Will's Red Coat

by Tom Ryan

  I wrote about Orly’s question on my blog and Facebook page, which, like Will’s garden, had blossomed, from six thousand followers the year before to fourteen thousand. On any given day, thousands of people would check our page the first thing in the morning. They wanted to know what Atticus was up to, and they were overjoyed by Will’s redemption. I thought it was a sweet story to share, unaware of the seeds I was sowing.

  The following day, Carrie called to say that flowers were sent to Will by a woman in Colorado. A love note was attached. The day after, Carrie received a call from a woman in South Carolina. Her arrangement came with a note celebrating Will’s life and fondness for flowers. That was just the beginning.

  Week after week, the arrangements kept coming for Will from across the country. The calls were so steady that Carrie suggested to those ordering that the deliveries should be staggered. I don’t doubt she may have lost some business this way by telling folks intent on showing Will how they felt about him that she already had three orders for him that week. Month after month, Will was buoyed by the generosity of his admirers.

  The pictures I took of him with his flowers showed Will’s resurgence. His eyes reflected a spirit reclaimed, those long lashes so becoming, a look of peace and belonging on his face. And of course there was the way he glowed while appraising the latest bunch of love to come in. It was contagious. People from across the country saw what the flowers were doing for him, and wanted to add to his pleasure. And I found out from their comments on our Facebook page that people were not only sending Will flowers; they were also buying them for themselves and those they loved. If I could give the little dog I lived with flowers, they reasoned, they could do the same for people they cared about, and the dogs and cats they lived with.

  Others took more time to notice the dogs they lived with, and reported if they also enjoyed wildflowers. And it didn’t stop with flowers; people told me they started to think more about what pleased the dogs and cats in their lives, other than chew sticks and catnip.

  Will’s love of music and affection for flowers were having a rippling impact on the lives of other animals.

  With the return of the warm weather, the Will Wagon became a fixture around the Jackson loop. People greeted Atticus, who would often give them a little leap as he passed, as if saying hello. And Will was meeting many for the first time as he rode contentedly along. We’d often stop to visit with Kevin and Michele Pratt at Flossie’s General Store, just through the covered bridge. I’d let Will out, he’d cavort on their lawn, and each time we visited with them, I could see Michele's crush on him grow.

  Will had that impact on people. He was lovable and suddenly embraceable. There was something about him that glowed. It was especially noticeable to those who had followed his story from the beginning of his time with us. They’d seen what he was, and witnessed what he was becoming.

  “Is it okay if I give him a hug?” they’d ask.

  “He would like nothing more.”

  The dog who had trusted no one now embraced being embraced, leaning in as he was pulled into the chest of an admirer.

  Sometimes on these walks I'd see Aragorn on the other side of the street. Although he was growing, he was still more mischief than stateliness. I could see it in the way he dodged through the trees or the fields, like a young boy following a parade through the center of town.

  One evening I saw him in front of Flossie’s when it was just Atticus and me. He was on the porch, checking out the old-fashioned Coca-Cola cooler. When several cars pulled up to take his photograph, he bounded across the street but quickly stopped halfway across the far lane, directly in front of a car. He turned to look at us. Fortunately, the car saw him coming and stopped.

  Atticus walked ahead of me, and I waved to Aragorn. “Good evening, Aragorn.”

  Thirty minutes later, when we had returned home, I went upstairs and carried Will into the yard. Aragorn was watching us from the edge of the trees. At first he stood on all fours, then up on his hind legs, as if to get a better view, and then he dropped down to watch us.

  That little bear was filling out and looked halfway to being an adult. By the time he was fully grown, I guessed he’d weigh three hundred pounds. That’s if the hunters didn’t get him first, which I always prayed they wouldn’t.

  For now, though, Aragorn was part of our little community of personalities. He contributed to the life we were living in that little patch of the possible halfway to wild. For there is little in this world more fantastic than to be living your life, only to see one of nature’s wildest beasts walk across your yard. No matter how many times the bears crossed on their way to town—and sometimes it could be weeks in between, or only hours—my heart would leap and I would realize how very fortunate we were to live in this place.

  As much as we saw various bears, and some enough to give names to, Aragorn was distinctive. While the other bears came and went, he sought us out. From the first day he followed us home, he seemed interested in us. He had adopted us the same way we’d adopted him.

  All of it added to Will’s magical kingdom. While Atticus enjoyed the freedom of his enchanted forest—the entire White Mountain National Forest—the backyard was Will’s, with his wildflower garden, the surrounding trees, the melodies of birds, and the hum of bees. Even our lawn was enough to make Will happy. He’d be stopped in his walks by a lone dandelion. He’d lean in and study it, and sometimes he’d look at it so long that he’d slump down when he became tired, and fall asleep under the weed’s spell.

  If Atticus was more like John Muir or Henry David Thoreau, feeling a kinship to the wild, Will was our Emily Dickinson, the world revealing itself to him in the confines close to home.

