Category: Herald-Dispatch Articles

           “Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love;

Hearts unfold like flow’rs before Thee, op’ning to the sun above.”—Henry van Dyke

It was Saturday, and I had several errands that needed completed by weekend’s end. Would I have enough time? I felt anxious. Perhaps, I should not have slept in until 7:00 am.

I left the house around 8:30 am, list in-hand. First stop, my local bank. My stomach was fluttering with worry. Stepping out of the car, the sunshine felt warm and cozy, like wrapping up in my favorite hoodie and sweatpants after work. I looked up and vividly blue sky, streaked with white stretched like the pillow-fill Maddie uses when sewing pillows. The sun kissed my upturned cheeks.

“Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away;

Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day.”

I entered the bank and was greeted by all of the tellers. Bonnie, a long-standing employee, directed me to come to her.

“Well, how’s life without your daughter, and how is she doing?”

Just that question, alone, warmed my heart. How thoughtful of her to ask. I shared a bit of information regarding Maddie, my daughter—probably more than she wanted to hear. Then, I thanked her for asking.

“I think about her often and wonder how she is doing?”

While I would not call Bonnie a complete stranger, it is not like we are best friends; and yet, she thought of my daughter. What a wonder! I could feel myself smiling as I left the bank. Such a small act of kindness, but it helped assuage my apprehension.

“All thy works with joy surround Thee, earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays,

Stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise.”

Crossing the bridge into Huntington, I couldn’t help but notice how golden the morning was unfolding over the mighty Ohio River. Water glinted with silver as if thousands of sewing needles danced on top of the water. I decided to grab a cup of coffee from the shop Maddie and I used to frequent in the mornings before school when she was still home. It seemed like ages since I had last visited.

The sun was dazzling. Huntington was quiet, and the streets were fairly empty. A cheerful young woman bounced along the sidewalk walking her likewise lively dog. His fluffy red tail swished back and forth with metronome-like meticulousness.

“Hi, Stephanie. Haven’t seen you in a while. The usual?”

How did he remember me, much less what I drink?

“How’s your daughter? Where is she now?”

This time, I kept my answer short and to the point.

“Well, we miss seeing you two in here,” he said with a smile as he handed me my coffee.

“Field and forest, vale and mountain, flow’ry meadow, flashing sea,

Singing bird and flowing fountain call us to rejoice in Thee.”

Driving on to what was supposed to be the next errand stop, I become lost in my thoughts. I recalled a former kindergarten student I had encountered the previous night, Alexa. Her freckled face lit up with recognition, and I found myself enveloped in her warm embrace. Breaking away from our hug, she turned, face still broad with a gleeful smile and offered kind words to my husband, John, who had also been her teacher when she was a bit older. My heavens, it was wonderful to see her, now at age 21, and know she still had fond memories of her time spent with John and me.

It was then I realized I was driving on autopilot, not focused on my next errand, and was heading towards the school in which I now work. Instead of becoming frustrated with myself, I chose to turn it into an opportunity to head to Ritter Park, walk for a few minutes, and savor the splendid sunshine. Besides, I had not visited the park in over a month, and walking outside does wonders for my spirit.

Nearly blinding and abundant sunshine was interspersed with areas of cool, sweet shade. Colors of fall were clearly emerging—tarnished golds, leathery browns, rich merlots, and vibrant reds intermingled with fading, dull greens. Sand colored leaves now scattered over the path permitting a slight crunching sound that whispered, “This is only the beginning of a new season.” I could feel myself smiling, as I became the proverbial sponge, soaking up God’s goodness as more of my fretfulness fell away.

            “Thou are giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blest,

Wellspring of the joy of living, ocean depth of happy rest!

“Hi Mrs. Hill!”

I had completed a full loop of the park, walked up by the rose garden, further up through the rolling hills of the amphitheater, to the very top of the outlook where a large shelter once stood, down to the dog park, and then left, down the hill towards the tennis courts. I looked across the road to a tennis court. There stood one my current students enthusiastically waving at me.

By the end of the walk, I was at peace with the thought, “I will do what I can do today, and leave the rest behind.”

