Following Atticus: Forty-Eight High Peaks, One Little Dog, and an Extraordinary Friendship by Tom Ryan is published by William Morrow. It tells the story of my adventures with Atticus M. Finch, a little dog of some distinction. You can also find our column in the NorthCountry News.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

I Heard From A Porn Star Yesterday

I heard from a porn star yesterday. 
I wouldn’t have known she worked in porn had she not explained it to me in her email and had I not noticed her website listed under her name at the bottom.  It seems she’s a big fan of our book, Following Atticus.  As I read through the email I smiled at the two books of the late monk Thomas Merton sitting next to the computer.

The woman is in a lot of films, none that I know the name of, but I discovered this, and other facts about her when visiting her website.  She crisscrosses the country appearing in strip clubs when she’s not posing for photographs or acting in films.  It’s a good living, she wrote.  She hopes to retire young and move to the country and have a little animal sanctuary.  In between her professional stops she reads – a lot.  So do many of her friends in the industry.  They’ve even formed a reading group and they take turns choosing a book of the month for each of them read. 

She wanted me to know how much Following Atticus impacted her life.  “I thought I was going to read about a cute little dog and I ended up reading about life!”

She asked me about signing books for the other woman in her book group.  She was looking for a case of hardcovers.  “They will love it as much as I did!  I’m also getting them to read your blog and your Facebook page.  You and Atti are awesome!”

I let her know how she could get a case of books.  She’ll send them to me, have me personalize each of them (“Don’t forget Atti’s paw print!"), and then I’ll send them back to her so she can distribute the books to her friends.  During the month of April Atticus’s silvery cataract eyes and Muttluk covered paws, as seen on the book jacket, will be on adult movie sets and strip clubs across the country, packed away in travel bags with stiletto heels, thigh high boots, oversized bras, thongs, tassels, handcuffs, and various and sundry other items. 

This makes me happier than I can say.  Over the past few years I have learned of a marriage counselor handing copies of Following Atticus to his clients. “Treat each other like Tom and Atticus do,” he tells them.  I’ve also heard that we were chosen for a book discussion by therapists dealing with family issues.  There was a city in Michigan where the clergy had a reading group where priests, ministers, rabbis, and nuns read Following Atticus and then met to discuss it.  Many counties, cities, and towns throughout the United States have chosen Following Atticus for a community read, including Groton, Massachusetts, where we will be appearing on April 12
th to talk about our story. 

The greatest pleasure of any writer is to be read.  But from there it often gets interesting to see who is reading your story. It’s wonderful to have varied groups and individuals invest themselves in it and then learn what they took from the journey of a man and a little dog as they left behind one life to get to another in the mountains of New Hampshire.

I am reaffirmed by the different people I hear from that while we are all distinctive, there are common threads that connect us.  Words and feelings knit us together.  They touch our humanity.  It doesn’t matter whether you have a cross over your chest or enhanced breasts.  Inside is what is most important and within each of us is a beating heart.  

The only question that remains now is how many more men will show up at the Groton event now that I know some of the ladies from the porn reading group hope to fly in that day to meet Atticus and me.

PS:  Of course I assured her I looked forward to meeting her, along with everyone else in Groton. In a subsequent email when she asked if Atticus was as friendly as he seems to be I let her know he'd probably like her more than most since they have something in common he doesn't share with most of his fans:  they are both used to being naked on stage.

PPS:  In a couple of email exchanges after reading this post Atti's newest fan joked when she added that while Atticus doesn't wear a collar or use a leash, she does at times - when the movie script calls for it.  Funny!  Lastly she asked if she'll be able to get a photograph taken with us.  "Perhaps, but we don't do selfies."  "I don't blame you. I don't let my fans take them with me either -  selfies are tacky."

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Angelic Lucidity in the Woods, in Friendship, in Connecting

The simplicity of the woods.  Sigh.

As I spend more time off-line I find myself more in line with who I am.  More letters written to friends, and more received from them.  Truths told and accepted.  Confessions, yearnings, reports of the day to day.  The joy in writing letters to friends is that we absorb these letters.  We ingest all before responding.  It's a conversation slowed down.  At least for me, it is. 

I thought of this while watching the twitching tail of a red squirrel, curious and protective of his home, as he studied our approach this morning under the blue skies and a relatively warm sun on the day after the storm. 

