Taking Center Stage

Recently, my friend Wendy and I were corresponding about my fear of public speaking and she asked me if I was ready for Wednesday night’s event where there will be seven hundred people in attendance – weather permitting.  She wanted to know what I will do to get ready to step out of my comfort zone. 

The answer’s simple.  I choose to bring my comfort zone with me.  Yes, I have a fear of public speaking, and most would never know it, but no matter how calm and relaxed I look it simmers just beneath the surface.  (I’ve read that President Kennedy had the same fear and often vomited before his speeches.)  My way to deal with it is to face it.  I think it’s a rush to face a fear and each time I do; I get that much stronger. 

Before an event, I get the lay of the venue and try to have it set up so that Atticus and Will are being put in a position to succeed.  Charlotte Canelli at the Morrill Memorial Library in Norwood has been a pleasure to work with. We've kept in touch about what will work best for taking care of Atticus and Will, and that’s a load off of my mind. 

But that still leaves me to standing on the stage with Atticus by my side (and Will waiting in the wings with his personal protectors Laura Bachofner and Marybeth Cauffman) in the spotlight in the middle of my fear.  It reminds me of how I feel on a hike along a narrow ledge where another fear – heights! – heckles me.  I freeze, then say “f--- it!” and I take a leap of faith realizing that others before me have done it and haven’t plunged to their death, so I can handle it, as well.

So I will go out on stage, look up into the lights, down into fourteen hundred eyes, and I will leap.  Inside I’ll laugh and feel the thrill of excitement and think of something Joseph Campbell said when Bill Moyers asked him about the meaning of life.  What Campbell said was that people aren’t looking for the meaning of life, they’re looking for the experience of being alive.  Fears are part of that experience.  It makes our breath more valuable, creates a sense of being mindful and aware, all time slows down, all time speeds up – and all becomes timeless. 

I equate a lot of my life to the hikes Atticus and I take.  I used to be afraid of hiking in the dark and felt like a child who was frightened to take my head out from beneath the sheets.  Now, however, we hike often at night.  A week ago, when Will woke us up in the middle of the night by going to the bathroom and then falling in it on the kitchen floor, he called to me and woke me up out of my sleep.  I picked his little body up as he shook and cried; he was soaked in his own urine, stained with his shit.  I took my shirt off, pulled him close to my chest so he could whimper against my heart and know that everything was going to be okay, and I held him like that while I drew his bath.

After he was clean and wrapped in a towel, I cleaned the mess on the kitchen floor, lit a candle, and then steam mopped the floor.  After an episode like this one, which happens in the middle of the night from time to time, Will sleeps soundly and won’t budge until late morning. But after rushing in for the rescue and helping my little friend, I often have a difficult time getting back to sleep.  After I shower, I sometimes read in bed. Other times I get up and write letters to friends.  But on this night, with Atticus wide awake and sitting up on the bed with a look of expectation, I agreed with him, got dressed, grabbed my pack, and by 3:00 am we were parked at the trailhead of the Old Path, on our way into the dark woods headed for South Doublehead, and then North.

The night fear stood on the edge of my periphery just to remind me it’s there, but I remind myself that fear of the dark, much like a fear of public speaking, is nothing but ghosts.  And the truth is, I’m not afraid of ghosts.  

We slowly marched up the trail, and when it became steep, we still moved withpurpose and took breaks when we needed them.  Upon reaching the saddle between the two humps, a place where we’ve run into moose, bear, and a porcupine during past night hikes, the stars could be seen through the short trees and off of the backside of the mountain.  I turned off my headlamp and could see the moonbeams filtering through the trees. 

We climbed to the top the ledges just shy of the South Doublehead summit and emerged from the woods into a brilliant night, frozen but clear.  Beneath us, Jackson Village seemed tiny.  To the northwest Mount Washington caught the light of the full moon and stood there like a stunning bride – all of that white against the dark night.  I picked up Atticus and kept my headlamp off, and we looked towards our largest peak, the one the Abenaki referred to as Agiocochook (Home of the Great Spirit), and I smiled.  Such a gift to see the glow of this giant mountain looking at us as we looked at her while the rest of the world slept. 

We eventually made our way to the cairn at the summit of South Doublehead many warm memories linger for me from the various hikes we’ve made both during the daylight and at night, then doubled back to the saddle.  There were no moose or bear to be seen, but there were hoof prints in the snow going to the back of the saddle.  Then it was up into the shadows with my headlamp cutting through a tunnel of darkness before we came to the vacant and locked cabin on the top of North Doublehead.  We took the path behind it and looked at the stars hanging above Maine.  After a few minutes, we walked down the old ski slope and back to the car.

Will was tucked in just as we had left him, just as I knew he would be, and Atticus and I climbed back into bed where we were warm and safe after I had danced with that little fear of mine.  One of the greatest things about entering discomfort by way ofadventure is returning home again where all is appreciated even more. 

We drowsed off.  When we woke up to bright blue skies and the blinding blanket of white in our backyard that full moon, glowing Agiocochook, and the Doubleheads lingered like a dream. 

As we get ready to stand on stage this Wednesday night, we’ll begin by dropping Will of with Tracy at the Ultimutt Cut to have his hair washed and trimmed on Tuesday morning.  Atticus and I will head to a mountain and climb a peak and take it all in and feel the strength, peace, vitality, and tranquility of the mountain.  Of course, it will hurt some because we are both getting back into shape, and I have plenty of weight to lose to catch up to where we were before the cancer came, but it will be good hurt.  I’ll feel my body re-awakening.  On Tuesday night we’ll have a quiet time at home and I’ll pack up.  By the time we leave Wednesday morning, I’ll be excited for our little road trip.  We’ll stop in Medway to visit the graves of Jack and Isabel and introduce them to Will.  I’ll let him get down and dance around where their bodies sleep.    

In my prayers, I’ll tell my father about Tuesday’s hike, about the Wednesday night’s event, and I’ll read aloud to him the latest chapter I’m working on in the next book. He would have loved it all. Who knows, perhaps he is somewhere we he will still be able to enjoy it.  Either way I’ll share it because I know it would mean something to him.

We’ll head to Norwood, take a tour of the library, let Atticus and Will meet some excited librarians, and just before the event starts, we’ll find a private place backstage.  I pull out my iPhone, plug in my ear phones, and listen to music as I do before every event. 

When I step on stage, I’ll be stepping into a new adventure with Atticus, just as I’ve done everything with him over the past dozen years, just as we’ve hiked thousands of mountains, as I fought septic shock, and he fought cancer, we’ve ridden the ups and downs of life’s rollercoaster, and faced storms both actual and metaphorical. I’ll smile and embrace the fear and underneath my breath I’ll think of the “experience of being alive” where fears dance with joy.  Then I’ll leap.  

