My #metoo moment, thirty years on

Seeing all the controversy over the current Supreme Court nomination, and following current events in general, a story from my past keeps cropping up in my memory.

The year was 1986, and I was a 29 year old claims representative for the Social Security Administration, having relocated back to Arizona and a suburban Phoenix office the year before.  The biggest part of my job then was taking and processing claims for retirement, survivors and disability benefits and interviewing claimants for them.  

One spring day, I was assigned a disability interview as part of our normal rotation.  I hated disability claims;  they were (and still are) time consuming and involved a lot of paperwork assisting claimants with recording their medical sources and other information necessary for medical specialists to review their claims in order to determine whether they met the pretty stringent requirements to be awarded such benefits.  So my reaction was a self-directed grimace and determination to get it over as quickly as possible.

When I called the claimant’s name in the office’s reception area, I was surprised to see a beautiful woman answer me.  About my age, professionally dressed, with the “girl next door” kind of looks that had always drawn me.  Inwardly, I thought that at least this would be a pleasant interview, if only from a visual aspect.  (Bear in mind I was a young man, with the normal amount of testosterone flowing.)

I escorted the young woman to my desk and screened her with the basics, taking her application, verifying identity, copying her birth certificate, and the preliminaries involved in a claims interview.  Then the “meat” of the interview, recording information about her disabling condition. 

When I asked her what her disability was, she reluctantly stated “depression”.  I then asked her if this was a long term issue, or recently brought about by some event or trauma.  And that’s when this became an interview that would change my attitude about a lot of things forever.

With her lips quivering, she stated that she had been assaulted.  As there were no obvious signs of physical injury, for some reason my mind went to a dark place.  Nervously, I asked her in a quiet voice: “Please understand that I have to ask this, as it’s my job.  But was this a sexual assault?”

I’ve rarely seen anyone try and succeed at controlling herself better than this woman. In a low, quivering voice, she said “yes”.  The tears were coming close, and I didn’t know how to handle what might come next.  (Truth to tell, I’m not good at handling a woman who’s crying, before or after this.). I vacillated between hugging her like a brother would or grabbing a box of Kleenex.  Tough situation.

I decided to let the moment pass and asked her if she’d like some water or something.  She recovered and told me her story.

She had been a flight attendant (in those days, a stewardess) for a major airline, United or American, I don’t remember which.  She had been raped in the cockpit of a plane by the pilot and first officer.  She had a lawsuit against the airline pending, and was on company disability.  The requirements of the company’s policy included filing for Social Security disability. Hence, she was here at my desk.  

I’ll admit, I’d lived a pretty sheltered life.  Loving parents in a good marriage, middle class existence, average social/dating life, nothing special or dramatic.  Rape wasn’t part of my world.  I’d never known a victim, perpetrator, or any hints of either.  So this was way out of my orbit.  Bottom line was that even as a fairly skilled interviewer, I needed to handle this as delicately and professionally as I could.

Claims representatives with Social Security are trained not to get personally involved in their cases.  Contrary to some perceptions, the job is not that of a social worker.  It balances administering the nation’s largest income security program with providing efficient, courteous and compassionate help to everyone who walks through the door.  But we all have cases that touch us a bit more and where we exert a little extra effort.  Like it or not, I now had one.

I excused myself for a moment and went to my supervisor’s desk.  I knew this interview would run pretty long if I handled it correctly, and thought I’d head off any flak I might get from management.  But once I explained the situation,  she immediately said, “Take all the time you need.  She deserves it.”  

Back to my desk.  My claimant had composed herself, and smiled, thanking me for my patience.  (Really? MY patience?). Continuing with the interview, I asked some more or less standard questions about how the crime and resulting disability had affected her and prevented her ability to go back to work or seek other employment.  

In the process, I realized just how this assault had affected her life.  She was in regular therapy, was afraid to date anyone, and couldn’t trust men no matter how hard she tried.  She was afraid that she would never be able to “connect” with a guy in another relationship. Never having been married, she had always hoped to meet the right guy, marry, have kids, the whole bit.  But she was now in a place where she wondered if that was ever going to be possible.  

As I recorded her statements and made my observations, also a part of the claims process, my mind kept wandering.  I internally felt emotions ranging from intense sympathy to absolute rage.  What kind of man could do something like this?  What kind of sickness would drive someone to ruin another person’s life, violating her this way?  And even more, how could two men commit this horrible act with neither stopping the other?  

I spent two and a half hours with that interview, one of thousands I took during my twenty years in that job.  But I can count on one hand the cases that stay with me to this day, and that one is at the top.  

As the time went on, I could feel a sense of calm come over her.  Somewhere in the back of my mind was a subconscious need to make her feel comfortable and safe.  Maybe to show her that not all men were like the animals who had attacked her.  I don’t know. I just wanted to help.

When we concluded, I was emotionally and mentally drained.  She was too, but probably to a lesser degree. After all, she had had to tell this story before.  Her bravery and ability to overcome the vulnerability that had overwhelmed her since she had been violated was impressive. It is something I think of to this day when I hear the accounts of women and men who are coming forward to tell their stories, even after years of silence.

As she got ready to leave, I did something I rarely did back then. I gave her my private phone extension, which was usually reserved for family members, personal business, or internal SSA use, and told her to call me anytime if she had questions or wanted to check on the progress of her claim.  And then I told her something I’d never said to any woman, before or since.  

“For the first time in my life, I’m ashamed to have been born a male.”  

And I meant it.

We shook hands, she thanked me for my help, and left.  I never saw her again.  

                                                          *****

My claimant’s story had a fairly happy ending, at least as far my job was concerned.  She had taken me up on my offer a couple of times after the claim was filed to check up on how her case was progressing.  Like all disability claims, hers took a long time to get through all the medical evaluations, reviews, and red tape typical of these claims.  She was denied benefits at the initial level, but appealed and won.  

I last heard from her about a year later, when she told me she had won her appeal.  She also had the happy news that the airline had settled her lawsuit out of court.  (Can you imagine the news coverage of such a case?  In 1986? Obviously a pretty smart legal team.) She sounded upbeat, a whole lot better than when we had met.  

Part of me wanted to pursue a social relationship with this woman, ask her out for coffee or something.  Not that she’d necessarily be attracted to a mutt like me, but she had touched me in a way I never had before, and I had so admired her from the beginning.  But I quickly extinguished the idea.  Both for professional reasons and out of innate shyness, as well as a desire not to seem like I was “using” my role to pursue something.  So that was that.

Life went on.  My career progressed and a few years later I moved on to become a manager for SSA offices.  At one point I was in charge of public relations for my district, and became a liaison for other social agencies including abused women’s shelters.  That, and in my personal life over the years when I met and befriended a few women who were survivors of abuse, truly opened my eyes about this terrible issue.  But it will always come back to that beautiful, wounded young woman who needed help in 1986.

There are those who say no man can ever truly “get” the pain of abuse so many women suffer.  They may be right.  Unless you’ve lived it, you probably can’t completely understand.  But you can acknowledge that it exists, that it’s pervasive, and fight it every way you can.  And every day act like the man you aspire to be.

I don’t even remember her name.  But I hope life worked out well for her.  As my supervisor said, she really did deserve it.

Bridget

Author's note:  I began this remembrance in the summer of 2015 as my dog Bridget was reaching her "senior citizen" years.  I wanted to write down my memories of our time together while they were still fresh in my mind.  As she passed away recently, now seems as good a time as any to share them with you.  Enjoy.

Looking back, it was kind of a close call that brought us together.

I was a single 47 year old guy, divorced eight years, and "dogless" for four. My last dog, Ralph, had passed away several years before, and while I'm a certified nut about our canine friends, I hadn't really been looking for a replacement due to the demands of a busy career.  Travel and long hours had quelled the urge to adopt a new best friend, as I felt I hadn't the time to devote to the care of one.  So I wasn't exactly desperate to become a new doggie dad.