I long for connection.  True connection.  When it happens I embrace it and am grateful for.  That's the blessing of letters from those we are connected with.  It's a part of themselves.

This morning I wrote to a friend while Atticus and I walked alone in the woods.  That's how I write many of my letters, essays, and articles.  We walk, or hike, and the words bubble up.  I remind myself to put a certain thought, mood, or theme into what I'll be writing when I return to my desk. 

Steve Smith, White Mountain author and owner of the Mountain Wanderer Map & Bookstore, handles his wooded sojourns differently.  He takes copious notes with pencil and tiny notebook, pausing often during a hike. 

I'm told he has a room full of these notebooks from years gone by. 

Once, when sharing how we write about the trail, we compared notes.  So very different.  His details are for guidebooks and discoveries along the trails.  I take more of a romantic approach in considering the discovery of the self, of nature, and the soul of all things.  So different, but we connect with each other's writing. 

This morning I was contemplating something I read a few days ago about "moments of angelic lucidity." 

Marlinda Stull (if we are ever in Kentucky again I'm sure we will stop by Stull's Country Store in Payneville) sent me a few books recently.  One of them is "A Year with Thomas Merton: Daily Meditations from his Journals."  It was a splendid gift, especially since Marlinda knows I like Merton.  He ranks up there for me with Thoreau, Emerson, Wordsworth, Muir, and Oliver.  Merton wrote: "The sense of angelic transparency of everything, and of pure, simple, and total light.  The word that comes closest to pointing to it is *simple*.  It was all simple.  But a simplicity to which one seems to aspire, only seldom to attain.  A simplicity, that is, that has and says everything just because it is simple."

Through the simplicity comes connection.  To thoughts, the natural world, what and who is important to us . . . to simplicity.

The pleasure of walking with Atticus in such moments, in all our moments really when we are away from those who label and define, is that there is no dog and no man.  There is no dividing line. It's one of the reasons I don't relate to the idea of breeds and avoid themes and terms and clichés that come with dogs.  I understand Atticus is a dog and I am a human, but that really doesn't have much of anything to do with defining us.  We connect as equals in the woods.  Neither one of us deifies each other.  Nor do we look down on each other.  We simply are.  It's a connection, not a separation.   

I've told my agent I am the worst possible ambassador for pets.  It's because I don't use the word nor do I relate to how many talk of animals.  I like it this way.  Our way.  It's a connection.  There is no thought of words like owner and master.  There is no one over the other.  I'm not trying to make him my son.  He's no one's baby.  He's an adult.  He's himself, just as I am myself. It's simple.  It's Tom & Atticus, or Atticus and Tom.  

Some of you know this story already but it bears repeating.  A woman came up to me in a store. 

"You're a *breed deleted* person!"

"Not really.  I ended up with three dogs of the same breed by chance."

"Oh well, at least your a dog person."

"Actually if I would call myself anything I'd say I am an elephant person."

"But you live with two dogs."

"That's because I don't have the room for two elephants." 

But even if I did have an elephant, other than medical, physical, and nutritional needs, I wouldn't think of the elephant as the elephant.  I'd simply think of him as an individual who is my friend and if I had to call him anything I'd call him by his name. 

Years ago, when I lived back in Newburyport, I often had breakfast or lunch with three fascinating elderly men.  One of them was Doug Cray.  He was a retired New York Times reporter who had covered Kennedy and Johnson in the White House, not to mention volumes of other notable people.  You wouldn't know it, though.  Doug was as humble as could be.  After knowing him for several years I'd still find out about people he had spent time with. 

"Really, you traveled on the road with Duke Ellington for a month?"


"What was he like?"

"Oh, you know Duke." 

I didn't.  But what I took joy in was listening to how Doug talked of others.  It was always personal and intimate. 

One of the waitresses at a local coffee house adored Doug Cray.  We'd stop in during the afternoon for coffee and some kind of treat.  Before we'd leave Doug would say to the waitress, as he gently touched her arm, "You know, I'd like to get one of those delicious raspberry scones to take home to Barbara." 

One day the waitress said to me, "Doug is such a gentle man.  Know what I like best about him?"

"What's that?"

