Stay was my only demand

Eight years before... I was driving home from work.   Stuck in traffic, air conditioning blowing on my face, shirt off, windows rolled up, and radio playing loudly in my little bubble.

All was perfect in my life at that moment:  great job and friends. 

It was a 40 minute commute and I just wanted to get home, see my dog and eat dinner.  Then, God willing, be with my friends.  And then, go to bed and repeat this routine the next day.

Man, I was in love with the world.  A girl.  Friends. My job.  Everyone.  Everything.

Ten minutes from home, some new song by Eric Clapton played on the radio.  Written after his son tragically died.  Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?  Okay, I admit, my inner girl comes out in emotional moments.  Be it; a song, a movie, a commercial, St Judes Hospital infomercial, mama duck guiding her baby ducks across the street.... whatever.  My eyes fill up at predictable times but always when no one is around to notice.

Eric Clapton, on this glorious day, made me cry.

It was an odd reaction considering life was perfect for me at that moment.   1994, god damn.

I got home and as usual, I was greeted by my overjoyed black lab puppy named Buddy.

Wanna go for a walk?  And then he pounced on me and knocked me to the floor. 

I stood up and sternly commanded, "Sit.  Stay".  And he did.   In a not so subtle attempt to hide his excitement for his evening walk, he wagged his tail violently against the tile of my entrance way. 


Fast forward.  God damn 2002.  Worst year. 

Monday.  Driving home from work.  The same company.  Stuck in traffic.  It was fucking hot.  Air conditioning blowing on my face.  Miserable day that began with a chain email.  It is with a heavy heart, we must report that our beloved son lost his life last night.

I didn't cry all day.  I didn't do anything, really.  Sat in my office and stared at my wall.  Numb, I guess.  Who knew I can cry at simple things but not at the news of my best friend's death?

It became a ME moment.  Why am I not crying?  Why didn't ME do more to stop his drinking?  Why ME?  

Radio on in my little dark world.  Skipping through music until I landed on any melancholy song.  Something to make me cry.  Something to make me feel.  Goddamn, where is Eric Clapton?

Finally, got home.  Weakened knees,  Sick stomach.  Trembling hands.  Lost voice.  No tears.  Empty.

That once overjoyed black lab puppy was now an older dog.  He still loved walks.  Life.  ME. 

As usual, he greeted me at the door.  I guess he sensed my despair.  He didn't pounce on me.  Or knock me down.  I'm not sure he cared if I gave him his evening walk.  He just welcomed me and licked my hand as I spoke nonsense to him. 

I laid in my bed and he joined me.  Motionless as his head rested on my stomach with occasional licks to make sure I was responsive, I guess.  Buddy was comforting me.

Hours passed and I whispered, "Wanna go for a walk?".

He jumped off my bed and ran to my front door.  He sat there patiently; wagging his tail softly.  Just loud enough so I wouldn't forget but not too loud to anger me during this difficult day.

Maybe, the only day or week, I never had to say, "Sit. Stay" to that overzealous friend.


Fast forward one year.

Cancer was killing Buddy.  Softball sized tumor in his neck.  He was lethargic.  Not eating.  The joy I always knew from him was gone.

As all dog owners know or eventually will know, that day comes when we must let them go.  With dignity.  To end their suffering.  Compassion feels cruel.  We ache unlike any ache we will ever know. 

Goddamn, 2003.  Buddy's life ended on a cold steel bed in the back room of a veterinarian's office.  Before he closed his eyes forever, he licked my hand one last time.  And left me, this world, with one final wag of his tail.  I was broken, I guess.

Oh, I cried.  Dogs, movies, songs, commercials, mama ducks but not best friends make me cry, I learned. 

It might be the only thing I know about ME. 

Maybe the emptiest feeling in the world is walking out of the vet's office alone with leash in hand; knowing there is no reason to ever come back.

 

That word "stay" resonates with me daily.  In so many ways.  Some things.  Most things, are out of our control. 

And I'm still trying, Ringo.   I'm trying really hard.

Stay.

Compassion always feels cruel.

A Story without an Ending (Volume 1)

It's been a long and difficult road.

Hundreds of people gathered at this 125 acre public park to celebrate America's 211th birthday.   I was there for one reason.  It wasn't the fireworks.  Or a slice of Americana.  It wasn't about the volleyball, the ducks, the matching red, white and blue shirts by middle aged parents, or the traditional barbecuing.   

As I wandered this park with a purpose as Lee Greenwood's overplayed song loudly resonated in the background, I was determined to find her.  This was the summer of love and I would not be denied.

The beautiful thing about love at fifteen is everything.  It's intense.  Genuine.  Slightly myopic.  Moderately grandiose.  Extremely idealistic.   Fifteen is when romantics are born.  

Earlier that morning at church, she reassured me she would be there.  Sometimes, crushes are secrets.  This was the day to reveal it. 

God, I was nervous.  I was about to tell my future wife how I can't stop thinking about her.  I wrote a note to hand to her.  I talk a lot.  I talk fast.  I dominate conversations.  But I'm never quite good at saying what I mean to say.  I speak better on paper.  I'm less awkward on paper.  More honest.  Somewhere between corny and romantic.   That's okay.  I was fifteen.


Fourth grade, first kid who befriended me at my new school, Jason Knaup, died of leukemia.  They named the soccer field after him.  Jason field. 
I don't want to grow up and fall for the woman who only wants a man with a dick and a wallet.
Why don't I ever like upbeat, celebratory, happy music even when I'm in a good mood?
First two bucket items added:  Learn to skateboard and play the drums.

My mind wandered.  Tangents, to calm me.

As the sun began to set and she, nowhere to be found, I circled the lake repeatedly; getting lost in the sea of red, white and blue patriotic souls.  It wasn't meant to be, I guess.

We had a large blanket laid out on the slope of a grassy hill.  Everyone stared up at the fireworks and applauded.  I looked straight ahead.  Just hoping she would appear.

It was the best fourth of July of my life.
It was the worst fourth of July of my life.

That summer, I discovered who I am.  Thirty years later and I'm still that same kid.

As for her, she had a secret, too. 

At fifteen, secrets often go untold.  We learn to endure unrequited love and suffer in silence as insecurity mutes our lips. 

At fifteen, stories often don't have endings.


"You know, when you're little, you have more endurance than God is ever to grant you again. Children are man at his strongest. They abide."