Chapter 2

So many crappy things...so little time.

I know what you’re thinking.  “Mark, I really liked your dog post because it was about a dog.  But another ‘essay’?  C’mon.”

Truthfully, I wouldn’t read it either.  But as I move away from social media (more to come), I’d like to try and get back in the habit of writing longer pieces.  You know...like journalists should.

Where was I?  Oh yes, crappy things.

Let’s dispense with the obvious.  I am genuinely grateful for all of the people in my life - family, friends, co-workers.  I am genuinely thankful for those who aren’t in my life - but help me live it (I’m talking to you, soldiers defending our freedom).

But what I’m most thankful for in 2018: Real, shitty things.  I mean it.  Just in the past three years I’ve confronted serious family health issues, job loss, people & pet loss, financial stress (that one likes to stick around) and a various batch of things that could best be summed up as stub-your-toe annoying.

And for all of those, I say “thank you”.

Let’s start with the obvious.  And so you know, I’m pulling from my vault to share some previously unseen photos and videos.

Overnight, as September 11, 2015 morphed into September 12, 2015, the missus had a stroke.  It was as textbook as you could expect.

I took this photo around 2:30 in the morning.  Want to know who is important in your life?  Here’s the secret.  If you are able to sit next to them in a situation like this...and would, without hesitation, swap places should the fates come forward with that offer - well, that person is a keeper.

She left the hospital about a month later, after what we considered a pretty tepid rehab program.  In two days she was walking, kind-of unassisted.  But boy, that left arm and hand just wouldn’t play along in this edited video update we sent to family.

As you can tell by the purple hair and middle finger, she still had what made her...her.  It was coming on the holidays and as hard as I tried, I just felt angry and sad instead of grateful for what was and hopeful for what could be.

Did I pause at any time and say, “I’m just thankful this woman is standing in front of me...and not gone forever?”

Unlikely.

Now let’s zip ahead.

It’s August 2016 and I’m on my way to Vermont, the maple syrup state.  The above is the last photo I took with my mom, the night before I was to hit the road.  Understand, I have spent much of my life in the same town where I grew up.  Family was always no more than 15 minutes away.  Now it’s going to be closer to 24 hours away.

The house wasn’t ready for its new tenants and Sheryl broke her foot, the day before I left.  We still managed to get this photo in before I hit the road.

And to my surprise, a recent find.

My son took this photo as I said goodbye to Sheryl.  We’ve never been more than a week apart in nearly 25 years.  This moment would happen at least a month before she made her way to the syrup state.

Oh and how is this for depressing?

That’s a photo of Graeme in the doorway as I was pulling away moments later.  He was going to give Los Angeles a shot.  So I was heading 1000 miles north...and he’d be going about 3000 miles west.

Did I pause here to reflect on my wonderful family, our boys, grandchildren, siblings and parents?  Did I think, “wow, I’m blessed to have had such a long and fulfilling time in my hometown...and now I’m grateful for the adventure ahead??”

Hell no.  I cried like a bitch and then spent much of the ride worrying about what was to come.

Eventually, Sheryl had to say goodbye to her youngest son - who was making the trek out west.  It was not easy.

At the time, it sure felt like the fates were doing whatever they could to break up the life to which we’d all grown accustomed.

Okay - if you’ve made this far and you’re not my mom, you’re probably wondering where this rambling mess is going.

Let’s zip back to November 2015.

Watch this.

This was just a few days before our first post-stroke Thanksgiving.  Once you get over the damn fine video quality and realize what’s happening, you have to be amazed at the payoff.  It is very slight, but she was able to make a fist.

And then a few weeks later, in the early morning hours, something wild happened.  This is never-before-seen video Sheryl took while I was still sleeping (it’s silent because I didn’t want the noise of my snoring to lessen its effect).

Take a look.

Impressive, huh?  You just witnessed a miracle of science (or if you prefer, your deity of choice).  Sheryl’s brain, while forever damaged by stroke, found a way to re-wire the path to her hand & fingers.

This was just a few days later.

And then this.

Holding her cat, for the first time in months.  Look how happy they both are.  (The cat was equally pleased about being held by anyone, to be fair).

Let’s revisit that “last day” in my hometown.

