

The true story of a little dog with a very large gift for love.

And the lives she touched.

James Gerard Small

48 Hanson Avenue, Fords, NJ 08863

jsasgrafix@gmail.com • DarlasSongNJ@aol.com

All contents © Copyright 2013. James Gerard Small.

Applied for electronically on April 26, 2013.

Library of Congress, USA

Submission: 25AE5E7L

People's names have been changed to protect those involved with the story who wish to remain anonymous. It is heavily requested, upon publication, that this remains a private story between Darla and me, and that no effort is made to research those individuals. If such effort is made, serious efforts on my behalf alone will be made legally to prosecute those intruding upon private lives of those once connected with Darla and or me.

This book is dedicated to many people:

to my ex-wife, the REAL "Kira," who saw what I couldn't...who always had love and could always see a pitiful dog needing saving...lol...

to my father, Richard W. Small, writer, songwriter,...poet,

for whom it never happened...but who gave me both his sins and joys...

and the keys to my own literary soul...

and to AM. I was what you wanted but...I wasn't. I know Dar and

Mr. Scott would have loved each other...in another world.

I can only hope for happiness for you.

Some promises remain.

LASTLY:

This is dedicated mostly to Darla herself.

Dar, you entered my life at a bad time. I didn't want you. But in your own soft,

sweet, distinctive voice, in such a sweet and innocent way: you gave love...

unbridled, un-apologetic... so this is dedicated to you and all those others

who do the same, on a daily basis.

There's a place in this world

for the innocents, somewhere strong, safe and true,

where a soul can so stand though we can't understand

how much it means to me and you...

There's a place in this world

for the gentle ones, souls not afraid to expose,

the heart and the love we have never enough of

that it seems none of us knows.

James Gerard Small

April 2012

Thank you especially to:

In alphabetical order:

David Cannon

Copywriter Par Excellence/Friend/Confidante

Ruth DiGeorgio

Proofreader/Editor/Friend/Confidante

...a time comes to let go. For the story to tell itself.

Thank you.

FOREWORD:

MOST WRITTEN STORIES, TRUE OR NOT, start at the beginning or the end. The former is understandable from anyone's viewpoint; it's a fairly standard narrative process. The latter is often used for purposes of creativity, pathos, or some other literary device the author felt important to the telling of the tale.

This is a true story, but it has the uniqueness of starting 2/3rds the way through the story

as well as at the start. I'm not being 'cute' here. The incredible creature whose story follows this Foreword had a life long before I met her. I know little of the first ten years of her life. In fact, I know just enough to pretty much validate my few presumptions about that part of her life, based on information learned second- and even third-hand, after truly getting to know her.

I will make it very clear, this being the story of a dog who changed families at least twice, that there are no "villains" here. At worst, there may have been some misguided individuals who traveled through Darla's life and maybe made some not-so-wise decisions. But in an odd way, I thank them for that. If it hadn't been for their actions, I wouldn't have had this wonderful experience or this delightful "person," who came into my life, only to change it forever.

So, while there are no villains, there ARE a lot of "heroes" in this story. Finish the book

to the last page and you'll see. Darla, herself, is the primary one, but she's far from alone. The strongest and bravest human one I've ever known is my ex-wife, "Kira," for many reasons you'll shortly experience. As for me, I'm not a hero, trust me. I once told Kira: "YOU saved Darla – not me – I just jumped in the passenger seat for the ride and somehow incredibly ended up driving."

But in doing so, I traveled with Darla down roads far more beautiful and generous than I

deserved, following winding paths that brought a lost man home to who he was always meant to be. We walked most of the way, especially at the end, when we changed places and I carried Darla instead.

And, at that, I may have been holding the leash, but she was leading the way...all the way.

A beautiful musical ballad is composed quite carefully. The opening notes invite the listener in. The first verse lays down the meaning of the story to be told. By the time the chorus comes in, the meaning behind things becomes very clear and quite personal.

When the end of the ballad arrives, the music and lyrics have hopefully so deftly, delicately, and beautifully blended that the listener is no longer a listener but instead a true participant. They walk away knowing they have had a profound experience.

This is what happened to me.

This then is Darla's Song.

– Jim Small, May 3, 2013

Darla's Song

Chapter 1

"I KNOW YOU'VE ALWAYS WANTED an Alaskan Malamute, but what about an 'American Eskimo?'"

I had been married to Kira for close to thirteen years so I knew that when she started a conversation – or a phone call in this case – in such a way, she was about to approach me with an idea she knew I innately wouldn't like.

"What the heck is an 'American Eskimo?'"

It was about 3:00 pm on a cold November Friday and I was at home in my graphics studio in the back of the house; she knew I was most likely working at my computer. "You're 'online,' right? Go to www.petfinder.com." Kira led me, over the phone, to a particular page dedicated to a dog named 'Dazi.'

There was long, silent pause after that. Finally, Kira spoke: "So what do you think?"

I moved in closer to look at the screen. "It looks like a still pic of a big, white, nasty dog barking at the camera."

The truth was, I didn't want her – the dog. I wasn't even sure I wanted Kira, much less myself. I guess I was in a bit of a depression back then, self-focused fully and with no relief or happiness in sight. I felt alone and hopeless.

My then-response, though it might sound sarcastic, was, at the time, a valid one, at least for me. Even if it covered a greater pain. The truth was I had never been what you'd call a 'dog person;' I was a 'cat person.' The last – actually the only – dog I'd ever had was 'Corky,' a goofy brown mutt I'd experienced briefly as a four year old kid. Corky lasted only a few months, when he started eating the daily newspaper and my father's shoes, and wallpaper right off the wall, among other things I'm too polite to mention. After that, my parents decided cats were the way to go, and honestly, I have ever since never met a cat I didn't like.

Kira laughed that laugh that signaled she thought I was being just a wee bit overly-negative. Having grown up around dogs, she didn't understand that I had a sort of dread fear of them. Anything over the size of a big housecat bothered me greatly. This negative, anti-canine attitude was heavily based on a few bad experiences with larger dogs in my formative years and a real concern by me over being attacked. Mind you, I never had been bitten by any dog but was still afraid. Cats can bite you and you'll maybe bleed a little; a dog bites you and flesh leaves the body (well, at least that was my perception – hell, they don't refer to some teeth as 'canine' for nothing!).

Besides the inherent fear factor, there was another reason I didn't like dogs: Thumbelina and Missie. "Thumbelina" was my step-daughter's obnoxious Chihuahua; "Missie" was my step-son's friendly but overly feisty Pug (more about these two later).

Our home had already filled with three pretty cool cats and these 'dog clowns'. The cats were fine – they were their own people and knew when they wanted to socialize.

You know what I'm saying about a cat:

"Hey, I'm up for some petting and purring..."

"Sorry, but I'm busy right now."

"Okay, no prob. I'll catch you later..."

Dogs, on the other hand:

"HEY! I want AND need attention NOW!"

"Sorry, but I'm busy right now."

"HEY--MAN'S BEST FRIEND HERE! Pay attention--NOW!"

"Sorry, but again, I'm busy right now."

"Okay, you asked for it! I'm going to go knock over the kitchen garbage can, wolf down that last bit of left-over rotisserie chicken, 'cack' up a bone so you think I'm dying, and then poop it all on the carpet while you're busy at the Twelve-Plex, catching Hollywood's latest..."

I presume I've made my point here. Anyway, Kira wasn't done; she was only starting.

"Jim, this is a sweet and lovely dog. BethAnn knows all about it. She knows the owners. Dazi's ten years old and the owners don't want her: they've already tried to have a veterinarian put her to sleep but the vet refused because she's a healthy dog. They're going to put her in a pound where she'll be destroyed!"

I didn't give a crap about this dog or any other animal, despite the cold or possibly the death of them. There was a time I would have. In my earlier years, not so long before, I possessed what many told me was a "gentle heart." I was known as a good, nice guy with a caring soul. But recent life experiences had hardened me. There was a time only two years before I found a cadre of infant bunnies in our yard and I spent five days and nights trying to nurse them along, with phone help by the local vet. They all died, sadly. I mourned them all, noticing, as I nursed them, distinctive personalities forming, though they were only days old (more about this later).

"Dear," I sighed, standing up with the portable to my ear, "we've already got a full house."

"These people don't want a dog. They got her from the wife's daughter and son-in-law. They had her for eight years, but then had a baby and didn't want Dazi. She gets locked in a bathroom 10 hours a day while they're at work, and Dazi only gets five minutes of exercise a night when out for a 'poopie' walk. That's how BethAnn knows. These people are her neighbors."

Through the windows, I could see the golden amber light of the setting sun. I glanced out the big glass door in my studio that led to out to the back deck, yard, and above-ground pool. Patches of an early winter snow clung to the frozen grass. It was a perfect "winter night" to come, to rent a video, to cozy up on the couch, and to watch a useless, forgettable movie.

"Kira, I really don't want another pet."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, then:

"I really think we should try this..."

I knew that tone all too well. For very many obvious reasons, the marriage between Kira and me had been going bad for a while. She had always been, throughout

her life, a very non-confrontational person, where as I'd happily argue that red was really green. In retrospect, though she probably would have been better off living a life without arguments, life with me had taught her to argue back and stand her ground. I was now kind of like a Kung Fu Master being challenged by a very apt pupil, one whom I had gained new respect for, because the student knew how to kick the crap out of the Master.

"Okay," I answered at last, "how about we try it for a weekend? See how it goes, how she gets along with the other critters and us. If it goes well, good, but if not, she goes back."

I could actually hear the smile in Kira's voice. "Fair enough."

They showed up that Friday night about 6:30 pm, and I have to say I've never seen an odder two-person crew. He was very tall, 5 inches above me and I'm 6'0" even. He looked old and gaunt, with streaking gray in his beard and heavy moustache, and he was skinny, like Abe Lincoln – had Honest Abe survived the assassination. She was clearly over 50 years old, but very short (5'3", about Kira's height). She possessed that sort of 'robust,' slightly heavy 'Hispanic' aspect to her. They were both bundled for the cold weather.

She led this happily-trotting, smelling-all-in-sight, yanking, thing in – "Dazi" on the leash. (The dog seemed to act like it was on a fun trip to Disneyworld: 'HEY! Look at all the cool stuff!').

'Abe Lincoln,' on the other hand, carried a box too heavy for him. I immediately noted that it had everything necessary: THE DOG'S ENTIRE LIFE POSSESSIONS, as well as a great mix of canned and dry dog food. These people weren't coming back!!!!!!!

Some light chatter occurred. Though my memories are vague as to the actual discussion, I do remember me mentioning about this being "just a weekend tryout"

somewhere – oh – about 11 million times. (The dog was ALREADY barking at me, raising my fear level to, well, on a scale of 0 – 10, oh, a 14!)

Kira, on the other hand, handled things rather correctly and with the ease, calm, and grace of a then fully-seasoned world-class diplomat at the United Nations.

Abe and wife left quickly, thus fully reinforcing my concerns. I began to wonder if, by Monday, we might find a disconnected phone, an empty abode, and no trace that these two individuals had ever existed. The possibility they might be stopped by the State Police for doing 130 miles an hour in a 55 mph zone could be a way to track them, if acted upon quickly enough.

Kira immediately did what all new pet owners do, and I've always found this hysterical: 'the bowl of water.' Now, I'm not dismissing that a new creature, unfamiliar with a new environment, needs some establishment of where its domain begins. But 'that bowl of water' is ALWAYS so tap-cold (like the iceberg that nailed the Titannic) and ALWAYS so over-flowing (Niagra Falls should be so wet)!

Now, I'm a Jersey City, NJ native and most of my friends growing up were Italian in heritage. One friend's parents were Italian immigrants, and whenever you entered their house, they presented food to you as a "welcome." I don't dismiss that; I, in fact, think it is a wonderful thing.

But, if welcoming a dog or cat – "a huge bowl of cold water?" Why not for a cat – a vanilla milkshake? For a dog – beef broth? And even if 'a bowl of water', why such a BIG bowl, as if they had just crossed the Sahara? As if the previous owners or shelter had intentionally starved them into a 'near-mirage-seeing' state in order to elicit a desire to embrace the new owner.

I guess a BIG bowl is our way, as humans, to say "a full, loved future awaits you here. Welcome."

Dazi lapped up a couple of mouthfuls of the wet stuff, then turned down a bowl filled with her supposedly favorite dog food (by the way, she never ate that crap again (Lesson #1: uncaring owners don't give a damn. Rough translation: don't feed anything else until, out of desperation, it's consumed by the wayward pet)).

Dazi sniffed the kitchen out carefully and then moved around the first floor like Sherlock Holmes seeking out a seriously hidden clue. Missie happily greeted her. Thumbelina, now old, semi-blind, and getting feeble, stayed on the couch and deemed to

let Dazi smell her. (There would never be a friendship here, or even a "pack," but acceptances had been forged, and in the style of the times, 'detente' had been made).

The cats stayed out-of-sight, like sneaky ex-USSR politicos still expecting a coup that would raise the 'sickle and hammer' high again. (Like those stalwart communists, they would soon find they were way out of luck).

Dazi, still aware of me, as I watched off in the distance, began a pattern of barking at me incessantly when she made eye contact with me, which lasted through the weekend and beyond. But for the most part, the next hour and a half was calm and reflective.

Kira was having a great fun with all this, observing Dazi's 'Sherlock Holmesian' efforts also, as she occasionally petted Dazi and directed her around. (While I fully respected Kira as a savvy professional whose job included dealing with foreign sensibilities everyday, maybe "receptionist" at a future, high-priced Marriott or Ramada chain, dedicated exclusively to dogs, beckoned.) She seemed thrilled already with this new addition and decided to call out for a pizza delivery to celebrate.

About 8:30 pm, the poor kid delivering the pie showed up and rang the doorbell.

That's when all hell broke loose, at least according to me.

CHAPTER 2

ABOUT THE AMERICAN ESKIMO...

No, they are NOT "snow dogs," despite what the name would imply. Till the day of this writing, 98% of people, hearing the breed name, assume these are large canines who draw sleds in yearly Alaskan contests.

The "American Eskimo" dog has a rich history, having been born off the 'German Spitz' breed. Nothing is 'Eskimo' or Native-American about them, although they are fully American in origin. The breed has only been recognized by the American Kennel Society recently, in 1995. While they have rich, thick white fur and generally love snow and cold weather, the largest of the breed is only kneecap high to a tall man, weighing between 21 and 25 pounds. Dazi belonged to the largest class.

American Eskimos rank among the most intelligent of dogs. They are serious problem solvers and smart to a level way beyond most others. An American Eskimo is very protective of home and family and a large "Eskie" will produce a bark, from behind a closed front door, that will compete with same aggressiveness as the most powerful German Shepard. While smaller in size, they "believe" they are "larger," like the biggest competitors.

They are so smart that numerous "American Eskimo" websites comment that they "even know they are pretty, and expect to get away with things because of that..."

The American Eskimo is all of this and more. As an example of a dog, it is perfectly shaped physically, and all white, with a beautiful, soft coat of fur, sensitive, knowing eyes, an all-black nose, and a full, bushy tail. And again, very highly intelligent...

I knew none of this when the pizza guy showed up. Though Kira knew the general delivery time, she was busy having fun with Dazi, petting her and following her around the first floor of our home.

The doorbell rang. In the winter, we ordered extra cheese pies often at the end of the week and so had gotten used to not closing the wooden locked door – rather opting to

lock the glass-encased screen door as the safe-township barricade to any unwanted

intruders at 8:30 pm.

Though supposedly locked in a bathroom and with not much socialization in recent times, Dazi shot for the front door like a guided missile. Though her view of the door and the intruder in general was blocked by three lower feet of galvanized, white-painted steel, she was jumping up and reaching heights of 4'+ feet as she barked at the 18 year old! She eyed him evilly through the glass in mid-jump.

The kid stepped back (naturally). We always pre-readied ourselves for pizza deliveries with money and a tip by the door. I started there but stepped back as Dazi began her own version of a Brinks Home Security System. Hell, I wasn't going to get bitten!

Kira picked up my slack and raced to the door. But there was no way Dazi wasn't going to scare the ever-loving you-know-what out of this poor kid...

Maybe he was an A+ student just making extra money with a new driver's license. Maybe he was a D- kid who now owns a full pizza delivery service, earning more than me. Maybe he's just a joker now doing time in Rahway Prison in Central NJ. I have no idea, but on that given night, I felt fully for him. Maybe I felt that way for him because I was feeling fully for me.

I was at the door, hopelessly trying to kick Dazi back with my feet while opening the door. It was useless. If I ever opened the door wide enough to get the pie (not turned fully 90 degrees and also pay), Dazi would be off and running, off our front porch and gone...

Kira rushed forward, grabbed Dazi by her collar, fearlessly dragged her back into the kitchen and then headed forward to deal with the impending transaction. Dazi, of course, wasn't ready to plain sit there and be a new, uninvolved member of the household. She immediately rushed back, just as Kira was starting with the pizza guy.

"JIM!!!!," Kira screamed, "grab her by the collar!!!"

I initially advanced in and tried, but Dazi looked back at me with a glare in her eyes. She had a mission, and I was not to get in the way.

Years later, when seeing that look again, I WOULD grab her the way Kira did, with no fear of a bite, but at that moment, I couldn't be so brave.

"ARE YOU NUTS?!!! I'm not going to get bit by this thing!!," I yelled to Kira.

I can laugh about it now, but back then – Kira looked back at me with the kind of eyes a parent reserves for a lost child that knows its "ABC's" then forgets in an important

moment after multiple training sessions. Utter disappointment.

She let the screen door close on the pizza guy, walked past me and grabbed Dazi

by the collar, dragged her into the kitchen, held her there calmly, and then looked back at me with disdain.

"Take care of it," she sighed, a bit of hopelessness in her voice.

I guess I should have been embarrassed; I mean, a grown man afraid of a dog 1/8th of his weight, 1/4th of his height. But I wasn't.

Within two minutes, Dazi had the great smell of fresh-cooked dough, tomato meat sauce and sweet mozzarella in her nose. In fairness, Thumbelina and even the ex-Ruskies were stirring and peeking. Dazi, though, got arrogant – she was starting to try to jump up on the stove in the kitchen where Kira had placed the closed box of gold.

Kira was non-plused. "NO!," she demanded, staring directly at the newcomer. She grabbed Dazi by her collar and dragged her onto the living room couch, Dazi whining all the way.

But then Dazi stayed!

Kira returned and we divided our slices onto human plates, Kira giving little pieces of sauced cheese to blind little Thumbelina, who happily took her little fill privately off into a corner.

Now, with the two of us sitting on the couch, with Dazi on one end and Thumbelina otherwise seated, Kira first gave old "Thumb" her next piece of prized cheese, sauce, and cooked dough.

Dazi got rambunctious and stuck her head into the deal. Kira easily, softly smacked her in the nose and simply said "wait."

To my amazement, Dazi backed off, sat down and waited. What the hell was this spell Kira had over Dazi. Where could I buy it?!!

In time, Kira and I consumed our slices with Dazi watching like a vulture. I've always loved pizza, but never enjoyed the outer crust so I always left it abandoned on my plate or passed it to Kira, who did love it.

Kira took a 5" crust piece, tore off a 2" section, raised it to the dog's lips, and simply said: "Cookie?"

That simple, two-vowel word was to become an immense and treasured term in this pup's life until the day she died.

But the evening was far from over.

Eventually, the cats came looking for their 10 pm dinner. The dogs were settled,

including Dazi, who was now semi-comatose on the living room floor. These felines

routinely had their meal in the kitchen near the location where we had placed Dazi's water bowl.

They ate there quietly for a minute or so, until a sharp 'Dazi' eye spied them.

Once again, all hell broke loose. This time, Kira joined me in agreeing.

I've always appreciated the speed and stealth of cats. On that night, however, they were ill-prepared for Dazi.

Shadow was a tiny, 6 pound cat, very intelligent and crafty, with, I guess I would say, a "hunter's heart." Her small size could be deceptive; often, much to Kira's and my dismay, we would open the front door in the morning to find something dead, most likely a bird or rabbit, nearly the size of Shadow, left as a gift to us. In later years, Shadow would mellow, but for now, she was an aggressive and dangerous predator. She had a mottled, beige-gray-orange coat of fur. She didn't much like to socialize with humans back then.

Charlie, a gray and white Main Coon cat, proved to be a big, stupid goof. Shadow brought him home.

This complete idiot was large. He weighed 15 pounds at his biggest. But when I met him, he was emaciated. It was clear he had been born in the wild and wasn't coping well – he was skinny as a rail. He also understandably had a big fear of humans. But he followed Shadow home, time after time, looking for easy food, and eventually I domesticated him and brought him into the house (I told you I was a "cat person).

That Charlie was dumb – of that, there can be no doubt. But for all his size and stupidity, he possessed a heart the size of a humpback whale. He was sweet and loving and gentle and unique unto himself. But to give you an idea:

One Saturday, prior to our new family member, I was already up and awake when Kira came down the stairs from our bedroom, laughing her head off. When I asked her what was so funny, she replied: "Charlie was walking down the stairs with me. He stepped on his front foot with his back foot and knocked himself down the stairs!"

Dazi was in "stealth mode." The shock of her upon them caused a brief "Laurel and Hardy" or "Abbott and Costello" moment, as both slid and scrambled to find footing on a slick vinyl floor. But once they got grounding and moved, my appreciation for the true grace of cats increased immensely. Shadow shot away like a bullet. Charlie fumbled and hissed, momentarily throwing Dazi off, but finally made his beeline away.

Kira was one step behind me as I yelled "NO!!!" at Dazi. Much to my own amazement, I actually, upon arriving in the kitchen, slapped her, open-palmed on the top

of her head. I guess my innate love for the kitties momentarily overrided my fear of Dazi,

and my anger for their harassment at the hands of a newcomer set in. Dazi looked up at me in amazement. I guess she expected more fear from me.

Kira grabbed her by the collar and dragged her back into the living room.

A calming time ensued. The cats did not resurface that night (small wonder!).

It was time for bed finally. Kira and I opted to put Dazi in the bathroom for the night, with the door closed, with her toys, with a soft pillow, with the big bowl of water, with her uneaten canned food. She would calm herself there, sleep and awake better the next day.

Yeah, right.

As Kira and I undressed in our bedroom, I still felt unsettled by the night's events. During the quiet time before the pizza, and then after the cat-mess, Kira had lifted Dazi up onto her lap to hug and hold her softly. I looked at Kira as she settled her clock and things.

"Hey," I said with a calmness in my voice that was uncommon, due to previous things from that night, "I'm screwed, aren't I?"

Kira looked at me oddly, pulling sheets over her. "What do you mean?"

"You love this dog already. She's staying, isn't she?"

Kira turned over away from me. I could once again sense the smile in her voice. "Yeah," she answered. "You are. I love her."

About a minute later, the mournful cries of a very alone Dazi, locked in the bathroom a floor below, wafted up into our bedroom. I was angry and annoyed for a minute or two, before Kira went downstairs to deal with it. I wasn't a happy camper, but I remembered...

"...locked alone in a bathroom 10 hours a day..."

I then wondered what human could do that so selfishly to ANY living thing.

A minute later, after some heavy 'thump-thump-thump' noises up the stairs, Dazi landed hard, in the dim light, on my legs, having leapt at the bed off our bedroom floor. She stood, towering over me, triumphant after the success of her planned jump.

Dazi looked at me happily. She crossed my chest, now under the covers,

And began to sniff my face.

Kira walked into the room and eased herself under the sheets. Dazi went over to sniff her, and, after a moment of pushing by Kira, happily settled on the bed between us.

"You have to be kidding!," I said.

"What?"

"I didn't even manage to get into bed with you on the first night!!," I answered, sarcasm dripping from my mouth. Kira reached for her nightlight and clicked it off, leaving the three of us in utter darkness.

"You weren't that cute," came the well-deserved answer.

CHAPTER 3

I ALWAYS WOKE UP EARLIER THAN KIRA, particularly on weekends. This Saturday was no exception. What was different was her comment as she rolled over in bed, half-asleep.

"Put the dog out, won't you?"

I was already out of bed, hiking up a pair of jeans. Dazi was standing up on the mattress, tail wagging, watching me.

"Fine," I sighed. "Come on, idiot."

I'm not sure what bothered me most – Kira's nominal tone, as if this was a normal situation – or if my easy attitude implied 'acceptance.' All I could feel sure of, as I wiped sleep from my eyes, was that "Abe" and "Mary Todd" had probably hit the state of Georgia by now. Maybe the authorities could catch them happily buying ugly, dollar-only, "Elvis 'salt 'n pepper shakers'" at one of many "South of the Border" gift shops.

The morning showed bright sun and much promise.

8:30 am. Dazi happily shot out the back door onto the deck, then down the steps into the yard. I watched carefully.

The house we lived in then was a "leftover." I had never been married before, but Kira had been, and this was the home she and her first husband had raised two children in. When we married, Kira suggested we buy a new home. I rejected the idea, feeling I didn't want to upset her kids' lives. In retrospect, for a lot of reasons, we should have moved, giving everyone a new start, but for now we were here. My design studio in the back room on the first floor, as I've already mentioned, gave easy access to the outdoors.

The backyard was very large and it wrapped around the two-story, 90+ year old building in an "L" shape. Our home had been the first house in the area, owned by a farmer who toiled in some of the richest soil New Jersey had to offer. All the other homes in the neighborhood had sprung up as the farmer's fortunes dwindled and he sold off parcels of land to pay debts.

Consequently, the remaining property became a large space with no easy, clear view from any spot in the house.

And so now, while still sleepy, I was watching this alien dog through various 1st floor windows.

While I wanted no part of her, I less wanted to alarm Kira that the dog was gone,

based on my neglect. Mind you, we had a 6 foot high stockade fence that ran the whole length of the yard. But Kira and I put it in together, with the help of Kira's 12 year old son and his lazy friend, so it was always a little "suspect."

I do have to give credit where credit is due...to dogs (and cats). We, as humans, need air-conditioning in our houses and cars in the summer, heat in the winter, and temperate levels all year long. These souls, especially when on their own, survive sub-freezing cold and wear fur coats in sweltering heat.

So, when Dazi took a full 10 minutes to check out the yard and finally poop, I wasn't surprised. I was annoyed, but not shocked.

I was more bothered when a sleepy-eyed Kira walked past me, heading to the bathroom, asking "so where is she?" with an accusing tone in her voice.

"About to come in," I replied with an intended coldness in my voice.

(Nowhere in this book will you find a vexing word from me about Kira. It doesn't add anything significant regarding Darla's story; at the same time, I'm not going to use this as a place to vent personal things. The simple truth is that Kira was, and is, and I know, for her in the future, a very loving, giving, and smart, special woman. Like all couples, we had good and bad times, and in the end, we divorced, not for a lack of love, but for life differences. Any comments I may make here are just reflective of "then" difficulties, to add context.)

I sure as hell didn't want Dazi to disappear on "my watch," but if God (who I didn't believe in at the time) chose to jump her over a six-foot-high fence, then who was I to argue?

No such luck. Just as Kira was coming out of the bathroom directly across from my studio, Dazi was back on the deck, by the back door, barking to get in. I felt like a goddamned doorman!

That feeling was further reinforced as Kira waited for me to let Dazi in. Dazi got past the closed door, ran to Kira, then looked back at me (I still considered it then a 'glare') and began barking non-stop.

Kira watched this, very amused. "She loves you."

"Yeah," I responded, scared to death. "I don't need any more love than I already have."

Kira smiled down at Dazi. "Come on," she commanded and Dazi followed obediently, but not without a last bark at me, for good measure.

While things weren't great back then between Kira and me, we still enjoyed each other's company and often functioned well as a team. Saturdays usually meant trips to Costco or BJ's Wholesale Warehouse (large scale discount chains), maybe a DVD rental, and dinner we'd cook together.

Dazi's presence and her aversion to closed bathroom doors presented a new problem: what to do with her when we were gone. Luckily (I guess), Kira quickly figured out a way to leash the dog, with Dazi's bedding included, to a heavy metal stand in my carpeted studio that housed various, expensive pieces of computer equipment and large format color printers. This obviously meant that I had a new "assistant," when the pooch wasn't allowed to roam the house freely.

I don't recall if we did a trip to BJ's or Costco that day, but upon returning, we were greeted by loud and aggressive barks of "free me!" That's when Kira came up with what I considered, rather sarcastically: 'Brilliant Idea #2.'

We obviously couldn't take Dazi and leave her in the car for long shopping trips, but if they were short and only included local stops in stores, the bank, etc., then "why not?"

In the meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Kira had been calling up her rather large family (parents, four sisters and a brother), inviting all to come "meet the new addition to our family!"

Both Saturday and Sunday, then, beyond adaption and adoption issues, were further complicated by a steady stream of visitors here to visit and say 'hello' to the new 'puppy.'

Kira's Mom, as well as every sister, showed up to admire Dazi's beauty and congratulate us on our "good luck" in getting her. Kira's brother, a very sweet but sometimes aloof soul, did not appear. Just like my wife, they all rushed to pet 'the new addition,' without fear or hesitation. I must admit that I did admire their bravery regarding this vicious creature who wanted to disembowel the poor pizza guy – and maybe me. And, yes, Dazi was still barking at me whenever I crossed her path or we made eye contact.

