Ancient Annie

Little Annie (her original name is unknown to us) wandered out of the tall grass following one of my other dogs on an incredibly hot and humid spring afternoon. Who knows how long she’d been out in the sweltering heat – days, maybe weeks? But she managed to find us – people who would love and care for her. The minute I saw that little dog I fell in love with her.

My neighbor and I loaded her into the van, and my wife drove as we rushed her to the vet – isn’t it always the case that things like this happen after hours?

Well, now she was ours.

To me she looked like the tiniest German Shepherd I had ever seen. Same markings. Same body type. Just a light-weight at less than 30 pounds, standing about three hands tall. Her coat was soft and beautiful, her ears were just a little too big for her head, her tail, though it never wagged, was long (I often told her how much I admired it, even if she never heard me), and her little gray face – well, just look at it.

A subsequent visit to the vet a week later disclosed that she had kidney failure, was totally deaf, was almost completely blind, had some kind of tumor on her eyelid, and had cancer. Unspecified cancer. The blood work just showed cancer. A physical revealed it was in her gut. Our vet said it could take her quickly or slowly. His advice – make her comfortable and take it one day at a time. And so we did.

Annie was an ancient soul. She had probably wandered away from her home or was dumped by the road. Either way, no one came looking for her. Or maybe she belonged to some old person who simply couldn’t look for her. Who knows what her history was, but it was apparent that she was quite old. Maybe 15 or 16. We had no idea what kind of life she’d had, but we were sure her remaining days would be as peaceful as possible.

In the subsequent weeks, I learned she was an All-American girl. She loved hamburger and hot dogs, didn’t care much at all for dog food, and could take or leave chicken. Because she was nearly blind, she had some interesting run-ins with her water bowl, and she may well have had a little brain damage as well, as she had to learn to eat all over again, every meal time. But even then we managed to get the eating down to a routine. She liked her straw and blanket beds, so well in fact that she frequently tinkled on them just to watch me clean it up. And she loved to bathe in the sun.

Annie found us May 11th and stayed with us until August 4th. She took a turn for the worse that night, so at 1 AM on Thursday, I loaded us into the van and through a terrible thunder storm found our way to our vet’s house. Her little body already limp, he gently put her to rest there in the rain. It took mere seconds and her suffering ended.

I don’t know more of her story than that. I simply know it took only a moment to fall in love with her and I miss her as if she had spent her whole life with us.

This is the third dog I’ve lost to cancer. Something has to change.

Thank you for reading her story.

Bough Down

Oh Tannenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum, Wie treu sind deine Blätter!

We lost another beautiful big fir tree Wednesday. Well, it's not exactly lost. The thing is still there, just in a few massive pieces hanging over the lawn. But the tree's almost certainly a gonner. It was probably planted when the house was built in the mid-70s. Years and years and years of growth -- ended. Part of the tree still stands high above the house; the rest is in huge splinters across the grass, the sidewalk, and the empty dog kennel – having spontaneously and for no apparent reason torn itself almost in two, just missing the house. Its landing, surprisingly gentle all things considered, doesn't seem to have done too much damage except to the tree itself, and to my heart that breaks to see such a beautiful thing destroyed.

The afternoon was clear. We'd just had a brief sprinkle but nothing spectacular. No gusting winds, no torrential downpours. I was in the kitchen when I suddenly heard a snapping, cracking sound. At first I couldn't even tell what the sound was, much less where it had come from, it was so alien a noise. One doesn't expect a tree to just give it up and split in pieces on a sunny, still day. Then there was another sound – probably a tree-aftershock – that seemed to come from the back of the house. We have three huge pines there as well, one that's already lost a large limb.

I was on my way to see what had happened when I glanced out the living room window. Where there once was just grass was now a huge bough of fir. It wasn't something dead that had finally cracked and fallen – this was alive and green and massive. It was beautiful, but in the wrong place. It made the yard look alien.

I love our white pines, our Pinus strobus. We have five that are huge, well over 30 feet tall. And almost every year since we moved here we have bought a live white pine for our Christmas tree. They're usually about four feet when we buy them and cart them home in the truck, struggle them into the house, and festoon them with ornaments and lights. They brighten up the holiday, but their real gift is after they're planted and they grow into lush living things. They grow fast here – and big.

I especially love brushing by them when I mow the lawn – their long, soft needles are quite unlike any other, and to be honest, I often stop and talk to the trees, telling them how beautiful they are. The dogs enjoy their shade and I enjoy the comforting sounds they make when a breeze passes through them. And they smell wonderful!

We're not white pine snobs – we also have one Fraser fir that was given to my wife as a gift of condolence from her co-workers when her mother died. I thought it was a wonderful thing to do, to give something that will live on, and it has grown slowly over the passing years. It too smells delicious but its needles are like … well – needles. So, I give it a wide berth when I mow around it because I swear it stretches out to snag me, gouging sticky holes in my flesh.

And we have our single Eastern Red cedar we lovingly brought from our home in Texas when we moved, a tiny stick that has grown to stand over 20 feet in 11 years. But while it too smells delicious, it's not a particularly friendly tree and is prickly to the touch.