           “Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, all who live in love are Thine;

Teach us how to love each other—Lift us to the joy divine.”

          On the following day, we celebrated my dear, sweet mother-in-law’s 89th birthday, a few days before her officials date of October 10.

“Stephanie, how are you? How’s John?”

I looked up from the shopping cart at Route 60 Kroger, and there stood my former, physician. Several years ago, he sadly moved his practice from Proctorville to one closer to his home in Milton, while his kids were in their early teens. He had worked closely with John and me, and, at the time, his moving felt like losing a family-member.   Nonetheless, I was stunned, some years later, he would not only recognize me, but also recall John’s name as well as mine—after all, how many patients did he see? Once again, I delighted in conversation with another special person.

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“Hi Neil! I am so glad you’re bagging my groceries today.   You’re my favorite bagger!”

I was looking at the young man that frequently bagged my groceries with an imploring smile. I purposely search each week for the line in which he bags because he is thoughtful, carefully places products in bags, and then gently arranges bags in my cart. Plus, he always offers to help carry them to my car. So far, I have declined his offer, but it is a nice gesture anyway.

“I was having a bad day until you said that to me,” he replied in his uniquely gravelly voice. “I don’t hear nice things from customers that often. Thank you.”

Later, once home, I was further overjoyed to talk with both of my parents—which is always a special treat.

In the end, most chores on the day’s to-do list were completed; the rest could be knocked out the following day at some point. More importantly, I was reminded of the joy of living a life that matters—maybe not on a grand scale, like a politician or entertainer, but rather in the simple day-to-day gestures that are frequently undervalued; such as, greeting another person by name, asking a personal question or two, wishing someone a good day, taking time exchange pleasantries, smiling, or even offering a hug. It is these seemingly effortless acts that quite often offer a momentary minute of joy.

            “You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord, who abide in his shadow for life. Say to the Lord: My refuge, my rock in whom I trust!” —lyrics from the song On Eagle’s Wings, written by Michael Joncas based upon Psalm 31 and Isaiah 40:31

It began last weekend. I first perceived a sore throat Friday evening after dinner, but thought nothing of it. After all, I am a teacher; I use my voice all week long. Most likely, my throat, like the rest of my body, was just tired from the week’s work. Saturday morning, however, unable to breathe through my nose, throat feeling as if someone had poured scalding water down it, head aching, and wads of discarded tissues increasing in the trashcan led me the conclusion, I had acquired a minor cold.

When you have a head cold, at least for me, my thinking can be a bit foggy at times. Ironically enough, I couldn’t help but notice the mornings, this past week, were similarly foggy. Early morning, as John, my husband, and I traversed to the local gym, we drove through fog as dense as my grandmother’s chicken and dumplin’ gravy. Similarly, this is what I envisioned my head cold was doing to my brain, blurring my thinking the way the fog was muddling the our view of the road and surrounding landscape.

          “The snare of the fowler will never capture you, and famine will bring you no fear; Under his wings your refuge, his faithfulness your shield.”

Nonetheless, I persevered well enough through the day, but by evening was more fatigued than usual. Along with that fatigue came the fact, I felt a bit more stressed, a bit more overwhelmed, and a bit more “behind.” In fact, I cannot tell you how often I stated or thought, “I am so far behind,” or “I can’t keep up.”

Piles of papers, in need of grading, were in constant stack on my desk. Likewise, my inbox of email was growing. Tests needed typed. Equipment/technology wasn’t working the way it should. I had this deadline, and that deadline; this request to fulfill, and that request to honor. I felt like the box turtles I often see sluggishly moving across our backyard as I slowly, but steadily made my way through each moment, each situation, and each day. Still, fog clouded my sense of accomplishment—altering my perception.

          “You need not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day; Though thousands fall about you, near you it shall not come”

Of note, though, was a conversation I had with a student and her parents one evening during the week. John and I ran into this family during dinner out a local favorite, La Famiglia. Somehow, in the course of our conversation, the student was sharing with us some of her favorite songs she sang in our school choir, and one of those songs happened to be On Eagle’s Wings—one of my personal favorites. I shared with her how it always reminded me of my maternal grandmother, with whom I had the honor of living for two years.

