Thanks For Getting Me a Dog

"Addie"

Megan was 13 when we had our first conversations about getting a dog. She was especially insistent that we not change the subject. The normal questions surfaced: Who will feed it? What will we do when we go on vacation? What if it chews the furniture? Who will take it to the vet when it gets sick? Who will train it? How are we going to pay for it?

We didn’t rush out and get a dog. We read, we talked to experts, we counseled. We answered the questions. I would take the lead on training and the kids would all pitch in for her care. We were determined not leave the care and training of our new dog to mom who was still training young Patrick to eat with just one on his hands.

Megan was serious enough about getting the dog, that she put some of her own hard earned money towards the purchase. After considerable research, we chose a Hungarian Vizsla. We chose the Vizsla because it was a bigger dog, but not a pony; it shed, but not by the bale; could live indoors with the family, but not nest on the couch. We also felt it had the same potential for obedience as the kids. The Vizsla’s reputation is to be a loyal and affectionate. Vizslas are also fine falconry dogs, whose reputation goes back a thousand years to early falconers in Hungary.

In addition to the shared vision of our family companion, I had visions of Addie pointing pheasants while my falcon waited on overhead. That was never realized, because early in her training, Addie ran into the street and was struck by a car. She sustained two broken back legs and was quite scraped up. This was the first time we had to decide whether to put Addie to sleep. The option for surgery was expensive. It would mean no Christmas that year. We counseled as a family, and unanimously decided that saving Addie was more important than Christmas. It was the right choice—no one grieves over missed toys.

She recovered well enough to run, but not without effort. I still took her with me to fly the falcon; she loved to chase birds around the field, as well as the drive out there. Perhaps because of our additionally investment—emotionally as well as financially—Addie endeared herself to our family and others patient enough to give in to her affection.

Last week we made another right choice. After 13 years of blessing our family, she was ready to move on. After a couple of days of final goodbyes, Addie and I made one last trip to the vet and I came home alone and with a mind full of memories.

It is difficult to understand attachment to a dog unless you’ve been attached to one yourself. And we have. Like all suspended relationships, the pain of loss is in direct measure to the amount of time and emotion invested. Because we were all fully vested, Addie’s passing is challenging, and is only supplemented by the triggers of memories that return a smile.

The day before departure, Megan, now with children of her own, came down from Salt Lake to play with Addie one last time. Addie, though tired, gave what energy she had one more time. Naturally there were tears as last good-byes were offered. As she was leaving, Megan came up to me with moist eyes and I gave her a hug. “Thanks for getting me a dog,” was all she could whisper. I couldn’t whisper anything.

What flashed back in my mind at that moment, was not just the last 13 years that we had Addie as a pet, but the 13 years our family including Addie, grew up together. It took me back to that Sunday afternoon discussion where we answered the questions about who would feed it and what about the carpet.

I reflected on how we did figure out how to train her, and who would feed her. I was also reminded that our carpet wasn’t stain free. In fact it was ruined. Ruined the first time when Addie carried herself in after the car accident. And ruined many times after that. As a pup, she chewed up a favorite falconry glove and many of our toys.

But carpet and gloves can be replaced. Over and over. What can’t be replaced or taken away is the relationship we have all had with our dog. We learned from a being who loved unconditionally. She never seemed to have a bad day or be in a sour mood. Never measured her affection based on your performance. She provided opportunities to learn sensitivity, to learn to love. This is evident in how we feel at her passing. She wasn’t just a dog, something to throw food at when it barks at the neighbor’s dog.

Yes, cliché as it sounds, Addie was a member of our family. And I wouldn’t trade the love and relationship my kids developed with Addie over the years for all the new carpet possible. Kids don’t have lasting relationships with carpet.

Our experience with Addie is a tribute to JaLee who was willing to sacrifice a spot-free house to let a dog and some kids grow up together. (Not to mention a falcon or two which helped Shayne grow up.) Some measure a woman’s worth by how clean her floor is. And while for the past 13 years, JaLee may have forfeited first place in the clean floor division, she gets first place in the relationship division, including her relationship with Addie. And in the end, we take our relationships into the next life and leave our carpets here.

So thank you JaLee for letting us get a dog. And thank you Megan for asking.