This past spring our town gave out free trees – we got several Dogwood trees, a handful of Hybrid Chestnut trees and 6 tiny white pines. Some of the Dogwoods and Chestnuts are struggling, but the white pines have flourished and will eventually grow immense like their majestic brethren. I'll be long dead before they're as big as the tree that split, but it's comforting to know someone else will enjoy them.

So this weekend I have to go out and start cutting my tree limb from limb. I don't look forward to doing it – not just because it's going to be a long, arduous process, but because when I'm done there will be a gaping space where a friend once stood.

Du kannst mir sehr gefallen.

The Letter "E"

The grade of E – "Marginally Failing"

A good friend and fellow academician recently sent me a brief email about the grade of E. Because we are both equally sick to death of the I just wanna get by, and the you owe me attitudes of the students that skulk around college campuses these days, she thought I might find this grade amusing, on some perverted level. She was right.

The title of this blog, "The Letter E," makes me immediately think of Sesame Street and some of the shtick they have used over the decades to teach little kids the alphabet, numbers, colors, etc. I'm of the Captain Kangaroo generation, and while I'm sure The Captain, Mr. Greenjeans, Bunny Rabbit, and Mr. Moose had some pretty lame ways of teaching things to my generation, I honestly don't remember them talking down to us the likes of Sesame Street and its distant cousin, that damnable, saccharine-besotted, wretched purple dinosaur, what's-his-name. Oh yeah, Barney. How could I forget Barney? Barney from Texas. Where else?

Anyway, it seems that the Sesame Street and Barney generations have been dumbed down ever further, if that's possible. Now, some universities are awarding their undergraduates' feeble non-efforts with the grade of E. The E is defined, by at least one university (which will remain nameless but you can find them here) as "Marginally Failing." Marginally failing? That sounds as improbable as being just a wee bit pregnant. What does it actually mean to be a marginal failure? Think about it – how does one marginally fail? I don't think one can marginally fail in the physics of this Universe. One word negates the other, nullifying both, making the term meaningless. Perhaps that's the point.

But wait. It gets worse. Take a look at the grade inflation from this same school, which it proudly and publically displays on its website for all to marvel at:

Grade	Grade Point	Per Cent Range	Description
A+	9	90-100	Exceptional
A	8	80-89	Excellent
B+	7	75-79	Very Good
B	6	70-74	Good
C+	5	65-69	Competent
C	4	60-64	Fairly Competent
D+	3	55-59	Passing
D	2	50-54	Marginally Passing
E	1	(marginally below 50%)	Marginally Failing
F	0	(below 50%)	Failing

Apparently, this isn't a fluke. This is turning into the norm. Even though I am not currently teaching, this trend still disturbs me. It should disturb everyone. Granted, the inclination to inflate (or deflate) grades is not new. God forbid instructors should fracture some little darling's ego with the truth: you suck at (insert subject here). But this grade of E – while it's not new, it's news to me.

So that we might get some perspective, we're now going to travel in the WABAC (pronounced wayback) Machine to "when I was in college," so bear with me and pay attention. This is important.

Back in the dark ages when the earth was still cooling (I first went to college in the early 70s), an A really meant something. It meant your performance was exceptional and you were well on your way to mastering a subject. An A was extremely rare, hard-earned, a thing of beauty, and a joy forever. An A was definitely a combined effort of student and professor, each working in collaboration -- the student there to learn and the professor able and willing to help make that happen. An A's numerical equivalent (be it A-, A, or A+) was somewhere between 90 and 100. Everyone concerned instinctively understood these numbers and letters and they made sense.†

B never found its way into the 90s. B lived strictly in the realm of the 80s. Neither did a B equate to something somewhere between a 70 and a 75. That was reserved for C. A B was right there next to an A, and one worked bloody hard to get it too. Not quite as rare as an A, it was still something to be proud of and still involved significant hard work, dedication, and discipline – both on the part of the student and the professor.

C never meant "fairly competent." That's another one of those nonsense phrases. A C hovered around 75, its plus and minus siblings nearby. It used to mean unremarkably average. Simply put, you wouldn't want your doctor, your lawyer, your veterinarian, your CPA, or your President to have a C average. Not if you were given a choice.

A D -- well, that was a Disgrace, something you hid from parents and friends alike because it was a shameful admittance of some inadequacy on your part. A D used to mean you're barely getting this stuff, you're definitely not college material, and we're not afraid to tell you, because our reputation as an institution of higher learning is far more important than your drop-in-the-bucket tuition or the sweet deal we just cooked up with (insert a brand name or military contract of your choice here). Getting a D was scandalous and solicited outrage from tuition-paying parents towards their kids, not towards the professors. A D used to mean, you should consider ditch digging or table waiting as a career move. In today's world, one might instead suggest running for political office or working for the TSA.