"I've only met Barbara a couple of times but he talks about her so personally that I feel like I know her well.  He never refers to her as his wife.  There's no ownership.  She's only one thing.  She's Barbara.  That's so personal."

I always liked that about Doug.

Although I've rid our home of so much "stuff", I have held onto things that truly matter to me.  One of them is Anne Criscitiello's first portrait in years after her dance with cancer.  It's a sketch of Atticus, Will, and me.  There's even a paw print of Max in it.  Ann sent it along framed and matted.  It's a keepsake.  In the matting she inserted a quote from Thoreau, "The most I can for my friend is simply be his friend." 

That about sums it up.  The connection.  The simplicity.  Angelic lucidity.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

The Stars Never Cease To Amaze

There was a time when night hikes were highly uncomfortable for me, but all these years later I seem to find more enjoyment out of them than I do when hiking in daylight.  It’s ironic.  The same trepidation resides upon entering the woods.  The same feeling of unease and nervousness.  The same childhood fears, tinged with fervent imagination of things that go bump in the dark.  But add to that feelings of pleasant mystery and expectation.  It’s spending time with a mountain when everyone else has gone home. 
At night, the branches, bare in winter, grope at us as we pass, feeling like the bony hands of witches as they brush up against my backpack or jacket. At higher elevations the conifers are misshapen like sinister wraiths. 

But at this age, after ten years of hiking with Atticus, I now realize how much I appreciate the night sky.  The contrast from seeing nothing in the woods, to the euphoria of seeing the stars burst from the blackness as we leave the trees behind is breathtaking.  Constellations come to life.  Giant bears and fish and mythological heroes dance on top of the shadowy profiles of the mountaintops.  They look down on us, and all of mankind.

As for hiking at night in the winter, it’s the best season of all for it.  The sky is clearer than in summer.  The other night, while on such a trek through the woods, I stopped to catch my breath and to offer Atticus a treat, looked skyward, and the following came to mind:  “Here in New Hampshire, what we lack in daylight in the winter we more than make up for by starlight.” 

Has anyone ever seen the moon and stars more clearly than in these three months of cold where nights stretch on and on? 

We’ve been out twice after dark enjoying the trails recently.  The first time was after a recent thaw when Echo Lake in North Conway was freezing again.  We circled the shore, and then climbed up between Cathedral Ledge and Whitehorse Ledge.  Once on top of the sprawling snow and ice covered rocks of Whitehorse, we could hear the sound below of ice forming.  Air bubbles being forced out and reminding me of the song of whales.  It added to the night.  Not only were we seeing the mountains in a different light – where there is very little light, but the sounds were very different as well.  We sat on a blanket on the ledges and listened to the songs and watched the stars swirl slowly above us. 

Then, just the other night, after a day where we hadn’t gotten outside much, Atticus and I left home at about eight o’clock and drove along the Kancamagus Highway until we reached the trail for Potash.  It’s a simple enough mountain and less than four miles round trip, but it is also a peak, in the right conditions, where winter hikes are easier than those in the other three seasons.  A massive network of roots and large slabs of rock often slick with run-off are covered with snow and all is smooth.  The other night, after this past weekend’s rain, it felt like Styrofoam as my MicroSpikes bit in and held firm.  Atticus moved easily along the snow.  His eyes struggle as he ages with darkness and dimension, but I wore two headlamps and all was bright for him and he felt comfortable. 

There is a section of Potash where the trail ascends steeply through thick woods until it comes to a small, open ledge with a view out to Passaconaway.  When we reached that spot that massive mountain seemed all the bigger, highlighted by the heavens as it was.  We wove our way back into a twisted trail through the woods again, with some steeper pitches before we reached the next set of ledges.  It was all I could do not to fall over due to the overwhelming view of the constellations.  It was intoxicating and I had to stop moving to look up.  I spread my arms as if to embrace the experience and drink it in to make it a permanent memory. 

Atticus doesn’t always lead like he used to.  There are times he follows me now.  But not on the inclines.  He still feels comfortable going first and I follow as I always have.  The higher we climbed, the more we saw of Passaconaway again, but then also East and West Sleeper, the three peaks of the Tripyramids, and finally, cresting the summit, a view over to the rising hump of Carrigain, the double mounds of the Hancocks, and the expansive sea of peaks and valleys of the Pemigewasset Wilderness. 