Ralph had been one in a million.  A mellow but vigilant Collie/German Shepherd mix, my then-stepson and I had adopted him from the local shelter during the happier days of my marriage.  Ralph and I watched as my two stepchildren grew from toddlers to teenagers.  And when the family dissolved, it became just myself and the mutt as the cohabitants of a half-empty and lonely house.  It was Ralph who kept me sane in the dark days of divorce, with his happy and eager face greeting me at the end of each interminable day.   And he was there when the clouds lifted from my life as I moved on to a new home and a new reality.  Great dog.

But the inevitable arrived at age ten, when Ralph developed a cancer that came back after an extensive surgery.  So I found myself on my own again, not willing to make the commitment again despite all the suggestions from well-meaning friends who advised that "you know you really need a dog."  I did, of course, but not then.

Fast forward to the fall of 2003, when I was rising in the management ranks of the federal bureaucracy.  Living 25 miles from my office, I put in some pretty long hours, often getting home just in time to zap a quick dinner, down a beer or two, and hit the hay.  The thought of acquiring another furry friend, when it occurred, was quickly squelched as I assessed the responsibilities of owning a dog.

You see, I'm not the kind of guy who thinks of his dog as a mere appendage to his life.  As a man who never had kids of his own, my dog is basically my child, with all the spoiling and care one would expect of an overly doting parent.  I would never own an "outside dog", one that existed solely for my convenience.  I'm all in, including my buddy having free rein on the furniture and beds, too many treats, and all the things my less lenient dog owning friends won't allow.  That's the way it is.  (I blame my late father for this trait.  While tough on the outside, he was a marshmallow when it came to his dogs.  Runs in the family.)

In any case, when I got a call from my younger brother advising me that one of his employees was looking for someone to adopt his eight month old puppy, I was a bit skeptical.  While I wanted a new dog, it just didn't seem practical at the time.  But the kicker came when Trace advised me of the situation.  The dog, a Queensland Heeler/ German Shepherd mix, (I'm a sucker for GSDs, and the Heeler mix sounded intriguing) was owned by a guy who had recently been married to a woman who was less than thrilled with her.  He had to find a good home for the pup, ASAP.  As a Humane Society donor and one time volunteer, I know all too well of the shelter situation and what happens to most unwanted dogs in this country.

So it was an easy call.  I had to give the mutt a look.

That weekend, I drove out to the owner's home.  Decent neighborhood, typical of the cookie cutter development rampant in the Phoenix area.  But this guy's home was a little different.  Strewn all over the front yard were children's toys, a portable playpen, and the assorted flotsam of a family with little kids.  Far cry from a bachelor pad, kind of odd for a newlywed, too.

The owner greeted me at the door.  Average looking guy, mid 40s, affable.  As we talked, two little girls ran around the house, which dwarfed the front yard in the number of "kiddieland" items.  This dude had really made a lifestyle change.  And then I met New Bride, and it all fell into place. My new acquaintance had apparently found himself a lovely woman with a built in family.  One word, hot, which makes a lot of sacrifices possible for many men. As we began to talk, Mrs. seemed a bit annoyed when the subject of the dog came up, and it was pretty obvious that she wanted to get rid of her.  We went to the back yard to meet my prospect, as the little tykes zoomed all over the place.

What I saw was a pretty nice looking dog, when I could catch sight of her. At eight months, she wasn't fully grown, but the strength and agility of both breeds were evident, as were her markings.  Classic Shepherd lines save for a half - white "collar" below the head, with a little brindle coloring of the Heeler.   Good looking mutt, and would look pretty decent at maturity, if I was right.

But the energy level of Princess (a name that would have to change if I was ever going to take her. Horrid.) made the Tasmanian Devil look like a cripple.  She careened all over the yard, jumping in and out of the pool, and generally making me a believer in the theory of perpetual motion.  Pretty affectionate though, and having a ball.  Seemed like a great dog to have around kids, so the situation seemed odd. Why would this guy be getting rid of her?

As I questioned the owner, it was pretty clear that he didn't want to give her up.  But New Bride had two daughters with three small kids from different sperm donors, and apparently Princess' energy level had resulted in more than a few minor injuries to the little ones.  So Princess was out.

I've said before that I'm a dog nut.  And the thought of having to give up a "best friend" is about as unthinkable as it gets for me.  Yes, I know that there are times when it's absolutely necessary, but those should be pretty damn rare.  My first instinct was to ask this guy why the hell he'd marry a woman who would force him to give up his dog?  Call me weird, but in my world, the woman would be out before the dog, even if Angelina Jolie were offering her favors.  But here, we had a guy who either didn't have the cojones to make the call or had simply given up.  I felt sorry for him and angry at the same time.  But it was his problem, not mine.  Unfortunately, it was an innocent animal who would face its fate over all this.

And then there was the question of the dog's care.  Princess wasn't allowed indoors at all, which in Arizona can be a death sentence for a pet during our brutal summers.  Luckily, there was the pool, but that was about it.  Further, these yokels didn't even have a food bowl, which meant that mealtime was Puppy Chow spread on the patio.  And at nearly eight months, she hadn't even had her first shots.  Not spayed, either.

I had to admit to myself that I liked this little hellion, God-awful name and all.  And something about her potential fate if I or someone else didn't step up and give her a proper home ate at me.

Going back inside the house, it was pretty clear from Trophy Wife that Princess' days in that house were numbered, either way.  I told the happy newlyweds that I needed a few days, but would get back to them.  I added that I'd appreciate it if they'd hold off on any actions until I called.  Mrs. grudgingly agreed, and I headed home.

During the drive, a lot of questions swirled.  I led a pretty busy life.  New Dog would need house training, obedience classes, as well as some catchup veterinary maintenance.  I could afford it financially, but the time factor was worrisome.  This wasn't going to be easy.

But I kept coming back to Princess.  Good looking mutt, a combination of herding breeds, my preference.  In my book, the herders are the smartest dogs out there, though they require a lot more activity than many folks can give.  Especially a single dude who worked ten hour days.  Perhaps the decision to take her was made on that drive, though I didn't know it.

And dammit, I wanted a dog.  I've always loved having a dog.  I grew up with them, and no matter what your family situation, a dog is always a good addition.

But I wanted another look-see before deciding.  So the following Monday I called the owner and told him I wanted a second look Saturday and would arrange to take her home shortly afterwards if I made the final call that way.

The week was spent establishing a relationship with a neighborhood vet, explaining that I needed the full treatment for a new puppy, basically full vaccinations against rabies, parvo, and whatever other threats were out there.  Micro-chipping and spaying.  I may be lax in some areas of my life, but pet health isn't one of them.  New Dog would be street legal, healthy, and free of the possibility of procreation as soon as was practicable.   That's how I roll.

So it was pretty obvious that I was getting a new addition to my somewhat solitary life.  I visited the family Saturday and made arrangements to pick up the dog the next day.  Princess seemed happy to see a new friend while bouncing all over the place.

As the big day arrived, I was armed and ready.  Collar, leash, blanket for the cargo area of my Ford Explorer (which turned out to be useless, as New Dog quickly took a liking to the back seat), a few chew toys at home.  Vet appointment Monday for shots, spaying a week or so later.  I left the owner's house with a squirming pup and a memory I’ll always remember of a guy with what I swear were tears in his eyes as we drove off.  And one impatient new wife and too many little kids for a man her new hubby's age.  We make our choices in life, I guess.

Sometime on the drive home, I felt a wetness at my elbow on the car's console.  There was Princess, calm for the first time since we'd met, nuzzling my arm.  For some weird reason, it was as if she knew that she was safe, and somehow relieved. And that messy little gesture was something she repeated the rest of her life, during all our travels.

The first afternoon and night were surprisingly calm.  This dog was no dummy.  She quickly learned the proper use of the doggy door in my master bathroom, and to my absolute shock, became instant friends with Salsa, my elderly cat, the last vestige of my failed marriage.  To her credit, Salsa established her superiority right off the bat, so a dead cat was something I could cross off my "worry" list.  After a few hours of running around like a banshee in the back yard, Princess called it a night and curled up on a blanket next to my bed.  Apparently she had no problem adjusting to sleeping inside a house for a change.