If you accumulated just a couple of D's you were invited not to return to college. Sure, there was academic probation but there was a strict limit on the number of crappy grades you could accumulate before you were ushered off campus. For good. Period. End of story. There was no revolving door greased by more tuition money thrown at the scam of remediation. (Don't know a noun from a hole in the ground? Wouldn't know a cosine from a 'for rent' sign? That's what high school is for. Go back. Tell them you want a do-over. Make them do their jobs! And please quit coming to college expecting to get a high school education.)

Back in the day, not really that long ago, the first two years of college classes were designed to beat you senseless with enough material to make your head swell and your eyes bleed. Classes were rigorously designed with the singular aim of identifying and weeding out the unintelligent, unintelligible people, the slackers, the dim-wits, and the droolers from those with brains and more than a little potential. Students weren't remediated, they weren't indulged, and they weren't entitled to anything. Shitty performances resulted in shitty grades that were easily understood (D = you're dumb; F = you're really really dumb; get a napkin and wipe your chin), and neither was tolerated for long. No one ever got an E, because no one could have even imagined such tripe as "Marginally Failing." The alphabet of college grades skipped a letter and dropped you from the D of you really can't cut it to the F of go live the rest of your uninspiring life in your parents' basement. Even in the lingo of the post-modern, which has the deliberate if dubious intentionality to be obscurely unintelligible, purposely incomprehensible, and affectingly effusive, the mashing of the words marginal and failure stretches the limits of the pomo dislexicon.

Seriously, consider this: if synonyms for competent include knowledgeable, proficient and skilled, and fairly means reasonably, one has a hard time believing a C, which truthfully corresponds to unexceptionally average, is now instead equivalent to reasonably knowledgeable, proficient, and skilled. A D, which has morphed into meaning "marginally passing," (the parasitic twin of "marginally failing") used to mean either try a lot harder or get out of the way and make room for someone who not only has the capacity to learn but wants to learn.

This E grade. I'm still working it out. But in its current incarnation it seems to be an amalgamation of student ineptitude, administration acquiescence, professor apathy, and our culture's aversion to acknowledge the truth.

It's no exaggeration to state that most students today come to college woefully unprepared and uninspired. Their eyes and voices are as hollow as their minds. What the system has done to them, what their parents have done to them, what their teachers have done to them, and what they have done to themselves -- to be this vacant-- is for another blog. But void, vacant, and hollow they are. To them, I am sure, an E makes perfect sense. Whatever.

Then we have the administrators. They're so busy trying to cut big money deals with corporations so they can keep their institutions' doors open they haven't time to worry about what goes on in the trenches, so some made-up grade like an E isn't even on their radar. Most college administrators are some version of education majors anyway, so they're used to making shit up. It's part of the degree. So the E goes unnoticed as one more meaningless marker on a transcript. Grades are all arbitrary anyway, aren’t they?

And professors are either so sick of the whining coming from students and parents alike that they have resorted to make-believe grades as an inside joke, a grade as devoid of meaning as their students' efforts; or they themselves are part of that Barney generation where handing out phony grades that make students feel better is easier than making the Herculean effort to pry something out of their lifeless charges. It's hard, thankless work, struggling to inspire students to disengage themselves from their i-gadgets and reengage with something besides themselves. Some professors have cynically concluded, and rightfully so, that it's simply no longer worth the effort.

I've decided that this new grade of E most likely stands for equivocation and evasion. It's truly an inspired misrepresentation, forged from the pits of pop-psychology, designed to non-tell the receiver he's simply dumb as dirt but academia hasn't the stomach to tell him.

Super Dee Duper!

Whatever.


† In his 1993 article Mark W. Durm indicates that Mount Holyoke, in 1897, developed the first letter grading system. Check it out. They'd be rolling on the floor over the give-away grades used today, but look at that E!

— A: excellent, equivalent to 95 to 100 percent
— B: good, 85 to 94 percent
— C: fair, 76 to 84 percent
— D: barely passed, 75 percent
— E: failed, below 75 percent

“The percentage equivalents were tougher than most systems today. The next year, Mount Holyoke tightened them further, making a B from 90 to 94 percent, a C 85 to 89 percent, a D 80 to 84 percent, an E 75 to 79 percent, and adding a sixth grade, the soon-to-be-famous F, which was anything below 75.”

Leave it to women to expect excellence. Yeah for Mount Holyoke. You go, girls! For those who followed the link to the un-named university above, shame on you, York University in Canada. It's only a matter of time before your wretched E trickles down to the States.

Blame Canada!

Unforgettable

There’s a beautiful love song called Unforgettable. The opening lyrics are “Unforgettable, that’s what you are/ Unforgettable, though near or far …” Despite the fact that it’s a romantic love song, I think at least those few lines apply to many people I have known.

Unforgettable.

Today, March 23rd, happens to be a good friend’s birthday. Sadly he’s not here to celebrate because he died of cancer a few years ago. Because I am one of those people who remembers such occasions, I have his birthday and death day both marked on my calendar each year and note both days with fond memories. Sometimes I’ll break out a photo album and thumb through old pictures; other times I’ll just write a few notes or a remembered story about him in my journal. I had known him for years, but we became close friends after my father passed away. He was one of a few friends who helped me sift through the treasures and detritus that remained of my father’s life. Death has an interesting way of turning acquaintances into friends – and, sadly, family into strangers.