Grandmother Helen read from her large print Bible every night before going to bed. Some nights, if her eyes were tired, she would ask me to read to her. Isaiah, Chapter 40 was a frequent request. She especially loved verse 31.

In the meantime, Friday finally arrived, and my cold was beginning to dissipate in the same manner fog is gradually burned off with the morning sun. With Friday, comes school mass. If I am to be totally honest, when I first arrived at St. Joseph Catholic School five years ago, giving up class time every week to a church service was not an easy adjustment.   Now, however, I see and appreciate the beauty and reasoning behind it.

     “For to his angels, he’s given command to guard you in all of your way; Upon their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot again a stone.”

First, there is the powerful image of seeing our entire K-8 staff and students, of diverse faith backgrounds, respectfully gathered together in church filling nearly every pew. To this day, it never fails to stir me, and honestly, make me smile. I love seeing the students actively participating in church and observing their growth from year to year.

Secondly, and more personally speaking, I often feel more receptive on Friday. Perhaps, it is because I am tired; maybe it is because Father Dean’s message is simple; maybe it is hearing the voices of children singing; or, maybe it is the image of all students raising their hands during the recitation of Lord’s Prayer; and, maybe it is all of it combined. Whatever the reason, Friday church resonates within my being.

This week was no exception. As Divine Providence would have it, the communion hymn was On Eagle’s Wings. As I knelt in prayer following communion, my mind, for whatever reason, became filled with various images in rapid-fire succession: Sitting with my Dad and three siblings as he read to us the Christmas story from Luke every Christmas Eve when I was a child. My mom fitting me for a dress she was sewing for my high school graduation—the same dress that would be cut up some 16 years later to become my daughter’s baptism dress. Watching my husband, napping on the couch, with our daughter curled up on top of his chest when she was only weeks old. Attending my daughter’s matriculation ceremony as she began her college career as an eagle dipped and darted above the gathering. Sitting on the couch beside Grandmother in her recliner, reading to her in the low lamplight of her family room. Sitting with my mom during my grandmother’s last night on earth as I kept rereading Isaiah 40 aloud as my way of saying good-bye. Standing with my Dad, Stepmother, daughter, and other family members when I saw my paternal Mamaw take her last earthly breath.

     “And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn. Make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hands.”

The work, the deadlines, the requests, and the emails—all of that could wait. Maybe this is why Friday mass is so good for me.   In the same way I had sipped broth this week for my cold, perhaps mass was the soup for my soul– clearing brain fog—often brought on my loss of perspective rather than a cold.

**Afterthought not written in the newspaper edition of this:

As I waited with the Middle School students for our turn to exit from Friday mass, the same student with whom I had had the conversation at La Familigia, regarding On Eagles’ Wings, came down from the choir loft and walked straight to me, mouth stretched in a broad smile.

“Mrs. Hill, I thought of you the whole time I was singing.  I know I much you said you loved the song,” she exclaimed with twinkling eyes as she gave me a hug.

That hug and smile felt as if I were receiving a second helping of soup for my soul.

          “It is true that I have had heartache and tragedy in my life. These are things none of us avoids. Suffering is the price of being alive.”—Judy Collins

          “Some problems are not readily solvable . . .You’re not entitled to pain relief any more than you’re entitled to happiness.”—Dr. John Loeser

It may come as no surprise; I have a knack for “being in my head.”   My thoughts can provide me with great comfort, imagination, as well as torment. In fact, my brain is often like a favorite scratched record replaying the same phrase until someone lifts the needle and moves it to another spot. The problem with a stuck record is that it most likely became scratched because it is a favorite tune played one too many times; and, therefore, in the enthusiastic desire to “hear it again,” the record is often handled a bit too roughly creating the nick that causes the needle to stick.

