Trying as he is, he’s always been here to stay.
Tag: Boston Terrier
Goodbye Old Friend
My husband always wanted a Boston Terrier. But the few I had known were just OK..nothing I could get excited about. So when a new puppy was in our future, he insisted we at least go and look at Bostons. So I found the best breeder in the region and grudgingly made the trip deep in the south Texas countryside. To convince him this was not the breed for us. So I could get on with the business of finding the puppy (whose breed shall remain anonymous) that was really right for us.
It was love at first sight.
Who could resist that mischievous little face! But it wasn’t just that. He was so full of joy – so excited just to be Jake. And we “got” each other. The breeder even noticed it – “He usually doesn’t like people..” she said. Thirty minutes later I was headed home with my Jake.
As anyone who has spent any time with a Boston knows, they are sweet, loving, intelligent, AND stubborn AND full of mischief.
Jake was not an easy pup. I stopped counting the shoes he destroyed. I never could find him when he didn’t want to be found. He opened cabinets and unzipped backpacks. He was an escape artist – we traced him to a friend’s pool two neighborhoods over, retrieved him from a disgruntled farmer’s chicken coop. We chased him down railroad tracks, through the piney woods. But we always found him and I think he somehow knew we would.
But Jake was so much more. We trained as a therapy team and he was a star. He brought so much joy to the people he visited. When he was with fragile patients he was a different dog, calm, sweet, loving. When we brought Jesse home, he loved her on sight. He seemed to think she was his puppy. He was her protector, her best buddy, they were inseparable. They loved
rides on the boat long walks, chew toys after
dinner. They never fought. I never heard Jake growl. His heart was soooo big.
I knew I would probably outlive Jake. But I didn’t believe it. I’ve never been prepared for the loss of a pet, but this was a sucker punch. Cancer hit him hard and took him swiftly.
Within two weeks of his first hacking cough, I was holding him in my arms as his last breath drifted from his body. It did not comfort me that his suffering was brief or that he had a good life. Nothing did. I was frozen.
After a few days I put away his harness and collar, his bowl, his favorite pillow. So I’d know he wasn’t coming back. But weeks later, I still expect to see him snoozing on the sofa, think I hear him barking at the neighbor dog, expect to see him bolting through the dog door, chasing Jesse.
Each day is less raw. And one day- it won’t be soon – as it has been for all the little animals whose lives I’ve privileged to share, I will feel more gratitude for the joy he gave me than the pain of his loss.
PEACE
This Lent, I promised myself to spend time each day away from the busy-ness of life, seeking peace – in meditation, quiet walks, reading, listening to music.  But then, as it has a way of doing, bit by distracting bit, sticky note by stick note, life happened..
So some days the best I can do is to let peace find me.
[wpvideo swHKNGKT]
WHAT THE LITTLE DOG KNEW
In a wheelchair beside the nurses’ station, a tiny old woman sits, eyes closed, lips parted, hands folded in her lap. Her head droops to one side. Ragged wisps of white hair stray across her forehead. Her nightgown is rumpled, one slipper has dropped to the floor exposing a pale bare foot.  She could be asleep, perhaps even comatose.  Visitors pass, a nurse rushes by and jostles her wheelchair but offers no apology.  No one notices.  It’s  as if she’s invisible.
As nursing homes go, it’s a good one.  It’s so  clean it’s almost unsettling,, the furnishings expensive and inoffensive,  the staff’s crisp white uniforms fairly rustle as they pass.   Vivaldi plays softly in the background. They try hard.  But it is still a nursing home.  Where no one wants to be.
A  small dog being led by a visitor trots by, then  suddenly pulls at his 
lead, resisting  his owner’s attempts to move forward.  The visitor tugs at the lead, averting her eyes from the woman in the wheelchair.  But the little dog is determined.  He sits  down by the woman’s wheelchair as if he has reached his destination.   After a few seconds, the woman opens her eyes and raises her head.  A smile spreads slowly across her weathered face at the sight of the little dog.  Her watery eyes twinkle. A soft voice breaks the silence.  It has a characteristic honeyed lilt, a pattern of speech once cultivated in finishing schools for proper southern ladies.
“Well, hello there!  And aren’t you a pretty little thing?†A bony finger reaches down and strokes the little dog’s ear. He stands, reciprocates with a swift lick of her finger, then sits again,  tongue hanging  sidewise, looking up at her expectantly. They regard each other silently.  She reaches down and gently strokes his back.
She turns to the visitor, “Do you take good care of him?â€
“Yes, I do, †the visitor says.
“Well, make sure you do, now, †she admonishes. “He needs a lot of care.”
“Don’t worry,†the visitor assures her, “I take good care of him, I promise.†A few minutes pass as the woman talks softly to the little dog.
Finally, she looks up at the visitor, as if to dismiss her. Thank you.†she says, smiling, returning her hands to her lap.  “Can he come back sometime?”
“You’re welcome, “ says the visitor. “And of course! I’ll bring him to see you again.”
The woman smiles as the visitor and the little dog walk away down the hall.
We tend to avoid  people who seem needy,  especially the elderly.  Perhaps we are afraid we can’t help, that we  will become entangled in their problems, that it will take too much of our time.  But as the little dog knew, people are not always what they seem.  And our gifts do not have to be big ones.  The little dog gave the only thing he had to give, his attention and his love, and it was enough.  In the words of  Mother Teresa, “We shall never know all the good that a simple smile can do.”
Summer Rainstorm
It is early morning and I watch the sun rise over the lake from a sagging settee on the sleeping porch.  Our Boston Terrier, Jake
peacefully naps  at my feet.  As I sip my morning coffee, I watch his rhythmic breathing  punctuated now and then by a twitch of his ears, a muffled yip or a brief pummeling of his legs. Maybe he dreams of chasing  a squirrel or a cat.  Maybe he doesn’t dream at all. I wish I knew. I wish he could tell me.
