Blog

Posted on

Walter at the Pound

He sat and he waited. He sensed that there was something special about the day, although there seemed to be something special about every day.

He heard the sound of something pull into the parking lot out front of the building. He listened carefully. It was a pickup truck; he could tell by the sound of the tires on the broken pavement and the faint sound of loose things in the almost empty truck bed. Yes, definitely a pickup truck, a small one.

The engine stopped. That was followed by a door of the truck opening and closing. Just one door, not both, followed by the sound of footsteps crunching in the gravel of the crumbling lot.

The front door of the shelter squeaked open and squeaked closed.

He heard voices speaking. He could hear the person who walked him and fed him and took care of him and who left at night. He could also hear someone else, another woman. The woman who took care of him did most of the talking. He noticed that some people talked more than other people. Some people talked on and on and on to him and he could not understand a word they said. The woman who took care of him said things he understood. He liked her.

The whole time that the woman who took care of him and the other woman talked on the other side of the door, most of the other dogs barked in their cages. “Station” was a word the woman who took care of him used but he heard a lot of people use the word “cage” instead. Some of the barks were scared barks and some were calls for attention. All of the barks were loud so they would be heard by the women in the front room. He didn’t mind. His station was next to the door and so he could still hear the two women talking. He did not know what they said, but he could hear them talk nonetheless.

So he just sat and he waited.

Part of reason the barking was so loud was that all the stations were occupied. Some of the cages even had more than one dog in them. Ned knew that the dogs who did not get along so well with other dogs were in cages by themselves. The dogs who had proven that they got along with other dogs and had been there a while were doubled up in cages together. Ned sometimes wished that he had someone else with him in his station. But he had a bone to chew on and he had the other dogs to listen to and so he learned to make do with that.

A lot of times when the door squeaked open and squeaked closed and then people talked, the woman he liked and who took care of him and fed him would come through the door to the cages with someone he did not know. Sometimes she would bring more than one person. Sometimes two big people or a big person and a small person. One time she came through the door with two big people and more small people than he had paws.

Finally, the woman who took care of him and the other woman came through the door. The woman who took care of him smiled. The other woman did not. She frowned. He could tell the difference between a smile and a frown.

Ned noticed that the other woman did not say much but she did wrinkle her nose the way that Ned did when he smelled something he did not like and the way that a lot of people did when they walked by the stations after they came through the door. Ned also noticed that the other woman smelled nice, like she came from a farm.

The woman who took care of him talked. As she talked, she waved her hand down towards him and then towards the other dogs. The other woman did not say anything. She glanced down briefly at him and then at the other dogs.

Then the woman who took care of him turned to face him and so did the other woman. He stood and his tail kept wagging. The woman who took care of him and fed him said a lot of words. In the middle of the words was “Ned” and his tail wagged faster at the sound of his name. As soon as she heard his name, though, the other woman started to shake her head and she moved on to the next station without waiting for the woman who took care of him.

So, as the two women moved on to the floppy-eared hound in next station, Ned’s tail stopped wagging and he sat back down.

And watched and waited.

The hound in the next station was backed into a corner of her cage, trying her hardest to make more noise than all the other dogs.

The two women quickly passed on to the next cage.

They went on that way down the row of cages, stopping only briefly at each one. The woman who took care of Ned said a few words at each station. The other woman simply frowned.

They completely skipped the American Pit Bull Terrier’s station at the end of the row. Winnie barked loudly, almost as loudly as the hound next to Ned. She was usually passed over by visitors and ignored in general, but Ned would occasionally answer her calls for attention with gentle, encouraging barks of his own. That seemed to help her and they had a good relationship, even though their cages were at opposite ends of the row and they almost never saw each other.

As the women passed Winnie and turned to view the stations on the opposite side of the walkway, Ned cocked his head to the side. He thought he caught the other woman glance at him and his tail started to wag gently. That seemed to bring the slightest bit of a smile to the woman’s face.

So he sat and waited.

The women stopped briefly at each station and the woman who fed him said a few words at each and the other woman said nothing at each, her arms folded the entire time.

Finally, they reached the last station, the one directly opposite Ned’s. After the woman who took care of him said a few words and the other woman said nothing, the woman who took care of him took a deep breath and asked “Well?”

The other woman turned towards Ned, unfolded her arms, and stuck her hands in her back pockets. She asked his caretaker a question that made the caretaker laugh and smile and nod her head and say “Yes.”

The woman looked down at him and very deliberately said “Walter.”

She repeated it.

Then she opened his cage and he stepped out. He sat in front of her and she said it again.

“Walter.”

He knew that from now on, when she said “Walter” she was talking to him.

Posted on

Walter Gnaws a Bone

Walter gnawed on his favorite bone, the long one that he had chipped off considerably at both ends. The sound of his back teeth scraping along the length of the bone was soothing to him, more soothing than pretty much any other sound. Daisy liked the sound of falling rain. Sometimes Daisy would take a cup of coffee and a kitchen chair out to the tiny back stoop, which was covered with a small awning, and sit with Walter lying next to her and she would occasionally reach down and scratch him behind the ears and ask him, didn’t he just love the sound of falling rain. The answer, actually, was no, he didn’t love it, he found it bothersome, but he did love lying next to Daisy and her scratching him behind the ears. No, not rain. Rather, for him, there was nothing quite so soothing as that permeating sound of his teeth gnawing away at a bone, the sound seeping from his teeth straight to his soul.

So now as he sprawled on the kitchen floor, a late autumn breeze came through the screen door. The days had turned chilly, but as Daisy prepared her dinner, she was warmed just enough by the stove and kept the inside door open. The breeze and the rustling sound of leaves it brought in with it were a nice background accompaniment to his chewing. For Walter, gnawing on a bone was a full-fledged project. He stopped to look up at Daisy as she cooked her dinner. It smelled good, whatever it was.

