Lost Dogs and Mom & Pop Shops

We lost our dog the other day. He just never came back. It was completely traumatic, even for a non-dog person like me. But nothing will make you realize faster just how much of a dog person you have become than losing your dog.

That unconditional love gets under your skin.

We let Woody out the door in the morning for a simple pee; just like he has done every morning for the past two years. An hour later, Woody still wasn’t home.

“He’ll come home,” I said to my husband, who was frustrated and talking through his teeth because he needed to get to work. “He always does.” I had already left for the airport, confident that Woody would show up momentarily. And it’s true. If our other dog, Tucker, is a mama’s boy who sticks right near my ankles, Woody has the soul of a wanderer. He likes to take his own route. He is mellow and not a very good listener. He might turn when you call his name. He might not. He is a dog on his own time, and he likes to sniff and lick and check stuff out. My sister calls him aloof. If he was a human, he’d probably smoke lots of pot.

Hours later, Woody still hadn’t returned. Panic set in. But still, I assured my children, who had been out tearfully searching for him with the babysitter, that I was hopeful. I reminded them that well meaning neighbors had returned him on occasion when he was sniffing across the street at the school, or too close to the road. He isn’t the brightest pup in the dog house when it comes to cars.

Across our town, neighbors began to mobilize in that way neighbors do when wagons need to be circled and there is action that can be taken. My kids made posters with “big reward” and stapled them to telephone poles. Three of my girlfriends went to delis, the pharmacy and restaurants, places of business on the edges of our village to sound the alarm. Another friend took off to the town golf course with her dog, calling Woody’s name. How far could a little fluffy white dog get?

By nightfall my kids were panicked and I was in Nashville, ready to speak at a conference. Their pain was physically hurting me. My husband had left work early to drive the streets around our home. The groomer called, concerned. The kids called me crying. Alone in my hotel room I felt helpless and small. Unspoken between us all was the fact that there were frequently coyote sightings in our town. Woody was appetizer-size. When I closed my eyes to sleep I envisioned them circling, licking their chops with yellow eyes like the hyenas in “The Lion King” movie.

By day two, everyone was on the look out for the little white dog. But we had all come up empty. Coming back home from Nashville and walking into our one-dog house was sad. The kids were sad. The one dog was sad. We all tried to imagine what Woody was doing. How had he made it through the cold night? Had he?

At 6:30 the next morning when the phone rang, I just knew. He was found. A kind man had seen him chugging along on a highway overpass and stopped his truck to retrieve him. He’d wandered 8.6 miles away. As I sobbed into the phone and scribbled down the man’s information, I silently said a prayer of thanks. Woody’s good outcome would help shape my kid’s world view. It would mean that my words to them, about hope and about keeping the faith, which sounded so hollow yesterday, had proven me to be right. They could tell this story to their own kids some day, or use it to comfort another friend whose dog was lost.

Our journey to find Woody, however, had another interesting consequence. It reaffirmed my commitment to the importance of neighborhood; of supporting the local stores and merchants and businesses who make up a town.

My friend Karen, who had given up a morning to go into the businesses in the surrounding area, reported to me just how concerned the local shopkeepers were.

“Did they find the little white dog?” they’d ask her as she did her shopping or picked up a prescription. And the patrons would all look up hopefully, connected, for the moment, by one family’s overarching loss.

But here was the thing. When she went to the family-owned pharmacy and the paint store, the bagel shop, the book store and the deli, all of them eagerly encouraged her to post the notices.

In the giant chain stores, however, the big marquee pharmacy, the local Starbucks, the office store, there were “policies” in place about these notices. Sorry as the managers were to tell her no, and Karen could see it in their eyes, they had to stick to the rules.

I tend to shop local. I try to buy from the family store whenever I can. I’m willing to pay a few extra bucks to keep the small town stores and businesses alive in the face of so much national cookie cutter competition.

I like the fact that my local pharmacy has a salesman who always wants to talk to me about a homeopathic option, or that they will order anything for me—or ask if I want generic. I love the fact that my local bookstore owner, Patrick, knows when my book readings are and recommends an upcoming book he thinks I might like.