Atticus was two and a half when we climbed our first mountain.  We’ve now been at it for just over a decade.  In all of that time something has never changed.  Once we reach the top he expects to be picked up so he can sit in the crook of my elbow, our heads at equal height, and together we look out at all that nature has spread before us.  I wait.  Sometimes it comes right away and at other times I wait for up to ten seconds.  Then I hear it and feel it.  My little friend lets out a deep sigh and his body settles into mine and together we fall into the scenery together. 

During the daylight, each season lends its own strokes of the paintbrush to the scenes we take in and become part of.  But at night, especially in winter, things are starker.  They are cleaner.  It’s a black and white vivid photograph and the stars never fail us. 
When we return home after a night hike, especially when it is cold out, our tiny home never feels more ready to welcome us.  Outside adventure leads to indoor comfort.  We sleep well and after we awaken the next morning I often look back at what took place on the mountaintops the night before as a dream.  Thankfully, it is a dream that doesn’t fade with the coming of the sun and we are more content - more filled with both life and peace.     

Monday, January 12, 2015

Writing the Book of Will

There is a divine snow falling gently onto the bare branches of the black ash tree outside the picture window as I sit writing about Will.  It’s a comfortable setting.  Comfortable and cozy.  A candle with a pine scent flickers nearby.  Steam rises and gracefully swirls upward from a mug holding cinnamon tea. 

On the couch, I can hear the low murmuring of Atticus’s snoring.  It’s apropos accompaniment for Handel’s “Water Music” which provides the melody for the song I’m typing.    

There is an ease in this open room, which is bright even when dark clouds gather overhead.  Our senses are alive and memory and emotion come together to the extent that I half expect to see Will waking up in his dog bed, letting his eyes cast about the space until he finds me.  I imagine him lying there for a little while, and then getting out from under his hand-made blanket knitted with kindness, taking a loud drink of water, and then making his way over until he reaches my side and looks up at me with his big eyes and long lashes.  

That’s one of the joys of writing.  Words breathe so much more than just life into a subject and once they are written, polished, and set firmly in place, they can live forever.  

Many have asked about Will’s story in book form.  It’s being written now and I’m about halfway through it.  But here’s the thing – it’s not just Will’s story.  It is also the story of the mountains and rivers, the bears and moose, the butterflies, chipmunks, wildflowers, the blue skies and white clouds, the moon and stars,  and it's also the story of Atticus and me.  This is our story. 

Sometimes our role in life is to play the star.  On various occasions we can play supporting roles, or our main job is to bear witness.  And then there’s the ensemble that infuses everything within a story with love and adventure. 

So many talk about how much they miss Will.  I don’t.
  Our journey together has not ended yet.

I feel fortunate to be able to share his story with hundreds of thousands who will eventually read our book when it is ready.  For them he will just be coming to life and by the time they finish the last page, they may miss him as some of you do, but there is a very good chance their lives will be influenced by Will’s and being touched, they may change because of it.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

John Updike, Thich Nhat Hanh, and Thomas Merton: My Thanksigiving Column for the NorthCountry News

"The stripped and shapely
 Maple grieves
 The ghosts of her
 Departed leaves.
The ground is hard,
 As hard as stone.
 The year is old,
 The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
 In its distress,
 Displays a certain
~ John Updike

There is a song of November and I think it is as lovely as the trees are barren.  Updike sums it up well.  Sure there are gray days ahead, more darkness and freezing temperatures are on the way, but the forests are so beautiful this time of year.  The streams murmur and run clear and cold.  The night sky black but adorned by stars so brilliant it takes your breath away.  And the quiet is peaceful and calming, especially on a mountainside now that the crowds have gone. 

High up there are varying levels of snow but below three thousand feet the mountains are simple bare and plain.  A simplicity exists away from the heat and humidity and the bugs and the people, and a certain bare-bones familiarity that exists before winter hits us full on and covers everything in white for the next four or five months.  I’ve fallen quite in love with November for these very reasons.  And now that it’s easier to breathe, so has Atticus.  He no longer slinks about like an old dog who is closer to thirteen than twelve.  He’s back to bouncing along the trails knee deep in a plush carpet of crinkling brown leaves on the forest floor.  He’s young again, happy to be out again, and having to wait up for me once again.  How can I not love this time of year for that reason alone? 