My friend could fix just about anything. One time he noticed I was having trouble locking the tailgate of my truck. When I returned from some project that had called me away, I discovered the tailgate was fixed, and remains so to this day. I never asked. He just took it upon himself to fix it. Every time I use that tailgate I think of him.

He was greatly fond of garage sales and rescuing things left on the side of the road. He could find a use for lots of things people just threw away, and was always picking through things to salvage and fix. When he died he left a lot of stuff behind, a lot of projects unfinished and ideas unrealized. But one of the things he salvaged for me was an old Pepsi clock. It wasn’t really broken – someone just got tired of it and threw it away. He remembered I had a thing for Pepsi and so I was presented with this clock – just because. It keeps great time and I see it every day and so my friend, too, is part of my everyday life through just this simple act of giving.

Another treasure he found was a T-shirt with a wolf on it. Something else I have a thing for. Maybe it cost him a buck, but I still treasure that shirt and the thought that went into it, and when it finally turns to threads I’ll have to figure out a way to salvage the remains.

What do I remember about him besides his thoughtfulness? We were great conspiracy theory buffs together and used to exchange heated midnight emails about all the worrying political machinations we saw unfolding in the world. Most, he would be sad to know, were not conspiracies after all. He had a much greater faith in human nature than I could ever conjure and would be disappointed to know that, about many things, we were unfortunately right.

I remember his taste in humor and music, and he introduced me to the off the wall humor of The Congress of Wonders (yes, this cut has been censored: “Hi, I'm Buster Crabb, I live in your shoe. That's my dog Fagg, He lives in there too. *Meow!* Do your own thing dog.”), and Firesign Theater , and the music of John Mayall among others. I think the Mayall was on 8 track. I can still recite The Congress of Wonders’ “Radio Phil” and “Star Trip” word for word. Those were on vinyl. We wore those records out!

He enlisted in the Navy during the Vietnam war. He was a medic and would keep that interest throughout his life. He never did much with it after his tour of duty was over, but he read a lot and knew much more than the average person about holistic medicines and nutrition.

I remember one scorching hot summer he and I painted my cottage on the lake. The neighbors were thrilled! It had been a while since the cottage had had a new coat of paint and I picked a nice forest green with bright white trim. The neighbors were delirious with anticipation. At last the tiny cottage was no longer to be their idea of an eye sore. The first day we painted it rained buckets and all our hard work was literally washed off the walls in long, sad streaks that made the cottage look like it was weeping. I know the neighbors were. We left it that way for a couple of days just to annoy them. It worked. But in the end, it looked great.

My friend loved cats more than dogs, although I think he may have had a soft spot for my dog Boris. But he was always befriending stray cats and bringing them home. When they’d die or turn up missing, his heart would break. But that never stopped him from bringing home another stray and loving again.

He never married, although I do remember he had a love interest at one time. There were probably more before her, but after she ended up with a friend of his, the betrayal he felt was too much. I don’t think he put much stock in women again.

He dedicated much of his adult life to his parents. There are mixed stories about why he returned home after his stint in the Navy. None of the stories matter now, but I like to think he did the best for his parents that he knew how. He watched over them, and they him, for many years.

Life did not end well for my friend. I’ll leave it there. I was in Tennessee when I heard the news that he was dying, and the news came so suddenly I couldn’t get home in time to say good bye. He had no phone in his hospital room, and was too far gone to talk anyway, although the nurses assured me he got my messages and understood.

We’d sure in hell have a lot to talk about these days. I miss those midnight email and the summer visits.

Happy Birthday, Craig. I miss you, my friend.

I will remember you

Will you remember me?

Don’t let your life pass you by

Weep not for the memories.

Really? Zoonotic Diseases from my Bed Buddies?

I just can’t leave this one alone. After all, the subtitle of this blog is “thoughts on a curious world.” And how much more curious can a dog lover get than to discover that a study out of California (where else) has determined that sleeping with your pet(s) could cause you to develop some really nasty diseases. Zoonotic Diseases?

Now these are not the simple dis/eases we animal-sleepers are used to, that come from sleeping in less than ¼ of the bed when the 4 legged family takes over. You know – leg cramps, neck pain, back ache, numb limbs, hair in the mouth, cold butt, sleep apnea caused by serious doggy breath, and the occasional and unfortunate explosive projectile 2 AM hairball jettisoned towards the unsuspecting human, causing him to wake from a sound sleep, flailing at the air. No, these are serious diseases. Zoonotic diseases. Diseases like The Plague (yes, that Plague), Chagas Disease (you’ll have to look it up), Cat Scratch Fever (I've had it), meningitis, septicemia, multi-organ failure, Staphylococcu intermedius infections, rabies, and parasitic infections. These were just the more easily pronounceable diseases one might, on a far-off chance, contract from one’s dog or cat. There were a few even more hideous diseases one might be blighted with, but you can check them all out here. Incidentally, the study only takes into consideration the typical dog and cat. One is not talking Ben the rat or Arnold the pig here.

