His name is Will and he is an individual

A year ago this month we brought Will here to die.  Instead, he chose
to live. Here he is on top of Cathedral Ledge yesterday morning.

Last summer a book came in the mail.  "The Love That Dog Training Program" by Dawn Sylvia-Stasiewicz and Larry Kay. 

I didn't order it.  The editor sent it to me looking for a blurb for the back cover of the paperback version.  The reason the editor was looking for my words was because Ms. Sylvia-Stasiewicz died far too young.  You may remember her as the dog trainer who worked with Bo Obama, the First Family's Portuguese Water Dog. 

I was thrilled.  No one had ever asked for me to write a book blurb before.  I smiled when I sat down on the couch with Atticus by my side as I looked the book over and imagined my name on the back offering up witty and wonderful praise.  However, before I even opened it a frown appeared on my face.  "I can't do this," I said to Atticus, who just looked at me.  Meanwhile Will was asleep on a dog bed a few feet away.  I put the book down on the coffee table and sat looking at Atticus.  A little while later I wrote an email to the editor telling her I was honored by her request but that I would have to decline. 

"You see," I wrote, "I never trained Atticus.  (Or Max before him.)  I simply just hang out with him."  I wrote plenty more about how great it was to be asked but said it would be wrong of me to endorse a book on training.  It's not that I don't like dog training, it's that I've never had a routine and I don't like the idea of "training" someone I love.  Instead we live together and we grow together.  I'm firm enough in the beginning to set the ground rules: don't endanger yourself, be courteous to me, and behave well enough that you can go wherever you want to go and, most importantly, feel self-assured.

Last week someone asked me how I "trained" Atticus to be the way he is. 

"I didn't.  I let him be the way he is."  I think that's important.  I do the same thing with everyone I love and respect.  It's their life to live, after all, so why shouldn't I?

I suppose if there's a name for it I'd have to say it is the Golden Rule - treat others as you with to be treated.  Kindness in the form of requests instead of commands.  Respect for an individual.  Dignity in the way another is treated. 

And it works so well that after they know the ground rules of our relationship, none of the dogs I've shared my life with have ever needed a leash.  Then again, none of my human friends have either.

This is the world and the philosophy Will came into last May 6th when he was angry, broken, in pain, and lacking trust.  He had a chip on his shoulder and on that first day when he sunk a tooth into my thumb puncturing a tendon, and held onto it, I looked him in the eye as blood trickled into the palm of my hand and I said, "I know.  I know.  I don't blame you.  I'd be angry, too."

I mean here was a fifteen year old dog who had only known one family.  Reports were that perhaps they had grown too old to take care of themselves and therefore too old to take care of Will as well, and that's why they dropped him off at the shelter.  But one doesn't end up like Will just by that one act of what had to seem like betrayal to him.  He was mostly blind, his teeth were rotting from lack of care, he was underfed and malnourished, and he walked in stumbling circles - a sign that he had been imprisoned in a crate for far too many years.  I don't see much difference between neglect and abuse. Both are sins committed against others.

Will wasn't much to look at a year ago.  Truth be told he was in far worse condition than I expected him to be when I picked him up in Connecticut.  I wondered why he was even still alive.  Why hadn't someone put him out of his misery?  And that's exactly what he was - miserable.  On top of that he was angry and he took it out on me.  I was bitten so many times the scars on my hands will be with me years after Will is gone.  But that was then.  He's different now.  He's alive. Not just on the outside, but more importantly life shines from within.

Years ago I worked in a nursing home.  It wasn't a very nice place and soon after I left the State closed it down.  If I had to describe the facility and the people who lived and worked there in a word "hopeless" would be appropriate.  My job would was rehab, but also helping in basic personal care and I don't think any of my co-workers really got me.  I'd look at Mrs. Smith, who had been widowed a dozen years before, sitting alone in her room looking at the floor and I'd say, "Hello, Mrs. Smith."  In the beginning she didn't look up very much.  But then one day I said to her, "Hello, Helen," as I knelt in front of her and gently took her hands with their paper-thin skin in mine.  "Can you tell me about your first kiss."  And just like that Helen Smith was no longer forgotten by life in a hopeless nursing home without anyone visiting her.  She was instead on a hayride as a young teenager with a life ripe with promise. 

Oh, there were plenty of other questions like that as well.  It depended who I was talking with.  I knew our job was to take care of their bodies but I was more concerned with their souls, which is saying something since I'm not a religious man. 

Strange as it may seem to some, that's exactly how I looked at Will when he first arrived.  We were his hospice and it was our job to get him ready to die and  I wanted to know about his life so I let him tell me his story in his own way. 

People wonder why I cringe when some refer to Atticus and Will as my babies, children, kids, or fur babies.  I bristle when they refer to me as owner or, worse, master.  Well, it's because I don't see them as a possession. I don't think they are mine.  They belong to themselves and while I may have a responsibility for them, our relationship is a partnership. They are individuals.  It's one of the reasons I don't refer to them as schnauzers, just as I don't refer to my other friends as Black or Jewish or poor or rich or Republican or blue collar.  I don't like the whole breed thing.  It's the limitation of it all.  Atticus is not like another schnauzer or any other dog.  Neither is Will.  Just like you aren't just like any other person.  I like and respect my friends too much to be treat them as anyone else other than who they are and I treat them as I wish to be treated.  There's that Golden Rule again.

