Dogs as Comfort Critters

When I was a mere child, our family, like many families, enjoyed a number of different pets. We were pretty much a dog family and shared our home with several wonderful canines. 

The other day, while driving on back roads to conduct a cemetery committal service in rural Beverly Hills, Florida, I noticed two young children playing with a large dog in their front yard. I think the dog was one of those labradoodle mixed breeds, a good-looking animal. The children were young, a boy and a girl, maybe seven or eight years old, and they were really enjoying themselves, as was the dog. I sat at that stop sign and watched the three of them for maybe a half-minute before a pick-up pulled up behind me and leaned on his horn. That broke the spell, and off I went to bury the dead. But as I drove the rest of the way, I thought of all the dogs who blessed our family and my childhood with their presence. Dogs are truly wonderful creatures, just another gift from a God who loves us. I think He gives us dogs to teach us how to love unconditionally, just as He loves.

The first dog who shared our home with me was Patches, a Boston Terrier, of whom I have absolutely no recollection. I have a photo of me as a baby with Patches standing guard, but I think she died not long after that. Our next dog, the first pet I can remember, was Clipper, a German Shepherd. I have many memories of Clipper who used to sneak into my room and climb into my bed after my folks had retired for the night. He knew my mom didn’t appreciate his shedding on my blankets and sheets, but he and I openly conspired to disobey. Mom eventually relented. I always felt privileged that Clipper chose my bed and not that of my brother, Jeff, although I suspect Clipper based his decision on the amount of room available in each bed. Jeff was four years older and took up a lot more space. Clipper was a terrific dog, even though he did enjoy chasing down the chickens raised by one of our neighbors in rural Nichols, Connecticut. As I recall Dad was frequently forced to pay for recently slaughtered fowl. Here's Clipper enjoying himself in the snow (probably about 1948):

When I was about five, we moved to Larchmont in suburban New York, and Clipper moved with us. He didn’t care much for suburban life since he was no longer allowed to roam freely. Fortunately for Clipper and the entire family, after a year or two we moved to Panama City Beach, Florida when my dad, an Army reserve officer, was recalled to active duty at Camp Rucker (now Fort Rucker) in Dothan, Alabama. Dad rented a small 2-bedroom cottage right on the beach. He would spend weekdays at Rucker and weekends with us. Jeff and I attended the local public school, Drummond Park Elementary School, which in those days was segregated. Of course, as young boys, this meant little to us. We simply enjoyed living right on the beach where we’d romp in the surf with Clipper and watch out for dangerous critters like Portuguese Man o’ War and sand sharks. Here we are in our sandy Florida backyard — I’m the little one — with our dad and Clipper…

Our next move took us to Heidelberg, Germany, again thanks to the U.S. Army. But first my folks had to see about finding a renter for our home in Larchmont. And since we couldn't take Clipper with us to Germany, Dad sold him to a man who owned a butcher shop on Long Island. I expect Clipper spent the rest of his days living and eating well. We all missed him.

Heidelberg was fascinating. We didn't live in Army housing but lived "on the economy," renting a flat in a small apartment house in town. Jeff and I also attended German schools, so we certainly got a taste for the country and its people. This was in 1951-52, not too many years after the end of the war. I remember asking my mom why we couldn't get a dog, and she laughed and said, "That would just make Frau Sauer [our landlady] even more sour."  

But Dad surprised us when we returned to New York. He had purchased a Weimaraner puppy and had it shipped from Germany to our home in Larchmont. The dog's name was Heidi, although her official Kennel Club name was “Arnheid von Geisberg.” I always thought this more elaborate name made her uncommonly regal, and she certainly lived up to it. Heidi immediately became one of the family. Although she was a rather large dog, she was very happy being a homebody and adjusted quickly to our family's odd lifestyle. 

When she was about three my folks decided to breed her with another purebred Weimaraner, resulting in eight wonderful little puppies. We sold seven but kept the largest male, whom Dad named, "Der Alte," the same name the Germans gave Konrad Adenauer, a name connoting age and wisdom. Unfortunately, he didn't live up to his name and simply refused to grow up. I think living with his mother simply spoiled him. We eventually sold him to a man who lived on a large rural estate where Der Alte enjoyed himself for years.

Heidi was especially close to my mom, and used to sit with her, or on her, or beside her whenever possible -- see the photos above and at left. Only when mom wasn't around would she condescend to spend quality time with the rest of us. 

Heidi lived with us for more than a dozen years and during that time learned to tolerate all of our strange idiosyncrasies. For example, Dad acquired a very clever parakeet named Heinz who used to land on Heidi's head and talk to her in his broken English. Heidi ignored him, assuming he was just another of the odd creatures who inhabited her home. 

I was almost 8 years old when Heidi joined our family, and she died when I was home on summer leave from the Naval Academy. It was heartbreaking. 

Will our dogs join us in heaven? Well, if the lion will lay down with the lamb, I don't see why God won't let the dogs who loved us and cared for us, probably more than we cared for them, also be with us eternally. St. Thomas Aquinas may disagree, but I'll bet he never had a dog. 

Birthday Numbers

Today is my birthday, my 76th, but I feel much younger...well, most of the time...ok, maybe sometime. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me in church this morning, right after the final blessing. It was a surprise, but very nice. It would have been nicer if Dear Diane had been there, but her shoulder was acting up, so I left her in bed with the ice machine soothing her pain. Dear Diane’s ad:

I think young people tend to forget, or simply ignore, the birthdays of their elders under the mistaken belief that anyone that old wouldn't want to be reminded of it. Here they're wrong. Older folks are really more like little children and take secret pride in their advancing age.