One really interesting thing about the study, commissioned and paid for by God knows who (or why), is that it detailed such exotic conditions of human deterioration (open festering wounds licked by puppies, death’s-door octogenarians succumbing to the attentions of their cat, tiny babies left in flea infested beds, etc.), that one would be hard pressed to find the usual pet-sleeper in Western countries in such states of decrepitude. (Although, granted, a few examples of such were given.) Many of these diseases were also contracted either in 'developing countries' or Southeast Asia where rabies continues to be a problem, or in the tropics, where nasty, oozing, festering maladies are simply a given. It’s not like puppies and kittens were plotting against humans, waiting to pounce in the dead of night to infect unsuspecting owners with pustules, bullae and blebs.

I certainly don’t French kiss my dogs – they do that to one another and I get my cheap thrills by watching them. Nor do I drink from their water bowl or share their toys. (One incident of a child contracting a disease was cited -- the dog had been playing with the child’s pacifier before the child recovered it and stuck it in his own mouth. To this one has to say, screw the disease, where were the parents?) But I do enjoy a good cuddle with my dogs (probably more so than they do), and they do sleep in my bed. (Or perhaps, more correctly, I sleep in theirs.)

What I find even more interesting is the press that this study has received. I first saw it repeatedly on TV (which, of course, immediately lends indisputable credibility to the work). It blanketed the air for days. On the web, I had to surf through over two dozen sites before I came upon the actual study itself. All of the news articles, without exception, used the same vocabulary and examples to describe the horrors of sleeping with one’s beloved pet. But when I glommed on this statement all became clear: “Pet health maintenance which incorporates regular deworming, and flea and tick control medications is beneficial …” Bingo. There’s the connection. Like Deep Throat said in the 1976 movie, All the President’s Men, “Follow the money.” I’ll wager you dollars to dog cookies the study was funded by Bayer or Farnam or Pfizer or Merial or some other Big Pharma outfit. And what time of year is it? Bingo again – it's flea and tick time. Time to douse your favorite four footed friend with pesticides.

Of course, the research citations don’t list where the funds came from to do the study. No – that might be ethical. But it’s not a stretch, in this day and age, to assume that almost certainly a vested interest was behind the research.

I’ll continue to sleep with my dogs. They probably catch more things from me than I will ever catch from them. They are a comfort and a joy, are infinitely cleaner than most people’s children (for whom I have no love-loss at all), and generally don’t leave anything more annoying in bed than a mud-soaked stuffingless toy or stray tufts of hair.

Yes, timing in advertising is everything. So, enjoy sleeping with your animals, watch out for hair balls and cling-ons, and beware of advertising ploys disguised as research. And if you do catch something nasty, it’s probably from a local Big Box store’s toilet seat, not your pooch.

Wood and Wipers

The sign read “Firewood Egg's Sold Here” so I had to see what those might be, and needing firewood anyway I took a chance.

I steered my little pickup truck into the drive, a sharp 90° on the curve of a busy highway and a lurch down a 50° grade. Weeeeee.

I approached a trailer (of course it was) but there was a dog/baby gate at the top of a long and rickety stretch of stairs (the place seemed to be built on stilts), so not wanting to alarm any dogs or babies, I just hung out, knowing someone would emerge eventually. Sure enough, one tall, thin dude came out, munching on his cereal. After getting the price (a mere 50 bucks for a rick of wood — a good price in the middle of winter) and hitting the bank to get cash (no checks), I came back, braved the driveway again, and he and his brother (skinny dude two) emerged again and directed me to the back of their lot, past the several bulls-eye and wooden deer targets (loaded with lots and lots and lots of shotgun holes), then past the chickens (even in the cold air the smell of chicken poop was pretty ripe), and over to the wood pile. As they loaded the wood we passed the time chatting about the fact that I "wasn't from around here," and "did I hunt?" The good news was that not being from around here wasn't bad because they weren't from around here either, although they were definitely from the South. Then brother three came out (stocky, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), and we discussed the impending snow storm. They told me they were from one of the Virginias or the Carolinas and they were used to snow. When I told them I was from the snowbelt of Western New York on Lake Erie, they were righteously impressed with my snow prowess. (Score one for the transplanted Yankee.)

They all admired my little truck and I figured it was probably older than they were. After a while of watching his brothers work, stocky brother three said he was cold and headed back to the house. Yeah, the big burly one with lots of insulation. I then heard the story about a truck like mine that they had bought from the wife of a friend when she needed bail money to spring her husband from jail. Apparently the deal went sour because when the guy finally got sprung he wanted his truck back, right then, along with the title they had paid for. Somehow their Mama got in the mix, but no shots were exchanged. (They may well have run out of bullets if the deer targets were any indication.) They lost the truck, and apparently the money, which vexed them greatly.