By all the talking is over, the questions answered, the shaking hands and signing of books complete, and we step out into the cold air, and head to our hotel room, I’ll be spent.  In the morning, we’ll drive back to Jackson and our quiet lives.  We’ll stop, as we always do, at Lake Chocorua to stretch our legs and greet the majestic mountain that always welcomes us back to the region.    

In the days after a big event, I walk around like I’m hung over, even though I don’t drink. I’ll wear my sunglasses, turn off the phone, drink plenty of water, and Atticus and I will find some nice trails to explore where we won’t see another soul. 

It will be a lot like it was when we returned from Doublehead the other night.  The best part of the adventure is the contrast in finding the comfort of home again. 

That is how I deal with my fear of public speaking.  As I always do.

Sharing My Life With Atticus & Will On Social Media

Atticus Maxwell Finch and William Lloyd Garrison, unabashedly themselves.

As a reader and a writer I do my best to avoid clichés.  I like original thought and choose the authors I favor for the way they make their words dance across the page.  As a writer, when I’m at my best, the words flow in an original pattern. When I’m not, I write, rewrite, and then rewrite again. As a last resort, there’s the delete key. I’d rather put nothing out there, than something that is tired and uninspired.  

My life is much the same way. I believe it’s important that we embrace whatever it is that makes us shine as individuals.  That’s one of the reasons I spend time with the words of Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman, Einstein, and others who embraced the song of each soul. 

We all have a song, our very own, and by celebrating it we become part of the greater symphony that lends itself to the glory of life and focuses on what is possible, instead of the mundane. 

This same philosophy is at the heart of my relationship with both Atticus and Will. I choose to see each of them for who they are as individuals and avoid the cover-all, mindless clichés of breeds . . . or even of species.  To me, Atticus is simply Atticus.  Will is simply Will.  Just as my human friends are not classified by being straight or gay, married or single, Irish or African.  I don’t like blanket statements.  They ignore the tiny bits of miracles that make us all unique and potentially exceptional. 

When I see someone refer to Atticus or Will with one of these clichéd terms, it really is foreign to me. For in each of them I see a thriving individual with strengths, weaknesses, peculiarities, peccadilloes, and personalities as fragrant and special as the ones that make up all of us.

I reject most blanket statements about dogs, just as I do about people.  If ever there was a title that reflects my philosophy of what makes all of us, human and non-human animals, special it is Whitman’s “Song of Myself”.  How fitting a title.  It’s no wonder that those I’m closest with and mean the most to me, all have their own songs. 

And this to me is the most interesting challenge of sharing small portions of our lives on social media.  I protect my own individuality and the right of those I care about to be individuals.  In contrast, much of social media can be clichés.    

We have a quiet life in Jackson. It’s simple and devoid of much the kind of drama one finds in supposed reality TV.  When I see it coming, I quickly walk the other way.  I weed our lives as carefully as a garden.  In spite of this, life is not boring.

The other night I surprised a friend of mine when I told her, “Since moving to the mountains, I keep more to myself than ever, and yet I’m never lonely.” 

And it’s true.  I find the stunning beauty of life all around us: in these grand mountains, in our tiny yard, on our comfortable couch.  I believe it’s because I choose to see the extraordinary where in the past I often saw little more than the common.

Three of us live together in our home. We are as different as could be.  Just this morning Will woke up, looked at me, and defecated on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in life. He then trundled around the other side of the bed and let loose a stream of piss.  Atticus stood looking down on him from atop the bed in stunned amazement, as he often does when Will acts this way. Meanwhile, Will made his way into the kitchen looking for breakfast as if nothing happened.  I laughed aloud at the comedy of Will, and Atticus’s observations of Will.  Atti then turned his raised eyebrow towards my laughter. 

Oh, believe me, I didn’t always laugh when Will showed up and shit and pissed on the floor and then thought nothing of it. No remorse. No need for penance. For twelve years I’ve lived with Atticus and can’t remember the last time he did such a thing.  Although once during chemo, he did lose control of his bowels in the middle of the night but came to wake me up to take me to the accident and show me.  But when it comes to Will, what am I to do?  It happens at his age. 

I’ve scheduled regular visits outside for Will so that it rarely happens any more. But after a long night inside, these things sometimes happen.  The comedy lies in Will’s cavalier attitude about it, and Atticus’s equally stunned response. 

Of course when we go outside I carry Will in my arms and he collapses comfortably into them. Atticus trots down the stairs. Once outside Atticus moves easily, Will mechanically.  When we come back in to eat, Atticus dispatches his food quickly.  Will eats a bit, leaves it for a while, and comes back to it when he is ready. Breakfast can last for hours his way.  With treats it’s just the opposite. Will, if I’m not careful, will nip my fingers in his hurry to wolf down the morsel, while Atticus ever so gently takes hold of it and looks me in the eye while doing it. 

One of them sleeps most of the day. The other feels out of sorts if we don’t climb at least two mountains a week.  One sleeps with covers on, the other doesn’t.  One likes to snuggle down, the other is impatient and uncomfortable doing that. 

Atticus came to me at eight weeks of age and other than the imprint of his soul, he was a tabula rasa – a blank slate.  He has been carefully nurtured his entire life. Will arrived twenty-two months ago at fifteen wearing the results of years of neglect and abuse.  In the nearly two years he’s been with us, I feel as though I’ve been an archaeologist as we’ve uncovered his true life and let him shine for what he is – a mixture of nature and now of nurture.  Like Atticus and me, Will is a product of his what he was born with married with his experiences.

I understand that Will and Atticus are dogs and I am human.  We have different biological needs.  I pay attention to those, but the rest is not so different. The way I see it, we mostly want the same things out of life.  We want to be happy, healthy, safe, loved, and respected.  We want the right to be who we are and to make individual choices.  In a human world, although it’s not always easy, I do the best I can with it and it works for us. 

It’s a work in progress for us.  Life always is.  I’ve learned a lot from Atticus, and from Will, but each of them have learned a lot from me as well.  It’s a dance in four part harmony. There’s Will, there’s Atticus, there’s me, and there’s what the world throws at us.  This is the journey I protect and respect.

And this is why social media can be a struggle for me at times.  I have a hard time relating to those who use clichés to describe dogs or breeds or who say, “My Tilly is just like Atticus.”  Such thoughts are foreign to me.  Not only that, they wring out the best parts of life and leave behind the parched and the dry.  I would prefer to think that Tilly is just like Tilly, and no one else and that she has someone in her life that recognizes that about her. In contrast to this, I enjoy when people post about a dog in their lives but don't mention the breed.  Instead they mention the dog's name.  I automatically feel a kinship with someone who doesn't attempt to sum up a dog by his or her breed.