Losing Woody was scary and sad. But everything has an upside if you tip it just right. The way that my town and the shopkeepers in particular pulled together and offered their windows to help, it just renewed my conviction to community.

As I just put the polishing touches on this piece, the phone rang and the pharmacy was calling. “Was Woody found?” the lady at the other side of the line asked. “We’ve all been so worried.” It really does take a village.

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The Ask

“Mom?” says my nine year old. “Why is it that only boys can ask out girls? Why can’t girls ever ask boys?” I stopped in my tracks. She is nine. But here in 2010, I had absolutely no good rationale for her. Part of me is amazed that, in fourth grade, we are already dealing with liking boys. And the other part, the feminist part, the girl-coming-of-age as Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem were throwing off shackles and burning bras and asking just these sorts of questions, well, that part of me was thrilled. “There is no reason,” I said. “No reason you can’t ask.” Inside I was glowing a bit, feeling a moment of pride and hoping against hope my daughter would always see things this equally, the way little kids are born colorblind until they absorb prejudice through osmosis. Somewhere in there she had listened and observed, I thought to myself. Somewhere in there my daughter had gotten the message that girls were just as valuable as boys—that they could be rocket scientists and cure cancer and be president (almost) and do anything a guy could do. And so I only hesitated for a second before answering. The hesitation part- that was probably the tradition and decorum side of me; the part that had worn white gloves and learned how to foxtrot at dancing school and had waited all year for the once chance—at Sadie Hawkins dance -- to legally ask a boy out in Albany, NY. This boy thing, it had been creeping up. I’ve long been shut out of most of the doings of my oldest son and daughter. They worry that I talk too much or write too much or share too much with my sisters (their aunts) and the mothers of their friends. We’ve never had one of those “soul-bearing-tell-Mom-everything-in-the-car” relationships, my older kids and I. But then again, I didn’t with my own mother either as a teenager. But my daughter? At nine she is too young to fully grasp that there are other places to go to for advice. I’m still sort of cool to her. She thinks I know lots of things. And so she has told me – and I’ve been careful with this knowledge -- that she likes a boy. And her friends have told her he likes her back. Now my daughter is pretty fearless. She has guts and balls and knows how to stick her chin out. But inside she is mush. Nick names can hurt her and she loves to be snuggled and tickled and she has just the softest, softest skin, like those tissues with built in moisturizer. How can we have gone from baby soft skin to asking boys out? My babies are all gone now. “Ahhhhhhh” says the voice in my head, the one who got two teenagers to where they are now. “You know how this happens—it happens like greased lighting, like a bungee jump off a cliff.” And it happens especially if you aren’t looking. “I like Jimmy,” she tells me. “Yeah? What do you like about him?” I’m playing it cool. “He’s nice.” She smiles. Nice is on the right track. And so the next day, when she comes home from school, breathless and bursting with excitement and shutting the door abruptly on her twin sister so she can tell me the news alone, she has asked him out. “What did he say?” I ask, but I can already tell from her smug smile and the high color on her cheeks, that it has gone her way. “He said yes,” she looks down, beaming, as if all that happiness in one nine-year-old body is just too much to bear. Fast forward a few weeks and by now, the initial excitement has died down. For a while there Jimmy seemed slipped into every conversation. But not much happens when you go out in fourth grade. You don’t really even acknowledge or talk to one another. That would be too embarrassing. But its hard not to be proud—proud of what it took for her to ask the questions, of me, to ask him, to take control of the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big believer in tradition. I like ritual and ceremony. I am more drawn to old things; things that contain the secrets of generations, things well-worn and wise, over the shiny and new. But I’m proud of my daughter for questioning the status quo and for not settling. There will be enough of that in life and relationships – mixed in with the great parts she will uncover a little settling , a lot of compromise, some tempering of dreams and a dash of cold