Walter turned from Daisy back to his work so that she would not know he was watching her. Pausing to assess his progress, or “Pawsing” as Daisy liked to call it, he carefully looked the bone over, licking a couple of spots as if to test it. He had reached a point in the project that took a great deal of consideration. During this break, he considered a small spot of mud on his forepaw. The smell of the mud mixed with the smell of the critter that had been in it before Walter. He returned to his work, licking the bone again, trying to decide on the best way to resume. He turned the bone over between his paws, finally choosing which end to chew, Daisy referred to this whole deliberation as “Chewsing.” On one end there was a small tab of bone ready to be removed. He decided to start there. The fragment broke off with a snap that caught Daisy’s attention. Then Walter let the bone drop over his paw and onto the wood floor. For now, his project was finished.

Posted on

Letter to Mom

Dear Mom,

Hope you are doing well.

I had an upsetting visit with you today.

I sat in one of the chairs in your room, the chair without armrests, waiting for you to wake up.  Light spilled in from the hall and brightened the linoleum tiles near the doorway and lightened the darkness in your room.  Outside the window behind me, late afternoon had turned the December sky to a smudged sort of grey.  Occasionally, out in the hall, staff walked by your room purposefully.  None of the staff looked in nor seemed to acknowledge my presence there with you. That’s ok.

The door to your room, wide enough to accommodate your wheel chair, was opened all the way.  As with the other residents’ doors, it remains that way nearly all the time when I visit.  Fragments of conversations from other rooms drifted in through the doorway. Some of your neighbors don’t hear so well, I guess.

Midway between me and the light that seeped in from the hall, the bed, with its rails up, cradled you, your head elevated slightly. You slept quietly. Were you dreaming then? There in the semi darkness it seemed to me that you weren’t.  Occasionally, one of your toes would move under the sheets.  My gaze drifted from your feet directly in front of me to the head of your bed off to my right.  You were lying lie quite still, arms at your side, your mouth slightly open, breathing softly.  As I watched your quiet, gentle, sleeping face in the dimness of the room, a crucifix on the wall above the head of your bed caught my attention.  Was that a new addition or was that there last time I visited or had it, in fact, even been there the whole time, the years that you’ve been a resident at The Manor?  It occurs to me that I can’t really remember for sure.

The bed adjuster and call button, combined into a single hand-held unit with its long, thick cable waited next to you on the bed, always there, keeping you company.

There was, of course, the medical equipment, unused at that moment but always at the ready, waiting its turn up near the head of the bed in the corner of the room.  For you, I suppose it is out of sight and out of mind. Just as well.

On the other side of the bed from me, between you and the light of the hallway, a sheer curtain hung from its metal track on the ceiling, drawn back fully open, as it usually is when I visit.

Your table, on wheels which fit under the bed so the top can extend over you, stood between the head of your bed and the pulled-back curtain hanging from the ceiling. Cindy and the staff tell me that you still almost always take your meals in the dining room with the other residents. That’s good. Instead of your meals, the table instead serves as the appointed location for the television remote control.  The remote control for the television is kept away from the control for the bed, with its call button.  The staff tells me that it would be far too easy to mistake the call button on the bed control for one of the buttons on the TV remote. I guess they’re busy and do not want to be called more than absolutely necessary.

To my left, across the room from you, the television monitor, attached high on the wall, looked down on the bed where you slept.  It was focused on you, it seemed to ignore me.  A dresser stood beneath the television monitor.  Atop the dresser were arrayed pictures of various family members and friends.  Reminders of us, I guess. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but maybe absence just makes you forget.

A bathroom door, also wide enough to accommodate your wheelchair, stretched between the dresser and a double-door closet.  The closet attached itself to the wall near where I sat.  One side served as a coat closet, the other side as shelved pantry type storage. But I’m sure you know all that.

Two other chairs, in addition to the one holding me, two chairs with armrests, sat, one in each corner of the room, opposite from me at the ends of the wall.  The wall with the door out to the hallway filled with light.  Three chairs.  About as far apart as possible.  Conveniently, one chair each for Cindy and Tom and one for me.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that, as the oldest of your three children, it has fallen on my shoulders to act as the referee between Cindy and Tom. I’m the one who keeps the playing field level. I’m the one who ensures that neither of those two roughs up the other too much or suffers too much at the hands of the other. I’m the one who smooths things over when emotions get too far out of hand.

Yes, even at our age, we’re still children, aren’t we, and the fact that the two chairs remained empty removed a certain amount of tension from my visit. It’s just as well that Tom and Cindy weren’t there.

A bouquet of flowers looked up at me from my lap.  Not a bouquet, really, just flowers from the grocery store, wrapped in their sheet of clear plastic.  The grocery store was still open when I arrived in town, the florists had all closed for the day. I hope you saw them when you woke. I hope the staff let you know they were from me.

When I arrived at The Manor, I went, as usual, to the main desk. I know they don’t have a formal check in there but a stop by the desk gives me the opportunity to ask how you have been doing.  This gives me a picture of your status that hasn’t been filtered through Cindy, who sees you on most days.  Cindy has her own motives for what she tells me, as I’m sure you must know.

Also, when I visit, especially if my arrival happens earlier in the afternoon, a stop at the desk allows me to find you without searching the facility looking for you. You might be at lunch or at some activity or maybe out in the garden. I don’t know but it seems you just tolerate the crafts and other activities that the place has for you to do with the other residents. I’m guessing that in reality you would rather not participate. When the weather permits it, though, you look so peaceful, so serene when you’re sitting in the garden there at The Manor. Or maybe you’re just sleeping. It seems as though you’ve been sleeping a lot lately.

Anyway, at the desk, today, the charge nurse answered my questions tersely, as usual.  After she fielded my questions she paused for a moment.  She then told me that you have your good days and your not so good days.  That seemed vague to me so I pressed her for more details.  She hedged a bit and then said that you have your good days and your not so good days.

