Dog heaven in Vermont

It seems strange to go to a 150-acre dog lover’s attraction without a dog. Even stranger, I think as I stroll around Dog Mountain in St. Johnsbury, Vt., is the fact that there’s not a living soul in sight. Granted, it’s a weekday in March — not exactly high tourist season in this part of the country — but I thought that I’d at least be greeted by a tongue-wagging Lab or a sniffing terrier or two.

Instead, the place is stone silent. Just like the life-size man in a business suit standing in front of the quaint New England-style white chapel, surrounded by dogs big and small — a yellow Lab (no tongue wagging), a Scottie, a black Doberman, a huge Great Dane and, for good measure, a kitty. They’re wooden sculptures, carved by the late Vermont artist Stephen Huneck, who, after a near-fatal illness in the late 1990s, decided to build this place for two reasons: to provide solace to owners who’ve lost their dogs, and to provide grounds where dogs and their owners can play, play, play.

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I’m in the former group. I’d meant to visit Dog Mountain back when I lived in Boston with my pooch Gromit, but I never managed. Now, several years after he died and a mere season after my Doberman, Red, did, too, I’ve decided to finally make the pilgrimage to St. Johnsbury.

Once you’re in town, it’s an easy place to find. The road is marked by a sign and the sculpture of a woman walking with two dogs. It curves up onto this bucolic spot, with its wide-open views of the mountains. The sculptures are everywhere: dog busts on fence posts, another pooch figure standing sentry at an overlook, another few next to the big pond, and . . . well, at a certain point you stop looking for them, knowing that you’ll encounter them from time to time as you walk about.

Before heading into the Dog Chapel, which Huneck built himself, I decide to poke into the airy, light-filled gallery building next door. Inside, yet more sculptures of dogs large and small, plus prints, T-shirts, ornaments, children’s books (including the bestseller “Sally Goes to the Beach”) and more declare Huneck’s undying love for his favorite subject.

I amble around, chuckling at some of Huneck’s wittiest works, such as the classic “My Dog’s Brain,” a diagram showing nodules inside a canine head labeled “Socks,” “Bones,” “Food,” Ball,” “Selective Hearing,” “Sniffing Dog Butts,” “Getting Petted,” “Barking for No Reason,” “Jumping on Visitors,” “Food” again, “Treats” and more. But it’s all a little bittersweet, not only because I’m still feeling my own loss, but also because I know that as jovial as he seemed in his quirky artwork, Huneck suffered from depression and committed suicide in 2010.

After a while I head back to the chapel, which Huneck built in the style of an 1820s Vermont village church. The sign out front reads, “Welcome All Creeds. All Breeds. No Dogmas Allowed.” There’s a ladder blocking the entrance, but I move it aside and open the door. Inside the foyer, a larger version of the dog angel cupola (or maybe it just seems larger) greets visitors, but the most striking things are the countless multicolored squares and photos papering the walls.