At the other extreme, I find myself uncomfortable with the clichés of those who deify dogs.  You know the old tired terms. I'm owned by my dog. Dog is God spelled backwards. Who rescued who?  I do believe dogs are miraculous, as are all animals, but that includes humans.  We're not so bad ourselves.  Sure we have our shortcomings, but every species does.  I prefer to see the relationship I have with Atticus and the one I have with Will as a two way street.  I'm partial to Carl Jung's philosophy, "The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."

When it comes to our lives on our little corner of the Universe, I like the way things are. Atticus is Atticus, Will is Will, and Tom is Tom. We are each unique, each special, each both strong and vulnerable, and each of us is filled with the stuff that stars are made of. 

Life is more than the same old same old.  It has to be, if it’s worth living. It should be fresh, renewing, exciting, and filled with . . . well, life! At least that’s the way I see it, and that’s one of the songs of myself. 

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the
     origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are
     millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor
     look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the
     spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things
     from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
                              ~ Walt Whitman, from Song of Myself

Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau...not bad company at all

If you are an author, there are many reasons to avoid the reader reviews on your Amazon page. Most importantly, what you've written is in the past, and there's nothing you can do about it now.  You write something, send it out into the world, and what the reader sees in it is up to them.  There's also the comfortable truth that not every book is for every writer.  Three of my favorite authors are Howard Frank Mosher, John Irving, and Tom Robbins, but I've not liked everything they've written. And lastly, it's human tendency to pay more attention to the negative than the positive, even if the positive far outweighs the opposite. 

Recently, though, when a friend informed me Following Atticus attained the Amazon milestone of receiving 1,000 reviews, I went to the page and read a few of the comments.  The one that caught my attention was not negative, but rather a mediocre review. The woman gave it three stars out of five. She wrote about how tough it was to rate our story. She called it "well written" and "an obviously loving story about a man and his remarkable dog". But in her opinion the Following Atticus "was WAY too pantheistic for me".

A smile spread across my face as I read this, and again later while contemplating her words during a lengthy walk in the frozen woods with Atticus while we kept company with the Swift River.

When a hardcore, Bible-toting politician in Newburyport once noted to me that I mentioned God in my writing but didn't go to church, she stated she was confused and wanted to know what religion I practiced.  I told her I didn't practice any religion. But she pushed, and she pulled and she demanded an answer.  Finally, I conceded by telling her while I refuse to claim any religion, if I was forced to choose one I'm closest to being a pantheist.

Madame Politician then stalked off in utter disgust, (to pray for my soul, I imagined at the time). A few days later her husband approached me with the same disgust in his face and voice to say he couldn’t believe I told his wife that I worshipped panties.  And this, in part, should tell you why I stopped covering politicians and went to the woods, where I feel a sense of God in everything around me.  Including during a walk along the Swift River with Atticus by my side.

Earlier this year, when Pete Seeger died, a popular quote of his circulated and it sums up how a lot of people who love the White Mountains feel. He said, "Every time I'm in the woods I feel like I'm in church." 

Can I get an "amen"?

There's is not a person who loves the woods who cannot relate to that sentiment.  Many of the prophets of old found God while submerged in nature.  It was Emerson, who along with his peers Thoreau and Hawthorne knew this region well, pointed out that we need not rely on the thoughts of prophets of old, but on our own senses and sensibilities to see a personal God. He wrote: "The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes.  Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?  Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs?"

That personal experience is where I find my religion.  It's while walking an earthen path deep in the Pemigewasset Wilderness, standing atop lofty Mount Lafayette while being tossed to and fro by a strong wind, sitting by a crystal clear stream tucked away somewhere in the magical Sandwich Range, or encountering a bear in our backyard. 

Raised a Catholic, it took me a while to trust my personal experience. Being a political reporter, it took me a while to see the same divisions that bring out the petty in our politicians, bring out the petty in various religions.  I despise that people use God as a reason to argue or fight or to go to war over.  This has led to my decision to leave out the middle man and find God on my own.  (At this point, I have to add that I have no issue with the route others choose as long as they hopefully attempt to practice the Golden Rule – treat others as you wish to be treated.) 

While I have read the Bible, I also read the poetry of Wordsworth, Whitman, and Oliver; the essays of Emerson, Thoreau, and Muir, and most importantly, I pay heed to my own feelings as Atticus and I continue to tramp through this special place we call home. 

How fortunate are we to have our own Garden of Eden, recognized as such by many of the great White Mountain Artists who flocked here in the 1800s? 

The White Mountain National Forest takes up more land than does all of Rhode Island. That’s one heck of a big church. 

I’m not a theologian. If you were to call me anything, you could say I am a
nemophilist. I love the forest for its enchantment and serenity, and everywhere I look in the natural world I see and hear the song of God.  And that, by rough definition, is a pantheist.

I like that I keep company with the likes of Lao Tzu, Spinoza, Heraclitus, Georg Hegel, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Ludwig van Beethoven, William Jennings Bryant, Claude Debussy, Carl Jung, Albert Einstein, D.H. Lawrence, and Ansel Adams, just to name a few who are associated with pantheism.  More importantly, I like that I can see the Divine anywhere, and not just because I was conditioned to.

Now, as the temperature climbs into the twenties and that, in combination with the lack of wind, has it feeling even warmer during this incredibly frigid winter, you’ll have to excuse me.  Will (and his poor ancient skin) needs his bath.  Later I will escape with Atticus to church.  We’re off on an eight mile woods walk today, where every step will be a prayer, and we’ll be filled with the grace of nature. 

 

 

Today's Walk

The abandoned farmhouse.

Every two weeks I decide what outdoor experience has moved me the most so I can write about it for our column in the NorthCountry News.  Until this morning, I thought what I was going to write about was a hike we took earlier in the week.  It was a crazy cold day with roaring gusts of non-stop wind, and when the sun dropped below the mountains the day became forlorn and the wind grew stronger and became more harsh and even more vociferous.  We did the smart thing and retreated inside where we were safe and warm.  Atticus and I took to the couch; Will to his dog bed, covered by layers of soft blankets. 

But about ten o’clock something strange happened.  It became noticeably quiet and still.  The full moon was shining brilliantly and the night, sans wind, was as pleasant as a February night has ever been.  After taking Will outside one last time, then tucking him back into bed, Atticus and I set out to hike Stanton and Pickering.  Two mountains just four miles away in Bartlett. 

They are standby peaks for us and with all the fresh snow they were perfect for a night hike with a ripe moon overhead.  I rarely needed my headlamp, and we took advantage of the broken path to make our way to the ledges of Stanton with views over to Attitash.  Then we turned our backs on the lights of the ski area and followed the well-packed path through the snow-laden woods to the views from Pickering.  There, glowing as beautifully as a bride all in her white gown stood Mount Washington.  She caught the moonbeams and danced beneath the stars.  We stood there taking her in for a while before turning around and heading back the way we came.  We were home and in bed by 1:30 in the morning all the better for living our dreams instead of getting fleeting glimpses of them while sleeping.