On Thanksgiving Day Atticus and I will head off and find a mountain where there are no cars at the trailhead.  I’ll make a list of a few and if the weather is dry and the views clear, we’ll climb a mountain by ourselves and eat our dinner on a ledge with views to the sacred lands before us.  How fortunate we are to live in a place where this is possible and to live without the constraints of having to be somewhere else to please someone else.  This was part of our reason for leaving behind a more civilized life which also felt like a more stultified one.

We all have our reasons for seeking out the mountains.  For me it’s as much about spirituality and peace as it is about the beauty and exercise a hike contains.  I find myself in these mountains again and again.  I find reasons for gratitude on the flat and steep trails while breathing easily or with so much difficulty I have to surrender to my own exhaustion and racing heart.  As a matter of fact, that’s where the moment of grace often hits me – when I have to stop because my breath cannot keep up with my desires and I’m hanging my head and wiping sweat from my brow.  There over the noise of my inhaling and exhaling sits the quiet of the natural world. 

This time of year there isn’t even much birdsong and the leaves are gone and the trees stand before me as naked as can be.  There’s nothing to hide, no one to impress, and they are nothing but who they are.  It’s ironic to me that when I often find the forest most alive is when all is gray – sometimes even the November sky. 

I read yesterday with a heavy heart that Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese monk who is perhaps the most spiritual soul I know of on this earth, is close to death.  At eighty-eight he’s had a brain hemorrhage.  There is no way of knowing how much time he has left before his body gives up and he becomes spirit and memory.  I often think of him and his spiritual soul mate, Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk, writer, and mystic when I’m in the woods this time of year.  The two men only met once but they stayed in touch until Merton died a few years later in the late sixties. 

Both of these monks from different religions and opposite ends of the world found tranquility and grace in nature.  Much like many of us do.  They understood our place in the grand scheme of things and whenever life became too crazy they retreated to the simplicity of nature. 

Following Atticus on the mountain trails helped me to ditch my ego, my accomplishments, even the stopwatch I used to wear on every hike.  Following my friend I fell more in line with what matters most and let nature set the pace.  This is something both Thomas Merton and Thich Nhat Hanh came to understand.  It’s what I am always learning on the sides of mountains and why we seek out the peaks where no one else is. 

It’s during those moments when my body cannot keep pace I’m made to stop and just take a moment to wait and be silent.  Thich Nhat Hanh once wrote: “Breathing in, there is only the present moment.  Breathing out, it is a wonderful moment.”  And that’s what I’m learning.  There is the trailhead, there is the summit, and then there is everything in betwee

As Thanksgiving Day arrives I hope that each of our readers finds far more to be thankful for than to be weighed down by.  May you have a day of simplicity and joy with those you love, doing what fulfills you. 

Onward, by all means,
Tom (& Atticus)