This matches what Cindy has mentioned increasingly over the past few months.  That you have your good days and your not so good days.

We can talk about that next time I am out to visit. I promise it won’t be so long between visits this time.

Last week Cindy called me as she usually does each week.  On the call last week, Cindy let it slip out that you sometimes might forget that you have three children, that when people ask you about your kids, you will only remember Cindy and usually Tom but oftentimes you have forgotten me lately. You know how she can be. She sighed and paused after telling me this, her way of emphasizing the point.  Cindy’s recriminations don’t come to the surface very often but they are there.  They usually simmer just out of sight.  Generally she reins them in so as not to drive me to Tom’s side.  Sometimes they break through.  This was one of those times.  Some days she is able to deal with it better than others.

It seems that Cindy has her good days and her not so good days, too.

As I sat there in your room and that conversation replayed itself in my head, the flowers I brought you looked up at me from my lap and quietly suggested that the time spent waiting for you to wake up could be used in finding something to put them in.

A scan around the room, though, revealed no vase.

A quick glance over each of my shoulders at the windowsill behind me turned up no vase, either.

A more thorough search was called for. I was sure there must be one somewhere in the room.

Perhaps on the floor by the dresser.  From my chair none was visible to me on the floor on either side of the dresser.  Nor was one on top of the dresser, covered, as it was, with those of pictures to remind you of your loved ones.

No vase on your wheeled dinner table holding the television remote.

No empty vase on any other flat surface, either.  Space is used carefully in your room and each square inch is evidently occupied by something more essential than an empty flower vase.

Nor, for that matter, sat any vase with flowers past their prime already in it, ready to be replaced.  No vase and no flowers, new or old, at all, in fact, anywhere that I could see in your room.

I looked around again just to be sure.

None.

This called for a visit to the charge nurse at the main desk.

Holding the flowers in my right hand, I put my left hand on the edge of the seat of the chair and quietly pushed myself up to stand.  The cellophane around the flowers crinkled but you did not stir.  A few tiptoe steps took me around your bed and few more out into the brightly lit hallway.

At the front desk, the charge nurse appeared to be busy writing.  Was this really work she was doing or was she working out a crossword puzzle? I couldn’t tell. I stepped up to the desk and peered over the chest-high counter top.  She was writing notes on a resident.

“May I help you, Mr. Bradford?” she asked without looking up.  When did she sneak in the glance that told her it was me?

I waited until she finished writing and looked up at me.  She raised her eyebrows as if to ask the question again.

I lifted the flowers high enough for her to see over the counter top and tilted my head towards them.  I said I was looking for a vase.

“Oh, you didn’t need to walk all the way up here, Mr. Bradford,” she replied with false solicitude.  “There is one in the closet in your mother’s room, in the left side of the closet, on the bottom.”

I sure hope they treat you better than they treat me.

I thanked her with a slight nod of my head as I turned away.

Back in your room, I heard you breathe ever so slightly as you continued your dreamless sleep.

I set the flowers on the seat of the chair by the window and cautiously opened the left door of the closet.  I crouched down and there was the vase, on its side, atop a large shoe box.

Something about the box, perhaps its large size or its neon orange color, intrigued me.  I stood the vase on the floor and glanced at the end of the box.  Men’s size thirteen and a half basketball shoes. Certainly not something Tom or I gave you.

I wondered. Was this something else the staff knew about you that I didn’t?  My imagination rushed through a number of wild scenarios, you playing basketball or dating Big Foot.

I tilted the end of the box upward to inspect it.  The sight of the shoe brand and the size and the thought of you hyped up enough to dunk a basketball brought a wry smile to my face.  As I tilted the box, the contents shifted slightly.  The box felt almost full of something that slid around inside.

I shook it slightly back and forth.

Setting it on the floor before me, I lifted its lid.  Envelopes neatly filled the box. The scores of envelopes were all in order, oldest postmark first, newest at the back.   Thumbing through them, starting from the front, I recognized my own name and address written in my own hand on the upper left corner of each.  The return addresses on the first bunch of envelopes was from our previous house.  Two years ago, though, you might remember, Helen and I had decided to down size.  Empty nesters, we moved from our old four bedroom colonial to the townhouse where we now live.  After that first slew of envelopes, our new address took the place of our old address.

The box held letters, only letters, no Mother’s Day cards nor birthday cards nor cards of any sort, except one postcard I sent you from Paris, where Helen and the kids and I went as a family to celebrate Stephen’s graduation.  Many of the postmark dates brought back memories of much that had happened during the past several years.  For some of the dates I could remember exactly what I had written.

Then I noticed.

None of the envelopes were opened.

I started from the front of the stack and thumbed through them in bunches.

My smile evaporated.

I thumbed through them again, from the beginning, this time one by one.

None were opened.

None were read.

Not one.

I turned my head, glanced briefly at you, still asleep, and then stared out the window.

The cold, dark, grey November sky stared right back at me.

You continued your quiet breathing in bed behind me.

Again I looked at the open box before me.  The nearly full box became blurry and I had to wipe my eyes.

A squeaky sound of rubber soled footsteps in the hallway jolted me.  I carefully straightened out the envelopes and patted them down so that none were sticking up.

A quick glance toward the open door brought relief.  Nobody was watching.

I placed the lid back on the shoe box and gently pressed down each corner, then slid the box back into its place in the bottom of the closet, the big sticker with the brand and the model of the shoes and the big bold thirteen point five on it facing outwards.

I grabbed the vase, stood, quietly picked up the flowers from the seat of the chair and took them into the bathroom.

I must confess, Mom, that cold November gloom followed me home after my visit.

At the airport after the short flight home overcast skies made the evening seem even darker, later than it really was.  The visit with you had left me feeling hurt, embarrassed, tired, befuddled.  The somber skies only added to my own sullenness.

