chouchou61

When Jose was about six months old, it became apparent that Southwestern Michigan wasn't for me. I missed the cathedral-like Douglas Firs, the mountains, the saltwater, the food, the coffee and the politics of Washington State. But, since I was headed back to live at my dad's home and I already had a dog there, Tim insisted that I leave Jose with him. 

Nearly 19 years later, the image of Jose -- standing on his rear legs in the apartment with his front paws gripping the sill and yelping out the window as I pulled away -- is a clear and painful memory.

My father accompanied me on this December drive across the country.  As we entered Idaho, things got pretty dicey as a severe winter storm dumped more than a foot of snow and plunged temperatures into the teens. We inched our way along and, just before Christmas, safely arrived home to find the toilets frozen as the house had been without electricity (and heat) for several days.

I was well into re-establishing my life and my graphic design business when Tim decided that he would leave Michigan to follow me out west, packed up his belongings in his VW Jetta and set out with Jose for Washington. It was during this long freeway trip that Jose developed his appreciation for the sound of a turn-signal. Throughout the rest of his life, this sound could wake him from sound sleep and inspire great enthusiasm.  It's easy to understand why.  Uninterested in the diversions that occupy long-distance drivers (scenery, radio stations, conversation), he likely saw the cross-country drive as interminable with the boredom broken only by occasional rest stops. He quickly learned that the turn-signal was a precursor to these intermittent highlights along an otherwise lackluster route.

In less than a year, Jose had gone from very humble beginnings to a new life that any dog would envy.  He settled into his new home, far from any dangerous traffic and on the the shores of Puget Sound, where he could wander the forests, beaches and fields as he pleased -- and, often, in the company of the resident yellow lab, Tobey. The two quickly became fast friends. 

In addition to making friends while wandering the neighborhood, Jose also traveled to Victoria, BC shortly after his arrival in the west. He enjoyed meeting fellow voyagers on the top deck of the M.V. Coho, cruised around the flower-filled city in a bicycle cab, performed and stayed in a hotel.

Predictably, the change in location didn't improve the relationship between the humans and Tim was asked to leave. He took Jose with him. In an effort to induce me to reconsider, Tim sent a beautiful bouquet of roses.  Shortly thereafter, my credit card bill arrived -- and it included the charge for the flowers. When I asked him to pay for the charges, he said he couldn't.  Nor could he, he said, return my tires that were on his Jetta. So, Jose became mine -- in exchange for a set of all-season radials and a dozen overpriced roses. Best deal I ever made!

Soon after Jose arrived in our lives, my mother -- still not ready to become the owner of her own dog, but fully embracing her status as new "grandma" -- took the puppy around to meet her fellow artists showing their wares at the St. Joseph Art Fair. Among them was Jim Galbraith, a big Scotsman with a huge love of dogs.  He swept Jose up into his arms, loved on him a bit, looked squarely into the little guy's eyes and said to my mother: "This is a fine puppy. A really fine puppy."  He added, "This is a dog who should never ever be punished. He's smart, and he's willing. And, if he does do something wrong, it's because you didn't explain it right."

A short time later, we hosted a small dinner party in our tiny apartment which was too small to hold a real table. So, the places were set on a low coffee table.   As we sat down to our meal, we noticed that the cube of butter in the center had been transformed while we weren't looking, the corners completely rounded by a little dog-tongue.  Jose, wandering around among the guests, received a furious scolding for this infraction.  He sat on the carpet, head hanging, as the torrent of angry words showered down upon him.  Soon, a dark stain began to appear from underneath him.  Mom said, "Oh, look. He's lost control because he's mortified and embarassed." But, the whole time he was peeing, he had also fixed an unwavering and stony stare upon us.  He was peeing because he was pissed. "It's not that, " I said as I marveled at this latest evidence of the little guy's incredible sense of dignity. "He's angry."

Remembering what Jim had said, it became clear. Perhaps Jose wouldn't have touched the butter if he had been TOLD it was off limits. But he wasn't told.  Perhaps, this exceptional dog's sense of fairness was offended.

Nevertheless, it was a very long time before any food again disappeared from the table.

Throughout his 19 years, Jose was thrilled for any opportunity to visit a beach where he could swim, wade, dig in the sand and run like the wind ...



In 2006, we joined the women of the MacLennan family and their dogs at their cabin for a couple of days along the shores of southern Puget Sound near Grapeview. I made oil paintings while Jose enjoyed exploring a new stretch of beach.




