Sometimes, when the moths are gathering
I feel sorry for turning off the lights
What else do they have to look forward to
Marti roams at night. I hear her, a hundreds yards out that way, then 150 off in another direction. Down the gulley in yet another direction. I call out to her. I can hear her barks. She’s on the move. Her barks change with what she is seeing and hearing. Seeing a squirrel is a sound. Treeing a raccoon a different sound. I listen for the sound of fear. She is overly confident in her senses and skills. She has no idea a coyote has her skills times a thousand. A wolf another thousand still. She thinks she is the predator and has no idea she is the prey after the sun goes down.
I don’t want to restrict her. To not allow her to be the dog she must be. But the worry drives me crazy.
I used to walk at the city park in the morning but there was an evil old lady who complained to the police about Marti being off the leash. She was one of the early morning rat pack of city park walkers. We don’t have a mall in our little town, so the park is it. Most were fine, but this lady was a lunatic.
At that time, there were no signs saying dogs had to be leashed. When the cop came around, he was very nice but let me know there is a leash law and now there are signs. So I quit walking the morning park tour because I didn’t want to see that mean ole bitch.
But in those early morning walks, I met an old timer, perhaps 6 or 7 years older than me, named Steve. His wife had died a few years before and he had just shut down his law practice and retired. Steve had a beautiful mixed-breed husky named Blue, because of his blue eyes. Blue was a great dog. He roamed a little but never got too far from Steve. He was watchful and dutiful. Blue and Marti played chase and ran and play-fought and got along nicely.
I would see Steve at my sister’s restaurant sometimes and he was always at the table by the big picture window. He parked right in front of the building and left the back windows down so Blue could keep an eye on him through the window while he had his coffee and breakfast.
Once, I was in the restaurant and Steve was having coffee with the secretary who was working for him when he retired. After Steve left, she told me they had met because Steve wanted to resurrect his law practice because he was lonely and bored and had nothing to do. She sadly informed him that all his clients had moved on to other attorneys and it was unlikely he could get things moving again.
I learned today that Blue had a go at one of the neighborhood cats and wound up killing it. The county animal control made Steve put Blue down. I have not seen Steve, but the friend I learned all this from said he is not doing well. After the death of his wife and shutting down his practice, he had nothing left but Blue. Imagine his sadness at being required to put his dog down. I would have just packed up and left the state.
I like cats. I like dogs. I love most animals. I am not biased one way or the other and I do feel bad for the cat and for the owners of the cat. But I question why there are leash laws for dogs but not for cats. If that cat had been kept inside, or on a leash outside, Blue would not have killed it. Blue the dog was put down for being a dog. Cats kill chipmunks and birds all the time — what is the punishment for them. What was gained by Blue’s death? Why not fine Steve and a give a stern warning to keep Blue on the leash.
I am not saying it is an easy problem to solve, but I do think putting down good dogs for doing what dogs are going to do, does not make sense. Punish the owner for violating the leash law, but not the dog.
It’s a sad situation. The cat died. Blue died. Both people lost their pets.
I’ve been wearing socks with Birkenstocks now for many years. All kinds of sandals actually. Just an extension of my trendy fashion forward instincts. I came across a photo from around 1997 in Belize (included below). Taking my sock and sandal vibe to the natives.
I catch a little shit sometimes from the unenlightened, but I look around now and see dozens of people following my lead. Mostly Germans or old white men with greasy wifebeaters but it’s a start.
We had a ceremony on Saturday for Ryan, my nephew. It’s always unsettling to put a young’ish person in the ground. It was a sunny and warm and beautiful Autumn afternoon. Most of my mom’s family is buried in that cemetery.
Ryan was a troubled young man who I guess did the best he could. But he came up short in years and in life quality. It’s pointless to try to go back and understand what happened. How a young man with all the potential in the world got so desperately addicted to drugs that he never really gave himself a chance.
The cemetery was at St. Joseph’s. The small country parish (oldest Catholic Church in Ohio!) where I spent many long Sundays. I was an altar boy at our regular church in Franklin, but I filled in here when visiting. Steve, my cousin, dug the grave. Just one of his many volunteer jobs at the church. Mom and my aunt clean the church every week or so. My sister cooks the meals for the priests. Everyone volunteers their time, although mom and dad are the only ones who go to church anymore. That’s the way it’s done around here. Old school.
My brother and I will set the stone for Ryan’s marker this week.
Father Steve, the former priest at St. Joe’s, who is now retired, came off the bench to say a few words at the ceremony. He came all the way from the Priest Retirement home in Columbus because my mom doesn’t like the new priest. The whole community seems to hate this guy. I’ve never met him but hear he is aloof and has a strong French Canadian accent and no one can understand him. The community is all abuzz about it.
I won’t be surprised if there are mass protests or maybe a lynching, such is the passion and anger of the congregation. Apparently he fired some volunteers and is now hiring people to do things that were previously not paid positions. But who knows the full story. Certainly not me. I just hear bits and pieces from mom and the other old war horses.
How can you question the judgment of the Catholic Church? What have they ever done wrong?
After the service, Father Steve came by mom’s house for dinner. He drank 5 beers (including two of my big bottles of German dark beers) and ate 2 brats with two plates of sides. No wonder he fit in so well around here. He’s a good ole boy.
The next day after the service, my brother and I went for a long hike in Wayne National Forest. Something we haven’t done together for decades. He doesn’t talk much about things, but he must be suffering through this period. Larry likes to carry in a bottle of wine and cheese when he hikes. No idea why, but that’s his thing. So we stopped around the 1/2 way point and knocked back a bottle of Riesling from an Upstate New York winery along with some manchego and white cheddar.
We chit-chatted a bit about life, family, work and such things.
Each week, like most voting Americans, I receive scores of emails or texts begging me to donate money to a politician’s campaign. Ossof. Talarico. AOC. Bernie. El Sayed. Sherrod Brown. I wish them all well, but I no longer donate. I think if we are at the point where whoever has the most money wins, we’ve already lost the game of democracy. The Supreme Court hammered that nail in themselves a decade or so ago. Where would it end? What’s my $20 here or $40 there compared to Musks $500M. Or all the other billionaires. It just makes no sense.
Great mid-day hike today with the hound. When we are in Ohio, I can take Martini to the farm where I spent summers, weekends and holidays growing up. Mom’s family farm. Perfect day today. Sunny and 66 and we took advantage. I had a meeting scheduled but it seemed less important at the time. Marti likes it because leashes are not allowed on the farm.
I am always reflective when I finish a book. In this case, Rick Bass’s ‘The Black Rhinos of Namibia’. Not his best, but good. I am now four weeks into reading a book in about a week. Maybe a few days more or less. Making the time. Mornings, evenings, between meetings. Whenever I can work it in between walking the dog, working, writing, taking mom to the store etc. It’s a tough pace but I will do the best I can.
Now starting ‘Songs of Solomon’ by Toni Morrison. Will report back on that in 7 days time.
Texas calls themselves the Lone Star State. I like that. I agree. I give them 1 star out of 5.
We’ll leave it there for now.
Humbly submitted
Robert Myres – Flanker (ret.), Portneuf Valley Rugby Football Club, reader, writer, comic genius & caretaker of Black Dog Ridge