Our house is on a cove. which  this morning I share only with  nature’s creatures, or more accurately, they share with me.   A great white heron perches on a rock, his large round 
body impossibly balanced on  one long thin leg. A school of ducks fat from the bread we feed them  paddle languidly by and assorted songbirds compete for air space. An occasional bird of prey soars overhead in search of food. Today there are only buzzards and hawks but on rare occasions, we see golden eagles. I wonder why we revere hawks and eagles, and find their buzzard relatives disgusting. I wonder if buzzards know this.  I wonder if Eagles do.
The loblolly pines on the distant banks are a blue-green blur in the morning light. One by one, lights appear in houses along the shore as daybreak approaches. A lone fishing boat advances slowly from the far side of the lake, the sounds of its outboard motor growing louder as it nears. I watch it come closer, its metal hull slapping on the waves, a flag  of Louisiana fluttering from a standard.  It is a bass boat, rigged out for serious fisherman.  Its occupants are visible now, two young men in camouflage hats and gear. Seeing me, they wave, and I wave back as they veer into the main channel of the lake, headed for the fishing grounds.
The statue-still heron on the rock  cocks his head sidewise, and although I cannot see it, I know that  his steely, menacing eye is intently following the movement of an unsuspecting fish below the water’s surface. He holds his preposterous pose perfectly still, patiently waiting for the right time to strike. Suddenly, and with lightning speed, his long pointed beak jabs into the water.  His ambush is successful; he  emerges with his prey in his beak,  lifts into the sky and soars above the lake, his long neck curved backwards towards his body, legs straight behind.  I watch his great wings
 gracefully folding and unfolding, embracing the morning air as he glides away.
It is perfectly still in the aftermath of the kill.  The only sounds are the waves lapping at the wooden bulkheads below and the chirping of a small martin warily eyeing the bird feeder in our crepe myrtle tree.  The rising sun glittering on the undulating waves creates the illusion of tinsel blanketing the lake. Only the slowly escalating motion of the waves foreshadow  a storm brewing in the south.
A squirrel hops effortlessly between the limbs of the sugar maples bordering the lake and disappears into the high branches of a nearby elm tree. The creatures, sensing Mother Nature’s mood about to change, disappear into their nests or hiding places. Blue-grey clouds slide in front of the sun and jagged lines of lightning, white against the darkening clouds light up the sky,  followed by thunder claps, getting louder as the storm nears.  Jake is suddenly on his feet and into my lap, ears back, trembling, his nap destroyed.  His big brown sad eyes seem to plead with me to make it go away. I wonder why he is so afraid, and I wish I could make him understand that he’s safe.
Curtains of rain advance across the lake minutes later as the storm gathers force.  The first raindrops hit the tin roof of the sleeping porch in single sharp pings. Slowly they  intensify into a steady rumble. The wind 
has picked up now, and the lake is choppy.  The rain slices at the side of the house and the wind drives it into the porch. I watch the rain pounding on the lake and wonder about the young men and their ill-fated fishing trip.
I revel in Mother Nature’s operatic performance and  am loathe to give up my front row seat. I hold Jake tightly to calm him but the thunder is getting louder and he is increasingly more anxious.  I cannot stay.  But for this moment, I am at peace with myself, the lake and its creatures.
Big lessons from a small dog
In a wheelchair beside the Nurses’ Station, a tiny old woman sits, eyes closed, lips parted, hands folded in her lap. Her head droops to one side. Â Ragged wisps of hair fall across her forehead. Â Her nightgown is rumpled, one slipper missing.
She is alone. Silent, but not asleep.  Visitors pass, a staff member rushing by jostles her wheelchair but offers no apology.  She doesn’t speak. Hours pass. No one notices. Until…
A small dog being led by a visitor stops, pulls at his lead and sits quietly at the woman’s feet. After a few seconds, the woman opens her eyes and raises her head. A smile steals slowly across her weathered face at the sight of the little dog. Her watery eyes twinkle.  A surprisingly cheery voice breaks the silence. “Well, hello there! Aren’t you a pretty little thing?†A bony finger reaches down, strokes the little dog’s ear. He stands, reciprocates with a swift lick of his tongue, then sits again, looks up at her expectantly. They regard each other quietly. She reaches down and gently strokes his back.
She turns to the visitor, “Do you take good care of him?â€
“Yes, I do, †the visitor says.
“Well,  make sure you do, now, †she admonishes.  Her soft voice carries a certain honeyed lilt,  typical of that taught  in finishing schools for genteel southern ladies.
“Don’t worry,†the visitor assures her, “I’ll take good care of him, I promise.† A few minutes pass as the woman talks quietly to the little dog.
Finally, she looks up at the visitor, “Thank you.†she says softly.  “Can he come back sometime?”
“You’re welcome, “ says the visitor.  “Of course!  I’ll bring him to see you again.”
The woman smiles as the visitor and the little dog walk away down the hall.
——————–
I was the visitor, and the little dog was my Boston Terrier, Jake.  I was humbled by his simple and spontaneous act of caring.  My heart was heavy as I walked away, suddenly and acutely aware of the lonely, forgotten people around me; people who seldom if ever received visitors, whose lives had so little joy.  I had been one of the guests rushing past.  But what could I do? I didn’t know anything about her.  What if I upset her?  Besides I was busy with all the cumbersome paperwork and scheduling  for my husband’s  short-term physical therapy.
But, in fact….The entire episode lasted less than 5 minutes.  No introductions were made, none needed.  No approval forms were required,  no money changed hands.  A little dog simply administered the strongest medicine of all: love freely given with no thought of return.  Can I do as much?