Cannon Beach, Oregon -- a famous seaside resort town on the Pacific Ocean -- was much more temperate and edged by the kind of wide and flat beaches that delight canines everywhere.  I think this is because most modern dogs, perpetually leashed in urban environments, treasure the feeling of limitlessness that comes from romping along a wide expanse.

Here, Jose is pictured with Cannon Beach's famous landmark -- Haystack Rock -- in the background.





After a swim, Jose gazes out across Malaspina Strait to Texada Island from British Columbia's Thormanby Island in the summer of 2004.



Also in the summer of 2003, Jose -- already 13 years old -- lithely skips over the logs to reach the beach at Tribune Bay on Hornby Island in British Columbia.





Throughout Jose's life, beaches were a guaranteed source of energy and vitality.  Even on the last evening of his life, when he could barely stand long enough to eat a meal, a trip to the Slough at Arness Park seemed to bring him a little bit of joy. As soon as his paws touched the sand, his tail -- Jose's emotional barometer -- stood tall and proud as he tottered down to the water's edge for one last dip.

Having been raised on the shores of  a huge saltwater inlet, Puget Sound, I had always thought that lakes were an inferior version of water - until I saw the Great Lakes.  We worked nights, so our days were free to spend on the beach of Lake Michigan which was just a block away from our apartment.   I was amazed to find this inland body so large that one couldn't see land on the other side, and facsinated with the fact that it had little tide. There, we enjoyed afternoons of playing beach volleyball.  And Jose cultivated his life-long obsession with sand and swimming.

He didn't take to the water easily, however. At first, he would stand on the shore and refuse to go in.  It was only his unshakable commitment to his humans that finally got him into the lake.  I observed that he was wracked with separation anxiety whenever I went in for a swim, and used this to advantage. Standing knee-deep in the lake, I called to him. He squealed and squawled. I pleaded. He barked. And, finally, he came to me ... his little black nose held clear of the water as he splashed his way toward me. Upon arrival into my waiting hands, he squrimed with glee and, then, realizing he was safely reunited with me and showing a hint of his developing strong sense of pride, issued a series of gutteral sounds that could only be interpreted as scolding.

In the picture above, you can see the doggie scarf I hand-painted with a pattern of salt-shakers and lime slices on a hankerchief.  Thus, he was Jose - with salt and lime. For those who haven't had the experience of serving drinks, "Jose with salt and lime" is a common order.

The sand became another problem. Puppies chew -- everywhere, and on everything. Jose was no different and, after a while, we noticed that his poop was full of sand. On a regular check-up to the vet, we mentioned this ... and the vet told us that his access to sand had to be curtailed before the little guy's digestive track became a concrete mixer.

Future trips to the beach included placing him a large blanket that limited his intake of sand.

You've read the fairy tale version ... in the real story, the princess was a waitress and her "knight" (well, I thought he was a knight for a while ... but that's ANOTHER story) was a deejay.  

I was living in St. Joseph, Michigan as were my mother and step-father.  St. Joe, situated along the shores of Lake Michigan, was a fairly affluent and predominantly white community that housed executives from companies such as Whirlpool and Zenith.  Across a little bridge that spanned the St. Joseph River was Benton Harbor -- poverty-ridden and mostly black. On the other side of the river lived my mom's friend --  a sweet, hard-working grandmother who was trying to raise her incarcerated daughter's three children on a hotel maid's salary.   On a warm spring day in 1990, Mom and I went to visit Virginia  One of the kids had brought an adorable and very young puppy home.  About the size of an American football and covered in clouds of chaotic blond fur, he seemed too young to be away from his mother or littermates, and was clearly looking for someone to hold on to;  when I had played with him a bit and started to walk away, he emitted heart-rending cries of panic and tried to race after me.  Virginia insisted that we take the dog because she would have been evicted from her rental home for having a pet.   Though their viewpoint has since completely changed, at the time, my mother and step-father weren't interested in adding a dog to their household.  So, I took the puppy -- despite the fact that my boyfriend and I were living in a 400 SF, second-floor apartment over St. Joe's main street. 

For the first few days, the little puppy spent as much time as possible on my shoulder, snuggled under my (at the time) very long hair.  We were shocked when, during his first visit to a vet, the doctor estimated his age at only four weeks.

Since he was to be "our" dog, we wanted to choose a name for him that represented us.  After the bar we both worked in closed at 2:00am, it was our routine to enjoy a beer and a shot of 1800 before heading up the street to our little apartment.  "Michelob" seemed too long a name for such a short dog, and we couldn't call him "1800".  The liquor was the premium tequila produced by Jose Cuervo. And that's how the exceptional dog got his name.