I do understand that Atticus and Will are dogs and I'm a human being and we are different from each other in that way, but I prefer to think about what we have in common.  They think and feel and worry and celebrate just as I do.  They are alive and I respect that it's their life to live and not mine and they are not just some ornament to me.  They are as much a partner to me as the woman I love.  I'm not saying this works for anyone else, but it works for me.  Always has and always will.

So when we came back from the vets the other day with Will missing large sections of hair, shaved off to treat swaths of scabby lesions - a sign of something worse working its way out from within - and I thought of the worse case scenario, I was sad for me but happy for him.  No, I'm not happy that he's sixteen and probably won't be around much longer and that he's being tested by something pretty nasty right now.  But after he received his now-daily medicated bath and I dried him off and lay him on his back and rubbed lotion on all the now-bare areas, including sensitive spots under his armpits (I don't think legpits is a word) I had to smile at him. 

He doesn't look much like he did a few days ago because of the weird haircut.  Then again, his body has been changing for the past month in another way.  When he first came here he gained eight pounds and I wanted him to since when he first stood wobbly-legged in the early morning May sunshine he shivered and I wanted him to be more comfortable in case he made it to winter.  I'm not even sure why I thought of that way back then because I didn't think he'd last very long.  But after working hard to put on all that insulating weight, he's lost three pounds in the last four weeks.  That's more than ten percent of his body weight and a sign something is off.

But as I was looking down at him letting me touch him in those sensitive areas while he lay on his back, I thought of how he didn't like being touched much in the beginning and how he tried to bite me whenever I went to pick him up to carry him up or down the stairs to go to the bathroom.  Now it's different.  He's a joy as I bath him and care for him.  He seems almost to help me.  And when he's first out of the tub and wrapped in a towel, then later a blanket, and I lay on one of his beds with him, snaking my arms around him and pulling him close to chase away his shivers, he buries his head under my chin and within minutes he's snoring.

This is what is special about what's happening right now.  Will came here and learned what he had to learn.  He already knew how to eat and sleep and shit and walk (even if it was and is difficult for him).  What he needed to remember was who he is.

I am happy to report that he's Will, an individual. 

Treating him with love and respect and acknowledgment of his journey seems to have worked.  He's now as self-assured as Atticus always has been and that's something else that brings a smile to my face.

Just before Will first arrived here I had a vision of getting him to the top of a mountain for the views.  I didn't care that he was deaf, mostly blind, and arthritic. I would carry him if I had to.  I simply wanted him to experience the joy of a mountaintop, the breeze on his face, taste the fresh air, and feel something so very different than that crate he had been confined in.  But he was in such a bad way that was the last thing on my mind when I met him.  The first thing was wondering how long I should take before I had him put to sleep to end all his pain.  But as you now know from following his story, last October, because of MRW's wonderful suggestion we get a Will Wagon for him to ride in (a backpack was to painful), Atticus led the four of us up Pine Mountain and Will got to be on a summit. 

Yesterday I looked at Will and wondered how much time he has left in his life and I thought about what he loves.  So instead of just sitting around the house writing or paying bills, Atti, Will, and I packed up the car and we took him to the top of Cathedral Ledge by way of the Will Wagon up the auto road.  It didn't matter that I had fallen down the stairs on Monday with Will in my arms. I did my best to protect him during the fall and it worked but I broke my big toe, a finger, bruised a hip, knee, thigh, and gashed my shin, but Will was unscathed.  I still can't get my hiking shoe on because my foot is swollen beyond imagination, or even a sock.  But my Keens work well enough.  And so after popping a few Advil I pushed the Will Wagon up that steep mile-long road while following Atticus.  It wasn't easy and it was painful and by the time we got back home my foot was throbbing.

My foot will heal and I'll never remember the pain.  What I will remember is the way it felt to have Will, once a death row dog, standing straight-legged on a ledge and gazing off into the distance at the mountains.  What I will remember him stumbling over to me and Atticus and how I held him and he sat happily wrapped in my arms under the warm sun and  how he sighed the way I've always heard Atticus sigh when we are together up high checking out a view. 

So yes, there are sad tears, but they are for me, not Will.  He's ready for whatever comes next. He learned to love again and to be loved again. He learned to trust when he had every reason not to.  He learned to be Will again. 

The other afternoon, after I had bathed and rubbed lotion on him, I was on the floor and he walked over to me and nudged me with his nose.  I pet him and he pushed in closer and then dropped with those weak hips in a heap onto the floor and pressed closer to me.  He then lay his head on his paw and rested both of them on my arm and he looked up at me with those cloudy eyes.  So sweet and so far from where he was last May.

Back then we took Will in to give him a place to die with dignity.  Instead he chose to live.  We are fortunate he did.

My friend Will has touched my life and many others and what a gift that is.  What more could I ask of him or for him? 

After years of neglect and abuse I'd like to think he's finally come home. 

Being Boston Strong, My History With The Boston Marathon

This weekend I turn 52-years old.  As a gift to myself I'm
returning to running for the first time in 22 years.