Something special happened about a week before Sheryl was to bring both her and that uncomfortable looking cat up north.  It was her 49th birthday and since 1992, we’ve never been apart for that special day.  I sure as hell wasn’t about to let maple syrup or a new job stop that from happening, although Hurricane Hermine really tried).  I let everyone know, “I’m coming home!”

Except her.  

Presented publicly for the first time, video proof with f-bombs included at no extra charge.

I got some family time before Graeme went to L.A., saw our beautiful granddaughters, hung out with mom, had some of my favorite pizza and of course...celebrated a birthday.

A week or so later, Sheryl was in Vermont.

This photo, taken a month after the one above, in our cluttered kitchen, looks happier, huh?  Maybe even hopeful?

Here’s another from the vault.  And with it, another Thanksgiving connection.

While out to eat, I took this the exact moment I told Sheryl that Graeme would visiting us, just days later, on Thanksgiving.  To be so far away from our boys (especially since G-man took “Go west, young man” literally), it was the first proof that this, all this...well, it wasn’t the end of the world.

And then, the miracle of aviation made this moment possible at a Burlington IHOP Thanksgiving night, 2016.

All of a sudden, there was a little “normal” in what had been a pretty chaotic time.

In the coming months, Sheryl would fly home to visit Zachary, Morgen and our grandkids.

By the time 2018 kicked off, I was on the verge of making a return to my home state.  

Remember the photo I took with my mom, before I hit the road for two years in Vermont?

Here’s the one I took the night we returned to Georgia for the next chapter of our lives.

And here I am, once again working alongside some wonderful people, surrounded by Georgia pine trees and just a few hours from the boys, grandkids, mom, Roma’s Pizza, etc.

Not a day goes by that I don’t thank the deity of my choice for the many good people and things in my life.  But I am now equally grateful for the terrible things in my life.

Were it not for the sadness and fear, I don’t think I would have ever understood what appreciation for happiness and comfort really means.  Embrace what’s good in-and-about your life and let go of the stuff that keeps “happy” at bay.

It was the difference between holding a grudge and making a trip, with my brother and sister, to spend time with my dad for the first time in two decades.

Think of it like this: If “thoughts and prayers” comes out of your mouth (or fingertips) without any actual thought or prayer, then it may do you well to see a loved one struggle or perhaps lose your job.  Or hell, a move to Vermont may just do the trick.

Bad things are going to happen.  Be sad about them.  Be mad about them.  Mourn loss.  But also, struggle and fight.  Whatever you do, get through them.

If I had one piece of advice for this young family celebrating their first Thanksgiving together....

...it would be to embrace every moment ahead, good or bad.  (And to invest in Apple)

Life is going to throw you a lot of curveballs.  But if you keep on swinging, some amazing things will happen - just focus on them as they come along.

This Thanksgiving, do yourself a favor.  Let it be known you’re grateful for all the absolute shitty, miserable, soul-sucking things that happen in your life.  If you do, you may just find yourself actually saying:

We don’t need another dog.

So many of our longtime family and friends know that in the past thirty years, our home (or homes) belonged to one dog.  He was the runt of the litter, a lab/retriever mix that moved into our home in 1995...a promise kept.  Sheryl told her boys (this was before Graeme was born) that they could have a dog once we got into a house, with a backyard.  So when it happened - Morgen and Zachary got their pooch.  Dad got naming rights (hey, I was paying the rent!) and screwed it up big time.  Instead of naming him for the main character (played by Peter Riegert) in my favorite movie, “MacIntyre” from the 1983 film Local Hero, I accidentally bestowed upon this playful puppy the name “MacIntosh”.  Why?  It had been a while since I’d seen the movie and quite frankly, assigned the name Burt Lancaster’s character used when he couldn’t remember the actual name of Riegert’s character.  Dammit.  Now my dog was named for an old Apple computer (years before the company moved on to iPods and iPhones).  The wife said that once you give a dog a name, you can’t change it so that was that - and MacIntosh kept his name; although I often shortened it to “Mac” (as was done often in the film) to maintain the cinematic connection.

Now Sheryl is not a dog person.  Or so she’ll tell you.  But damned if she didn’t train Mac from day one.  He followed her every command and yet remained, a “puppy”, in every sense of the word.  Mac definitely made our home his home.

As we grew older and moved along, so did Mac. 

