Don't call it a comeback

Cinder is not an aggressive dog. I have never seen him pick a fight with any animal, unless you count the birds and rabbits he chases around the backyard. Thankfully, he hasn’t managed to successfully catch any of them. Yet.

My dog, though, is far from perfect. While Cinder is never the instigator, he is always ready to play finisher. He approaches other dog encounters from a very guarded stance, ready to respond to any threat, real or perceived. This is unacceptable dog behavior, especially when the dog is 130 and growing. I was beginning to worry his development toward “good dog” status had completely stalled. This weekend, however, he made huge progress.

First, on a walk on Saturday, he avoided a fight outright. Coming around a bend, two ladies were enjoying the beautiful day, sitting in lawn chairs with their small dogs, probably 25 and 40 pounds apiece, sitting near them, off leash. Upon seeing Cinder, both women grabbed their dogs by the collars, just to avoid a clash of the dogs. They both managed to grab the collars, but the little one slipped his and made straight for Cinder and I. Of course, I’m fearing the worst.

With the little mutt, fur on end, bristling at my giant, Cin lunged forward…to sniff his rear. Sniffing Cinder back, naturally afraid, he gave a growl. The moment I feared came…and passed. Instead of responding in kind, Cinder sat back on his haunches, head tilted sideways, yellow eyes inquisitive. When the owner reached the little guy, he was cautiously sniffing Cin. It was a complete and total success for dog greetings and Cinder development alike.

The next win came Sunday. My yard backs up to a rocky, incredibly steep hill that reaches toward a neighbors metal rail back fence. Cin likes to sit atop this hill and look over our yard and neighborhood. Our neighbor on top is a sweet, little old lady with a sweet, little old golden retriever. As neither dog spends much time in their respective backyards, they had never met until yesterday.

Digging at the base of the hill, I had a perfect view of the proceedings. Cinder, standing next to their fence, spotted the old girl and froze, eyes locked on her, his stance ready. Looking at him, she paused, seemingly at the edge of the invisible barrier of his presence, then almost melted through it. It was if she crossed under and around the planes of his emotion, and approached him completely without fear or unease. His head and shoulders softened, almost imperceptibly, and he was instantly disarmed. There they stood, gently sniffing each other, until her owner called her in.

As I went back to digging, Cinder stared after her. Clearly confused at the impact she had, and at her lack of trepidation, he watched, almost longingly, as she walked away. Just when I start to worry that he’s no longer developing, I get a reminder that he’s just a puppy, and that yes, he’s coming along nicely.

Two complete victories for Cinder in less than 24 hours, and once again I am hopeful. Don’t call it a comeback.

The easy job

My job is awesome. Sure the petroleum scene can be high-stress, the hours can be long, and working till seven every night can be limiting, but I’m grateful for it. It’s interesting, virtually never dull, and, most importantly, where I work, no babies die.

My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.

Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.

That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.

Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.

I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.

But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.

There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.

Well deserved, Coach Dungy

With their comeback win over the Jacksonville Jaguars last night the Indianapolis Colts locked up one of the two AFC Wildcard spots. By clinching, Tony Dungy became the first coach to ever lead a team to the playoffs for 10 straight seasons. Their win the previous week tied the record for most 10-win seasons in a row, at 7, and a victory next week would set a new record for most straight 12-win seasons by any head coach. He’d set the new bar at 5.

Even more impressively, none of the coaches Dungy has passed achieved what they did during the salary cap era. To reach these pinnacles and to stay there for so long in the parity era is nearly inconceivable. It’s one thing to dominate in the manner of the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox, buying your way to victory, but to do so playing the same cards everyone else is dealt is entirely different.

Most impressively of all is how Coach Dungy coaches. In a world dominated by hard-nosed, red-faced men with blood-pressure problems, Dungy never raises his voice in anger. He is a firm believer in doing things “the right way, the Lord’s way.” His words, not mine. Coach Dungy does not use profanity. In his spare time (NFL coaches have nearly none) he volunteers as a grief counselor for parents who lose children to suicide, having lost a son that way himself. He treats his players like men, like they deserve to be treated, and they respond by giving him their absolute all.