I'm at the tail end of a bad cold and the last thing I wanted to do was climb a mountain.  The first thing, and what I've mostly been doing, is rolling over and going back to sleep. 

Then Monday came.  Not just any Monday but Boston Marathon Monday.

It used to be my favorite day of the year.  As a kid we had it off from school and were charged with excitement because of the early morning reenactment in Lexington and Concord, the morning start of the Red Sox game, and, of course, the marathon itself.  Growing up in the suburbs of Boston only a couple of towns away from Hopkinton and having an older brother who was a great runner who ran in the race when only a teenager and being nurtured on the legends of Johnny Kelly, Tarzan Brown, Clarence DeMar, Johnny Kelly the Younger, Jock Semple, and Katherine Switzer, I couldn't help but be seduced by the drama of the day.  To me these people weren't mere mortals - they were gods capable of superhuman abilities. 

On one of those Patriots Days when I was young I was one of four friends relaxing in the shade on a neighbor's front porch listening to the race and we all made a pledge to run the marathon by the time we were twenty-five.  But those were the days before my legs went bad.  In junior high and high school I spent the better part of two and a half years on crutches.  Four full legs casts immobilized my left knee, one did the same to my right.  There were also two surgeries on the left knee to combat the problems in my legs and when the surgeries were completed the doctor was pleased. 

"You'll be fine.  You'll be able to walk without trouble but don't plan on being any kind of an athlete," he said.

I believed him.  For a while.  But as my teens turned to my early twenties I remembered that front porch pledge we four friends made and I tried running.  It wasn't easy.  As a matter of fact, back then it was always painful.  But I knew pain from those earlier years and I knew I could deal with it so I ran on.  Not far, just enough to say I was running.  Maybe four miles.  I never entered any races but always thought about one.  The one. 

Patriot's Day is the third Monday of every April.  The date floats.  As fate would have it my twenty-fifth birthday fell on the day of the marathon.  With a few months to go I upped my mileage.  Still not very far but I was still running.  Ten days before the race I ran the farthest I'd ever run - 11 miles.  Somehow after that I knew I could do it.  When the day came I lined up with the rest of the "bandits" (unofficial runners) in mass behind the numbered runners who had qualified.  Before even reaching Heartbreak Hill I wanted to stop.  I'd run fifteen miles and I'd had enough.  My head dropped, I put my hands on my hips, and admitted defeat.  Around then I felt a tug on my arm and a fellow said, "Come on, if I can do it, so can you."  I wanted to reach out and slap the man with the voice and tell him about my legs and their troubled past.  When I looked up he was standing next to me looking quite lean and fit and . . . with only one leg.  The other was a prosthetic.  His name was Pat Griskus and on that day he pulled me along with him and we ran several miles together.  Eventually I finished in just under four hours while Pat set a record that day for a runner with a prosthetic. 

I would run Boston for the next four years and graduate to Ironman Triathlons...three of them.  The first was on the Cape, the next two in Sunapee.  All the while I looked as out of place as I have on the mountains.  I was never chiseled and lean.  I had strong legs, a strong heart and lungs, but a double chin.  Those experiences in my late twenties would later fuel my belief in my endurance in these great mountains we hike in.  And once you run Boston it is always in you.  It's part of who you are and will always be.  It made me believe in myself. 

So on Wednesday, with the unthinkable actions of the previous Monday in my head and sunken heart, with the thought of three dead - one an eight year old boy, and legs amputated and other limbs lost, not to mention hopes and innocence lost, I decided that my cold would have to take a back seat while we sought our reality.  We didn't hike too high or too far.  Instead we worked slowly up a steep section that wears me out at my best and I stopped often, coughing and sneezing.  I ached a bit, wore my fatigue like a heavy coat, and took a seat more than I'd like to admit on the way up.  But there on that slow climb I sat sweating, catching my breath, watching spring fight through the last remnants of snow and ice, and heard the birds sing - and I could feel the mountain come to life and me with it.  

 

We climbed to some of our favorite ledges, I lay on my back looking up at the sky and when I was rested I sat up and took a seat next to Atticus who was looking out at distant mountains and down at a nearby lake.  I thought of the life we led back in Newburyport, a forty-minute ride from Boston...a life filled with chaos and the corruption I covered in my newspaper and what now in comparison looks to be a dizzying pace of life and I was thankful for these mountains of my childhood we rediscovered together.  Sitting up there surrounded by nature I said my prayers and everywhere I looked I saw God.

John Muir has a great quote that goes like this: “The gross heathenism of civilization has generally destroyed nature, and poetry, and all that is spiritual.”  I thought about those words and how crazy the world can be and how it seems as though it's getting crazier all the time.  I thought about those who would terrorize us, those who would destroy not just nature, but the nature within us and a totally different thought came to my mind.  When I remember that horrible day I will not remember one person's horrific deed, but the reactions of so many more.  I'll remember that some runners, having run twenty-six miles, decided there was something more important than rest and ran an additional two miles to Mass General Hospital to donate blood.  I'll remember the doctor who ran the marathon and then went to work and operated on some of the victims.  I'll remember the incredible humanity of the first responders who ran toward where the bombs were exploding to help others.  When I think of these things I understood that terrorists will never win - if we don't let them.  Humanity is too strong for that. 