I thought of that hike over the next few days, and I felt like I was walking around with a pleasant secret hidden away in my pocket.  Night hikes do that to a person. You see things hardly anyone else sees in places no one else is, and you can’t help but feel fortunate to have what amounts to a private showing of some of New Hampshire’s best scenery.  It was like walking in a dark gallery with the masterpiece being lit by the only spotlight in the room. 

That was the experience which enlivened me the most this week – until today. 

It’s Thursday, and the sun is out and the wind is mostly quiet.  The skies are blue and, as is always the case in winter, here in Jackson the sidewalks are impassable.  In order to find a place to walk with Atticus on days we are not hiking we drive the ten mile commute to one of the few places in North Conway where the trails are mostly packed out: Pudding Pond; Diana’s Baths; or Echo Lake.  It helps that the scenery is gorgeous, but two trips a day puts forty-miles on the car only to go for walks. 

But this is the week of February school vacation and the roads in Jackson, much like in most of our small mountain towns, are more dangerous than ever with a neverending fleet of oversized out-of-state SUVs being driven by people who seem to forget that the idea of a vacation is to leave your stress behind and not bring it with you. The invading Huns are so great in number this week each winter that they typically spill into our peaceful walking areas.  So today, looking for a quiet place to go for a walk with Atticus, I came up with a new idea.

We drove to Passaconaway Road and parked at the empty lot for the trail to South Moat. We then returned to the road and started walking west.  Two miles down Passaconaway Road runs into a gate that is closed for the winter, and there aren’t many houses along that stretch of road.  So we took advantage of the bright blue sky, the wind not being able to reach us between the trees, and the warmth of the sun hinting that there may be a spring after all and we simply walked. 

I cannot tell you how luxurious it was not to walk through snow or on top of it.  How nice it was to be outside without having to wear Microspikes, snowshoes, or crampons and to be able to just saunter along. The little snow left on the road was melting underfoot, and it felt grand to have pavement underfoot and to stretch out our legs. Heading west, the road rises a bit in elevation but even that slight grade felt good. I could feel my muscles stretching out in a carefree flight up the road like we haven’t had in months. 

Oh that glorious sun was a treat to behold!  It warmed everything, including us, and I took of my sweater and walked with only a shirt on. Atticus skipped along happily. On either side of us snow was piled deep and the gold beech leaves quivered and waved at us when we passed.  We could hear the roar of the Swift River down the bank as it followed the road and when there was an opening and we could look down there wasn’t much to see.  Occasionally the water was revealed but mostly the Swift was covered by snow over the rocks and it looked pure and serene. 

There is a month left to winter but on this walk, on this day of elongating our legs and elevating our spirits and not seeing a vehicle nor another person, I could feel that winter was in the last depths of its slumber, that place where we all know when we are somewhere between sleep and being awake when dreams, at times, can still be remembered. 

Often when we walk the roads I wear my ear buds and listen to music, and I gave some thought to it on our walk, but the roar of the river below and the sound of the toothless wind above the trees and the otherworldly silence on a week where mania is typically the rule I wanted to listen to nothing but nature. 

Eventually, we came to a farmhouse that looked abandoned. There were “No Trespassing” signs up, and I fancied how nice it would be to live there in peace and quiet, no matter the time of year.  Even in summer when Passaconaway Road runs straight through to the other end where it’s known as Dugway Road and crosses a covered bridge to reach the Kancamagus Highway, it is not all that busy nor is it loud. 

We didn’t trespass onto the property, not physically anyway. But in my imagination we lived there and walked the open porch and sprawling yard and through the weathered barn and the small apple trees sprinkled at the foot of the cliffs in the background and my dream of owning a small farm to take in abused and neglected farm animals sprung to life.

Walking under a moonlit sky on two mountains all to ourselves is always a special gift. But to walk with the promise of a new season and in the possibility of dreams is even greater.

A Will Update: He's Gotten Off of the Seesaw

 

Will with the drawing New Hampshire
artist Chris Garby made and sent to us.

The seesaw gait is gone.  When Will walks he no longer rocks up and down like a broken slinky.  Instead, he moves forward.  There’s a fluidity to it that speaks of younger days. 

When we play Will buries his head in me. I tussle his hair a bit, give him gentle shoves, he shoves back, and he gives as good as he gets.  He then spins away, always to his left, bounds up as high as his hips will allow him – like a drunken bucking bronco, which means it isn’t too high – then returns to push in on me again.  I tug him closer and wrestle with him; he nuzzles me with his nose, his once angry mouth, which once-hungered for flesh and blood, still snaps but it is a soft playful snap aimed away from me and without malice.  It’s as though he’s learned to play again and taught himself not to bite.

His journey away from anger is not unlike my own, and I often recall my Aeschylus: “Tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.”  That’s one thing Will and I share.  We’ve both tamed our “savageness” and in our own way made “gentle the life of this world”. 

This past weekend dear friends came north, and we enjoyed a long visit with them.  They had the opportunity to see what Will was like the first few weeks he lived with Atticus and me, and they even took care of him one night when Atticus and I were out.  He terrorized them with his temper tantrums. 

They’ve seen Will since then, but not all that often.  Now it’s months between visits – at least – and they see the changes that have taken place in the seventeen year old who wasn’t supposed to live this long.  Several months ago one of their children asked, “Are you sure that’s the same dog?” 

He isn’t. 

That was several chapters ago.  Will’s been writing a new conclusion to his life.  It falls under the category of a fairytale endings. 

Will was given a chance when we took him in.  Atticus and I surrounded him with peace, good food, compassion, empathy, and medication when he needed it.  He’s taken advantage of those footholds to save himself – with a little help from his friends.

I know the term “rescue” is big with some people, but I differ from many others in that I try not to look at how people and animals differ, but what they have in common. 

I know there were times in my life when I needed rescuing, and no one could do it for me.  It had to be an inside job.  Ask any of your friends who are in recovery.  You cannot rescue anyone.  What you can do is offer them an anchor.  “I’ll hold this end, drop the rope down into the abyss you are mired in, and I won’t let go as you pull yourself up.” 

I find the term “rescue” to be almost self-congratulatory and takes credit away from where it is due.  As I see it, Will rescued himself.  Atticus and I helped him along the way, gave him the anchor to a good life if he chose to take advantage of it, picked him up when he stumbled, and urged him forward.  But just like you and me he had to make up his own mind.

Yes, there have been many factors that conspired to help him along the way, but whenever Will arrived at a set of crossroads, the choice was always his.  That’s part of what makes his story unforgettable.  It is his story with his choices and his redemption.

I do believe in the osmotic effect of love.  I believe in prayers and good wishes and the scents of flowers, the vibrations of life-affirming music, and the softness in the fabrics I wrap his easily chilled body in. 

