by Tom Ryan
I’m sure this is not the type of Catholic boy Father Merchant and Father Flynn thought they were sharing the Eucharist with back at St. Joseph’s in Medway, Massachusetts. I don’t doubt that if they were around today they’d echo some of my Christian friends: “You’re confusing the creation with the creator.”
“It’s one and the same,” I tell them, and they get angry and want to debate. But what’s to debate? They have their beliefs, and I have mine.
On Pine Mountain, which is twenty miles up the road from our home and a hair north of the Presidential Range, there stands a large, primitive wooden cross on an adjoining rise called Chapel Rock. Atticus and I were there one morning when a minister climbed to where we were seated and asked if he could join us. While we were enjoying the panoramic view down into Pinkham Notch, he looked at me, then at the cross. He nodded, “Profound, isn’t it?”
“The landscape? Yes.”
“I meant the cross.”
“I find it redundant.”
That led to a pleasing discussion about spirituality that lasted for over an hour. It was refreshing to talk to a man of the cloth who had an open mind and wasn’t threatened by other points of view.
I opened my backpack, took out a small notebook, and read to him from my scratchy handwriting: “‘We worshipped Jesus instead of following him on his path. We made Jesus into a mere religion instead of a journey toward union with God and everything else. The shift made us into a religion of “belonging and believing” instead of a religion of transformation.’”
“Who wrote that?”
“Father Richard Rohr.”
“Ah, I’m a fan too. He’s great.”
“I find he takes the sharp edges off being a Christian.”
“Are you a Christian?” he asked.
“I don’t even think my friends or family know this about me, but while raised as a Catholic, I haven’t been to church in years. Yet right before I turned thirty, I considered becoming a priest. I’m fascinated by the soul.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked.
“I love women too much. I’ve also been known to weave together a string of swears freely, even when I pray, and I suppose most important, I don’t like church.”
We laughed easily. I liked this fellow. “Yes, I think the not-liking-church thing would be problematic.”
But that’s what is grand about what is known as the “Land of Many Uses.” There’s room for all kinds of activities, along with motivations and goals. A person can pray to any name he or she wishes to, but also move as silently as a prayer along the trails, stopping to marvel at rock formations, hanging moss, trees twisted into mutant characters, purifying streams, and views from the heaven under our feet to the heaven above our heads.
What I find in these mountains is transformation. As one season sheds its skin to make way for the next, I have felt myself doing the same, although my changes come at a snail’s pace when they do. No longer in any hurry, or with much to prove, I plod on, remembering it’s the passage that counts and not the destination. You could say that spirituality is a lot like hiking.
At the woebegone nursing home, I knew it was the last stop for the residents on their way to death. Not an hour passed there when I didn’t contemplate this. While cleaning up the residents, helping them exercise, and assisting them in getting through each day was important, I used to wonder if they were ready to say good-bye. That’s why I talked to them about the things I did. I wanted to know their memories, their regrets and victories, their fears, and whatever it was they believed in. Whatever they chose to say was fine by me. I was curious about them, and I also believed it was a gift to have lonely people have someone actually listening to them. Day after day I put myself in their place, felt their loss, and lived their memories.
The nursing home didn’t make it a priority for the residents to prepare to die with dignity and peace. Many of the residents were already dead, or at least they weren’t really living. Too often I found them sitting in their urine or feces, isolated in their dim rooms with food crusted on their clothes and faces. Women would sit staring out a window for hours at a time in a trance of loneliness. Men would be just as still, often in the dark, with stubble and dandruff and threadbare clothes. Theirs was a still life, an empty and forgotten life.
So much for transformation. For all that they had survived to get to that point in life, no one was there to take note or to celebrate their years.
My short time in that sad facility prepared me for Will. My role was to assist him to get wherever it was he was supposed to go. I wanted him to know peace and dignity and not have to die alone sprawled out on a cold, sterile table in a strange vet’s office.
This was in stark contrast to the way I looked at Atticus. I mean, you don’t take an eight-week-old puppy into your life with thoughts of death, but with a fellow like Will, broken and lost and close to the end, that’s what I was doing.
But Will was throwing me a curve ball.
His temper still simmered beneath the surface, but as the weeks passed, it seemed to bury itself deeper and deeper. He would still lash out at me, so I continued to exercise caution with him and was prepared for his anger, but he didn’t attack as often as he used to. Will hadn’t reached where I had hoped he’d get to, but at least he was on the right path.
He was steadily gaining weight and strength, and he was learning to understand kindness. I noticed that he looked at me more, paying close attention as I placed the speakers by his bed or carefully covered him with a towel when he lay down to nap.
In the yard, Will continued to study the tiniest weeds. He’d not only study them, looking at the buds from only an inch away, but also smell them intently. His sense of smell, after all, was his strongest remaining way of appreciating the world. But I also noticed him watch me go about my chores of raking or mowing the lawn. There were even a few occasions when he wanted to play. He wanted to chase me when I ruffled his ears on my way by him, but he wasn’t able to walk in a straight line, so he’d kick his legs out and do his best to follow me. I’d wait for him, always talking into his deaf ears, never caring that he couldn’t hear me. At least at this point I knew he could see me, however cloudy I may have appeared to him.