In the picture above, you can see the doggie scarf I hand-painted with a pattern of salt-shakers and lime slices on a hankerchief.  Thus, he was Jose - with salt and lime. For those who haven't had the experience of serving drinks, "Jose with salt and lime" is a common order.

Lucky guy, really.  Were he to have wandered into my life today, he might have been saddled with the moniker "Crater Lake" or "Grey Goose"!  Or, perhaps, закуска?

My mother, who loved Jose as much as I, sent this memory ... of the bedtime story she used to tell him:

In his youth, Jose would snuggle up and and look at me expectantly as I told this bedtime story.   He seemed to know it was about him, his eyes locked onto me with rapt attention as I said ... 

" Once upon a time, Jose, there was a tiny little puppy, very very young. He had soft fuzzy hair, creamy white, and happy eyes.  Just like yours, Jose.      But he had been found in a dangerous place where lots of dogs were abandonned.    And a beautiful young girl wanted to keep him, but her grandma was poor, and was not allowed to have a dog in their house.  A beautiful princess came one day from a rich land across a river and she loved the little dog right away.   When she picked him up, he loved that she smelled so good.   She took him home to a place with beaches, and her Knight, a funny man named Tim loved the little dog too.   Do you remember, Jose?   And they took him everywhere.  And everybody loved him and they called the little dog Jose Cuervo.  And Jose lived happily ever after, having one beautiful adventure after another."

This past Friday evening, my 19-year journey with Jose ended when the little guy's long-time vet came to my home to release Jose from his amazingly tenacious grip on life.  The transition was unexpectedly easy -- a final gift from the small creature who provided me with so much entertainment, companionship and love for so long. The decision to let him go came with absolute clarity when, several days previously, I had returned home from work to find that he'd fallen on the porch sometime during the day. He had lain there under hot sun for several hours until I discovered him, lying in his own excrement with his mouth agape in a silent cry.   As I gathered him up in my arms to take him into the bath, I knew that I had waited too long.  This dog, who in his earlier years possessed such coordination and athleticism to execute mid-air flips and climb trees, now could barely stand on his own anymore. This dog, who had a range of human-like expressions that included a radiant smile, now perpetually wore a look of disgust. This dog, who wanted nothing more than physical proximity to those he loved, now struggled to get away whenever approached. This dog, who was known for keen intelligence and an inquisitive nature, now was interested in nothing.  

This is not how I want to remember him.

In the coming days, I'll use this space to recall the extraordinary life of this exceptional dog ...

Coming up: Jose's Favorite Bedtime Story

It's Valentine's Day, and the occasion almost slipped by without my noticing it. I received some nice holiday greetings from some on-line friends but, otherwise, have treated it as a regular Saturday.  I dressed up in my most comfortable clothes, and made my way to work.  But, on the way home tonight, I was reminded of the occasion in the sweetest way.  On Saturday evenings, my regular radio station converts from its focus on in-depth news reporting to honoring the music of the Swing Era and, as I turned on the car, one of the most beautiful -- and ROMANTIC -- pieces of music was playing: Glenn Miller Orchestra's "Moonlight Seranade."  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n92ATE3IgIs
Listen, imagine a Valentine's Day 65 years ago and enjoy the romance of this timeless music.

Is a capacity to feel empathy a basic human trait?  Is the absence of this capacity in an individual an indicator of sociopathy? Is empathy fostered through careful coaching in childhood or societal norms, or are we born with it?

Too much empathy, I suppose, can be disabling. Too little empathy is plainly destructive.  When individuals or whole societies are unable to perceive the world through others' eyes, conflict naturally arises.  And the empathy-deficient party, lacking the capacity to imagine other perspectives, can only assume that the conflict is caused by the one they cannot understand.  In such cases, the only hope for resolution lies in one party's complete submission to the other. Or through absorbtion by the other.

Most are unwilling to mitigate conflict through such draconian means, and the battles rage on. So, it seems to me, that a capacity for empathy is key to achieving equitable and sustainable resolutions.  Without it, there's no hope. Can empathy be learned? Taught? Engendered? How?

As I have already made one big leap today, I might as well make another -- and post my first LiveJournal entry.

Most would consider me to be a creative and highly communicative person but, faced with this blank box, it seems that I have little to say. And, clearly, I'm arriving late to the "party" of bloggers.  To date, I've been content with watching others' ramblings.  As much as I like reading, I also enjoy doing the writing. So, perhaps I simply need to get started and see if I catch the party spirit.