by Tom Ryan
I put some cracker down on my left, while Atticus sat on my right. It didn’t take long for that crow to join us for a mountaintop snack. I’d give some to Atti, break off some for the crow, then take a nibble myself. We sat with that crow for twenty minutes. The bird wasn’t the least bit bothered by sharing crackers and a view with two mammals.
On another day, down the road from our home, a line of cars had pulled over at a pond. I slowed down. A moose was eating some vegetation. There were probably a hundred people watching that moose do her thing.
Moose are mind-boggling, the way they move like machines with those stilt legs. It seems almost unnatural. But when they run, they can move quickly, reaching speeds up to thirty-five miles an hour. You don’t want to encounter one during rutting season when you are out in the woods.
While the crowd watched the moose, Atticus and I circled around to sit by ourselves. Moose don’t have the best vision, but their sense of smell is keen. She looked up at me and Atticus, then down again, then back up at us, eating calmly all the while. A large man with an even larger mouth on the other side of the pond started yelling at me to get Atticus out of there.
“She’ll charge that dog, you idiot!”
At first I ignored him. But it was increasingly difficult to do, the more he yelled at us.
“She’s going to charge. Get out of there!”
Atticus was calm. So was the moose. I’d seen him this way around moose before. It’s the way he was with all animals. The shared calm was surreal, but it was also what I’d come to expect from him.
The man kept yelling and yelling. He was red in the face. Eventually, he was right—the moose charged! But it didn’t charge us, it charged him, and he had to move quickly out of the way.
I once came upon something Emerson wrote about Thoreau after he died: “His intimacy with animals suggested what Thomas Fuller records of Butler the apiologist, that ‘either he had told the bees things or the bees had told him.’”
It’s hard to understand how souls communicate. I can tell you perhaps a hundred or a thousand reasons why I love someone. But none of that explains love, and how it happens. Why do people who are similar fall in love? How do opposites reach the same plane? Then there are those from different species who find a bond. Miracles are indeed everywhere.
Will’s resiliency gave me daily lessons in groundedness, while Atticus taught the mysteries of the spirit.
Perhaps his biggest lesson for me is not to underestimate a soul, no matter the size of the body, no matter the breed, species, race, or religion. The unexplained offers us reasons to exercise our faith. Maybe that’s why Atticus was in my life, to show me not to limit life’s possibilities. Anything can happen.
And there it is again, the idea of Atticus and infinitude.
9
Grace
It is not down on any map; true places never are.
—HERMAN MELVILLE
There were days when I looked around and thought, How did things get so good when I used to be so bad?
Will’s second winter arrived, and one morning it found me holding a mug of peppermint tea. Snow fell heavily onto the edge of enchantment. It filled up the backyard, and with the help of the wind, it left behind smooth drifts. The stubble of Will’s wildflower garden broke through the swells, and the old black ash tree was made to look young again with a layer of frosting over every branch and twig. Cardinals and chickadees would alight on the bird feeders, taking their share of sunflower seeds while the woodpeckers drilled at the suet feeders. I scattered bread crumbs for the crows to eat. They’d call out to me until I arrived, and after I spread their feast before them they became quiet, reverential, and waited until I walked away before swooping down for a landing.
Atticus was stretched out on the couch, his head atop a cushion, his cancer and chemotherapy an afterthought. It was another mountain we’d climbed together, and on the other side of it he was all he’d ever been, save for a missing toe.
Will was curled in his bed under the tree, diving deep into slumber while Sinéad O’Connor seduced him with her version of “Silent Night.” He was wrapped in his handmade quilts, looking like the rest of the presents scattered about him. Above him, the tiny white Christmas lights pierced the gloom like the first stars at dusk, and shiny ornaments reflected their hope.
I took it all in. The soft snores, the flicker of flames on each of the lit candles swaying to a draft I couldn’t feel, the cinnamon sticks simmering in a pot atop the stove, their aroma adding to the coziness.
How is it possible, I asked myself, that I’d arrived at a place in life where everything felt perfect? A man like me, who had made so many bad choices and mistakes, was waylaid by detours and false hopes, and wasn’t always smart enough to get out of the way of the Mack trucks full of crazy?
The snow had turned everything into a wonderland, but I knew it would one day melt. I knew that Will might not make it to another Christmas, and that, yes, Atticus was getting older as well, and would eventually leave me behind. Yet I felt blessed.
It wasn’t that my life was actually perfect. But in that peaceful quiet, tucked away from the hurry and angst of the rest of the world, we were all in a special place. A place we’d made together. Marijane used to tell me, “You’ve been given the gift of grace.”
It was not the best winter for Will. Storm after storm battered the mountains, and our driveway was the only place he could trundle around and dance. We’d have to wait for the plow to come, and for me to shovel a pathway, because the deep snow out back would have swallowed him whole. The red coat I’d bought for him a few months ago was essential. He’d changed so much since the previous winter, when he was able to go without a coat. He was no longer as robust. He’d lost weight, and much of his sensitive skin was shaved to allow access to medicated ointments. Will didn’t mind the loss of hair; it relieved him to have his itch tended to. Before I had shaved his front legs, he’d stretch them out in front of him and chew them bloody. The treatment never cured his skin, but it did make it less sensitive. Rachael Kleidon thought his continued skin problems were a sign that Will was winding down, although tests didn’t show anything more.