Helen picked me up at the airport and on the ride home she asked me about you and about my visit.

“It was fine.  Mom was fine” I told her. I just didn’t want to talk about it.  Fortunately, I thought, we would be home in under fifteen minutes with light Sunday evening traffic.

Helen waited for me to say more. You know how she is. She was not going to let me off that easy, with just an “it was fine.”

“It was fine.  Mom was fine,” I repeated. Helen frowned disapprovingly as she does, and pulled away from the curbside into traffic. I told her that you have your good days and your not so good days, but I cringed inside as I said it. That’s such a stupid thing people say. And then there was a traffic accident at the exit from the airport. How irritating. I mean, who gets in an accident on a Sunday night?

Once we crawled past the stoppage, Helen resumed her interrogation.

After a bit of silence, I related the events, the basic facts: my arrival at the airport, the cab ride, the flowers at the grocery store, my front desk briefing, waiting for you to wake up.  I left out the part about the shoebox. Then I lied. I told Helen you woke up just before I left. Yes, you remembered me (sort of) and yes, we had a good visit, although you were tired, so I left you to rest after a short while. The cab ride back to the airport and the flight home were both fine.  My carefully edited and half fabricated story came out in a rushed monotone.

Helen looked at me skeptically and asked if I was okay. I half nodded and said I was fine. I wasn’t sure what to tell her. That shoebox loomed in my mind.  “It hurts,” was all I could say. I’m sure she had no idea what I was talking about. Still, she was sympathetic. You know how she is.

I didn’t hear much of what Helen said the rest of the way home. The ride seemed to take forever. Occasionally, Helen would pause and I would fill in the silence with an answer or an agreement, anything to let the conversation just end.

Mercifully, we finally made it into our garage. I thanked Helen, climbed out of the car and led the way into our townhouse.

Helen followed and closed the door from the garage. She turned, stepped toward me, hugged me, and gave me a pat on the back.

 I turned away and walked down the hall.

The study welcomed me with a cold silence.  I dropped into the chair at my desk and thought about the day that trailed behind me and the rest of the dark night ahead of me.  An urge to do absolutely nothing came over me.

Instead, I pulled out some paper and a pen and I wrote this letter to you.

Love from you son,

D.

✍  ✍  ✍

Posted on

2025 Goals

A few years back I stopped, for the most part, making New Year Resolutions, opting instead for Yearly Goals. Resolutions seem altogether too non-specific: exercise more, live healthier, or whatever. Goals, on the other hand, are concrete. A well-chosen Goal is a stretch to reach. The ideal Goal is just out of reach and can help you achieve your best, even as you fall short of the Goal. Whereas, easily kept resolutions are pointless and unfulfilled resolutions result in disappointment.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that some of my Goals were not well chosen.

Some Goals pertained to the Quantity of something when the Quality of that thing was what mattered. Reading Goals, are examples of that. A Goal of reading Augustine’s City of God in a certain span of time is missing the point. The point of reading something like that is not to check something off a list, but rather to absorb it and have it make an impact on your life.

Other Goals were too non-specific. They were resolutions, really. For 2023 one Goal was to “get rid of all those things that clutter my life.”

Some of my Goals were worthwhile, even though I did not attain them or, perhaps because I did not attain them. They kept me focused, if only for a time. They led me forward.

Here, then, are my 2025 Goals:

Run 500 miles. That still works out to 42 miles per month or 10 miles per week. Each of these past three years I have only logged about 400 miles. That comes out to about eight miles per week. The difference between eight miles per week and ten miles per week really boils down to setting aside the time. One thing that helps is that I feel better when I do follow through. Better physically and better emotionally.

Learn some basic yoga by the beginning of July, enough so that I can practice some form of the discipline on my own for a half hour on most days. Since I know next to nothing about yoga, I will need to figure out “what kind” and “how” fairly soon. I do not expect to practice it every day but it can, perhaps, serve as a complement to running for me.

Learn more Italian. I started working on translating Dove mi trovo. I will finish translating that book, for starters. I have also started translating parts of La Lunga Rotta (The Long Way) by Bernard Moitessier. I will finish translating the section of the Appendix to that book that I started. I still need to refine this Goal to make it more concrete.

Attend a dozen live performances: concerts, plays, operas, poetry slams, whatever. Live performances can have a dramatic effect on me. At least the right ones do.

Write 1000 words per week.

Achieve a Goal for Sailing: Become proficient sailing in Gentle Breezes and Moderate Breezes, that is, Force 3 and 4 in the Beaufort Scale. I already feel comfortable sailing in those 7-10 and 11-16 knot winds, respectively, but I am not proficient. I would not be able to reliably teach someone else to sail in those conditions, the easiest ones to sail. It will take much more experience this year to achieve that. Additionally, I want to gain at least some experience in sailing in Fresh Breezes (17-21 knot winds) to the point where I can perform each function, helming and tending the various sheets, albeit with the guidance of someone more experienced. Plus, I want to be able to reliably keep under way in a Light Breeze, that is, Force 2, or 4-6 knot winds.

Remain injury free for the year. Last year I smashed my had with a six-pound hammer while splitting wood and took a tumble while trail running through the woods. The first of those injuries really curtailed my activity through a chunk of the year. The second injury was less disruptive but did not help. My Goal is to be more careful and not hurt myself.

I reserve the right to update, expand, or refine these Goals as the year moves on.

N.B. This year I have no Reading Goal. The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, this year I want to Read Less, Do More. By that I mean I want to be mindful to not use reading as a proxy for doing, living vicariously by reading about other people pursuing their dreams. Secondly, I want to measure my reading by the quality of what I read and the influence it has on the life I live, rather than measure it by the number of books or pages I read. So, I will continue to read, just more judiciously.

