We sat down. The sun was so warm and soothing that we both quickly fell into a deep sleep. I was curled in a ball, my head resting against Brandy’s solid back. My Easter basket lay askew.
We were awakened by an intense light beaming down on us. It grew more intense and I had to cover my eyes. Slowly descending from the sky were two men. Suddenly they were both kneeling at my sides. Brandy watched but didn’t make a sound.
They were angels, and they had beautiful white wings.
They were just as I have always envisioned them to be, except they were enormous. I’d guess each one was fifteen feet tall. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The light weakened and I could finally look at them without squinting.
The angels were dressed identically. Both were carrying huge swords in one hand and shields made of gold in the other. What I remember most clearly were the identical robes they wore. They were embroidered tapestry robes, heavily detailed with dog-hunt scenes, embellished with precious stones, diamonds, and rubies. The gold fabric was ornate and heavy. Brandy put her paw on the hem of one angel’s robe, and he smiled, put down his sword and caressed her head. No words were spoken.
Through the same opening between the trees came another burst of light. Before me was a figure I recognized immediately from my studies. It was God. He said three words to me: “I love you.”
Then He disappeared.
The angels stood up. In the same voice, they told me that God had prepared a special place for all his animals, where I would one day be reunited with Brandy. They told me I could rest assured that all children and all animals go to heaven.
The angels smiled and ascended back through the opening at the top of the lilacs. They were both wearing leather sandals, and that bit of leather was the last thing I saw. Then there was a final gust of wind, and the fragrance of the lilacs grew even more potent, then slowly faded away.
I picked up my Easter basket and ran home. I felt very calm and happy. My mother greeted me and was concerned to see that I was completely sunburned. According to her, I had only been gone for an hour. It seemed to me I had been gone for a long time.
I have never shared this part of my story with anyone before. Not because I thought that no one would believe me; on the contrary, I’m sure my family would have. I kept the experience to myself because I’m selfish. It was all mine. I have used it to empower myself during difficult times in my life.
Over the next ten years, Brandy, who was literally touched by an angel, saved my life and helped me avoid tragedy on many more occasions. She provided me with love and laughter. She was extraordinary in every sense of the word.
At fourteen, Brandy died in her sleep in upstate New York. I’ve only seen my father cry twice in his life. Once when we left the hospital room where my mother had undergone major surgery from a ski accident, and that night when Brandy died.
She was wrapped in her favorite blanket and buried underneath the lilac trees. I think of her often and miss her deeply. She was a special dog, a kind of angel, who came into my childhood to love and protect me. Brandy’s love felt real and strong back then. Now it’s like a place beside the lilac trees I can return to again and again. It sustains me still.
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J. R. G. DeMarco: THE LITTLE EMPEROR
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Dogs often assume a hallowed place in our memories. The gloss of time burnishes their good qualities and fades their bad ones. But Philadelphia journalist and writer Joe DeMarco remembers the good and the bad in the dog of his childhood, a mixed breed his brother named Caesar. From a pup so tiny he could fit into the palm of Joe’s mother’s hand, Caesar grew to be a scrappy fighter, always ready to throw himself into battle to protect his family. And that protection lasted long after Caesar himself fought his last battle, leaving behind a lesson about loss that Joe relies on to this day.
Children and dogs have been playmates ever since those first wolves approached the campfires of our ancestors. As parenting becomes more and more prevalent in the gay community, it’s important to remember that children and dogs must be trained to live happily and safely with each other. Children should learn the best ways to approach strange dogs and how to treat the dogs in their family. And a hallmark of good training for dogs is that they learn their place in the pack and that their duty is to love and protect the children around them rather than seek to dominate these small humans who may not have the size or personality yet to demonstrate their own dominance.
In the best cases, children and dogs grow up together, as Joe DeMarco and Caesar did, and establish a relationship that nurtures both of them.
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CAESAR WAS DEAD. The little emperor who’d stolen all our hearts was gone after eighteen years, and we were left with silence and memories. He wasn’t my first dog, but he was the most memorable dog I’ve ever had the pleasure to call my friend.
His imperial name came from my little brother’s overactive imagination. But it fit Caesar’s regal personality, which was clear even in the squirming puppy that he was when he entered our lives.
I was fourteen, my sister and brother even younger, and we’d wanted nothing so much as we wanted a dog. A neighbor’s beautiful terrier, Sheba, was about to give birth. She had mated with a regal-looking, all-white Fox Terrier. My sister, brother, and I anxiously awaited the results of the match. When it happened, I remember my brother running home with the news that Sheba had produced a litter and that we were to choose one.
We trooped over to the house to take a look at the litter and make a choice. The squirming mass of puppy flesh was too indistinct for me to choose, and neither could my sister or brother. So Mom picked one of the puppies. We were to wait for him to be weaned and then could take him home. The waiting wouldn’t be easy, even if we could visit him each day.
