Maggie is buried in what we call the orchard, although the apple trees show no sign of even considering bearing fruit and the peaches get picked off with astounding alacrity by squirrels; the pear trees are still too young for us to know their fate.
She is under a pile of rocks, which we intended to remove, save a headstone, once enough time passed to leave her remains uninteresting to other animals. But they make a giant cairn, and we have grown too used to it. Maggie died in the summer, and we had dug holes for the fruit trees, so it was easy to bury her. She was a large dog in every way—tall, with a huge personality. Maggie ruled from the moment we picked her out until the last day of her 14-and-a-half years. Because of her, Cherisse and I committed to leaving New York City for a country life, and that led us here, to 13 acres in Foster, RI—on Maggie’s Farm. We celebrate her wonderful life by tending bees, raising chickens, growing vegetables, and of course playing with Koa, Oliver and Rebecca. Maggie lived life well, and that’s what we try to do each day: care for our land as good stewards, enjoy excellent food produced here and by our neighbors, and always, learn new things.