Posted on

I Like Old Dogs

I like old dogs. I like old things in general, old people, old houses, old boats, but especially old dogs. They have a comfortable ease to them and they’ve attained a certain gentleness. They take life patiently and they find some enjoyment in each and every day.

With our first three dogs (our fourth one is still only weeks old) I became more in tune with each one over time, and they, I think, with me. They were fine as puppies, cute and playful, but as each one aged my appreciation for him grew.

Rusty was the most gentle dog I have ever seen. He acted a bit like an old dog from the moment we brought him home from the shelter in Virginia. He had been sick for some time and had bad joins from the get-go. Although he recovered somewhat, he was never a rambunctious young dog. But he enjoyed life at his own tempo and was a very content, self-sufficient, stay-at-home dog. He seemed to rely more on my care as he became frail at the end and maybe that helped us become a bit closer. I was sad to see him go and I miss him.

Ryan, while not the most gentle dog, was the best pal in the history of pals. As Rusty’s health deteriorated, Ryan provided him with companionship on Rusty’s terms and at Rusty’s pace. After Rusty died, Ryan’s goal was to become friends with every dog, every person, and every animal in the whole world. Mr. Leisure, particularly during the last couple years of his life, grew more and more fond of long, slow, pleasant walks with me. By the end, I swear he’d have walked me to Miami if I let him. I was sad to see him go and I miss him.

Robert, although only three years old now, is starting to flow along the same path. Over the months our tempos have more closely aligned. Now, with the arrival of the puppy, Rob has sought me out even more, at times. I’m his safe, secure home port during the storm. I’m also the one who fills the void when the puppy steals everyone’s attention with his clumsiness and his antics.

Puppies are cute, but cute doesn’t last forever and when the cuteness fades, I’ll be there.

Posted on

Untitled and Meaningless

My first stab at poetry
Spontaneous, unthought
If not beautiful or even good
  At least genuine
And if not genuine, but rather
  Regurgitation
Then at least it's out of the way
  And I can shut up.

Posted on

2023/2024 Review/Preview

First the 2023 Review

See here for the post of my 2023 Goals.

Run 500 miles: Fell short of the goal. Only ran 400 miles.

Become fluent enough in Italian to read a couple chapters of an Italo Calvino novel: Fell short of this one, too. Did become marginally more fluent in Italian. Rather than a pair of Calvino chapters, I translated the first two chapters of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Dove mi trovo. Much shorter chapters.

Write 1,000 words a week: Again, far short. Even if you include shopping lists.

Read Saint Augustine of Hippo: Read two of the three books I intended to read, On Free Choice of Will and Confessions. Did not start City of God. No apologies, here, though. Pored over Confessions. Was worth the slow, thorough read.

Sail: Made it out on the water so seldom it was disappointing. Made it back to shore every time, though.

Visit Hawaii: Budget and schedule did not allow me this one. Did visit Milan, Italy and the French Riviera for ten days with Marie, though. That trip was wonderful.

Feed the hungry: Opened up the wallet for this one, which was a half-measure, as far as I am concerned. Volunteering my time in addition to my money would have been much better.

Reduce: Reduced in every way imaginable, it seemed. Still, the mountain of clutter continues to cast its shadow on my life.

Well, then, I fell short of every goal. Better than achieving every goal, I suppose. I mean, if I had achieved every goal then I did not aim high enough, right?

On to the 2024 Preview

OK. Going to recycle a 21/22/23 goal. Run 500 miles. Ten miles a week.

Travel appears on my list again this year. Instead of Hawaii, though, it will be New Zealand. Mary and Marie went there at the beginning of 2020, just before the real start of the pandemic. They have been raving about it ever since. I have already set aside money for the trip, inherited from Marianne. She would approve.

Read Augustine’s City of God, at least some of it. It is long and dense and requires quite a bit of thought and reflection. So, my idea is to read as much of it at the pace I can to absorb as much of it as reasonable this year. It is composed of twenty-two books. Maybe I will read one a month, roughly. Perhaps more, perhaps less. Also plan to read the Letters of Saint Paul, all of them.

Write a chapter (or short story) a week.

Learn to sail well enough to attain at least one certification.

Finish translating Dove mi trovo. And then what? Some chapters of Calvino?

Do something unplanned, unexpected, something that I will treasure for the rest of my days.

Live the skux life.

Posted on

At the Pound

She pulled into the parking lot of the animal shelter. The lot was really just a crumbly mess of decayed asphalt, ringed by a dense band of weeds. The asphalt itself was punctuated with only slightly less weeds than what surrounded it.

The shelter was a squat cinder block building on the outskirts of a small town, just off the state highway.

She walked into the building, a skeptical frown on her face. Why didn’t they just call it what it was. It as a dog pound, not an animal shelter. The only animals there were dogs. Dogs that nobody wanted.

Probably with good reason.

And it wasn’t a shelter. Dogs didn’t go there to get out of the rain or whatever for a bit before moving on along their way. They were brought there and locked up there.

Probably with good reason.

Still, she promised her mom that she would look into it, adopting a dog, a companion. This “animal shelter” was at least on her way home, so she could stop in and say she did it and be done with it.

At the front desk, or the lobby, or whatever you want to call it, she could hear the barking and the yipping and the baying of all the dogs in the back. Opening the front door to the shelter must have alerted them. This was the result. A bunch of senseless barking. High pitched barks that were more like squeaks than barks, drawn-out baying of bigger dogs, bossy bellowing of still larger ones.

She was greeted by an administrative sort of woman with a short hello and a half page of paperwork to complete. These rural dog pounds were eager to get rid of the dogs and did not want a lot of forms and signatures and the like to get in the way of that. Without much delay, she was taken to the “kennel room” in the back.

It slapped her square in the middle of her face. The smell.

The shelter administrator, a portly, affable woman of indeterminate age, apologized for the smell, saying they were having trouble keeping up with the recent influx of dogs.