Recently someone mentioned that Will has received quilts, Afghans, and prayer shawls from all numerous people.  I like that these were made with caring hands fueled with loving intent.  He seems to enjoy each and every one of them.  I rotate them.  Some out of need, because he still has accidents and urinates on himself or falls in his own feces and things get messy, and floors, blankets, and carpets (not to mention Will himself) have to be washed, but even if that wasn’t the case, I like to imagine he feels the healing love that went into making these lovely garments as they are gently draped over his body.

Will, like all of us, needs help every now and again.  But I never tell myself or rob him of his dignity by referring to him as a “baby”.  Instead, I equate him to the elderly people I used to work with in the nursing home.  He deserves the same respect I offered elders who have endured much.  But in Will’s case, he has survived more than just years, he survived years of neglect and the way I see it, neglect is just another form of abuse. 

After surviving the terrors of a Nazi POW camp, Viktor Frankl wrote and spoke for decades about the choices he had to make and those that Will was confronted with: “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

Since I chose to see animals in the same light as I view humans, Frankl’s words work well for Will, and any other human or non-human animal that has been robbed of dignity.  This is one of the reasons dignity has been as much a part of Will’s rehab as have been the Metacam, Dasuquin, massages, and gentle stretches.  All of these have contributed to help Will recapture some of his life and because of that his seesaw gait is gone…as are nearly all the rest of the ups and downs he has wrestled with.   

Changes On Our Facebook Page

If I could do it all again, the one thing I’d change about my newspaper, The Undertoad, is replace some of the anger with humor.  Or at least cut the anger with humor.  Leave them laughing, but also thinking. 

When I started my paper, I was dumbstruck that community leaders thought it was okay to hate the mayor because she was a woman and a lesbian.  The good old boy network seemed to thrive on homophobia, as well as xenophobia.

 

When considering different levels of corruption and degrees of wrong doing in Newburyport I was reminded of something Aeschylus reported to have been carved in a stone in one of the Great Pyramids: “And no one was angry enough to speak out.”  So much was strange and dark and just downright wrong in Newburyport that I quickly became the one who was angry enough to speak out.  Yes, there was humor and good reporting and alternative ways of doing things, but my paper was fueled by anger. 

I suppose my own anger was further fueled when I reported the news only to find my tires slashed; windshield smashed, and the occasional death threat, as well.  Newburyport was a war zone for those “angry enough to speak out”, right there on those fancy brick sidewalks that lined the streets in front of increasingly expensive boutiques.  The tide of gentrification rolled in, and change was everywhere.  There was plenty to write about, but it was the stuff that took place in the shadowy underbelly of the city that I often led with.  

I was good at being angry – every two weeks for eleven years I wrote about the good guys and gals and the bad guys and gals.  I was also good at taking a stand.  So good, that Atticus’s name is derived from Harper Lee’s character in “To Kill a Mockingbird.”  Some friends suggested it to me since they felt I represented the same kind of man – the kind that takes a stand when others might not. It was an interesting life for a fledgling writer. It was also a chaotic one.

Moving north afforded me a chance to get away from all that.  I mean what’s there to get angry about while sitting on top of a mountain with a Zen-like four-legged hiking partner? 

So six years ago I traded my anger for peace and life changed.  It became sunnier, happier, more carefree.  When folks up here discovered what I used to do, they asked me to take a stand on local issues, wanting me to throw my pen into the fight. I repeatedly said, “Sorry, I’ve put in my time.  No more politics for me.”

Life has been good since the move.  There are ups and downs with every life, but I now go about my days with far less drama.  I ease into each morning and out of every night.  I read; I write; I pray; I smile….I breathe.  It’s a simple as that. 

No longer is anger just around the next corner.  Instead, I’ve found magic behind the next tree in the forest.  I went from a place known as Cannibal City to one that resembles Narnia.

Our book reflected the revolution that took place in my life.  “Simplify, simplify,” as Thoreau wrote.  Life in Jackson has been that way. Simple, uncomplicated, free.   Atticus and I created our own world, and then invited Will to join it. 

Our Following Atticus Facebook page has taken on the same theme.  “Simplify, simplify.”  Be grateful.  Do your best to be kind, even if it isn’t always feasible or easy. (And when it isn’t possible, walk away.) Consider embracing light over dark. Strive to be you. The page has mirrored my changes and the quest I’ve been on as I’ve followed Atticus. 

Lately, though, I’ve noticed something curious on our Facebook page that bothers me.  It began a few months ago. It had a familiar scent to it, so familiar, in fact, that it slaps me in the face when I notice it. What I’ve seen is increasing doses of anger are appearing as comments on our simple little page about living an basic life in the mountains with two dogs while following my dreams. 

I’m not quite sure where it’s coming from, but over the past several months, as the number of followers have increased, angry comments have also increased.  I don’t get it.  It’s one thing to be angry with a crooked mayor, a homophobe, a dirty cop – but we started seeing angry comments about the silliest of things.  For instance, one such post that bothered a few people was our Christmas tree…

“Who takes down a tree the day after Christmas? That’s just stupid!”

“Why would you cut down a tree for your house?  That’s selfish.”

“You are endangering Will.  He’s going to eat some of the tree, and he’ll die. Dogs die that way all the time.  You need to take better care of him?”

“Why do you need to force your religious symbols on us?”

All told there were seven angry comments about the tree.  Thankfully they were trimmed from the page quickly.

Others were angry when I quoted Archbishop Desmond Tutu when he stated a plea for animal rights throughout the world.  As far as I know, no one was angry with Desmond Tutu himself, but from out of nowhere religious comments came flying.  So did political comments.  Republicans versus Democrats.  Jews versus Baptists versus Catholics. Oy vey!  And all I wanted was to show that world leaders are now taking stands on behalf of animals. 

In the past two weeks, my moderators and I have pulled down six seemingly innocent posts.  The latest was two days ago.  It was a video that had Atticus and me walking around Diana’s Baths. I was filming it for a friend with fond memories of the area, and Atticus and I were quite pleased to be out on that freezing morning getting some exercise and seeing the sights.  Then I decided I’d share the video with everyone. Many liked it, but more than twenty others had something to say about Atticus not wearing a coat and/or boots.  They went from little passive aggressive jabs to scolding, to being downright angry, to telling me I was not looking out for his best interests.  It didn’t matter that Atticus is used to this weather and was not the least bit uncomfortable, or that I had written several chapters in our book about his exploits during three consecutive winters when we climbed 188 four-thousand foot peaks.  They were angry and wanted me to know it.   

There have been other innocent posts that have had people leaving derisive remarks and, again, I just don’t get it.  What’s worse is that these people actually seemed to think they had a right to do so. 