Beyond his coaching, in his spare time (NFL coaches have nearly none) Dungy volunteers as a grief counselor for parents who lose children to suicide, having lost a son that way himself. The grief of that loss still plagues him, and it probably always will. A desire to spend more time with his family is the primary reason there are huge rumors of his impending retirement after this season. A pity. I’d like to see so worthy a man set some of those records a little higher, to make them truly untouchable. Just as he already is.

Angela's Ashes

Since the greatest purpose of this blog is to catalog the things for which I am grateful (yes, I'm easily distracted) I think I'll hop back on track for a post. Of course, it's easy to be grateful for what I have after reading about life in Ireland during the Great Depression.

Angela's Ashes is Frank McCourt's memoir of his childhood. While very funny in parts, courtesy of McCourt's dry wit and terrific phrasing, this book is not a real fun read. Hearing how he lived in near-starving conditions, it was great when he described the Friday's when his dad would bring home a paycheck. He painted a picture of the family having eggs (no meat for Catholics on Friday), everything getting cleaned, and, basically, fundamental human needs were being met. I took no pleasure knowing that most Fridays his dad would take his paycheck and blow it all at the pub.

At the beginning of the book, McCourt says it is terrible to have a poor childhood, but infinitely worse to have a poor Irish childhood. Alcoholism is always a blight upon the families it infects, but its cultural epidemic upon the Irish working class was more of a holocaust.

In addition to the value of the book for purely literary purposes, it was a blinding reminder to be grateful for my childhood and, in particular, my father. Seeing the destruction alcoholism causes in the lives of Frankie and his family, I feel pretty blessed having a dad who was never drunk. Ever. Dad never stumbled home, angry or depressed. He came home and then took us to whichever sport team we were on -and he was coaching. I suppose instead of hitting his kids, he just us that he was proud of us and loved us. Instead of declaring the cruelties of life over a drink, he consistently referred to himself as the luckiest man in the world. Most of my weekend mornings were started hearing my dad singing at the top of his lungs: Al Jolsen, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby.

To be fair, I do remember the first time I saw my dad drunk. I was in college, and we were playing beer pong together at my fraternity's father-son tournament. Seriously. It was a great night. Much to my embarrassment at the time, I learned my dad is the EXACT same kind of drunk I am: cheerful, friendly, and overly affectionate in that mortifying "I-love-you-maaaan" kind of way. God. anyway, looking back, I don't have a lot to complain about. If my experiences read like a storybook, it's probably because that's where tales such as mine usually are found.

My dad isn't perfect but not a lot of people are. To be sure though, he has always loved and cared for his wife and children, and that is about the greatest measure of a man. To summarize this review and homage, I leave you with a piece from Angela's Ashes. Just try and view my life as one where nothing like this could ever happen, and you'll do a decent job of figuring me out.

At one point, little Frankie steals fish and chips, still in wrapper, that a drunken man has let fall to the floor in a pub. Realizing he’d go to Hell if he were to die that night, he finds a church to confess in while on the way home. Here is that conversation.


Frankie: “Bless me father for I have sinned, it’s a fortnight since my last confession.” I tell him the usual sins and then, “I stole fish from a drunken man.”

Father: “Why, my child?”

“I was hungry, Father.”

“Why were you hungry?”

“There was nothing in my belly, Father.” He says nothing, and even though it’s dark I know he’s shaking his head.

“My child, why can’t you go home and ask your mother for something?”

“Cause she sent me out looking for my father in the pubs, Father, and I couldn’t find him. And she hasn’t a scrap in the house cause he’s drinking the five pounds Grandpa sent from the North for the new baby, and she’s raging by the fire because I can’t find my father.”

I wonder if this priest is asleep. Cause he’s very quiet till he says, “My child, I sit here, I hear the sins of the poor, I assign the penance, I bestow absolution, I should be on my knees, washing their feet. Do you understand me, my child?”

I tell him I do, but I don’t.

“Go home child, pray for me.”

“No penance, Father?”

“No, my child.”

“I stole the fish and chips, I’m doomed!”

“You’re forgiven. Go. Pray for me.”