Sure enough, all the cages, or “stations” as the administrator called them, were occupied. Some even had more than one dog in them in what seemed like random pairings. She surmised that the only requirement placed on a dog for sharing a “station” was that the dog and the cage-mate would refrain from attacking each other.

Without any prompting, the administrator started an introduction, of sorts, beginning with the first cage on their left as they entered the walkway between the two long row of cells.

The first dog on the left was a pathetic mongrel that did not even bother to bark. All it did was wag its tail. It did not do anything else, really. It just sat and stared at her as the administrator told her his name was “Ned” and blah, blah, blah.

The name “Ned” was enough. She was definitely not going to take home a dog with the same name as him. Ned was, after all, why she was there in the first place, looking for a companion. Or, rather, why her mom made her promise to take a look.

Definitely not Ned.

The administrator paused for a few seconds to see if the woman showed any interest in Ned. The woman, however, was already looking at the next station.

That station was occupied by a loud hound of some sort, backed into a corner of the cage, trying her hardest to make more noise than all the other dogs.

After that, a mismatched pair of scruffy-looking, squeaky, pint-sized nuisances that appeared to be trying to squeeze their snouts through the bars to bite her ankles. Didn’t really matter what their names were, neither were going home with her.

The administrator quickly sensed the futility of trying to place one of the dogs with the woman. The bio on each successive dog became shorter and shorter as they made their way up the one side of the walkway and back down the other.

They stopped at the door back out to the lobby. The administrator asked the woman what she was looking for in a dog.

“Nothing, really,” the woman replied curtly.

Then, embarrassed at her own impoliteness, she added that she was not really sure. Companionship, perhaps. Maybe something else.

The administrator took it in, patiently, then continued.

As the two talked, the woman noticed that Ned, or “that little nugget” as the administrator had called him at one point, had stood up and was peering through the bars and around the administrator’s legs to see the woman. He just stood and looked at her, as if waiting patiently for something.

The administrator told her that it was just as well that she did not have any preconceived notions of what she wanted in a dog, since it was the dog that did the choosing, anyway.

The woman had heard that corny bit of wisdom altogether too often from some of her dog-loving friends. She found that droll bit of dog wisdom amusing, at best. She wondered why people put so much effort into explaining their dogs. Dogs were, after all, only animals and did not need any explanation of why they were the way they were. They just were.

The woman leaned slightly to her left to return Ned’s gaze. As she did so, he stepped toward the latch which held the door to the cage shut and pointed his nose at the latch, as if to show the woman where it was.

The administrator asked the woman if she had any questions.

“Just one,” the woman answered, returning her attention back from the little nugget to the administrator.

“What’s that?”

“Can I give him a new name?”

Posted on

Ryan

The house was dark and still when Ryan woke.

He blinked a couple of times and pondered whether or not to get up off the floor.

He rolled over to think about it and rested his chin on his left forepaw, scanning, taking in the dark, silent living room. Robert lay in his bed nearby, on his back, front paws curled to his chest, hind paws extended, looking for all the world like he was jumping over a log, upside down. His chest heaved shallowly and he had a serious look on his face. An upside down serious look that could not be taken very seriously. An overgrown puppy, even in his sleep.

Pondering his next move, Ryan breathed easily, much more easily than those last few labored breaths he drew right before he fell asleep. He breathed in and then let out an easy sigh. Just a bit to his left was the faint smell of a baked chicken leg someone had dropped on the carpet a few months back. Ryan reached his neck out toward the ghost of the smell and sniffed twice. Robert would search out that same spot several times a day and smell it intensely, hoping for that chicken leg to somehow reappear.

Yep, an overgrown puppy.

It had been a rough day followed by an even rougher night.

In the morning, Ryan faltered when he tried to pick himself up off the floor and walk to the back door to be let out. His owner helped by holding his body up until his legs were under him. As wobbly legs tried to move him, Owner told him to take his time.

Right. As if he had a choice in the matter.

By the time it was time to come back in for breakfast, the legs were bit better but it was still quite an effort to walk back into the house. He stumbled a couple of times on the way. Once inside, Ryan felt exhausted. Too exhausted, in fact, to eat. Instead, he found a soft spot on a rug to lie down and rest. His body landed with a thud.

At mid-day, Owner picked up Ryan off the floor and carried him out into the back yard.

In the evening, Owner again picked up Ryan and carried him out the back door. He patiently endured the jostling as Owner lumbered down the two steps from the back porch. Owner’s cheek rubbing against the top of his head eased the discomfort of being carried. When they reached Ryan’s favorite corner of the yard, near the row of honeysuckle bushes where the rabbits could often be found, they stopped. Ryan patiently complied as Owner held up his back side so he could poop.

By that point, Ryan did not struggle or resist. It was hard enough work just breathing. He simply let himself be picked up, carried, and be set down.

As before, after being carried back into the house, food just did not interest him. And as before, he dropped down without ceremony.

Quietly, Owner had laid Ryan in his bed. After an initial period of fussing by Owner and the rest of the family, he was finally left alone, although someone was constantly in the room until, finally, everyone went up to bed.

Mercifully, Robert sensed that Ryan did not want to play or to have a bone dropped on him or to interact in any way, really. Robert merely padded over to Ryan and gently touched noses before retreating to his own bed.

But now, in the middle of the night, the rough day was behind him and he felt much better. Better enough to look back and smile at his owner trying to sound like a dog woofing every time he said the word “rough.” Better enough to listen to the quiet chirping of crickets outside in the moonlight. Better enough to stand up and walk.

He slowly stood up, front legs first, followed by his ever reluctant hind legs. They managed this time to lift up and support his nearly worthless hips, for once without the usual dull ache that followed him everywhere.

He stepped out of his bed.

He stretched.

He silently stepped past Robert and turned into the front hallway.

Ahead of him, the front door was ajar. He walked up to it and put his snout into the just large enough opening. He threw his head sideways.