Shadow and Charlie, like Kira's brother, were "no-shows." Small wonder.

On Sunday, we did the local shop thing and found that Dazi just plain loved car rides. We put her in one of the secondary seats of Kira's fire engine red, 1993 Plymouth Voyager mini-van. This went very well except when either one of us would leave to go into a bank or store. Dazi would intently watch whoever took off, then she'd begin to whine and moan as if she had just lost her best friend. One's return to the car was met by an almost 'slapstick' set of frantic actions, including her attempting to leap into the front seat and doing "nose kisses" to that person.

It was so ridiculous that I couldn't help but laugh.

Looking back, I guess maybe the winter was just starting to be a bit colder than my heart. Or maybe, down deep within me, there was a slight global warming.

Dazi slept with us both Saturday and Sunday night. On Monday morning, as both Kira and I got ready for the day in our kitchen, she stopped packing her lunch to look directly at me.

"So I can call them today to say we're taking her?" It was an already answered question, but there was a sweet hint of girlishness and hope in it. I understand now it wasn't so much a question but a real hope: that, in Kira's heart, despite our distance, there was still a possibility to see the essence of the man whose eyes she had looked into with love when she once answered "yes."

I looked back at her with a crooked, knowing smile.

"Yes!," I answered, feigning exasperation, "we're keeping her."

The "Lincolns" were far from my mind at this point. They could have been in Canada or Mexico for all I cared. I felt there was so little I could do anymore to please Kira that I was happy to give her this.

Kira smiled back. "Well, you know I really don't like the name 'Dazi.'"

"Neither do I," I responded. "We can figure it out. Get off to work!"

I locked the front door behind her and turned back to face the kitchen. This old dog just stood there, all alone, with no saviors, staring down the hall at me, a curious, uncertain look in her eyes. We were together, just the two of us. She stopped barking at me for the moment.

My life with Darla had finally begun.

CHAPTER 4

FRIDAY'S CHILD IS LOVING AND GIVING, SO THE POEM SAYS.

Dazi/Darla was born on Friday, October 15th, 1993. I have no pictures of her as a puppy, but based on those I've seen of 'like' Eskies in calendars and on the internet, she must have been adorable. Eskie pups are little round balls of white fluff, with innocent, almost sad, eyes.

I have no knowledge of how many brothers or sisters she may have had, or even the names of her parents. I am guessing, based on a single piece of veterinary documentation, that she was born somewhere in southern New Jersey, as her first owners lived near the shore.

Despite my original misgivings about taking her in, I did have to admit that, at 10 years of age, she was a beautiful dog. The only thing at the time that wasn't breed-like was that she didn't have a thick, puffy tail. It was stringy and her pink skin showed through. Kira and I quickly surmised that she must have chewed on it often out of nervousness and stress. We weren't sure it would ever return to its full luster (it eventually did).

As I previously alluded to, her history was mixed. It appears, based on hearsay, and the document, that she stayed with her original owners, a married couple, for about eight years, but then was passed onto the wife's mother and stepfather after the couple had a child. If the original owner held onto her for eight years, I'd expect she had a pretty reasonably happy life with them. As to why they gave her away after the birth of their baby, it would be impossible to be sure of the reasons. Maybe she behaved with jealousy, but I find that hard to believe, eventually knowing her the way I came to. Perhaps, with a newborn child in the home, she became a burden.

What was very clear was that the "Lincolns" didn't want her and supposedly didn't even like dogs. They took her in and basically ignored her for two years, perhaps hoping that one day she might be returned to her original home. They supposedly, based on innuendo, tried to have a veterinarian "put her down" at some point, but if that was true, the vet, thank God, refused, saying "I'm not going to: this is a healthy dog."

"Wednesday's child is full of woe," so the poem says.

I was born on Wednesday, December 31st, 1958, and I'd have to say the poem was accurate in my case. I'm the kind of person who worries that the glass is half empty and should be full. After considering it, I'll worry that half full should be empty if the contents of the glass were worth consuming.

My birth family consisted of my mother, father, and an only brother. I only ever knew one grandparent and she died when I was eight years old. My parents didn't socialize much and my brother and I were younger than our cousins so we really didn't get to know them much. All of my nuclear family has passed away: my mother at age 69 of bone cancer, my father at age 71 of a heart attack, and my brother at age of 36 from lymphoma. My parents died within ten months of each other, back in the late 1980's. My brother passed away in August of 1993, just two months before Dazi/Darla was born. I am a graphic designer. I knew I wanted art as my calling at age 5.

"Saturday's child works hard for its living," so the poem says.

Kira was born on a Saturday and she was, indeed, at the time I knew her, the most industrious person I ever met. As I've previously stated, she came from a large family, four sisters and a brother, with many brother-in-laws, nephews, active aunts and uncles, cousins, and so on. When I met her, she had two growing teenage children from her first marriage, a boy and a girl.

I was shy as a kid, wearing glasses by age 7 (this was in the era before contact lenses) and dealing with acne in my teenage years. During my college years, I shed the glasses, wore longer hair and a beard, grew out of my 'baby fat,' and became (almost) an extrovert. Kira would joke often during our marriage that while she had lived next to her neighbors on the same street for over 12 years, I knew more about them in the first six months I lived there than she did. "Jim can talk to a fencepost," she'd laugh.

But Kira was different. While I was a bundle of insecurities and uncertainties, masked by an outgoing and openly friendly persona, she was quiet and a little shy, but inwardly strong. I don't know if this was part of her innate personality or learned behavior via the trials and tribulations of life (probably a mix of both), but she seemed to grow stronger and more self-assured with each passing year. We were married in 1991, and while I was content to just fly to Florida to visit Disneyworld for our honeymoon, she masterminded an exquisitely lovely and life-affecting trip to the most beautiful places in Hawaii. (Years later, we would go to Disney – when Kira coordinated a 9 person family trip there with an ease, grace, shrewdness, and savvy that was beyond belief).

Kira also possessed an incredible understanding of "what's right." Her strong faith in the same God I disavowed provided her with a certainty about the proper and correct thing to do in any given moral circumstance.

This 'strength' was what propelled the adoption of this aging white "hairball" now facing me.

For the moment, I opted not to address the dog or that she and I were alone together for the first time. I simply walked past her through the kitchen, into my studio, and I sat down at my computer desk in order to do some Photoshop work for an ad agency client. I then, and now, still work on an Apple computer.

The dog quietly followed me in and settled in next to me on her rounded "bed," which Kira had purchased over the weekend for her. A padded, royal blue oval "basket," it provided a soft, cushy pad in the center.

She placed herself in it comfortably, crossed her front paws, and rested her head on them. About an hour later, I felt the need to use our only bathroom, which was, literally, 12 feet from my computer.

PLEASE NOTE AND PAY ATTENTION HERE: This is the first in a small series of incredibly stupid but significant moments in her life with me.

As soon as I got up, the dog got up. I walked to the bathroom; she followed (but didn't enter--damn the Lincolns!)

I closed the door. She barked. I opened the door. She sat happily waiting. I walked to the kitchen. She followed. I tried walking into the living room. She followed. I walked back and sat back down at my computer station. She followed and sat in her bed, looking at me.

Geez!, I thought, now this! Is she going to follow me everywhere?!! (The answer – for the next 5 and a half years – was yes.)

By noon, I was getting hungry so I went into the kitchen, 15 feet away, and microwaved a couple of frankfurters with some rolls Kira and I had bought at Costco. Of course, I was followed, but this time with more anticipation, as somebody's ollifactory senses were peaked.

She still didn't bark, but I sensed the anticipation. I returned to my computer station, hot dogs on a paper plate. Also hot on my heels was 'good ole white fur-meister,' hoping for at least a morsel. There was no settling back in the doggie bed. Instead I was

treated to a non-stop stare of sheer desire.

By the time I was through 2/3rds of my second 'hot dog,' I became aware of a very low but constant 'whine,' emanating from below me. I was, oddly, no longer afraid of this creature who had tormented me throughout the weekend. I instead, very oddly, felt truly sorry for her.

I put the last of the bun-covered frankfurter back on the plate and lowered it to the floor. She jumped up to briefly sniff it, then consumed it with a passion I haven't seen since the great white shark in "Jaws" devoured Quint, the seasoned fisherman.

This pain-in-the-neck then had the nerve to look back up at me as if to say "well, where's the rest?"

ALERT #2: For the first of over surely a thousand times in the years to come, I uttered: "that's it! No more!"

She seemed to understand and settled back into her bed for a happy winter afternoon nap as I Photoshopped landscaping pictures, turning garbage into gold: the direct opposite of my life at the time, or so I thought.

Kira, at work, was certainly curious as to how things were going at the house; she had already called twice to "chat." Upon her arrival home, I must admit I felt a little jealous: this old white "heap" completely abandoned her "hot dog" benefactor in order to greet Kira, and settle with her on the couch, enjoying loving hugs and kisses from Kira.

That night, Kira and I discussed 'Dazi's' name. We both hated it. We agreed that, due to her age, we needed to find something 'close' to 'Dazi'. I suggested "Darlin," a favorite slang term used by country singers I loved. Kira hated that but couldn't come up with any better, so we settled on "Darla."

And so it was that "Dazi" became "Darla," for the rest of her life. Her new life.

Darla skillfully maneuvered her time between Kira and me in the weeks to come.

She actually set up a schedule:

• Weekdays with Jim in his studio

• Weeknights devoted to Kira, jumping up and welcoming

• Weeknights with both Kira and Jim: sit with and enjoy

• Be cute and nuzzle Kira, buddy her, and enjoy her love

• Bedtime: Sleep with Jim and Kira

• Car rides: Whine for whomever had left the car and disappeared out of  
sight

• Harass the cats, when seen

• Go for fun walks with Kira and Jim

• Chase squirrels off backyard stockade fence with no luck of capturing

• Harass Jim during his lunch and get whatever food possible.

It was quite an agenda for an old dog. Sometimes, when I was stuck in the back of the house doing evening artwork, Darla would actually leave Kira's side on the couch and wander into my studio to see how I was doing. By then, after a couple of weeks, even I was petting her, and she got used to me putting my hand out. But I didn't 'pet' her in the conventional sense: I'd place my hand over her snout and proceed to rub her nose, mouth, eyes and ears. She seemed to love it and always leaned in for more.

When she was pleased and knew I was okay, she'd happily trot back off to hang out with Kira on the living room couch. She was watching over her "children."

I do believe that I have established that Eskies are very smart and tremendous problem-solvers. Darla was basking in the attention she long-needed but had been denied. And in giving her all proper respect, all I've listed above DID happen and this "dumb animal" sorted it, arranged it, timed it, and pulled it all off, with no "overlap," no "conflict," no disturbance.

In retrospect, I must admit I was amazed how deftly Darla split her heart and time between Kira and me, and then focused on us together. I have managed a 13 person graphics department in my career. Were Darla a human, I would have begged to have a time management director as good as she was.

The only sad issue at the time was the "ex-Ruskies." Shadow and Charlie had become virtual "no-shows" in our home. The big, white "American Clean Machine" had fully spooked the cats and they retreated, like communists in the fallen Soviet Union, to hidden corners. This did bother me a bit, as they were much loved, established members of our family. I often privately sought each out to pet them and show that they were not forgotten. Even that would change in time.

Christmas came fast that year. Kira's family maintained an annual "Christmas Eve-Fest" at Lana's house. Lana was Kira's younger sister. She and her husband had three young boys, and along with the added family, each yearly meeting turned into a joyous but raucous event. It didn't help that Kira's brother, Bobby, a fun-loving soul, always bought gifts for the kids that inspired mayhem: whiffle ball shooters, 'snurf' foamball launchers, etc...

Bobby was recognized as the "loving bad seed" of the family. I often sat back, laughing, but still aghast the the 'goings-on' of the night. Having come from a tiny nuclear family, this was a big experience for me. Enjoyable, yes, but still stunning. I

wondered many times what the local garbage men thought when picking up 15 big bags from Lana's house during the days after!

In stark contrast was the sedate Christmas Day at our home. Kira's children, now adults, lived on their own. Kira's kids were there; her son was to be married eventually with two children. Her daughter would be engaged, to ultimately have three children. Minimal gift sharing occurred at our house, and we shared a turkey and all the things you would cook for such a holiday, but otherwise it was a calm, low-key time.

As per Kira's tradition, each pet got gifts. Thumbelina enjoyed some chewy things, Shadow and Charlie got play toys that, while well-intentioned, they'd never use. (Some cats aren't big on play toys, for the most part).

But Darla, the newcomer, received a "Santa Stocking" filled with a plethora of treats and goodies only possible through the mind of some psychotic marketer who well knew his or her canine owner audience. Kira was still busy showing this previously ignored dog what love could be.

I have in my possession a wonderful and lovely photo of this. Darla is standing over Kira's shoulder, on our rounded sectional couch, watching as eagerly as a small child would, while Kira opens the plastic stocking holding all the gifts.

It was, and remains, in my mind's eye, a priceless moment in time.

I was starting to believe. Believe in Darla. And God, maybe again. Somehow, without effort, I had long before turned into a cold, self-centered person. It was showing in my marriage to Kira. Hurt by the loss of my birth family, I ignored a higher power. In the early years, it was just easy not to consider. In recent years, I began to doubt.

By now, it was a clear: "I don't care if you exist." This unfortunately spread to living people as I closed in on my own pain and became, well, "a loner."

This and other issues were tearing Kira and me apart. But, for that one brief moment, and in the months to come, Darla would overtly act as a bridge between Kira and me. I don't know if this was intentional or just a part of her loving personality. I have my suspicions.

Either way, there was joy and peace then, if only then, on this night.

Sad things would happen later on, but this was Christmas, after all. As the night drew to darkness, the splay of lights I'd strung on the front porch glowed rich with many

warm colors. Kira, Darla, and I nestled in for "a long winter's nap." Coldness outside. Warmth inside.

In the black of night, above the comforter that housed Kira and me, Darla intentionally found a way to stretch her body between Kira and me so she reached fully between both of us to touch so we were all connected. I looked over my shoulder to see her front paws pushed hard against Kira. And I could feel her back legs pressing hard against me.

Considering it today, I see now it was her Christmas present back to us. Love, and a "thank you."

Sometimes, the best gifts are not so obvious, unless you look for them. Sometimes, you just love the gift.

And the giver.

CHAPTER 5

HAVING NOW ACCEPTED DARLA, and no longer fearing her so much, my attitude regarding her changed immensely.

I'd often felt like a lost child myself. While my relationship with my father at the end of his life was quite loving and giving, my early life with him was strained and contentious. We simply didn't like each other. For him, my older brother, Matt, was the golden child, serious and smart. I came along 20 months later, a surprise, and as I developed, I showed a smart but silly demeanor (one I possess to this day, oddly much like my father). My mother was strict but loving. As a step-parent, I was a mix of both of them. Probably not a good mix.

Now, with Darla, I stood at a crossroads. She was not quite a child, but...

It started out with innocence and a few laughs regarding her. The layout of our home included a direct living room to the right, a short walkway to the kitchen straight ahead, and a dining room at a 45 degree angle, positioned between both. This resulted in a sparse wall in a "T" formation. You could access any of the three rooms at anytime.

One Saturday, while Kira, Darla and I were in the living room, I got up to go into the kitchen. My trip was for minor purposes – I don't even remember. I left the couch and walked through the dining room, the direct path, and disappeared briefly, but returned via the hallway to the living room.

This intrigued Darla. She sat on the couch, amazed.

So, when I did it again, later in the day, she followed. I noticed. The next day I laughed and said to Kira: "watch this!"

I repeated my move to the kitchen and Darla followed, her body still half in the dining room. I quietly followed the T shape and slipped back in behind her and yelled "AH-HAH!" Darla was stunned! I then sneaked away back into the kitchen while she was still looking for me behind her.

"HERE!," I yelled, surprising her yet again as I poked my head out.

She rushed to me and I rubbed her face, lavishing her with kindness. She needed assurance and I gave it.

But I wasn't done with this little game. In the weeks and months to come, this would be played out often, with Kira being my co-conspirator.

It was a game of "Hide and Seek," with me moving between three closely connected rooms. I'd run and hide, Darla seeking. Kira would yell out "she's about to find you – just behind you!" I'd move again. I often saw Darla's ever-fluffier tail moving to seek me as I caught up, ahead of her.

Each "Hide and Seek" game ended with Darla catching me, by my design, with Kira and me laughing.

Another interesting twist in things was that Darla never did stop barking. Usually at me, in particular. She definitely intended a message meant specifically at yours truly; I just wasn't figuring out at all what she had been trying to say.

So, instead of trying to understand her, or doing something intelligent like consulting a dog psychologist or researching info on the web, I opted to try the age-old, stupid, much superior "me-heap-big-white-man-and-smarter-than-you-dumb-redskin" Anglo-Saxon approach.

Simply put, I barked back at her.

Now, as stupid as this sounds, it did produce a very interesting and curious result.

Darla would bark three times. I, in turn, would return three barks back. This cheery Eskie would shout back three responses. This cheery human would answer with just two. Darla, sensing a changing in discussion, would bark just twice.

Once more, I'd manage three (to her) lucid comments, and Darla happily replied with three barks of her own.

This sort of thing happened on more than one occasion, and the discussion always pretty much followed the same path.

I have no idea if we were discussing the intellectual aspects of reincarnation or that the cats – "the Ruskies" – were moving too fast to bite, but the two of us had some great conversations I would never understand.

Christmas, as I've previously mentioned, passed quickly that year. The short weekend car trips continued, and it was then that I discovered Darla to be a true connoisseur of the All-American fast-food burger. I myself had always considered the 'Wendy's' chain as the top-of-the-line contender in this very competitive national slugfest. Darla appreciated a good "Mickey D's' cheese-topped bit of beef on a bun. The "King's" similar offering brought forth even better reviews...

...but that iconish, little, pig-tailed, redheaded Wendy's "Junior Cheeseburger Deluxe" blew the rest away, based on sheer speed of consumption and a clear lust for more (fries were also much appreciated). Add a couple of strips of bacon to create a "Junior Bacon Cheeseburger Deluxe" and you had a mouthful, in more ways than one.

There was some snow in New Jersey that winter and Darla loved cavorting in it. One particularly sudden and heavy storm effectively shut down the entire state for a day. About 18 inches covered our back deck and it took a while to manage to get the back door opened out from my studio. This accomplished, Darla jumped rashly into it and hopped around in the drifts like a small child who had just found out Santa Claus intended to show up for dinner.

An unbridled joy pushed her to leap into uncleared piles and eventually take flight over the six steps leading down into the backyard. She landed with a happy, soft thud on the ground and disappeared for a moment, merging her Eskie whiteness with nature. Snow sprayed up in the air. She was gone!

I stood there, both shocked and awed. A long moment of nothingness passed as a relentless torrent of silent flakes descended from the gray sky.

Suddenly, the area where she had been enveloped stirred with a violent spinning. The Doo's snow-covered head popped up out of the white abyss. She violently shook the flakes away and looked up at me, gasping for breath, as if to say: "Yeah, I did that! It was great! And now..."

"I WANT IN!" She lurched forward over the drifts, up the unseen steps, slipping all the way, her strong muscles paddling and pushing through shifting piles of snow. She finally arrived next to me on the deck, panting.

"Jimmmm!," Kira demanded from behind me. I hadn't realized she'd been observing the whole thing from behind the screen door in my studio. I turned around and looked at my wife, innocence in my eyes. "I didn't tell her to do it!"

Kira just shook her head in mock disappointment. She opened the screen door and smiled at the pooch. "Come on, Doo," she said, her voice lilting, "let's get you dried off."

I watched them depart, then looked down at my soaking wet shoes and jeans and the shovel in my hand.

I owe you one, dog, I thought, feeling slightly betrayed.

Spring made an early appearance that year. Fully enlivened by pizza crusts, hot dog bits, and love, Darla hit the backyard and its rich green grass running, at full tilt, with the same gusto she had with the snow. She would chase squirrels who were far too fast and agile for her, but she never gave up trying. She pursued them as they raced above her on the tops of the 6 foot stockade fence; she watched helplessly as they made grand, acrobatic leaps from tree branches to the fence and back again.

While things were growing ever more distant between Kira and me, Darla's

presence created a bond that continued to link us, smoothing over rough and painful situations and realities to come. One might call it a "band-aid over a seriously bleeding artery." In retrospect, I prefer to look at it as a hug when the hurt grows too deep. Two people distanced from each other in a completely dark room are each alone and unsure; add a candle and there is sight and connection, and less fear.

We occasionally walked The Doo together and she shared the couch with us over dinner as we watched mutually enjoyed television shows or DVD movies (Darla mooched any kind of food like crazy – I think she figured: "good enough for them, good enough for me."). Despite the waning of love, a strong bond of friendship still engulfed Kira and me and Darla often sat between us, happy to share and possibly serve as "the band-aid."

The weekend car trips continued but, as we grew apart, Kira and I ended up spending our nights in separate bedrooms. Darla deftly handled this. Since I was working from home and she spent so much time with me during the day, it was only natural to her that her night's sleep would be best served cuddled up next to Kira.

In time, Darla's obsession with harassing the cats, Charlie and Shadow, grew unacceptable. Also, her demands for constant inclusion, her incredible neediness in terms of "separation anxiety," and her "human foodiness" caused Kira to pursue a dog trainer.

Kathy Lee came to our home on weekends about eight times over two-and-a-half months, for one-to-two hour sessions, one at a time. The cost was in the high hundreds of dollars, close to a thousand dollars. She came highly recommended.

The results, at the end, were useless.

In fairness to Kathy Lee, a tall, thin, sweet young woman who obviously loved dogs, I think her training included not a bad student in Darla, but two bad students in Kira and Jim. Part of the training involved a collar around The Doo's neck that gave a slight electric charge, via a "clicker" in either of our hands, that sent the impulse signal planned to do repetitive pattern behavior modification. Neither of us much had the heart to do it after the end of the paid sessions and we just fell off the radar in terms of "follow-through."

The laugh of all this was this:

One beautifully nice, late spring evening, while we were jointly walking Darla on local streets, KIra and I decided to stop into visit her father, now a widower (Kira's mother had passed that winter).

Kira's father was in his early mid-seventies and still lived alone in the family house. The back of it bordered our backyard, from the next street over.

Joe, Kira's Dad, was a thin, frail man, one of rural stock and simple pleasures. We found him in his kitchen, in his pajamas and bathrobe, sitting at a table, listening to country music on the radio and picking away at slices of American cheese singles.

Upon seeing us, he simply said "you're there."

Upon seeing Darla on her leash beside us, he replied "hi, dog, how are you?" He nonchalantly raised a small piece of thin cheese to his lips.

Darla's white chest puffed up. She anxiously spied the yellow slice disappearing into Joe's mouth. Her tongue crossed her mouth and she took a bold step forward.

Joe looked down at her and said: "no."

– As flatly and monotone as that. No anger, no judgment, no reviewing. Darla took a hesitant step back. With a slow and decided ease, Joe peeled away a quarter piece of Kraft's finest flat single slices. He held it out with his hand.

The Doo moved forward.

"No. Sit."

A nervous moment passed.

"Sit," Joe repeated. Again: No anger, no judgment, no reviewing.

This damned dog moved closer, relaxed her back legs, braced her front legs up and put herself into a "military-like" sit-and-wait position any police dog would be proud of. She only moved forward when Joe's hand advanced the cheese towards her. She then took it into her mouth with an incredible delicacy and tenderness. And lust.

So much for paid trainers and "clickers." For the rest of her life, except for panicked demands by Kira or me in crisis situations, the only person on the face of this earth who could get Darla to follow commands was a fragile old man with a ten cent slice of lunch cheese in his hand. Oops: I correct that last statement: since he'd only given her a quarter slice: So much for paid trainers and "clickers." For the rest of her life, except for panicked demands by Kira or me in crisis situations, the only person on the face of this earth who could get Darla to follow commands was a fragile old man with a 2.5 cent slice of lunch cheese in his hand.

God help us all! Maybe the country music helped!

Go figure.

CHAPTER 6

WHEN THE 'LINCOLNS' PARADED DARLA into our hallway and our lives back on that cold, clear night in November of 2003, both Kira and I were amazed at the contents of the box. Beyond the food cans and boxes, there existed a plethora of personal toys that clearly showed some serious 'wear and tear.'

Chief among these were three items. The least of the trio was a semi-dog-bone-shaped,

cloth-covered squeeze toy with the name "Booda" embroidered on it. More significant were two other items, identical in nature but different in color. Both were badly beaten-up cloth 'piggies," barely recognizable as pigs except for little pink spiral felt tails.

We easily recognized that all three of these items were "lifelong" treasured possessions, probably from the time Darla was yet a young puppy. Kira and I quickly spread them out in the living room for easy access in order to give The Doo a happy comfort zone. "Booda" might lay untouched for days or weeks, until the dog needed stress-relief. The piggies, on the other hand, saw action on a near daily basis.

We nicknamed them "Blue Baby" and "Red Baby" (though Red Baby was actually more scarlet in tone). Red Baby got some active treatment, but it really was Blue Baby, a sky blue little 9 inch stuffed doll who saw daily effort.

Blue Baby was Darla's security blanket, but in retrospect, I think much more than that.

The aging dog carried her around in her mouth, at ease, like a 'momma' dog would carry a pup.

While she had been spayed early on and would never produce her own litter of sweet, fluffy, white snowballs, Kira and I came to believe that, to Darla, Blue Baby was that 'lost child.' She would embrace it, and hold it carefully in her mouth, as she walked around, even on the day of her death, five and a half years later. At that time, Kira and I made sure that Blue Baby was always safe. In later times, it would become my solemn responsibility to ensure Blue Baby was never far from sight.

The walks Kira and I shared together with Darla decreased as Spring meandered

on. That we were going to divorce and ultimately part company was no longer in doubt. Kira, who fully expected the company she worked for to either fold or relocate, was spending much time traveling to visit friends in North Carolina. Eventually, it became evident she planned to permanently relocate there (I do not feel as if I am revealing any information here very personal or private to Kira: so many New Jerseyans have relocated there to escape our state's high taxes and unpleasant political system that I expect one day to receive a postcard from New Jersey's Governor asking me, a die-hard, New Jerseyan, to "turn the last light out" when even I finally abandon the place). Our new Governor, as of this writing, gives me hope, but being a native, I still have reservations.

I alone continued to walk Darla each night, still occasionally visiting Joe for "free cheese sessions." But then something seemed to weaken within Darla.

She seemed lethargic and just "not well." Her usual energy and enthusiasm were gone. Eventually, she began vomiting a vile mix of unexplainable fluids. She still moved around and ate and drank water, but there was no "fun" left in her.

We took her to a new veterinarian whom someone had recommended to Kira. The Doo ended up there for a full week. We called every day, hoping for an update: the doctor was hopeful but non-committal. Kira stopped by a couple of times to visit; by then, I had left my 'home freelance' business mostly behind to do 'on-site' freelance work for a number of clients and couldn't get back to town in time to see her.

Finally, much to our shock and happiness, but belated upset, the vet released her to us on a very gray Saturday morning. He told us: "Darla's healthy now but she was near-death when you brought her in, and it was health-related, not age. Her electrolyte levels were in a serious danger zone. I hesitated to talk to you much because I wasn't sure she would survive and I didn't want to promise you anything."

He smiled and added: "She's okay now. I can tell you all of us here are going to miss her. The entire staff fell in love with her and everyone would stop by often to visit her. She's a very, very sweet dog."

So much for the Lincolns and their blindness.

He gave us very strict diet instructions we then followed carefully. It turned out that, despite The Doo's love of pizza, hot dogs, and other human goodies, a dog and constant consumption of human food just don't get along. We had inadvertently been poisoning her!

What is significant here to me is my change-in-heart. Darla had caused a massive

difference in me in just a short few months. While it was too short a time to affect a change between Kira and me, it was the opening of a dusty vault that had long been locked closed.

Despite the filed divorce papers and that I was still dealing with Kira as only a friend, and often at that as a non-friend when we argued or disagreed, my heart had opened just a little. I had fallen in love with Darla and during that fateful week with the vet, I was terribly worried about her.

Now that I was gone during the day at the outside jobs and Kira and I were sleeping in separate bedrooms on the same second floor, "Dar," as I was now calling her, pulled off another new "old dog" trick, much to my amazement:

She would still go to bed with Kira, and sleep with her for a time, but then get up, run into my room, jump up on my bed, sleep with me a couple of hours, then, leave to rejoin Kira for "wakeup mode" in the morning.

At the time, it amazed me in a minor way. I just figured she wanted to be with both of us and divided her time selfishly in order to get that (that was my "skewed" thinking at the time).

Not until later would I fully comprehend the true depth of Darla's intelligence, compassion, and love. Love, for Kira, me, and others.

And her ability to change, evolve, and grow – much past any human I have ever known.

What happened next was beyond anything I could ever have expected.

CHAPTER 7

ABOUT THE "RUSKIES"...

