RIP Good Boy

My daughter posted this picture of him when she heard the news, a decidedly more spry, less grey version of himself.  He'd been with us for 12 years, the majority of each of my kids' lives.  He was my walking companion and my wife's garden helper.  He greeted students a the door with glee and nosed them for treats.  He kept door-to-door solicitors at bay, and he did his part to protect us from the mailman and his cohorts.  He was my late-night buddy as we watched TV and shared cheese & crackers, and he was our morning alarm clock, making sure we were up to tend to the boy.

Even his most aggravating habits were part of our lives...

Tonight, though, there's the remainder of my son's sandwich on a plate in the sink... there's no one here to do his job.

Duncan made two heroic efforts in his last hour: moving from his bed to the patio door, and then crossing patio to the grass.  As a light rain began, we fetched his blanket to help carry him back inside; instead, we covered him and lay with him in the grass until he took his last breath.  We carried him the rest of the way to his final place in the garden.

I did not have to write the eulogy for my father; I did I have to write the eulogy for my brother; nor did I have to write the eulogies for several others ~ those were done for us.  Who else can speak for the dog, though, and what it is about him that we will miss about ourselves?

Some days are just like this.

Grey Man, Yellow Suit

2 A.M.  The night was beautiful -- cool and quiet.  It was the place that was open.  And the coffee was only a dollar -- any size.

I sat on the tall concrete base of a buzzing lamppost in the parking lot, Kawasaki green motorcycle in front of me, neon yellow jacket on my back, grey in my beard, and coffee in my hand...  It must have been a particularly suspicious sight -- enough so to slow passing police patrol cars to a crawl...

... and to a U-turn

... and to some more crawling

... and then some.

I was there a bit before and then some afterward.  The store was mostly empty.  A few people came and went.  There were the occasional oddballs, but nothing particularly suspicious -- except maybe for an old white guy lingering beneath a lamppost in a convenience store parking lot at 2 A.M.  Oddly, I rarely have that level of scrutiny when I sit outside after-hours at a Starbucks in a nicer part of town.  At least I wasn't rousted.

There's not much more to add to the story -- it is what it is.  To tell the story, though, is to hear the entire world of passionate interpretation.  After all, each person inevitably reveals a piece of him or herself when encountering a yellow jacket.

For the rest of the my ride through the rural county roads, I lost the thought of how we all see one another while watching watching for any sign of the road and watching for the next deer to leap out.  There was no shortage of the later.

3 A.M. on the patio.  Without a question to ask, the crickets' autumn chatter will never be heard.

Perception, Revisited

We wandered.  Opinions were only strong enough to say "not here," not strong enough to say "there."  The van practically drove itself past all of the usual places, allowing us to have the habitual debate.

As we stood in line, some fool stood up on the long picnic table bench and addressed everyone in the restaurant.  He introduced those sitting to his left and to his right, a cohort of US & UK disabled veterans who were ruck marching 1,000 miles of trip across the United States.  They were raising awareness for veteran's mental health and benefits.  They started in Los Angeles.  We caught them near Baltimore.  The next day, they would march their last 29 miles into New York City to complete their journey at the World Trade Center 9/11 Memorial.

As we sat outside, a bit more than half through our meal, one of the cohort approached us.  He introduced himself, told his story, told the team's story, and so forth.  My wife and I are veterans, so we spoke the language and had plenty of questions.  My son sat politely and entertained the few pleasantries that came his way.  A bit later, the fellow returned with the entire crew for more conversation and photos.  A few days later in their social media postings they mentioned the honor of meeting my son, reminding him to stay strong.  Soon afterward were the pictures with VP Biden and his wife, Dr. Biden, and Prince Harry -- their US & UK sponsors.

So, what happened?

I had one young fellow -- born when I was graduating high school -- telling me his story of homelessness, hardships, PTSD, suicide attempts, and so forth.  He reminded me of the number of veterans who kill themselves every day.  He told me what he owed personally to this organization as they had ultimately saved him.  Another from the cohort put his hands together, bowed, met my eyes with a smile, and welcomed me home.  I saw the randomness of the encounter -- how even our driving in circles, unable to pick a restaurant, conspired to create that moment -- and I felt the different messages resonating within me.

Clearly the cohort found something in meeting my son, sitting in his wheelchair, enjoying his BBQ chicken.  He hardly had to say a word, let alone make a speech -- they saw what they needed to see too.

And to others, there was a photo opportunity.  To the business owner sponsoring the journey, maybe there was a reaffirmation of the business' mission.  Who knows?  There was a deeply personal reminder that our individual experiences of any encounter are deeply and personally our own -- and maybe that every moment, however mundane, is precisely like this.

... and when I posted the picture and some brief thoughts to my own timeline, a friend commented "I love it!"

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In other news, this site's domain renewal is coming up again as it does every year.  Grandfathered with the initial blogger rates, it's only $10 per year... but this year, keeping it alive feels more like a work of vanity than anything else.  There are notions I've wanted to convey or to pass on -- but I'm reminded that even "one mind sharing one mind" is subject to individual interpretation.

Maybe we do all suffer alone...

... just maybe not in the way any one of us thinks.