You know something is wrong when an enjoyable walk in the woods turns into a debate about animal welfare.

Social media is a strange beast. It can do a lot of good, and we are blessed that the vast majority of our 26,000 followers are kind, considerate, and supportive.  They are good neighbors, thoughtful visitors, and if they don’t have anything nice to say, they typically don’t post something.  I appreciate that a great deal.  But social media can also be a place for people to vent their anger.

It caught me by surprise, and I stumbled for a bit.  Now I know what people are angry about has little (or nothing) to do with Atticus, Will, or me.  What they are mostly angry with is their own lives, and it flows out of them as they sit behind their keyboards foisting their beliefs on others.  But having been there…having been the critical one, I still don’t get it.  What we post is pretty innocuous stuff.

The judgmental anger is far too familiar to the life I used to know and goes in the opposite direction of where I want to go and the life I choose to lead.  Hence, we are making some changes.  They are basic.  And let me say that I know this only goes for a small portion of the people who end up on our Facebook page, but here they are:

*You are allowed to be as angry as you want, just keep it to yourself. 

*I don’t want negativity on our page.  It’s been a peaceful place, for the most part. 

*I will continue to post, but I’ve added extra moderators, and they will not hesitate to delete negative comments and ban users who feel they need to express their anger. The moderators will be very active, but not interactive.  They are on board to protect the integrity of the page. 

And…and…well, that’s the main part of it.  It’s zero tolerance on our part for those who lack tolerance for whatever it is that is getting them cranky.  There are other minor changes, but so minor you won’t notice them, and they don’t deserve to be mentioned. 

When I started The Undertoad, I wrote that my purpose was “to weed the garden, shine light in the dark places, and poison the poisoners”.  With our new policies, we only mean to weed the garden.  That should be enough. 

What it comes down to is this: I like the page we’ve created.  I like what it stands for and we will do our best to keep it that way. I welcome people in for a glimpse of our lives, if they choose to look, and only ask that you remember that the life we lead is not a referendum.  We are what we are.  We appreciate those who go by the Golden Rule of treating others as they want to be treated, and that’s the majority of our members.

In the end, it all comes down to this: if you leave angry comments on Facebook, not just this page, but any page, perhaps you shouldn't be visiting that page...or any Facebook page.  This is supposed to be entertainment.  Take it from someone who used to embrace being angry.  Life is too short.  Then again, how you act is your business; but how you act on our page is my business.   

My apologies to have to spell this out for everyone, even though it doesn’t concern most of you. 

Thank you for coming to our Facebook page and participating. 

Onward, by all means,
Tom

"Never lose hope, my heart. Miracles dwell in the invisible." ~ Rumi

Oh, the places he's gone.

Will has a birthday coming up. 

He’ll be seventeen on January 14.  Or maybe not.  Maybe he already is, and we missed the anniversary of the exact date he was brought into this world. 

As most of you know, Atticus and I adopted Will in May of 2012.  I think the date was the sixth.  A brief history: Will was dropped at a kill shelter in NJ by folks who (reportedly) had grown too old to take care of themselves, never mind him.  A kind-hearted shelter person feared no one would take this special needs dog who was deaf and mostly blind, not to mention partly infirm, and reached out to New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue.  The posted on their Facebook page how heartbreaking Will(iam)’s story was.  Sue Muller Weber, long a proponent of rescue and a fan of Following Atticus, posted the update on her Facebook wall.  Laura Bachofner, a friend of Sue’s who is also a proponent of rescue and a fan of Following Atticus, then shared the update on the Following Atticus page.  From there, the most unlikely thing happened. 

Atticus and I were quite content in our lives. We were hiking, enjoying the lack of drama from our Newburyport newspapering days, and thriving in the quiet country life.  Yet something within me saw this old dog’s plight and decided that we would give him a home in which to die in.  I didn’t expect him to last very long; no one did, really, and so I accepted the fact that Atticus and I were taking on a hospice case.  All I wanted for Will was to be able to die with dignity and not the sense of betrayal and/or abandonment that I imagined he was feeling.  (There’s much more to this story, but I will go into with our next book.) 

Here it is January of 2014, and Will is as happy as he’s ever been.  Instead of dying, he decided to live, and that is fine with me. As I said to him from the moment he took his first faltered steps in redefining his life, “You can leave whenever you wish, but feel free to stay as long as you want.  You have a home here.” 

His journey has been remarkable, and his steps in re-defining himself will also be written about in the next book (along with many other things) so I will not go into them here. 

As for his birthday, no one knows exactly when it is.  All that was written down when he came to live with us was that he was fifteen.  Some who are hardcore into rescue wrote to tell me his birthday is the day Atticus and I took him into our home, for that’s what they always do.  No disrespect to them, or anyone else who practices this belief, but that doesn’t work for us. 

The way I see it, Will came into our lives that first week of May, 2012.  He had a long history before that, even if no one really knows what it entails.  Who was I to ignore that?  So I came up with a date at random, with no special meaning, and chose it as his birthday: January 14^th. 

Okay, it really does have a special meaning for me.  It was my way of respecting that he had a life before us – this is something I’ve always tried to remember.  And I’ve done my best to respect his unique journey and how it differed from our or anyone else’s.  (This is the reason our moderators quietly delete comments about either Atticus or Will saying anything like, “I have/had a dog just like him.” 

I believe that journeys are unique, whether they are taken with two feet or four. 

But all of this is nothing more than details and details don’t always matter.  I really don’t care what date Will was born.  What I care is that he had a life, it seemed to come to an end, and he could have given up, but instead he chose to extend his last chapter to create several more.

As for Will’s celebrated birthdate, I know there are many who will want to send him something, but what I’d prefer is that perhaps you wear his shirt, drink out of his mug, remember the individual he is, and if that is not enough and you want to do something special, reach out to the animal shelter of your choosing and make a donation in Will’s name, or maybe even adopt a senior dog yourself.

Taking in a senior dog can be expensive.  It can be challenging.  It can wear you down.  But it can also reward you in priceless other ways, give you reason to celebrate as you clear each hurdle together, and it can renew an animal’s faith in humans, not to mention renewing yourself a bit. 

Thank you for caring about Will. 

Onward, by all means,
Tom     

There's a Difference Between "Being Old" and "Growing Old"

The wind chimes are lively tonight. They are dancing and singing and gracefully playing their music.  It’s near January, and one of those wicked Washington winds is roaring by overhead, sounding, not unlike a freight train just out of sight.  From time to time an independent tendril dips lower and plays with the chimes sending them twirling and bumping into each other.  But no matter how awkward they may look, they sound as if they are an instrument of angels.   

A friend once told me I should take them in when the wind picks up like this.  I didn’t say anything, since I wanted to be polite (which I can’t always promise to be), but I never have taken them in.  No matter how strong the gusts roll down on us from the north, I let them feel what the trees feel.  Wind chimes, after all, were made for the wind, and they would have no life without it.