Looking back, I think it might have been unfair of me to group Shadow, the "mini hunter," and Charlie, "the goofy Maine Coon," into this easy 'joke' reference. As I stated earlier, I've always been a "cat person," and just like Darla, these two felines each had their own unique and distinctive personalities.

Shadow came to Kira as a mere kitten, perhaps too soon separated from her mother. Kira,

just recently divorced, was very concerned about the emotional needs of her young son and daughter. She thought a young kitten might foster a warmth much needed.

"Shadow-Meister-Meister-Shadow" never elicited the hoped-for goal. She was tough, tiny and 'mean' from the first day on. Never weighing more than six pounds, she disliked human contact and often bit fiercely when touched. She was supposed to be an 'indoor' cat, but escaped all the time to the wilderness she more preferred.

I was shocked when I first encountered her; I had never met such a vicious, mean animal.

Despite this, I tried to embrace her as best possible. I initiated efforts to force her back into the home as a "house cat" when, one day, she shot in front of my rolling car in front of the house and I almost ran her over. That effort would take a full three years to finally accomplish.

During that stretch of time, during the summer of 1992, a very thin gray and white cat began to follow her home to our house. Shadow and this skinny, shabby young feline had apparently made friends at one point out in the wild.

He was clearly near starvation. His demeanor and behavior (as well as the lack of a collar, etc.) clearly showed an animal born and grown in the wild. But, for all this, he showed a certain intelligence in terms of "pecking order."

Shadow would come to the front steps of the house, eat her dry food, take a sip of water, and then move away. Only when she had fully completed these tasks would this desperate stranger come and feed on her leftovers.

Right off the bat, I sensed a different demeanor with this one. He was silly, dumb, and yet respectful.

My initial efforts to approach him caused him major panic and he ran away. Somehow though, I sensed a timid sweetness in him and spent the next week bringing out special food for him each day after Shadow ate and moved on. Within just six days, he was taking petting from me and gulping down food at the same time.

'Strike while the iron is hot.' One day, I grabbed him in mid-mouthful, and despite his panic, I managed to, without much blood-loss by me, get him into the house and place him secured in our back pantry. The next morning, he went in a cat-carrier to the veterinarian. The days passed before I got 'the' word. He was a "special case:" he had FIV. For those unfamiliar with FIV, it is Feline Immunodeficiency Virus, a virus that affects cats worldwide and is parallel to human HIV (the causal agent for AIDS). The vet informed me that this young cat was of the breed known as Maine Coon, was about a year old, and possessed this currently dormant virus.

The doctor explained that, while the disease was quite similar to the human kind, it could only be passed between cats and was of no danger to humans. I was given three options:

A. Keep him ourselves as an indoor cat so he couldn't spread the virus;

B. Find someone else to keep him as an indoor cat so he couldn't spread the virus;

C. Have him put to sleep.

Kira and I named him "Charlie," because he had a black nose and black fur around the nose, set against an all-white face that sort of made him look like the legendary "little tramp," actor Charlie Chaplin (considering Charlie's way of coming to us, it also seemed appropriate in other ways).

We did try to find him a home with someone else due to our own load of "critters," but this was back in the early 1990s after all, and people just getting familiar with the human AIDs were deathly afraid of anything that sounded like it. Ultimately, Charlie became a member of our family and a mascot for my graphics business, which was then located in the basement of our house. He proved to be very sweet, loving, and goofy. He once ate most of a submarine sandwich sitting on my drafting table while I was in another room answering a fax. That included the meat, cheese, and lettuce and tomato slices! Another time, a couple of years later, I went into my studio one morning to find he had typed out a full letter (to God-knows-whom) from my Mac keyboard on an open

page text box in the graphics program, QuarkXpress:

x,csasvlnwrVQV T34TEY JRM,K,fdfvbbnkm,, .>>>>['pp]jurhyregtef

`12345fru6tg7yuiokpl;;;;;lkjhgbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbjkl,l;/;'

//piuyrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrwwqwqwqewrtyuiiokkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

On yet another occasion, he apparently went to the outside, tearing through a basement screen window, perhaps after a squirrel or another cat. By this time, he had grown quite large at 15 pounds, yet unaware of his own strength. He rather timidly and sheepishly returned three nights later with a large gash on the top of his nose that cost me $500.00 in surgical bills. While I'd joke that I could have put him up for three nights in a Ramada Inn for less, bars went up on the basement windows.

So it had been that Shadow and Charlie became the harassed "prey" of Darla.

But during the early summer of 2004, something strange began to come over Charlie at age 15 (he had long since graduated from the basement to full run of the house). He began to lose weight and I took him for treatment out of concern, but nothing clear-cut could be determined as to the cause.

Otherwise, he acted the same as always except for one thing. Where he once ran from Darla, he now stood his ground. And if The Doo started growling or barking at him, "Chuck," as he was sometimes now called, would actually start approaching the dog, who would back off.

One sunny weekday morning in July, while Kira and I were both getting ready for our respective jobs, Kira yelled to me: "Jim, get Charlie out of the dining room, please! Darla's trying to get past him and he won't get out of the way!"

I walked in to investigate and found that it wasn't that Charlie wouldn't get out of the way – he couldn't get out of the way. He was lying on his side, virtually unable to move. As I looked into his eyes, I saw that one pupil was fine but that the other one was widely dilated. I realized he had experienced a stroke.

I rushed him to the vet and waited by the front door; I was there before they even opened for the day. As I cradled him in my arms, he stared up at me weakly, but still with love in his eyes. Finally, I passed him to an attendant who said they would call me as soon as they determined what was going on. He looked back at me with those same loving eyes as he and the attendant turned a corner.

It was the last I would ever see this sweet little tramp alive.

I received a phone call later that day, telling me that Charlie had died of another stroke at the vet's office. They had tried to revive him to no avail. In reviewing his body post mortem, a very small lump was found behind his right ear. It was apparent that in the previous months, he had been forming a brain tumor and it had burst.

Kira and I buried him in the shade of a very large tree in our backyard, along with

a can of his favorite cat food, sort of "for the road."

Somehow, that event changed Darla immensely in a way I still don't completely understand to this day. I wondered sometimes afterwards if Darla wasn't barking so much in defiance of Charlie, but because she sensed something was terribly wrong. That Charlie's actions might have swung The Doo to be afraid of cats rather than chase them would be understandable. But after Chuck's death, Darla appeared to completely accept Shadow as an equal and would even walk up to her to smell and greet her.

Both Darla and Shadow had, when the other wasn't around, loved to climb up to the heavily padded top of our large arced sectional couch and nap there. I guess, beyond the softness, it afforded a commanding view of the living room, dining room and hall.

Now they would rest and even sleep together up there, just inches away from each other...two old enemies turned friends in the awake of another's death. They might even be caught eating side-by-side at times in the kitchen. It was to be a bond that would grow stronger in time, deeper and even more affectionate, and it would last for the rest of their lives.

The married life between Kira and me that had seen its many ups and downs since 1991 was coming to an end. The filed divorce papers processed and a court date in early November was established. I accepted a temporary full-time graphic designer position with a small pre-press firm in central New Jersey after losing out to another individual for a different, much more desired permanent job at another company. Kira continued her trips to North Carolina.

We carefully avoided discussing who would take ownership of The Doo when we would at last finally part ways. Darla was still that single, unblemished, holy connection between us. I think, at the time, despite everything, Kira and I both needed that.

Fall crept ever closer.

CHAPTER 8

MOMENTS COME AND GO IN TIME AND I think we often clock our lives based on them.

Darla maintained her health properly, with our supervision, as well as her distinctive ability to 'bridge' between Kira and me, both in the evenings and during sleep hours. She still got the occasional "cookie" when Kira and I coincided at home on a Friday night for pizza and TV or a DVD, but we were much more watchful regarding her diet.

There were still the 'comical' moments in our lives, regarding The Doo; unintentional ones that might prove stressful at the time but became well-laughed-at after the fact.

One such moment occurred about 8:00 AM on a sunny, late summer weekday morning in 2004 as Kira and I got ready for our different jobs.

The front of the living room of our home presented a very large, wide bay window that reached out over the covered porch. Since the area of New Jersey we lived in was very safe, we often left these windows open in later summer and through 'Indian Summer,' when temperatures allowed. We used screens to keep out mosquitoes, flies, etc.

I had already showered and dressed and was in the kitchen prepping a quick breakfast for myself before driving off to the temp job. Kira finished her shower and went up to her bedroom to dress.

Suddenly, fierce barking by Darla, doing her "home protection" thing, caught me by surprise.

I carefully walked into the living room, only to find Darla on the top of the couch, barking out the bay window. Her back feet were still on the couch, but the rest of her, particularly her front feet and chest, were stretched forward in an aggressive stance on the windowsill that butted the couch edge. Her targeted direction was towards the front door and she was doing her best "I'm a fierce warrior, go-away" German Shepard-level bark (American Eskimo dogs are well known for their bigger-than-size voices).

As I stepped closer, I saw the damned fool leaning in to the screen window.

His name was Gerold. A massive man of 50 plus years of age, he had lived in the neighborhood his whole life, but was fundamentally emotionally and intellectually

disabled to the point where, despite his age, he was a child at heart. He possessed the power of Samson from the Bible, but could be counted on watching "I Love Lucy" reruns as upscale enjoyment. Kira had grown up in the same neighborhood her whole life and was intimately acquainted with his family.

Simply put, Gerold could be occasionally annoying but he was harmless.

"KIRA!," I whispered up the stairs.

"What?"

"You need to come down here!"

She was justifiably exasperated that I was drawing her away from dressing, but as she came down the stairs, she saw Dar barking in "(lol) kill mode." I motioned her silently to look at the window.

Gerold saw neither of us. He was busy, his face literally pressed to the screen, saying, in a grave though innocent voice that belayed his enormity: "Hi, Darla, how are you this morning?" That The Doo was in attack mode as home protector was beyond

him. I guess he probably figured she was talking to him.

Kira sighed, wrapped her bathrobe tighter around her, and headed to the door.

"I could have done something," I answered softly, "but these are your friends."

Like what I've said before, Kira grew ever more at ease with life and how to handle situations with each passing year. She immediately opened the front door and called out softly to the gentle giant. He responded like a child.

As an FYI, when I first met him, Gerold introduced himself as a 'G-Man.' Yes indeed: an Edison, New Jersey Garbage Man!

"Gerold! What are you doing?," Kira asked in a sweet, parent-like voice.

This oversized, overage, pre-teen answered: "I'm wishing a good morning to Darla." He answered with such a true, blind naivete, it took Kira a moment to recover.

Gerold's voice was fully a deep baritone, and given his size and age, it truly was odd to hear the simplicity in it, with the childlike quality attached.

A strange, gentle smile fixed on Kira's face.

"Well, Gerold, Darla likes saying 'hello' to many people, but you coming here this early upsets her," she said, a soft, non-blaming tone attached. "She's busy protecting Jim and me and our home so you stopping by is great, but it has her very confused. You can't do this anymore. When Jim and I are here and we know you're here, it's okay, but not with Darla alone. She thinks you're trying to break in..."

This sweet, simple giant understood.

"Ahh, OKAY!!, KIRA," he answered with exaggerated pronunciation, his normal mode of speech. "I won't do that again. I'M SORRY."

He walked away off our porch and down the street, a shrunken man.

Kira closed the front door and shook her head sadly, having not wanted to hurt him. I knew she had no choice; it was conceivably possible that, in her frenzy, Darla could have knocked the screen out and fallen through the window, at least hurt, at worst having gotten out, possibly to get lost.

Kira immediately went back upstairs to finally get dressed. Dar watched carefully as the big guy left, lest he return to do bodily harm to anyone...

Looking back, it was pretty funny, but The Doo took it pretty seriously, as she watched Gerold walk away. To her, she was protecting her new and beloved family. But even I felt a twinge of sadness for the man-child; he was just doing what was completely friendly and natural to him.

Shortly before our "divorce date" at court, Kira chose to go on a "retreat" weekend in late October that she felt would help her emotionally. I, like always, stayed home and watched over the house.

But, on that Saturday night, a very terrible and 'wicked' rain and wind storm came through. Darla was desperate to do her "poopies," and so I let her out about 8:30 pm on the back deck.

I wasn't thinking...five minutes later, I was thinking suddenly: 'hey, no barking! where is she?'

I rushed through my studio onto the back deck, into a heavy rain. Dar was nowhere in the yard!

That's when I saw the stockade fence gate swinging open and closed in the high winds.

"Oh, shit," I begged God.

You will never hear another curse from me again in this book, but at that moment, my heart sunk and it was, truly, an "oh, shit" moment. I ran down the deck stairs, onto the grass and dirt, ran past the gate to the front yard and street...

and nothing. No Darla. I stood there in the pounding rain, crying her name.

No Darla. Not up the street. Not down the street. Nowhere!

I rushed back into the house, grabbed car keys and ran out to the Voyager. I ran out the front door, not even locking the front door.

I drove carefully up and down every possible local street, rain poring hard on the windshield.

No luck.

Where we lived was a short stretch from major highways. My mind was a mix of fear and horror as I searched. Finally, after 5 or 10 minutes (I don't even recall), as a desperate approach, I turned onto a seldom-used side road that led to a major township street. It was certainly too far away for Dar to find. But I felt out of options.

The headlights of the Voyager were dimmer, due to aging glass and plastic. I was also driving slower and more cautiously

It was then I saw her.

Darla was walking slowly, ahead of me, her head down. She was soaking wet and fully lost and very afraid. I'm guessing the wind and rain and thunder and lightening had scared her onto a lost route, far from home, once she became free of the yard.

She didn't even know, until the last minute, that I was rolling up against her in the minivan; the rain was that brutal.

I wasn't being cute. "Darla!!," I yelled.

She looked up and and barked with hope. She literally jumped up and attacked the driver's door, trying to get in. I pushed it open carefully, past her, and she fell twice trying to get up to me. I finally half stepped out, my foot still on the brake, and lifted her past the steering wheel onto the driver's seat. She bounced up on me, clawing at me and kissing my face. I shifted to accommodate her.

The car started to roll forward! I threw it into "park."

She kept kissing my face and trying to sit in my lap. I became soaking wet like her as she embraced me (not that I wasn't nearly there already). I carefully maneuvered the Voyager home the few blocks; it was difficult as Dar wasn't moving even an inch from my lap. I'm not sure who was happier with being soaking wet then.

The thunderstorms continued throughout the night. I carried her in the house and dried her off. I changed my clothes. Knowing Kira was away, I opted to just sleep on the living room couch with all the lights and the TV on. Darla, having now calmed, took a few laps of water, then climbed up on my chest. She relaxed her body and fell asleep on top of me as I also dozed off.

The Doo sleeping on top of me in this way would continue to happen often. While her 21 pounds felt heavy, I considered her...well...my child. At least on that night. I was

her father then.

And her long, horrid, 'lost' night was over.

Looking back, those few fateful minutes between when I discovered her missing and then found her on the side street and got her in the car safely included the moments that changed everything for Darla and me, forever. All along, she had been working very hard at giving me every reason to love her. I guess I was doing everything but admit to myself that I did.

My desperation during those long seconds searching for her never even for a moment held any fear of letting The Doo get away due to Kira expecting anything from me, like that first Saturday after the 'Lincolns' dumped her on us.

Kira had loved Darla from the second she saw her. Now I understood and could admit I felt the same way fully in my heart. I was truly in love with Darla. Her innocence, her love of her new life and of Kira and me, and even embracing Shadow after Charlie's death...I've known very many unique creatures in my life, but never anything like this.

The Sunday morning after the storm started as a long gray day, but one with no rain. About noontime, I put Darla's favorite leash on her, locked the front door behind us, and we walked around the corner to Gerold's house, to say "hi."

The first of many times.

CHAPTER 9

THE DAY OF THE DIVORCE between Kira and me came very quickly, in early November of 2004. It dragged on, a lot of waiting, but in the end, I think it happened much faster than I expected, just as night was descending more speedily lately. It was a short autumn in New Jersey, the leaves turning color faster than usual. Winter also nipped all too soon.

If there was ever a smooth divorce proceeding in the State of New Jersey, then Kira and I would be "poster children" for it. While I don't wish to elaborate too much, due to a private and difficult day for both of us, I will say we were pretty "harmonious" both in agreements and efforts.

We even traveled to and from the court together.

I never asked her but it must have been a difficult day for Kira. It was the end of a second marriage, a second "dream." Months before, we gave up "Missie" to a new owner, a woman who desperately loved Pugs, had recently lost one, and wished to lavish new love. Kira's son had moved onto a new life dorming in college and "Missie" had become a lost soul. At the same time, "Thumbellina" was failing badly with both her blindness and cancer and Kira made the hard and very difficult decision the day before to have her "laid to rest" before things got much worse.

By now, even Darla was carefully sidestepping this sad, stumbling, blind, lost 'pup.' But "Thumb" had a good life, via Kira and her daughter, and Kira bravely made the tough choice. I didn't envy her: I had to make the same choice back in 1987, with my own mother, a human being.

Unfortunately, the time available to Kira was the day before the morning of our divorce proceedings.

I was nervous that day, having never been through the process, but after it was all over, I returned to my patented "Jersey City smart-ass" sense of humor. We had our hearing presided over by an African-American judge. As Kira and I traveled down the outgoing courthouse elevator together, I commented:

"Damn! I forgot!..."

My now ex-wife looked at me curiously.

"Just as the Judge declared us divorced, I wanted to quote Martin Luther King!"

Kira stared at me with a very confused look.

"At last! Free at last! Lord Almighty, we are free at last!!," I laughed.

Kira laughed back. She always had appreciated my slightly-skewed sense of humor. "Sorry, Dear, but I'm not hot on bailing you out of jail just after I've divorced you."

The ride home was a little quiet, not for any reason other than that it should have properly been quiet and solemn. After we got back to the house, Kira went off to meet with friends while I immediately had to attack a rush illustration project from a client I still had via my previous at-home business.

Darla drew to my side and slept appropriately by my feet, always following when necessary, whether I went to the bathroom or kitchen.

Despite my slight levity earlier, the weight of the truth of things that had occurred that day did not escape me. It might be some time before changes would occur, but they were coming, no doubt...

Life-altering changes. The stamped, legal imprints that "a very special hope" had ended. I wish I could offer here that I had some kind of huge revelation, or that Dar did something miraculous or wonderful, but no such thing happened.

I remember the day my Mom, brother, and I buried my father. I was 27 years old and, later in the day, I went out to a store to pick up some food goods, milk and similar. I was still very upset, while checking out at the counter. It bothered me greatly that the "rest of the world" was progressing just fine, while my family was suffering so deeply from the loss of this special man.

You know, sad as it is, that's how it is sometimes. Sometimes we just need to experience the pain, quietly, privately. Occasionally, the pain sneaks up and hurts you hard. Rarely, it steals a soul, but that does happen. And even more rarely, you get that soul back.

I didn't know it but I was going to get my soul back, with Darla's help.

But not on this night.

CHAPTER 10

YOU MIGHT NOT QUITE BELIEVE THIS (LOL), BUT divorces, even when quite amicable, do have a tendency to put a major 'crimp' on holiday fun between the two parties involved.

For the first time in 15 years, Kira and I spent both Thanksgiving and Christmas apart. We had always hosted Thanksgiving dinner for Kira's entire family at our house. This particular fall found the event relocated to the home of one of Kira's sisters due to the legal and emotional events of early November, and I, of course, was not invited to that particular party. I stayed home with Darla and Shadow, these stalwart, last remaining survivors of the once burgeoning 'critter life' in our house.

(An aside here: I do not seek any pity or sadness for me due to this "aloneness" of one

human with no other "humans" on such a revered day for Americans, one which embraces family specifically. I was offered, this particular year, and for some years after, solace and companionship from Geo, a good friend of mine for more than 20 years, at his and his wife's family event. I turned such offers down then, and then after. Maybe I was wrong to do so, but with just a fledgling and thin re-belief in God, I somehow felt I was destined for this, for reasons I didn't yet know.)

Kira cooked a full turkey at home anyway, as unnecessary as it was given the change of venue, and though some portions of food would travel to her sister's house, she carefully left a lot behind. I helped her out to her new SUV with the prepared food and desserts, all in cardboard boxes, to be transported. I acted with a brave face, helping just as if I was going with her.

Finally, her new vehicle was filled, the back seats and cargo area loaded.

The sky was gray that day. Not enough to produce rain, but just enough to make you feel cozy inside when around loved ones.

Kira and I smiled at each other briefly. She looked sad.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her words nearly lost in a cool wind stirring remaining leaves.

I smiled. "I'll be fine."

She then launched into a great many verbal instructions on how I should reheat

certain foods, cook the remaining turkey a bit more, look for bones if giving to Dar or Shad, and...

As she settled into the driver's seat, I closed the door behind her and turned, waving her off to her event. I didn't want to look back; I didn't want her to see the tears welling in my eyes.

It wasn't so a bad day at all, to be honest.

While I had come to really like Kira's family and love the Thanksgiving event at our house, I was never a "football" guy and privately hated our main TV becoming a "SportsCenter" channel for the day, due to my would-be 'jock,' weekend-warrior ex-brothers-in-law, and my stepson, who would suddenly become a football fan on the spot. My father was never a football fan so neither was I. My father loved baseball and always 'rooted' for the 'underdog.' Ask me about the '69 "Miracle Mets" winning the World Series and 40+ years later, I can still tell you their complete starting line-up.

For Thanksgiving, I much preferred "March of the Wooden Soldiers," the original "King Kong," the Boris Karloff-narrated "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," the Red Ryder-obsessed comedy "A Christmas Story," "A Charlie Brown Christmas," "It's a Wonderful Life," or any other warm-hearted holiday video fare available.

Kira's favorite was "Mr. MacGoo's Christmas Carol." She used to watch it on TV each year with her children when they were little, the three of them singing all the songs together, especially "Rassleberry Dressing." I bought it for her on video as a Christmas gift some years earlier.

I spent much of the day lounging on the couch with The Doo and Shad nearby, just watching what I liked off DVD – not a football or goalpost in sight.

Finally, late in the afternoon, getting hungry, I prepped the rest of the food via Kira's instructions and settled in for a stomach-bloating eat-fest of my own. A plate of turkey for Shad...a plate of turkey and stuffing for Darla...

I should state here that I'm NOT a turkey-lover. On 'T-Day,' I consider the turkey slices a necessary part of the main course – the MAIN COURSE being a very good homemade stuffing/dressing.

I think I also previously mentioned that, on the night Dar got lost in the rain, I 'felt like a father to her.'

Well, now I was amazed! While Shad swallowed her turkey selection like a 'too-long starved "Dickens" urchin,' true to the season, The Doo ate a few turkey slices, but launched big time into the stuffing! I privately smiled at her very good culinary choices.

Like father, like daughter..lol!

Kira returned around 9:30-10:00 pm, bringing a few food and serving dish plates and related things back in with her, placing them in the kitchen and settling on the couch in exhaustion.

Of course, in the meanwhile, Darla was busy 'welcoming' her home in this dog's own inimitable way, both jumping up in greeting and looking for loved personal attention; then following such loving by a clear desire to know what food was still available.

I will give The Doo major credit here: most dogs always initially target food smells. For this old girl, love and personal contact always came first.

Kira put up with all this and I think I helped to distribute foodstuffs to the refrigerator, but that may only be a kind, made-up memory to suite my own self. Eventually, Kira came back down from her bedroom in her pajamas (yes, Dar did follow her up the stairs into her room and waited as she changed). I loaded 'Mr. MacGoo's" and we watched, but Kira was nearly asleep only 1/2 the way through and it's only 45 minutes long.

She went back up to bed, Dar following her her. I turned off the video and allowed myself to fall asleep on the couch to a 24-hour repeat broadcast by the Turner Broadcast Network of "A Christmas Story."

It was, appropriately, a remnant of our Thanksgivings past, and the very last Thanksgiving Kira and I would ever spend together. It was, I guess, however, very appropriately...

...the baptism of my new holiday family: Darla and Shadow.

Christmas was yet to come.

Since the time I was 20, I always did a personalized Christmas card each year. Having started my own freelance graphics business at age 19 while still in college, I did a lot of work for a local offset printer. Around the holidays, instead of billing him for work done, I'd barter for printing. The caused great pride in my parents who happily addressed and mailed them out to relatives and friends. I took pride in the effort too, and always put: "All contents, illustrations, words, and printed materials © Copyright (the date) Jim Small Art Services."

Seeing my own work in print at such a young age, along with that ©, made me feel like a rookie pitcher getting the opportunity to join the New York Mets at Spring

Training in 1969.

That effort continued through the years, except for one year when the printer did such a lousy job that I refused to accept them. It had become such a welcome and accepted thing among relatives that the uncle I was named after, my mother's brother, actually called my mother from Colorado to tell her how hurt he was that my "artwork card" hadn't been sent to him that year. An explanation followed.

I printed and mailed cards even during the years my Mom, Dad, and Matt died. Those were lower key in tone and reflected their lives in what many said was a very sensitive and caring manner. Sometimes I wrote poetry to suite the visual. My love of writing had been inherited from my father, an amateur songwriter. Sometimes his verses escorted my graphics, much again to my pride, with the sincere hope I had done him justice.

As the years progressed and modern technology seeped in, the graphics displayed a minor growing love of photography and the ability to manipulate those images in Adobe Photoshop, a image altering graphics program I came to know and love like a 'third hand' (I had previously drawn, painted, or airbrushed the art on earlier cards).

Such Christmas cards were sent out each year during the 13 years Kira and I were married, sent by both of us and her children as a family.

This particular Christmas presented a huge problem for me. While Kira was okay with just buying cards for herself and sending off to her family and friends, I was in a quandary as to what to do for a card for my cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. It's one thing to create a sentimental card that bridges some lost person's life with the true miracle of Christmas and 'renewal;' it's quite another thing to try to tie-in divorce!

Should I do a photo of the gold-foiled stamp of the NJ-sanctioned Stamp of Divorce Decree, surrounded by Christmas lights and holly berries?!!

Once again, Kira proved to be the 'positive' to my 'negative' and she wasn't even thinking about Christmas cards. A local franchisee of a nationwide pet food chain was doing a "Have Your Pet Photographed with Santa" event on the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving. For $10.00, you got a Polaroid and a digital file sent to your email.

We stood in line together with Darla on her leash, in between enticing rows of hi-tech cat litter and prime, condo-quality, pre-fab dog houses, for perhaps almost an hour. I was absolutely blown away by The Doo's calm and patient demeanor, compared to the obnoxious, almost universally disturbed impatience of the other canines in line (some cats in carriers, but a few). One dog, another American Eskimo(!), just two owners behind us, even took a few aborted lunges at Dar, who alternately retreated between

Kira's and my legs.

When our time finally came, Kira released Dar's collar and I lifted The Doo up into Saint Nick's lap. She looked like a cuddly soft snowball as she gently began to smell Santa's beard! You could hear almost nothing around in a 25 foot range at that moment except for the many soft, fawning voices of strangers...

"awwww..."

"She looks so adorable..."

"What a sweet dog!..."

The photographer directed Kira and me to stand behind him and call to Darla. The stunt worked.

What resulted was a most beautiful image of Santa and Darla posing for the camera. Despite my own, now known prejudice towards Darla here, as a graphic designer I could easily appreciate it: her soft white fur, buoyed by a happy, innocent, almost smiling face, splayed out against the plush white felt and red velour of Santa's costume, beard, and cap.

I knew in an instant I had a Christmas Card Memory.

I designed and printed (off my then high-tech ink-jet studio printers), two sets of cards, identical in nature but different by intended audiences. I wrote the verbiage, subject to Kira's approval. Neither addressed our divorce but only happily talked about "the new member of the family" and her first meeting with the one and only Santa Claus!

It was a huge success. It sidestepped the sadness between Kira and me, rejoiced in

Christmas, and easily evoked the Spirit of the Season through Darla's sweetness.

Out of all the personal cards I've ever done, and now there were 25 out of 26 years, it's the one single card I really don't take much credit for. Yes, I saw the potential, and I wrote a few well-crafted words, but the card itself – the heart of it – is in the image and that belongs solely to Darla.

You just have to look at the picture and you start to feel snow falling, lights twinkling, and a hushed reverence for all that is wonderful about the season.

Though our divorce had changed things considerably, Kira and I still found a common bond in The Doo. One weekend night in early December, Kira got word of a "Super Pet Expo" convention/ consumer show occurring only miles away from us in Central New Jersey. We went together, seeking out Christmas gifts for both Darla and Shadow. We looked at toys and bought little, knowing neither much responded to new things. We picked up free food samples and purchased a few "test meals" we thought they might like. That was to be Kira's and my last "Christmastime" together in any way, shape, or form.

While we spent Christmas Day apart, we found a little time together the day after Christmas to share token gifts for each other, and to give gifts bought at the expo for Darla and Shadow. Despite such happy moments, there was a sadness in me then that can't be expressed in words. I don't know what was going on for Kira, intellectually or emotionally. I didn't know what was coming next; in many ways, I didn't want to.

When I was 20 years old and still in college, I had a fellow art major classmate, a portly Chinese guy, who purported to be able to, in combination, read palms and do astrology, based on knowing your birth date.