  Will was so busy living, and I was so busy tending to him, that I almost forgot to celebrate his one-year anniversary in Jackson. Our friend Roy Prescott remembered, though. Roy hosts the early-morning show on WMWV 93.5 in North Conway. He invited us into the studio to talk about Will’s first year. When Will’s Facebook fans found out, they tuned in to the live stream in such vast numbers that it overrode the station’s capabilities. At the end of the interview, Roy asked me what song I wanted to dedicate to Will.

  “‘I’m Alive’ by Michael Franti.”

  From then on, this was considered Will’s song, and Will’s friends tell me that when they hear that jubilant tune, they can’t help but think of his prancing and dancing.

  That night, as we settled in, with even more flowers than usual around us, I thought of where Will had come from and where he now was as I raised the blanket halfway up his shoulders to keep him warm in his slumber.

  We had much to be grateful for.

  Perhaps that’s why I didn’t worry all that much when Atticus started to limp in the mornings. I thought he might have caught a toenail on the carpet when jumping off the couch. Or maybe he had tweaked a joint or a muscle on a recent hike. He was still able to do our regular walks through the village, and the hobble disappeared as the day wore on. He and I had always experienced minor aches and pains through the years due to hiking, and this one didn’t seem any different.

  When it didn’t improve, we went to see Rachael Kleidon. “Just to be certain,” Rachael took an X-ray of Atticus’s foot. Everything was fine, but there was a small infection around a nail bed. She prescribed some antibiotics and I cleaned the nail regularly.

  It improved. And then it worsened. Within a couple of weeks, he couldn’t walk on it. When I examined his paw, I found a swollen and bloody toe.

  When I first heard the term “osteosarcoma,” every fear I’ve ever had overwhelmed me, but I held on, knowing it was only a possibility. But when Atticus was taken in for another round of X-rays, and I had to wait in the hallway, I retreated to get some fresh air. Outside, my legs grew weak, and I leaned up against my car. I tried to swallow my fears. I don’t think that anyone hears “cancer” and doesn’t immediately feel nauseous and light-headed.

  I called Ken and Ann Stampfer. They were our b
est friends, and there wasn’t much we didn’t share.

  When Ann answered the phone, I couldn’t form the simplest words.

  “Hello?”

  I felt dizzy.

  “Hello?”

  I spit out something about Atticus and bone cancer and I struggled without being able to say much. I had to hang up, telling Ann, “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  Who knows what raced through their minds in the twenty minutes it took me to call them back. The fates of the four of us had been woven together through all the miles we shared walking up and down mountains.

  I took a couple more minutes outside and told myself to get strong, and to do it quick. This was about Atticus, not me. I inhaled, gathered myself together, and after my few minutes of fear, I resolved to get ready for whatever was coming.

  The X-rays revealed that a bone in one of Atticus’s toes was disappearing.

  When Rachael and I spoke, she was tender and kind. Her concern was clear in her voice, and it was for both Atticus and me. Rachael Kleidon understands the relationship of the animals she cares for and the people they live with better than most. When she told me the toe had to be amputated, I was pragmatic about it.

  “Okay. It’s not like he can use it like it is. But will he be able to walk okay?”

  “Yes! I think he’ll be fine. Dogs make a full recovery from this kind of surgery. But we’re going to send it off for a biopsy to see if there’s cancer.”

  I had concerns. Ever since I followed Paige Foster’s advice to carry Atticus as a puppy wherever we went, Atticus and I were inseparable. There wasn’t anything we’d didn’t face together and do together. The flip side of that intimacy was that Atticus didn’t do as well when we weren’t together. He was not as self-assured in those moments, not calm. He’d panic on the rarest of occasions when we were away from each other as he tried to figure out how to get back to me, for he felt that I was his responsibility in the same way I felt he was mine.

  The next concern was what to do if it was cancer. There was the cost, for one thing. I didn’t have much in my bank account, and I wasn’t sure how I would be able to pay for an operation.

  Rachael told me not to worry about the finances. I could pay for it later, no matter how long it took.

  And if it was cancer? “Well, Tom, there are some options we can talk about, but let’s not worry about that until we have to.”

  My tendency is to plan for the worst and hope for the best. “But you think it’s cancer, don’t you?”

  She hesitated until she looked like she was the one diagnosed with it, and she said, “Yes, I think it is, but we’ll have to see.”

  I was still concerned about being separated from Atticus when he needed me most, so Rachael asked for a few minutes. After talking to the staff, she made an offer to do something the hospital had never done. She invited me to sit in on the surgery.

  Lovely, kind, compassionate Rachael. Not many doctors would make that offer.

  Surgery was set for the following week. Atticus’s paw was cleaned and wrapped heavily. She prescribed painkillers and antibiotics and we headed home. As I looked over at him in the passenger seat, Atticus was sitting the way he always did. The wrap on his paw didn’t seem to concern him. On the way, we drove through the countryside and along the Saco River, while he enjoyed the views.

  I carried Atticus up the stairs, and when I opened the door, there was a puddle of urine in the middle of the floor. It was a reminder that realities are always there. A puddle of piss. Amputation. Cancer. How could I not laugh?

  Will poked his head around the corner and trotted out to greet me while I was on all fours cleaning up the puddle.

