“I have some bad news about one of your animals.”
I saw my Land People working on the front manse, preparing it for a new tenant, and I wanted to expedite the delivery of my own duty. When I approached them, The Lord of the Land was burnishing a light fixture while The Lady of the Land smilingly supervised. As I delivered my ducats to The Lady, The Lord spoke gravely of the Dog of the Manse, Doug.
Last December, in “My Animals,” I wrote of my admiration for other people’s animals. It is much like having grandchildren: I show up, cop the love and leave the beasts for the owners. In my virtual menagerie was an aged black lab named Doug, whose graying muzzle and body would cry out for “scritches and scratches” whenever I would visit. I always answered the call, and often overstayed the purpose of my visit — the payment of rent — merely to squeeze in more time with the family jewel. Once, during a freewheeling lovefest between us, I referred to Doug as my “podnah.” The Lady of the Land, who often answered my knock at the door just behind Doug, telling him “It’s just CJ,” found the designation amusing.
In Pat Conroy’s novel, Beach Music, Jack McCall spins tales of wonder for his daughter, Leah, about his childhood pet, “The Great Dog Chippy.” When Leah asks Jack’s mother about the great dog, she responds with surprise, saying “The Great Dog Chippy” was a nondescript mutt. (It’s not clear if McCall fictionalizes the dog’s exploits merely to amuse his daughter, or if he is expressing some unresolved desire to have really had a “Great Dog Chippy.”) In my own life, my first dog came after the birth of my first child. My daughter still snaps at me: “Duffy was your dog.” That may well have been true, but that Irish setter — the gentlest of dogs — was protective of Lisa as they grew up together. He died in the back yard shortly after the death of my first marriage, and I can still hear Lisa saying, “Daddy: Duffy won’t come to me.”
In the animated film, “All Dogs Go to Heaven,” the roguish dog, Charles B. Barkin, arrives at the gates of heaven and panics in “The Great Hall of Judgement,” knowing his scampish background. He is reassured: “Don’t worry, Charlie, you’ll go to heaven. All dogs go to heaven because, unlike people, dogs are naturally good, and loyal and kind.” The truth of that is played out after the rascal breaks out of heaven and returns to earth, where he befriends the orphan girl, Ann-Marie, who had been the unwitting tool of Carface, Charlie’s old business partner. Charlie saves Ann-Marie from Carface and, after some shenanigans and a crisis of conscience, proves himself “good, loyal and kind.”
On the day I saw him working on the front manse, my landlord told me that Doug, my dog, had been ill for some time, had been having seizures, and had been put to rest. “I have to go cry, now,” I said, and walked back to my apartment to do that. I had not seen Doug in several months, and had I gone to his home, unaware of his absence, my quiet moment of grief might have been more public, snotty and slobbery. I can’t measure the degree of affection and comfort that Doug might have brought to his real family; I only saw him briefly, occasionally, when he marched into the room I was in, and leaned against me, for love.
Peace, out, podnah, and I hope that all “Dougs” go to heaven.