I thought of Will as one of the many Subarus I’d seen around the mountains. “A good winter car,” people would say. Others referred to it as the state car of New Hampshire. But a mechanic once warned me against getting one. “Good engine,” he said, “but the body rusts out first.”
Was Will a Subaru? With his body already broken in so many ways, and now skin that would never completely heal.
Thank goodness for Rachael. Will had not had a cross moment since the day he sat in my arms atop Pine Mountain the previous year. He had become an exemplary patient whenever we went to see her. He’d relax as she scooped him up and held him in a sitting position and gently bounced him in her arms.
The Metacam, regular stretching, and nourishing food helped take away his old pains. On one office visit I cradled Will on his back. When Rachael came in the room, I showed her our new trick. Gently I tossed him in the air a few inches and caught him. His eyes grew bright and airy. Again I tossed him, this time higher, and he landed back in my arms. On the third toss I caught him and brought him up to my face, where he licked me and wanted to play.
Although she’d seen him regularly since becoming his vet, she couldn’t fathom how the dog she met the first time a year and a half before was improving that much while he approached his seventeenth birthday.
“I think he found the Fountain of Youth!” she said. “I cannot believe how far he’s come, and how sweet he is.”
Before we said good-bye to Rachael, I put his red coat on him and pulled the belt tight to make up for his weight loss.
“Maybe it’s not the Fountain of Youth,” Rachael joked. “Maybe it’s his coat. It’s like Superman’s cape!”
Yes, angry Will had risen from his ruin and had become quite sweet, with puppy-like innocence in a limited body. He liked playing, and even turned ou
t to be mischievous. He’d often try to catch me in the house, with his front paws lunging for my ankles. To please him, I’d sometimes pretend to fall down when he did this, and he’d half trot to me in his slow-motion gait. When he reached me I’d pick him up and roll him onto his back on my chest, where I’d pretend to wrestle with him.
It was remarkable, really.
He was slowing down, having a more difficult time standing and keeping his balance, but he was healthier from the inside out.
His fans couldn’t get enough of Will. They’d sigh and cry while watching the Willabies, and cheer him when he gave chase to me in videos. When I’d put a vase of fresh blooms in front of him, a gift from one of his many new friends, he’d inhale, then sit looking up at me while I took a photograph of him behind the arrangement.
When Will came to live with us, there were six thousand people following Atticus and me on Facebook. A year later it had risen to twelve thousand. When Atticus started his battle with cancer two months after that, the numbers jumped up by an additional fifty thousand by the early fall. By midwinter, there were more than a hundred thousand people checking in to see how Will and Atticus were doing.
From time to time I’d think about those numbers, and it had me considering the choices I made in moving north toward simplicity with Atticus. I didn’t have much money. Didn’t own a house or drive a nice car, but on a daily basis, as I wrote about simplicity and Atti’s sense of self and Will’s redemption, I was fortified that I’d made the right decisions. It wasn’t so much the number of people who were logging in each day, it was what they had to say. In their words I could see that they too longed for such things. The very idea of standing still on top of a mountain, of watching bears come and go, of being covered by a blanket, or of having a pie baking in the oven brought out the best in folks. It touched on something that had more to do with being than owning something, of feeling complete and feeling nurtured, or of having a simpler life.
I think that by watching Will and Atticus, people connected with their own needs and desires.
As February rushed along, Will made the most of his time outside in the small square of driveway that wasn’t covered by snow. He’d chase after me in a circle, or dance, even lifting off one day in such an astonishing way that he balanced on his rear lags as he stood. He’d dropped down—bounce, bounce, bounce—and then spring up again. With each succeeding attempted jump, he stood taller and happier. It was a jubilant dance, and it mimicked the tantrums he used to throw when I carried him into the apartment and placed him on the floor.
In the snow, with his red coat with its white collar, he looked like he belonged with jolly old Saint Nick.
Back inside, he fell asleep before I could even get his coat off him.
He was cheerier, but he now lacked the endurance he had built up before.
One afternoon, a package arrived from Anne Criscitiello, a Facebook follower. It was large and flat and tightly secured with layers of tape. I took out a knife and sliced at the seams. When I opened it, a note fell out first.
Anne had been battling cancer for years, and while she’d always been an artist, she had forsaken art and did all she could to survive by holding on to herself. She had lost the inspiration to draw and paint. But after reading Following Atticus and becoming fans of Atti and Will on Facebook, she wrote that for the first time in five years she had drawn something. When I cut through the last of the packaging, I beheld a spectacular sketch of Will, Atticus, and me. She’d had it framed and matted. I was taken aback when I read Anne’s letter, knowing what our story had done for her, and seeing the results in that remarkable drawing.
I e-mailed Marijane and sent a photo of the drawing. She wrote back: “Good things are happening, Tommy. People are changing because of Atticus and Will—and don’t forget that you have something to do with that too. You three make a great team! The drawing is perfect. My paintings and drawings never turn out like Anne’s. To think this is her first try in five years. That humbles me.”