A few days later, however, disaster struck—Sheba was killed by a car and the puppies had to be hand fed.
Mom picked him up, a shivering little squealing bundle who barely knew what was going on. He fit in the palm of her hand, tiny, vulnerable, and pitiful. I took one look at him and wondered how we’d keep him alive. But Mom knew more about puppies than I’d imagined. She promptly found a tiny bottle and fed him some kind of milk mixture whenever he wanted.
On the day he came home with us, my brother immediately named him Caesar. I looked at the tiny wriggling pink-and-white pup and laughed, thinking that such a big name would weigh down so small a dog. Watching him move and yawn, blink his eyes and fidget—the sight tugged at my heart and I knew that no matter what his name, I was bound to this little dog.
That was the beginning. The days turned into weeks, and he gained weight and strength and was soon standing on his own and demanding something more than milk. Next came the training—a gentle boot camp. Caesar was a quick learner and took his place among the family members in a short time. I remember staring at him and wondering how that little lump of flesh had become the handsome dog surveying his territory with an imperial air. He was like his father: shapely, sturdy, and smart. Unlike his father, Caesar’s white coat was marked with one black furry patch circling his right eye. But rather than appear foolish, Caesar managed to look dashing, black patch and all.
Small and quick, Caesar quickly became the neighborhood favorite. And he lapped it up. He loved the attention but also knew that he had responsibilities and took them seriously. He shook the windows with his barks and with his paws as he pounced on the storm door to frighten passersby. No one escaped his attention, especially not strange dogs, whether or not they had a human companion.
One incident stands out among the rest. It speaks to Caesar’s courage as well as his foolishness. But mostly it speaks to the size of his heart and the monumental lengths to which he would go to protect his family and his territory.
A man, not someone known in the neighborhood, decided to walk his Great Dane down our street. Standing outside, I saw him coming a
nd so did everyone else—Caesar, however, was occupied inside at the back of the house. Unfortunately, his business concluded, Caesar made an appearance at the front door just as the stranger and his huge dog were passing our house.
This affront was too much for Caesar. Imagine an interloper of that size having the arrogance to walk through his realm. The Great Dane, placid and stately, had no idea what was about to happen, and neither did any of us. Somehow Caesar managed to push open the storm door. He was small and fast. Snarling and barking, he rushed at the Great Dane and latched onto his back leg.
The tall and courtly visitor was startled and let out a snuffle of surprise. He shuddered and tried shaking Caesar off his leg.
Time stopped. No one could move. Instead we all looked on, jaws agape, eyes wide, waiting for the worst to happen.
Regaining his composure, the Dane turned quickly to see what had clamped onto his leg. There was Caesar, white lightning with teeth, trying to halt the Dane’s progress. The Great Dane, with a weary expression, reached back and, opening his large mouth, grabbed Caesar. His jaws wrapped around Caesar’s rump, all of it, and Caesar let out a cry of pain.
Several neighbors screamed. I was frozen with horror. I thought this was the end for his majesty and was about to intervene when an amazing thing happened. The Great Dane did not chomp Caesar in two. Instead, once Caesar had let go of the big dog’s leg, the Great Dane promptly sat on him until his master directed him to get up.
Caesar, properly chastised and even a little terrified, sprang up and limped into the house. We all rushed in after him, took him into our arms and hugged him. He yelped with a little pain, but apart from a few small scratches due to the Great Dane’s teeth, there was nothing wrong. We applied medication to prevent infection, and Caesar took his place in a warm corner of the house to regain his dignity.
Although Caesar had his own concerns (like protecting his treasure horde under my old bed), he never failed in his sensitivity toward family members. He knew just what our emotional state was at any given time and exactly how to approach us. He knew when to lick our faces and when to comfort us by curling up in our laps, warm and solid.
He looked on when, at eighteen, I came out to my mother and the tears flowed. Caesar was there to nuzzle us both, and make us both understand that this difficult moment was nothing compared to the love we shared.
He was also a good judge of character. My late partner was a case in point. Not long after I came out, I brought Bill home to meet my family, and Caesar was at the door to greet us. Without a sniff or a growl, he immediately approved of Bill. And that was what closed the deal for my parents. Caesar didn’t like everyone and only some did he take to in that special, this-is-family way. Of course, when Bill discovered just the right place to scratch, he and Caesar were bonded for life. No one had discovered Caesar’s S-spot before, so this made Bill special, one of the pack.
Caesar was gone by the time Bill passed away. After more than twenty-five years together, the loss was numbing; grief shadowed my days. If Caesar had been around, he would have mourned with me, licked away my tears, and reminded me of the good times he’d shared with Bill. He would have known just what to do so that I would have felt a little bit better, a little less lonely.
It’s those emotional times you remember along with the fun things. The highs and lows of his life mirrored the peaks and valleys of our family’s life. Most of all, Caesar was there—always ready to comfort, to guard, to amuse.