reality when she charts her own course. That’s simply how most of us move through the world as human beings. Its not a cop out. It’s life—with all its peaks and valleys. But for now? I love that I get to watch her burn bright and strong, like the tail of a comet. “Mom?” says my nine year old. “Why is it that only boys can ask out girls? Why can’t girls ever ask boys?” I stopped in my tracks. She is nine. But here in 2010, I had absolutely no good rationale for her. Part of me is amazed that, in fourth grade, we are already dealing with liking boys. And the other part, the feminist part, the girl-coming-of-age as Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem were throwing off shackles and burning bras and asking just these sorts of questions, well, that part of me was thrilled. “There is no reason,” I said. “No reason you can’t ask.” Inside I was glowing a bit, feeling a moment of pride and hoping against hope my daughter would always see things this equally, the way little kids are born colorblind until they absorb prejudice through osmosis. Somewhere in there she had listened and observed, I thought to myself. Somewhere in there my daughter had gotten the message that girls were just as valuable as boys—that they could be rocket scientists and cure cancer and be president (almost) and do anything a guy could do. And so I only hesitated for a second before answering. The hesitation part- that was probably the tradition and decorum side of me; the part that had worn white gloves and learned how to foxtrot at dancing school and had waited all year for the once chance—at Sadie Hawkins dance -- to legally ask a boy out in Albany, NY. This boy thing, it had been creeping up. I’ve long been shut out of most of the doings of my oldest son and daughter. They worry that I talk too much or write too much or share too much with my sisters (their aunts) and the mothers of their friends. We’ve never had one of those “soul-bearing-tell-Mom-everything-in-the-car” relationships, my older kids and I. But then again, I didn’t with my own mother either as a teenager. But my daughter? At nine she is too young to fully grasp that there are other places to go to for advice. I’m still sort of cool to her. She thinks I know lots of things. And so she has told me – and I’ve been careful with this knowledge -- that she likes a boy. And her friends have told her he likes her back. Now my daughter is pretty fearless. She has guts and balls and knows how to stick her chin out. But inside she is mush. Nick names can hurt her and she loves to be snuggled and tickled and she has just the softest, softest skin, like those tissues with built in moisturizer. How can we have gone from baby soft skin to asking boys out? My babies are all gone now. “Ahhhhhhh” says the voice in my head, the one who got two teenagers to where they are now. “You know how this happens—it happens like greased lighting, like a bungee jump off a cliff.” And it happens especially if you aren’t looking. “I like Jimmy,” she tells me. “Yeah? What do you like about him?” I’m playing it cool. “He’s nice.” She smiles. Nice is on the right track. And so the next day, when she comes home from school, breathless and bursting with excitement and shutting the door abruptly on her twin sister so she can tell me the news alone, she has asked him out. “What did he say?” I ask, but I can already tell from her smug smile and the high color on her cheeks, that it has gone her way. “He said yes,” she looks down, beaming, as if all that happiness in one nine-year-old body is just too much to bear. Fast forward a few weeks and by now, the initial excitement has died down. For a while there Jimmy seemed slipped into every conversation. But not much happens when you go out in fourth grade. You don’t really even acknowledge or talk to one another. That would be too embarrassing. But its hard not to be proud—proud of what it took for her to ask the questions, of me, to ask him, to take control of the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big believer in tradition. I like ritual and ceremony. I am more drawn to old things; things that contain the secrets of generations, things well-worn and wise, over the shiny and new. But I’m proud of my daughter for questioning the status quo and for not settling. There will be enough of that in life and relationships – mixed in with the great parts she will uncover a little settling , a lot of compromise, some tempering of dreams and a dash of cold reality when she charts her own course. That’s simply how most of us move through the world as human beings. Its not a cop out. It’s life—with all its peaks and valleys. But for now? I love that I get to watch her burn bright and strong, like the tail of a comet.