And this is why I climb mountains.  It's for the perspective.  It's for the way it sets my mind straight and helps me see what's most important.  Most importantly nature and the mountains resets my soul.

Life is not about what some would take away; it's about what we put back into it.  it's about possibilities.  Whenever I get tired climbing a mountain I think about my first Boston Marathon and how an amputee stopped to help a full-bodied young man who was ready to give up.  That spirit has stayed with me and always tells me that anything is possible.  It's what makes me and so many others Boston Strong.

Another Great Adventure for Will

Will has decided to stick around for a while...and become a television star.

As of late we’ve been enjoying the bridge between winter and spring by taking several adventurous hikes.  There were trips up Cabot, Moosilauke, three of the southern Presidential peaks, the Moat Range, and even the simple but scenic Boulder Loop Trail.  However, as I as sit here writing this I’m thinking instead of a hike that’s yet to come.

A year ago, in a state without any mountains, an elderly dog – deaf, mostly blind, and arthritic – was dropped off at a kill shelter by the only family he’d ever known.  (They had reportedly grown too old to take care of themselves, never mind the old dog.)  Imagine what that had to feel like for him: to be fifteen with hindered senses and left in a strange, cold, and unfamiliar place far away from home.  Imagine the shock to his system, the fear, the sense of betrayal.  Even worse, imagine the utter hopelessness.  Understandably the little dog was angry and flashed out with his teeth whenever he could.  Sometimes he did it, I’m sure, not out of anger, but because he was in so much physical pain.    

To add insult to injury he was hungry, had been crated for so long he paced in circles and didn’t understand freedom, thought little of stepping in his own feces and often his hips were so weak he’d fall in his urine and didn’t have the strength to get up.  He just lay there suffering in his own waste.

Who would want such a dog?

His prospects for another chance were grim.  When all was darkest, all hope had to seem lost, someone at the shelter with a big heart reached out to the New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue and let them know of this old dog and impending death sentence.  The good people at NJSR swooped in and saved “William”.  But saved him for what, you might ask.  Sure, he would no longer be put to sleep, but what kind of life would he have and who would want to adopt him? 

That’s about the time we were asked to help find him a home.  And we did – ours.  We understood it was only a temporary arrangement.  We were simply giving him a place for the last month or two of his life (if he made it that long), and were affording him the opportunity to die with dignity. 

Before we met him and I realized how bad off he was, I had hopes of getting him up a smaller mountain in hopes that he would get something out of it.  Then I met the poor little wretch and knew that wasn’t going to happen.  He couldn’t walk very far and he was in such pain and had so little trust that whenever I picked him up he tried to bite me.  That very first day I wondered why anyone had bothered to keep him alive. I felt the humane thing would have been to put him out of his misery and I wondered how long it would be before I did that.   

Well, May became June and June turned to July and by this time Will was a bit stronger.  He ate well, slept plenty, and learned to trust my touch.  There were still flashes of rage and I had to be careful how I handled him so he wouldn’t turn on me.  When September rolled around Will surprised us by making it to the autumn and he even appeared to be getting younger. 

When October arrived we reached my original goal, which had seemed absurd that first day.  Will made it to the top of Pine Mountain with the help of a wheeled cart, not unlike a child’s stroller.  We pushed him up the dirt road, up part of the rocky and root-crossed trail, and even carried it in places.  It was a grueling day and you could ask why we did it if this little dog was so far gone, even with the advances he’d made?

The answer is an easy one for me.  I believe in the magic we find here in the White Mountains.  I believe this is a special place and that the mountains are here for anyone…even a little deaf, arthritic, and mostly blind dog with trust issues. 

After I had announced our plans to get him to the top of the mountain there were “dog experts” who questioned my sanity and felt what we were doing was cruel but we did our best to ignore them.  And because we followed our hearts instead of their advice a funny thing happened that day.  When I held Will in my arms as Atticus sat by my side on that flat summit, that once-angry little dog who couldn’t see much of the view reached out and did something he’d never done to me.  He licked my cheek.  A simple kiss.  He then lowered his head against mine and looked out with his cloudy eyes.  And there we stood sharing the view together, just as Atticus and I have stood thousands of times before.

I won’t pretend to know how much he could see and I don’t imagine he could hear any of the bird song or the way the wind sighed in the autumn leaves.  But it was clear that something changed that day.  Will, who had been mending a bit, became even younger.  He grew closer to us and more appreciative.  For the first time he started following us around our apartment and wanted to be included in what we were doing. 

Now I’m sure there could be many reasons for this but my romantic heart likes to think it had something to do with the same magic Atticus and I have felt in the mountains since the first day we climbed Mount Garfield in 2004.  And why not?  You don’t have to see or hear to feel love or magic or the presence of God, no matter which god you worship.  The Abenaki Indians knew this was a special place.  So did the White Mountain Artists who flocked here in the 1800s along with writers like Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Emerson. 

If Will’s story had ended that day it would have been a fitting conclusion to his life and while we would have missed him, we’d have been quite happy for him and for ourselves to have witnessed his redemption.  But it didn't end there.  The unexpected happened.  He lasted through the winter months and now while the snow melts he’s bouncing around, not like the sixteen year old who has several special needs, but like one who understands he’s been given a new lease on life. 