I took the next day off from work for the initial vet appointment and a Petsmart run with my new charge.  Blood test, rabies shot paperwork, the usual. The veterinarian remarked on how lily-white her teeth looked, unusual even on a puppy.  When I explained that Princess had spent all of her brief life drinking chlorinated pool water (and worried that this might have been harmful), he got the drift and assured me that the chlorine wasn't enough to cause any problems.  Given a clean bill of health, he sent us off into the world.

But there was still the question of the name.  I knew I needed to get that out of the way so that there'd be no confusion in her mind when I called her.  And, given my anal retentive nature when it comes to dogs, I'd been thinking about it the entire week leading up to the "adoption".  So I'd probably over-thought the thing.

I don't have a lot of preferences when it comes to naming a pet, perhaps the only one being that the name should be appropriate to the animal.  That said, I do have a few rules.  I'm not into naming dogs according to the country of origin, for one thing.  For example, naming a German Shepherd or Rottweiler "Hans" or Schultz" or something like that sounds pretentious and silly. Ditto for regal names like "Duke" and "Prince" (or "Princess").  Too snobby.  I also don't care for the locations, like "Dakota" or "Sedona".  A simple boy's or girl's name works for me, as long as it's short and easy for the dog to understand.  So I gravitated to a short feminine name.  But what?

I was about a day or two from consulting a baby name book when I brought Princess into Petsmart for another shopping trip.  As I dragged the squirming puppy away from displays, other dogs, and fellow customers wanting to coo over her (which is annoying, but understandable. If you take your dog to Petsmart, you're probably the kind who does this sort of thing.), I spotted a cute little girl escorting her Dachshund around the aisles, calling "Bridget! Bridget!"  And that was it.  Nice, feminine name, with the added plus of "Bridget" reflecting my mixed Irish heritage.  Hey, there were a lot of Irish who colonized Australia, the home of the Heeler, so there was that, too.

I waited to leave the store with Bridget before introducing her to her new handle.  Didn't want the cute little girl to think I was trying to kidnap her wiener dog.
                                                           
                                                                       *******

I had advised my staff at the office that I'd be taking a few days off after bringing Bridget home to acclimate her, clean up any messes, generally get her used to her new home.  So we took short walks, played in the back yard, and generally got to know each other.  I'd bought several chew toys and rawhides, remembering how puppies love to chew everything in sight.  And she went at them with a vengeance, requiring one or two to be replaced pretty quickly.  This should have been a harbinger of my future, but I didn't pay it any mind.

Then there was the spaying.  I spent a couple of days "nursing" my newly sterile bitch as she struggled with a cone over her neck to avoid any suture chewing. The nice little sedatives prescribed by my conscientious vet were invaluable.

I'd say we bonded pretty quickly.  Bridget was a very affectionate animal, and given my noted dog spoiling nature, she got a lot in return, even to the point of allowing her to sleep on my bed, at least when I was reasonably certain there wouldn't be any nocturnal emissions.  As at this point she wasn't big enough to leap that high, I couldn't resist scooping her up and letting her sack out with me at bedtime.  There was something about her that seemed to appreciate a guy who actually let her be part of his life rather than exiling her to the back yard and pool for the rest of hers.  I might have been reading too much into it, but the sense was there.

So, when it was time to get back to the daily grind of my career, I went back to the office.  She'd been fine thus far, playing with the cat, eating well, doing her business outside.  So I returned to work, looking forward to hanging with her at the end of the day.

Driving home from work, I looked forward to a quiet evening of dinner, maybe a walk around the neighborhood with my new friend, a little ball toss action, and a basketball game on television with my new charge sleeping next to me on the sofa.  What greeted me when I opened the door, while not as awful as a scene from "Marley and Me", was pretty bad.  A chewed up shoe, scratches on the dining room table legs, my bed a mess, assorted loose items all over the house, thankfully still intact.  And a whirling dervish running all over the house and outside.  Wonderful.

It had been a while since I'd had a puppy.  As mentioned, I love herding breeds, and I now owned a combination of two of them.  Herding dogs need activity, lots of it.  The combination of puppyhood and her lineage meant that young Bridget was going to be a handful.  So, after cleaning up the mess, with Bridget somewhat calmed down and fed, I resolved to give her as much exercise as I could as often as I could.  Maybe that would calm her down a bit as she matured.

Thus began the daily ritual of the evening walk.  This routine resulted in yet more discoveries about my new buddy, the chief ones being a) that walking her required the strength of an Olympic weight lifter and b) that Bridget felt the need to introduce herself not only to every piece of flora and fauna along the route, but any other hapless human or animal in view.

 I'll readily admit that I'm no fitness buff.  I wasn't at my college weight nor in the same degree of shape I once had been, though I was hardly over the hill or grossly overweight at that point.   But this was a whole other ball game in terms of endurance.  Bridget was a tugger, and while I had wisely purchased a harness after she'd slipped her collar in her zeal for meeting everyone in sight, my shoulders were ready for rotator cuff surgery after every walk.

But the nightly scene of destruction continued, and something had to change.  I'd drive home from work dreading the damage she had caused during the day and having to give the daily "cooling off" walk, which did exactly nothing to quell any of her boundless energy.  My back yard already resembled the Battle of the Marne, with "foxholes" everywhere from endless digging.  My carpet was full of dirt she'd tracked in. And though I'd been as diligent as possible in trying to keep things out of her reach, there would be something ripped up or destroyed every other day.  Time to seek professional help.

I don't give dogs up.  I either train them into shape, or accept their quirks and deal with it.  Your dog is your family.  The guy from whom I procured Bridget was a damn fool, in my opinion.  So the abandonment option was out.  Plus, I loved the big goof.

                                                                 *****

Time for some training.  While in the past I had been able to train dogs in the basics (heel/sit/stay, etc.), it had been a while.  And I'd never dealt with a mutt at nine months and nearly sixty pounds, either. Or with the energy level of a Category Three hurricane.  I couldn't afford to hire a one-on-one trainer, so I signed us up for Petsmart's basic obedience course.  Reasonable price, weekly sessions and printed practice instructions.  Sounded good.

The following Sunday, I found myself at my local Petsmart, in the middle of a circle of fellow dog owners which reminded me more of a group therapy session on the old Bob Newhart Show than an obedience class.  It was a diverse bunch, with all sizes and shapes of dogs--and owners, too.  I mentally played the old "match the dog to its owner" game, and was surprised at some of the similarities in the crowd.  Unfortunately, any attempts at conversation as we waited for the instructor to show up were limited by my little darling's desire to meet and greet all the other mutts there.  Bridget must have attempted to sniff at least five dogs' rear ends before I semi-successfully corralled her next to my chair.

Thankfully, I wasn't alone in my embarrassment, as most of the other dogs were of a similar disposition.  After all, why were we all here, anyway?

Then the instructor walked in.  Mid to late twentysomething, clean cut, very pleasant, but with an underlying air of confidence.    I liked the guy immediately, and as the course went on, I could tell that he was skilled at his craft.  He seemed able to address each "student's" individual needs and issues, and this bunch was pretty varied in intelligence and trainability. The owners, too.

One Sunday, I decided to get a little one on one time with the instructor to see if he could help with my home destruction problem.  While I could tell that Bridget was a pretty sharp dog, and picked up on training commands in our too infrequent practice sessions after work, I was still dealing with the chewing, digging, and other miscellaneous acts of mischief.  While she was fine in obeying commands, she was still a wreck when I wasn't around.

The advice was short and to the point:  "You have to crate this dog.  If you don't, you'll either have no dog or no house."  The combination of two herding breeds meant that Bridget had a double shot of the need for activity and human contact--and given my work, and the fact that I was a single guy, her hours of solitude each day produced boredom and the inevitable chaos that can produce. So she had to be restrained during the day.

This wasn't the answer I wanted to hear. I'd always been of the opinion that crating a dog for extended periods was inhumane.  After all, I'd grown up with Shelties, and they'd never acted like this.  How could I leave a dog in a crate for ten plus hours a day when I was at work?  It seemed way too drastic.  But then I remembered that as a kid, my dogs hadn't been alone much.  I grew up in the 1960s and ‘70s, with a mostly stay at home mom.  So my Shelties had had constant attention and diversion during the day while Dad was defending freedom in the Air Force and my brother and I were in school. I began to understand.