Even though our homes have always had cats (and likely always will), he reigned over the pet kingdom.  Mac was not one to suffer from too many ailments, but the older he got, the less active he was.  Then one night, Sheryl was enjoying a girl’s night out and, I can only assume, had one drink too many.  She did something completely out of character upon spotting a stray dog hiding under cars in a Mexican restaurant parking lot.  She took that little lady home with her. It had mange and a host of grossness.  Clearly the animal had also been beaten and left for dead. But Mia (named in part for the Mexican restaurant where she was found) was sort of a savior for Mac.

She was a unique breed of Shepherd and...Corgi?  Who knows.  But she got her new older brother out and about.  He played and we like to think she added some years to his life.

Not sure if he appreciated sharing his bed with Mia.  But he never complained.

He was such a part of the family that my regret will always be that I didn’t show him just how much I loved him every day.  It’s so easy to take those pets for granted when you come home and just give ‘em a quick pat on the head.  When the time came, it was quick.  Doc told us the news and we were, all of a sudden, down to our last 24 hours.

We spent every minute we could with him - even if he just wanted to sleep.

How do you say “goodbye” after 15 full years?  How do you do it and not feel like a fool because “it’s just a dog”?  Dog owners will tell you - they are, after all those years, as much a part of the family as a human counterpart.  Well, ALMOST as much.

The above is my favorite photo of us, taken just the day before.  It reminds me how much he meant to me.  I’ll never forget my hope that he understood why he was getting all of this attention - that he was loved and appreciated so much.  And if he didn’t “know” what was coming, the McDonalds (burgers and fries) and a whole damn pizza probably clued him in.  When the time came, I remember our whole family, surrounding him on the table at the vet.  If you’ve been there, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. As we cried, he looked around and licked as many hands and arms as he could.  With a quick shot, he was gone.

I can’t speak for everyone in the room, but I was not in any way prepared for the pain his death caused.  I cried for three days.  A dog.  A goddamn dog.  You’d think I’d lost a parent or something.  I even put a small video together at the time, using photos, video and appropriately, Mark Knopfler’s song “Going Home” from Local Hero.  He was definitely a “good boy”.

Interestingly, my brother suggested we bring Mia into the room afterwards, so she could “smell” Mac’s lifeless body and remove any mystery as to why her buddy “disappeared”.  Not sure if it worked, but it made the humans in her life feel better about giving her a touch of closure.

After all that sadness, we thought about bringing in a new dog to help Mia in her old age, the way she helped Mac.

We don’t need another dog.

It was pretty clear that we’d be better off with those cats, along with a rabbit and guinea pigs added along the journey.  They seem easier to “let go”.

Mia was a good girl, only getting into trouble when her appetite got the better of her once-in-a-while.  But she too, grew old.  And in February 2016, following Sheryl’s stroke and my unexpected job search, Mia had a terrible night.  She had seizures and when she “stabilized”, she couldn’t walk without going in circles.  We just made her comfortable until we knew the veterinarian’s office would open.

Sheryl couldn’t bring herself to go this time.  Her “goodbye” had to happen at home.  And once we got there, Graeme stayed in the car while I went in to get it all arranged.  For a brief moment, in the car with the son who spent the most time with her, Mia was alert and I think, letting him know how much she appreciated him.

Graeme took the above picture while I was inside.  Despite her tired eyes and worn body, she came to life one more time for him.

Losing Mia was sad as she too was a beloved member of the family. While it wasn’t another three days of tears, it was damn close.  And her death really brought us to one very definite decision.

We don’t need another dog.

For all the selfless love they bring to a home, we just couldn’t get that horrible grief out of our mind to actually focus on the overall good.

Truthfully, we were content.  My brother had a dog (now he has two) so if we needed a “fix”, we’d get it with Tallulah Blue.  We’ll stick with cats going forward.

Then this stupid movie trailer came out.

Now it’s admittedly corny.  But I’m a sucker for dog movies.  Apparently it’s also a book.  Another piece of treacle masquerading as art.  But then again - what the hell is wrong with that?  The premise for this one made me think about what could happen - not what we think does happen.  What if Mac wasn’t hanging around the “Rainbow Bridge”?  What if he was just making the rounds until he got back to us?