Will can walk, but not very far, and his ears still don’t work, and his eyes can still only see shapes and shadows, but he now loves being held, and I’d like to think he loves this life we’ve given him.  He greets each day with a dance the first thing in the morning – an enthusiastic, twisted, drunken, half-pirouette which often ends with him tumbling over and sprawled out on the floor like baby Bambi on ice.  And yet he gets up, dances again, falls again, and does it all with joy. 

His body may be broken but his heart has grown strong at the broken places.  The little guy is straight out of a Frank Capra movie and is as joyous as George Bailey was at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” 

Will's become every happy ending we could hope to see.  Except there's one catch.  There doesn’t appear to be an ending in sight. Instead Will is busy writing the next chapter of his life.

Last September, Atticus and I were invited to hike with Willem Lange and the “Windows to the Wild” film crew.  We took them for a five mile hike up Hedgehog and told them a bit about Will and his redemption, which back then was nothing compared to what it is now.  The show aired last week on New Hampshire Public Television and ratings went through the roof while on-line hits were astronomical.  The show’s producer emailed us and asked if we’d like to do it again.  And we are.  But this time we’ll be joined by one more.  This time we’ll be taking Will to another mountaintop by pushing him up in his Will Wagon and they will capture this trek on camera for all time! 

You cannot imagine how much this truly thrills me.  Not only does it prove that no matter how bleak our prospects may seem, no matter how dire and dark and hopeless, there’s always a reason to go on – just as Will has.  It’s a perfect lesson in faith.  To believe in what we can’t see. 

It also pleases me in another way.  Too often there are some who think these great mountains we live in belong only to those with great physical abilities: to the endurance athletes, the fitness fanatics, and the peakbaggers.  But I prefer to see the White Mountains as more universal, just as the Abenaki did, as did the White Mountain Artists and Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Emerson did.  To me they are beyond words and comprehension because of how they make us feel. 

Here in the White Mountains anyone can be inspired and renewed.  It is our own Eden where each woodland trail, sparkling stream, and mountaintop offers us a glimpse into vast but simple mystery of what it means to feel the miraculous and to feel alive again.  And we’re all invited to experience the magic of it all.  Even a sixteen year old mostly blind, completely deaf, once hopeless dog.  If you doubt me, just tune in next autumn when the show airs and see for yourself.    

The Choices Made On One October Hike Continue To Shape My Life

Life is about choices and Will has chosen to live.

We lost a good friend recently.  The cause of death was the past.

When Atticus and I moved north from Newburyport I began my life anew.  Some would say that it wasn’t dire that I make such a drastic change because I had a pretty darn good life as it was, but after seeing what the mountains had to offer and who I was when I was in them I surrendered to our new adventure to see what would come of it.  I sold my newspaper, The Undertoad, said goodbye to many friends I wouldn’t be seeing as much of anymore, and stepped boldly (if not a bit nervously) into my new life. 

I brought only what was necessary, leaving behind many possessions, and I shocked friends by even leaving behind all the copies of The ‘Toad.  More importantly I gave myself permission to leave behind much of the stress, anger, drama, and chaos that used to fill my days. 

On one of the first afternoons Atticus and I lived in our little place just south of Franconia Notch, we set out on an afternoon hike up Cannon Mountain.  It was midweek and we had it all to ourselves.  We reached the summit, sat high atop the tower, and looked down at autumn as she spread herself beneath us everywhere we looked.  Until that day I had mostly hurried up and down every peak we climbed but something changed on that hike.

While we were on top of that viewing tower a smile slowly spread across my face, my eyes crinkled, and with only Atticus and the mountains as my witness I laughed long and hard as if I had just been told a great joke.  My little friend nudged my leg with his nose like he wanted to hear the joke as well.  I lifted him up in my arms and there we stood, slowly looking out in every direction.  His body relaxed into mine and I heard him sigh and then I did, too.  All the while that smile stayed on my face. 

The afternoon sun washed over us and we lay down on the platform, my head resting on my backpack, his on my chest, and took a nap.  I have no idea how long we slept for but when we awakened I was refreshed.  

We took our time walking down the grassy ski slopes and after a while the pine trees gave way to October’s colorful foliage and the sun dropped lower in the sky and eventually behind the mountain.  We were draped in a pleasant late afternoon shade and every now and again I found myself laughing.  How mad I must have sounded to the mountain gods that day – a man breaking out in laughter for no apparent reason. 

Throughout the afternoon we hadn’t seen another person and as we rounded a bend four souls turned their heads to look at us when they heard the laughter. We stopped where we were, Atticus sat by my side, I smiled, and gave the onlookers a wave.  They simply watched us bemusedly, I imagined, but didn’t say a word.  Then again bears don’t talk.      

We had stumbled upon a mother with her three cubs playing in the grass and when it was clear we weren’t a threat they went back to what they were doing.  When it was clear they weren’t a threat I sat down next to Atticus and we watched them frolic and tumble over one another.  Occasionally the mother bear would give us a look but seemed to give us very little thought otherwise.  We must have sat watching them for half an hour on that perfect afternoon. 

It was on that day that I finally understood I had escaped a life that wasn’t bad, but wasn’t the life I was meant to lead.  When that family of bears disappeared into the woods we made our way down the lower stretches of the mountain and I made a promise to myself. 