 I knew I had to try it.  So after an expensive purchase of an extra large travel crate and water feeder, I prepared to imprison my dog during the work day.  The following morning, as I prepared to go to work, I fed Bridget early, let her "do her business" in the yard, and introduced her to her new abode.  After giving me one of those odd and quintessentially "dog" looks of questioning, she dutifully trotted into the crate and lay down on the little blanket I'd placed there.  Amazing; it was if she knew this was what she needed.  Pleased with myself, I attached the water bottle to the crate's door, and headed off to work.

I planned my first few days of crating so as to not spend too much time at the office.  While the trainer had advised me that a dog won't soil its "home", I didn't want Bridget to have to hold it forever.  So I worked a normal eight hours, and after the usual half-hour drive home, walked into my house to hear a joyous bark from the Prisoner of Zenda in her crate.  I opened the door and was knocked over by sixty pounds of canine love.  It was as if I'd been gone for nine years rather than nine hours.  After covering my face with doggie kisses, Bridget made a beeline for the pet door and took care of business.  After answering the call of nature, she barreled back in and the reunion resumed.  I felt a sense of regret and relief.  I wasn't sold on the crate thing, but the preliminary results were good.  And my house was intact.

Bridget remained in the crate during the week for another seven months.  At the suggestion of one of my employees, I finally decided to give her a parole.  I was a bit frightened at this; things had gone so well, and upsetting the apple cart seemed a little scary.  But really, what's the point in having a dog if it has to stay in a cage all day?  Plus, I needed flexibility in my work hours  and in what little social life I had.  Bridget was house trained, so there was no problem there, and an extra hour or so of my absence didn't seem like a big deal should I decide to do a happy hour after work or something without worrying about her.  So I took the plunge.

Despite my constant worrying the first day of her "parole", I was pleasantly surprised when I returned to a peaceful and placid residence.  No "accidents", no chewed furniture, nada.  And Bridget greeted me with her usual manic enthusiasm.  Mission accomplished.

                                                                         ******

As previously mentioned, at the time I adopted Bridget, I wasn’t living entirely alone.  I was the reluctant owner of Salsa, an elderly cat I'd acquired as a result of my divorce seven years previous.  At the time of the split, my then-wife informed me that she couldn't take both of our felines, so she had to leave Salsa with me.  I'd kept her ever since, not feeling right about giving her away or surrendering her to a shelter.  After all, it wasn't her fault that her "parents" weren't going to live happily ever after.  So I kept her, despite her antisocial tendencies.  She wasn't the friendliest of pets, but she was okay….

I've never been considered a "cat person".  Never really liked them, though as a pet, they're a lot more user-friendly than dogs.  Need to leave town on business for a few days?  Just clean out the litter box, load up on food and water, and you're good to go.  So old Salsa was fairly low maintenance.  She had some pretty decent attributes too, such as being able to use a pet door (which made it possible to leave the cat box on the back patio and avoiding odor), and, most important, getting along with dogs.

Salsa and Ralph, my previous mutt, had "grown up" together, and she was thus neither intimidated by or bashful around her new housemate.  Early on, she put Bridget in her place, utilizing her intact rear claws to deliver a few wincing blows to show who was the boss in our little family.  After a couple of entertaining dustups (I have a sadistic sense of humor at times, but these were pretty funny), all was fine between the two.  They even reached a point of playing together.  After Salsa "crossed the bridge" at the ripe old age of nineteen following a series of bladder infections, Bridget knew she'd lost her buddy.  For a few days after I'd had to have Salsa put down, there was a slight moroseness to her usual mood.  I never got another cat, but Bridget was to have new pet buddies down the line, though I didn't know it then.

                                                                        ******

As the years went by, Bridget mellowed, though never completely losing that weird energy level she'd shown as a pup.  She was still always anxious to meet every human and dog we encountered on walks and dog park visits.  She still had to check out anything new and unfamiliar, and never stopped pestering me with a well-chewed tennis ball after a long day at the office, wanting to spend a leisurely hour or so playing fetch.

Some say dogs don't smile, but I'll never believe it for a minute.  The look on her face when I came home from work, as if her whole day had been a waste until I showed up in the early evening told me all.  I couldn't resist giving her a lot of love and attention for a while until I fed the both of us and settled down for a couple of beers, television or a book, and bed.  And sometime after, there'd be the "whump" of sixty pounds of dog jumping up on the bed and settling in for the night after one last patrol of the back yard.
******

One of the more interesting (to put it mildly) aspects of owning a dog with Bridget’s “personality” was her penchant for pulling stunts that can at once alarm the owner but make for a hilarious story later on.  I had no shortage of these experiences during her long life.

I’ve described Bridget’s endless curiosity when it came to sniffing vegetation and “making new friends” whether or not the victim wanted to reciprocate the gesture.  One of her weird habits was chasing after flying insects.  Quite often, I’d watch her in the yard, leaping and snapping at flies until she wore herself out.

So it was one Friday evening when Bridget was two or three—I can’t remember the exact year—I had decided to cap off a week of work with a quiet evening at home with a pizza and a few beers, vegetating in front of the television and watching a baseball game.  Just a nice little “guy” night hanging out at home.

Somewhere in the late innings, I’ll admit that I had a bit of a beer buzz on.  So when Bridget appeared at the foot of my sofa with a head that seemed a little larger than usual, I chalked it up to a few too many beers and a mild hallucination.  I tottered off to bed with her in tow, and slept soundly.

The next morning, I woke up to see my dog looking like someone had transplanted a cantaloupe where her head should be.  Think of a Shar Pei’s dome on a mid-sized Schnauzer.  With no apparent pain, she was acting just as goofy as ever.  In a state of near panic, I immediately called my vet’s office, luckily open on weekends.  It’s kind of weird trying to explain that your dog’s head looks like a beach ball, but I was sure they’re used to that sort of thing.  Maybe.

So I trundled Bridget in the truck, hustled her on over, and received an immediate diagnosis from my vet: “She ate something”.  Really?  That’s it?

“So, have you seen her eat anything unusual the last couple of days?”

“No, nothing odd, could she have eaten a black widow or something?”

“Doubt it.  If she’d eaten one of those, she’d probably be dead.”  Great bedside manner, my vet.

“So what could it….uh-oh….”

“Yes?”

“Well, she does have this weird habit of chasing flies. I assume she catches one once in a while.”

“Think you just solved it.  Bees fly, too.  Looks like she doesn’t discriminate.  A bee sting, or in this case, a bee ingestion, would cause the allergic reaction. Vitals are fine, she just looks freaky.  Couple of days, she’s good as new.”

So, $50 and a prescription for steroids later, we continued our weekend. Eventually the swelling went down and she didn’t look like the Kool-Aid Man anymore.   Naturally, the goofball never learned from her experience, and happily resumed her fly hunting whenever the opportunity presented itself.  We never had another bee experience.

******

My life began to change in the summer of 2009.  After thirty years of working and climbing the bureaucratic ladder for Uncle Sam, things were turning sour.  Having far exceeded my career expectations and ambitions, I felt that I might have crossed a bridge too far.  The demands of office and agency politics, a sociopathic boss, a ridiculous commute, and a general frustration with the goals I'd set for myself combined to wear at my health and outlook.  Quite simply, I was burned out.  I knew my health was suffering, and I would spend hours in my office looking forward to just coming home to my nice little home and dog.  I needed out.  I didn't care what, if anything, I did next in my life.  But I knew that I had to get out.  So the decision came to take an early retirement.  And when I said goodbye to the United States government, I did so with a relieved and happy heart.  Time to take it easy and decompress, which, despite what you hear from people who retired and had no clue what to do with themselves, was pretty easy.

For about a month after I hung up my spurs, old habits persisted.  I couldn’t quite stop getting up at five a.m., my subconscious telling me that it was time to rise, shower and shave, and begin my hellish commute.  So, while I "struggled" with an extra hour or so of shuteye, my mutt became thoroughly confused.

