We spent five days in the saddle, traversing the rugged beauty of Georgia. We weren’t racing; our pace was steady, a slow rhythm that stretched from dawn until the sun dipped below the peaks. Our horses were a motley crew, gathered from various local owners rather than a single stable.
Along with one of the horses, a dog arrived at our meeting point. He was a wanderer, belonging to everyone and no one. His owner’s parting words were indifferent: “If anyone wants to keep him along the way, let them.”
We called him Zarbazan. He was a spirited, joyful, and fiercely independent soul. We bonded instantly, and without a second thought, he joined our expedition.
I never expected what followed. Zarbazan didn’t just follow us; he lived the journey. Over those five days, he must have covered twice our distance, tirelessly pacing back and forth to ensure every member of the group was accounted for. Occasionally, he would bolt into the dense forest, his barks echoing through the trees – a self-appointed guardian protecting us from unseen threats.
At breakfast and dinner, he feasted on whatever we shared. Lunch was a humbler affair of trail rations, but Zarbazan had his own traditions: he made it his mission to finish every last bit of my cheese, while the others compensated him with crusts of bread.
At night, if our hosts allowed it, he slept in the yard. If not, he sought comfort among the horses. But every morning, without fail, he was there – dashing around, tail wagging, checking that no one had been left behind.
The true test of his loyalty came midway through our journey in Ushguli. One morning, we heard a heartbreaking whimper. We found Zarbazan on a heavy chain. It turned out the local host had taken a liking to him – Zarbazan was a hunting breed, after all – and decided to claim him. Our group was incensed. We rebelled, demanding his immediate release.
Finally, a deal was struck: we would unchain him and let the dog choose his own fate.
As we mounted our horses and began to ride away, the hostess tried to lure him back into the house with a bowl of food. We watched him struggle – a moment of pure, agonizing indecision. But the call of the trail was stronger. He turned his back on the food and raced to catch up with us.
On our final night in the mountains, after we had returned the horses, Zarbazan didn’t leave with them. He stayed. He spent that last night in the yard of our guesthouse and stood watch the next morning, seeing us off until our minibus finally disappeared from view.
He was a hell of a dog. To be honest, saying goodbye felt like losing a true friend.