He blesses me in Latin, talks to himself in English. I wonder what I did to him.

The Parent Dog

As you have probably gathered by now, my dog Parker is a special creature. Creatures with his capacity to love are truly rare and incredibly invaluable to those lucky enough to know them. Last week, I was reminded of another facet of his, well, love.

Parker is a parent to all puppies. I first experienced this first hand when my wife's sister brought over her new bulldog pup, Murphy. Or as my sister calls it, "the fat one". Now this animal is your classic English bulldog, in that it is so ugly it is cute. Seriously, it looks like someone bashed in the poor dog’s face with a flat shovel. Now my parents have a wonderful mutt named Bounder, who also came equipped with a capacity to love that is infinite. But he does get a tad jealous every now and then. With a new puppy at the house, and that pup being, shall we say, un-snipped, Bounder came awful close to putting the hurt down on Murphy. Parker and Bounder are steadfast friends, yet when Bounder strode towards Murphy, with intentions fully bared, Parker intercepted, and walked shoulder to shoulder with Bounder, guiding him away from the pup.

It was no accident, and the scenario replayed in similar form several times that night. Gentle but steadfast, Parker didn't let the pup get what it arguably deserved. My family and I were in awe.

A couple weekends ago, we brought Parker to my wife's brother's house to meet their new puppy. As Parker's former owner, my brother in law was thrilled to see him (who wouldn't be?), and it was a homecoming party and puppy introduction in one. Not lost in the human interactions, however, were the dog ones. Their new puppy Katie is also an American bulldog, virtually all-white to Parker's tiger-stripe brindle. A sweet dog (what puppy isn't?), she was terrified of Parker, and sat literally shaking in the lap of my sister in law. Parker seemed to understand the poor dog's fear, and he set about teaching her dog interactions.

When he approached, at first she would growl, and he would walk on. Obviously not intimidated, Parker just didn't want to scare her. As the night progressed, every fifteen minutes or so, he would pause by her, wait till she would tremor or growl, and then continue on. There was no pressure, just the option. Then he'd go and lie somewhere else, enjoying all the attention from his former owners.

At the end of the night, as we got up to leave, he walked past her one last time. No growl. Longer pause. Katie nervously stretched forward to sniff him. Statues move more than Parker in that moment. He then turned, slowly and softly, every move deliberate, and gave her a small sniff. She then stepped forward, out of the lap of a human, to meet this non-threatening entity. As they sniffed we couldn't help but laugh. He had taught her rule #1 in canine etiquette, and in a way so clear and effective it couldn't have been real. As we walked away, she half-followed, going to the door to watch Parker go.

I can't tell you how blessed I am to have this dog. I swear he teaches me new things every week. Oh, and if you were wondering, he's still whipping some cancer butt.

Easter Day

I think my family stumbled upon a new Easter tradition this year. While my wife had to work, I headed over the the parents and, with them, the sister and the dogs, we took a morning hike.

Well, quick addendum. After the Easter egg hunt we took a hike. Yeah, half way through my 20's, my sister graduating HS, and we did an Easter egg hunt. No coffee/energy drink to boot. Back to the story.

So I was not looking forward to a hike at dawn in March in a climate that, frankly, isn't too warm this time of year. But my mom really wanted to take this family jaunt, appreciating the symbolism of the "Son rising" as we hiked. I had been a little surly about the whole thing until my wife and friends pointed out how awesome an idea it was. In my defense, I was being a real doubter about the whole thing well prior to the incredible Easter Vigil the night before. That's where those friends put me in my place with their their admiration and envy. Not much of a defense, thanks. I'm aware.

And they couldn't have been more right. The morning was beautiful. The sky might have been the bluest I had ever seen it. The dogs romped and played, running and grinning from ear to ear. The day was so warm, by a third of the way up the mountain the sweatshirts were off, to be reclaimed on the return home. Warm, entertaining conversations with my wonderful parents and perfect sister, all while basking in the Sonrise. It could not have been better.

Well, that's not entirely true. My beautiful wife and the two Big Leavers (my brothers) being there would have perfected it. But it was close.

My name says it all. I told you I was unworthy of my blessings.