They put Captain Tony down today. This bear of a dog, this absolutely wonderful best friend to Jim, is gone. So very, very sad. Our hearts go out to Jim, Ivy, and Marley, but, in the end, this was Jim’s dog and I believe his hurt will be felt the most. To people who do not own pets, or who do not fancy themselves as dog lovers, Captain’s passing will not seem particularly newsworthy; but it is.
We first met Captain Tony, a burly, lightly hued golden retriever, when he did time at the animal shelter in Alexandria. From the get go, he displayed his lifelong habit of nudging his head under your hand for some attention, some special handling. If, moments later, you would pull your hand away, his head would dive right back in there. He simply craved a little attention and affection. And, it was humans he was drawn to, not the companionship of other dogs. He came into our lives when Jim and Ivy had yet to find a place to live that would accept pets, but Jim knew he had to claim this wonderful beast because dogs like Captain Tony don’t hang around animal shelters very long. Until they could find a pet-friendly home, Lily and I agreed to give Captain a home although he would have to share it with our eternally juvenile chocolate lab, Hoover.
Captain Tony was deaf, or mostly so. This did not make him seem disabled or damaged to me; rather, that quirk seemed to make him even more special. We fairly quickly learned that if you wanted to communicate with this guy, you had to face him head on. You needed eye contact. And, once that was established, we did fine. He did scare the bejesus out of us the day he suffered his first seizure in our home, and the terror we felt still resonates with us. His contorted body and wild flailings froze us in place. We didn’t know if he was dying or if he would throw himself through a window. And, afterwards, when he was so disoriented that for minutes he did not know where he was or who we were, were moments that were as heartbreaking for us as they were troubling to him. But, through medication, this issue, too, was safely negotiated.
When Jim claimed him from our house, an era of almost magical camaraderie was born between these two. The fact that they were of two different species was so besides the point. They bonded as few animals and people do. Their hikes, their trips to lakes and streams and to the beach were so special because for each of them, that was what they most loved to do. And, to share that with another being who feels exactly as the other makes for an extraordinary relationship.
As the years wore on, and Captain Tony slowed his pace, he took on a dignity that, yet again, was special. He had a huge head and when he sat on the beach and barked at some unseen goblin, he had the demeanor of a lion. A very agreeable lion. Of late, he developed bone cancer and the dreaded countdown began. A few days ago, when I discussed Captain’s fate with Jim, he told me he had done some research online looking for answers as to when it is, exactly, that marks the time that one should put down an animal. What he came away with was the notion that when a dog can no longer do what he loves to do, then maybe it’s time. It resonated with Jim, but that didn’t make the decision any easier.
At mid-day today, I knew the moment was at hand and both Lily and I felt a great surge of sadness. Having lost Hoover a few years ago, also to bone cancer, we knew the extreme despair of knowing the time has come, but also realizing that your great friend, who trusts you completely, does not share that realization. And there is no way to tell him. It is one of the heartaches of being in receipt of unconditional love that makes this so difficult.
I told Jim I would wait a couple of days to speak to him. It’s just too fresh today. But, our thoughts and love are with that family.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Adjusting (Or Not)
You’ve been there, right? You walk into someone’s house who has a couple of kids -- and enough years have rolled by so this is not a recent experience for you -- and toys are strewn everywhere. So many, in fact, that as you ease your way into a family room you are more frequently stepping on things that squeak and honk than on a flat surface. Some things may even be sharp or large enough to cause a random meeting between your nose and one of those family room walls as you stumble your way to a chair. In a perverse way, this is what Lily and I are feeling these days as our community morphs from its winter ghost town identity to thriving metropolis. Spring has come to Charleston, and so have the tourists. They are everywhere, and they are there all the time. I went to the beach yesterday -- which for months has been more secluded than the Fortress of Solitude -- only to find actual people roaming the beach, making sand castles, burying each other, or just sunbathing. It is so odd that in an expanse that is so wide and deep and with such an infinite horizon that even the most claustrophobic feel at ease, I sensed a claustrophobic-like moment welling up in me. Who are these people and why are they upsetting my personal universe?