Twas The Night

[I wrote this for our Ward Relief Society Christmas gathering. Relief Society is the organization for women in the LDS Church whose function is to keep the men in their place.]

Shayne Clarke

Twas The Night

For Christmas 2010

Twas the night before Christmas…well actually that’s not really true. It started the day after Christmas last year. I got up early, took all my Christmas down—it had been up since the day after Halloween—cooked a big batch of pancakes and put them in the oven to keep warm until everyone woke up, and then I headed out the door for the stores.

I wanted to be first in line for the returns. My strategy was to catch the clerks while they were still fresh, thinking they might overlook the fact that some of my receipts got sucked up with the ribbons and shredded wrapping paper. I prefer cash back instead of one of those in-store gift cards that spends months surfing in my purse.

My strategy worked: I got there first, got the fresh clerk, and ended up with cash. Then I saw the After Christmas sales. Couldn’t resist. I had some cash, why not? Maybe I could get a jump on this year’s Christmas. The wrapping paper was a smart buy because when was the last time you saw wrapping paper with an expiration date? Exactly. And it never goes out of style. The same with the Scotch tape. Clear is clear and is always in fashion.

Then I got the brilliant-at-the-time idea of buying presents for my family for this Christmas. 20% off everything in the store. I took the gamble on basketball shoes, video games and male teenage cologne.

Just a week ago as I was putting the presents under the tree, feeling so caught up and smug for my purchases last December 26^th, I asked our sophomore son what size basketball shoe he wore--14. 14?! Who wears a size 14 basketball shoe that is not making millions? I guess my son. I returned the shoes and because it had been more than six months, I got store credit.

I didn’t fair very well on the video game either. I guess Kill Your Parents III is the latest and I had gotten Kill Your Parents II. I think I’m fine with the cologne. It’s called Essence of NASCAR and that never goes out of style.

And then I had my little incident in the SuperMart parking lot. Where’s the Christmas spirit? I just barely bump this guy’s BMW and he jumps out of his car screaming like mad fans at a hockey game. He yelled at me until he was out of breath. All I did was smear some road mud on his pearly white bumper. It’s not like I set his air bag off.

So much for shopping.

It’s still the night before Christmas--3:46 a.m. to be exact. Earl went to bed after he duct-taped the sled thing together. I guess all the nuts and bolts didn’t come in the box. He was muttering something about his blood pressure pills when he left and hoping to dream of dancing sugar plums.

I know I have to get up in a few hours myself--we still have Joey who believes in Santa even though Kevin proved it otherwise on the Internet--but I can’t seem to move. I’m still recovering from our Christmas Eve traditions with Earl’s family.

Every year it’s the same--a command performance at his Mother’s house. We don’t just read from Luke, we act it out: full costumes, music from an old cassette, and the nativity with live animals—not donkeys and sheep, but cats and dogs and Melba’s parrot who has been trained to say, Happy New Year, in the same voice as Frosty the Snowman. It’s cute the first time you hear it, but the hapless bird repeats it over and over all year.

And then there is the update from Earl’s uncle Ron, who didn’t go to college but has read more books than a college librarian to make up for it. He usually has something obscure to say about the town of Bethlehem, taxation systems of the ancient world, or who the three wise men were. One year he was sure there were pre-earth ministers who later became the Three Nephites. This year he enlightened us on which galaxy the New Star came from. He kept his presentation to just under an hour and a half. My kids were balancing spoons on their noses.

Aunt Bethel, or “Aunt Crazy Neck” as my boys call her due to an abnormal growth on the back of her neck, was there in fine form as well. She offered her “famous” toffee peanut brittle. Bless her heart. I remember it being tasty the first year when she made that huge batch, but it’s been several years now and she still distributes the surplus every year.

My kids once put a piece of her toffee in a glass of water to see how long it would take to dissolve. I threw it out after a week.

After Uncle Ron’s star trek, we spent 45 minutes listening to the men argue about what “cattle lowing” meant. I checked out 15 seconds after the first moo.

Finally, just before midnight we arrived home. This is always a favorite time for Earl because our thoughtful neighbors often leave treats on our doorstep. His favorite is the gooey marshmallow chocolate popcorn from the Kirbys.