Likewise, the philosophical and physical notion of pain and suffering has been needling my grooved brain for the past year. I have observed this theme demonstrated in a wide array of scenarios.   From the physical pain of illness, aging, injury, disease, and so on; to the psychological pain that often manifests itself as physical pain, blurring the lines between the two, of addiction, stress, workload, depression, anxiety, and so forth, the sufferings and pain of others far and near to me cannot be ignored.

Simultaneously, the notion of passion has also been spinning a track around my mind. Over the past year or two, I have participated in several conversations with people who have decided to “pursue their passion” and make fairly dramatic mid-career and/or mid-life changes driven by their suffering. Furthermore, my husband and I have had copious conversations with our newly collegiate daughter, nephew, and their friends struggling with the pain of figuring out their unique passion, or their calling. These discussions have led to self-reflection regarding my own passions and pains. It was as if the sun has been gradually rising within me, shining light on the perception that, perhaps, pain and passion are intertwined; thus, dawning understanding that life cannot be fully expressed without experiencing both.

It is said that the word, passion, evolved from Late Latin passionem, “suffering, enduring,” which came from the Lain stem, pati, which means to “endure, undergo, and experience.”  Merriam-Webster.com reveals a total of five definitions presently used for passion, two of which have several sub-definitions. Passion can therefore mean: the “sufferings of Christ”; an emotion distinguished from reason, such as anger, greed, desire, and conviction; ardent affection; strong devotion; sexual desire; or finally, an object of desire or deep interest.

There is a popular quote, “Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional,” which really makes a valid point. Life involves pain, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. Ask any mother, the pain of childbirth is real, but it is our passionate love for our child that pushes us through the labor; and, our pain is soon forgotten once that child is our arms.

In my continual passion to become a teacher, I have had to endure many painful evolutions, situations, and challenging years; but without those difficult times, I would not possess the same level of educational wisdom that I now enjoy. If I had simply chosen to avoid the pain of career change, I would have missed 30 years of a range of experiences that spans teaching every grade, K-12.

Likewise, as a writer, there are times, such as when trying to write this very piece, in which I am pained over words, thoughts, and ideas. I will write, delete, think, rewrite, read, delete, pause, think, and rewrite again, sometimes for hours over one paragraph or even a sentence, in order to best articulate what I hope will become a concise, meaningful piece worth sharing.

Would I like to avoid the pain and struggle? Heck, yes! Do I wish words flowed easily and swiftly? Absolutely! However, it is my passion that impels me to persist, endure, and undergo the transitory experience of pain in order to evolve, progress, and hopefully create a nutritional nugget worth sharing.

I recently conversed with a young person complaining about the years of study and schoolwork she faced over the next foreseeable future. She explained how much time school and extra-curricular activities took, leaving little time to relax. Could this pain she was experiencing be attributed to her own passionate work ethic that drives her to go above and beyond any given assignment?

Another person recently described to me, in great details, her physical pain; and yet, she fully confessed those very ailments were a result of her passion for nutritional choices that do not agree with her constitution. Furthermore, this acquaintance knew that those poor choices often stemmed from unhappiness, sadness, and frustration due to not living life in a manner she so desperately desired.

Likewise, I have bemoaned my own back injury. The pain and numbness were letting me know, something was wrong; perhaps my passion for activity needed addressed. Furthermore, throughout the healing process, I’ve had to embrace the pain as a gauge for what activity is or isn’t beneficial. If I had attempted to avoid pain by taking excessive painkillers, I would not only have potentially further damaged my spine, but also would not have learned to live more safely in tune with my body.

Perhaps, I was onto something when I began writing this piece. Like musical black vinyl, humans are grooved with feelings that must be played and heard by the needle of life. Often, it is in our passionate pursuits, we skip out of our God-given track, our life needle becomes stuck, and we feel immense pain. However, just as the stuck record of long ago was signaling an important message; pain is likewise communicating important messages. It often forces us to our knees for a reason. By attempting to avoid pain, we may be ignoring significant implications. And like that record, pain requires listening—deep, Divine listening to learn what we need to do in order to get back on track, creating our own beautiful life song.

Therefore, trying to avoid pain, I’ve concluded, is asking to avoid passion, and, ultimately, avoid life. Thus, I choose to live fully with the pain and passion—all the while praying Divine Providence will play His song through me.

