THE MOJO CAP

"Dad and Mojo did everything together."

In his will, my dad requested that his ashes be mixed with our dog’s and scattered in Alaska’s Chugach Mountains. Dad and Mojo did everything together in life, and I guess he wanted that to continue in the afterlife and assumed Mojo would go first and be waiting for him. But when Dad crashed while paragliding in Turkey last year, Mojo was home with my mom in Anchorage. (A few weeks later, I told Mom and my sisters, “You know what we have to do, guys. Sorry, Mojo, into the oven you go.” Everyone yelped. “Too dark, Megan!” But I think Dad would have appreciated the joke.)

He was an anesthesiologist and part owner of a surgery center and had lots of responsibility and stress. His antidote was adrenaline. In the outdoors, he let loose. Our vacations included going on safari in Tanzania, biking in Vietnam and rafting the Grand Canyon. He’d raft down rivers dressed as Evel Knievel or the Duff beer guy from The Simpsons. But he wasn’t reckless. He was level-headed and reliable and always mindful of safety. (Ironically, the thing that brought him to Turkey was a paragliding safety course; it started the day after he died.) Dad was an outdoor guide to many, and he tried to instill his enthusiasm in our family.

Despite his best efforts, my sisters and I were unathletic and risk-averse and had roughly zero interest in adventure; we were preoccupied with homework, singing and anime. So for Dad, Mojo was a better companion. He’s a Landseer Newfoundland, with stunning white-and-black fur that makes him look like a little Holstein cow. He was my parents' fourth child and definitely seemed to be my dad’s favorite. Dad took him along to climb mountains, float rivers and shred gnar. They’d slip out the door before anyone else woke up, off on their next grand adventure.

When my sisters and I were in college, Dad started venturing farther and farther from our family, taking extreme trips more and more often. Increasingly, Mojo was the thing we had in common. In the awkward silences when Dad was home and we didn’t know what to talk about, we’d focus on Mojo. Every Christmas gift, Father’s Day card and birthday card included an illustration of Mojo drawn by one of us girls.

One day Dad came home hollering, “Everyone c’mere! I have something for you”—and proceeded to hand out matching caps to my mom, my sisters and me, each cap embroidered with the likeness of our family mascot. “Isn’t this awesome?”

“It is!” we said, trying to match his excitement. But of course it was more complicated than that. Though I wore my hat at first, it eventually ended up in my closet, tucked away along with my lingering resentment that it was Mojo who was always taken where none of the rest of us could go, that it was Mojo who got from Dad the love and affection I’d always wanted.

Death, it turns out, changes things. When it came time to scatter Dad’s ashes, I dusted off my Mojo cap. And as I watched the ashes dissipate in a bubbling creek, it struck me that my resentment had dissipated too. My dad was taking one more ride down the rapids. I understood his wish to have his best friend by his side. I wished he wasn’t alone on this last adventure.

—Megan Biggs

Dad and Mojo in the Chugach mountains, in the valley where we scattered Dad’s ashes.

---

Megan Biggs is a UX content designer in Minneapolis.

---

For a different reading experience, The Keepthings’ stories can also be read in their entirety on Instagram @TheKeepthings.

Have a story to share? Please see the complete submission guidelines, including photo guidelines, at TheKeepthings.com.

---

---