On those days when we did play in the backyard, after bouncing brokenly along for about twenty yards in a zigzag pattern, he’d need a break. When he stretched out on the grass, I sat next to him. Always he watched me.
Some days I felt like he was trying to figure me out, like I was one of his little wildflowers that he loved to pay attention to.
It helped that I was learning how to touch him, to let him see my hand move toward him from below and not from above or behind where he couldn’t see it. Rarely did I touch his hips; mostly it was under his chin, then up along the side of his shoulders to his back and the top of his head.
Whenever I had touched his hips, even gently while trying to reposition him or pick him up, he’d snap at me. I added a dose of Metacam to his food to help with the pain relief at the suggestion of Christine O’Connell. I was cautious about using it, because I’d heard that prolonged use wasn’t good for his digestive system, but who knew how long he had? And I didn’t want him to be held back by pain.
We may have taken him in to give him a place to die, but on the way to death, Will appeared to have other plans. I grew curious as to how long he’d last, and how far he’d go with his reclamation of his life.
That first summer was filled with good news, but at Christine O’Connell’s office one afternoon, she shared some bad news with me.
“I have something to tell you.”
I waited.
“I’m leaving North Country Animal Hospital.”
Christine was one of the reasons I decided to take Will on. I knew she’d be with us every step of the way. I didn’t tell her that, and I wasn’t resentful that she was moving on, but I found myself suddenly lurching, unsure of my footing.
She was headed south to Exeter, New Hamps
hire, not far from Newburyport. I was already calculating how far we’d have to drive to keep her as our vet. We were already driving down to Boston to see Atticus’s cardiologist a couple of times a year to keep track of his benign heart murmur, so we were used to traveling.
Losing Christine was like losing a member of our family, but she urged me to try another doctor at the practice. A couple of minutes later Dr. Rachael Kleidon came into the room with Christine. She seemed nervous, excited, a bit giggly, but nice. She was tall, and Christine was shorter. Those contrasts should have been enough, but there were other differences. It wasn’t just Rachael’s laughter; it was how they handled things. Christine was grounded, had an edge and strong instincts to go straight at a problem. Rachael was subtler, sweetly polite, and methodical. Because Christine believed in her, and I believed in Christine, I decided we’d try using Rachael as our vet and see how things worked out.
But during the car ride home to Jackson, I was mourning the loss of someone special in our lives, who had been part of our story.
During the first week of August, Following Atticus came out in paperback, and a tour had been organized for Atticus and me. We were to drive to various independent bookstores throughout New England. We'd be on the road for about a week to kick things off before returning home. The remaining events would take place more sporadically.
With the help of Laura Cummings, the owner of White Birch Books, and Virginia Moore, the director of the Conway Area Humane Society, we used the launch as a fund-raiser for animals in need. It took place at North Conway’s Red Jacket Mountain View Resort, and a posh dinner was served. There was an exuberant crowd on hand. Will was with us and in grand form. He was happier than I’d ever seen him. As was his custom, out in public he was closer to me and considered me a confederate more than he did at home. We were fast friends in that busy room.
Before the dinner and my talk, I carried him around the room while Atticus walked with us. Many in attendance had read about Will and seen his photos on our Facebook page, and they were eager to meet him.
Our friend Leigh Grady made sure Will went outside for breaks as often as she could, and once, when Atticus and I had him outside, we saw a fox striding across the lawn before stopping to observe us. I took it as a good sign to have another wild visitor that close to us, and I kissed the top of Will’s head.
“Hey, buddy, looks like one of your friends came by to say hello.”
When Leigh didn’t have him outside, Will was free to walk around the ballroom. I was standing on the makeshift stage, with Atticus seated on a table next to me. We watched Will meander throughout the room. I was distracted by his apparent joy, the way he fit into the setting, his confidence, his curiosity. Hands reached out to stroke him, hoping he’d stay for a visit. There was this ease to him, and the hitch in his gait was hardly noticeable. There was no head tilt, and he held himself proudly. He was healthy and strong, and moved like he belonged there.
He walked to the stage and looked up at me. His vision was believed to work at maybe 50 percent, but the moment I came into sight, he recognized me and his demeanor became bouncier. His eyes were bright and round. Watching me gesture and speak, he seemed to glow. When I picked him up and introduced him to the crowd, he leaned his head against my chest, and when I told them his story, I could feel the room fill with love for him. It may have been the launch of our paperback, but it had turned into Will's coming-out party.
Early the next morning Atticus and I left Will with Leigh as we set off on our little book tour. He couldn’t have been in much better hands. Leigh’s life was a succession of good deeds, including visiting Harvest Hills Animal Shelter to walk the dogs who were waiting for homes. She doted on Will, took him to work with her and to the local gardens where she tended to her vegetables, and saw to his every need.
Out on tour, I called to ask her how he was acting, and I was told he was fine. Secretly, though, I wondered whether he felt abandoned again.