Tonight was no exception. There at the door was a small assortment of food gifts. Earl bounced out the door and up to the step only to stop short. Someone had gotten there first.

Gilligan, the neighborhood dog whose theme song is Born Free and who Earl calls IP Freely, apparently got there first. Gilligan had helped himself to a fine plate of hot chocolate chip, caramel, fudge and marshmallow brownies.

When he saw Earl, Gilligan bolted off with the last brownie in his marshmallow mouth, stopping on his way off the porch to spray our little Oregon Grape bush who tries desperately to survive the hourly nitrogen sprinkle.

Earl bought himself a bb gun this year for an early Christmas present, and ran off to find it. I told him it would shoot his eye out. He said Gilligan has a greater chance of being a pirate for Halloween than he did.

We finally got everyone and everything in the house and settled down. I put the book on exercise and nutrition I got from Earl’s mother—I get one every year—under the tree and sent the kids to bed.

After Earl was gone and I was done playing Santa’s helper, I sat down on the couch with a cup of warm hot chocolate. I looked at the gifts and up at our tree trying to just focus on one ornament at a time. Then I closed my eyes and tried to sift all the hectic out of my life. It was Christmas tomorrow. I was finally ready—at least my gifts were all ready.

After who knows how long, I opened my eyes and stared down at my favorite little nativity. It’s the one I’ve had since I was a child. The first present I remember from my mother. The colors are a worn pastel fading just a little each year.

The closer I looked, I noticed something wrong. Someone had broken and tried to repair the little baby Jesus. I guess they thought I wouldn’t notice. I did. Both hands, those little hands that seem to reach up to Mary and Joseph had broken off and were glued back on, but they were off just a little.

“Great,” I thought, reflecting back on my Christmas until then, “Now I have an imperfect Jesus.” I’ll have to throw him away and buy another one. I could get a good buy at the after Christmas sales if I have the nerve to go out.

But this one wouldn’t be available. It hasn’t been available for thirty years. This one was from my childhood and they don’t sell childhood at the after Christmas sales.

I started rubbing my temples. The after Christmas sales. I wasn’t ready for the after Christmas sales, and then I felt bad for spending the night before Christmas thinking about the day after Christmas. What to do with my broken and patched up Jesus? I looked down at his little cherubic face, rosy cheeks and outstretched hands which would never be the same.

There would always be something wrong with his hands. And then it struck me. The Jesus I worshipped in church and tried to during the week had imperfect hands. They were scarred.

Suddenly, I was filled with Easter thoughts, thinking of how those scars got there. I was thinking of his death instead of his birth and then back to the manger, his birth and the little broken hands.

I couldn’t help but think of the gift his imperfect hands represented. The gift of eternal life, the promise of peace both on earth and in heaven and in the future heaven.

At that moment I felt my own peace on earth, even if just for tonight. The stores are closed, the cars are parked, and the kids are asleep. I knew that across the world wars would take the night off and peace would be born and live a little life all on its own.

It was a silent night there on my couch as I looked down at my little imperfect Jesus. The same who represents the most perfect to ever walk the earth.

Yes, my little Jesus now reached up with imperfect hands, but I felt them reach up to me as perfectly as ever in my life.

It was a silent night, that night before Christmas. A holy night indeed. And I slept sweetly and dreamed of taking my turn to hold the little Jesus, Mary’s perfect son, and to let my soul praise him as I put my lips to his forehead.

© Shayne Clarke 2010

Base 10

[I wrote a bunch of stuff while I commuted between Connecticut and NYC back in the 80s. I thought, just for grins, I would start posting a few selections. ]

Another unspoken rule on the train was to never read your seatmate’s work, at least not while they were still working on it. I recall a day when we were rattling down the tracks, three-deep in a seat. I was on the aisle. The middle man was madly working on a report which obviously had a pregnant deadline. He was pecking away on his calculator like a woodpecker going for the last bug in a birch.

The guy in the window seat was apparently sleeping. I was not working on anything or sleeping. I was just looking around for something to arrest my attention, when the middle man suddenly erupted with a distinct $#*!! Middle Man’s calculator had stopped calculating.