I thought this was hysterically funny and stupid and agreed to a "reading" by him.

I don't remember his exact words, but I do recall the gist of it, so I'll paraphrase here: "Jim, you're going to have a very tough life. You will die in your early 60's. There will be much more sadness than happiness. You'll have much personal loss early on, especially within the next 10 years. You will have to lose so much before you finally gain. You're very talented but you will have to wait until much later in your career for the recognition you really deserve – you'll be very successful then, admired by many.

Late in your life, a love will come to you that will change you in every way. The results of this love will guide you in your last years and you will have a success beyond your beliefs. You will die happy."

Like I said before, during that singular and solitary wintertide, I didn't want to know what was coming next.

CHAPTER 11

THE REST OF THE WINTER PASSED UNREMARKABLY except for one particularly vicious snowstorm that caused the Governor of New Jersey to declare a "state of emergency." This basically meant that all state workers had the day off and everyone else shouldn't drive. I took on, by my own choice, the unenviable task of digging out both our cars, the front walk, the back deck, and Kira's father's house. Of course, in order to get to Joe's home, I had to hand-shovel a 90 foot path across our yard to his back deck and door, and then move forward from there, along the side of his house, out to the street.

I really liked the old guy. While the rest of Kira's family was basically avoiding me as

much as possible, Joe remained, at least as far as I could tell, quite non-judgemental. Three changes of sweat-soaked clothes later and I was done with my efforts – and exhausted.

Darla had stayed inside, hanging out with Kira, who was up in her bedroom on her computer on the internet. The Doo loved snow, but storms like this proved to be too much for even her: she was only 21 inches high (about equal to the dump level of this storm) and this snow was so wet and heavily packed there was no way she could hop around in it. Besides, after I cleared the path, there was no fun to be had in just walking over snow-covered dirt.

As winter cleared and greenery returned to the 'Garden State,' Kira resumed her trips down to North Carolina. I had already sensed there was more to this than just visiting friends. I continued on my own road with various projects. The temporary full-time job had come to an end.

Any freelance graphic designer will tell you that such a life can be quite rewarding but is always difficult. You're kind of like the next undiscovered 'Jerry Seinfeld or Ray Romano,' hoping for that one big break but constantly looking for work. God bless you if you have a bit of salesmanship in you; if not, you're doomed.

I had long before resolved to find a permanent full-time job. Such an opportunity arrived months earlier. It would place me in charge of a graphics department of a very large, family owned business, one with close to 1,100 employees. Everything about it matched my abilities, wants, and desires. I easily knew I could accomplish what they

needed. I had only once before felt such a connection with a position and that resulted in a highly successful union of employee and company, one that was sadly interrupted by my parents' failing health. My own history included managing 4 different ad agency art departments as well as my own business so I felt perfectly suited for the job. My would-be boss brought me in for no less than 5 interviews and also checked out each and

every one of my 15 work and personal references. I was sure I had the job and I dearly wanted it.

Darla rested in her oval bed in my studio, watching me, as I sat in my computer chair, crying briefly on that sunny Friday afternoon in May. The deciding phone call from my would-be boss had come.

"...the hardest decision I have ever had to make...one other person...slightly more experienced than you...I'm sorry..."

I reached down to The Doo, and as was my custom, I ran my hands over her neck and face, rather than just pet her head. She stood up in response. "We didn't get it," I said sadly, tears rolling down my cheeks.

I stood up and then wandered around the first floor of the house, trying to shake off the impact of the blow. I wanted that job so much!! Dar followed quietly behind me, wherever I went.

When I finally settled back into my computer chair, The Doo then did something very weird: she didn't rest back in her bed, but instead walked under my computer table and rested herself so that she laid on top of my feet, so to be closer to me.

Night came quickly. I broke the bad news to Kira. She was very sympathetic.

"All things happen for a reason only God knows," she said, sweetness in her voice.

We ordered a pizza. Dar would be getting "cookies."

CHAPTER 12

I WAS BORN AND RAISED IN NEW JERSEY AND I LOVE THIS STATE.

Despite any previous comments that might make one think differently, I love our history,

diversity, our culture, and the unique and colorful demeanor of New Jerseyans. No, we are not sensitive and temperate; we are often short-tempered and speedy, living in the shadow of New York. We drive like completely insane, ex-asylum lunatics. We yell, scream, give the "finger," and do all the things you'd think indicates "slightly-over-barbarian" behavior.

But, if one night, your dog is missing, or your child goes wayward, or a parent has a heart

attack, you can count on many to be there and help. Even those neighbors who previously had a grudge against you. I used to describe it as: 'we all know we're in Hell together, so let's care as we can.'

I'm wrong in that, though. Like anywhere else, there are very loving and giving individuals.

And despite our penchant for building sound walls to block rich communities from the

noise of ever more highways, thus blocking much greenage, we are still "the Garden State."

There is no tomato superior to a 'Jersey Tomato.' And forget Iowa corn; this state produces the sweetest kernels you'll ever eat; so sweet and juicy, and hardy, in fact, you don't need salt or butter.

That Spring rolled in nicely and quietly. Darla romped in the yard, over and over,

again chasing squirrels way too fast for her. Even Shadow, these days much more domesticated, managed to escape out of the house at times, via the front door, though she would now return home just a few hours later, as opposed to days later. I took on some planned landscaping projects, including a yard pond, despite that I knew Kira and I would never stay long enough to enjoy such.

Darla had, by now, fully become the central "girl" in the house. Kira's daughter

was off and living on her own and engaged – no less – to one of her brother's best friends.

The Doo basked in this new position, but easily shared it with Shadow, who finally decided humans weren't so bad. Oddly, Shadow kind of ignored Kira, her original mentor, and focused on me.

So it was, after the divorce, that things settled to a calm, but it wouldn't last for long. Kira came home, after a late Spring weekend down in North Carolina, to announce she'd bought a house there. Quickly, on the heels of that, Joe went into the hospital. (Kira's Mom had already passed).

The two events have no connection—North Carolina house VS Joe's death-- I can promise you that. But Joe was pushed, by all his children, to go into the hospital due to a long-neglected issue. I completely agreed with the decision, not knowing the stupidity of the doctors and nurses soon to be involved.

They ignored his health and life history, and immediate body sensitivities, and thus put this sweet man through a horrendous experience, which ultimately resulted in his death. Joe died not of the malady he entered with, but rather because of these brilliant idiots, despite his own children warning them.

(A Note: This is just my viewpoint and I don't wish to cast a bad light on the entire American health community, but I had been down this road, respectively, 17 and 18 years before when my parents died. While there are very many caring doctors and nurses, the system itself is run by uncaring 'autocrats' with six-figure or better salaries. When my brother, in 1993, dying of lymphoma, took an alternate natural medication, the person in charge of a Los Angeles-based experimental cancer-treatment center answered: "you are no longer of use to us! I guess my brother wasn't there to save his life but there to HELP THEM! I understand the sentiment but not the cruelty.)

Darla was, of course, unaware of Joe's death, but it was a little tough at night when I'd walk her. She naturally saw his house and wanted to head up his driveway to visit him and get her cheese.

She was never greedy; a piece or two would do, and then she'd lean in for some petting. I'd have to pull her back on the leash, knowing the house was empty and up for sale.

About a month after Joe's death, Kira told me she wanted a weekend to plan for furniture in the new house North Carolina. I can't say I was shocked, but it did disturb me. If you haven't guessed by now, I was still in love with Kira, despite my own

"crappy" husbandry. I kept hoping for some change in things. It obviously wasn't meant to be.

Kira made even more trips down to "NC," as I now called North Carolina. Then a day came that really bothered me.

It was a Thursday, as I recall. After work. About 7:00 pm. We were together in the kitchen.

"I'm going down to North Carolina this weekend, to the new house," Kira announced. "Since I'll be alone, I'd like to take The Doo for protection."

I felt all I held dear over the last 15 years slipping away from me. But what could I do? Now Darla was passing from me also, like everything else.

"Sure," I answered easily and with a decided calmness, masking the mounting pain.

I helped Kira load up her SUV and watched as she and Darla drove off, The Doo looking back at me, her tongue happily hanging. I spent the coming weekend like a lost man trying to fill a hole in the yard that would never really be solid. Shadow sensed Dar's departure and came up to me often, doing something completely new: she'd butt her head against my arm, or chest, or face.

I grew morose and wondered if Darla even missed me. It was a sad and lonely weekend, mostly fostered by my own insecurities and fears.

Kira and Darla returned Sunday afternoon, about 5:00 pm. I helped unload the SUV, after dealing with an emotionally thrilled Doo, who was apparently very happy to be back home. After things settled a bit, Kira asked for a 'sit-down' discussion between us.

"She's going with you," Kira stated.

"Huh?"

"Jim, from the moment we turned the corner here, all the way to North Carolina, and even when in the new house, and on the trip back," she sighed, "she moaned and whined and hated being there. She missed YOU!"

In all seriousness, I'm about to share something here only those few close to me have known. There was not much love shown in my birth family, ever. Hugging never happened. I'm not sure I even ever saw my parents kiss, and if so, only as a polite gesture. We all knew the love was there; it was just buried under some really heavy psychological layers.

I, as a young man, brought some passion to the 'plate' with Kira. Once married,

though, I seemed to go on 'auto-pilot' via my parents' history, and struggle as I might, I couldn't break the pattern. I would in a later relationship, but not then.

Also within my history of growing up was a strong sense of 'self-worthlessness." If you got an "A" in school, why not an "A+? No drawing you did, no smart thing you accomplished, no chore well executed...was ever good enough.

I had, back when dating, first professed my love of her to Kira. She responded in kind. I was amazed, and without telling her, secretly assumed she was in need of love and was willing to "settle" for me. The lessons of our youth die hard. I was happy to accept this 'blindness' on her part, as I loved her and was also a needy soul.

But now, Darla loved me so much she missed me that much?

I've been in advertising for over 30 years, and, hell, if you force me to, I'll find a way to sell ice cubes to an Eskimo. People can be swayed by words, or music, or visuals. I was a master at it, and even, unfairly, used all, at times during the days of Kira and me.

But a dog? A dog loved me that much?

You can't sell to a dog or a cat...

That $200 cat 'house' ain't gonna get used if the cat doesn't like it. A dog will jump into a '67 Impala faster than the newest Maserati, if the 'company' is good...

This dog, whom I never wanted, chose me?

That opened up a window of thought I'd never considered. Was it possible I was actually, after all consideration, 'lovable?'

If that was indeed true, then the last 45 years of my life were lived under a complete misconception by me, based on inappropriate, emotionally unhealthy behavior fostered by those I'd loved, revered, and buried.

I accepted what Kira said, happy to not be alone in the future, but afraid of the consequences. Darla, on the other hand, changed beds for 'one night only' (lol), and slept with me.

By morning, she was back in Kira's room.

CHAPTER 13

SOMETIMES YOU JUST GO ON, NOT KNOWING. You trust in life, in hope.

And when losses happen, you try to accept them. In the case of Kira and me, so much had been decided, but at the same time, so much was being left unsaid.

I really don't remember much of the summer of 2005, except warnings from Kira that I needed to start packing stuff up as she was selling the house. We were on different tracks, only getting together rarely. (Although we shared the house together, she had received it in a deal with her ex-husband #1). She had wanted to put my name on the title as an equal owner when we were getting married, but I refused out of fairness. I opted more for reimbursement of my monies in, if ever we divorced.

I didn't count in the emotional toll.

She was still at her job and I at mine.

I walked Dar every night, through local neighborhoods. It got dangerous at times. Most streets never had any curbs, just grass to pavement. Cars would take corners sharp, race up once quiet streets.

I started carrying a flashlight.

More than a few times, I had to yank Dar out of the way of a fast-rushing car.

I started being a "smart-ass." I started flashing the flashlight beam at cars racing at us. One night, the local police pulled up next to Dar and me as we walked.

"We have a complaint you're blinding drivers with a flashlight," the officer in the passenger seat said.

"I only put the beam up if they are coming so fast they can't see us," I replied. "This is a 25-mile-an-hour zone. They aren't doing 25! I drive! I know what 25 miles-an-hour is!"

"Well, maybe you should walk your dog during the day."

I smirked. "Well, maybe you wonderful men should set a speed-trap up here one night to see what's going on here."

The cop looked at his partner, then back at me.

"Just go home, sir. And walk your dog earlier. And no more flashlights."

I was furious! I was being told my rights and my life and the life of my dog were secondary to a person breaking the law...

Of course, now in New Jersey, we have what are called "green light" cameras. They are designed to take the pictures of people speeding, who run red lights. These are placed only on major road intersections, with cameras to photograph license plates, so fines can be levied.

There is an argument as to whether these are for safety or for local increased revenue.

I continued to walk Dar late, but moved onto less-car-traveled side-streets. She enjoyed it more. There were additional unique scents, "more "poopie" smells for her to discover and enjoy.

I had already smelled enough "stink" and "scum."

CHAPTER 14

THERE WAS A TIME I BELIEVED IN INNOCENCE. I'm sure Kira did too. No matter how old we get, no matter the "damage," most love in hope. We are, I think, eternally in our lives, still just those little children, hoping for "Santa Claus." The same comes with a new marriage.

I had been far from willing to accept realities but the fall forced me to. Kira

moved on, separating her life from mine – ours – while I did a completely idiotic and stupid thing.

The simple fact is, so I've learned, that easy answers come easy...true stupidity takes 'real talent.' And I happen to have real talent.

Around Thanksgiving, Kira left the country for 3 weeks in order to enjoy her daughter's wedding to a man whose family lived abroad. Though Kira and I had already divorced, we were still in the same house in separate rooms with separate lives. At the time, I felt compelled to still prove my love and devotion for some odd reason. I guess I was a "sick puppy," lost in sadness, still holding onto a dead dream.

I don't know why I did what I did, but I decided to refurbish our bathroom. This included the toilet, shower doors, sink and fixtures, and a new floor. It was really the biggest mistake of my life – I ended up with 'walking' pneumonia after two days of starting the project. I had really disassembled everything in that time! Of course, the first two days went exceedingly well in terms of complete destruction of what was relatively attractive and functioned well.

I purchased etched-glass shower doors, new antique brass fixtures for the sink, new wallpaper, and tore up the delicately–laid ceramic tile floors. I also shut off the toilet plumbing and removed the toilet bowl...

Darla had no problem with a non-flushing toilet bowl sitting dead center in the kitchen on Thanksgiving Day, but I sure did! The whole thing, including my weakened efforts, via the "flu," was getting a bit absurd. I'll spare the reader harsh details here, but suffice it to say:

Darla would eat her kitchen food, then step a foot further to visit me so I could pet her as I sat on something I used to use in the bathroom, once a room with a functioning

toilet. I'm pretty sure I was certifiably insane at the time.

(To the reader: You really can't appreciate the true absurdity of this whole thing unless you experience it yourself in-person. Something about being able to view the contents of your refrigerator at the same time as...well, you get the picture. I can promise it was all very hygienic, as the bathroom sink and shower were still functioning, but even I finally came to understand, at least in part, regarding my own personality quirks, why Kira had divorced me).

Right before Kira was due back in mid-December, I begged MAJOR HELP from Ralph and his wife, Donna. These two wonderful people had been friends of mine since high school...

This insanity, as it was, could NOT greet Kira upon her return home!

Dar wasn't having a problem at all. LOL.

CHAPTER 15

THERE IS AN OLD SAYING: You can't choose your relatives, but you can choose your friends. AND THEN: Blood is thicker than water.

I say "BS" to the latter.

Donna came in and swept the house clean – you couldn't find a loose 'Darla hair' on the dog's own back! (I'm still not sure if Donna vacuumed her while I was out picking up stuff at Home Depot, but The Doo accepted Donna, an animal-lover, in about all of three seconds upon meeting her). Ralph, who I'd seriously goofed around with and done occasional idiotic things with from my teens into my early 20's was now a successful engineer and proved to be, that day, as dead serious with this project as any he covered professionally, showing up with tools, an agenda, and quickly a full plan. I was healthier, but still weak from walking pneumonia and very exhausted.

Ralph and Donna DID IT. They saved me from Kira's much-deserved wrath and my potentially great humiliation.

Throughout the day, Darla just hung out on the living room couch, staying out of the fray, but I caught glimpses at times of Donna visiting with her. Donna, I knew, had always been a "critter" person, and Dar's loving and kind personality perfectly coincided with Donna's. Years later, Ralph, Donna, and their young daughter would re-unite with Darla and me for a very memorable, truly special day, but not yet.

Ralph and I placed a new ceiling, painted it, sealed fittings, the toilet and tub, laid a temporary floor, reset the toilet, and finished up the little details – all in seven hours.

In the end, Kira would return from her overseas trip and see the final efforts. She was, to say the least, not a "happy camper." While Ralph and Donna had done their part perfectly, I had transformed the room based on my artistic (fledgling) interior design skills.

My 'Ex' was initially furious, because it was a 'change' to an important room I had given her no input on. We always made the revisions to our home by agreement and/or negotiation. This time, she was allowed no input. (Hey Guys! Learn from this lesson!)

A month later though, even Kira was starting to like the new look and admitting it

was a change "for the better." Simple, old shower doors had been replaced by frosted, softly-etched glass framed in brass; boring, utilitarian faucet fixtures now were 'antique' brass adornments. The once tacky wallpaper had been replaced by a soft rose-petal pattern, and hints of brass and rose were accentuated by a re-finished pine sink counter and fresh, matching wood frame molding throughout.

I had used my artist skills to their full, rich utility. It was indeed an elegant, yet reserved bathroom.

Ralph and Donna were long gone by the time Kira returned and first assessed the situation. I kept them informed via email, both of Kira's initial anger and then her later approval. I don't think, however, either Ralph or Donna ever truly saw the full, real meaning: I didn't even understand it back then:

It wasn't about Kira or her feelings. It was about a lost man, still hopelessly love with a lost dream, with still a flicker of hope in his heart, hoping against the winds of life that extinguish such things in the soul. And a man afraid for his soul.

It was about lost love, and the lessons to be learned thereof. That once the magic is really gone, there needs to be acceptance of it. Just as there is in death.

It was, finally, about friends, being family, stepping in to help.

There is a wonderful Tennessee Williams play called "A Streetcar Named Desire." In it, a character offers: "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

I had no family left, no birth family or one ordained by law. But I had very good, wonderful friends and they have become my family. We may not talk or see each other for months or even years at a time, but they have loved me as their own.

I depend on these people and they have never failed me. This "new" family still expands to this day, to my good benefit and blessing. As of today, I have no "blood" relations, but I know I am blessed with people who freely choose to care for and love me.

There was one last individual whom I hadn't yet considered as "family." She was about to become the most critically important one of all.

And I suspect, in my absence one cold December day, that Donna had vacuumed her.

CHAPTER 16

ONCE IN A TRULY GREAT WHILE, a moment comes along that defines you. Your life. It might reflect knowledge on a past event – insight you hadn't seen before. It otherwise could reveal your future to you, an even greater mystery with many hopes.

The circumstances here accomplished neither. But they did show that life continues on, always with many twists and turns.

I remember that 2005 Winter as a gray, 'distant' season, one very bereft of snow. 'Dustings' of white sprinkled the landscape, but no true storm of the kind designed to

embrace "home and hearth" occurred. I might be wrong but I remember it that way.

That winter, following the "great bathroom massacre," remains vague in my memories. I don't recall if there was a Christmas tree or not in our house. I think so. I do know the tension between Kira and me rose and fell on a daily basis as the end of our time together became ever closer.

Dar coped as best she could but the tension, no matter how subtle, was getting to her also. On almost a daily basis, she was urinating in Kira's bedroom, on a completely new carpet. Kira was doing all she could to blot up these emotional outbursts.

I was heavily into my contract job, doing freelance home at night as well, and I was re-interviewing for the 'lost' job I was once again being reconsidered for. It was a selfish time for both Kira and me and we both left the family pets to their own devices, short of necessary duties.

I honestly can't tell you I know what Darla or Shadow were thinking back then: selfishly, they were of no importance to us...

Late December blended into the blur of January which, in turn, segued into February with no real difference...

BUT THEN, in late February, 2006, the dream job became mine, with a start date of late March! I was on top of the world! Kira even celebrated with me as we two visited a beloved steak house for dinner.

Kira decided that it was time to claim her home in North Carolina and finally live there (she had been paying for it for over a year while still living in New Jersey).

This decision set off a "chain-reaction" of events that still causes my head to spin today...

First off, I got the 'beloved, wanted' job. But it wasn't easy. I learned more about advertising and marketing in the first 3 years under my boss than I learned in all 30 years prior. He was a 'senior genius." He didn't make things easy then, when he was 64 when I first lost out on the job. (He was a 'prick,' who we all at the job later guessed had certainly 'buried' many in his career wake!). He didn't make it any easier when I finally got the position, when he was 65. He checked out every one of my 15 references BOTH times, questioned my skills BOTH times, and till I finally left, told me I was "under-performing," years later, though close to 90 other people in the company thought my department and I were the best thing "since sliced bread." I wasn't happy about that weirdness, but I happily lived with it. Even after, I'm growing and learning. But my newfound permanent job presented many problems, regarding the two-year contract I had signed with the other place. Although this allowed me to break the contract with this huge company, they had spent months finding the likes of me...wow! What an ego trip!

Ultimately, an arrangement was made. It took extra time my new boss didn't like, but the devil is always paid his due.

My new job was a "god-send" to Kira. Though I had always been self-sufficient and a "survivor," this freed her to pursue her own future unabated, knowing I had replaced the odd, pendulum like' financial swings of a small business with a solid guaranteed paycheck.

(For anyone who has run a small business, particularly one in graphic design, "the check in the mailbox" is critical. An $8,000.00 check in early January is far gone when March rolls around and four other clients owing you another $7,000.00 are stalling on paying! So Kira was hoping and waiting, on my behalf, as well as hers').

(Another note here: A disgruntled cousin of mine, reading early chapters of this story, commented about 'subtle snipes' I made about Kira. As of this date, Kira has read all I've shared and has encouraged me to "keep writing; it's really good." Beyond that, I will state this clearly: I did, and still do love Kira immensely. She certainly does have a "Jersey" attitude, even in 'NC' (my new terminology). But, attitude or not, Kira has always possessed the heart of a child...ever hoping...ever forgiving. Her heart is the size of Texas. She put up with a lot from a lost man until she no longer could. I'm the guy she had to give up.)

The gray winter days slowly gave way to greening grass and bright, soft cyan skies. I started the new job with an energy I hadn't sensed in years. I was healthier. My energy level was incredibly high – I innately knew I was meant for this and this job was

to be the watermark of my career. Dar hovered – now mostly alone, she wasn't a happy camper, but she knew she was loved and didn't act up.

I guess that says a lot, both for humans and animals. Often, even whales stay in 'pods,' groups of families, loving each other with a trust and hope. There is a bond. We, as humans, sometimes try to dissect animal behavior and categorize it, as classification. I sometimes wonder if an even higher order would look at us as primitive and do the same!

I was in awe of whales, back then, particularly humpbacks. Kira and I once went on a "whale-watch" out of Boston that showed 39 of them! Their brains are larger by far than that of a human and though they were to be photographed for our fun, I wonder if they weren't 'teasing' the boat as a daily thing.

Either way, Darla had settled in. It was no longer necessary to leash her to my office when both Kira and I were gone. We kept the windows closed in case there were 'surprise' visits from (Gerold or) folks desired or not. But now, in essence, The Doo had the run of the house. Her command center was our rounded sectional couch (later to play a larger role). From there, she could see any intruder on the front porch, as well as Kira or me coming home.

Due to the distance and hours of my new job, compared to the 2 mile daily work trip for Kira, I rarely enjoyed this delightful greeting, but whenever I did get home, I was treated to a loving and full welcome.

For ever so brief a time, there was sanity and love.

Though the divorce was final, perhaps Kira said it best: "Jim, I wish I had known you when you got this job." She was right. My new position was the essence of all I had worked towards for 25 years. I'd falter a bit later on, but for the most part, I was in "my chosen art world," happy, excited, and at the top of my game. To this day, and until the day of parting came, for a variety of reasons, it was the job of a lifetime.

And back then, it grounded me.

Darla was a happy soul. Despite our daily absences, she felt secure and loved.

Dar was unique among all the animals I've ever known. There have been shy ones and

aggressive ones and timid ones...

...but never before have I so known such "a sensitive one." Not that other critters aren't sensitive, but The Doo showed it often and always. If you indicated she'd done wrong, she'd wallow until you released her, not just with a command – she looked for you to be "okay." If you praised her, she'd be uplifted until... She showed love and other emotions in a way I've never seen from any living creature outside of a human. Her whole persona was gentle, timid, sweet, sensitive, and very intuitive, almost more like a

person than a dog. Her eyes displayed a keen smartness, but also a simple kindness and happiness about being alive. You sensed that 'it' wasn't about you or even her. It was about life and God.

Rather, so, in addition, it seemed a joy for life and its gifts. Years later, when it was her time to pass, I would see this same look, but, appropriately, it was older and wiser, as if to say: "we both know it; it's time for me to go."

In the meanwhile, much was happening back at the "ranch." Kira put the house up for sale and I began looking for a new home for Darla and me. I first considered condos, but hated the idea of answering to a board of people "approving me." I guess it was the "Jersey City boy arrogance in me. Also, very few allowed dogs.

Co-ops offered an option, but very little yard space for The Doo to stretch her legs. Kira accompanied me, nicely and very helpfully, on these visits. It seemed almost as if our old love for each other was back, but more mature. In reality, the love had never left, but in its new form, it couldn't survive the now differing worlds reaching out to each of us. There would always be affection, caring, and friendship, but it could never be as it once was. Even I, the survivor of the 'T-Day Toilet Mess," saw it in my mind, if not yet in my heart.

It ultimately became clear that a full house with a yard was the only answer, both for the dog and me (I favored my privacy).

So we searched, Kira by my side and a hungry real estate agent with us. Joan was quite understanding of my needs and quite sensitive, but nonetheless, she was still a "shark" smelling blood in the water.

To this day, I get full-color postcards ink-jetted to me from Joan. One wishes me a happy birthday in December each year. The other congratulates me every June on the anniversary of my home purchase, with the suggestion that if I ever need or want to sell... (To be honest, this 60+ year old house is a disaster! Joan: please call! I'd love to have lunch with you!)

Though Dar was never vindictive, I could be. I once considered lacing the home purchase congratulatory card with steak juice and holding it out for this aged Eskie to try to bite into. Of course, I'd then mail it back...

I have always been...I had always been...amazed at Darla's ability to "read people." I know many animals have this trait, but The Doo was quite selective in it. She would bark at almost everyone as a start, but occasionally someone (usually, oddly, someone downtrodden by life) would enter our home and Dar would simply walk up to that person, sniff and accept.

It was pretty amazing. During that Spring, with an effort to fix up her house for

showing for sale, Kira hired a bunch of differing individuals to do fix-up work, mostly handymen with no real jobs, doing work "under-the-table," but mostly trustworthy people. The Doo barked at many, but every so often an errant soul would enter the house and Dar would just walk up, sniff, and take petting, with no barking.

Oddly, these were the most dedicated and honest of the bunch.

When I was younger, somewhere in my 20's, I started to notice that my father, now in his mid/late 60's, had a genius and an inherent 'common sense' that I much desired. There was no discussion in that he could teach it to me; I never asked. At the time, I was just in awe and wondered.

Now, at age 50+, I had much of what I once desired and I understood that much, for humans, comes with age and experience.

Was the same true for Dar? She had always been timid and sensitive, but stood bold and strong to protect us. Understanding seemed to be both a mix of experience and an inherent "sense" beyond human capacity. Was it possible that God, who I was only considering back then, had given a creature outside of man a gift so fully missing in man? Weren't we the dominant species?

Didn't we own this planet due to our intelligence?

How could a simple dog know better than me? Especially about other humans?

That question would have to wait for an answer, at least for a while.

Knowing she would be living alone, Kira 'adopted' a huge black labrador, "Runner," from the local pound and surprised both Darla and me one Saturday with "Runner." On the heels of that, in an "overkill" I still, to this day think was a very wrong move, she adopted two young cats, striped orange brothers, "Abbott" and "Costello."

I guess, in the end, I understood "why." Kira, despite her insistence that she wanted to be alone, after so many years with me, her kids, and her 1st ex, didn't want to be alone at all. (In the end, she never was: she ended up having a sister of hers' move in with her also, along with the new dog and the cats).

I love blonde women. I always will. I fell in love with my seatmate in the first grade in St. Paul's Grammar School in Jersey City, NJ. Her name was Denise Meyers. Her family moved away at the end of that year. I mourned.

I've been in love with blondes ever since. Dolly Parton, Joey Heatherton, Jenna

Jameson... you show me a picture of the blonde and I know the celebrity.

Oddly, I've rarely ever dated blondes. While I tried on a few occasions to get Kira to bleach, she was a redhead and refused. I guess the point of this is that Kira and I were both doing weird stuff to fulfill needs selfishly for ourselves. I sort of understand the craziness back then, as I look back. I was ignoring Dar while Kira was picking up "strays," a dog and two kitties, to satisfy her own "alone" fears.

