk through woods again. An Eastern Towhee, rusty sides and strikingly black head, rustled through a pile of crumpled leaves this morning. A rhythmic hammering, a flash of scarlet, a pileated woodpecker dashed through the branches. A bevy of robins swooped into the trees and flocked the grass.

The birds are small compensation for walking in the woods alone. I cannot walk with my dog through the ravines of the park anymore. Eiger’s back legs are collapsing and his feet get bloodied dragging behind him. Without him it is quiet, I can see woodland birds staking out territory, seeking mates, building nests, and I hear their fluting calls. They are busy.

Eiger is no longer busy, but he is a warrior and not simply because he is a German Shepherd. When he arrived a howling puppy, he gave new purpose to Mary when she was dying of cancer. When she died and I howled, it was Eiger who came to me, brown eyes melting, put a paw on my lap and licked away my tears. When I despaired over how to train him, he won a huge trophy for best in obedience, tracking and agility. He kept me company driving 2,864 miles across country to Alaska. There we climbed mountains and camped in wild forests, and he chased porcupine and plunged into icy rivers. He has lived hard.

Now, he follows me from room to room, his legs buckling when he tries to stand. It hurts me. He is lying beside my desk as I write. When I go to sit on the sofa, he will thrust a stuffed toy into my lap, eyes shining in glee, begging me to tug it and shake it until he wins. And when he does, he will disembowel the thing, tossing white bits of polyester fluff into the air in gay abandon until he has gutted it.

Warriors never give up; neither must I. March is here.