Caesar took part in every holiday, every celebration, every illness, every sadness, and every happiness. He never asked much and always gave fully of himself. For eighteen years he was a mainstay and a pillar for us. I don’t want to think what eighteen is in dog years. But I’m sure he was immensely old—in body but never in spirit.
His body began to fail him seemingly all at once. At first he couldn’t climb stairs, then he needed to be lifted onto our laps, and on it progressed. The White Tornado had begun to slow down. Arthritis forced him to yelp with simple movements and prevented him from acting like the youngster he imagined he was. He would lie in his warm, cozy corner for longer periods, and it was our turn to stay by his side, comfort him, make him happy, and just be with him.
It must’ve been strange for him to feel so earthbound; he was a dog that was more a creature of the air, finding himself everywhere at once as no normal four legged animal could be—at the door greeting people, running up and down the stairs, in the kitchen begging scraps, always everywhere and anywhere. Eventually he was always in pain and always in his quiet little corner.
It was time, my parents finally told me, to let him go. His pain and suffering were becoming unendurable. Not long before he died, I visited him. He looked tired yet happy to see me. Sad because he could not jump up to greet me, he weakly wagged his tail. So I got down on his level and sat with him. I stroked his fur while talking to him as I had many nights before. I couldn’t stop the tears that fell when I whispered my thanks to him for all his love, even when I was a grump or was in one of my deep dark moods. No matter how ugly my frame of mind, he always licked my face or washed away my tears, his tail thumping on the floor. Even at the last, his funny tail thumped the floor, but it beat out a slow, sad cadence.
Caesar realized he couldn’t keep up. He wasn’t enjoying food or toys or anything; even standing was a painful ordeal. He knew that the time had come to call it quits. And he wanted me to understand.
But no matter what I knew to be true, I couldn’t let go. Saying goodbye has never been my strong suit. And I’ve begun to understand that this was one last gift Caesar was trying to give me; letting go when there is no other choice. Saying goodbye with some dignity for all of us. I’ve had to say goodbye far too many times to too many people I have loved, and if I’d taken Caesar’s final gift, maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much every time.
I took him in my arms that night and felt his weight against my body, solid and sturdy and not apparently ready to give up. But I looked into his eyes and that liquid darkness held all the sad good-bye he could muster. He lay his head against my chest as if to say, “Good-bye, old friend. It’s been a good, long run. I just can’t do it anymore.”
Bill was there that night and realized, too, that we would never see Caesar again. I knew that inside he was all tears and mourning. But in the same way that he faced his own last illness, outwardly he was the soul of strength and steadiness. He let me cry on his shoulder and mourned along with me.
My parents, understanding that neither I nor my siblings could shoulder this task, generously took him to the vet. In their eyes I could clearly see that their hearts were breaking, but they were strong as always.
The next time I visited my parents’ home, it was silent—the stillness not shattered by Caesar running to greet me and Bill. A sadness hung in the air. Caesar’s reign was over. The house was quiet, his treasure-trove unattended, his kingdom bereft.
Somehow, though, his spirit remained. And if it didn’t break the silence in the house, it shattered the silence in my mind. That indomitable, unbowed sense of life, that hunger for action, and that willingness to love—it all came bounding out of some corner in my heart. He had taught me every lesson he had to teach as if he knew the things I’d have to meet as I went down the road without him.
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DOGS WHO MAKE CONNECTIONS
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Donald Hardy: PUPPY WHIPPED
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Our dogs often drive us to extremes. Bundled up against below-zero temperatures, we trail along behind them as they do their midwinter business. We carry treats to reward them and plastic bags to pick up after them. We accept slobbery kisses, gassiness, middle-of-the-night barkfests and the occasional chewed-up shoe or cell phone. Why do we do all this?
Scientists discovered that the act of looking at a puppy sends a surge of hormones through the bloodstream that bring about feelings of happiness and
a desire to protect. The parental instinct, usually reserved for one’s children, is engaged.
That seems to be why humans have continuously bred dogs to have round heads and big eyes and baby like qualities—the big ones and the small ones, the Cocker Spaniels, Dachshunds, and Schnauzers. Even Rottweilers can put a smile on the face of people who like them. As Benjamin Franklin said long ago, “The more I know of men, the more I like my dog.”
Bay Area editor Donald Hardy muses about the deep bonds that “parenting” dogs created for him.
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THERE HAVE BEEN times in my life when I have felt particularly gay. Way gay. Trés gay. Muy gay. Singing with the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus on the stage of Carnegie Hall gay. Marching in Gay Pride parades gay. Being Vivienne Le Reine, my occasional drag persona—fiercely gay.
But never have I felt as gay as I did the last few weeks of my Cocker Spaniel Casey’s life, when I took her for “walks” under the vet’s instructions not to let her walk.
Paws and Reflect Page 4