At night, when in previous months you would be much more likely to see deer roaming the streets than people, you now see hordes (well, what seems like hordes) of folks walking about like it’s noon. Voices come from everywhere. And the trash! Beer cans, wet towels, pails, and partially buried toy tractors and trucks are all too visible on the beach. When driving, what had once been an environment where the local stop signs were as needed as they would be on the lunar surface, they now must be rigidly obeyed. During the day, behind the wheel, you feel like you’re in an amusement park arcade as you anticipate the constant darting out into the streets by small urchins untethered from their parents. Not that the parents don’t enjoy their jaywalking too. And the traffic! Now, you actually have to plan ahead to wander out to the Piggly Wiggly lest you get caught up in a line of cars so long and serpentine you feel you’re in an ant colony’s conga line.
I was sharing these observations the other day with the nice lady who sells us Mojo’s dog food, and she nodded knowingly, as only a long time resident could. She told me that when she and her husband moved here from Ohio 12 years ago they, too, soon enough came to love the off-season and were quick to take up the spiritual banner against this dreaded species they call tourists. She also told me to lighten up.
So, now I have to deal with the fact that I am on the fast track to curmudgeonhood.
At night, when in previous months you would be much more likely to see deer roaming the streets than people, you now see hordes (well, what seems like hordes) of folks walking about like it’s noon. Voices come from everywhere. And the trash! Beer cans, wet towels, pails, and partially buried toy tractors and trucks are all too visible on the beach. When driving, what had once been an environment where the local stop signs were as needed as they would be on the lunar surface, they now must be rigidly obeyed. During the day, behind the wheel, you feel like you’re in an amusement park arcade as you anticipate the constant darting out into the streets by small urchins untethered from their parents. Not that the parents don’t enjoy their jaywalking too. And the traffic! Now, you actually have to plan ahead to wander out to the Piggly Wiggly lest you get caught up in a line of cars so long and serpentine you feel you’re in an ant colony’s conga line.
I was sharing these observations the other day with the nice lady who sells us Mojo’s dog food, and she nodded knowingly, as only a long time resident could. She told me that when she and her husband moved here from Ohio 12 years ago they, too, soon enough came to love the off-season and were quick to take up the spiritual banner against this dreaded species they call tourists. She also told me to lighten up.
So, now I have to deal with the fact that I am on the fast track to curmudgeonhood.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Race
It was an impulse really. I did it without thinking. The good folks at the Wild Dunes resort here decided to sponsor a 5k run, on the beach. They called it the “Tortoise and the Hare Beach Run.” We had just returned from Colorado where we skied for the first time in 13 years, and, frankly, my legs felt like lead. And, to be honest, in my more than 30 years of running, I had only participated in two previous races and they were more than 20 years ago. I think maybe deep down I thought that among the likely crowd for this one, I could do pretty well since I had been running almost daily for weeks. So, I signed up.
I showed up at the appointed time and sneaked glances at my competition. I was not encouraged. While there were a few souls appearing to be above the age of 40, most were in their early 20s. Jackrabbits, all of them. I was easily the oldest entrant. Certainly, no one else was sporting a white beard. Still, I thought I might do respectably. Lest anyone but the most oblivious think this was an event on a par with the New York Marathon, I could detect several distinguishing features. First, there were about 35 of us, not 35,000. Second, there were no crowds lining the course, although I can tell you there were many mosquitoes and sand fleas. Third, I don’t think you’re apt to see a human-sized tortoise and hare in full costume at the New York event. And, lastly, while we would not be touching down in all five NYC boroughs, we would be asked to run up the beach to a marker near the 18th hole and return to the start.