Monday, November 03, 2014

Considering Will

It's Monday morning and the forest has a different look and feel to it after the strong winds we've had.  Gusts still ride high over the tree tops sounding like a runaway ghost train but the sun has returned and red squirrels and chipmunks are active and their chatter is comical.  Pine cones are everywhere, knocked from their perches to the earth where death will become life.  They crunch underfoot and the pine tar gets on everything.  Once a week I massage and clean Atticus's pads with olive oil to get rid of debris and to recondition them.  This time of year I do it twice a week. 
Ten days have passed since Will left us and I'm avoiding our Facebook page to some extent. This is when it helps to have great moderators.  The kindness and love is evident by the vast majority of people who post, and also appreciated, but this being social media, projection also is present.  We all experience death but it's a personal experience.  I've never been a big fan of people saying "been there done that" about anything, and because I think of death as a miracle of its own - which may differ from what others believe - I tend to avoid the typical calling cards of cliché when it comes to something equaling a sacrament to me.  Life and death are worthy of so much more than clichés. 
My goal in loss is to learn and grow from it, to take joy from those who we traveled with who are no longer with us, to make their presence in our life into a gift I can always carry with me. 
Several times last week people wanted to believe that Atticus was mourning.  He wasn't.  He still isn't.  He's buoyant and free.  I'm not mourning either, not really.  As I told Christine Heinz on Twitter this morning, we did what we set out to do in taking in Will. 
I thought his visit with us was going to be much shorter than it turned out to be.    That was a plus to me.  When Will reclaimed himself it was a joy to behold.  His eyes were young and expectant.  When I'd walk up to him and he looked at me and I couldn't help but smile. 
In the very end Will was far less than what he'd come to be with us.  He couldn't sit like a lion for more than a few seconds.  He'd topple over without being propped up.  He was rotting from the inside out (I'll leave the details too various myself).  You saw him mostly as fresh and clean and sweet and so alive over the last few months, but that's because of the photographs I shared of him.  He was still sweet, but he was also dying.
I've not been crying very much.  I have thoughtful moments and much to digest.  I will cry for Will down the road when I talk about him at events, I'm sure, but not out of sadness.  It will be because of the gift of the experience.  It's what the mythologist Joseph Campbell aptly named, "the experience of being alive." 
Will came to us at fifteen.  My job was to be by his side and give him what he needed when he needed it.  That was everything from patience; to food and water; to bathing him when he fell in his urine and feces and couldn't get up; to stretching exercises and massage; to experiences with nature; to flowers and music and sweet and savory smells; to reassuring touches; to love and acceptance and shared growth; and finally to let him leave this physical world when his body no longer worked and I didn't want to compromise him for my own sake. 
The decision to say goodbye is so very hard, but in Will's case it was easier because it was clear to me.  I considered the entire journey to be textured and genuine and fortunate for Will and me.  Sitting in a beautiful mountainside field with him in my arms while he snored, then standing to hold him while Rachael let his sleep become permanent was and will always be a sacred experience.  I can think of no higher honor than to recognize a friend for who he or she is and what his or her needs are and help them to where they need to go. 
Will needed to be loved and believed in. He needed someone in his corner over the last chapter of his life.  He had that.  I can't speak for him but I imagine he has no regrets and he felt nothing but love. 
Over the past week I've heard from friends who knew Will two and a half years ago from when he first came to be with us and they couldn't believe the impressive change in him.  There weren't many he didn't try to bite those first few months - even the ever-so-gentle Tracy at Ultimutt Cut Salon, who understood his hatred of being put in a crate and never forced that on him - had to be careful of his teeth in the beginning.
When Will first arrived here he smelled of death.  Much of that had to do with his mouth and his rotten teeth.  Our vet at the time, Christine O'Connell, went to work on that but could only get a fraction done while he was under anesthesia.  There were several places where the gums had receded so far tips of the roots were barely concealed and you could push a small object through the opening between them. His mouth hadn’t been taken care of for years – if ever.   
Exercise specialists we went to clearly saw what I did, that Will had not had much, if any, exercise for a long time before he came to us.  They concluded his unnaturally stiff hips were a product of being crated for far too long for far too many years. 
His mouth would never improve, but his willingness to accept love and offer it did.  His joints improved too, until the last weeks when they appeared as though they had been tightened to the point of pain by a wrench.
One of the joys in sharing our journey with hundreds of thousands of people is that Will, once unwanted and neglected, was celebrated.  He became a model for adopting animals who seem like lost causes.  He was proof you can't judge a book by its cover.  I was thrilled that for the past year and a half he's received flowers and blankets because of many of you investing in him. 

Will was so miserable and broken when he arrived that over the first two weeks I was close to putting him out of his misery.  I pitied him.  In the last week of his life, I knew what had to be done but pity was the furthest thing from my mind.  I’d say what I was feeling had more to do with celebration. 

I can’t speak to what befell Will before he came to us, only to what the evidence revealed.  But even then it wasn’t to judge those he lived with before because that didn’t matter to me.  What mattered was what we were going to do with the shattered puzzle of Will.  Together, he and I worked to put him back together again, with an occasional assist from Atticus.  But as I always say, in the end Will rescued himself.  We gave him a helping hand but in the end the final choices were always his to make. 