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          “We Believe”—Travis Ryan, Richie Fike, Matt Hooper

Usually it’s an exciting time in my life. I set new goals for improvement; adjust/tweak my instructional methods and curriculum; and, I see that my professional space (classroom) is physically prepared for a brand new school year. To be certain, I still did that this year, but not with the same vigor, verve, and vivacity of previous years.

    Preparing my  classroom space before school.

          “In this time of desperation; When all we know is doubt and fear.”

Perhaps, I was becoming burned out, I secretly wondered to myself. Maybe 30 years in one career is a long enough time span for any one person. Possibly, it was my age; after all, I am not that wide-eyed-fresh-out-of college-21-year-old teacher beginning her career at a rural Kentucky high school. Then again, that grey cloud of ambiguity might have had a great deal to do with the fact that my only daughter, the lovely being with whom my husband, John, and I have spent the last 18 years nurturing, protecting, as well as providing, was leaving us two weeks into our new school year (John is also a teacher.) and beginning her own journey as an adult in college.

          “There is only one Foundation: We believe . . .we believe.”

 Nonetheless, I plodded through the professional motions well enough. I prepared for the new school year, as I always do, while simultaneously helping my daughter prime, plan, and pack for Bethany College. I juggled late July and early August days with tutoring students, tackling my classroom/curriculum for the new school year, and trekking repeatedly along US Route 60 stores with my daughter and her ever growing “gotta-get-this-for-college list.” All the while, the shadow clouds of uncertainty grew dark and dense, swirling alternately across my mind, heart, and soul like Rorschach inkblots.

The ever-growing list of “gotta-have-this-for-college” was real.

           “In this broken generation . . .When all is dark, You can help us . . .see.”

Normally, during the weeks leading up to the start of a new school year, I experience nightmares filled with ridiculous scenarios. For example, in one frequently occurring dream, I’m assigned to teach Kindergarten students again. I walk into a classroom that was once the gym, and see that it is filled with 60 five-year olds that I am expected to teach with no help in sight. Then, there is the dream in which I am assigned to teach high school students. My class is an old boiler room filled with 45 hormonal teen bodies that were kicked out of other schools; however, I am told, “I can handle them, because I have good discipline.”

This year, however, there were no back-to-school nightmares; instead, my sleep was interrupted with numerous panic attacks throughout the night. Each time, I would wake in a fright with my heart hammering heavily, my mind randomly racing, and perspiration penetrating my nightclothes and sheets. What was wrong with me?

            “There is only one Salvation: We believe . . .we believe.”

 On the first day of school with students, I woke at my normal 4:00 am school day wake-up time; and by 4:50, I was headed toward a local gym with John for a cardio session on the elliptical machine. As I entered the facility, I could hear music blaring. Nothing unusual about that; and I was just about to insert my ear buds in order to listen, instead, to an audible book, when I recognized the song, “We Believe,” as performed by the Newsboys. Chills ran up my arms, in spite of the warm temperature outside.

“We believe in God the Father. We believe in Jesus Christ. We believe in the Holy Spirit . . .and He’s given us new Life.”

Later that morning, I knew that I would be attending mass with all of the students of our school.  “We Believe” is a song that we often sing during this school-wide church service.   Was this Divine Providence trying to communicate some hidden message to me, I wondered, as I began pedaling the elliptical, listening to the song?

“And in our weakness and temptations . . .We believe . . .we believe.”

 The ideal ending would be to write that, later, during mass, I sang along to this same song with my students, while simultaneously, a lightening bolt of realization zapped my heart and head; thus, making all right in Stephanie’s world. Unfortunately, life doesn’t always provide perfect endings. Instead, mass occurred without the Newsboys’ song, the school year began, and the cloud of vagueness persisted–though I was greatly cheered, or at the very least, distracted– by time spent with my students and the amazing staff with whom I work.

         Spending time with SJCS students and staff during solar eclipse of August 2017.

“Let the lost be found and the dead be raised. In the here and now, let love invade.”