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The Yellow Boat

“Whoa!” I jumped up off my beach chair and began waving my hands in the air over my head, trying to get his attention. “Slow down!!!!” I did a thumbs down move designed to get him to cut the speed. My Dad had just barreled past the five mile an hour buoys in the bay at a fast clip and brushed too-near a kayaker in our busy August bay who was shepherding three swimmers. As he raced past her, oblivious of the speed, she set her paddle down and turned her head. I could not see her expression up close but her body language said everything. My Dad was flying, but the look on his face was priceless. He was in heaven. For him, the open water was the last place in his life, the last place on earth, that he had any autonomy. It was a sunny day and puffy white clouds were just beginning to poke over the tops of the mountains. The lake was calm, his grandkids were on the beach, the wind was in the wisps of his hair and plastered across his face was a big, self-satisfied grin. My Dad has Dementia, or maybe it will soon be diagnosed as Alzheimers. I don’t much care what the term is. He is, little by little, being erased. The strong parts, the parts that cared for me and supported me are now fading. It is the three of us, his daughters, who now care for him with our Mom. Finally, a few yards beyond our raft, he saw me with my arms signaling wildly. His face fell, childlike in disappointment. I could tell he wasn’t sure exactly what he had done wrong, only that something was wrong. I was angry, maybe overly angry because I had been his last advocate. I’d been the one arguing the case to keep his dignity intact for just a few more weeks till summer came to an end. We’d taken away his driver’s license on the road, stripped him of independence in so many other areas. He’d always been a careful boater and I’d argued that if we kept watch on the shore, or volunteered to accompany him on each trip, that we could make it through this summer. By next summer it would be a whole different story. I admonished automatically in the same tone my mother uses, like an adult patronizes a child. “Dad, you were going too fast. Dad, you almost hit the kayak. Dad, there is a five mile an hour limit.” He deflated. “Well, I guess this is my, my swan song,” he stammered. His face was cloudy, his head down like a recalcitrant child. I marveled that he had pulled that phrase out of nowhere. That was a flash of my old, eloquent Dad. I argued with my sisters. “Lee, he cannot drive the boat anymore. No more boat. He is going to kill or maim someone,” said my youngest sister Meg. “Well, kill isn’t good but maim might be acceptable,” I said, to break the ice. We McConaughys were known for our gallows humor, always a wonderful diffuser to deal with strong emotions and overcharged moments. “Yeah, I guess if he just clipped off an ankle on a swimmer that wouldn’t be too bad,” said Nancy, rolling her eyes. “We’re just going to have to find a way around this, “ I said. “We need to have someone go out with him when he goes. That way we can gently remind him of the speed limit.” “We have to hide his keys,” said my sister Meg. And so, because it was two against one, we put them in a secret place in the boathouse. This way he would have to find one of us to remember where his keys were. The next day, by the time he found me, he was anguished, all riled up. He told me he had been looking for his keys for a long time. “Lets check here,” I said reaching into a coffee can. “Maybe you put them here,” I tried to keep my voice non-chalant and level, despite the deception. He looked pained, searching his memory, I assumed, for why the man who always removed his shoes indoors and carefully hung his keys on a peg each afternoon would ever put them in a rusty coffee can. He jangled the keys in his palm. “Dad, I’d love to go,” I said. “Would you take me?” It was the last thing I felt like doing. I’m not a huge boat person. Nerdy, I know, but I’d much rather read a book. I had just gotten down to the dock and spread out my towel, pulled my novel out of the beach bag. I unclipped the ropes from the dock cleat and we puttered out past the five-mile-an-hour buoys. We crossed to the other side of the lake. Sitting at the bow of the boat I helped him see the markers, gently using hand signals to indicate the rocks he needed to go around. He nodded each time. This kind of muscle memory would probably be the last to go in some ways. He’d been driving this bright yellow Boston Whaler and its aluminum predecessor before that for decades. He knew the lake and its craggy shoreline instinctively. We glided past the multi-colored sails of Sunfishes and poked into a deep bay where a turtle hopped off a log. We stared up at the face of a cliff where once, as a young man, he had climbed and almost perished before he grabbed for a small root sticking out of the rock. We had made him tell that story to us a hundred times as kids. “You wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for that root,” he’d say, sweeping his arm up toward the cliff. And we’d all stare upward, imagining my father, young and muscled, pulling himself up the face of the cliff with sheer will. He had taken us to this spot a hundred times by boat. Now, a mile across the lake from our own beach, I felt the wind tousle my hair, felt my shoulder muscles relax. I looked back at my Dad, so proud and in control at the steering wheel. This was heartbreaking, this slow leaving, this long and sputtering good-bye. What did he remember? What had he forgotten? Later that night he grabbed me and pulled me to him, for the moment confusing my name with that of my sisters, but the emotion is clear. “I love you so much,” he says to me. “I am so proud of you.” “I love you too Dad,” I say, breathing in the faint mothball scent of his summer shirt. Its muscle memory for us both.

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