Dogs are creatures of habit, just as we are.  Bridget was used to her routine, which was tied to mine.  What was once a normal procedure of waking up, heading outside for the morning constitutional, breakfast, a goodbye treat, and sleeping all day changed to Dad arising whenever the hell he felt like it and being around the house all day.  More than once I found myself lying in bed with the big goof pawing on me reminding me that breakfast was overdue.  So a little adjustment was needed on both our parts.  Over time, we came to an accommodation.  Breakfast was whenever I got up.  But rarely before 7:30. I can't sleep too late, after all….

******

One of the advantages (or disadvantages, depending on your point of view) of having a dog like mine was, like Rottweilers and Dobermans, certain breeds come with a built-in "fear factor".  Let me explain.  Whether by reputation or actual fact, some people, usually those who know little to nothing about dogs, are more nervous and guarded around some breeds.  The current debate over pit bulls is a good example of this, with some calling for the banning of an entire breed over anecdotal evidence while breed loyalists battle them with examples of perfectly well-behaved animals as a reason not to overreact.  I can see both points of view to an extent, but came to understand the prejudices and reactions of some when confronted with my German Shepherd Dog mix.

To be sure, Bridget was no purebred.  And her particular combination was known to me only because that was what her former owner had told me, though this was pretty much confirmed by her vet at her first visit there.  Unlike purebreds, mixed breeds have no "papers" attesting to their lineage.  This is why a lot of surprises can confront the adopter or buyer of a mixed breed dog.  What may have been presented as a Collie/Boxer mix could easily turn out, as the dog matures, to be the result of Lassie having played with Spike the Pit Bull one too many times.  You never know.

In my case, though, it was a pretty safe bet that Bridget was what she had been presented to be--a mix of GSD and Queensland Heeler.  But as she grew into adulthood, the German Shepherd half was clearly dominant in her appearance.  While she didn't have the overall height and sloped back of the GSD, nearly every other feature suggested that breed.  Only a slightly shorter muzzle and a telltale brindle-colored half "collar" around her neck betrayed the cattle dog in her.

And this dog could bark, too.  Not to the point of distraction like some other breeds, but she was ever vigilant when strangers approached my home, even my long time landscaper.  And while not the snapping, threatening type, she could put a healthy fear in anyone who didn’t know her.

So it came to be that strangers upon meeting my dog at first took her to be a Shepherd, with the usual assumptions of a guard dog and potentially dangerous personality.  Not real "dog people", who have some knowledge of the intricacies of our relationships with our canine friends, but the general public.  I was blessed to learn this lesson one weekend.

One Sunday morning before my retirement, I was fooling around on the Internet in my home office, leisurely browsing as I sipped coffee.  Before pulling the pin on my career, my weekends were a mishmash of catching up with domestic chores that I neglected during the week--laundry, cleaning, light home repair to the extent that I was capable, which isn't much.  But I always enjoyed getting up early on Sunday mornings, hitting the paper for sports scores and editorials, then catching up on emails and chatting with friends in the cyberworld.  It was "my" time of the week back then.


Around ten, I heard the doorbell ring.  What I didn’t hear was the immediate barking of my Killer Attack Guard Dog, who always responded to any threat she could detect, whether it be the older couple next door walking their dog, the Jehovah's Witnesses leaving me a copy of the Watchtower, or a possible zombie apocalypse.  I answered the door in my usual weekend uniform of gym shorts and tank top, not really caring if I impressed the caller or not.

What greeted me at the door was a thirtysomething guy with my dog, firmly grasped by her collar.  While I was concentrating on preventing an imminent meltdown at this sight, he calmly explained that Bridget had been outside and after seeing him, his wife and infant son in a stroller, had beelined across the street to "make friends".

I live in an "open carry" state.  Had this fellow been armed, seeing a dog like Bridget barreling toward his family, he would have been legally justified in shooting her.  It wasn’t like a Welsh Corgi sauntering over--it was a GSD mix who could cause some pretty serious damage if she wanted to.  But by the grace of God, there was no gun, and he happened to be the owner of several hunting dogs and recognized the lack of barking and threatening behavior .  He saw my front door slightly ajar and reasoned that that was where Bridget belonged.

Apparently, I hadn't latched the front door to my home when grabbing the newspaper at six a.m.  My bad.

After profusely thanking the guy, and waving at his cute family across the street, I was prepared to beat the living daylights out of my dog.  But two problems here:  One, I don’t hit dogs, save a mild tap as a reprimand.  Two, she was a dog.  She was a naturally gregarious, friendly animal with a protection instinct based on a million years of evolution.  She hadn't done anything wrong.  I'd left a door ajar and enabled her to do what her brain told her. So I made a mental note to be a little more careful.  Nerves sufficiently frazzled but lesson learned.

                                                                            *****
As Bridget and I got to know each other, there were always new things to learn as the years went by.  While she exhibited her herding nature with activities like nudging little kids around in one direction or another (as if they were strays on the outback), she also showed the "sixth sense" that dogs often have when we humans are clueless.  When my elderly mother came to my home for Christmas one year, Bridget became immediately attached upon their meeting.  Mom had been declining in health since my father's death several years before, and it showed.  While not in pain, it was obvious that the strong, independent military wife who had raised two sons was failing.  Stoic as ever, Mom never complained, but I knew things were changing.

And so did Bridget.  During that visit, she never left my mother's side.  It was as if she had appointed herself protector of the weakest member of the pack, and took her job seriously.  While sixty pounds of muscle would seem an ill fit for a small, frail woman who barely registered on a scale, my normally lumbering, battering ram of a mutt showed a delicacy in her movements I'd never seen before.  Instead of jumping up on the sofa when Mom and I would watch television after dinner, Bridget would settle at her feet.  When Mom went to the bathroom, Bridget followed at a distance and positioned herself at the door until she reemerged.  And at bedtime, instead of a big lump crowding my bed, she stayed outside Mom's room all night.

Strange, but somehow gratifying.  And Mom loved the attention as well, though she'd never admit it.  But she noticed it, and it brought them close.

It was my mother's last visit to my home.  Several months later, she had to move into assisted living, with me traveling home to Tucson on weekends to see to her needs. And though she never saw Bridget again, her first question each time I'd show up was how my dog was doing.

                                                                           *****

As Bridget and I settled into "retired" life, I discovered the freedom of no obligations, no schedule, no demands.  There's something liberating about not having to answer to anyone, not being expected anywhere.  Just me, finally in control of my life.  I felt a contentment and happiness I hadn't felt in years, never having known I'd lost them.  Making friends, canine and human, at the dog park, Bridget taking her sweet time exploring every plant on our now longer walks, reading the New York Times at Starbucks, just the simple things.  Life was good.

But something was missing, I supposed.  A loner by nature all my life, I'd spent my post-divorce years sporadically dating, a couple of near-serious relationships along the way, and the occasional "fling" which went nowhere.  I wasn't lonely, but maybe it was time to see what was out there again.  Thankfully, I'd been somewhat jaded by experience, and always kept expectations low.  So I re-joined an online dating site and proceeded to see if there was anyone who was a) reasonably sane, b) somewhat attractive and c) not looking for a guy to "take care of her". My post-divorce dating adventures could have been the subject of a good comedic novel, and while I wasn't necessarily looking for a wife, I wanted something more than casual dating or sex.  "Nice" would do for now, with hopefully the promise of something deeper down the line.

Over the years, I had run the gamut of potential mates, from "clingers" to religious zealots to gold diggers, and all too often the recently divorced woman who wasn't "over it".  I saw the signs early on and had developed a fairly good nose for serious character flaws.  Yes, there had been some really nice ladies, but for one reason or another things just hadn't worked out, and while the elusive "magic" wasn't there, or job demands made a normal relationship impossible, I counted many of these women as friends, and still do.