I’m glad we’ve shared Will's life with you, and his passing, but I also know enough to stay away from too much that is written about him by people who never met him, or interacted with him for a very short while.  It’s sickening to have someone you love be dissected by those who knew very little and who cared nothing of him over the past two and a half years.  Thankfully it’s also rare, but when it happens it’s noticed, occasionally by me, more often by others.  This is the price of making public your life with someone.  I understand this.  But it’s also one of the reasons I’m careful about wading into uncomfortable waters and why I’ve never visited other websites about dogs.  Too many armchair quarterbacks.  As of late some of them have appeared on our own Facebook page (and others), but our moderators quickly move to change that. 

On the positive side, there has been an incredible amount of response in celebrating Will’s life.  I know many feel sad about his dying but I cannot do anything about that.  I can only say that I’m not feeling the same way and I have a hard time imaging Will was ever very sad over the past two years of his life.  It was a grand final chapter and I’m happy for him and proud of him.

Life and death are very personal, but if we can share these personal experiences and people are reverent enough to simply witness what they see and not judge it, some good can come of it.  I feel confident much good has already come from Will and his journey and that many can only continue.  Knowing that others will do get chances at new life because of Will is something to celebrate.

Thank you,

(To help other animals in need we've set up a memorial fund in Will's name at the Conway Area Humane Society.  Some have asked why I chose C.A.H.S.  There are many reasons, but they start at the top of that organization.  I believe anytime an unwanted animal finds a new home there are limitless possibilities for happy endings.  That said, I've learned quite a bit about rescue - the good and the bad.   It's hard work.  I support C.A.H.S. because of Virginia Moore, the executive director. In a field where some put themselves above the animals they are supposed to be helping, Virginia has the perfect perspective.  She restored my belief in those who get rescue right.) 


Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Will & Me

Whenever my breath catches this week and I think about the impossibility of letting go I remind myself that this is what I signed up for.  I brought Will here to live with Atticus and me where the air is clean and the waters run clear and cool, where birds and mountains soar in skies ripe with dreams, so that he could die with dignity. 

Whenever I tuck him in at night and play a song for him with speakers on the floor so he can feel the vibrations of love like Beethoven did when he cut the legs off his piano so that he could compose his Ninth Symphony, with his ear pressed to the floor while going deaf, I think of what it must have been like that first night Will was dropped off in a kill shelter.  Vision failing, hearing worthless, bad hips, broken body, and broken spirit.  To be left there alone with those strange smells, in a cell of hopelessness and betrayal.  The thought will always haunt me. 

I think of the emptiness and confusion of those first days and nights in the shelter, then in the care of various members of New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue over the next week before he joined us.  My heart goes out to him and I’m so happy we took him in. 

But here’s the thing – I didn’t expect to love Will so.  He wasn’t supposed to last that long.  It was supposed to be easy to bring in this old soul and give him a place to live out his life with dignity. I thought it would be no more than two to three months and he would appreciate it and be as sweet and happy as I was led to believe he was before he showed up. 
But that wasn’t Will. Will was angry and determined to strike back.  One of the first morning’s here he stood on his hind legs and used his front paws to steady himself on top of the coffee table. He made himself as big as he could to let me know who was boss.  He was fierce and feral and was bearing his teeth and looking at me with eyes that could kill.  He was so aggressive that when I brought him to Four Your Paws Only to fit him with a harness, we put it on him as if we were handling a ticking bomb for fear of his wrath.  That harness was needed during those first months.  He couldn’t climb stairs and had to be carried and he would have none of that. 

He’d thrash about with that head and those teeth that caught me far too often.  The harness was a handle for me to carry him safely.  More than to protect him, it was to protect me. Whenever anyone asked why I kept the harness on Will all day and night, I told them it was because it was the only way to live with him. 

The first time I heard his heart whimper with joy and relief was a few months later.  Atticus and I went on a tour for the paperback release of Following Atticus.  Leigh Grady took care of him for a week.  By this time he’d calmed down quite a bit but still had the occasional temper tantrum, and I was always aware of where his teeth were.  When we returned I picked him up in my arms and that once-snarling little beast tucked his head down under my chin against my heart and he whimpered softly and uncontrollably.  I don’t pretend to know very often what dogs or other animals are thinking but it was clear he was happy we’d come back for him.  He rarely left my side that next week. 

I’m not sure when the biting stopped.  I think it was between six and eight months.  One day I realized it was gone.  He’d still react out of habit after that and open his mouth and peel back his lips and then he’d remember he didn’t have to do that ever again. 