There may come a day when they twist and get tangled, but I’ll worry about that when it happens. Until then, I just tell the band to play on.  And it does.  Joyously, I would like to think. 

When there’s deep snow in Jackson, as there is now and will be until spring arrives, Will cannot get out in the backyard.  Instead, when it’s time to go to the bathroom I take him out into our sizable driveway and watch him pee.  When squats to defecate and puts more weight on his hips, shifting his center of gravity, I get behind him and spot him, just in case he’s standing on a bit of ice.  When he’s done, he twirls as he loves to do, throws those stiff front legs up in the air and performs his interpretive dance.  It’s a perfect accompaniment to the music coming from the wind chimes above. 

I say he’s mostly blind.  I can’t give you percentages but while he often can’t see a cookie I hold right in front of him, he can see shapes and shadows.  He nearly always knows where I am. If I am sitting in dim light, though, I’ll wave my arm to let his eyes grab hold of me.  But sound is a different thing.  I can’t say as I’ve noticed him responding to any sound.  Vibrations yes; hence the Willabys I play for him. 

However, there is one thing he seems to be picking up on lately.  It’s the music from those chimes.  I noticed it again tonight; they played, and he raised his head in their direction.    

Because we are a straight shot down the road from Mount Washington, the wind is a regular visitor to our place.  It’s not uncommon to look up and see Orion, the Big Dipper, or the Pleiades on a stunning night sitting in a pool of pitch black, and have tiny snowflakes blown to us by way of the great peak.  The wind can push and even slap at our backdoor; much as Butkus, the oldest of our neighborhood bears did in November when food was growing scarce.  He was out on the deck and I opened it a foot or so, braced the bottom with my foot, and said, “You know better.  Get off the deck, please, Butkus.”  He’s a pretty decent neighbor and has always listened, but during that visit he left with a huff and an angry hiss.  I yelled to him as he was walking down all the stairs the lead from our second floor home, “Don’t hiss at me. Go find your food elsewhere.” 

For the first time ever old Butkus returned after being sent on his way.  It was probably ten minutes later when showed up at the backdoor, which is made of sturdy glass with very strong metal framing.  He looked through the glass to see if I was watching and when I came toward the door, he looked me in the eye and slapped it with a big paw.  I slapped it right back, opened the door again, and this time I raised my voice.  (I find this is always something you can do with those you like, so long as you let them know it’s not personal.  And that’s exactly what I did.)

“Go!  Go on!  I’m sorry, but you know better!”

This time he didn’t hiss, but he did huff while turning that great rump to me and thumping down the stairs, and off into the darkness. 

Being November, and food being scarce, I would have fed him but that never leads to any good.  The bears just get too used to people and sooner or later a bear is relocated, or worse.  One of the common sayings in this part is “A fed bear is a dead bear.”

So why do the bears frequent our yard – eight of them this year – if we don’t feed them?  It’s because we are close by some restaurants and inns, and they make the rounds like the hungry tourists do.  I can just imagine how tantalizing the scents from the better establishments are to them.  Since these mountains were home to bears before people, I don’t have an issue with them.  I try to be a good neighbor to them and typically they return the consideration. 

Anyways, I’m getting off track here.  The wind, when at its strongest, sends gusts against our door, and it sounds like it did the night Butkus slapped it.  It can rattle the door, and it can thump the door. 

A couple of weeks ago, around the time Will was sneezing up blood, and we were concerned, I was taking a bath and Atticus was on the only dog bed he uses – the one next to the tub.  He likes being close to me at all times.  Will was asleep in the living room and quite content. I had music playing on the floor for him.  Meanwhile, I had my own music playing in the bathroom.  I was reading; Atticus was sleeping, and Josephine Baker was singing. 

It was one of those nights where strong gusts were rattling our home.  After a while, Will walked into the bathroom toward Atticus, who was hoping Will would just go away.  This is a regular routine.  Will comes in for a visit, disturbs Atticus, often stepping on him, and I reach out of the tub to rub Will’s ears to give Atticus space.  Will left, but soon returned.  This time he didn’t bother Atticus but came to the side of the tub.  He rested his chin on the edge.  I rubbed his ears, thinking he wanted more affection. 

Right then he did something he’d never done before.  He raised his head, opened his mouth, and grabbed a couple of my fingers.  When he first moved in with us a year and a half ago, I never would have trusted my fingers in his mouth, but I went with it.  He bit down, not too hard, just enough to hold on tight, and pulled back.  I plucked my fingers from his mouth and tousled his ears again.  He stepped back, tried his hardest not to let his hips give out, and grabbed my fingers again.  He grunted when he pulled. 

I had no idea what he was saying or wanted, but any interaction with Will is a gift.  When he first arrived he didn’t do much.  Even now people see him in a photo and think he’s very cute – which he is – but when they meet him they understand there’s not a lot of communication.    

Don’t get me wrong – he and I do play.  We wrestle.  He lets me know when he’s hungry.  When I’m going to get his food, he’ll reach out with his front paws and try to grab hold of my legs.  When he knows it’s time for a treat, he now sits – this is something else that was impossible in the beginning.  The sit doesn’t last long, and he slowly sinks down like a cartoon dog into a sphinx position, but I love the progress nonetheless.  He also lets me know when he wants me to pick him up and bring him up on the couch with us.  And when it’s time to go out, he relaxes in my arms (or over my shoulder) when I carry him outside.  Other than that, he mostly just takes care of himself, just as he should at his age.

But on the night he came into the bathroom and grabbed hold of me, after leaving he returned and went straight for my fingers.  I could hear the wind and feel the house rattling. I could also feel those heavenly chimes in the cold, windy night.  They were so clear I decided to turn down the music and get out of the tub.  I looked at the backdoor to see that the wind had blown it wide open, and the living room was quite cold.

I do my best not to pretend to know what Atticus or Will is thinking or what they would say if they spoke words I could understand.  That’s up to them.  (I cringe when I read a comment from someone who is telling me what Atticus and Will is thinking.)  From time to time though, we connect.  With Atticus, it’s easy, but with Will it’s something that seldom happens.  On that night, when gusts blew open the door, the wind chimes sang as never before, and cold air spilled into our little home Will had come to let me know he needed some help.  For as soon as I closed the door, he went back to his nearby bed and snuggled in for a nap.

I know that Will is getting older – just as we all are.  But the difference is, he’s much older than anyone I know.  He will be seventeen in January and came to us in brutal shape.  Having just been sneezing up blood at the time that famous final scene appeared even closer. 

Here’s what I love about this whole thing.  Even as he gets older, he continues to grow.  He learns things; finds new ways to express himself; tries to sit, where he never dared before, and he let me know the door was open, instead of just trundling out of it and falling down the stairs (which has always been a worry and why our little deck is gated in the fair months before and after the black flies visit). 