I can fairly well say here, comfortably, that "the end of love while there is still love" drives people to stupid and silly choices. I don't just mean Kira here; a toilet bowl in the middle of a kitchen on Thanksgiving Day kind of constitutes some insanity...lol.

BUT...

It was early spring, 2006.

And "Runner" was not to be denied. Nor were "Abbott" and "Costello."

As she had done so often, as she had in the past, being reborn at age 10, Darla rose to the occasion. She tried very hard. She just wasn't tall enough...

CHAPTER 17

THE ABILITY TO ADAPT TO EVER-CHANGING CIRCUMSTANCES is incumbent upon all of us. It is what has allowed all living members of this planet to survive and thrive, sometimes through evolution, sometimes through sheer luck, and sometimes through tenacity of will.

The greatest test for Darla in terms of her ability to adapt was upon her. Already, she was already 77 years old in human years, had survived, for her, 14 years of loneliness, and had changed families twice. I was 47, had lived alone in my heart and life for three years, and had changed families once. The greatest test for me had already begun, but it was not, I think, so severe as it would be for The Doo.

That Spring was, if it could be labeled so, "The Time That Changed Everything." New beginnings were afoot for everyone in this little domestic 'tragedy.' Smiles were few and far in between. Some, expected to do worse, did better. Those expected to do better, at least found solace, if not better.

The introduction of "Runner" and Abbott & Costello" into this temporary household, so majorly in shift now, produced many unexpected consequences:

Darla and Runner became instant friends, despite their many differences. While female,

and feminine, Darla was all white and tiny at 21 inches high, Runner was all black and still a pup at a size (with his head) meeting my waist at 36" inches, all male. Runner was a big goof, much like Charlie the cat from years before. His head was roughly the size of a goddamned basketball! I guess the "pack" mentality kicked in.

This does not mean that Dar was so easily giving up her supremacy as the 'female' alpha male via dogs and cats in the house. Thumbelina had passed to the next, while blind and old. She had enjoyed a good 20 years, many of them with us. Charlie was also long-gone. That had only left Darla and Shadow, now friends.

One of the funniest moments I've ever experienced occurred on a Saturday morning in late Spring. Kira and I had overcome many hurts and were again friendly, if not fully friends. We sat on the couch, sun still spilling through the front windows where Gerold once stood to wish Darla a "good morning." We knew we needed to get out and shop (though now for different needs), but decided to be lazy as the TV played the

current music channel, covering out something like "The Greatest Musical Errors of the 80's Sexiest Music Women," or similar dribble.

Runner was wandering around, but standing proud. He had already been identified as a "Black Labrador," and I was impressed: I'd never seen any dog quite his size. (My then-boss, years after, loved "Labs" and occasionally brought them to the jobsite, to stay caged in his car as he had a quick Friday morning meeting before heading out: his big Labs looked like "shrunken miniatures" compared to Runner!)

Well...I guess it was a week or so into Runner's time with us on that sunny Saturday morning when Darla made her move. She jumped off the coach, approached Runner from the side, put her paws up on his back, and started rocking up and down against him. I found this quite confusing, but my ex ignored it.

"Kira," I asked, "what the hell is she doing?!"

Kira smiled slightly. "Oh, she's 'humping' him--you know, having sex."

I was one confused boy! "But she doesn't have any male--'thing!'--and, on top of that, she's way too short!!"

My ex laughed. "It's not about sex," she explained, "she's establishing boundaries. Dar's telling Runner she's in charge."

"oh...," I answered, dumfounded. "But shouldn't she attack him from the back?"

Kira laughed. "No, he might hurt her if he kicked back. They both know what she's doing."

Kira then returned to watching "Battle of the 80's Teen-Throbs" or whatever was playing on the TV, as if nothing had ever happened.

I watched with amazement, and then amusement. As soon as Darla was done, which didn't take long, she returned to the couch. Runner had stood prone throughout it all and never even looked at her. In the time left where we were all together, Runner never challenged The Doo, except when she tried to mess with his toys or food. He never touched her toys, and always gave her the utmost respect.

During the late spring, Runner too developed an eye towards fast squirrels. He would chase them across the yard on the fences. The Doo would often pursue with him, though due to his greater size and strength, she was often left behind. She never seemed to mind. And as for Runner, despite his incredible size and strength, he shared a seeming innocence, love of life, and innate sweetness with her. That Dar was 12 years old and he was probably only 2 or 3 years old at best, it was an extraordinary blending in the worst of times.

On rare occasions, I would walk Dar with Kira and Runner going along. WE MUST HAVE BEEN A SIGHT!: The 6 foot tall guy walking the tiny, all-white dog,

beside the 5'2 woman walking the huge, all-black dog. People laughed a lot. I used to think it was The Doo and Runner that stunned them, the color and size disharmony. Until writing this right now, I never understood the full visual absurdity of it all!

Meanwhile, Shadow wasn't faring so well. Once a stealthy hunter at a full 6 pounds, the most she would ever be, a cat who tore up the ears of a neighborhood Doberman Pincer in self defense, Shadow had become a literal "punching bag" for "Abbott & Costello."

"Shad" now carried near 18 summers with her. She had lost her hunter's edge and sought warmth and affection. Her once-friendship with Charlie and her newfound friendship with Darla softened her aging, but also, there was no doubting that age also weakened her. There were one or two rare moments when Dar charged the two orange and yellow striped brothers as they harassed Shadow, but I honestly can't say The Doo was making that effort in her defense.

Runner, on the other hand, pretty much ignored Shadow as "too old and too easy," but desperately tasted "success" in stalking the brothers.

And, in fairness to all cats out there, whom I've always believed would win in any fight with any-sized dog, due to claws, self-protection, and the rest, Runner first-hand convinced me I was wrong.

Remember back when you were a kid in school and the local bully picked on you? The bully usually won. Shadow once bullied other animals. Then Darla bullied Shadow and Charlie, until Charlie refused to take it. Then Abbott & Costello bullied Shadow. Until Runner bullied Abbott & Costello.

There's a life lesson in there somewhere. I'll leave it to the reader to decide what that lesson is. The next three months bullied everyone, and we all, I think, human and critter, found a timidity, shock, and humbleness never before experienced, but of course, I write in retrospect.

Change is often without compromise as it must be. The time to come was filled with joy, sorrow, anger, sadness, love, hatred, bitterness, forgiveness, regrets, laughter, and new hope.

In essence: life. For all, it was both the end and the beginning.

CHAPTER 18

I DON'T KNOW IF IT'S JUST ME, BUT there never seems to be a time in my life when there isn't at least a minor moment of crisis. I think sometimes we build our own, or at least foster them, with late credit cards or mortgage payments, or the like. Or similar: maybe most of us at heart are "Munchhaussen" babies grown up. Or maybe life is just that: a series of 'hazard signs' we have to negotiate.

Self-help guru, Anthony Robbins, who I once paid $320 to see down in Baltimore, MD,

for a two-day show, said it best (and I'm paraphrasing): "we ignore the painful until it's more painful to ignore the worser consequences."

There was a night, during the last winter of Darla's life, when I stepped away from my life, the crises, and all else attached. I chose, on a Friday night, in December, to turn the lights down low and turn up the heat, and just read. No TV, no music, phone turned off...nothing.

Darla, late in life, laid by my side, happy and contented. I'd pet her at various moments, as I devoured a ridiculous but intriguing book by novelist Dean Coontz.

For just a moment in time, there was happiness and peace in my world. No, it wasn't a thrilling new relationship, or an exciting play. No fast barbs with old friends; no wondrous fishing expeditions.

It was just a quiet, lovely moment, with Dar resting her head near my thigh, and me, happily reading away.

The living being that Kira and I came to call "Darla" was a vastly complex wonder to us. Easy to explain as a dog, but so much more. She had a sweet heart made of pure gold. Except for the occasional cat harassing and squirrel chasing, which I would expect as normal as a dog would do, which abated in time, Darla seemed to possess an almost-human-like innocence and love of life. Wherever Kira and I took her, be it a park, a parking lot, or wherever, people just smiled upon seeing her. Basking in our love, she loved life and she showed it. She might bark at a stranger at the front door, but upon meeting, she wanted to love.

Later on, as she reached the age of 12+, I would see a new side of her, with children.

But the simple answer is that Darla, singlehandedly, through who she was, changed my views of life, of God, of people. I deal with people differently today. Some of that is age and experience; some can be attributed to family loss and divorce, thus life experience.

BUT IN MY TIME OF 50+ YEARS, I have never met a sweeter, more gentle soul than Darla. I am changed by knowing her. Everyone whoever met Darla, be it in a park, or in our kitchen when Kira and I were together, or just late night with me walking her –

All walked away, smiling. Changed in that moment, at least for that moment. Darla was reflecting happiness, and I think, what God meant for us to be.

She never asked for anything, except to be loved. Oddly, that is all God asks of mankind.

I guess, when finally given what you need, full worlds can change.

T he moment was at hand.

CHAPTER 19

CHANGE IS A VERY DIFFICULT THING FOR MOST OF US, I think, not just since it proves to be difficult or filled with nuisance. I believe it is because of the many memories we carry with us into the future. Most often with deaths or divorces, in particular, there is an understanding that one must move on, and yet bittersweet recollections of times past, lost hopes of what could have been, and shattered innocence persist, no matter how old we grow.

I doubt it is different for animals. One hears how dolphins will surround an ill or wounded member of the pod. When my father passed away, our cat, Samantha, stopped eating for two months and the vet told my mother and me that Samantha was "in mourning."

My father once told me the story of "Corky," the pup we had briefly when I was a child,

only for three or four months at most. Corky had been returned to the "pound" (not the "doggie farm" my parents had tricked Matt and me into thinking was his final destination).

Apparently, our lost puppy was taken in by another person, a new owner. The man had purchased a gas station on a major street near where we lived. One day, three years later, quite by accident and knowing nothing about this, Dad walked by the location. A large, all brown, 65 pound dog rushed at my father and threw its front paws up at him, trying to lick his face.

Yep...Corky. So much for "dumb" animals.

The Spring leading into that Summer 2006 was filled with so much that it seems a blur now to me. I had a new job that was consuming most of my time and attention. I purchased a new home for Darla and me in the next town over, although, for the time being, Kira and I still stayed in separate rooms in our house. Kira was frantically trying to sell the old house while making many weekend trips down South to her new home. The plan was that ultimately I would take most of our furniture with me as she was populating her future abode with new items.

I tried to help as much as I could with our old home, utilizing my art skills in an odd variety of ways to make it look even better, and also finally finishing up a backyard water garden I had started the year before and had left idle and incomplete.

Things were still pretty much "status quo" for our mini-menagerie: Darla and Runner continued their friendship, Runner harassed Abbott and Costello mercilessly, and Abbott and Costello jointly continued to use tired, old Shadow as a punching bag.

Kira came to me one day and asked for a quick "sit down."

She began, hesitation in her voice.

"Listen...you're taking Darla...I have a favor to ask. Shadow gets along with her and you know 'the boys' are beating Shad up all the time...."

She looked down at her feet, perhaps feeling guilty over what she was about to say, given the ramifications.

"I'd like you to take Shadow with you."

It was, in the larger scheme of things, the correct choice, but I felt bad for her. She had divorced this man, planning a new future without him, and yet asking him to take on the responsibility of a pet acquired so many years ago to relieve the pain of her children, who had suffered through the divorce of a different man.

"Neither of the kids can take her...," Kira said softly.

My answer was immediate. "Certainly. Yes. I'd hate to see her separated from her old pal, Dar. And there's no way she could keep withstanding Abbott and Costello."

Such then, is the way of life. We wish for straight lines but end up maneuvering mazes we never expected. But "the next town over" proved to still be a distance way in time for Dar, Shad, and me.

A few more months went by, getting ever weirder in all ways for everyone. (Mind you, I had long ago come to accept, through earlier life experiences, that my life was never going to approximate "normal" in any real, tangible way.)

It was about to get really interesting, though. Kira came to me to ask if I could help her move some household items down South over a weekend. This would be done via a large, econo-van rental. We discussed it and talked about sharing driving responsibilities. I agreed (I have to admit I was majorly curious about her new home, having only seen a few digital camera pictures of it).

I requested a Friday off from my new job; they were more than happy to allow it as I had, in my first two months, taken the department I managed from a 70% to 98% on-time rate with projects (hey, no ego here, but I'm very good at what I do).

Our 'goliath' front door friend, Darla's 'morning buddy,' Gerold, assisted in loading everything we could fit. The decision had been made to leave 'the boys' and Shad home alone with food, water, and litter box access, but with Abbott and Costello secured in a single room. Darla and Runner needed to travel with us.

The econo-van was immense and immediately handled like a space shuttle trying to maneuver through a toy store aisle on Christmas Eve. Kira drove for the first 45 minutes, then pulled over into a service area on the New Jersey Turnpike.

"I'm sorry," she said, fear in her voice. "I can't drive this thing! Unless you can, we'll turn back and forget it."

In that moment, I found myself deluged with so many thoughts and emotions...

• Our life together was ending and this was one last gift I could give;

• 'Hell, yes! This oversized econ-ovan was just an oversized piece-of-crap! I

was the guy who ran a '71 Mustang Mach 1 at 95 miles an hour on his first day

with it, who pushed an '83 Mustang GT to an odometer dead-standstill at 120

miles an hour, who outran a beefed up '68 Camaro in an '86 Chrysler Laser

Turbo!;

• I still cared for Kira and didn't want to disappoint her in her hopes;

• Selfishly, I wanted to see her new house;

• 'Typical American Male Ego' was at-large.

I guess, in the end, it was a mix of all of these. But mostly, despite my inability to then break through my own self-imposed "Fortress of solitude" like a Superman weakened by kryptonite, I was genuinely still in love with my ex and wanted to help Kira.

Driving this lumbersome "thudmobile," with its 10-miles-per-gallon limitations, wasn't really that hard at all; it actually could get out of its own way when needed (when you 'floored' it!). That trip – just the driving alone – taught me a lot about American culture. I'm pretty sure Kira could have made the trip, safely and easily on her own, but I think that American women, at least up to a certain generation, had it built into them by parents, friends, and society, to be fearful of some things, as if they had actual limitations built into their persona. It was just a passing thought and I'll say no more, except that maybe a lot of apologies are owed to a lot of people by our society.

I took over the wheel and we were on our way. Darla and Runner had been given a nice wide space inside the back of the van, just beside the side sliding door, and both traveled well together, buddies in transport just like they were in life. However, what

could have been an eight hour drive turned into a 13 hour drive, due to frequent gas stops and the need for these needy souls to relieve themselves (well, they weren't the only ones).

It was a nice trip down, very reminiscent of the long drives Kira and I used to make down by ourselves to Disney in Orlando. We always did well together on long drives. A long time ago, we even used to sing together while driving, mostly to the soundtrack of the movie, "Grease."

But then on one trip, Kira found herself singing alone. I don't know why, but the change in me had occurred, somewhere, at some moment in time, in between. She knew something was wrong, and I knew something was wrong, but neither of us knew how to fix it.

We talked a lot on this trip and Kira dozed a bit. I found it odd but fun to see Dar and Runner together in places so different from what we knew. It proved to be a bit of a task for either of us humans to hold onto both on leashes when the other needed to use a highway rest area bathroom.

Never before had the actual size (and energy) difference between the two been so clear.

By 2:00 AM, we finally entered Kira's adopted state.

"It's not much further now," she promised.

By 3:30 AM, I was fading fast and struggling to keep steering straight and have my eyes remain fully wide open. Multiple promises of "not much further" were now far from any full concept of honesty or belief.

"It's only another few miles!," my ex said hopefully.

She directed me off to a side road that suddenly rose up high and curved sharply to the left. Fog filled the lane and I switched to high beams. It continued on like that for what seemed forever.

"Jeez! What did you do?!! Buy the 'Beverly Hillbillies'' old house?!! Where the hell are we?!!," I demanded.

Kira giggled. "Oh, it's not that bad!"

It's only now, so many years later, so much history behind us, and with Kira so far away, that I will admit my sarcasm was a thin mask for a dread fear in me that I would, in those final minutes, inadvertently kill Kira, myself, and our precious canine cargo, in a car accident out of sheer exhaustion.

The fog lifted, the ground leveled, and we pulled into the darkened driveway, and then the garage, of what appeared to be a "nice" house.

We unloaded the dogs and our own necessities, opting to unload everything else in the morning. Kira led us all in to the main house.

If ever there had been a hope in me to convince her she was making a mistake and should stay with me, it was over in that fate full moment. I was no longer "Superman." The inside of the home was new and gorgeous.

It sparkled and glowed. Just like kryptonite.

CHAPTER 20

WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY. For any boy growing up in the 1960s who read comic books, or for any moviegoer in the late 1990's, these thoughts are carved, not in stone, but in the mind.

Such words of wisdom, etched into immortality by a brilliant writer and conceptual artist

named Stan Lee, were uttered by the ill-fated uncle of one 'Peter Parker'...aka: SPIDER-MAN. (Hey...keeping the comic book reference going here; thank you very much!)

But most of us aren't superheroes, although there are rare and brief moments in our lives

when we may seem so to those close to us. It happens. It happens a lot. And maybe in those rare moments, we do step past ourselves and become more than we were destined to be...

...the teenager jumping onto tracks to save a fallen baby from a subway car...the woman

clerk in the fast food store who puts herself between an armed robber and an elderly couple...the businessman who grabs the gun of a holdup artist in a bank...

All of these people have been in the news recently. Instinct, morality, and adrenaline all kick in. But for all the stories playing out on network television, it happens privately tens of thousands of times each day, never known but to those closest to the hero.

If, indeed, Kira might have considered me any sort of hero for my 13 hour driving stint the night before, one can be assured here that "great power" doesn't exactly mean a good "spinal back" the next day.

I was a bit stiff from the crappy econo-van "captain's coach seat" the next morning. When Kira and I attempted to unload a 280 pound armoire from the back of the truck later in the morning, my back hit "volcano-erupting" status!

I have been told (via good authority and through experience) that once a back injury occurs, it never fully heals. Early in our marriage, Kira and I opted to set up a large, above-ground pool for the kids. Stupidly, I thought I could do it myself. Two tons of gravel and 7,000 pounds of sand were dumped on our front lawn. I immediately went to town with a wheelbarrow.

I'm sure that somewhere, in the golden arc of combined, collected, human fantasies, there is a 'still poster' of me, bold and sure in the sunset, atop a 6 foot tall golden mountain of sand, my muscles rippling, sweat adorning my glinting body, as I held a shovel high above my head like a trident, the wheelbarrow, clutched like a fierce weapon by my side...

I'm very fair-skinned (don't turn on too many lights or I'll sunburn), the muscles are minor, and if anything was rippling, it was the recently eaten hot dogs in my stomach disagreeing with such effort. Anyway, after 12 pushes of the wheelbarrow filled with sand, I happened to turn just the wrong way and –

...oh. Oh. Oh my God. PAINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!

Suffice it to say that my back has never been exactly the same and though heeling

occurred, if I ever turn like that, the –

Despite all, I helped her get it into the house. We got the rest of the econo-van unloaded, Kira doing most. We toured her house and yard. Darla and Runner were having a grand old time playing and romping.

We got some lunch at a local diner, where our combined superhero secret identities were immediately exposed.

The pretty, 30-something blonde waitress, in a deep Southern drawl said: "Ah know, ya'll must be from New Jersey, raght?"

Later in the day, we joined a few of Kira's friends (who had already transplanted from the good old Garden State to the "good ole South") for a party at a friend's house. Kira fell in easily with the women, who chatted about other women, work, and things they were doing for their homes, but I was, I admit, at a loss. The boys drank hard and fast, punched each other around, created impromptu football games, gassed up three-wheelers and popped wheelies, challenging their 10 year old sons to do better, and generally acted like the "stereotype" of backward Southerners I had convinced myself really didn't exist.

After what seemed like a lifetime, we left. My thoughts turned to something I once heard from a favorite singer of mine...

Three times I saw, in concert, Harry Chapin, a folk singer who had the hit songs "Taxi" and "Cat's In The Cradle." During one concert, he told the story of playing in a small town. He had arrived early and waited for the concert time to arrive.

"I spent a year there one afternoon," he joked.

I fully understood.

This experience wasn't done yet. That evening, we traveled 10 miles to the local movie theater to catch a film. I did appreciate that the admission was three dollars; not the eight dollars NJ was charging. A nice dinner at a local restaurant rounded out the night.

Though I hadn't been to a Catholic Mass in years, I joined Kira the next morning for one at the church she would be attending. We returned to her new home, locked things up, got Dar and Runner ready for the long trip home, and departed.

While there was much to make fun of, and much for me to be sad about, it was a fitting and sweet farewell to the life we had shared. I could only hope that I might one day again see her settled in this new and happy life; to date it has never been, but so things go. I could see there was no going back; the best either of us could ever hope for with each other ever again was friendship, the kind we had shared this past weekend.

I drove the econo-van the whole way and we made very few stops.

There really weren't many stops left, anyway.

CHAPTER 21

For everything there is a season, and a time for very purpose under heaven:

...a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to

pluck up that which is planted;

...a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

...a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

...a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace,

and a time to refrain from embracing;

...a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

...a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak.

Ecclesiastes 3

An author tries to choose those things important to the story. They must be germane and of value. Otherwise, it's 'fluff,' and a good editor will delete it. I'm self-editing here prior to an editor. The days leading up to Kira's and my final separation, that day itself, and the short times after, have nothing to do immediately with the story of Darla and so I (hence) will not share them here.

Did the occurrences of those times impact things? Yes, they did. But not all things need to be spread out in tabloid fashion, and I doubt, if Darla was able to speak from where she is now, she would not want such things public.

Was there pain? Was there anger? Was there sorrow? Was there bitterness? By both Kira and me?

Yes to all. The loss of a dream is always accompanied by such. But I will never speak of it. Kira is free to do as she wishes.

I loved Kira. A part of me always will. It doesn't mean I was a good husband or a good man back then. I was immersed in a private hell I thought no one, not even me,

myself, could pull me out of. I never strayed though Kira was often betrayed.

Kira had her future and I had mine.

While I had a new job, a new house, and Dar and Shadow to keep me company, I was still mired in self-pity. It's an ugly, sad place.

I didn't pull myself out.

There's a wonderful video (in history) of a German Shepard jumping into flooded waters, swimming to save its master, dragging him by his collar out of the maelstrom, via doggie paddle, to land.

Darla swam in and saved me.

And this is Darla's story. Not Kira's and not mine.

Dar was very confused, like a small child.

So was I.

CHAPTER 22

SO MUCH OF OUR LIVES TRAVEL WITH US IN BOXES. Old photos hide under the bed or in a dresser drawer, nestled comfortably in a shoebox. We put away treasured Christmas ornaments in corrugated U-Haul cubes. When we move, we attempt to become expert "packers," forcing too much into the quantity of containers we originally expected to do the job. Finally, most of us choose for our discarded human shells to end up...well...in a box.

Kira was gone and it would be months before we would once again make any contact. We were both hurting and needed distance. As for Darla, Shadow, and me, we were all getting used to a new life in a new home in a new town.

My new job was taking up vast amounts of my time; a special anniversary event for the company had placed a great deal of work in my department's "lap." Beyond the regular work hours, I was constantly handling projects at home on my Apple computer, both weeknights and weekends.

I can't say at the time that I really missed Kira; as special as our relationship had been, partings such as the end of a marriage leave pain and open wounds and some (at least initial) bitterness. Dar certainly missed her and showed her disdain for the new situation very early on by urinating on the living room carpet. While this was thankfully a short-lived circumstance, she had made her point.

My homebound workload lasted from mid-summer into the fall, right up until the actual anniversary event for my employer in November, leaving very little time for any unnecessary unpacking. (I actually had to rent a tuxedo at my own cost!).

The inside of my house was an unmitigated disaster. Boxes of all sizes, stacked high, weaved their way through the front room, the dining room. Other locations such as the kitchen, living room, and master bedroom all had their little piles as well. One night I briefly surveyed all of this and considered whether this was some cosmic joke with me posing as some human-sized mouse, trying to maneuver a maze. Thankfully, Shadow never seemed to consider the concept, or me as a mouse.

One very nice and tender thing that developed over time involved both The Doo and Shad. Both Dar and Shadow had free run of the house (except for the basement). It

was one half of a 'duplex,' so it was very long but fairly narrow. When I would get home from work, I'd never know where to expect Darla to be: sleeping on the couch in the living room, eating in the kitchen, or peering down at me from the top of the stairs to the second floor, where the master bedroom, guest bedroom, and full bath were located.

Invariably, upon discovering my presence, Doo (I was now more commonly addressing her as 'Dardi-Doo') would rush to me, jumping up and looking for my affection. I'd take off whatever coat, loosen my tie, put my work satchel down, and then lead her to the living room couch. Dar would then jump up beside me on the couch while I rubbed her face and petted her. Boy, that dog could make such human childlike sounds of happiness and glee.

After a couple of weeks of observing this, either when sitting or walking nearby, Shadow decided that this seemed to be a pretty good deal and she wanted in.

So, each evening, Monday through Friday, like clockwork, I'd find myself sitting on the couch, Dar on my left and Shad on my right, both getting petting and 'scritchies' (friendly scratching).

Each seemed to enjoy this immensely. I'm sure the public utility companies I paid

monthly did also: as any pet owner knows, BOTH cats and dogs 'shed' like crazy and at that time, I don't think any shirt or pair of work pants I owned made it much past one day's wear, due to these sessions, and so the washer and dryer were in constant use.

During these times, to both soothe and pleasure my furry friends, I came up with an idiotic "song" I'd softly sing to them. I'm loathe to reveal it here but it is part of the story:

"Hello, my Girlie-Girls, you are my best worlds!,

I love you, oh so much, especially when we can touch,

You make my life so fine, my Girlie-Girls,

I'm so glad you are mine!"

The words would change on occasion, but, in essence, this ritual never varied. I'll admit to some silliness and stupidity here, especially when you consider that a 24 pound, all white dog, and a 6 pound, mottle-gray/orange cat were being serenaded by a six foot tall, 180 pound, 48 year old man.

Hey, as silly as it was, I have such wonderful memories and not a single regret.

Shad always went off on her own to sleep or rest; it was a strong part of her very independent personality. While she had lost the warrior instincts of years before, she retained that dignity and pride. She also had no desire to escape to the outside or revisit

the kind of days that once led Charlie (or dead bunnies) to the door of my married life. But there were bright, sunny Saturdays when I'd find her either in a windowsill or sitting in front of the back double doors leading to my deck. Perhaps she was remembering times of old; she seemed not to be focusing on birds or squirrels but rather just the beautifully full and overgrowing yard before her and the clear pale blue sky.

She never did like to be picked up or held: touch was always her matter of choice. But knowing that, at 19 years of age, she was too weak to escape me, I once carried her out onto the back deck just to see how it was for her. I put her frail little body down on the deck but carefully held her torso in place. Shad's head darted each and every way, surveying the sounds and sights and smells.

I felt a tightening of her muscles and knew that if I let go, she'd be off like a bullet out of a gun. General Douglas MacArthur of World War II and Korea fame was right: "old soldiers never die; they just fade away."

That would be the next to last time Shadow would ever visit the outside world again...at least in life.

The Doo deemed for herself that she was not about to start sleeping alone unless I was present, and I made it my business to make sure that would never happen. While the bond between us had grown so intense as to inextricably link our futures specifically with each other, I could not ignore that she was, now, for the third time in her life, in a new home and a change of life.

I must admit that it gave me extreme pleasure to say "bedtime, Dardi-Doo" to her. We were most often in my living room, with her resting on the couch and me sitting at the computer. Upon hearing those words, she would bolt up off the couch, waiting for me to move, travel with me, and then race past me up the stairs to the second floor. I'm not sure I ever even once saw her jump up onto the king-sized bed at 'bedtime;' in my favored mind's eye, I seem always to see her standing triumphantly there, like that first night when she landed on my chest.

It never mattered, spring, summer, winter, or fall. As I started my trip into sleep, I could count on her back being firmly pressed up to my back, her way of both showing love and being assured I was there for her.

I couldn't find much time for walking her that first summer and fall. I thanked God (who was now fully back in my consciousness) for the large yard. On weeknights, with enough outdoor lighting already established, she easily traversed the deck into the grass and wandered around to her heart's content, usually about 15 minutes worth. On weekends, I'd load her into my red Plymouth Voyager (inherited from Kira) and take her to a local park for a walk.

While married and with Kira, Dar had always easily hopped up onto the floor of the minivan and then up onto the passenger seat. Now, on occasion, she might need a little "fanny boost" from a helping hand into the passenger seat.

Darla still had the heart of a puppy, but as Thanksgiving and Christmas 2006 approached, her body, now 87 years old in human years, was beginning to betray her.

Yet, while this aging dog's physical skills began to recede, her ability to love only grew that much stronger.

It is only unto us...superior beings...lol...

....to imagine we are...superior.

I discovered I am not.