The door silently opened half way.

Next, Ryan put his forehead on the storm door, which was closed but not latched. It gave way easily and in a second he was gingerly stepping down the front porch stairs.

A gentle breeze greeted Ryan with a thousand memorable smells that washed over him. The rhythmic clack of his nails echoed in the quiet night as he slowly trotted to the end of stone sidewalk leading down to the street.

Out onto the street he turned right and continued his trot past the next door neighbor’s house.

Two houses beyond that, by the side of the street, a rabbit intently devoured grass in the moonlight.

Ryan slowed his pace. His head dropped and he changed his gait, gently lowering the back of each paw to keep his nails from announcing his approach.

He paused to sniff the rabbit from a distance.

Then he cautiously proceeded.

He tried to time each step to when the rabbit would bend down for another mouthful of grass, remaining motionless between the irregularly timed bobs of the rabbit’s head.

His progress was excruciatingly slow, but Ryan had learned patience over the years.

The closer he drew to the rabbit, the more he quivered between steps.

Incredibly, the rabbit seemed not to notice him.

His breathing quickened as the distance between them shrank.

His nostrils fanned the earthy scent of the rabbit into his finely-tuned snout.

The rabbit’s own nose twitched but she did not make a move to run away.

Ryan took another step.

Waited..

Another step.

Another.

Ryan was within a half step of the rabbit.

She buried her face in the grass for some clover hidden beneath the tall, unmowed blades.

Ryan seized his opportunity. He deftly bent forward, touching the tip of his snout just behind the rabbit’s shoulders.

He did it!

He did it!

He did it!

After all these years of sneaking up on rabbits, only to have them hop away, seemingly at the last second, he finally touched one!

The rabbit moved a half hop away and looked at him, still munching on the clover. She appeared to be only slightly perturbed at Ryan.

He leaned forward and touched his snout behind her ear, then tried to dig his snout further down into her furry neck.

She let him nuzzle her, but only for a second. His snout was too big and too wet.

She took a couple of hops away from him and then turned toward him as she rubbed her front paw behind her ear.

Ryan thought she smiled at him. His ears perked up and his tail wagged.

She finished her chewing and hopped into some bushes.

Ryan watched her as she disappeared into the shrubbery. Then he triumphantly stepped back onto the cool pavement of the street and resumed his trot.

Above, a few scattered clouds languidly moved past the moon.

A gentle breeze urged him on.

The faint scent of dog treats beckoned him to the other side of the street as he passed Frank’s house. He veered toward the end of Frank’s driveway and sure enough, there they were!

They must have dropped from Frank’s pocket when Frank went in for the night.

Ryan liked Frank. He liked Frank because he didn’t have to beat Frank over the head for a handout. You simply sat in front of him as closely as you could. Frank would look down, chuckle, dutifully put his hand in his pocket, and give you the morsels, one at a time. Then he would tell you “That’s it.”

Then you could grunt to him to tell him that there were, in fact, more and he would reach into his pocket again and pull out another few. You could do this two or three times before Frank would pull out his pocket and tell you, with an elaborated display of exasperation “That’s it! They’re all gone.”

A small mound of them on the street like this was much more fun and much more to the point.

After the treats, the breeze, again, beckoned him on.

Ryan ambled past more of the neighborhood.

He crisscrossed the street, stopping to sniff and pee at his usual stops.

Pretty soon, he came to the tee in the street. Straight ahead would continue taking him around the neighborhood. Turn to leave.

Before he even had a chance to decide which way to go, though, the familiar smell of Bonnie’s treats drew his nose down to the pavement. A small scattering of the little nibbles Bonnie liked to give him spread out on the street before him. Ryan liked Bonnie. With her, there was none of the pretending there was with Frank. Bonnie always gave Ryan two treats whenever they met. There was no need for negotiation or prodding. A small bunch of the treats must have fallen from her pocket when she returned to the neighborhood that evening. He deftly picked each one off the asphalt and swallowed it after a few quick crunches between his back teeth.

After he ate the last nugget, he quickly scanned around him for more until he was satisfied that there were none. Then, without hesitation, Ryan turned onto the short street that he and Owner so often took out of the neighborhood.

Owner always told him to look both ways as they crossed the street at the end of the neighborhood. Owner would turn his head in an exaggerated fashion. Ryan puzzled over that as a puppy but as season gave way to season he came to understand. Owner’s hearing and sense of smell were not all that good, abysmal, really, and that is what he needed to do in order to know if any cars were coming. Ryan learned to wait for Owner to go through his head turning ritual and say “Okay, let’s go.” before trotting across the street.

Occasionally, Ryan would have to gallop swiftly ahead to get them across in time if a car that Owner did not hear came fast over the hill on the street at the edge of the neighborhood. But they always made it.

Once outside the neighborhood, Ryan had many streets and sidewalks, and roads, and paths to choose from.

He started down a familiar street. That led to another familiar street, followed by another.

When he reached a certain street corner, he stopped. Owner and he had always walked straight when they came to this corner. He had occasionally glanced down the street as he and Owner walked on past it. The street went down a hill and bent out of sight. This night, Ryan turned onto the street, ambled down the hill and around the bend to see where it led.

The street led to an unfamiliar street, which led to another, which led to yet another.

At the end of this last street was a wooded park.

Ryan slowly approached the sign beside the entrance to the park to sniff its base. First one post, then the other, chronicled a list of dogs unknown to Ryan. He lifted his leg and added his own name to the list.

A gentle puff of breeze urged him into the inviting path which led deep into the park.

As he walked through the woods, Ryan was soothed by the soft rustle of the leaves being blown along the side of the path. The gentle breeze from behind him also pushed away the few clouds overhead allowing the moon to light his way.

Further along the path, the air started to turn moist and the unmistakable sound of flowing water compelled Ryan’s pace to quicken. It seemed like an eternity since he had last gone for a swim. His trot turned into a gallop.