Remember when you were a kid and someone asked, “How old are you...five or six?” How did you respond? “I’m six and a half!” To be seen as only five was a huge insult, and six simply wasn’t good enough. You wanted everyone to know exactly how old you really were. Of course, at that age the years crawled by, so half-years were far more meaningful.

We old folks are much the same. 30 years ago I never would have asked a woman her age. But here in The Villages, they don’t give me a chance to ask. I need only say, “Hi, how are you today?”, and I’m greeted with, “Wonderful! Not bad considering I turn 79 next week.” What do you say to that? You have to say something. Here it’s best to remember how seniors and little kids differ. Both are proud of their actual age, but kids want you to think they’re older, while seniors want to be known as old but viewed as younger. Probably the safest response is something like, “79! You’re kidding! You can’t be 79.” That covers all the bases.

Of course birthdays are linked to time itself, and for me, time is probably the most intriguing aspect of God’s creation of space and time. (Read St. Augustine's Confessions, chapter 11 for one of the better discussion on this.) 

When it comes to space, we can revisit places again and again. They might have changed a bit over time, but they’re still there and usually still recognizable. If I’m planning a future trip to a new place, I can even call up Google Earth and check it out. Oddly, although I’m actually looking at the past as it appears on my computer screen, for me it’s more a peek into the future, a glimpse of the place I intend to visit. 

It’s with time that things get a bit messy. We can’t reclaim the past because it’s irretrievable, but we can call it back as a memory. 

My earliest memories are quite early. I remember watching my dad and brother playing in the snow in our backyard in rural Nichols, Connecticut when I was only two years old...well, ok, two years and five months old. I was sitting with my mom at our bay window looking out at the two of them and wanting so badly to join them. Years later, when I described this memory to my mother, she was amazed that I could recall that day. “You had a bad cold,” she said, “I was very worried about you, and wouldn’t let you go outside. My gosh! That was in February 1947, and you remember that?” Yep.

I have quite a few memories of my third year, again all in Connecticut. I’ve always been an early riser. Even as a young child, I would awaken long before everyone else, leave my room, and sit down in the hallway at the top of the stairway. There I’d be joined by our dog, a German Shepherd named Clipper. He and I would lie down, my head resting on his side, while I rattled on, sharing my thoughts. Clipper was a tolerant beast and feigned interest. Often my voice would waken my parents (I’ve never been a quiet talker) and Dad would come into the hallway and ask me, “Who are you talking to?” I, of course, thought that a silly question and simply said, “Clipper.” I have many other memories of Clipper, a terrific dog whose only vice was his uncontrollable desire to kill our neighbor’s chickens. 

Birthdays generate other thoughts. I was born in 1944, so someone who was my current age then -- 76 years old -- was born in 1868, just a few years after the end of the Civil War. If we repeat this exercise and go back another 76 years, we find ourselves in the year 1792, when the French Revolution was in full bloodbath mode, setting the stage for the far bloodier revolutions of the 20th century. 

Speaking of the French Revolution, when I was 13 I met a 96-year-old man born in 1861 in Philadelphia. His grandfather had left France in a hurry in the midst of the revolution because as an apprentice cabinet maker his shop in Paris had made furniture for French royals. For the revolutionaries this apparently was a capital offence. Born in 1776, he was only 17 years old when he made his way to America thanks to a gift from a wealthy friend. Arriving in Baltimore, he managed to find work in Philadelphia, again as a cabinet maker. He died in 1870, at the age of 94. (His grandson attributed the family's longevity to the daily consumption of French wines.) 

But that's just the background. The interesting part of the story began when the grandson told me his grandfather had made some furniture for Thomas Jefferson and visited Monticello on several occasions during the early 1800s. The old man had also told him many more stories of meeting other famous Americans during our nation's infancy. That's when it hit me. Old age and the compression of time placed me just two people away from our founding fathers. 

Maybe 80 years from now, one of my grandchildren will tell stories to his grandchildren of that strange year, 2020, and what his aging grandfather told him about a world so very different from the world they'll be facing then. 

Cherish the memories, friends. Share them and let the past live in the minds and hearts of those who follow. 

God's peace...and a Happy Birthday to all others who may be celebrating today.

Pandemic! Pandemic! The End of the World!

70 years ago, when I was a little kid living in then-rural Connecticut, our dog, an adventurous German Shepherd named Clipper, liked to go next door, break into the neighbor's chicken coop and kill a few hens. My father, of course, had to pay for the damages. I remember Dad telling us that our neighbor always knew when Clipper was stalking his chickens because the hens would make a racket. They would run around in circles, clucking loudly, petrified that our predator dog would soon attack. The hens, of course, had good reason to fear Clipper. 

Clipper in Connecticut (1948)

Last week Wall Street acted a lot like those fearful hens, with one exception: their Clipper was chimerical. Indeed, most of Wall Street's fears are self-generated. Of course, the fact that those clucking the loudest are all Trump-haters could be part of the problem. Let's blame Trump for this disease originating in China.

Yes, the dreaded "deadly" virus has, in fact, reached the United States, although only in small numbers. All those infected are isolated and being treated, and none have died. 

Interestingly, though, while the politicians, media, and traders run around in circles clucking like our neighbor's frightened hens, millions of Americans will be infected by influenza and thousands of these will die. But this means nothing to those who want to create a crisis. They have discovered a new word: Pandemic! And it's always spoken with an exclamation point. Listening to them, one would think we are confronted with something akin to the Black Death that wiped out much of the medieval world. Of course, it won't. 

Certainly we should take precautions but this virus will not satisfy the great hope of radical environmentalists: the end of humanity. It, too, will pass. The markets will recover to reflect once again the strength of our economy. And in the meantime millions of human beings will find other means to enter eternity.