If this makes me sound hardened regarding love and romance, I was probably guilty.  But I think that as one gets older, he or she sees things a little more clearly than in younger years.  Time and experience, both good and bad, help us to discern if "the one" is attainable in this complex world.  Or if we ourselves aren't long term relationship material.  I've never been afraid of examining myself and my flaws, and doing what I can to correct them.  I've also looked at what assets I presented to a potential significant other, and realistically thought that I was slightly on the plus side of the ledger.  Ever so slightly.

So it was off to the wilds of the internet, having some decent photographs posted, and to write a profile that would make any woman swoon.  I wasn’t the bar type save for watching sports, and have zero “pickup skills”, so that was out.  I decided to once again look for love, or a reasonable facsimile, in cyberworld.

                                                                       ******

I hadn't really figured including Bridget in the boy-meets-girl scenario, but I made sure that anyone I was to meet knew that I was a pretty serious dog parent, for better or worse.  After all, she had been here first, so any non-dog people, allergic women, or the like were probably out.  While I understood accommodation and balance, Bridget was family, and she was a part of the deal.  Love me, love my dog.

What I hadn't thought about was Bridget herself and her reaction to my possibly getting "attached".  Yes, I'd had some adult company at times over the years, which generally included shutting Bridget out of the bedroom and listening to her moan until she gave up (not exactly helping a romantic mood along, but what can you do?), but no girlfriend who was in the house on a regular basis.  It simply hadn't been an issue in the six years we'd been together.

But, as it happened, I did meet "the one".  Beautiful, intelligent, well-adjusted, the whole package.  How I was so lucky to meet her, and eventually get her to marry me, is another story.  But a year and a half after we met, I was now a husband again, after a fifteen year hiatus.

DeeAnne brought with her a Maltese terrier, Lizzie, a cute little furball who was about the most polar opposite of Bridget you could think of.  About ten pounds, snow white fur that needed regular grooming, and just as spoiled as my big pride and joy, she soon became a foil to my big mutt, though there was an adjustment period, and the occasional slight bloodletting….

I should have known early on that Bridget was a one-man dog.  It might have been the fact that she was of herding breed heritage, where you'll usually find the dogs being pretty protective of their humans.  It might also have been that Bridget and I had lived only with each other for eight years.  In any case, the "alpha female" in my pooch emerged pretty early on in my courtship and marriage.


Bridget never got quite used to sharing me with others, whether they were two or four legged.  It just wasn’t in her nature.  I was Numero Uno in her little world, and that never completely changed.  Any display of physical affection from my wife resulted in an immediate nuzzling from my dog if she was in sight of the offending act.  Nothing too overt, no growling or anything, just a "presence" that told my bride that she'd been there first.  Thankfully, my wife is the patient, non-threatened type, and she quickly realized that she'd have to share.   And loved Bridget, despite her own “secondary” role.

                                                                           ******

As Bridget aged, she showed the usual signs of getting older--difficulty jumping on me when I'd come into the house, a little more effort hopping up on the bed, the nose turning gray, the tendency to pack on weight.  So it happened that when I saw a television commercial for a car company in the fall of 2015, an old idea rekindled in my memory.  The ad was about a guy celebrating his dog turning the ripe old age of 14 with a "bucket list" of things to do with his buddy while there was still time. Accompanied by a Willie Nelson tune, it was a very compelling commercial.

What came back to me the first time I caught that Subaru ad was that I'd thought of taking a road trip with Bridget after I retired.  While I don't have a bucket list per se, there were a few things I'd thought about doing when I left the work force, and a nice, leisurely road trip with Bridget had been one of them.  But it hadn't happened yet; I'd met DeeAnne, married, bought a new home and rented out another, and had been distracted from the idea.

Making the call easier was the fact that several months before, I had purchased a new four wheel drive SUV of decent size and weight for highway or off road use.  While I would never participate in the Baja 1000 in the thing (or any other vehicle, for that matter), my new Toyota 4Runner combined reliability, performance and a touch of luxury for a nice long road trip.  Plenty of room for both of us; heck, we could even sleep in it if we had to.  So the plan began to take shape.

Although we'd never taken a long distance road trip together, Bridget was a pretty decent traveler, if you got away from her tendency to bark at every biker or pedestrian we'd pass in the city.  She'd calm down pretty quickly and settle into sleeping or just gazing out the window.  So her car behavior wouldn't be an issue.  I decided to give her the back seat, covered with a doggie blanket and her tethered to a seat belt for safety (the seat belt use didn't last long, but it was a nice idea.).

My plan was to visit my brother, who had recently moved to eastern Wyoming to what could be considered one of the more remote corners of the West.  He had relocated to the badlands in order to help a buddy run a bar/restaurant and was enjoying the simpler life to its full extent.  I'd been up there before, and was too much of a city slicker to ever think about moving, but as they say, vive la difference.  It would be good to see Trace and his posse, many of whom I'd met on the first trip. A few days of eating, drinking and war stories.  Great folks up there, and it would be nice to reconnect.

Rather than take the fastest way north, I decided to take my sweet time.  I planned a route through southern Utah, catching Monument Valley on the way up.  (If you don't know what Monument Valley is, watch one of the classic John Wayne Westerns directed by John Ford.  It's one of the most beautiful areas in the nation.)  Despite having grown up in the Southwest and spending most of my life there, I'd never managed to see this majestic scenery.  So that would be my first stop.  On through Utah, across Colorado, then north to Wyoming.  I planned my route with scenery rather than speed in mind, so kept the interstates and freeways to a minimum. No hurry.

Being the anal retentive traveler I am, I made reservations in advance at pet-friendly motels along my route.  When traveling alone, I'm pretty much "no frills"; a decent shower and comfortable bed is fine with me.  And I doubted I'd get any complaints from the back seat.  So Motel 6 or the occasional local motor lodge was the order of the day.

After loading up the truck with supplies (duffel bag, backpack and cooler for me, dog food and treats for my companion), we set off for Tuba City, Arizona, on the Navajo reservation.  After the long drive through desolate yet starkly beautiful territory, I grabbed some fast food, took Bridget out for a nighttime "taking care of business" walk, then hit the sack for a reasonably early start the next morning.

One thing about traveling with a dog:  You make a lot of pit stops.  While Bridget had been fully housetrained and was superb at "holding" for a long time, I wasn't sure how she'd do on a multi-day drive.  So I came to know every rest area between Phoenix, Arizona, and Hawk Springs, Wyoming.   What surprised me was how much I actually enjoyed pulling over every forty miles or so.

As a boy, I was used to frequent road voyages, as my dad was a career Air Force officer.  Often, our family vacations coincided with change-of-station moves.  I'd seen Yellowstone, Yosemite, Mount Rushmore, and many other iconic American sights on these trips.  And there was always an informal schedule involved.  While my dad was no Great Santini, he liked to get from Point A to Point B in a reasonable amount of time.  So aside from the mandatory stop for breakfast at a diner or chain restaurant, we usually made trips with the objective of seeing as much as possible in the time allowed.  It worked most of the time.

But after reaching adulthood, I preferred the speed and convenience of flying over car travel.  While 9/11 forever changed business and leisure air travel for the worse, it was still my preferred method of getting around.  Consequently, I hadn't been on a multi-day car trip in over thirty years.  Something about this trip with Bridget, though, made me appreciate the lure of the open road.  I envisioned myself as a modern day version of the classic 1960s TV show Route 66, wherein the two young, impossibly handsome stars travel the nation in a first-generation Corvette.  The only difference was that I was 58, average looking, and traveled with a dog instead of a thirty year old Martin Milner.   Fantasies are fun.

In any case, Bridget and I met a lot of new if temporary friends as we checked out the dog areas of rest stops.  It was relaxing and pleasant to find out about people, their dogs, and their destinations.  But it made for a long day, though we didn't mind.

Day 2 brought Monument Valley, with beautiful vistas and virtually no commercial activity other than cheesy faux-Native American curio stands.  Bridget and I made several stops on the pretense of her maybe having to take a leak, but I was more interested in taking pictures.

After spending the night at a Motel 6 in Moab, Utah, a lovely little city, we had a Breakfast Jack and free dog biscuit from a drive-through, and I got a Starbucks fix.  Onward.