In spite of what some of the critics of my newspaper would say – or those I exposed, I’m no fool.  I understood then, as I do now, that life throws a lot at us and we can’t escape the ups and downs that challenge us.  We can, however, decide which ones to deal with.  I decided then and there that the only drama I would allow in my life was the kind that was unavoidable.  The real life and death kind.  People get sick or hurt or lose their jobs or their homes.  Life happens and it's not always pretty.  You can't avoid that kind of thing.

 Not long ago the woman I love asked me, “Don’t you worry about anything?” 

“Yes,” I said.  “I worry about you and Atti and Will but that’s about it.” 

On that October day five years ago I swore off negative people and those who didn’t add much to my life so that I could better appreciate those who did.  I let go of much of whatever it was I was angry about from my past and came to the realization I was responsible for carrying it with me all those years.

Bobby Kennedy loved quoting Aeschylus, “And no one was angry enough to speak out.”  The Undertoad was many things and it helped shape a city but part of that came from my being “angry enough to speak out.”  However, its impact came with a cost. 

Each day brought something new to be angry about, people who loved chaos and lies, and I found myself choosing to live in the darker shades of life.  A lot of good came out of it all in the community I loved.  Lies and scoundrels were exposed; heroes celebrated.  But trying to right many wrongs for eleven years in a seething little city took its toll on me.  Nietzsche wrote, “Be careful when you fight monsters, lest you become one.”  At my best I did wonderful things; at my worst I looked into the mirror and saw too much that I didn’t like.

And that’s why I was laughing on Cannon Mountain.  I finally gave myself permission to leave that old life behind.  Like a snake I shed my old skin and I could feel the past dropping away. 

A renewed man was born on that hike and I was free to choose what I wanted to be and do for the rest of my life.  I’d fought my battles and demons outside and in, but the mountains gave me a new chance.  By following Atticus over thousands of miles and hundreds of mountains I discovered my bliss and learned to enjoy life's simpler pleasures.

Since that day I’ve done my best to ignore the unnecessary stresses. The old newspaperman in me can see a toxic person from a mile away and I steer clear of them whenever I get the chance.  In my Undertoad days I was quite outspoken.  If you’ve ever seen me at a book signing you’ll know that part of me still exists, but it comes with a smile these days.  Deep within, however, I reserve my old edginess for those who aren’t so nice and I guard my happiness and those I care about with all I’m worth. 

So recently when a friend who meant a great deal to us repeatedly exhibited that they couldn’t let go of their drama-filled past and actually continued to welcome it into their life in a way that impacted our friendship I made a difficult decision.  I knew I had no right to ask that person to change, so I made the choice to say goodbye.

It’s not easy to lose a friend because lord knows true ones are hard to come by and I didn’t take my decision lightly.  It only came after we had many discussions. 

Not an hour goes by where I am not saddened by the loss of our friend.  But here’s the thing, I don’t question my decision. 
 
Life is too short for the things that don’t and shouldn’t matter.  More importantly we define our lives by the choices we make and the boundaries we keep.

Whenever I’m weary over the loss of our friend something I do several times a day reminds me what’s important and how I should live.  As many of you know, Will cannot make it up and down the stairs on his own and we live on the second floor.  Whenever he has to go to the bathroom I gently hoist him up and we hug each other, his head next to mine, and I carry him outside.  This was something that was impossible and dangerous to do in those first days we were together.  Will had been abandoned and was in great pain. He was angry and came with his own wagonload of drama and I knew to avoid his teeth whenever I tried to pick him up.  Back in May, when he first arrived, he didn’t like being touched all that much or carried and my hands still carry the scars of that first couple of months. 

Today you wouldn’t know he’s the same dog.  Gone is the anger and the pain.  Gone is the resentment and his own share of drama.  He let it go and let love and trust and a new life in. 

So you see, whenever Will is cradled in my arms I’m reminded of the me I saw on Cannon Mountain that October day.  We both arrived here in the White Mountains a bit worse for wear and had to figure out how to get to where we needed to be.  

Life is made up of choices.  I made a choice that day and continue to choose a better life than the one I used to lead.  Since he came to live with us Will has made the same choices and that has made all the difference - in both of our lives.  

A Song of Renewal

 

When I let friends know we were adopting Will, a fifteen year-old with special needs, I heard a lot about the heartache that was sure to follow.  I heard about the vet bills and the way we’d never have the benefit of truly knowing him and we’d only witness his demise without any of the joy that comes from living with an animal.  I heard of the way his last weeks or months (if he lived that long) would be utterly depressing and would drain our home of happiness. 

When Will first arrived I was indeed heartbroken.  For before me stood (barely with shaking legs) an angry, betrayed, neglected, and perhaps even abused dog.  There were many temper tantrums.  There were flashing teeth and threatening growls.  There were the challenges of getting him up and down the stairs without an all-out war breaking out between us because he didn’t always want to be touched and hated being picked up.  And yes, the vet bills came fast and furious right from the beginning, especially when we decided to do something about his rotten teeth.

He was in such a miserable state back in May I wondered why anyone had bothered to keep the poor wretch alive.  I even talked with our vet about how long I should give him and I cursed myself for taking in a dog only to have to put him to sleep. 