I know, it’s a stupid notion but even cynics can do well to pause for a wistful moment.  To this day the damn movie hasn’t made it to Netflix or Amazon Prime (and I don’t think it’s worth buying) so I haven’t actually watched it.  But I’ll play the trailer from time-to-time when I think of Mac.

During our time in Vermont, standing in three feet of snow, I would think back to the three inches we might get in Georgia and laugh at how both of our dogs would walk through it as though it were cotton.  If only they could play in this shit.

It was about that time that I thought we might someday make the leap and take home a rescue.  “Not ‘no’ but ‘HELL NO’” would be the response from the missus.  We were empty-nesters in a two-bedroom apartment.  With two cats.  She was right.

We don’t need another dog.  (And one of us definitely didn’t WANT another dog!)

When the opportunity to get back “home” to Georgia came after a couple years, we were ecstatic.  The ride home started with the above photo, pulling away from our Vermont abode on the 24 hour trek back to the Peach State (just a short distance from family and friends).

Every moment since has been one of true gratefulness for me.  The job is terrific.  The community is wonderful.  The ability to drive “home” to see mom is something I’ll never take for granted again.  Hell, even a Krispy Kreme or Waffle House makes me “thank God” out loud, behind the wheel, as I drive by.

It’s been about seven months and we’ve gotten into our routine.  And every time we visit Petsmart I find myself looking at the rescue pups and kittens because it’s much more fun than looking for the fish stuff Sheryl needs.

And every time I get the same alert from her: “We’re not getting another damn dog.”

Sometimes I’ll bring her over and while she’ll appreciate the animal for what it is, she gets immediately turned off by the “car salesman” approach rescue volunteers often take (for good reason, obviously).

Then, a couple weeks ago happened.

To understand our routine, you have to know that we often have a couple of main errands, with a few more tossed in for “fun”.

This particular weekend involved our Walmart “pickup” (order online and then just pick it up - what a concept!) for dry goods, a visit to Publix for the fruits and veggies and lastly Petsmart for frozen mice (eek, Sheryl’s snakes!).  Beforehand, we were going to visit the local library and get our cards (c’mon, we’re middle aged and this is “fun” for us) and check out a local Goodwill for knick-knacks.

Got the card and it was off to Goodwill.

And while at Publix...I spotted something that made me immediately think of my mom.

She would eat them straight from the bag, back in the day.  I had intended to send her the photograph and ask if she remembered.  Never got around to it.  I post it here because it will always be the “last” picture before the photos below.

With the “fun” stuff out of the way, the Walmart pickup and Publix in the books, it was time to head over to Petsmart for the (ick) frozen mice.

For this part, I don’t have a photo.  But I parked us approximately 50-60 yards from the entrance to the store.  Entrance-right could be seen the familiar stretch of cages filled with rescue pups looking for a home.  Sandwiched between two black dogs sat a brown one that immediately caught my eye the moment I came around the back of the SUV.

I can’t explain it but I was drawn to that animal instantly.  Now Sheryl, who I’m guilty of leaving in the dust while walking, could be heard as I marched forward calling out the friendly “warning” about dogs and adoption.  It had recently morphed into the “you-can-have-one-when-you-retire-and-you’re-home-to-care-for-it” speech.  Always with love but always with the right intention - let’s not do this to ourselves again.

I took a knee in front of this animal and I couldn’t tell what mix he was.  But it was his eyes that caught my immediate attention.  They were sad and suggested “this ‘begging for a home’ bit was not for him”.  Seemed like he was resigned to whatever got him into that cage and wasn’t in the mood to sell himself to me or anybody else.  Yet something inside pushed him to do just that.  He licked fingers through the gate and by the time Sheryl got there, he was in full “good boy” mode.

Something about those eyes though.

They reminded me of another “good boy” with some dark eyeliner.

Now it makes sense for me to get all sentimental.  That’s just who I am.  But for Sheryl to follow along was just plain weird.  She fell in love with this guy almost as fast as I did.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Hold the phone.

We don’t need another dog.

But this time, it was my voice saying it aloud.  I had already started to convince myself as we stood up.  Even so, I found myself talking to the representative from the rescue group while Sheryl stayed at this pup’s cage.