Lesson two about canine road trips:  Be prepared for long walks.  While we stayed in dog-friendly accommodations, I didn't want to risk any "accidents".  So it came to be that Bridget and I were usually up at the crack of dawn making sure she got her early morning business taken care of.  Not the most patient guy on the planet, I was continually irritated with my mutt's need to inspect every square foot of our walking area before she'd get the job done.  But I kept reminding myself that I wasn't on any schedule, and that this would likely be my last and only long trip with her.  So I soldiered on while Bridget blithely sauntered around before finally doing the deed.

The last night on the trip north was spent in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, off Interstate 70 and famous as the final resting place of the legendary Doc Holliday, who died in a tuberculosis sanitarium there and who was allegedly buried in its cemetery.  While I didn't make the pilgrimage to Doc's grave, I did share some good bourbon with the guy in the next cabin, who was an oil drilling contractor from Houston traveling with his elderly Lab from Colorado to Central America in a well-worn Ford diesel pickup.  After his dog got over Bridget's too intense curiosity, the four of us sat out on the stoop and got to know each other.  Sports, trucks, and dogs, three quintessential "guy" conversation topics, were the order of the day, and Bridget and I turned in a little later than normal, with Daddy waking with a slight hangover the next morning.  Nice guy.

On through the nightmare of Denver traffic after a photo op at Vail Pass.  Bridget had never seen snow, and she didn't quite know what to do about it but jump around and leave a "calling card" which I dutifully cleaned up.

                                                                           ******
We arrived in metropolitan Hawk Springs, Wyoming (population 50) late in the afternoon on the third day.  My brother greeted us at the bar/restaurant he managed, one of the three or four structures in the little town.  What passes for happy hour was in full swing, and I was reintroduced to several folks I'd met during my two previous visits.  Bridget was happy to see her "uncle", though a bit tired after a long day on the road and innumerable pit stops.  My challenge was to make sure she kept her bladder in check, because I didn’t want any accidents in my brother's quarters in the bedroom we'd been assigned.  So I kept her on leash as we made our rounds.

Bridget was a semi-hit with the locals.  And while the guys in that neck of the woods are partial to bird dogs like Labs, pointers and the like, I got more than a few compliments on her looks and disposition.  She was in pretty decent shape for an older dog, and though I hadn't trained her as thoroughly as I should have, she didn't disappoint when responding to commands.  I had to admit I was kind of proud that these grizzled dog experts and breeders liked my mutt, actually.

I'd only planned on spending a few days in Hawk Springs before heading back south, but was pretty flexible.  Bridget was certainly getting her share of exercise and socialization, and it was good to catch up with my younger sibling and his friends.

My brother Trace and I are pretty much opposites in the personality department.  While he is the quintessential outgoing, hail-fellow-well-met type, I'm a bit more shy and reserved.  Been that way all our lives, though we've always been close, particularly after the deaths of our parents.  When the circle of family and friends begins to close in as one gets older, it's fairly natural to appreciate what you have and not lose sight of it.  So it was, and is with us.  We spent a few fun nights talking, drinking too much, and just enjoying each other’s company.  (Thankfully, we’re on the same page on some issues such as religion and politics, or we’d have killed each other years ago.)

But as is usually the case with Trace, the visit wasn't without a little craziness.  On the second night of my stay in Hawk Springs, as he and I were arguing over something as important as the Green Bay Packers’ prospects or an equally vital issue, a disturbance arose outside the bar requiring his attention as the manager.  Apparently, the local sheriff had been called out over an accident report involving one of the restaurant’s patrons, and as she was arguing with the cop, Bridget, having escaped her confinement in Trace’s house next door, was insinuating herself into the situation.  Trace ran back into the bar informing me that Sarge (his pet name for her) was right there, checking out the action.  Scared witless that my dog would end up on the wrong end of a policeman’s Glock, I ran out and quickly retrieved her, all the while thanking God that she hadn't been plugged.  As usual, Bridget was being her normal, all-too friendly self.  She went back to our bedroom with a locked door.

I've been accused of being a bit overprotective of Bridget, and it’s probably true.  My guilt over not training her as well as I could have in puppyhood was the main reason.  When I should have been spending hours after work drilling with the “homework” I’d been given by the aforementioned trainer at Petsmart, I preferred to play with her and take her for a walk.  So, despite her intelligence and amenability to training, I’d dropped the ball.

Plus, we had her natural energy and desire to get involved in anything going on within a half mile of wherever she happened to be.  So it came to pass that she was on her leash more than other dogs and I constantly making sure she was within my sight.


The rest of the visit was fairly placid, with Bridget and I staying another couple of nights and getting back on the road.  I could tell that my old dog was getting a little tired, though she still eagerly explored all the sights and sounds of the road going home.  But once we'd check into a motel, she'd be out like a light….

                                                                             *****

Mark Twain once said that one of the greatest tragedies of life was that men outlive their dogs.  As Bridget got older, something new was happening that made our relationship unlike those with the other dogs I’ve had.  When she turned thirteen, I was in my sixtieth year of life, approaching one of the dreaded “0” birthdays later in the year.  I’ve never been a big birthday guy, no matter what age I was.  And the seemingly required extravaganza when one hit 40, 50, or 60 was particularly annoying, and celebrated only under duress.  I appreciated all the efforts friends and family expended marking these occasions, but I never really liked the attention.

Watching my old girl age, for some reason I began to think of my own mortality.  Bridget was in good shape for her advanced years,  and had indeed outlived the average of at least one of her combined breeds.  But despite my veterinarian’s description of her fine condition, we were under no illusions that she was in her last years.  So I cherished the days I had with her as she settled into old age.  As I was.

I was in pretty reasonable health for a guy my age, though I wasn't the most conscientious about breaking old vices.  I grudgingly had the tests and procedures I was supposed to, and was clear of any problems at that point.  But I was slowing down too, and watching my dog ever so slowly decline would occasionally cause a slight bout of melancholy, as I thought of the future for both of us.

We were both in a pretty good situation, as Bridget had a loving master to ease her way to the end, and I was fortunate to have a wonderful wife who'd take good care of me as I prepared to move on from this life. But questions began cropping up in my mind.  When she passed, would I want another dog?  One that might actually outlive me?  Having seen the great work rescue groups perform for homeless animals, I had been tempted more than once to adopt another dog, and considered it a humane act. But I was limited by the fact that we already had two dogs in the household, and a third would be too much, in my opinion.

Having two dogs is a plus for a family, I think.  Our little Chance, the successor to the deceased Lizzie, did a lot in keeping Bridget as active as possible as she aged, and the two generally got along well, with a few “alpha-dog/beta-dog” conflicts on occasion.  So I thought of what would happen after Bridget crossed “the bridge”.  Again, probably over-analyzing the thing, but it did crop up from time to time.

******

In the summer of 2016, DeeAnne and I took the dogs to the high country of Arizona for a week of R&R in a cabin we’d rented.  For her, it was a working vacation, thanks to satellite internet coverage. For me, just a week of relaxation and playing with the mutts, getting in some reading.  Bridget and Chance had a ball making new friends with other dogs, taking walks, and being overwhelmed with new “smells”, every dog’s favorite pastime.

But again, things were changing.  Bridget had some vomiting spells, probably from eating a lot of the junk on the ground in your typical forest, and had trouble keeping up on our walks.  I chalked it up to stomach pain, and she recovered pretty quickly, but it was obvious that I was dealing with an old dog and should be a little more cognizant of that fact from then on.

                                                              ******
As time passed, I became ever more vigilant about Bridget’s health, and without obsessing, tried to make sure that I took as good care of my now geriatric dog as possible.  The signs were evident that our time together was coming to an end, and when something would come up, I’d get her to our veterinarian to check it out.  So when in the spring of 2017 she ballooned up around her formerly thin waist, I thought it best to take her in.  Bloat?  Intestinal blockage?

She wasn’t in any overt pain that I could tell, but there was some telltale fidgeting and slight “whining” that wasn’t there before.   And her voracious appetite was unaffected.