I told myself we were simply giving him a place to die in dignity and on his terms.  But it’s now February and March is coming and soon after spring will be here and looking at Will…well, he doesn’t look like he has plans to be going anywhere sometime soon.  He likes his new life, enjoys the luxury of many beds to choose from, and his contented snores fill our little home as happily as healthy food fills his once tiny belly and pumpkin stains his whiskers.  This in itself would be enough to make me happy about the journey we’ve taken with Will.

But there’s more.

What thrills me is that he’s not waning, as I would expect of a sixteen year old who came with rotten teeth, had been crated far too long to be humane, and was clearly neglected through the years.  It’s just the opposite.  He’s entered into a second puppyhood.  He’s become a geriatric puppy where wonders abound on a daily basis for him.

Sure he cannot always see them and he never hears them but he certainly is aware of them, even if at times he slips and falls on his way to getting to them . . . or us. 

And to be honest, that’s the part the delights me most of all – the “or us” part. 

Numerous treats and several beds to choose from in a warm home where he’s free to walk around is one thing, but what makes Will live is what makes us all live.  It’s his heart.  It’s love. 

He’s not just surviving, he’s thriving.  And it’s because of love. Our love for him, his ability to accept it, and now his ability to return it to us. 

In Will’s case the Beatles were right, “All you need is love.” 

After we returned from our hike on Saturday we walked in and there was Will stretched out on his bed.  In the first couple of months we’d return to find him that way and he wouldn’t even know we were back. He’d sleep for another hour or two.  On Saturday though, he lifted his head up immediately, ignored the age in his old bones and the creaky joints, and did his best to run to us and chase after us.  It was a beautiful scene – little happy and excited grunts rising from somewhere in his throat, his front legs kicking up like a horse bucking, his back hips not able to keep up so his leaps turned into half leaps, but with an abandon to them that was nothing less than joyous. 

Remember when you were a kid and you had that nightmare where a monster was chasing after you and no matter how hard you tried or fast you ran they were always right behind you?  You slipped, tripped, and stumbled and all the time they got closer and closer and the anxiety and panic rose in your dream.  With Will, it’s the same thing, only reversed.  All of it.  He’s doing the chasing but there’s no way he can keep up.  He stumbles, he slips, and his back hips just can’t propel him when he chases us.  And best yet, there is no anxiety or panic.  It’s a jubilant dance.

He rumbles after us, his back arching through the slow-motion gallop like an old Slinky and the determination on his face is priceless and through it all he cannot catch us. . . . until we let him and then the old dog who used to growl and show his teeth and nip and bite no longer does any of that.  Instead he pushes his head into us and wants to be pet, wrestled with, hugged, picked up, and carried around.

This has been the greatest gift of all.  For both Will and me.  I’ve not witnessed his demise.  I’ve witnessed his resurrection.  He has risen to new heights with his limited body and limitless capacity for love and renewal.

When I contemplate Will’s last chapter, which he continues to write, I often think of Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses” that ends like this….

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

That last line has always been a favorite of mine.  But it’s those last three words in the next to the last line which gives you a clue to why we no longer call him “William”. . . “strong in will. . . “

What a Little Moonlight Can Do

I don’t spend too much time living in my past, so it’s no mystery why I don’t spend much time wondering about what Will’s life was like before he came to us.  I concentrate instead on what his life is now.  But the other night as I was carrying him outside I was struck by the calm black water of the harbor and the way it caught the low flying luminous full moon and scattered its reflection toward us.  There was Will cradled in my arms like a baby, his full heart and equally full belly reaching up toward heaven, his nose tucked under my chin while his little body shivered at the first bite of night air. I felt in my arms a living, breathing soul who is so dependent on us and a thought entered my mind for the first time. 

“Sixteen long years ago Will was a puppy…someone’s precious puppy…and his life and theirs was bright with the promise of what could be and was touched by his innocence.”

For some reason this stopped me in my tracks and I thought of what an honor it is to be able to give him this gift, to allow him to feel precious again as he most likely did as a puppy.  As I pulled him close and thought of all this, caught under the magic of the moonlight, a tear rolled down my cheek for Will and the splendor of this moment and my little ancient friend stopped shivering just long enough to lick it with his tongue and look up at me with those cloudy eyes. 

So funny, this was a dog who was so angry, betrayed, and confused when he came to us that I had to be careful what I put near his mouth for he was vicious and made me bleed several times.  But nine months later he was comforting me with a kiss as I held him against the cold.  I hesitated before putting him down to go to the bathroom because I wanted to hold onto that moment, not just for what I was thinking but more so how it felt.

There have been many moments where I’ve witnessed Will redefine himself and I’ve noted when we’ve reached milestones together.  But none of it compares to what happened the other night and I realized how far we have come together. 

As for how I felt?  It was a mixture of many things. I felt proud of him for choosing to live life when he could have quit. I felt joy in knowing we had given him a home when he needed one most. I felt a twinge of sadness realizing that no matter how much time we have together it will be sad to see him go. I felt gratitude for the bond of love we now share.  So many emotions ran through me but none was more powerful than how honored I felt to know that he completely trusts us now and how we are blessed to see him through to the end of his days. 