I had wanted to take him on the road with us, but it would have been too much for him because book tours are filled with excitement and interaction, and they are also exhausting. It’s one of the reasons I was grateful our publisher understood the relationship between Atticus and me and created a tour that catered to our needs. Instead of flying to cities around the country, which Atticus would hate, we took our car. We stayed in the Northeast, and by the time each event was over, we were drained. Driving to events allowed us to seek out nature along the way. We stopped often for walks, and by the time we were at our next appearance, we would show up fully recharged. All of that would have been too much for old Will.
At the end of the week, we arrived at Leigh’s work to pick up Will. While Atticus ran to say hello to Leigh, I walked around the counter to find a very different dog.
It was Will, but not like I’d seen him before. He rushed up to me, his eyes even bigger and brighter than the night of the launch. His front paws were bouncing up and down repeatedly, wanting me to hold him. He was breathless. I swept him up in my arms, and for the first time since I knew him I heard him whimper. Not a sad, terrible kind of whimper, but one of relief and happiness. He nuzzled against my neck, and he couldn’t contain his excitement. He kept singing his little song for me, his heart racing against my hand, his head pushing farther against me to get even closer. I squeezed him tight and rocked him back and forth, back and forth. When he grew silent, I kissed him on his nose, something I wouldn’t have done before for fear of his teeth. That's when I heard his snores.
Back in Jackson, Will became more interactive. He followed me around our home. Outside, he’d prance along, making sure I couldn’t get too far away. His front legs were so expressive, so optimistic, the way they kicked out like he was a spirited horse, but his hind legs continued to hold him back. What was missing in mobility he made up for in celebration.
In the days to come, whenever Will napped and Atticus and I snuck out for a while, we’d come home to find Will aware of us. If he was in the bedroom, his head poked around the corner like a child hoping to see Santa on Christmas Eve, and he’d come trundling out to greet me.
As fall arrived, I rejoiced that Will would spend a third season in the mountains. The little dog who came home with us to die was instead ready to enjoy New England in her autumn finery.
It had been an active summer in our yard. I’d never seen our wild neighbors in such numbers before. The Jackson Five, a mother bear with four cubs, came by several times, and once when they were here I noticed that Aragorn had come back again too. He was behind the brush in the vacant property next to us. His body was thicker, his coat shinier, but he was still young and ungainly. When the mother and her four cubs left, Aragorn stayed behind, watching the three of us in the yard. I was on my knees with Will, and I noted Atticus watching Aragorn from his usual Will-free patch just below the trees. It wasn’t the last time I saw the young bear spying on us from behind the trees that fall.
On one of the last afternoons we saw Aragorn, I received a surprise when we were back inside. Will was still eating, but not all at once any longer. He would nibble at this food, walk away, come back for more. Instead of giving him three meals a day, I simply filled his bowl at the beginning of each day. I had been putting his Metacam in his food. But since his eating habits changed, I began using a syringe to inject it into treats. To keep the peace, I offered Atticus a snack on his perch on the couch first. When I turned around to give Will his medicine, he was looking up at me with a puppy’s gaze, a delightful look of expectation on his face. There was something else too. Something I couldn’t quite figure out. I stood up straight and looked down at him again. That’s when it hit me. Will was sitting!
Often we overlook the smallest things while craving the bigger rewards. But Will’s progress was a reason for gratitude. And it wasn’t just sitting; it was nearly everything. With Will, small steps were reason for big celebrations. For him to have nothing, to have lived so long without health and happiness, and to see good t
hings return to him one at a time was like stumbling upon little gifts around our home. To be part of it, to be witness to it, was humbling. Grand things were happening!
When I’d learned Will was coming to live with us, I fantasized about getting him to a mountaintop. I hoped he would have a chance to experience what Atticus and I had done more than a thousand times before. Paige Foster used to see the photographs of Atticus sitting Buddha-like and gazing off into the distance, and she’d say proudly, “He’s doing his soul work.”
That’s what I wanted for Will. I wanted him to have the opportunity to feed his soul with some of our vivid scenery. Unfortunately, as soon as I met him, I realized there would be no mountaintop hikes for him.
Four days before we picked up Will, I wrote in my journal about the goal of bringing him up Black Cap Mountain in North Conway. It’s an easy hike that Atticus and I used as a morning walk on some days when we weren’t hiking. In just over a mile, the elevation gain is only 650 feet. That’s about as easy as it gets in these parts. I wasn’t sure if he would be able to walk it or not, but I figured I could always carry him.
Unfortunately, as soon as I met him, I knew he couldn’t be carried up Black Cap. His body was a wreck, and those back legs didn’t work. He couldn’t manage walking the short, flat Jackson loop, never mind a small mountain. He’d fight with me if I tried to carry him. No, my original hopes for him were dashed.
However, as the months passed and Will grew healthier, I revisited the possibility. We stopped by Eastern Mountain Sports to see how he’d like riding in one of the child-carrying backpacks. He happily let me pick him up, but when I slid him down into the seat, he started to cry. There was too much pressure on his hips. I tried him with his legs tucked under him and with his legs dangling out of the holes. Either way he was in too much pain. Every few weeks, as his strength and health returned, I’d try again, but the results never changed.