That’s the difference between being old and growing old.  Will is still growing, and I take comfort in that.    

Why Play Music for a Deaf Dog?

In our little corner of the world, we do our best to not only celebrate
individuality, but also equality. (A Ken Stampfer photograph.)

Long ago, I worked in a nursing home.  It wasn’t a very nice place; probably the last facility on earth you’d want to place a loved one.  As it turns out, there weren’t many loved ones fading peacefully away in the facility.  Most had been long forgotten and had no one to love them. 

Although I was not a big fan of a lot of the other employees and the way the treated the elderly, for the most part, I enjoyed my time there.  I also understood that much of the staff didn’t care much for me either.  We were different.  Many came from difficult pasts and were on a treadmill of misery.  The majority of the staff was not well educated.  Some were in abusive relationships, and the mute residents would end up with mysterious bruises themselves.  For some of the staff, working with the elderly, and in some cases, talking down to them and ordering them around, was their only way to feel like they were in charge.

During their breaks, while others would grab a cigarette, watch television, or talk about going out for drinks after work. I would spend my breaks reading Sam Keen, Henry David Thoreau, Robert Frost, or Kahlil Gibran.  They looked at me as though I was crazy.  I think it also bothered them that I was happy and laughed often.  But I believe what defined the difference between us more than anything else is the way I interacted with the elderly residents. 

I could be found brushing the hair of a silent and broken old woman, and asking her to tell me about her first kiss.  There would be a moment of quiet, searching look on their faces, ever so slowly their eyes would come to life in a sparkle, and their wrinkles disappeared as they soaked in the memory.  When they told me of that kiss the decades, the struggle, despair, and loneliness vanished, and we’d both be transported to a time long ago.  We’d sit and talk.  Eventually, laughter bubbled up as one story lead to the next.    

I asked other questions, as well.  It could be about the day their son or daughter was born, their wedding day, or their favorite Christmas gift as a child.  The answers were often beautiful but not as important to me as the life that returned to them and replaced the numb and vacant stares out the window. 

One day I asked Edith Stanwood, whom I think may have been ninety, why she was always grouchy.  She stamped her cane and bellowed, “Because no one will dance with me.”  At lunch that day I brought Sinatra to the dining room, turned it up loud and asked her to dance.  Old Edith was full of purpose and took her dancing seriously.  When I fell to the floor after a couple of minutes feigning exhaustion, she playfully kicked me and said, “Get up! We’re not done dancing yet.”  When I stood back up, we started dancing again, and the whole room, Edith included, laughed.    

I didn’t stay at the “home” for very long. A few months after I left, a state agency came in and shut it down.  But those months I worked there shaped my life and views in ways that will forever be with me.

I’m the first to admit that I am not a dog expert, and I cringe when others pretend to be.  I rarely pretend to know what Atticus or Will are thinking and dismiss those who claim to know.  What I attempt to do, is my best to rely on empathy and observance, while paying attention to what they like.  It also helps to put myself in their respective places.  After all, they are as different from each other as you and I are.  This worked well when raising Atticus and continues to.  People often note that I don’t treat Atticus like a dog, and the truth is I don’t.  I’m not so deluded that I think he’s human.  Instead, I think of him as an equal from a different species and concentrate on what we have in common as much as I respect our differences. 

As for Will, my days working at that woebegone nursing home, has contributed to the way we get along.  Of course, I can’t ask him questions and expect him to tell me he’s angry because no one will dance with him.  What I do instead is pay attention to what pleases him and, conversely, what angers him.  I try to honor him as an equal (no; he’s not my “baby”, he’s an elderly soul who deserves my respect), even though at his advanced age and because of his physical limitations he needs a lot of help from me, just as those elderly twenty years ago did.

Will may not be able to tell me about the first time he was hugged, or what it felt like to be a puppy in a new home.  He can’t tell me about how he felt when he could move freely and run through the fields or even if he ever had the opportunity to.  What he can do is show me what infuses him with life.  Then it’s up to me to pick up on it. 

Soon after he came to live with us, the wildflowers around the borders of our backyard were in bloom, and Will would often stumble over to them, inhale, and linger.  Sometimes he would close those mostly blind eyes.  Since noticing that, once a week, from that time on, I’ve bought him flowers for inside the house. 

About the same time, back when Will was still but a shell of the dog you see now and mostly just stayed on his own, wrapped in anger and sadness, Atticus and I went out for a walk.  When we returned, I saw that Will had crawled from his dog bed and placed an ear on the leg of the coffee table in the center of the living room.  On top of it, my iPad was hooked to a speaker and music was filling our happy abode.  It was also sending vibrations down the leg of the coffee table.  To this day there is music playing in our house throughout most of the waking hours and a small speaker on the floor near where Will rests. 

One thing that was not easy to honor, but we’ve done our best with it, was Will’s apparent sense of pride and the rage he carried with him.  We live on the second floor, and I have to carry him up and down the stairs several times a day.  In the beginning, he had a harness on.  This kept him from being able to reach around to bite me, something he did quite a bit of.  When I placed him down on the grass, he’d go off and do his own thing.  But bringing him back upstairs I had to lift him again, and he would throw a temper tantrum.  Once back in the living room, I’d wait for Atticus to hop onto the couch and safely out of reach, and I’d place Will on the rug.  He’d turn at me; teeth snapping, growling, and did his best to bite me. He’d whirl around, his back hips often giving out, and he’d be unapproachable.  I decided to let him do this.  He was obviously angry at what life, and more importantly, people had done to him. 

Will’s temper tantrums are a thing of the past.  However, his first instinct, when he doesn’t want to do something, is to get ready to bite. His lip curls back; he starts to growl, and then he remembers he no longer has to be angry – and he choices to trust.  He’s become such a great patient because of this when he needs help.   

Will has retained his swirling, drunken, bucking bronco dance when we return from being outside.  But there’s no longer any anger attached to it.  It’s become a game for us, and I imagine that maybe, just maybe, his pride is telling me that he could have climbed all those stairs himself.  But just to be safe, Atticus still hops up on the couch and out of reach of Will.

People who are new to our Facebook page are sometimes curious about the music and the flowers for Will.  Or they haven’t read Following Atticus yet and aren’t aware of the way he was raised, or why he was raised the way he was. 

I won’t pretend that our way of doing things is right for anyone else.  I know I may even be in the minority in refusing to use words like “pet”, “owner”, “master”, “fur kid”, or in not considering Atticus and Will my “children” or “babies”, and I simply walk away from those who “baby talk” to Atticus (and I like that he does, too).  But words and the way we communicate are important to me, as are my friends.  While this may not be the way others do things, it works for us.

In the end, what’s most important to me is that the three of us are learning as we go.