Last May when I told a friend we were adopting Will she said, “Don’t do it, Tom.  It’s horrible.  There will be nothing but heartache.  He won’t last very long. He’ll soil your floors and there will be costly medical bills and it will all stress out Atticus and it will end in heartache.  It’s a thankless thing and I think you’ll hate it.”

She was right about most of it: the medical bills have been steep at times; he has soiled our floors; and this will surely end in heartache when we have to say goodbye to Will.  But she was wrong about something else.  It’s not thankless.  Not at all.  It’s an incredible gift to share what we do with Will and to receive what he shares with us. 

I’m sure when all is said and done and the years pass I’ll remember Will in many ways, but I doubt there will be a more lasting memory than the one we received the other night standing where the water met the land near midnight while the reflection of the full moon reached across the harbor to embrace us with her light.         

The Long Night Calls

We woke up just before seven this morning and it was still dark out – dark and cold.  Daylight continues to dwindle while the night grows.  And yet it felt warm and bright within our  little home this morning. 

There is a comfort in getting out of bed and turning the thermostat up on these frigid mornings.  Then there’s the stove and the frying pan awaiting the blueberry pancake batter; Bing Crosby singing carols in the background; and the Christmas tree glowing in the corner of the room with its little while lights and silver and gold ornaments.  Outside in the backyard, on the other side of the picture window, stands another tree; it’s wrapped in blue lights and is our beacon in the morning drear.  The other day it looked like a greeting card dressed in a thin layer of snow and we all stood in wonder as we gathered around it. 

Then there is Will, who is nearing sixteen.  He may be deaf and see nothing more than shapes and shadows, with hips so weak they often collapse beneath him – and yet he wakes up every morning tangled in joy.  He leaps to and fro in his desire to play and if his legs were stronger and his aim truer he may actually be able to catch us as he “gallops” like a slow motion drunken horse.  His front legs are ambitious but are disconnected from the rear ones that don’t have the heart to do go very fast and they are unsure of themselves.  So he rears up to give chase and then realizes it’s not going to happen.  There are even times he topples over.  But none of it dissuades his happiness.  And yet this spectacle is nothing compared to the unmitigated celebration that explodes within him when I’m getting his breakfast.  Every morning is Madri Gras for Will here in Jackson! 

On the other end of the spectrum, Atticus waits.  He sits and watches patiently.  He also eats but neither food nor happiness has ever been withheld from him so he exhibits a stately grace compared to Will.  Besides, although he likes food, what delivers elation to Atticus can’t be found indoors.  It waits outside beyond the fraying edges of the gray morning in the trees and the paths that wind their way through them.

Later today, we’ll leave all this comfort behind.  I’ll get dressed in my hiking gear and bring my three headlamps because I know that night will fall early, and we’ll head out into the woods and up a mountain.  That’s where Atticus is in his element.  It doesn’t matter how cold it is, how much the wind is blowing, or whether we’re being watched by the sun or the stars.  What matters is that we’re out there and up there together. 

For Atticus he is most at ease with me, but he is happiest when we are together on a mountain.  But still, he takes it all in stride, as if this is what life was always supposed to be and what we were meant to be together.  When it comes to me though, I cannot tell you the pleasure I find in being out in the woods when the sun falls behind the mountains and darkness grows.  It used to unnerve me and the darkness fed on a fear that grew with the night.  But now I find comfort in the dance that leads from day to night. 

I even find comfort in the long nights in the coziness inside and the excitement outside.  I like how the wind taunts and harasses me.  I like that I’m warm in my gear with just a hint of discomfort to create an edge.  And I like that together we are far away from anyone else.  It took some time but I finally learned to appreciate that Saint-Exupery quote: “Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive.  When the destructive analysis of day is done, an all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again.  When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree.”   

And that’s what I feel like when we are miles away from the rushing world, especially around the holidays like now, when roads and restaurants and stores are crowded and everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere other than where they are.   

In recent hikes night fell on us as we travelled carefully down the icy trail along the Three Agonies as we descended Lafayette; we watched the sun dissolve behind the Tripyramids on the Sandwich Range when we were just a third of the way down the ledges of South Moat; and watched a pregnant moon with its perfectly round belly rise over the little boxes of the village of North Conway below us while we traversed Cathedral and White Horse Ledges.

I derive a delicious pleasure of being where once I feared to be and when considering those steps taken in the forest at night I thrive on the simplicity of it all.  Let the world unleash itself on us as it does from time to time and you can find us on a mountaintop in the dark where I am reassembling my “fragmentary self”.

There’s also something else that’s pleasurable about being on a mountain this time of year when it is cold and the winds are howling when darkness falls.  It makes you feel raw and utterly alive, but it also makes you appreciate a place called home.  It’s adventure that plants the seeds for later contentment. 

So tonight, long after this has been sent off at deadline, we’ll be up on mountain, cloaked in darkness, little lamps lighting our way as we trek across icy rocks leaving behind whatever troubles we’ve accumulated throughout the past days and there will be one thought on my mind – home. 

And when we return home we’ll be happy we ventured away from it, only to return to it with a renewed appreciation and greeted by a little blind and deaf dog who has redefined that term for us – and in the process discovered his own home.