As they continued loading the truck, they suggested I let my son help me unload the wood when I got home. I thought it was an odd remark since no one has ever made the assumption that I had kids (I just look like children wouldn’t suit me — at all). But the remark was not insincere, so when I told them I had no sons they nodded in charitable understanding. I did tell them about my dogs, which are certainly as interesting and smarter than most children, and learned that the three brothers had a Chihuahua. Somehow I imagined that child gate was holding back something bigger – like a Doberman or a Rottweiler or a Pitbull. But a Chihuahua? I tried to picture these three big guys, in their high-water trailer, with a Chihuahua. I thought it would make a good country song or sitcom — “Three Brothers and a Chihuahua” — but I let it go without mention.

After the truck was loaded so that I could no longer see out the back window and the front tires were barely touching the ground, and was sure I wouldn’t make it out of their drive, I bid them ado, and as I drove past the chickens and the shot up wooden deer, they hollered I should come back if I need any more wood. I assured them I would — at 50 bucks, it was a good deal. And they told good stories. And they didn’t mind that I wasn’t from around here and that I didn’t hunt and I didn't have a son. It was a good visit. Just sorry I never got to see the Chihuahua.

I got home and unloaded and stacked the wood in time to turn around and hit the grocery store before the snow hit. Yes, I have become a true Southerner — I run to the grocery just like every other fool in town, with even the threat of snow. Having just used the truck, I thought I would take the van. I hadn’t driven it in a while and it needed the exercise. The van, my faithful van, with no heat, no AC, no radio, no defrost, no fan, no clock, and wipers that work on their own schedule. Sadly, I had forgotten about the wipers not working except when they weren’t needed.

Got through grocery shopping — half the town was there — just in time to watch the snow storm hit as I was wheeling my cart out the door. By the time I got the groceries in the van, the snow was falling at a really brisk rate. It was beautiful. Big white fluffy flakes, like back home. I got in the van, wrapped my blanket across my lap, started her up, turned on the lights (yes, the lights still work — knock wood) and hit the wipers. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They didn’t even try. And that’s when I remembered why I didn’t take the van out on overcast days. Crap! I looked for a snow brush. Damned thing was in the truck. Suddenly the wipers gave a half-assed attempt to work. They died mid-swipe and may be stuck in that position forever. Great.

After rooting though the van (which is full of crap from the summer — I mean, why empty it out when I’ll just need it in a few more months?), I finally found a paint stick and struggled out of the van (and I was so nicely wrapped up in my lap blanket too), and worked on the windows with the paint stick. Whoever said necessity is the mother of invention (it was probably Ben Franklin), was right. I managed to get most of the snow off before it stuck again and made my way out of the parking lot, hoping I wouldn’t get stuck at a light. I theorized that if I could keep going I could create enough wind shear around the windshield that the snow wouldn’t stick.

Red light. Of course. Who was I kidding? Saint Christopher? (Is there a Patron Saint of windshield wipers? No? Well, there should be.) So we sat. And we sat. And we sat. Finally the light turned green and it was time to go.

By now the streets had a good inch of snow on them, so I took my time getting home, but surprisingly my theory worked. I didn’t have to stick my arm out the window, trying to scrape off the windshield with my handy paint stick. I was able to go just fast enough to keep the snow from sticking to the windshield but slow enough not to fishtail into a ditch. A good thing too, because besides nothing much working on my van, my plates expired last month. Oops!

The snow has stopped now. As stopped as my wipers. But it’s beautiful out. Dreadfully cold but that makes the snow sparkle on the fields and the trees and … the van. I’ll go out tomorrow and get some photos of the snow before it’s all gone, although as cold as it is supposed to be, I think it will be around for a day or two.

That firewood will sure feel good tomorrow night. Maybe I should work on that song about the three brothers and their Chihuahua. Wonder what his name is? Probably Killer or Bruno or Rocky. Next time I visit the Firewood Egg Brothers, I’ll have to ask.

33 Years

“I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone.”

Thirty-three years ago, on Tuesday, February 7, 1978, around 4:00 in the afternoon, my dog Sturm left this earth. He had been my closest companion and trusted friend for over 12 years.

I brought him home as a three month-old puppy — my aunt had a hard time giving all nine puppies away, thus the unusual delay. (And ultimately she kept two for herself.)

He was born in June and I visited him and his 8 siblings as often as my parents would drive to my aunt and uncle’s farm to see them. I once took some friends to see the puppies (we were all in our early teens), and they enjoyed the visit tremendously, playing with them and loving on them, but I remember their mother, a rather up-tight pediatrician, being unreasonably concerned that her kids would be visiting a farm, and looking askance at all of us as the puppies tumbled over the four of us and my mother, in the midst of it all. What the farm actually was was a 100+ acre ranch with horses, dogs, barn and house cats, and a host of rabbits. (We’ll leave the rabbit story for another time. Let’s just say they got out of hand.) But we called it the farm, and only God knows what this woman expected. Perhaps pigs and chickens. Who knows? But her kids were never allowed to visit again, which was a shame.