CHAPTER 23

FOR ANYONE WITH THE FAITH TO BELIEVE IN GOD, there can be no doubt that such a giver of lives and souls also gives unique gifts to each of us. Writers, musicians, artists, scientists – these people reflect the strongest examples of a well-clarified talent. But, ultimately, if you look closely enough, you'll find that all people, at their best, bring forth extraordinary gifts, the ability to love, share, understand, become selfless and so much more.

When I was about 13 years old, through a stupid accident, I fractured the knuckle of the

index finger of my right hand. Actually, the word the orthopedist used was "pulverize." I ended up going for in-patient, 5 hour surgery to reconstruct it.

On the first day, lying in my stiff, uncomfortable hospital bed, I was already bored out of my mind. A Hispanic, middle-aged man with dark hair and a broad face in a blue uniform walked in with a broom and mop and plastic bags. He proceeded in his tasks as part of the housekeeping staff, never looking up at me, even when I innocently said "hello."

The next day, when he came in, he smiled briefly at me. I said "hello," and he smiled back, this time his smile a bit bigger. I couldn't even tell if he spoke English.

On the third day, I ended up spending five hours in surgery, missing his visit. I woke up

in the recovery room, where the effects of the anesthesia quickly turned me nauseous. Even so, being a kid with that 'bounce-back' ability, I was back in my own hospital room by 5:30 PM, my right hand fully bandaged and braced. The surgery had gone well. The dinner tray had just arrived.

I looked up to find my housekeeping friend standing at the foot of my bed. A large smile

beamed across his face. I started rattling on about the surgery and that I was going home the next morning. He waited patiently until I finished, then he nodded in understanding. That wonderful smile spread again. He turned and left; I never saw him again.

I don't know, to this day, if he understood anything I said. I don't know if he waited beyond his shift to see me, although this last visit was with no cleaning paraphernalia. It was obvious this visit was personal and that he likely knew that he would not see me the

next day.

I'll never know if it was me saying a simple hello to a much ignored man, or if it was a

sensitive man caring about a young boy so far from his regular life. But God's gifts were in motion, and I have never forgotten it, even some 40 years later.

Darla never was and never would be the kind of dog you would play "fetch" with. Oh, if you threw something, she would run and catch it. But then she'd stand there with the object in her mouth, daring you to come and get it. If you were stupid enough to follow her lead, then the game continued and you chased around after a guided missile, she intent on never letting you win. She may not have been able to keep up with squirrels, but she was fully aware you, as a human on two feet, couldn't keep up with her.

By the time the fall of that year, 2006, had come, both The Doo and I were long past the "fetch and harass the human" as a game. But we did both greatly enjoy the times together down at a local park by where I now lived. The visits there occurred mostly on Saturday and/or Sunday mornings, but occasionally after sunset on weekdays, if I arrived home early enough.

As previously stated in an earlier chapter, Dar exuded a simple sweetness and loving nature that took most people by surprise. Her "driven-white-snow" coat of fur and her smaller size only enhanced this. All of this, combined with a re-born exuberance for life, made her the object of attention no matter where she went. Despite her advanced age, I even considered having her trained as a "service dog," one prepared to visit and bring joy to senior care facility residents and children in cancer-care hospitals (more about that later). Unfortunately, at that time, only one training center existed, 200 miles away, in upstate New York, and they held classes only twice a year.

What inspired me to want to do such a thing, beyond just average folks meeting her?

It was simple. Our park walks were never uneventful.

Darla had always been very good with Kira's (and at the time, my) nieces and nephews, but our weekend "strolls" revealed a much larger, unexpected result. Children seeing her, from as far as 50-75 feet away, would start running towards us. I'd stop our movement, holding Darla's leash tight. These children, white, African American, Indian,

Hispanic, Chinese -- they would simply rush to her and start petting her, asking all kinds of questions:

"What's her name? How old is she? Does she like cat food? My dog does (?!!)."

Often the parents came running up to see what their children were up to with a stranger. I'd introduce Dar and me, explain we lived in the area. Almost invariably, the parents stood back and let their kids continue on.

A couple of parents even lifted their toddlers out of walkers or safe harnesses to reach out and pet The Doo. I stood in complete amazement. Even if a dozen children surrounded her, Dar was...happy.

They petted her, touched her eyes, her nose, her mouth, grabbed her tail. Unlike most dogs, she never flinched, never bared her teeth, never pulled away.

She was loving these children as much as they were loving her!

It is amazing. "Out of the mouths of 'babes'..."

Small children told me about pets they lost, about parents divorcing, about so many life experiences I never knew a small kid could go through. Meanwhile, I got the sense that Darla was absorbing all of their happiness and sadness and simply returning the "missing love" these little souls needed. She was thriving and as happy as I had ever seen her.

Only one bad situation ever happened. Dar was with some kids when the beer-bellied father of one of them intruded. As the park allowed barbeques (but not alcohol consumption), I'm presuming this guy decided to break the rules. He meandered over and asked about Dar and me. I could smell the alcohol on him.

I gave him all my info. I presume, in his intoxicated state, he decided I was a pervert, using Dar to lure kids. He was apparently there with some other couples with children and ordered all the kids to get "back" and be away from The Doo and me.

He then added, to me, specifically: "You and your dog need to move on."

Being of Jersey City stock, I really wanted to challenge this guy. I wanted to blow his liquefied brain with a rapid-fire set of insults, call the local PD to have him arrested and the like, but then, with the kids gone, Darla tugged slightly on her chain.

Was I being told something by The Doo?

I rose up from the bench I was sitting on. Fully 6" taller than him and watching him stand unsteady as he acted meanly, I looked at a beer belly that probably weighed as much as me. My mindset shifted. I pitied the child this man had power over.

"We're moving on," I answered. I bit my tongue. I wanted to say: "Sorry I didn't know you own the park!" Any Jersey City person would agree it was a majorly polite, appropriate response.

Dar and I continued to the park through the next Spring, 2007. The same was

always true for her with kids, but I was more guarded.

But, before that, when I got home that one day, after the drunk guy challenged Dar and me, I took her off her leash. She went for food and water.

I sat down and cried. And cried more.

Maybe I was being too sensitive. That has always been a trait of mine. Maybe I was finally mourning the death of a relationship. Maybe I was mourning the death of innocents sharing innocent love. Maybe I was crying because, when you remove yourself from feeling for so long a time, when you return to it, you're not ready for such abrupt things.

Selfish? Sad for Dar's gifts being questioned? Sad for the little child with the drunken, beer belly Dad? Sad just for myself?

There was no time to decide. After 6 months of me being the new "wunderkind," the guy who saved my department, a single complaint came into my boss. He, a man of aggressive nature and decisive action (even if wrong), turned on me and started complaining about my weaknesses. He was an ass. The kind of guy who leaves bodies behind in the path to his success. It would take another five years, due to my talent, but ultimately I would be gone.

Many times per day, everyday, till the day I left...I was never good enough, because of him, though I, in my heart, knew I was.

I guess, in the end, Darla taught me yet another lesson:

...what others perceive of you ISN'T you, unless YOU LET it be so. I've never doubted my skills, either in graphic design or in management. I deal with a person far past the ability to understand the youth and world of today.

I guess, in the end, that is what made Darla special, especially with those children in the park. Though she had never experienced the likes of it before, her heart was open and her ability to love and look past flaws was endless.

Looking back, maybe I shouldn't have given in to "Beer Belly" so fast, but rather, let him send the kids off as we spoke alone on the bench and, in doing so, get to meet The Doo fully. Knowing her gifts as I was then discovering them to be, Dar and I probably would have ended up being invited to the barbeque.

As for my ex-boss? He was a "dog person," but he liked big, rough dogs...like he perceived himself.

He was once a major football star in college. When he finally saw a pic of Dar on my desk, his answer was: "That's not a dog! You need something big and fun, who will satisfy your life and make it better!"

Little did he know about THIS little darlin', who had brought me back to God,

who showed forgiveness always, who loved all, who had been such a 'bridge' in dire times. Thomas Carlyle, the great scholar, poet, and philosopher (1785-1881), once wrote: "Every man is my superior in that I may learn from him."

I'll paraphrase: "Every creature is my superior in that I may learn from it."

Darla's gifts remained throughout her life. Our trips increased and decreased as per my availability. Though I was more cautious with children later on, due to the implied threat back then, Dar's presence, wherever she went, always evoked response.

The deal had changed. While Kira and I had been instrumental in giving Darla a new life at an old age, her days of playing "puppy" were over. She had a gift to share and it seems to appear that nothing was going to stand in her way.

For a while, in my late teens, while searching for meaning, I had flirted with Buddhism and the concept that we are a part of a larger "whole." My upbringing in Roman Catholicism focused much on the individual's relationship with God. Now, with Dar having brought me back to belief, I needed to know what "I" believed, as opposed to what any given "faith" would demand of me.

The way Dar approached things was much like that of the "Jesus" I was raised with: "accept all/lover the sinner and hate the sin." And yet, Darla's behavior also embraced Buddhism, and many other religions...

I can't these days accept any "religion" that denies access to "heaven/nirvana" based on human interpretation. It's beyond our 'ken,' our thinking. In my mind's eye, I can see Darla, a dog, standing in history beside such figures. Maybe that's just a fun dream or wish. But...

...when was the last time you purely loved?

The rest that follows here won't have such a religious diatribe. The only thing I can say here is that I saw true love through Darla. If you believe in a higher power, and can believe a lowly dog can show such love through a higher power, not a single one of us has the right to harm another, verbally or physically.

The first Thanksgiving and Christmas in the new house were coming all too fast and I was bound and determined the boxes so haunting my new home would be gone. I

hid them everywhere. I accomplished it, but not before Dar fell down the basement stairs in the dark.

Thump...thump...thump!

Nosey dog.

She came up limping.

Slightly fractured paw--wrapped for a week.

Dumb dog. Dumb owner. She healed fast in just a few days. Heel, Owner. Heel....

I had been used to Dar and Shad nosing for cooked food, mostly off Kira and me. But Kira was long gone – we hadn't spoken at all. With me as the sole chef, Thanksgiving loomed as very important to both The Doo and me. I was worked more than needed for that fest.Shad got thrown off the kitchen counter 3 times on Wednesday night (Thanksgiving Eve)!

Dar twice put her paws up to the top of the stove, on T-Day, trying to reach for a cooked turkey... Dar testing uncooked stuffing started it...

...but I'm getting ahead of things.

CHAPTER 24

"...THAT FALL TURNED INTO WINTER, AND WINTER INTO SPRING, AND ALL THE WHILE YOU TOOK ME THROUGH THE SWEET AWAKENING..."

Such were the words of a song, "Old College Avenue," written by the late Harry Chapin,

master folk singer/songwriter of the late 1970s. I discovered Harry (all true Chapin fans refer to him by first name) late in 1977, by sheer mistake of a mis-purchased record, and saw him in concert three times before his tragic death in an auto accident in 1981, as I mentioned earlier.

Of all his songs, both minor and unknown to most, "Old College Avenue" affected me

very much. It was about a young man in Ithaca, New York, where Harry had lived at one time. It reflected new love and life and then regretting the loss of love and innocence.

"College Avenue" actually exists in Ithaca and my brother, whom I mentioned has since

passed away, once lived there while going for a "Physics" Masters Degree at Cornell University. I can never hear that song without remembering visiting Matt in the fall, seeing the wet, dewy streets, the trees shedding color, and the road that winded away into fog and then nothingness.

It has remained always for me a bittersweet memory.

That Winter, 2006, turned into pain and loneliness shortly after Thanksgiving (the regret was already there as I faced my first Christmas with no human contact at all). Kira was fully gone.

Unfortunately, the "pain" aspect in this case was due to Darla and her exuberance.

It happened on a late Wednesday night, about 9:45 PM. Recently, due to extended hours at work, I had been walking The Doo about the witching hour of 9:00 or later, often in darkness only countered by the pale blue of local streetlights.

We headed down the street (and my street curves downhill to a main road). The temperature seemed warmer than usual and Darla was smelling dormant "smells," feeling 'friskier' than usual. I tried to pull her back from what I thought might be a pile of "doggie poop' that seemed quite appealing to her.

Suddenly, a much-trusted collar, attached to her leash, slipped off over Dar's neck. Sensing freedom, she ran down the hill. I chased after.

Let's face some reality here: an older dog with four legs still runs faster than a 47 year old man on two legs.

Darla shot like a rocket across a major adjoining road that is usually heavily trafficked. Thankfully, at so late an hour, no cars were passing through. I chased after, treading the tarmac, as she jumped through the graveled, unpaved worksite of a future pizza parlor.

In a major effort to catch her, I defied my own sense of safety and logic and leapt the last few feet off the roadway...

Have you ever seen any of the "Matrix" trilogy movies? These highly-stylized films show then-current male heartthrob Keanu Reeves performing "Kung Fu"-like gymnastics in stunning slow motion.

That's how I remember my jump, suspended in air, slow-motion, exquisitely twisting and turning as I reached for her...at the same time, that I once even wanted contact with this all white, fuzzball annoyance was not even in my thoughts to even a single degree. She was family, a loved one, my child, and I was saving her...as I

reached out in this magnificent leap...

No such luck in reality. My right foot landed hard on the paved curb and I nearly somersaulted onto my back as I fell onto gravel. I cringed, laying on my side. I pulled up into a near fetal position in the dark, my foot and back suddenly aching in pain.

A moment later, a wet nose sniffed at my face, my nose, my ear. Innocent, curious, and caring, Dar understood my dilemma, but not that she caused it. She stayed by me, confused and wondering.

Unaware of the extent of injuries yet, I bolted up and grabbed The Doo in a chest lock, forcing the collar and leash back on her. She gave little resistance. We slowly made our way back home with me limping all the way on my right foot.

Darla walked slowly and quietly, her head down, following my pace, finally almost as if she knew she had done something very, very wrong. I struggled along beside her, my right foot in agony, her leash pulled tight. I couldn't even manage a "dumb dog" comment; she had only again been playing at being a "reborn" puppy.

I called in sick to work the next day. From toes to ankle, my right foot was swollen and purple. I did go into work the day after, limping like crazy. When my boss saw my condition and viewed how badly I was walking, he asked what had happened.

After I explained, he yelled at me like crazy, telling me to go to a doctor and get an x-ray.

He was correct: I had broken the "fifth metatarsal," the far outside bone of my right foot. I was placed in a soft boot cast and crutch, as such a break cannot be healed by a hard cast. I would wear it, and the crutch, for the next six weeks. Luckily I was able to carpool with a co-worker for the period.

"Oh, it's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas..."

Yeah, right. My first year in the new house and not a Christmas decoration in sight, inside or outside (they were all in the basement). I guess I should have been angry at Dar, but how do you hold an 'innocent' to blame when it would only blacken your soul? The Doo had already restored my faith in God...

. ..now, she was about to teach me patience.

CHAPTER 25

NEW JERSEY WEATHER IS ALWAYS 'IFFY'AT BEST. It kind of reflects the change in times, maybe effects of 'global warming,' and mostly, most recently, the State's split personality: proud but still mired in the imaginings of mobsters, via the old "The Sopranos" HBO television series. Don't get me wrong: there ARE 'mobsters' in NJ, but more and more, they aren't descendants of Sicilian immigrants living in upscale, million-dollar homes. This state suffers from a criminal group known as "active politicians," and they unfortunately reside in every town, city, borough, and county.

The weather, similarly, can't be trusted. When I was a kid, we had ample doses of all four

seasons. Forty+ years later, no smart meteorologist will dare predict an upcoming season.

At least, as the year moved on, despite my broken foot, the weather stayed calm and

we were free of any major snow or ice storms. I hadn't planned on going out for "New Year's" anyway: Dar, Shad, and I celebrated it by watching a classic "Honeymooners" TV show marathon, followed up on January 1st by a classic "Munsters" TV show marathon.

Spring 2007 came early. I was back to driving my own car, the ever-aging '93 Plymouth Voyager mini-van I'd inherited from Kira. I had been intent on "driving it into the ground," as the saying goes, and I was pretty near that: the old, stalwart dynamo was 14 years old and had nearly 170,000 miles on it. The gas gauge stopped working and dropped to "0" 90 miles after a fill-up; the rear wiper had ceased working 5 years earlier; the dash blower switch drew down to a single setting only; air-conditioning proved to be intermittent; the car, in general, started overheating after three minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Kira and I were talking again (we had been since late fall with my foot issue). I desperately needed a vacation, not having had a day away in over three years. I wanted to spend three days in Washington, D.C. (I'm a big American history buff). Kira very nicely offered to meet Dar and me in the mini-van in the capitol city. The plan was for her to drive Dar to her house down south then return The Doo to D.C. two days later, returning my "all-white" daughter to me for my trip home.

It never happened.

The week before this wonderfully planned trip, the mini-van "gave up the ghost," nearly making me a "ghost." At 7:30 AM, in rush-hour traffic, in the heavily trafficked

northbound TRUCK LANES of the central NJ Turnpike (one of the most dangerous stretches of road in America), the Voyager's transmission died.

I was moving along at a respectable speed, but then began to wonder why a hard foot on the gas petal was accomplishing nothing! EVERYTHING ELSE WAS STILL ON! Trucks of huge sizes flew by me, honking annoyance at my pace! I managed to move to the right shoulder, turned the car off, and restarted...put it in gear and...

ZIP.

NADA.

I had indeed accomplished my goal. The Voyager was dead at 171,503.8 miles.

Not bad for a car of any sort. But I felt a twinge of sadness. The Voyager had made multiple vacation trips, some to Disney in Florida for Kira and me, and family. It carried home repair things, Christmas trees, toys, family members to parties, taxied friends and family to and from airports, delivered me to and from my job, Kira to and from her job...

But most of all, I was PISSED! I was supposed to go on vacation the next week!

Ultimately, the trip never occurred. I rented out a car the next week to search for a replacement.

Dar never saw Kira; I never saw Washington, D.C.

I settled on a slightly used 2003 Ford Mustang fleet car. I paid enough for it that I could have bought a completely new, economy-class foreign car, but after enough years with a mini-van, I wanted something sporty and with some power.

(A confession here: I was 47 years old when I bought the Mustang. Nope, not a mid-life

crisis – just the 3rd Mustang of my life. I had previously owned a '71 Mustang Mach 1 I restored, as well as an '83 Mustang GT, as stated. What can I say? I love fast Fords!)

But the down-payment for the car was my saved money for the vacation.

In the end, it wasn't such a bad choice. The gas mileage mirrored the mini-van and with my good driving record, the insurance remained about the same, except for an increase because the 2003 Mustang required collision. And, as Dar was getting older, she couldn't hop up so well into the mini-van; the 'low-slung' Ford helped her a lot.

I wasn't ignorant of her recent failing abilities.

I just didn't want to address them.

Despite a stable job and home, my life seemed to be spinning out of control, like I wasn't in charge anymore. For too long too much had been happening too fast.

The divorce, the new job, the new home, the injury, the car...stress was building.

No vacation anywhere in over four years. I was coping but barely.

Changes would come in time, but not without pain. I had to seek help and rest, and with the encouragement of my boss and the Human Resources Manager of my company, I took some time off and found my way back to renewed health and a better life. While Darla had brought me back to God and I was learning patience, I found God doesn't automatically make your life better; you handle it.

I guess we're expected to do that on our own. (At least, that's the way it was for me.) In that Spring, better but still a bit tired, I was running short on after-work energies

regarding walking Darla. It was then I made a decision that I think had a wonderful benefit, at least for the time being, and maybe far beyond, to all involved.

She was a smart, skinny, giggly 14 year old kid from across the street.

Her name was Kay.

And immediately, Dar loved Kay but hated the plan. Of course. No one but me was desirable to The Doo.

L ucky, exhausted me.

CHAPTER 26

KAY WAS THEN A CUTE, THIN, SILLY TEENAGER, WHO LIVED ACROSS THE STREET, but no one should be fooled. By age 14, she already decided she wanted to be an engineer or psychologist. As of this writing, she is in a highly-rated New Jersey college and pursuing her goals passionately. Knowing her and her parents as I have come to, I have no doubt she will better the world and ultimately my life.

Bettering my life and satisfying the innate "exercise" needs of Dar were fully on my mind that late Spring and Summer of 2007. I approached Kay about an after-school job walking The Doo. She wanted to but I insisted her parents agree to it and meet with me first. I was still "overly-sensitive," based on that idiot in the park the summer before. At the same time I was fully cognizant of today's world and how protective parents need to be. I'm that kindly mid-life bachelor across the street and not a pervert, but only I know that till proven.

I met with Kay and her mom, Marge, in the front room of my house and we covered details. Kay walked Dar the next night for the first time; Marge smartly escorted the two. The Doo clearly liked Kay, but the leash and a 'slow walk' weren't her 'cup of tea.' Dar trudged away, like a prisoner sentenced to the electric chair. She walked about 4 feet, stopped, sniffed, and then stalled. She often had to be yanked by her collar to move. This was repeated over and over. This is why I wanted Kay to walk her:

Getting older, Darla was no longer a reborn "puppy;" her strength was waning and she, like all of us, didn't like aging. As we get older, rules that seem smart when we're young seem newly "stupid," and we get annoyed by them.

One evening, when Marge decided Kay was okay to walk Dar alone, Kay showed up at my doorstep with Dar on the leash. Kay was laughing her head off.

"She was bored with our walk, but as soon as she saw 'home,' she began running! She pulled me by the leash and I had to run to keep up with her!"

Kay would still walk Dar, but I could no longer ignore the old girl's weakened legs.

I stopped sleeping on my lonely bed on the second floor as The Doo struggled with stairs. There was no way, with her "separation anxiety," that I could be upstairs with her down below.

And so, I began sleeping on the couch. Not good for me, but Dar loved it. Often, I would sit up, my back hurting, at 3:00 am. I'd turn and find my "pup" wide awake, just

looking at me.

Darla was watching.

But, in turn, I had been watching The Doo, and began to consider something quite remarkable for me, given how closed off I had previously allowed my heart to become. I had long been aware of "service dogs," those unique creatures of all breeds who are brought to senior care centers, convalescent facilities, cancer hospitals, hospices, and the like. The sole (but singularly large and very encompassing) purpose of these visits is for dogs with "certain gifts" to provide love and companionship to those who are ill.

This might consist of a terminal child stricken with cancer or leukemia, or a senior citizen with Alzheimer's, or simply a home filled with elderly, who could be in need of attention and affection. Perhaps a dog such as Dar might just give someone near death a final remembrance and a moment of happiness over a beloved 'friend' almost – yet not quite – forgotten. One still missed.

I knew in my heart that, with her ever-loving, gentle, and affectionate nature, Dar would be perfect for such an effort. The thought had first struck me back , a year before, on Thanksgiving, when my favorite cousin, LuAnn, invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner with her and her Mom at the senior care location my blind aunt was residing at. I didn't bring it up on that day – we had just three hours to spend over a group meal – but it did occur to me on my lonely hour ride home.

I proposed a "Doo" visit to my Aunt Angela later on the following spring, but my cousin, LuAnne, said 'no' to it: "My mother doesn't like dogs," she said flatly.

It wasn't my place to disagree, but my thoughts wandered:

My dear cousin had seen images of Darla via internet email, yet had never met her in person. 'If only she knew the gifts Darla gave to everyone who came across her path...'

That meeting was never meant to be. Nor was Darla to become a "service dog." There was a full training to be done, both for the safety of the dogs as well as those they attended. (It made sense: in a hospice, you don't want a wheelchair running over a dog's tail, causing it to bite the person it is nurturing).

Despite The Doo's advanced age, I pursued options. Unfortunately, at that time, only one place in upstate New York (over 200 miles from me) offered training just once a year, and that time had passed for the year. (In times since, with smart administrators, doctors, and social workers realizing the incredible value of such things, efforts to 'create and train' service dogs has expanded greatly).

But for one lonely, hopeless Saturday afternoon, I, who had never wanted this all-

white pain-in-the-ass, spent 3 hours online, searching for a way to share the gifts given to me. I loved her so fully, appreciated all she had started to do for me, and wanted to share

her with many others.

If Darla indeed was on a mission, either by herself, or one ordained by God, she was quite good at it...like the 007 of dogs, LOL. She wasn't done yet, by far.

Looking back, maybe I was no less needy than those people The Doo could have been a "service dog" to. Like them, I was at the end of a life...one mired in sadness and loss, dreading an unknown future, or the lack of one.

Maybe Dar was a "service dog" after all. With just one patient.

CHAPTER 27

SADNESS COMES UPON US IN MANY WAYS, and to each of us, being individuals, it remains unique in the form it takes. I have witnessed it – no, have been an heir to it – all too often. But to try to define sadness would be impossible; it comes in too many shapes and sizes, is delivered in so many ways.

Sadness can be in the form of a young boy's broken leg stopping him from making his grammar school team's tryouts; sadness can be the empathy felt when watching the

evening news and discovering a lone mother coming home from work to discover her husband and children have perished in a household blaze.

If nothing else, sadness reminds us of the precious and frail nature of our existences, and

that life, as a gift, is sacred. Religion has nothing to do with it; the heart has all to do with it.

It has been said that "the heart is a lonely hunter." I'll agree to that, but at the same time,

I think that sometimes we are not so much the hunter but the hunted and that life gives us sadness so that we will appreciate what we have.

Kay continued to walk Dar with continued mixed results. Some evenings, from late summer into the Fall, The Doo went easily. Oddly, she always seemed surprised this was going to occur again and again. I guess the concept of 'exercise' for the sake of well-being had not intruded upon her thought processes.

My arrivals home from work had become quite repetitive also, but I never dismissed them as mundane. There is quite a lot to be said for unconditional love from pets and that they are joyous to see you alive and well and back in their lives.

The ritual almost never deviated. Now limited to the living room and kitchen, Darla would go crazy, trying to jump to get to me over the child gate I had placed between the dining room (the entrance to my house) and the kitchen. I would drop all to rush to her and rub her face.

Upon opening the gate and releasing her from her "prison," I was always treated to a display of pent up energy and love. Dar shot out like a bullet from a gun, crashing and smashing her way around things, from the front to the back of the house, over and

over until I settled on the couch. Finally realizing where I was, a superhero-type leap onto me was the finale.

Somewhere in the midst of this, dear old 6 pound Shadow managed to find her way there too, without being trampled. She would stand on the opposite side of me from The Doo, ready for her "hello" and copious petting.

Occasionally, overcome with joy, Shadow would step across my knees and nuzzle Darla, who never seemed quite sure what to do about this. If a dog can look embarrassed, then The Doo did. While I knew she genuinely liked Shad, she didn't appear to understand what to do with this display of affection from what amounted to a natural enemy. Sometimes Dar would smell Shad, as if discovering a new entity. Other times, she would merely look at me in confusion.

I just enjoyed it all, knowing but not wanting to acknowledge to myself that this wonderful thing was not meant to last for too long.

Early in the week before Thanksgiving, I began to notice a bit of a change in Shadow. Her fur seemed to be matted more than it had been; she had always been an excellent self-groomer and I had come to accept that with advanced age, she might be a little less fastidious. This, however, was a clearly noticeable difference.

She still ate and consumed her water well and joined Dar in our nightly "hello" sessions, so I accepted her change in habits as part of a senior cat's life. She was now at least 20 in human years – an incredible 133 years old in cat time.

I do have to say that, in my long history of experience with felines, as previously

explained, I have never met one with such a strong constitution as Shadow. Aside from one or two trips to the doctor for regular checkups and routine shots, there had never been a trip in to the veterinarian for any illness. While this one-time fireball may have ever only weighed no more than six pounds, she had a natural health and strength that even the greatest weightlifter would envy.

By Thanksgiving Day, though, I was growing concerned. I cooked a turkey breast for Dar, Shad, and me, and while The Doo wolfed down her portions, including a healthy amount of stuffing with gravy as well (in addition to a piece of pumpkin pie with whipped cream), Shad was a completely different story. Her faves, the neck and giblets, sat untouched next to her water bowl, which also didn't seem to have thinned any, as I rinsed and refilled it day by day. Still, for myself, I needed tradition, even if no human company was available, so Dar and Shad hung out, napped, and looked for occasional petting while my TV played DVDs of Laurel & Hardy's "March of the Wooden

Soldiers," Peter Jackson's "King Kong," the original "King Kong," and Jim Carrey in

"How The Grinch Stole Christmas."

Friday was a lazy day for me, off from work at my job, and I treated it as such. I already had assumed I wouldn't see Kay, so I took Dar out to the park. Once again, she did the "stall" thing and I gave up after a short while.

Shad did show up for her appointed mealtime, but looked noticeably thinner and more haggard.

She ate very little. For a brief second, I considered calling the vet, but I'd been down this road before with my parents' cat, Samantha, and I knew Shad's time was at hand. In my heart, I was hurting, but I knew there was no reason to put her through a needless visit to the vet. I decided that she was owed the dignity to die in her own fashion, just as she had lived by her own rules in life.

I picked her up after she finished eating and carried her over to the couch. She felt so frail, this cat who had once jumped six feet in the air, just to hang in an outside window frame to scare Samantha. She didn't even offer an "eeaaaack."