As his heart rate accelerated and he began to bang his calculator about, the man on the other side of him, Window Man, pulled out a calculator, and said evenly, “Here, use mine. You need base-10, right?" Now how would Window Man know what Middle Man’s calculation needs were if he had not been reading the other man's report? I wanted to chip in that back on page 34 he had a comma splice, but felt in light of the anxiety over his @*#$!! calculator, I decided to hold my review.

“No man is an island,” Donne said. And that was certainly true when we were three to a seat on the Metro North. It was also symbolic of how truly helpful people were. We all appeared to be solitary sojourners, not really interested in the needs of others (unless they wanted to sit by you); but the moment there was a crisis, help was often an elbow away.

More Scribbles on Twilight

[This was originally posted on June 10, 2008 and updated just a few minutes ago. Warning, this is long and really not that interesting. Go read Brian Doyle instead.]

I finished reading Twilight by Stephanie Meyer last night. Why Twilight? U2’s PopMart tour in 1997 included an outrageous stage set including a huge mirror-ball lemon. When asked “Why a lemon?” by reporters, The Edge replied, "Why not a lemon?" Why Twilight? Why not Twilight?

One of the reasons I read Twilight is to see why it is so compelling for so many people—particularly women kind of people. There is a strange energy about it. Some have talked about it in such addictive terms, like Diet Coke or European chocolate. Others, wanting to raise themselves above the common folk, look down their noses at it. Better to read Jane Austin or Emily Bronte.

Am I comparing Meyer to these seasoned standards of literature? No, not comparing or contrasting, I will leave that discussion for the academics. And such discussion rages on. There are Web sites and blogs galore that defend and critique, praise and put down the morality, the academic validity, and so forth. And then you add the Mormon spin to the whole business and it doesn’t take too many Googles on the Web to see that folks are pretty exercised about these tales.

But in the end, that’s what they are. They are tales. They are stories, and we all like to read or listen to a great story. And we need a good story to give our heads a rest from the reality of our own lives sometimes. I read Twilight to see what all the fuss is about. And now I get it. It is a compelling read, and in my view, a great story. Was it the Great American Novel? I wasn’t looking to read the Great American Novel. Did it take into consideration and treat well all the moral issues of the day? I don’t know.

Should we who are trying to be perfect by the weekend spend our time here, or much rather in the scriptures or an LDS historical novel where we at least get credit for studying Church History? I think it is possible to read Stephanie Meyer and still obtain the highest degree of the highest glory.

And actually I don’t wish to spend any more time analyzing it. There are thousands of sites doing just that. I would rather read than write about reading, so I shall quit writing and get started on New Moon, which I have already heard isn’t as good as the others, so I will start liking it from the first page.

[Updated 7-8-10]

I did get started, read New Moon, which in fact wasn’t as good as the rest, and did read the rest, which I did like. And now the movies are out. Eclipse is in the theaters now and the early reviews are in. Something about Jacob’s Abs and so it goes. I liked the first movie, and didn’t see the second. I’ll probably rent it and then see Eclipse on the big screen. The music is always better there.

The other day as I finished Harry Potter Seven, I made some pithy remark on Facebook about being able to argue about the literary merits of the Twilight Saga. Someone said, “Okay, do it.”

Hmm. Note to self: Don’t make pithy remarks on Facebook late at night. Some people might actually be reading that stuff.

Does the Twilight Saga have literary merit? I would repeat some of what I wrote above whenever it was I finished Twilight. I would say the discussion comes down to compared to what? Compared to the literary canon adorning good English professors’ bookshelves? Naw. But it never set itself up to be a contributor to the literary canon. Stephanie would be the first to make that point as she spent her school days reading that stuff.

The purists might argue that being a novel is the first sin Twilight commits. So it is a matter of degree. If you could have read the Twilight saga on your own without people telling you it’s good or bad or evil or magic or too this or that, you may have just thought, okay, not that good, or interesting conflict, and tossed it on the pile of books on your night stand and start in on the next one.

When the media gets a hold of a story and blows it up on the big screen and the reviews pour in, we immediately want to take a side. There is a part of us that resents the popular. It took me years to see Star Wars because everyone told me how great it was and I didn’t want them forming my opinion before I got the chance to.