The sun was beginning to push its way up over the horizon to light up the forest.

Soon, the path bore to the right and opened to a slight embankment. The grass gave way to sand. Before him, a wide stream flowed lazily.

He ran into the water.

After his initial splash, Ryan was soon up to his chest in the stream. The bottom of the stream was soft but firm and he was able to move into the deeper water unhindered. A few steps later, his paws no longer touched the bottom. He pushed himself forward effortlessly. The water felt wonderful. The current moved slowly. So slowly, that it was almost no current at all. He swam a loop in the middle of the river. He swam upstream. He swam downstream. He swam another loop, then another, then another. All the while, his big, wide paws moved him with utter grace and confidence.

He swam to the other side.

As he stepped out of the river, onto the distant shore, Ryan felt refreshed and not all that tired. He was born for crossing rivers.

He shook the water from his coat with a mighty shake.

He had left a forest before crossing the river but this side had a meadow that gradually sloped up and over a rise. He started for the rise. Still soaked, he shook again. Wet, but slightly less so, he continued forward.

The sandy shore of the river led to short grass, which gradually gave way to the long grass of the meadow. Sounds of activity over the rise piqued Ryan’s curiosity. He cantered forward up the gentle slope.

As he trotted up the hill, Ryan saw the points of two ears work their way above the top of the rise. The dark brown, pointy ears were separated by a shock of a cream colored mane that flopped down, nearly covering the eyes of an old trail horse. Instead of being frightened by the huge beast as it lumbered over the crest of the rise, Ryan was drawn toward it. Even from a distance, Ryan could smell that this was the horse that met him at a certain rusty old gate, a side entrance to a horse farm, years back. The horse stepped slowly, deliberately toward Ryan, even as it did back then, a lifetime ago.

When they were close enough, they touched snouts. The horse snorted a gentle welcome. He shook his head from side to side and his mane danced in the air. Ryan wagged back in that universal sign of eternal friendship.

The horse slowly turned around and began to walk back over the crest of the hill. Ryan trotted beside him.

When they reached the top of the hill, Ryan stopped, stunned. In the broad dip between the hill he was on and the next, higher, hill, Ryan saw a huge pack of dogs. Dogs of all sorts. Pure-breds, mutts, dogs of all shapes and sizes. Some were running, some were chewing on bones or sticks, some were scratching. One was on his back, squirming, rubbing the top of his head and his shoulders into some disgusting smell he found in the grass, probably poop from the rabbit that was being chased by another dog.

In the middle of this huge, wonderful pack of dogs, Ryan spotted one dog, sitting, quietly watching Ryan.

Ryan’s heart thundered and he took off in a frenzied all-out dash for the dog in the center of the pack, ears flapping wildly as he ran.

It was RUSTY!

Ryan dodged some of the dogs and leapt over others. Small ones jumped out of his way. Quickly, he reached Rusty.

Ryan whimpered. His tail thrashed. He rubbed the top of his head into Rusty’s chest.

Rusty gently nuzzled Ryan between his big, floppy ears.

When Ryan was a puppy, Rusty had always been there. Then, one day, the old dog just wasn’t there any more and for all these years since, Ryan had watched and waited, painfully, for him.

Sometimes, Ryan would catch the scent of Rusty on an old collar or something and think that Rusty would soon return, but he never did.

And now, finally, here he was.

Ryan pulled his snout out of Rusty’s chest and started to lick Rusty’s cheek.

Rusty playfully turned his head out of reach with a smile. He gingerly stood, turned, and started to find his way through the pack toward the far hill.

Ryan immediately went with him.

Together, they started a long walk together, side by side.

Posted on

2023

Here are my Goals for this year, in no particular order, with some brief thoughts on each.

As I did last year, I am re-recycling one of my 2021/2022 goals, which was to run 500 miles. That’s still 42 miles a month or 10 miles a week. When will I run this week’s 10 miles? That is the question to ask myself each week. The year will take care of itself.

One thing I very much want to improve upon is my Italian language skills. I really love the language and want to enjoy speaking and listening to it. To help move me along in that, I am going to learn at least one new verb each week. Learn the verb and use it a lot to make is stick within me. Additionally, I plan to be able to read at least the first two chapters of Italo Calvino’s Se una notte d’inverno, un viaggiatore.

I plan to write at least one thousand words a week. The only impediment to me doing this is me setting aside the time to do it. Once I actually sit down and start, the thousand words materialize without much effort. It all comes down to setting aside the time.

I want to read, really read and understand, three writings by Saint Augustine of Hippo. The first of these three is one I have already started, On Free Choice of Will. I also plan to read Confessions and City of God. Augustine’s style of writing, at least in On Free Choice of Will, takes some getting used to. He must be the patron saint of double-negatives. But if I slow down and read carefully, he is much easier to follow. It is well worth the effort.

Now that I have my boat and have sailed it a few times, I plan to put it in the water sooner in the water this year than last year and sail it more. Also, my plan is to acquire the first three ASA certifications, 101, 103, and 104, this year. Learning to sail well does require some study, but it also requires actual time sailing. I will do both.

Another goal, or plan, really, is for Mary and me to visit Hawaii. This is something we planned to do a couple of times in the past and both times our plans were scuttled. This time we’re going.

I also want to volunteer in some capacity to feed the hungry on a regular basis. The few times I have helped out in this way felt really good, really worthwhile uses of my time. I want to do more and do it regularly, make it a part of my life.

This last Goal or Plan is to Reduce. Reduce paperwork, reduce the clothes in my closet, reduce the tools and other accumulated things in my garage and basement, get rid of all those things that clutter my life. As they say, “Property is Slavery.” Losing these shackles will give me the time and the space to actually follow through on all my other Goals. I guess that makes this Goal a Synergy. Whatever. I’m ready.