I settled myself on the couch with her on my lap and petted her, her hair flying off into the air with every pass. She drooled (I'm still trying to figure out non-believing humans who can't see how that mirrors human baby behavior). Dar leaned over to sniff.

After about 5 minutes, I carried her back out and put her in her basket/car seat. She cozied in for a good sleep.

I put Shad's food down early on Saturday, probably about 9:00 am. By 1:00 pm, when it wasn't touched, I went on a hunt. I knew from past experience with cats that, when they feel the "end" is near, they "hide." They will find a safe, enclosed area, one very private, as apparently they wish their 'passing' to be private.

I do not know if this behavior is "genus" oriented, meaning that it is particular to members of the feline breed. But, including my own experiences, it does seem to hold true for domesticated cats. All of the cats I had encountered in my life, with life-terminating illnesses, had gone to "hide" while awaiting the end of their lives.

Until this.

Sometimes, while writing this story, I expect the reader to say: "oh, come on! You're making it up!" I swear all I'm saying here is true, and for anyone doubting, if willing to pay for a lie-detector test, I'll happily submit.

Shad went fully AWOL on Saturday and so I went searching. The house I own isn't that big and I finally found her under a dresser in my bedroom on the second floor. She was even thinner, more frail, and shaking ever so slightly. I knew the end was near,

so I simply went downstairs and filled a new bowl with water, brought it back up, and placed it by her under the dresser.

I said my goodbyes and told her I loved her, despite her harassment of Samantha years earlier.

I told her Darla loved her too.

I expected to find her tiny, thin body there on Sunday morning. When I looked, she was no where to be found...

"Shadow-Meister-Meister-Shadow," as Kira's children had proclaimed her, was named after a well-known and beloved animated Christmas show character, the "Meister-Burger-Burger Meister," from "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town."

She had been a mean little cat for most of her life and my ex always attributed that to her being taken from her mother too soon. True or not, this tiny cat had the heart of strength of a true hunter, and Kira and I were often appalled to find our front door littered with 'gifts:' birds, mice, and even once a bunny about the size of Shadow herself. While we understood this was Shad's way of a "token love," it was not really appreciated.

As I previously stated, Shadow had been received through a friend. Kira felt a pet might possibly fill at least a small gap in the empty spaces her children had off her divorce from her first husband. The man was often, as I saw over the years, an "absentee" father at least. At best, he was an idiot, missing out on cherished moments in their lives. Though I am not in the least a violent man, I who am six feet tall of Jersey City, even this day would love to go a single round in 'the ring' with this six foot, seven inch dolt. I'd make sure to beat him senseless. No one ever has taught this man about the pain he inflicted upon the people who loved him so much. Maybe someday, if not me, God will.

Shadow was an 'outdoor/indoor' cat, but I resolved to make her an 'indoors only' feline. It took years of effort, but as Shad adapted to such a life, her demeanor began to change also.

Like each of God's creatures, like you and me, she possessed gifts unto herself individually.

Though unapproachable to give affection to, if you were sick, she'd snuggle with you, lay on you, as if to protect you, no matter who you were. She well and appropriately earned the nickname: "Nurse Shadow."

By the Sunday morning after Thanksgiving, regarding Shad, I was a little more concerned. She was still missing from her chosen spot under my bedroom dresser. I didn't want to dismiss her loss; at the same time, as a homeowner, I also didn't want to

suddenly smell something really bad a month later.

Once again, like with The Doo, I was stunned by a "creature" who broke the mold, who did things unexpected, who changed my views and expectations.

That Sunday afternoon was, as I recall, overcast and a dull day. At about 2:00 pm, as I was lazing on the couch with Dar, dozing, watching TV, and doing all lazy stuff, a tiny, haggard, emaciated Shadow made her final leap up onto the coach, to join Dar and me. I sat up and watched. She found it hard to get comfortable; she circled a number of times in order just to rest. It was clear that her once athletic body had betrayed her.

But she put her head down and napped.

Scholars may consider me a victim of "anthropomorphism," the habit of attributing human characteristics to "dumb" animals. If I do this, I do so without regret. I think most "pet" owners would disagree too.

The cat only rested for 20 minutes; it was clear she couldn't get comfortable. Dar wandered over across my lap and sniffed her.

It was clear to me that Shadow's time was done.

On her own, Shad jumped from the couch into the floor, as to leave. I watched her walk away, her gait now stiff and unsure. I caught up to her by the front dining room, and lifted her into the pet car seat Kira and I had bought for Dar that was sheepskin-lined. She fell easily into it, no longer able to stand. She looked up at me, as if to say: "you know..."

I left her alone, knowing the dignity she wanted and deserved. I checked on her at 7:00 PM... she was unable to move but still alive. I gave her, via a tablespoon, a drop of water...

...it was odd. My grandmother had died in my family home when I was eight years old, nursed by my mother and an aunt. I remember them giving her, via a tablespoon, a sip of water...

By 10:00 pm, Shad was further weakened, fully unable to move, and I petted her, saying "you're loved...you can go..."

I fell back to sleep on the couch, near Dar...but it wasn't a restful sleep.

At 1:13 am, I bolted up off the couch, from a solid sleep, as if someone had yelled "FIRE."

As soon as I woke up, I knew what it was. I turned the lights on and went over to where Shadow had been resting. I went to the spot and checked her. Her body was so warm, but there was no breath, no heartbeat. Her small, frail body was warm but she was

gone.

Innately, I knew what you are surmising. Shad had passed and I knew her passing happened at 1:13 AM.

I buried her in a place in the yard, near the deck, that Dar and I could see and visit often. I did it in the dark, by the light of the back porch, before work at 5:00 AM, in a pounding rain. Like Darla, she had passed through many lives: a child's pet, an independent free soul, a mentor to goofy "Charlie," my silly stray, a person in a home that constantly evolved, and then finally, a settled "senior," happy with her life, and her last, new family...

Shadow lived happy and she died happy. I'm glad I was a part of that.

I will never forget how, true to her nature, she still broke all the rules, and behaved like she wanted, not following anything but her heart.

I went into my job that day with no one knowing I was an older but wiser man. My Thanksgiving weekend had not been without an incredible experience.

Shadow would be visited often. In a short time, Dar alone would easily find the spot on her own, foretelling the days to come. She would also search the spaces in the house where Shad used to be. But for the time being, I thought the sadness was only mine.

I  was wrong...

CHAPTER 28

SOME THINGS YOU JUST DON'T RECOVER FROM.

Shad's passing, as healthy and as normal as it could have been, devastated me. Only now gaining back my 'humanity,' it was for me a serious wound, one that broke up the frail little family that had been established in the wake of serious blindness and ignorance.

I'd buried her in a special place, with a can of her favorite cat food beside her, as a gesture of love "for the road," like I'd done with Charlie. But my newly opened heart still bled with sadness for myself. It never even occurred to me that she might be held in a special place with God.

I was busy wallowing in self-pity...

It took but only a day or so this to pass, for my focus to shift from myself and my own self-pity.

I arrived home from work that Monday evening to hear the most horrible, mournful sound. A low, desperate cry embraced the whole of the house; the darkness was not just from lack of light but from sadness. A sadness so guttural, so alive, so hurtful...so nearly that of a lost human child crying out in lost pain. It was coming from Darla.

This stunned me and I fought to understand. The immediate answer was clear but phenomenal. Was it really possible Dar REALLY missed Shadow?

Many years earlier, when my father died, Samantha, the cat, stopped eating for two months and lost 5 out of 12 normal pounds. My mother accompanied me to the vet out of fear and concern.

"Has there been a loss in your family?," the young female vet asked.

"My husband, but that was two months ago." My mother was suffering from cancer herself, and my Dad's death stole a man she had been married to for 41 years from her. She never thought, fairly enough to herself, to think past my brother and me.

This sweet female vet, with eight years med training, glanced down for a second in a 'self-smile.'

"Mrs. Small, Samantha is mourning the loss of your husband. She loved him." She sighed: "Cats have very long memories, much longer than dogs..."

I remembered "Corky." Three years later...on a street...

Dar rushed to me and I gave her love with hugs and rubbings, but I couldn't forget that "sound." I'd be treated to it each night, upon arrival home from work, throughout December. In desperation, I called my ex and would play her answering machine responses to me, hoping The Doo's "mommy" would placate her, but nothing worked.

Darla would wander the first floor, looking for where Shadow had been. She'd do it at odd times, as if she had just missed catching up with a living Shad moments before. Often, Dar would surprisingly find Shad's last places of resting, even though I'd cleaned.

One cold December night, The Doo really threw me off and started barking towards the second floor. I thought: "Geez: a broken window? A squirrel in?"

I carefully carried my aging 'daughter' up the stairs and released her. She immediately found Shadow's last resting place under the dresser that Sunday morning

before joining us and then dying. Darla rested down in front of it and settled herself. She glanced up at me as if for an 'answer.'

I had a TON of answers, but none that would serve either Darla or me. All the answers were clinical. The dog was missing a "pack member." I was feeding into

"anthropomorphism." I was indulging a dumb animal linked to a scent.

I decided to take Dar back down the stairs. Upon reaching for her, for the first and last time ever, she didn't bark at me but made a low, protective growl. I was stunned but not afraid. I went back down to the first floor by myself. I hung out for a while, chasing jokey internet stuff, then went back upstairs.

The Doo was past protecting Shadow's spot. She had fallen asleep and I lifted her up onto the bed, a king-sized bed left behind from the days of Kira and me. It was the same bed that this caring canine had first hopped up on that beginning night years before, triumphantly standing over me and my objections to taking her in.

It would be the last time Darla would ever sleep on that bed. I reflected on the past, when she was first an intruder and then a parent-like protector.

Now, she was older and softer, my daughter, if you will, weaker and missing her sister. And she was crying out in her loss.

I was being taught even more. I was opening my eyes but still stupid and unsure.

Christmas showed up and interrupted both my growth and stupidity: peace on earth and goodwill to men. Dar got steak, turkey pieces, turkey stuffing (she loved it), and a couple of new toys she played with minimally. Mostly, she loved being cared for.

But her loss, having loved Shadow and missing her, changed The Doo. It changed her forever. It was startling at first, then slow and minor, but looking back, as I can now,

Shadow's death stole from Darla something uniquely precious. It aged her; it changed her. Gone was that carefree, happy and silly spirit.

We all give love in our own unique ways. We all accept love in our own unique ways. I think, in the end, though, we are all victims of the heart: needing love and to love to survive, lest we wither away like an un-nurtured flower, or a half-finished oil painting pulled taut as the linseed and varnish-soaked canvas dries up, yellows, and curls.

I have been challenged in my newborn beliefs in God by many. Some will say: "The Bible says animals DON'T have souls." But I believe they do.

In response, I first ask: "which bible?"

I then say, countering: "Yes, this IS God's Book, but written by 'flawed' men, as we all are."

By then, I'm into A SERIOUS discussion. But what always "floors" all, regarding Darla, or any other creatures of God, no matter what spirituality, church, denomination, etc. is when I say this:

"I'm sorry. I have my own beliefs, which may not coincide with yours. I realize you follow beliefs in the Bible based on your faith. But, since God–He–She–It---has a comprehension beyond anything you or I could ever conceive, I think I'll wait to meet my Maker to decide what's true..."

There's always suddenly silence. And never an argument back. (How can you argue your own stupidity VS God's wisdom?)

Darla was growing old. I was growing young. And I had decided Darla had a soul. If nothing else, she had helped return my soul to me, and now she was in emotional pain...what could I do?

I could do something, and it turned out to be as stupid an effort as I would ever make. Not as stupid as the Lincolns in dropping The Doo off initially.

But stupid enough...

CHAPTER 29

it may well be that new years is the most bizarre holiday we as humans have bequeathed ourselves. Julius Caesar initially established January 1st in 46 A.D. as New Year's Day and quite uniquely celebrated it by ordering a violent and bloody routing of Jewish rebels in Galilee. In modern times, it generates a complex and widely diverse set of emotions in our 'breed.' Some view it as an exciting and joyous chance to 'start over;' others find it a sad and introspective time to 'review mistakes of the past.'

Certainly, no other annual event stretches "the glass is half full or half empty" theory to

such wide extremes. I have a rather unique perspective on this, as my birthday is December 31st. From a personal standpoint, I really don't care much either way; years of folks forgetting or ignoring my birthday while obsessively counting down the hours to a new year have left me numb and ignorant to it all. But, in retrospect, I should have paid more attention to the turning of that fateful secondhand.

It was indeed to be a fateful year.

Shadow's passing left a gaping wound in Darla's world. Though their interactions had been mostly in passing other than joining to greet me at night (I'm pretty sure they weren't playing 'hide and seek' together during the day), their friendship had been solidified in the years since Charlie's death. It had also been fortified too by a new shared home.

Dar was ever more attached to me than before when I got home from work during the week, and weekends proved to be even more problematic. Even an hour trip out by me to BJ's Wholesale Club or Costco on a Saturday morning resulted in a frenetic 'welcome' by The Doo. In a way, it was pretty funny: large purchases required multiple trips to and from the trunk of my Mustang, with me opening and closing the front screen door. Dar couldn't decide whether to go nuts over seeing me or visit the plethora of smells (often including steak, chicken, and fish, among other things) I carried in.

Mostly, I put meat-related items up on the dining room table out of her reach. I never doubted, though, that on one fateful Saturday, I'd be stupid enough to leave an eight-pound package of fresh ground beef on the floor and find her tearing into it.

It did occur that I did make that mistake more than once, but my girl was more respectful than I counted on: The shrink-wrapped packages showed that this 'great WHITE' nose seriously bumped the 'boat' but never nibbled! Indentations showed but never was a "hull" breached.

January proved to be quite a cold and bitter month. A serious weekend ice storm left, over a Friday and Saturday night, two solid inches of rock-hard white on all. By Saturday night, with it still raging, I was out "chuncking" away with an ice pick on the first inch. My neighbor in our duplex, Andie, stepped out from her front door.

"Don't even bother!," she yelled to me as ice pellets slammed into my face.

"I just want to get the first layer up," I argued back from just 10 feet way. Only the dim light of the shared front porch 60 watt bulb kept us in sight of each other.

I did take a break and went into my house. Dar met me at the front door and hopped up and down with excitement. Due to the storm's severity so far (and it WAS one horrid storm), I had consciously kept her in the house, refusing to let her out even onto the back deck to poop for fear she would slide, fall, and break a leg.

Much better to clean up stuff inside. After my brief rest (a glass of milk...I love milk and always have), I changed into drier clothes and headed back to the front door...

The Doo was adamant: she wanted out. Against my own best thoughts, I leashed her, carried her down the front steps and secured her. I began again my snow-chopping efforts.

Within a single minute, it became clear she was barking at me, not so much out of being ignored: Darla was in real pain!

Her muzzle was frozen! A hard cap of ice covered her head and ears! I immediately abandoned all, grabbed her and rushed her inside. She stood in the doorway,

shaking.

"Stay!," I demanded as I rushed to the bathroom in middle of the first floor to grab a towel. I guess, in her memories, Darla related warmth and security to the bed upstairs. While I was grabbing towels to dry her, she was attempting to rush up the flight of steps. I found her stumbling and slipping back down.

I lifted her into my arms and rested myself on the stairs. I cradled her on my knees. Her paws were frozen solid!

I dumped the towels and rubbed every paw, every pad, vigorously with my fingers, stimulating blood flow, for almost 10 minutes, until she could walk okay again.

The ice storm could wait.

Dar snuggled against me on the curved sectional couch that night as we both fought the winter. It was our new life together, a final departure from the bed we once

stood as enemies on, via her initial introduction, but had since come to be friends on.

If my brief plan to give The Doo a taste of winter as she wanted wasn't dumb enough, I managed to come up with something even more stupid, though it was intended with love in mind.

With the help of a friend from work, I hatched a scheme to give Darla a new lease on life via a new "Shadow."

After work one cold February evening, this female co-worker and friend led me to a local animal shelter, where I reviewed "available kitties." One stood out in particular:

a mostly black, feral cat. For those who don't understand "feral," it means a previously

domesticated animal who, due to life outside, has reverted to "wildlife" behavior and does not trust humans.

She looked a lot like Samantha, except for a white tuft of fur under her neck, and I recalled how Shadow had evolved. This inherently, and rather stupidly, caused me to believe I could acclimate her and seduce her quickly into life with Darla and me.

The cat, who I nicknamed "SJ," for 'Shadow Junior' or 'Samantha Junior,' came home at about 6:45 PM on a Tuesday night.

There are Oscars® for great movies. Emmys® for great plays. There should be "Jimmies" for stupid pet ownership efforts...

I carried SJ into the house in an old cat carrier from Samantha's time. Darla was curious from the very start; her tail was up and twitching and she knew something was afoot. I let her greet me first. In the two months since Shadow's passing, she had become mournful, sad, and much so needy of personal contact. (I will address more about this later.)

After I got Dar settled and calm, and changed out of work clothes to jeans and a tee shirt, I moved the cat carrier in to The Doo's living room area.

Dar was excited.

I opened the lid and 'SJ' poked her head out."

Darla smiled (if a dog can smile). A kind of "hi, new Friend!!!! You could see she was happy with a new friend. It was clear she was thrilled.

'SJ' was decidedly not of the same thought. She jumped out of the carrier, raced up the stairs, and hid under my bed on the second floor.

She and Darla would never be friends. They would never even meet again.

Sadly, this winter marked the subtle beginning of Darla's decline. As I said, I sometimes look back and consider Shadow's passing as a major moment for The Doo.

I know dogs are "pack" animals. But something perhaps 'deeper' happened then, when Shadow passed. I may be engaging in some "anthropomorphism" here, but I believe Darla looked at Shadow as an older family member, a 'sibling,' if you will.

Beyond 'SJ' not replacing shadow, one thing was very clear:

Darla was changed forever, and whether I liked it or not, she was growing old and our time was starting to grow short. I knew it and didn't want to consider the options. I'd dealt with death three times already in my immediate family...

I wanted Darla to live forever.

The Doo's decline was already underway by early spring though her ability to care was good. The ice storm was a tease. This sweet, caring dog never lost her heart or soul. And aged American Eskimo "Darla" wasn't done warming up things.

The loss of Shadow and the failure of SJ just increased her level of love...

CHAPTER 30

WINTERS ARE A FUNNY THING IN THE NORTHEASTERN UNITED STATES..

Rarely is there snow for Christmas, but it can happen. Occasionally, you hit Christmas Mass in a short-sleeved shirt with temps hitting 70 degrees. That particular winter was a "nasty, little one," if you will; not a lot of major snow storms, per say, but many little ice storms.

The benefit of such was a lush and very green spring. Kay had long sinced moved on from walking Dar and I did my best on weeknights, though often, it became a brief walk in the yard between us. Weekends though were another matter.

Despite her new aging situation, the Doo still loved the park. She would get confused off our old paths and kids weren't around yet so fully, so I started walking her on trails, covered with colored gravel that surrounded the park's softball fields. The marshy, grassy grounds and curving walkways where we used to go now seemed confusing to her. At the same time, the vet, through a recent visit, revealed that Dar's eyesight was beginning to fail, so she would often stray into harsh areas if not restrained. By keeping her on the colored-stone-laden paths, I could give her the exercise she needed, and occasionally we both would stay for a few innings of a local game, though

she was just enjoying the noise, smells, and excitement, not keeping score.

Shadow's departure resulted in serious changes beyond what could be perceived as Darla's natural aging. As previously mentioned, my daily arrival home at night caused an even deeper emotional response from Dar than ever. This was further complicated by a request from my boss, one that I, to this day, think was ill-founded: that I take a basic advertising classes with my assistants. I also suspect that there was a certain meanness attached: I was receiving much praise from all different departments to the point where he might have started to feel like my celebrity was outgrowing his. I'll never know.

These studies occurred on Monday nights in New York City and delivered me home at near 10:30 pm at night. Dar, who had had me virtually all to herself for nearly two-and-a-half days straight on a weekend, now was forced to spend the next 16 hours alone. For a creature so attention-needy, it must have been sheer hell. My arrival home on those Monday nights usually erupted into emotional upset and hysterics on The Doo's

part. I 'cut' as many classes as I could without failing the course, and was really angered in the end to find out that the two "surfer dude" type male idiots who taught the class passed everyone with an "A." (By the way, this course was taken at THE premiere

art college in New York City. You've probably heard of it by its three initials; people travel thousands of miles from foreign countries just to go to this school. I guess, after all, 'the emporer wasn't wearing any clothes.') EX-BOSS: Please note this sh-t!

A couple of years later, after Darla was gone, my then boss, a 'dog-lover,' would subject one of his own beloved pets to what I perceived as a merciless six-month set of spinal operations just to keep the canine alive, for what I consider very selfish reasons, but that hadn't occurred yet).

By the beginning of the next year, even before this useless adventure into "Art 101," I had already decided it would be impossible for me to try to date any good, single woman. Not only had last tries included a 40-something, perpetually 'stoned' blonde woman (being addicted to 'pot' at 43 years of age is just downright wrong!), it also left a deep quandary for me:

Darla was so needy: how could I deny her the attention she needed by running out on dates right after work? And how could I tell any good woman: "Sorry, we have to sit home, night after night, because my dog needs me?"

I made the conscious decision not to date until Darla was gone. It was fair and correct.

I do have to admit that these new walks on Saturdays at the park were like gold to me; I think they were to Darla also. Now on a limited, repeated path, her weakened eyesight and lessened memories/thought processes weren't so much of an issue. For me, I was able to see her briskly walking, and despite what they tell you of never letting a dog lead on a leash, I often let her wander and take charge. There was a rare burst or two when she would pull ahead, driven to seek out any new and interesting scent: one bright and crisp Saturday morning, she nearly tripped over an ignorant groundhog, causing it to rush off into a sewer drain! Despite her straining at her leash, I wasn't about to have the two of us venture into a darkened, 3 foot wide pipe!

But once The Doo caught sight of this wayward fool, she was bent on "the chase." Despite her meager 24 pounds, it was all I could do to not stop both of us from following into a foul-smelling "cave" very reminiscent of those "B" horror films, where you

literally yell to the stupid hero:

"Don't go in there!!!"

There were a few weeknights when traffic didn't slow me so much. I could get home, change clothes, hustle Dar into the Mustang, and walk her before 7:30 pm, when the park officially closed. During those walks, we often encountered a pleasant Shi-tzu and the older couple who owned her. Dar and her new buddy shared butt smells and then nosed each other.

I guess I was being taught to accept new friends, new people, and new experiences. Even though all I wanted at the time was "the past." I wanted what was easy and comfortable. I didn't want 'new' – 'new' was dangerous and unsure and most of my life had been filled with "change – dangerous and unsure."

I don't have too many answers to all this revelation. I didn't see it consciously back then, though I now see the world about me is ever-evolving and that I must change or become, at best, irrelevant.

I did believe by this time that Darla was unique among dogs, at least for me, but I wasn't yet ready to accept that her involvement in my life would prove that. I didn't like her aging, I didn't like that I had a self-imposed exile from dating. I did understand – newly for me at fifty + years of age – that my needs had to be secondary now.

That The Doo started aging fast showed in a few incidents I don't care to discuss. One I will mention included her leaping off the back deck steps of the house across an eight-foot expanse, only to land onto brick, creating a hairline fracture and a $429 vet visit. There were enough others. She was getting old and I knew it. I also couldn't be blind to the fact that this brave soul, once a snow-hopping "child" and protector/parent to to Kira and me, now had become a beloved elderly "daughter" I needed to love and, more importantly, protect...sometimes from herself.

By late Spring, I was no longer at all sleeping on the upper floor of the $230,000 house I had bought, except for a Saturday afternoon nap, when The Doo had already fallen asleep on the couch (long ago, I had set up baby gates to keep her confined to the kitchen and living room). Dar and I, now linked by love and need, slept each night, side-by-side, on the couch. She no longer climbed on my chest; it didn't seem comfortable to her, I guess.

Often, as this wasn't a "good" sleep for me as opposed to a healthy bed: I'd wake

up and turn over throughout the night.

Sometimes, I'd find The Doo dead asleep. Sometimes, at 3:48 am, I'd roll on my back, uncomfortable with this, as I previously stated, just to find her staring at me. She'd lean forward, sniff me, then turn her body to a better position.

She was still checking on her "pup." I guess I was her living 'Blue Baby.' I guess that sometimes, no matter what, we are 'parents' forever.

Sometimes, no matter what, we are 'children' forever.

So much was happening: my business life, Darla's life, Dar's and my life together. My boss would play a major part in the end, regarding The Doo, as he is a "dog" person (supposedly—I was beginning to suspect it wasn't his love for dogs that mattered, but rather, their love for him which counted), but that is for a later chapter.

In the meanwhile, Boss-Man was bearing down hard, always looking for better results. From me, not himself. I became the scapegoat for all things wrong. Any mistakes were all mine. I once composed an ad that he changed just two words on. When it was highly praised, he took credit for "mentoring Jim on this." This, like the foolish Monday night class, was wearing me down, physically and emotionally. Sometimes we don't realize we actually tear down others while we think we're making them tougher and building them up by being "tough." It's BS. You just hurt people if it's not their style. I wasn't sure anymore if I was doing right by Dar or failing her. She seemed happy but...

Sometimes we fail as humans. Often in many ways; sometimes in all ways: in our arrogance; in failing to recognize our own vanity, selfishness, and stupidity. Sometimes just in the stupidity of our arrogance. We forget that we need to have forgiveness,

as we all fail as much as those we demand better from. Dar, who never really demanded anything, except food and my love, never looked for failure in me and she always looked at me with love. Is that simplistic and dumb?

I'll never forget a wonderful quote I once heard, from the great philosopher, Albert Schweitzer:

"If a man loses his reverence for any part of life, he will lose his reverence for all of life."

The summer passed by with much happiness between Dar and me. I was learning

and my eyes were opening, though still a bit blind, even as Dar's eyes weakened. We did nights in the yard, just walking: The Doo loved walking beside me and "ran" at times. Her aged body still gave her energy.

At those times, I "fake" chased her. And in truth, despite her age, I never could have caught her in reality.

The yard to my house was narrow but provided at least 65 feet of run space, if not more.

Doo would, now off the deck after I carried her, run like crazy. I'd chase her, back and forth, front to back, back to front. She loved it. She so loved being chased. Still a puppy in her heart, she knew I would never catch her. Perhaps it was misplaced revenge against those squirrels she never caught, or due revenge for those early, merciless games of "hide and seek" at the old house, or...

...maybe, it was just fun and love between a parent and child.

I NEVER did catch her: this was HER time to run and not be caught. It was her playing and winning. Finally, after a long life. The game got more difficult as the summer passed. Dar never stopped being so fast, but our "end" was her running into the house, off the back steps, up onto the deck into the house.

By late summer, she still beat me in the yard, but she would fall and stumble, going up the deck steps. Despite her upset, time after time, I started carrying her at the end of our fun.

This aged wonder was not fully happy, but she was far from done.

Every night, despite the mixed results of my job that day, the continued miserable, selfish harassing by my boss and daily crises, weekend local park trips, or weeknight local park trips, sleep always included Dar and me together on the couch. I could do no less for her, given the dangers of her trying to get up the stairs, or the dangers of her falling down the stairs in the middle of the night.

Over time, it would damage my spine: I can still feel the effects on a bad morning. And maybe it will lessen my lifespan, but I accept I did the "right" thing...

By late summer, the Doo had been x-rayed and tested again and again. Her body was perfectly healthy. But now there was a name to what was weirdly happening:

Canine Cognitive Disorder.

In short:

Alzheimer's for dogs...

We continued to play in the yard at night.

CHAPTER 31

"IF I COULD SAVE TIME IN A BOTTLE, THE FIRST THING I'D LIKE TO DO

IS TO SAVE THEM AWAY... AND THEN REMEMBER THEM WITH YOU...

BUT..."

Such are the words from a set of lyrics from the late singer/songwriter, Jim Croce. Lost before his time in a plane crash, this song is of his lamented moments that can never be recaptured, except in the 'mind's eye.' Photos don't; they are but a reminder. Memories live. Perhaps faulty, but forever in the heart captured.

We all have such moments, both bitter and sweet. Some joyous, some tragic. And the key to this song is in the "but..."

As you read this now, understand that as I wrote it, I was reliving moments to the best of my memory: some perfect, some flawed and skewed. As an artist and author, with those involved here, most knowing me, they will tell you I have a "memory like an elephant"—nearly photographic in nature. No one intimately involved with this story (who have been provided chapters before you read it) has objected to any I have said or written. So I must thus assume I've been pretty accurate so far.

That, however, doesn't dismiss the "but" of Croce's song.

We are, at best, children of our pasts. We act as adults, never sure we're doing the right thing. Ages and generations intertwine, teaching but wondering if what we've taugh is correct.

The late summer/early fall of that year was mostly non-eventful. Dar did her stuff; I did mine. For a change, even though she was aging, there were no 'difficult' or

dangerous times. It continued so up until the winter (Spring would present issues).