We celebrated when he made it to the first day of autumn that first year.  Then Will made it to winter and through the winter and each season that followed surprised me until I stopped counting seasons.  Then came a year and we stood in the booth with Roy Prescott at WMWV talking about Will’s one year anniversary on the morning show.  Two years came this past May and I began to wonder if we would ever be saying goodbye to him.  Of course by this time I didn’t want to.  He has become the best company.  In some ways he is more interesting than Atticus because of his special needs. 

Atticus has been easy since his first few months as a puppy.  We are like a couple of old bachelors who have lived together forever.  We know each other’s ways and pretty much all that we do is seamless.  It’s unspoken grace.  Will has been anything but that. 

This week a few people who don’t know Atticus personally have asked how he’s doing.  They expect the worst. “I’m sure Atticus knows what’s going on...”  Or they say, “Atticus is going to miss Will.  I’m worried about him.”  But Atticus has never been close to Will.  I never expected him to be.  He’s reached out when Will has been in need . . . when he was having a seizure or choking, and put a stop to it.  But other than that he’s kept his distance. 
Atticus is kind and patient, he’s polite and thoughtful, and his job in our attempts to help Will reclaim his life and his soul was to lead by example.  Animals have often been calmed by Atticus’s presence.  I don’t doubt that’s why the bears come and linger around him as much as they do, or how the moose he’s met have stood calmly less than twenty yards away, or chipmunks tease and giggle at him from close range.  There is something about Atticus’s peaceful ways that allows others to be themselves and they become more like him.   

I tend to think that when Will leaves us Atticus will carry on.  His job, you see, has always been me.  I’ll be the one with the broken heart, with the tears rolling down my cheeks.  I’ll be the one who will steer clear of others for a while and contemplate this incredible journey through moments of tears and laughter. 

I’m not looking forward to the days to come.  Oh, I can be here for Will for the next two days.  That will be the easy part for I love him and I’ll do my best for my friend.  The hard part will be to come home Friday from that mountainside without him.  I’ll pass into an ache deep and vast and I imagine I’ll sit here sobbing with my head in my hands.  Not for Will, but for me.  The tears I have for Will, when they do come, are out of joy for my friend.  I think of what he’s accomplished, of the hundreds, if not thousands of people he’s helped and inspired.  And of course there are all those senior and elderly animals who have been taken into homes because of Will’s job as an ambassador. 

Will proved that age is not a disease and he’s taught many about that.  That’s a gift to animals for all time since it’s been passed on to more than 200,000 people on our Facebook page.  When our next book is published the message will go out to even more people and Will is going to live on forever. 

I think about that part of it with wonder.  From how Will came to us and all that he’d lost, then regained, and now all that’s he’s gifted to a world that had betrayed him at one time. 

I don’t deify dogs or other animals.  But I don’t look down on them either.  I do my best to treat them as equals.  That has been the equation that has worked well over these past two and a half years.  I think of Will as I have all my elderly friends and I’ve put myself in his place several times a day and tried to figure out things as we grew together.  I’m no expert and I’ve heard from some experts who cringe at my way of doing things.  But I figure that’s there issue, not mine. 

A year ago a publisher sent me a book on dog training and asked me for blurb for the back cover. I was thrilled to be considered for it.  But after five or ten pages I wrote the publisher back and told her I couldn’t do it.  “I just don’t agree with some of this stuff.”  For me it’s been simple with Atticus and Will, and Maxwell Garrison Gillis before them.  It’s been about the Golden Rule.  Treat others how you wished to be treated.  I’m not a genius but it’s worked well for us.  In the process it’s blurred the lines between species and allowed us to be something more than many of the terms used for the canine-human relationship.  It’s allowed us to consider each other friends.

Between now and Friday I’ll be holding Will a lot, just as I have always have since he’s allowed it, but this week it’s been a little different. Now as I look into his eyes I’m saying to him, “How do I say goodbye to you? How will my heart survive the blow it’s about to be dealt?  How will I not collapse in grief?”

But the answer to each of those questions is right in front of me, held close to my heart.  If Will could survive what he did, than I can survive this promise I made to my friend two and a half years ago when I said I’d see him home, no matter how long it takes. 

I can do this.  You see, I signed up for this and it changed my life and it changed Will’s as well.