 Two weeks later, we moved our daughter to Bethany College; and with that life-change, a bit of my mom-heart broke. I was entering a new life phase, and I had a choice. I could wallow in my sadness, ignoring the natural progression of life; or, I could embrace the fact that John and I did exactly what we were supposed to do . . .give our daughter roots, then give her wings.”

“Now we know Your love will never fail: We believe . . . we believe . . .”

 This past Friday, I sat in mass with all of the K-8 students of St. Joseph Catholic School. The sun was glinting through the stained glass, and Father Dean stated to all, “Did you know that you are uniquely made by God?” Why those specific words should get me, I do not know, but they did.

         A few of the students who attended mass with me on that Friday.

I did not hear anything else he said (Sorry, Father Dean.) because I became overwhelmed with emotion. I am more than just a mom. I am a teacher. I am writer. I am daughter. I am a wife. I am a sister, an aunt, a friend, a co-worker; and, I AM A CHILD of GOD. WOW! I have an opportunity to make a difference, not just in my daughter’s life, but also in the life of all others with whom I encounter, spend time, and/or share my writings.

          “So let our faith be more than anthems—Greater than the songs we sing.”

Later, during this service, the fourth mass of the school year, we finally sang, “We believe;” and, I was reminded, I believe.

            “The love of a dog is a pure thing. He gives you a trust, which is total. You must not betray it.”—Michel Houellebecq

          “No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversation as the dog does.”—Christopher Morley

He was a good boy with an old soul. Simple as that. He wasn’t the prettiest. He certainly wasn’t the most active. He wasn’t graceful, adorable, lively, cute, or any other word often used to describe dogs. Instead, he was loyal, friendly, and intelligent. Furthermore, he was smelly (had to mention that one), protective, “fluffy” (not fat), and most importantly, a faithful friend.

My daughter, Madelyn, ultimately named him Rusty because that was the color of his fur the day she, along with my husband, John, discovered him. According to them, they pulled into our driveway one long ago day; and, there he was . . . sitting in our front side yard under a tree near our garage as if he were waiting for us to come home. Maddie was initially afraid, because he possessed some pit bull features, was rather large, and, well frankly, was not the most attractive dog. In fact, with his snaggle-tooth sticking out, his face cut up, ribs showing (in spite of his barrel-shaped chest), patches of fur missing, and the skin of his nose gone; he appeared, at first glance, to be rather menacing. In spite of his intimidating appearance, of which he was clearly not aware, he kept his eyes fixed upon them, and John noticed a hint of tail wag.

John stepped out of the truck first. His tail began to swish rapidly, but Rusty remained planted on the ground. John called to him, and slowly, in the humble walk we would come to recognize as his classic-way of winning people over, he lowered his head, wiggled/twisted his butt while simultaneously wagging his tail, and cautiously moved towards John. I am fairly certain he won John’s heart in that instant.

Rusty’s favorite toy, “Boo-Boo Chicky.”

Rusty always looked & sounded fierce when he played with toys. This past year, he lost interest in his toys.

Once he came close enough for John to pet him, it became clear that this dog was not a threat; and furthermore, had been mistreated/abused. In fact, we would later come to learn that he had a fear of men with facial hair, and we would often wonder if his previous owner had been a man. It would take us years to help him overcome his fear of men with beards and mustaches.

Needless to say, by the time I got home, Maddie was no longer afraid of the dog, and had already settled on his name. My daughter, along with Rusty, greeted me as soon as I stepped out of my car. Maddie was already chattering, in the rapid-fire pattern of high-powered weapon, begging to keep the dog. “Look how sweet he is, Mom?” “Do you see how thin he is?” “Can you see how he’s been hurt?”

Look at those eyes!

He would not stop moving.

Rusty would not stop moving for the camera!

Of course, somebody had to play the role of pragmatist. “We already have one dog and two cats.” “Pets are expensive.” “Where are we going to get more money to care of another animal?” “He smells.” “He’s shedding.” “No, I do not want to pet him.” “No, you absolutely cannot feed him, because he will never go away if you start to feed him.” “No, you cannot bring him into the house.” “Fine, you can play with him outside, but he’s absolutely not coming in. Hopefully, by morning, he’ll be gone.”