“His name is Java”, she said.  “He was picked up by animal control in Columbus and they knew pretty quick he didn’t fit the ‘stray’ profile.”  He was too calm and quite frankly, “trained” she further explained.  So once they found him in the shelter (they get first dibs since the rescue sits next door), they put him on a local newscast’s noon segment (no, not our’s).  Instead of putting him out for adoption, as they regularly do - they wanted to let his owners know he’d been found and was ready to go home.  That’s how sure they were he was lost.  The first weekend, he made the Petsmart trip.  Nobody claimed him.  Nobody wanted to take him home.

So it was back to the shelter cages for another week.  It was on this second weekend at Petsmart that “Java” found us.  Or us him.

He was neutered & microchipped and had all the vaccines and heart-worm prevention.  Only $55.  “No,” the rescue lady said, “it’s 50 percent-off this weekend.  He’s $27.50.”

Not that money is a factor but I’m thinking he must be “broken”.  They insist they just want him to have a good home (and the 50-percent off thing is good for all the dogs they had out there).

It was a pretty hot day and the groceries were probably already starting to melt.  We just need to get the damn frozen mice and get the hell home.

This is stupid.  I’m looking for all the reasons this won’t work.  And I’m doing it as she takes “Java” out of the cage and lets him “meet” me and Sheryl.  Well, he wasn’t an asshole.  And he wasn’t “broken”.  But he couldn’t contain himself.  He put on a show for the two of us.  Like his freedom was just minutes way from being put on ice for another week. (They were getting ready to pack up for the day).

With him back in the cage, Sheryl and I went into the store to talk it over.  The clock was ticking and I was leaning towards “no”.  It was just a stupid idea.  We are not prepared to add a dog to the mix.  What about the cats?  Boy are they going to be pissed.  What about the training?  Sheryl would get stuck doing that since someone is nowhere near retirement.

Back outside, we checked to see if anyone had even expressed an interest.  I honestly believe if someone was just looking at him, we’d have just packed up and gone home.

No such luck.

“Alright, I’ll fill out the application,” I said to no one in particular.  “What’s the harm?”  Sheryl helped me fill it out and made her way back to Java.  A trial adoption was on the table.  Keep him for a couple of days.  If it doesn’t work out, they’ll take him back and refund the 27 bucks.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.  It also gave us an “out” if we had some buyer’s remorse without making us feel like shit.

Before I knew it, they had my application and money - and we were headed home with a dog for the first time in nearly three years.

Look - they even took a photo to capture the first step of this new adventure.

We got some food and toys.  We almost forgot the damn mice.

By the time we got home, the groceries were defrosted and we were shellshocked.  What the f**k just happened?

We needed to get a cage that would serve as a home for him at night.  The rescue people suggested Walmart.  So off we went.

By the time we got home for the night, I think we were all exhausted.  The cats - well they were not happy about all this.  But in the two weeks since, they’ve made a couple treks downstairs.  In the meantime, this is where you’ll find them.

And our new pup appears to be off the “trial” period.  He’s trained very well.  Follows nearly all commands and should a cat show up, he just offers a soft “let’s play” whimper.  Here’s hoping it becomes an “I won’t bite” whimper.

He’s been photographed a few times, as you might imagine.

So what kind of dog is he?  He’s listed as a Shepherd on the intake forms.  We can only guess that he’s a Boxer-Shepherd mix.  We thought about a DNA test (it’s $60) to get the full report.  How old is he?  The intake vet at the shelter pegged him at 2 years old.  The rescue group put down 4 years old (but admits it could be a typo).  At our initial vet visit, the doc was not really helpful and suggested we settle on 3 years old.  Either way, he’s definitely at the sunset of his “puppy” years.

Oh, as for that name he was given - Java?  We’ve changed it, of course.  Took some time because we wanted to go with a “K” name, considering the cats are Kushie and Kazi (that’s all Sheryl).  The list got long and we bounced around a few of them with him.  He answered to “Kipper” but we just couldn’t bring ourselves to go that route.  I mean “Kipper”?  Really!?

It was only during one of our favorite movies that it hit me.  Sheryl agreed - it’s a unique name with a special film connection.  And it begins with a “K”.

Want to hazard a guess?

I took this photo to capture the moment.  Recognize The Shining?

Say hello to Kubrick.

We don’t need another dog?

Nah.