By the time I got to Twilight, I had seen and heard the volley of opinions and as a writer was intrigued to find out what all the fuss was about. So, while I tried to have an independent opinion, I was still listening to the arguments in my head, and as much as I tried to just read it and enjoy the ride, I was studying it—reading and analyzing at the same time.

I continually asked myself what the elements were that was making Twilight so intriguing out of all the novels that wander into bookstores every day. And I’m not sure I know. Perhaps I got tired of thinking about it and moved on to the next book.

As I said, I did like the story. I used to watch Dark Shadows with Barnabas Collins on weekday afternoons. Maybe I have a thing for vampires. I liked the plot. How does a family of vampires get along with society? Sure the language lagged and glistening Edward didn’t do much for me, but I really liked Alice. So cute and nice and yet so dangerous.

A waste of time to read them? Certainly not. To read them more than once? Well maybe. I challenge my business communication students--especially the husky males--to read Twilight. They look at me like I stepped off the wrong bus. Perhaps I have. Part of my reason is to get them to do something out of their ordinary, to start thinking outside their box and to connect with their culture, which at the moment includes Harry Potter and the Twilight saga.

Tiki Man

It is officially July 4th as of 18 minutes ago. Happy Birthday America. I guess I should write about what is right or wrong with America or something about the flag or apple pie or Chevrolet now that America officially owns Chevrolet, but I'm not going to. I want to write about my Tiki Man. He stands tall with his head on fire just off my front porch.

He has a strange face that looks stolen from a totem pole or the Polynesian Cultural Center or perhaps from Survivor.

Patrick just got home and had a package of "Whistly Petes" fireworks. He said, "found out you can make a pretty good bomb with them." Ah, the joys of summer and the rocket's red glare of birthday celebrations.

I pulled out my Brian Doyle book last night as I was fighting the need for sleep. I wanted one more brain snack before I crashed. He is one of my favorite essayists, and because of him, whenever I try to write a blog entry, I think it has to be polished and semi-perfect. That's why I write so infrequently. Last night's chapter was just stuff he saw as he and his son walked about. No hidden meanings, no layered approach, no adherence to rules--even the adherence to the no-rule rule--just a snapshot of what he saw.

It helped me relax about blogging. Reminded me of what I tell my students. First, to write just to write to get stuff out of the brain and on paper so you can poke it and see what it does. Second, to not be worried about what you write, because no one reads this stuff anyway.

So there you have it. First draft, no Word workout, and then dropped into Blogger, just a brain dump, like blowing the nose.

So again, happy birthday America, and may my tiki man never lose his flickering orange head.

But wait. It's raining! How cool is that, rain sprinkling through the Japanese Maple at 12:41 am. Makes me want to sleep out in the backyard in a light tent and a warm pillow. Maybe I will just dream the rest.

Swine Flu Advice

If you wake up feeling like this, please DO NOT go to work!

Happy Birthday to Me

Happy Birthday to me!

This week, I had one more day of remembering I was born. It was a pleasant day. I’m on the advisory board for a great company by the name of Wendia North America. I spent the morning working with them. Their CEO, Hal Tueller, took me to lunch at Bajio. I had great food and no one sang to me which was a bonus.

After lunch I loaded up the birds and went out to Cedar Valley where I flew all three of them: two prairie falcons and my aplomado. The prairies are being trained to fly to the balloon which keeps them in shape and trains them to stick around me. I’m flying the alpomado to the balloon to get him back in shape.

I hope to be hunting with them very soon. I was out there for about three hours. I have a trailer for the giant balloon and the trailer is carpeted and has a nice soft chair I paid $5 for. It was just nice to take my time and relax with the birds. When they were all flown and put away I looked to the east and the sun had splashed rosy pink on the tops of the mountains surrounding Alpine. It was beautiful and then I looked back to the west and the sky had the same hue brushed easily against the clouds. It was though color had been flung against the canvas and the clouds were the only thing the color stuck to.

I wrapped up my day with dinner at La Dolce Vita our favorite restaurant with good friends. It was just relaxing and energizing enough to be complete. I also had nice phone calls, voice messages and Facebook birthday wishes. Nice people around me.

Since it went so well, I think I will do it again next year about this same time.