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2-14-2007 Jim Austin Cats have almost always been in my life, a long, sinuous line of them climaxing, to date, in Owen; he's shared my Fly Creek life for about 14 years. Owen's a senior now, wandering the house, grumbling to himself about old age and stiffness. But he still sits on my desk to help with my writing. And I can't pull a quilt over myself for a nap without his hopping up to settle between my ankles. So, lots of cats, but no dogs. Until now. In my later years, I've been blessed by two. Both came to share our house because (of course) of Anne. The first, wonderful old Zach, was a collie she was talked into taking by a fellow Rotarian. I can't imagine it was a hard sell. Zach, an elderly, 95-pound standard collie, looked like "Lassie, the Twilight Years." With a magnificent mane, he moved with the ponderous, shambling grace of Sesame Street's Snuffleupagus. And Zach was the most huggable dog I've ever met. People would bend to stroke his mane and end up on one knee, embracing his neck. What a pleasure he was in the nine months we had him. Now, of course, there's Blue, a bright as was Zach and as wildly energetic as Zach was sedentary. Blue has boundless zest, a sense of fun; and, again like his predecessor, he offers a dog's greatest gifts: uncritical listening, unquestioning devotion, unqualified love. But I want to tell you about two other good dogs I've recently met. The first was at a wedding, and the second at a funeral. The wedding, last fall, was of a truly fine man who, after being alone for some time, had found new happiness with a wonderful woman. The ceremony was at his home, and present were only two-dozen family members and friends. Plus a dog. The dog, a big lab more white than golden, had been the man's companion for years and, I'm guessing, his comfort through some bleak times. Now the old dog had cancer and, though kept comfortable with medications, could do little more than lie just inside the front door. This he did on the wedding day, greeting guests with a thumping tail as each, without exception, bent to speak his name and scratch his ears. The wedding party gathered downstairs in a family room and then, led by the bride and groom, came up and through the hall to a library. Everyone had to step over the dog. When his master did, the lab not only thumped his tail but raised his head briefly. The ceremony took place just beyond an open doorway, and the dog twisted his bulky head around and seemed to follow every step of it. Many said afterward that he had been more than another guest. He'd been Dog of Honor. Within the week, he had peacefully died. I think I know why. Dogs read our emotions with amazing acuteness, and I think the lab had read his master's renewed joy in life. Someone wonderful had come into it, and now the dog's job was done. And so, quietly, he let go. What can one say except, "Good doggie. Good doggie!" I crunched through snow to Tillapaugh's and the funeral where I met the second dog. His mistress had been a member of Cooperstown's dwindling "old guard," and even into her 80s she had remained a vital presence in the village, loved by hundreds. Her companion through her last years had been Benja, a dog of nondescript appearance, but one with a great and loving heart. In years past, people used to end their bedtime prayers with, "May the Lord grant us a peaceful night and a blessed end." A blessed end is just what the old lady, her family's matriarch, had had. The evening before her death, one of her twin sons had sat visiting with her as they watched "Dancing with the Stars." Toward the show's end, a waltz came on and, eyes bright, the old lady said, "Will you dance with me?" Her son took her hand, and they waltzed through the downstairs, around and back. The next morning the other twin son came to visit. His mother was full of excitement over that evening's Super Bowl game; she was a fervent Giants fan. The two of them laughed and talked about players and odds, and then the son went to the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. When he returned, she was gone. Her heart had stopped as quietly as a clock that has run down. At her funeral, the matriarch's family filled the first rows of chairs, with Benja sitting quietly by one granddaughter's feet. Just before the service, the granddaughter walked to the casket, Benja padding along. As she stood there, the dog stepped around her and put one front paw, then the other, on the kneeling bench. All watched as the dog stood motionless, her backbone, head, and nose forming a straight line as she gazed up toward the casket's edge. Then she stepped down and led the granddaughter back to her seat. At the service's end, the woman came forward again, Benja with her. Her father also stepped up and held her as she heroically struggled through a last tribute. She wanted us to know that she and her husband intended to name the baby she was carrying, a girl, after her beloved great-grandmother. During that anguished speech, Benja made the only sound I heard from her that day. She read that woman's crushing grief. The dog echoed it with a soft, long whine. Afterwards, many of us knelt to stroke Benja. I heard, again and again, "There's a good dog. Good doggie!" Indeed. They minister to us, don't they? They're so often instruments of grace. Read about Jim Atwell's book, "From Fly Creek - Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell. com. |
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