Rusty attempts to pull Maddie in a sled. It was a funny moment!

Rusty attempts to pull Maddie in a sled. It was a funny moment!

Rusty attempts to pull Maddie in a sled. It was a funny moment!

Rusty attempts to pull Maddie in a sled. It was a funny moment! Our first dog, Oreo, is in the background.

Fast forward eight years later, and I am alone in my classroom. The student I was tutoring left ten or so minutes ago. The weight of all John’s texts, sent to my phone while I was tutoring, hit me as I begin to I cry. I cry, not only for the loss of Rusty’s life, but also because I will truly miss him. He was a good boy—an ol’ soul—who won my anti-dog heart over.

Rusty was a good boy, with an ol’ soul.

Rusty was a good boy, with an ol’ soul.

While I recognize that Rusty was a mature adult dog when he came to “own” our family, eight years spent as part of our family seems so short. That said, in those eight years with us, he lived a life full of love and free from abuse.

Maddie was ten when he first arrived. She was in elementary school. During her younger years, Maddie would widely swing open the back door and give a cock-a-doodle-do shout to the neighbor kids as she headed out to play. Rusty would suddenly realize she was heading outside, begin to bark like a mad-dog, heeding her call-of-the-wild, and take off running after her.

John and I would laugh watching Rusty chase after Maddie with his undersized legs flying, but he was short winded. Within seconds, Rusty would slow to a trot, and collapse in a huffing heap looking in her direction.   Then, as if it was planned, he would roll around in the grass for a minute, spin round in a circle five or six time, then flop down—back legs splayed, front paws extended, head regally lifted towards the sun, and still panting from the exertion. We referred to this as Rusty’s, I’m-just-gonna-sit-here-in-the-sun-and-work-on-highlighting-my-fur-look while you play with your buddies.

Ol’ Rusty dog.

Rusty and Oreo.

Anytime John would leave, Rusty would run—okay, quickly walk–to the bay window in our family room, directly in front of where John parks his truck, place his front paws on the window, and cry for John’s return. The few times John was gone for an extended period, Rusty would periodically walk to that window, look out of it, and whimper for John.

When Rusty heard me opening the refrigerator, he would come galloping into the kitchen, usually sliding on the tile, and stand beside me in the hopes of broccoli, baby carrots, and/or apple slices. Heaven help, if I wasn’t getting out any of those food items. He would stand there and look at me, with his imploring, old soul eyes, pleading for produce. In fact, one of my former coworkers who dog-sat him, loved to tell the story about how she gave him a piece of bologna one time, and he wouldn’t eat it. “Of course he won’t eat bologna, because Stephanie only feeds him healthy food. He probably thought I was trying to poison him!”

In spite of his disdain for bologna, Rusty did love those packaged dog-treats and was your friend for life if you fed him one. However, one day we learned, after an exceptionally high electric bill, that the electric company would not come into our yard to read our meter because of our “vicious” dog’s bark. This brought our entire family to tears of laughter, because if they had only offered Rusty a dog treat, they could have not only read our meter correctly, but also could have stolen anything from our house!

Rusty, and his play-buddy, LJ, one of our cats.

Rusty, and his play-buddy, LJ, one of our cats.

Rusty, and his play-buddy, LJ, one of our cats.

Rusty, and his play-buddy, LJ, one of our cats.

Rusty tolerated our cats, played with them, and raided their litter box for “treats.” He drooled watching us eat, and his dog hair coated us. He roamed from room to room while we slept, seemingly checking on each of us, while guarding the house. Rusty listened with ear-twitching intensity when we talked to him, wagged his tail of approval at our appearance, and did the best head-down-wiggle-walk when he was really trying to win someone over. He was the, “best boy ever.” If there is a canine heaven, I know he’s there . . .working on his highlights, noshing on broccoli and pizza crusts, and looking deeply into our eyes from afar conveying his eternal dog love through the twinkling of the stars and the warmth of sun’s caresses. Rest in peace, good boy, rest in peace. You will be missed.