Anne, I would learn, preferred being called Annie. I had read about her struggles with cancer through her comments on our Facebook page. I had a mutual friend get her phone number for me, and on a Sunday, I surprised her with a call. From the first time we talked, we were friends. She told me about how badly she wanted to move from Brooklyn to a little farm in Vermont one day, and spend her life with goats. She longed for simplicity. We discussed her dance with cancer, and I was lifted by her spirit. She was sweet but tough, an impassioned fighter who was determined to live no matter how often the cancer came back. We talked of Atticus and his own cancer treatments, and of course we talked of Will. Will was continuing to grow into himself, and as his heart expanded, so did the ripples of his story.
He inspired Annie and thousands of others with his decision to reclaim what he had lost.
He’d been an afterthought—discarded in a shelter when he was fifteen, bound to be euthanized—until fate stepped in. Will’s story transfixed people.
I’d started the Facebook page at the request of my publisher’s marketing department, as a way to talk about our story and communicate about events. But I never expected so many people to invest in us, or that I would become so invested in them as they shared their stories—in quick glimpses or in lengthy, moving comments. Annie represented many who had cancer. There were others with kidney disease or heart issues, and still others who’d lost someone dear to them. As people reached out on the page and many others responded to them, minds and hearts were opened. New friends made themselves vulnerable by writing about what has hurt them, or a dream lost or undertaken. People wrote of their greatest joys, their darkest fears. Friendships formed away from our page, online communities sprang up, and people took trips to visit one another, whether across the state, the country, or the ocean. Those who started out following Atticus were now following Atticus, rooting on Will, and supporting each other in ways large and small.
I’d smile as I read these stories and saw how familiarity blossomed among strangers who became acquaintances and then dear friends.
Will received a new handmade blanket at least every other week, sometimes via a package to our friend Laura Cummings at White Birch Books. Whenever a parcel came in for Will, I’d sit on the floor with him and open it up. He’d bounce in anticipation because he knew whenever I did that, I had something for him.
We knew that the clouds of cataracts meant he couldn’t see very much, but it was almost always enough. He would always have difficulty seeing smaller treats, and he’d often overlook them even if they were right in front of him. But he never missed a flower, whether a lone wildflower in the yard or the bouquets he often received. Whenever I’d come home with flowers for him, or Carrie would deliver a vase, he’d know immediately. If he could have, he would have jumped up to greet them. Instead he’d take the smallest, quickest leaps with his front paws. Up and down, up and down in excitement.
Aunt Marijane loved hearing about the latest bag of treats that was sent for Will and Atticus. I read her the more poignant notes and sent pictures of each new bouquet Will received. When I told her Will had received more than twenty-five quilts, prayer shawls, and crocheted afghans made especially for him by women who would never meet him, she spoke about the miracle of kindness.
Marijane was in her late seventies and still quite active. Her mind was sharp, although seemingly once a week I’d have to talk her through a computer issue. It was one of the rare times I’d hear her grumble. She had a good, healthy ego, and would inform me that there had to be something wrong with her laptop because “I’m not dumb. I know what I’m doing.” I’d laugh at her lie, and so would she when she realized I was onto her.
“Perhaps I should send you things via carrier pigeon. I know it’s outdated, but technology seems to be a challenge for you.”
“It’s not me, it’s technology. They change it every week.”
“Oh, I just remembered—a while ago you said you wrote me a Christmas card, but it n
ever came. I thought I’d let you know.”
“I did write a Christmas card to you, and Atticus and Will. But I haven’t sent it yet. I should do that.”
“Yes, I’d love to see it, especially since it is March.”
“Don’t fear. You’ll have it by Easter.”
The only other time I heard her be less than charitable was when she railed against the conservative social positions of the Republicans who controlled the Arizona government. For the most part she wasn’t much different from the young nun who went west in her early thirties, bringing along her guitar, songs, laughter, and desire to help people. She was still spending several hours a day helping others, but there were days I’d hear the effort in her voice. Always the nurse, therapist, and loyal friend, she’d let me know how this friend was doing or how that person was getting along after a stroke.
I could hear that good soul of hers pulsating across the country, and I understood why the Navajos said she “walked in beauty.” She held a reverence for every person she helped, a kindness and compassion. She’d been put in this world to help, and she radiated love and empathy as she did it.
Marijane was everything I’d ever wished for in family but had never found until we became close. My parents, Isabel and Jack, would come to life when she’d tell me stories about their younger years, and I’d get to know them all over again. She’d talk about my mother’s MS, and my father’s moodiness when he was a teenager.
“She saved him, you know. Your mother saved your father. He always meant well, but he struggled with his moods. He chose to see what was wrong with the world, and would even imagine there was a plot against him. I’d let him have his beliefs. He wasn’t going to change. It’s one of those things you overlook when you love somebody.
“In those years when you and he were not talking, he never said a bad word about you. He’d always say, ‘Out of all my children, Tom’s the most like me.’”