Anyway, being not only an only child but also an only nephew, I was given the pick of the litter. Naturally, I picked them all but sadly I couldn’t convince my parents this was a good idea. As a matter of fact, it was my aunt, a very forceful German expatriate and my father’s older sister, who insisted I needed a dog in the first place. I never really felt much affection for my aunt until then. She was, I am sure, a delightful person, a very talented and compassionate nurse, and an ardent lover of animals, but she was also pushy with me. But this time she pushed my reluctant parents instead, insisting that a dog was just what I needed. I gained a new respect for my aunt for that, as my parents seldom acquiesced on anything of consequence.

Backing up for a minute, I should explain my aunt bred her dog especially so I might have a puppy — a puppy she was sure would be healthy. (Actually, I think it might also have been a convenient excuse to have puppies, but she’s no longer around to ask so I'm just guessing.) She was insistent that I have a dog. I had just that past spring flunked ninth grade. Unheard of in my family. I didn’t fail because I was stupid. I failed because I refused to go to school. At a very early age I developed a strong phobia to social situations, and there’s not much more social than high school. One day during lunch I had had enough, snapped, and simply refused to return. I guess I probably had a bit of a breakdown as I was convinced all the kids hated me (and a few did), and it was just too much to bear. So I spent most of the spring semester locked in my room, unintentionally torturing my parents, thinking their only child had gone wack-o. A pretty hard pill to swallow, especially for my father, who was the Assistant Director of a major state mental hospital.

So, my aunt, decades before her time, decided a dog would be good therapy for me. Since I had so few human friends, she instinctively knew a dog would be a great companion — someone I could love unconditionally and who didn’t care if I was, as my good friend calls me, batshit.

And so the love affair began. Sturmie and I were inseparable. He came to live with us on September 2nd, just a week before school was to begin, and I was to start 9th grade all over again. But I was so taken with him and the love we shared, the rest didn’t matter. Crappy day or good, there was always Sturm to come home to. I had someone to focus on besides my adolescent, hormone-driven, self-indulgent self. He brought calm to the whole family. My parents had had another German Shepherd early in their married life and missed her greatly after she passed. (I knew her too, if just for a few years, and she was indeed my sibling.) So they were reticent about getting attached to another dog, since putting Heidi to sleep had broken their hearts. But Sturm just lightened the whole atmosphere and brought joy wherever he went.

In the summers we spent our days on the beach, and he was quite adept at finding rocks I would throw in the lake for him. Down would go his massive head, and up he’d come with the very rock I’d thrown. He’d drop it at my feet to be thrown again and again. He was popular with everyone on the beach — everyone knew Sturm. And he helped me make friends and get over some of my social phobias. In the mornings we’d leave the house just as dawn lit the sky. (We’d climb out the window so as not to wake my parents. The marks from his toenails are still on the windowsill.) We’d return for lunch, then be gone again until dinner. After dinner we were out the door again until the sun went down. It was a wonderful life.

In the winters, he loved the snow, and we’d go on long walks through the woods that surrounded the hospital. On one winter’s day, when he was out in our fenced yard and some patients were shoveling the snow from the sidewalk, my mother overheard a heated discussion between the two of them, arguing over whether he was in fact not a dog but a reindeer. After much discussion, it was finally determined he was in fact a reindeer, and after that they would regularly visit him on their shoveling rounds. Had a been a dog, they might not have been as comfortable around him, as he was rather massive and imposing; but his sweet nature must have convinced them he worked for Santa, so he couldn’t possibly be a threat.

As I grew older I turned to writing journals. I recently thumbed through some of them and I discovered how much time I had spent writing about him — his colors, his sleeping, his dreaming, his funny moods, his sharing my bed until he thought I was asleep and then jumping down to find a cooler spot. I even tried a few crude sketches of him. Oh — and the farts he’d leave in the room, looking disgusted as if his flowers of sulfur had sprung from me. But he was never far away.

It seemed suddenly, though, that he became old. We discovered a small mass on his leg, another under his eye, and a third on the tip of his tail. The thing on his tail would prove especially vexing as he was always a very enthusiastic tail-wagger. We had a very narrow, long hallway from the kitchen to the rest of the house. (If you’ve ever found yourself in state-provided housing, you know it’s not particularly inspiring but very practical.) The walls in the hall were very high and were painted a light, high-gloss yellow. And Sturmie’s tail, always moving with sheer enjoyment, would batter against the unforgiving plaster walls. The tip of his tail would break open and blood would splatter all over those bright glossy walls. Not enough to damage his tail, but enough to look like a very messy murder had taken place. This was regularly scrubbed down, only be to be replaced the next day by the same energetic streaks of blood.

Naturally concerned about the growths, we took him to the vet. They looked like overgrown dark warts, and even my dad, a physician, wasn’t unduly alarmed. Then we got the diagnosis.
Squamous Cell Carcinoma.

Keep in mind this was 1977 and cancer was relatively unheard of in dogs then. It certainly wasn’t the epidemic it is now. And, of course, there was no treatment for it. Especially out in the boonies where we lived. And even had there been, I don’t think we would have opted for radiation or chemotherapy. It is not a choice our family is comfortable with or confident it.