When the call of “Go!” came forth, I realized that one of the jackrabbits was already a hundred yards down the course before I had even turned on my ipod. Very humbling. But, I gathered myself to get into the fray and found myself, if not near the front of the pack, at least within hailing distance of it. Well, sort of. I realized my pace was a good bit faster than I would normally indulge in, but, after all, this was a race, not a jog. I got into my rhythm and tuned almost everything out except my music and the stares, some admiring, some quizzical, of the folks who had come down to the beach for an early morning stroll.
As I turned it on for the sprint to the finish line, I realized there was no one around me. Most of the jackrabbits had already finished and the rest of the field had slowed under the obviously torrid pace I had set for the them. At the finish line, there was one guy -- the one in the hare outfit -- who was there to give me a high five as I crossed the line. No cheering crowds, no bands playing. No champagne. Silence. I’m thinking to myself, why did I do this? I could have slept in and gone for a run later (indeed, without paying for the privilege).
I grabbed a couple of glasses of water and my race t-shirt and headed home. As I was leaving the area, I heard someone call out my name. I turned around. It was the hare. In his hand, he had an envelope which he handed to me. Apparently, the youthful winner had no sooner crossed the finish line than he had raced himself right off the beach and into a waiting car that would carry him and his family away from the resort and to, presumably, home. The race organizers decided that the award for the first place finisher -- a free massage at the spa -- should go to me! I didn’t ask why. But, it was hard to stop laughing. And, sure enough, when I opened the gift certificate, it said “to the top male runner.” I decided to aggressively delude myself into thinking how that might be the case.
Please tell me they didn’t give it to me out of pity.
I showed up at the appointed time and sneaked glances at my competition. I was not encouraged. While there were a few souls appearing to be above the age of 40, most were in their early 20s. Jackrabbits, all of them. I was easily the oldest entrant. Certainly, no one else was sporting a white beard. Still, I thought I might do respectably. Lest anyone but the most oblivious think this was an event on a par with the New York Marathon, I could detect several distinguishing features. First, there were about 35 of us, not 35,000. Second, there were no crowds lining the course, although I can tell you there were many mosquitoes and sand fleas. Third, I don’t think you’re apt to see a human-sized tortoise and hare in full costume at the New York event. And, lastly, while we would not be touching down in all five NYC boroughs, we would be asked to run up the beach to a marker near the 18th hole and return to the start.
When the call of “Go!” came forth, I realized that one of the jackrabbits was already a hundred yards down the course before I had even turned on my ipod. Very humbling. But, I gathered myself to get into the fray and found myself, if not near the front of the pack, at least within hailing distance of it. Well, sort of. I realized my pace was a good bit faster than I would normally indulge in, but, after all, this was a race, not a jog. I got into my rhythm and tuned almost everything out except my music and the stares, some admiring, some quizzical, of the folks who had come down to the beach for an early morning stroll.
As I turned it on for the sprint to the finish line, I realized there was no one around me. Most of the jackrabbits had already finished and the rest of the field had slowed under the obviously torrid pace I had set for the them. At the finish line, there was one guy -- the one in the hare outfit -- who was there to give me a high five as I crossed the line. No cheering crowds, no bands playing. No champagne. Silence. I’m thinking to myself, why did I do this? I could have slept in and gone for a run later (indeed, without paying for the privilege).
I grabbed a couple of glasses of water and my race t-shirt and headed home. As I was leaving the area, I heard someone call out my name. I turned around. It was the hare. In his hand, he had an envelope which he handed to me. Apparently, the youthful winner had no sooner crossed the finish line than he had raced himself right off the beach and into a waiting car that would carry him and his family away from the resort and to, presumably, home. The race organizers decided that the award for the first place finisher -- a free massage at the spa -- should go to me! I didn’t ask why. But, it was hard to stop laughing. And, sure enough, when I opened the gift certificate, it said “to the top male runner.” I decided to aggressively delude myself into thinking how that might be the case.
Please tell me they didn’t give it to me out of pity.
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