  When I carried both of them down into Will’s backyard kingdom, I said, “Atticus, if you die before Will, I’m going to kill you!” When I laughed, Will could tell I was in a good mood, and he wanted to play. Meanwhile, Atticus sat off to the side in his stoic way, watching how silly the two of us were.

  Yes, I was in a good mood, in spite of the circumstances. This is what friendship is made for. It was for climbing mountains and sharing the view and facing troubles together. You don’t get one without the other. Worrying wasn’t going to do any good. It would only get in the way of any good energy I had to offer Atticus. So why waste time with it?

  I guess I stopped being a worrier when Atticus came along, and through the years I returned to the woodland realm I had feared for so long. There was a time I was addicted to drama. I’d leap at any reason to get upset, and I’d focus on what was wrong. My metamorphosis can be traced to surrendering to the forest, the challenging climbs, and our move north and my desire to live in a simpler manner.

  Facing the amputation of Atticus’s toe, I realized I had finally turned the corner and learned the art of acceptance. I joked with Ken and Ann, saying, “If there is a word that sums up my life at this time, it’s ‘monastic.’”

  In spite of my oft-colorful language, I was feeling monkish. There was Atticus and Will; there were books on philosophy, theology, and poetry; there was music; and of course there was nature.

  I was also affected by my relationship with Marijane. She lived so far away, but we talked several times a week, and our conversations were as long as marathons. We had gone decades without knowing much about each other, but after my father died, we fell into each other’s life and there were no secrets between us. How strange it was to know her for my entire life, but not truly know her. We relished our new bond, which seemed timeless. We started many conversations talking about the weather reports in New Hampshire and Arizona, but then we’d bound into flight and carry each other away in a torrent of conversation.

  She was impressed when I introduced her to Joseph Campbell’s writing, particularly because they shared an appreciation of Carl Jung. And I was impressed when she suggested we read James Hillman’s The Soul’s Code at the same time and call each other to talk about it. After Hillman, I suggested Don Miguel Ruiz. She countered with Eckhart Tolle.

  Jack Ryan’s youngest sibling and his youngest son kept him alive with the stories we shared about him. His role in her life was unfamiliar to me, while she knew very little about what kind of father he was. Dad and Marijane had talked often, but he had never revealed the depression and anger he struggled with. Of course he wouldn’t share that with her. She was still the little girl who looked up to him when he went off to fight in World War II. He pampered her throughout her life, often sending her money or other gifts. Jack Ryan cared for all of his brothers and sisters, but Marijane was his favorite.

  What Jack wouldn’t have cared for were the books we were reading. Oh, he may have when he was a young man and was hungry to prove himself to the world, but as the decades passed and his dreams faded, he settled into reading every mystery in the local library. He craved the adventurous life he once dreamed of having.

  After Tolle, I suggested to Marijane that we read Mary Oliver. We’d take time reading her poems to each other. Once, twice, often three times—one of us would read a selection out loud as the other read along silently. The poems touched on grace and nature and animals, subjects the two of us were passionate about.

  I didn’t get as much out of Michael Singer’s The Untethered Soul as she did. But when she introduced me to Richard Rohr’s books, my horizons expanded. For a man who was not religious, but forever fascinated by souls and the flight of the spirit, Rohr was an approachable Franciscan. He doesn’t preach in his books; they feel as if he and I are sitting down to have tea together. From the moment I read his belief that “Nature itself is God’s first, oldest, and clearest scripture,” he won me over.

  My conversations with Marijane and our discussions in our two-person reading club contributed to my evolution, and my monastic life.

  When Marijane wrote to ask if I was nervous about the possibility of Atticus’s having cancer, I wrote, “I’m ready for whatever happens. I have learned to have faith through the years that he and I have immersed ourselves in the fore
st and stood atop innumerable summits. We’ve faced nearly every challenge the world can throw at us. I feel confident we’ll face this one just as boldly.”

  Then I quoted Barbara Brown Taylor, describing how my life had changed on the trails, “The only real difference between anxiety and excitement was my willingness to let go of fear.”

  Truly, what was there to fear after all?

  For forty years I had stumbled through life looking for my rightful place. When Atticus came along as an eight-week-old puppy, somehow we figured things out together. I had discovered something I was good at—being half of Tom and Atticus. We had done things the right way. Our lives were enhanced by each other.

  Still I prayed. Boy, did I ever. I prayed so much that God probably said to an angel, “Take a message, it’s him again.” (No, I don’t really believe that.) I put the words of hope and faith out there and reminded myself that we had a great doctor to work with us, and Atticus and I were fighters.

  New friends we’d made in the mountains reached out to us, as did those we’d left behind in Newburyport. But the most fervent support came from thousands of people on our Following Atticus Facebook page, people we may never meet.

  Everybody was worried about us, and some thought my calm was a sign of denial.

  To me this is the grace that is offered when things like cancer are knocking on your door. You are invited to come to the realization that you can’t do anything about what has brought you to this place in time, but you can determine how you’ll face it going forward.

  In the days before the surgery, I carried Atticus and his splinted leg into the woods, or to the Saco or Ellis rivers, or Jackson Falls, or by Will’s wildflower garden and pumpkin patch under the stars in our Adirondack chairs, and I’d repeat various versions of the same prayer.