So there he was, growing older and grayer, slowing down and sleeping more. And he had cancer. It wasn’t so much a death sentence as it was simply a matter of fact. “Your dog has cancer.” Watch him. Enjoy him. And let him live out the rest of his life.

And so he did. While my dog had cancer, he didn’t know it, so it didn’t really matter. In the end, it was renal failure that ultimately determined our decision to let him go. Had the cancer metastasized to his kidneys? I don’t know. An autopsy was never done, or if it was I simply don’t remember.

What I do remember vividly is the day we drove him to the vet. My girlfriend, Judith, and I were simply taking him for a check-up. That’s what we told ourselves. He wasn’t feeling well, but neither of us, nor my parents, really suspected this would be his last ride. After dusting about 2 feet of snow off the car, all three of us struggled into my tiny hatchbacked Mustang. Judith was at the wheel and I was sandwiched in the back with Sturmie. The ride isn’t generally a long one, but this day it was. As I sat in the back with him, I stroked his fur and tried to memorize his beautiful face. He had typical German Shepherd markings, but he had gorgeous sable and red fur instead of the customary brown. His saddle was black, his legs were tan, and his muzzle was now a brilliant white. But his eyes were sad, and somewhere during that ride, both my girlfriend and I silently realized he would not be coming back.

Had it been possible, I would have asked the vet to make a house call. But back then it just wasn’t something that was done ‘for a dog.’ So I stayed with him until the end, leaving his body to be cremated. I managed to hold it together long enough to get out of the office, and then I just lost it. I don’t think I have ever cried as hard in my life. And Judith cried. And when we returned home, with only his leash and collar, doors closed and my parents cried. Not together, but alone.

I was 27 years old and I slept with Sturmie’s blanket hugged in my arms for months after that. I still have fragments of that blanket. And it still has a few of his hairs on it, 33 years later, although long ago it lost his smell.

His ashes, along with the ashes of the other dogs in my life who have passed, sit on my dresser. I have plans to be cremated too, and have all our ashes mixed and scattered, some over the lake and some in Texas. My wife has told me she will need a crop duster to scatter us all, but that’s OK. We’ll all be together again. Even if we are dust in the wind.

So this blog is dedicated to my beautiful Shepherd, Sturmie.

My mother would follow him, a month to the day, also from cancer.

But that story is perhaps for another time.

I miss you, Sturm. After 33 years, I still miss you.

Reuben

I wrote this letter to friends shortly after having to have Reuben put to sleep.

Lancaster, TX
January 7, 1999


Those of you receiving this note hold a special place in my heart, and so it is with sadness that I must tell you that my friend of over 15 years has passed away. You all have heard stories of Reuben, and some of you have met him. A few of you knew him well, as you looked after him on the few weeks each summer Lia and I would travel to New York. Some of you would ask about him each time we met, and that was a joy to me as it meant you remembered something special about me - my wonderful animals. And some of you offered advice and support as I struggled with the realization that I must put him to sleep. Your kindness and thoughtfulness will not be forgotten. It is, in large part, because of these special souls that we have become friends... because we have all realized our capacity to love and be loved by them and, more importantly, our unique ability to appreciate the gift of the enduring bond that can form between animals and humans. Sadly, most people do not possess this ability, do not realize this gift. I can only feel sorry for them, as these creatures have much to teach us - about play, about love, about responsibility, about death and about ourselves.

As have all my dogs, Reuben taught me much. He taught me that the best place to sleep during the hot summer's heat was the bathtub. He taught me that floating in a kiddie pool was a great way to spend an afternoon. He taught me that rolling in new-mown grass, in dry Texas clay, in warm sand was more than a fun past-time it was a form of artistic expression. He taught me tag and keep-away and hide and seek. He taught me how to jump fences and hide in neighbors' cars. He taught me how to sing with the pack. He taught me how to be satisfied with only a third of the bed. He taught me, simply, how to be happy.

As we grew older, he taught me more important things. He taught me patience and kindness. He taught me not to ever plan to sleep through the night. He taught me that worry and anxiety and two A.M. trips to the emergency vet were just part of the deal. He taught me the meaning of a kind word and touch. He taught me to slow down and pay attention to the small things, the important things, the things we too often take for granted. He taught me to look deeply and listen quietly.

In the end, Reuben taught me about responsibility. He taught me that love alone cannot make things better, hard as we may try. He taught me many things about myself, things I needed to know. Animals have a great capacity for teaching us about ourselves, teaching us about the kind of people we really are, not the kind we wish we were or imagine ourselves to be. How we respond to them, how we treat them, how we care for them and love them, and finally how we let them go - this teaches us more than all the science and philosophy and religion man will ever write.

On December 29th, at 4:50 P.M., Reuben was put quietly to sleep, at home, in his own bed. I held him and covered his beautiful head with tears one last time. He was a magnificent friend, a true friend, and I miss him. His ashes sit in a little box aside Ludi's and Sturmie's and Stutzie's, all waiting one day to be mixed with mine, to be scattered in special places.

Look deeply. Listen quietly. It's something I've learned from a wonderful friend.