I had long ago made a silent promise to myself that I wouldn’t let Bridget suffer in her final days.  No massive painkillers to mask a terminal illness, no heroic surgical efforts.  As strongly as I feel about “death with dignity” for humans, I feel the same about our companion animals.  They can’t tell us when they’re in pain, and I resolved not to let my grief stand in the way of a comfortable passage to the next world, whatever that is.

And then, as it inevitably does, the hammer fell.  My vet, after a few X-rays and an ultrasound, made a probable diagnosis of a tumor on the spleen. Fluid accumulation in the abdomen.   No certainty without an extensive and expensive array of tests, but he seemed pretty certain of the situation.  I appreciated his compassion combined with realism, and he offered some good advice as to when to make “the call”.  The positive was that she probably wasn't feeling any pain at that point, and I was given the warning signs of when, should I wait to make the final decision, to do so.

As you can probably surmise from reading this missive, my heart was broken.  Misty eyed, on the drive home I broke the news to my wife and my brother as I tried to hold myself together.  I'd envisioned this moment, and had hoped that I'd approach it with as much stoic strength as possible, but such hopes evaporated.  Part of my life was over, surely as much as a divorce or a family death.  And now it was time to see how to cope.

                                                                   *******

I will spare the details of Bridget's passing.  It has been too recent to objectively speak of it, and I’m not sure if there will ever come a time for me to do so.  But DeeAnne and I settled on a date and time, much sooner rather than later, and she crossed the rainbow bridge with the help of a loving owner and a wonderful veterinary office staff.  She went out on top, long before debilitation could set in.  Beforehand, I did all I could to make her last days as fun as possible, spoiling her even more than I had throughout her life.  And with the support of a wonderful wife, I tried to keep my sanity.

There are those who minimize grief when it comes to our companion animals. While I can understand the human-animal comparison, what these folks don’t often realize is that to many of us, our dogs and cats approximate the value of the humans in our lives.  Just look at how much Americans spend on their pets, one reason Petsmart is one of the best-performing stocks on Wall Street.  I’ll never go so far as to put animals on a completely equal par with people, but on the emotional level?  Talk to an elderly widow who has just lost her fifteen year old cat.  Or the millennial guy making his way in the world who just got the call from Mom and Dad back home that the dog he grew up with had to be put to sleep.  Then talk to me about grief.
                                                             
                                                                    ******

Our home is emptier now.  Our little Chance is adjusting to being the “only dog” in the house.  I still expect a big “presence” at my feet every time I open the fridge.  I sleep poorly. I see birds in the back yard who would had never have dared to trespass a week ago.   So it is, though I know the hurt will pass, as will my second guessing myself as to the timing of when Bridget left us.

As for Bridget, all there is to say, or all that I can bear to express now, is that I loved that big mutt, and she loved me.  She made me happy, and I'm pretty sure I gave her a good life.  That’s about all you can ask of a dog, I suppose.  Like anyone who has passed through our lives and made an impact, and leaves us, the pain lingers until the acceptance sets in and one remembers the great times more than the loss.  So it is with me and my best friend.  Go with God, Bridget.  It was a great run.

   February 14, 2003--April 21, 2017

Why I Marched

I'm not a marching in the streets kind of guy.  While being politically active at times, it's never been a hobby or a "cause". And though I'm a pretty opinionated person, and intensely interested in politics, current affairs and history, I tend to shy away from the more pedantic espousal of any particular position.

In short, I'm a moderate American.  Shading toward the left in a time where the one-time "conservative" party has careened so far to the political right that it finds itself in a lunatic asylum, my once-middle of the road views are now viewed by some as radically liberal.

Funny.  I never saw the New Deal, the Great Society, public education and the like as some sort of socialist takeover of the United States.  To me, programs like these are part of the social contract we all agree to as part of a decent, livable society.  Civil rights aren't some kind of favor bestowed on the minority by the majority.  They're the acceptance that the Constitution and our other founding documents regard all Americans as equals, entitled to the same rights and opportunities.  Seems pretty simple to me.

I have a few what might be called "center-right" positions.  I support the death penalty.  I think that the nation's immigration laws should be effectively and fairly enforced without tearing families apart.  I disdain the nitpicking over "politically correct" speech which seems to parse and indict every other term we use.  I support a strong national defense and waging war when necessary to defend the nation and its allies.

But the past election, which I view as a flawed and tattered example of what was once a thriving democracy, has proven to me that we've got problems that require action on all of our parts, including me, whose recent contributions to politics have been the occasional Democratic Party meeting, writing a few checks, and trusting that in the end, all will work out well.

But in 2016, it didn't.  Yes, as a person who generally (but not always) supports Democratic candidates, I'm used to being ticked off when the GOP candidate wins a presidential election.  It usually lasts a few days, and the anger wears off.  Like most of us, I wish the new President well and hope for the best.  Even after the contested election of 2000, despite my doubts as to the decision of the Supreme Court in "appointing" George Bush, I accepted the outcome and moved on.

This past year, though, something different happened.  What I, and many Americans thought was an impossibility, a fluke, a joke, actually came to pass.

We can postulate and hypothesize about what brought about the election of Donald Trump.  And countless "pundits" of varying acumen have.  As the holder of a degree in political science, I tend to read a lot on the subject, and the rationales for Mrs. Clinton's loss are myriad.  The rise of the "angry white working class", identity politics, Russian involvement, voter suppression, a flawed campaign strategy.  Those and more are all good excuses, and there's truth to some extent in all of them.  But while hemming and hawing are fine up to a point, nothing changes the fact that Trump won enough states to cause a victory in the Electoral College.  So he is President.





What makes all this different in my mind is that the nation has possibly elected the worst human being in history to serve as the leader of the free world.  Trump is so far below what any reasonable person would expect of their President that it makes one ashamed to be an American.  He has shown himself to be amoral, a sexual predator, a narcissistic bully and an exploiter of weaker people.  Regardless of one's political views, he is simply unfit to be President by any measure reasonable people would consider fair.

But he is.

So what do we, the majority of Americans, do to stop the damage that this bully, and his neocon allies in the Congress with an agenda that means to strip away the traditions of our government that brought about fairness and some semblance of economic prosperity and human decency to our people, want to do?

I was a tad too young for the Vietnam War and civil rights protests of the 1960s.  And there has never been any cause that has stirred me to get out and rally since then.  But not this time.

I marched yesterday, not in Washington DC, not even in my home city.  My wife and I marched in a Southern city where we found ourselves at the tail end of her business trip.  While these protests all over the nation were dubbed "Women's Marches", it wasn't completely accurate.  Lots of men, too, and not just millennials or thirty-somethings.  Graybeards like me mixed in with hipsters.  Old hippies and what we used to call "yuppie" types. Same sex couples, racially mixed families, little kids.

While I can't say I was impressed with a lot of the speakers at the event we attended (some subpar poetry, pedantic speeches), it didn't matter.  Just seeing people together, with a common idea, carrying some often funny and pointed signs, meeting, talking, sharing.  In pretty crappy weather, too.

There's no big, poignant, dramatic conclusion to this experience.  Suffice it to say that I felt a little hope, after a fall and winter of despair, for our country.  Like it or not, this is the United States in the 21st century.  No longer lily white, Christian, or any other "traditional" meaning of what we've been.  Things have changed, and not necessarily for the worse.  I'm an older white male, and while I don't accept blame for everything bad in the country, realize that maybe there's some way to alleviate some of it.

We still have the First Amendment, which allows us the freedom to speak our minds, gather peaceably in protest, and publish the truth. That central tenet of the Bill of Rights is certain to be tested, possibly as never before, in the next few years.  But it's still there.  And we need to exercise that freedom.  Loud and often.

From John F. Kennedy, to Ronald Reagan, to Barack Obama, presidents have brought out the optimism, the hope, and the vision of the future this, yes, exceptional nation promises all of us.  And I'll be damned if I stand by and let it all be ruined by a usurper who isn't fit to shine those men's shoes.  No way.

From looking at the news coverage later, it seemed like I wasn't alone.  Millions of people, including 500,000 in Washington, as well as in other countries around the globe, marched.

So I marched yesterday.  And I think I will again.