My boss was being even more miserable, pushing me to new limits. These limits weren't job-related; I now understood he didn't like me, or the fact that I was doing so well at my job I was distracting attention from him. Most bosses shine in the reflection of a great sub-manager. But, to be very honest here:

I'd been doing this 30+ years and knew my stuff! I manage very well, both myself and others. But every review I ever got, this guy would tell me: "people aren't happy with how you do your job." Now this wasn't what I was hearing in the 'field,' and I'd demand "who?"

I never got an answer. Ever. Now gone from this company, having wasted time working so hard, when I could have been with Darla, I'd love an answer. It's rather telling that since I left, folks from that company were recommending me for new jobs!

I guess this old guy didn't get it. At 73+, he still thought he had many years to go.

Most there thought he was a joke. All in my department did. ALL did. We all kissed his behind as necessary, but...

And that's it... the "but..."

It was my mistake to let the job so absorb me. It was a fall and winter of "nothing." I guess I was letting myself fall back into old patterns, like Dar would live forever. I wasn't paying attention to subtleties.

But...there was a moment in time that stands out.

Ralph and Donna...my saviors regarding the great "bathroom mess," agreed to visit my new home for dinner, with their pre-teen daughter, Erica, "Erry," in tow.

I had once planned a full open-house party the first year I bought it, but the home never seemed good enough. So having this family showing up was spectacular, especially since I owed them so much for what they did for me back when.  
So when the three showed up about 12:30 pm, I was elated! Darla was free to move around and immediately took to Donna and Erry, Erry apparently an heir-apparent via critters to her mom. (Okay, so I was a smart-ass: I asked Donna if she wanted to see

my vacuum!). I toured them through the house and then into the backyard, telling all I wanted to do with it (only about 20% ever has been done to this day).

What "blew me away" was Donna, Erry, and Darla! These three played in the yard, running, chasing, falling and goofing!  
Darla was like a puppy again! I saw now her energies were connected to life. Children invigorated her, but at the same time, it was in her to invigorate others...like me. After that, the dinner went wonderfully. Darla stayed by Erry the whole time (I'm still not sure food was being surreptitously dropped to The Doo, but I didn't care)! It was wonderful. For dessert, Donna introduced me to key-lime pie, and I was in heaven.

Erry continued to show Dar love; so did Donna. Ralph and I acted "manly", meaning we were attentive, but acting like we were ignoring.

Too soon was the time for them to leave. But I'll never forget that beautiful day. Years later, I was invited to an event at their family house. I found Ralph and Donna more loving than ever. Erry had become an "Erica," a visually beautiful young woman. But she also had become an incredibly mature and smart young lady, thanks to them.

I'd like to think maybe somewhere, in there, in just a tiny way, Darla played a part.

It doesn't matter if I know or not. Darla was teaching me...every single touch of a heart means so much.

But, I will never forget, in my memory, that dog playing with that little girl.

...if I could save time in a bottle...

CHAPTER 31

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT.

How many times has each of us sat down to a sumptuous meal, at home or in a restaurant, only to ponder the question of calories? Thank the world of advertising and marketing for this little upset. I, by association, as a graphic designer/art director, accept a little of the blame. I will state, however, that such never stopped me from devouring a nice piece of

prime rib.

Dar came to Kira and me with a pre-set bunch of canned foods, none of which she liked. We set out to find items she would appreciate and we succeeded in it. The worldwide nightmare pet-food-recall in the new millennium caused a minor crisis, but The Doo survived it and continued to thrive, even though her favorite mass manufactured food disappeared.

After Kira and I separated, Dar still got pizza crusts (as previously described) and what I thought was good, wholesome foods, made by MAJOR companies. Kira and I got Darla at age 10, so we were inheriting a senior dog and we trusted in the best. But since then clarified studies show that current mass-manufactured dog food, made by the most valued firms, contain high levels of "heavy metals," which can lead to "Canine Cognitive Disorder..."

That the Doo was beginning to fail was beyond question. Even before the Canine Cognitive Disorder diagnosis, Dar was unable to jump up as well as she used to. Going up the back deck caused her to stumble; old, trusted legs gave out in the spring of 2008. She could also no longer hop up or down via the living room couch, not without crashing into a triangular table bought to fit the rounded sectional.

I made an 'executive decision' by June of that year:

• The triangular table got moved out of the way, to the front of the first floor, past  
her domain;

• The guest bedroom mattress on the second floor (never used) would move to the  
1st floor, wedged to the circular couch, so Dar could more easily hop up onto her  
spot (I had no guests so who but me would care?)

• I would sleep with Dar on the couch on the first floor each night; there was too  
much danger carrying her up the stairs and her possibly falling off the  
bed/falling down the stairs.

I realize some may think this extreme, but you must keep in mind that I had, without any assistance, willed myself into a lonely 'limbo,' years BEFORE The Doo ever entered my life. The house I now owned was devoid of human contact by its nature, from the day I inhabited it. I was responsible for all; I had built my own prison.

Little did I know Dar was slowly and carefully undoing the "knot" I had tied in the shoelace. Before Darla's "Canine Cognitive Disorder" ever got diagnosed, I saw her tripping and falling up and down the back deck. It was early/mid-summer. I researched out on the web 'arthritis in dogs' and then went to local pet stores. I bought large containers of glucosamine and other vitamins/muscle enhancers. I figured if I subtly slipped meds/vitamins into her food, I might possibly reverse the aging process.

Yeah. Right.

I had underestimated "The Power of The Doo."

I always knew Darla possessed a keen intelligence. Now, I was caught up in a bizarre game between this smart, failing dog and my need to fortify her against age and weakened abilities.

In retrospect, the results of my efforts were pretty funny. The vet would tell me to give the dog uncut slices of a frankfurter and surreptitiously put a pill in one section, or maybe overdose a set of saltine crackers with peanut butter and mush in a crushed-up vitamin.

Ensuing old age or not, Dar had a keen ability to ALWAYS pick out the one, lone errant morsel with the hidden medication and then eat every single piece but that one. I stood in awe; either this was the smartest canine in history, or else she had the best nose of any bow-wow who ever lived. (Of course, there's also the possibility that I'm not the smartest or most subtle person going, and she may have picked up on that. Since I'm the one writing this, I'll dismiss that concept.)

In time, I did win the battle, only to lose the war. I started out by cooking raw, loose hamburger meat and drizzling it with crushed meds and/or vitamins. By the end of things, "Darla Small," as her veterinarian charts read, was feasting on filet mignon, sirloin steak, and premiere chicken breast fillets! Even then, there were nights when my cooking wasn't to her liking. Maybe it was the lack of a sprig of parsley or inappropriately chosen dinner music (I refused to dress as a waiter too)!

One disturbing circumstance that gave me deep concern occurred one weekday morning in early September as I was preparing for work. I had been upstairs, getting dressed after a shower when it happened.

Dar had apparently been wandering around on the first floor and knocked over a broom by the kitchen doorframe leading to the dining room. Panicked, she must have scrambled and tripped over it, loosing her balance. She slipped down to her stomach, splayed out over the broom. My kitchen had glazed 1 foot square ceramic tiles. The Doo, in her aged and unnerved state, could not get up. She must have laid there for at least five minutes, whining and moaning.

As soon as I arrived on the scene, I rushed over and lifted her up. Either the broom or her actions caused a disturbance with her water bowl. It was clear she had been struggling not only with the tiles, but also with splashed water that made the floor even more slippery.

Her brief "accident" served only to scare her immensely and she rushed to the living room, across the mattress, and up onto the safety of the couch. Blue Baby was immediately placed into service by her as her security blanket.

This happening scared me too, but in a way, it was a wake-up call for me. Because of her "doggie Alzheimer's," it made me understand that I needed to do something about protecting her in the kitchen, and do it quickly. The disease, at least in canines, causes some to do things in reverse. For example: Darla would urinate on the kitchen floor, then seek to go outside. It was as if the wiring in her brain had been transposed and the thought process went backwards. (On one painful occasion a month or so before, I walked into the kitchen early one Saturday morning in my bare feet (rare for me), slipped and fell due to slippery conditions created by Dar because of this neurological damage. Thankfully, I was merely bruised and with some back pain for the next day or so).

Rather than be angry, frustrated, or depressed over The Doo's 'slip and fall' that September weekday morning, a resolve flowed through me to protect her. Over the next few weeks, nearly every square inch of the kitchen became covered with rubber-backed throw carpets of every size and look:

– whatever I could buy in a local store or purchase online and have shipped to me.  
It was a crazy-quilt formation that would boggle the mind of any sane person,  
but I knew it was necessary.

I didn't see it at the time, but so much had changed from the early days of my relationship with this silly but truly endearing creature:

• Where she once begged for a frankfurter, I now openly gave them to her (laced  
with meds)

• Where her barks upon arrival had been a nuisance, they were now wanted and  
special

• Where Darla had once been, at best, a true annoyance to me...

I was now fully devoted to and in love with her.

I was about to see beauty, dignity, sadness, and hope, all in a way I never could before. In the final months of her life, Darla would finish her parenting chores, teach me things I had no concept of, and then place her trust in me completely.

I couldn't even see the entirety, or the magnificence of it.

Dar and God working together...for me.

CHAPTER 32

NOTHING EVER CHANGES, BUT STILL NOTHING EVER STAYS THE SAME. THIS IS THE STRANGE DICHOTOMY OF HUMAN LIFE.

We cannot undo the sins of the past and we struggle valiantly to not repeat them in the future. And yet, the more we act to change, the more we are forced into such a full and painful realization of the past mistakes we made.

That fall of 2008 was a true "eye-opening" season for me, especially regarding Dar. She was clearly no longer that cute 10 year old 'puppy' jumping carelessly into huge snow drifts.

In time, the mattress on the first floor leading to the couch was supplemented with pillows that eased her trip up the incline. My arrivals home still produced the best in her: a brief but superior energy born out of love and passion. Sometimes, when I'd take her out in the yard, there would be "missile-like" shots across the grass, back and forth, spanning a good 300 feet, over and over, those moments filled with youth, as if she was still chasing rabbits and squirrels, or trying to keep up with "Runner."

But very clearly, in so many other ways, "senior-citizenship" had arrived for The Doo, for the most part. There was no AARP card in the mail for her, and she no longer fit the criteria needed for me to get "pet insurance" for her through my wonderfully open-minded employer.

For some years, Dar had happily sat on the couch watching me at night as I worked on my Mac across from her, having brought work home or otherwise surfing the internet. Now I, sensing her age, and recognizing her time was limited, made a change: most evenings, I would sit next to her on the couch, either watching television or else reading a book, a yellow, sixty watt bulb our only friend.

She had developed a quirkiness that was upsetting: once upon a time desperate for physical contact, she now hated to be held or petted unless physically and psychologically ready for it (this was exclusive of my arrival time from work, when she remained, as always, the 'Dar' of old).

Unless prepared for touch, she wanted no part of it. But, at the same time, once I settled in to read, watch TV, or sleep, she would carefully position her resting body so it

would make contact with mine. Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night to find one of her paws or her face pressed against my arm or wrist. (A few times, I woke up to 'doggie snoring' and a wet nose pressed against my forehead or chin! In these cases, I worked hard to fall back to sleep without moving, and just thanked God for the minor blessing).

By late fall, I was already thinking about Dar's instability; she was starting to inadvertently fall over at times and that showed a decided weakness in her back left hip. On a warm, sunny Saturday in early November, I went out and purchased a couple of gallons of exterior paint and an additional texturizing material to be mixed in that would give "tread" to the back deck. I didn't want her slipping and falling, thus injuring herself.

I already before took the measure to block both exits from the deck down into the yard with child-proof gates. This was temporarily interrupted by a sweeping 60-mile-per-hour windstorm in October, rare for New Jersey, that lifted one of the gates off its hinges, carried it (apparently) 50 feet high over the top of the house, and then deposited it in my neighbor's driveway on the other side! I must have looked like an idiot out at 9:00 PM in the dark with a flashlight, looking for a child-proof gate, but not the child!

Thanksgiving rolled around again. I had promised myself that I'd 'deep-fry' a turkey, even though now it was just Dar and me. The day was sunny and warm. I carefully and successfully cooked the 12 pound bird in my driveway, far away from the Ford Mustang and any combustible vinyl siding, etc. Despite the notable absence of Shadow (and "SJ" being a perpetual no-show, still hiding under the bed upstairs!), The Doo loved the great smells of stuffing and turkey, and harassed me as best she could.

I spent the day playing my holiday classics on DVD: March of the Wooden

Soldiers, A Christmas Story, etc...

There was one notable difference: always a complete turkey, stuffing, and carrot cake officiando, Dar still went like crazy for the stuffing and carrot cake but ignored the actual turkey meat.

I didn't miss that in the last year of her life, the T-day last year, that Shadow, the cat, had turned away from her perennial favorite, turkey giblets.

Each year, since I was nineteen years old, I have always done a personalized Christmas card for family and friends, as I believe I stated earlier. Originally, the cards were printed and mailed and showed some artwork from me; later they were emailed. In time, they included my father's poetry/writings and my illustrations supported the words.

As computer technology changed things, I manipulated photos and images to suite that particular year. Dar became a popular subject as time went on. One particularly popular card showed her being embraced by Santa Claus (oddly, it's one of the few I never Photoshopped: Kira and I paid ten dollars to have her photographed with a local pet food store employee dressed as Santa!).

That Thanksgiving weekend, not sure what to do regarding a holiday card, I suddenly had a moment of sheer clarity and very minor genius. I'd always enjoyed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famous "Sherlock Holmes" character, and even more so, I was delighted by the series of 1940's films that had well-known and highly-respected British actor Basil Rathbone play the infallible sleuth. Rathbone did it so well that to this day all actors attempting the role, stage or film, are held to his standard.

I crafted a short story that placed Darla and me back in London at Christmas in the late 1890's. As an expatriate American artist of minor renown living in England, I became panicked on Christmas Eve because Dar had been kidnapped. I approached the legendary "221-B Baker Street" address and "Mr. Holmes" with my worries.

In typical Conan-Doyle fashion, the tall, thin, deerslayer-cap-wearing detective solves the mystery with short effort. Darla willingly went with "a joy old elf" in order to please two children who had just lost their dog.

What I didn't realize at the time I wrote the 'fake story' was the words I placed in Sherlock Holmes' mouth, as he explains the whole situation to his friend and beloved biographer, the very well known, also fictional, Dr. John Watson:

"The dog left willingly, Watson, knowing it was going to 'some' aid of someone. Its job completed tonight, it will be found safe and sound in the morning in the yard, returned to Mr. Small for whatever sweet time he has left with his beloved pup."

'...for whatever sweet time he has left with his beloved pup.'

My time with Dar was running out. Less time than I could know or want. Her mission was almost complete.

What was to happen next would touch my heart, drag me forever out of the depths of selfishness, and literally change who I was... for the rest of my life. My life still isn't over, but not a day goes by that I don't see the change and know it's never going to go away.

Just as the memory of Darla for me never will.

CHAPTER 33

THERE ARE KEY MOMENTS THAT COME TO US IN LIFE, ARRIVING AT THE DOOR STEPS OF OUR SOULS – MOSTLY UNPLANNED AND UNEXPECTED – BUT NEVER-THE-LESS DYNAMIC AND EXTRAORDINARY. Sometimes we recognize the significance of the event right away; I think more often than not we discover how deeply they have affected us much later on.

The first truly life-altering experience I ever had was the death of my father when I was

27 years old. After a lifetime of disagreements and distance between us, for a variety of reasons, we had reconciled with each other just three years before and had become good friends. There was always love between us but in the earlier years it stayed hidden behind a veil of bitterness, due to some unfortunate circumstances.

On a warm Friday evening in late August of 1987, he suffered a heart attack that was initially diagnosed as 'minor.' He was rushed to the hospital and seemed to be on the mend when the doctor informed my mother it was actually a 'massive' heart attack. We hoped for the best and continued to visit him in the cardiac care unit of St. Francis Hospital in Jersey City over the weekend. By Sunday evening, he seemed to be doing so well that my mother and I opted to engage in some brief food shopping on the way

home from seeing him.

Back then, cell phones didn't exist. We walked into the house to the sound of a ringing

phone. A nurse from the hospital: "Richard is not doing well; you'd better get back here as soon as possible!"

I raced us through the streets of Bayonne, NJ, headed up the New Jersey Turnpike intoJersey City, ran stop signs and then intentionally went the wrong way down empty one-way Jersey City side streets to the hospital entrance. (Much later on, with a clearer head and mindset, I was able to pretty much calculate the speed I pushed my then-new Chrysler Laser Turbo to, given the time, roadways, and distance: 14 miles in less than 11 minutes. My average speed was about 93 miles an hour combined – highway at over 125 mph and city streets at about 62 mph).

It still wasn't good enough – I never saw my father alive ever again.

I instinctively knew then that my life was about to take some unexpected future turns,

sometimes at 'high speeds.' I changed jobs in order to accommodate my mother's bone cancer, which I'm sure was complicated and exacerbated by my father's death. She passed away 10 months later, as much from a broken and lonely heart as from cancer.

The death of my mother the following July, in 1988, put serious strains on a long-distance relationship with a woman I had loved for years. We had been engaged but broke up early in 1989. I put a self-imposed moratorium on dating, while I got my life back in order.

Kira and I met late in the winter of 1989 and seemed destined for a wonderful future. But deep inside me, I see only later in retrospect, there was a broken and lonely heart as well. Gone was the dream of a marriage in a pretty house filled with the laughter of small children, waiting for their grandparents, 'Grandma Dorothy' and 'Grandpa Rich,' to visit.

Kira too was just getting over the loss of her first marriage. Though it had produced two

wonderful children, shattered dreams are still shattered dreams, and shattered dreams always scar us.

They often also leave us hopeful but uncertain and afraid.

On the flip side of things, Darla's entry into my life was originally regarded by me as simply a very annoying inconvenience. I'd only really agreed to it in the hope that it might 'mend" some broken fences between Kira and me. Of course, it's a bit hard to 'mend' fences and plant a garden when the local river has overflowed and is heading down your street, 'five feet high and rising,' to quote an old Johnny Cash song.

Now, so many years later, winter was beckoning in December of 2008. My company's annual company Holiday (Christmas) Party had been scheduled for a Friday night at an exclusive country club inside the New York State border. It was always a first rate affair and heavily attended. I'd come to enjoy each year's event, to see people I mostly only ever dealt with during the year through phone calls and emails. (I planned to travel back and forth without my car for ease of commute – the company offered buses, one of which /picked up/dropped right near my home, due to multiple locations the company had.)

As manager of my department, I felt it critical and necessary to be there, if nothing else than to be the "face" of my co-workers and assistants, who might not attend.

The sunny Thursday morning before started out typically. I got ready for work and Dar

appeared in good spirits. I was still in the process of purchasing the various rugs to cover the kitchen floor so she wouldn't slip.

The day at work went well, but that night, as I entered the house, about 6:00 PM, I immediately knew something was horribly wrong. A constant, low-pitched, sad, and hopeless mourning was coming from the kitchen.

I dropped my briefcase and rushed forward. To my utter horror, I found Darla stretched out on the kitchen floor on her stomach, her back to the door, her legs stretched out in a 'crucifixionlike' position, unable to lift her head. She started barking weakly as I yelled her name; she struggled but couldn't move. I threw open the childproof gate and reached down from behind her to lift her body up and away from the scene.

She yiped harshly as I raised her up from her belly area! I could feel the coldness of her torso and the wetness of her body!

The Doo had obviously been in this position for some time and had urinated on herself at least a couple of times. She had been there like this for a VERY LONG TIME!...maybe hours!

I tried to get her to stand but her legs collapsed under the rest of her weight! I rushed her to the living room couch and laid her down as gently as I could. I threw my coat off, grabbed towels from the bathroom and cradled her on my knees there as I attempted to dry her underbelly and legs. I knew that the vet was already closed so I called a local emergency veterinary clinic.

Thankfully, the doctor on the other end of the phone was very helpful and reassuring. "You really don't need to bring her in," he answered. "We deal with this a lot. Nothing is likely broken but all her muscles are fatigued. You need to clean her up, keep her in a prone position for the night, and apply hot, moist towel compresses to soothe her muscles, which are probably cramped as well at this point. If there's an issue in the morning, bring her into your regular vet. You could also crush up one-third of a child's aspirin tablet and give that to her. And you need to secure her off into a small area where she can't try to move around too much. She should be fine within 24 hours."

(What I've just provided here as an answer from the emergency room vet is an exceedingly condensed version of a full five minute conversation, and should the reader have a similar circumstance, in no way consider this appropriate advice for your particular situation! Call! Despite my panic and fear however, there was a brief moment of humor in my head regarding the aspirin comment: I thought "Yeah, right!")

I had planned to do some job-related work from home that night. I'm sure you can surmise that didn't happen. I did my best to apply the compresses but Dar was afraid and upset and being touched was the last thing she wanted. I didn't even bother trying to force a tiny piece of aspirin into her or fake some food. I brought small bowls of water to her on the couch and she seemed happy to just sleep.

While she did, I worked hard to reduce her area of space. Finally, before heading to bed (of course on the couch next to her), I managed to minimize things down to just the couch, pillows, mattress, and a small carpeted area in front of the television. Food and water were right there, and I didn't give a damn if she urinated or pooped on the carpet – I just wanted her well.

As had been my custom, the television and lights stayed on to provide comfort aspects. I knew I had to go to work – and the party – but my heart remained at home, in that tiny space. Dar slept fitfully throughout my morning ritual of preparing to leave for work, never waking.

For the first time since 1987, when my mother died, I prayed to God in earnest. I literally begged for Darla's well-being, and, if not her well-being, that she be taken peacefully in her sleep, without pain.

Kira, who was a very strong person spiritually, once told me: "God ALWAYS answers our prayers; the answers aren't always the ones you want to hear."

I was a quietly desperate man that day and evening, emotionally and in every way otherwise. I didn't give a hoot about my usual 'crap.' I just didn't want Darla possibly collapsing a second time and maybe dying alone and afraid. I was afraid ABOUT and FOR her.

I don't remember much of anything about the party that night; my heart was many miles south in the living room of a beat-up 60-year-old house in Central NJ.

I now know God places souls in our paths at just the right moment so we don't feel so alone. On that night, at the party, I was approached by a senior staff woman from a different section of my company. We had recently become friendly after our paths crossed while working on an immense project during the previous summer. While we both shared the much maligned "smoker's nicotine addiction," we had discovered another common bond: during a visit to my office, she noticed a photo on my desk of The Doo and me beside my Ford Mustang. "RM" was also a dog lover, with her own "little

children."

A brief conversation that summer day struck up a sweet bond of friendship between us. On that cold winter night, surrounded by the noises of happy partygoers, I told RM of what had happened and of my fears. She understood completely and offered me understanding. As we parted to circulate and visit others, I felt so much less alone.

(After, when RM and I talked or met, by phone or email, or even rarely in person, we'd still talk about her dogs and what was happening there, and she never forgot my dog was "Darla." That touched me greatly.)

The trip home was by chartered bus and it actually passed within two blocks of my home, so I was able to get the 70 mile distance faster than planned.

At 11:30 PM, I walked briskly through the darkened streets. The night possessed a chill and a breeze but I didn't allow it to distract me. As I approached my house, in suit and loosened tie, I broke into a full run. I needed to know God's answer, no matter what.

Getting the key in the door seemed to take forever but it was probably a millisecond. I rushed in, turning on lights.

Darla laid on the floor motionless. She was off the couch, off the pillows and mattress, on the carpet, close to and in front of the television. She looked to be sleeping. The TV was still playing, seeming now loud and arrogant.

"Dar?!!," I shouted.

No response.

"DARLA!!!," I now yelled.

No response.

I sighed. "Oh, God – no!," I begged in a whisper.

That ever-sweet, beautifully sculpted, all-white American Eskimo head popped up in surprise.

Dar looked around, confused, until she focused on my face. Then she stood up fully, pushing all her muscles to a strain, as we all might do after a too-long sleep.

And then she rushed to greet me as she always did, a complete charge, with hugs and our

own individual form of silly loving insanity.

That Christmas, I put up decorations inside the house as I always did. But for the first time in the three years I'd lived there, I decorated outside as well. It just seemed "right." I still had no visitors to my home, but I had a gift better than anything I could

imagine and I wanted to share it with the world. Not since that first winter, when Darla bridged the immense gap between Kira and me, had I really felt like celebrating.

Down deep inside, my true instincts told me I was spending my last Christmas with Dar. It was a quiet and happy day and I knew a very important part of my life was going to be leaving me. But to me, to sit quietly on the couch, with The Doo nestled against me, just watching an old movie in the dim light of an old 60 watt lamp-shaded bulb...

It was a Christmas I'll remember forever.

Kira was right: 'God ALWAYS answers our prayers; the answers aren't always the ones you want to hear.'

I'd add: 'But you get what you need.'

And sometimes you need an 'RM' in your life. If only at the right moment.

The Doo's injury was a very strong wake-up call as to her aging. But as I look back at it in retrospect, it was the first time in over twenty years (if not in my entire life) that my focus was FULLY and DIRECTLY on someone or something other than myself.

A new Christmas gift arrived for me in December 2008: I was getting my soul...either back or as new.

D ar and I both slept fitfully on Christmas night, the first time for me in many years.

CHAPTER 34

HAVE YOU EVER HEARD A SONG – EVEN IF THE WORDS DON'T FIT YOU – THAT JUST PLAIN "BLEW YOU AWAY?" MUSIC AND/OR AND A FEW WORDS THAT JUST DEVESTATED YOUR HEART? MADE YOU CRY FOR NO GOOD REASON – EVEN IF THE WORDS DIDN'T FULLY FIT?

I've been there, more than a few times.

For those who have never been, I hope one day you will: all people, all humans, should, at least once, experience such a thing.

It makes us...alive.

There was a song during that holiday season that hit me with a real emotional wallop. It is so obscure you'll never know it until I tell you.

By January of 2009, I knew in my heart that Darla was slowly dying. I had hoped for another year, but I could tell she was near the end of her time. I wasn't ready to deal with it yet. There had been just too much loss in my life already.

Darla REFUSED to die; she wasn't ready. Her body was solid and otherwise healthy, according to the vet, and she acted that out. She loved life and she loved me. But she couldn't control the "doggie alzheimers." Her left hind leg was failing, she was starting to fall over and there were other issues...

Dar ignored all "the falling over" for her that built between late December and February. She just kept going, like the Energizer Bunny. Meanwhile, I watched helplessly as she would, at times, repeat behavior, over and over, like going to her water bowl in the kitchen, lapping a mouthful or two, then returning to the living room, only to go back to the water bowl, and do the same thing 5 more times in a row.

She had also grown very uncomfortable with being petted or otherwise touched. I remembered with sadness the times in the past when she would happily fall asleep on my stomach on the couch while I slept.

Then there was snow. We had a harsh winter in New Jersey that year – mostly 'mini' ice storms, but occasional light layers of flurries. I have a digital picture of Dar during such a 'dusting;' this wonderful soul who once happily launched 6 feet off a deck into a huge, comfy blanket of the white stuff and romped in it, no longer seemed to

understand what it was or why it was there. It bothered her and she didn't like it.

As The Doo's gait had been weakening in late fall of 2008, I planned for her winter safety outside just as I had previously with the childproof gates. As I earlier stated, In early November of the year before, I went to a paint store and bought both deck paint and a "grit" texturizer that can be mixed into the paint to give the final, dried surface a 'non-slip' surface.

As they say: the best-laid plans...

Winter came in brittle, brutal, and mean in January. One overnight storm (rain) froze immediately, literally turning every outdoor surface – cars, railings, pavement, EVEN grass! – into a single, large sheet of ice. But I was ready with a PLAN...

(If Kira were to be contributing to this story, she would happily tell you about a series of

idiotic things I did to our home over the course of our marriage. I considered them inventive and creative solutions to household repair issues, such as when we re-did the kitchen. Rather than just vacuum and wipe up heavy dust and crap from behind the walls we tore down, I attempted to use a leaf blower to "corral" the massive mess remaining from stripping down ancient drywall. It instead blew everything all over the first floor—and elsewhere! Kira smartly ran for cover, grabbed her kids, headed off for the movies, and advised me to have "the entire" first floor clean of the resulting widespread dust layer better be gone by the time they got back!!! (Also, keep in mind the bathroom incident!) I have caller ID on my phone and avoid unknown numbers, still afraid it may be someone from Maryland complaining about this remnant dust even now sitting on their coffee table!)

Anyway, now a homeowner myself, and worried about Dar's safety, I did come up with what I still think was a brilliant, easy solution to the back deck issues (the ice completely nullified the textured paint I had so carefully laid down earlier).

For starters, I grabbed an old "thermal blanket." You know the type: it looks 'knit,' has a'+' shaped weave pattern with openings, is generally off-white, and looks like it couldn't warm an Eskimo wearing three parkas, but when it connects with your body, you're instantly warm.

I found an old 8 foot by 8 foot one in a closet upstairs and took it outside to the deck at 9:00 PM on a freezing cold night. I spread it out to its full size right by my back door (remember: my deck is only 13' x 13'). I then took a used, empty milk gallon container and filled it with cold water. I poured the water on all four edges of the blanket, knowing the edges would freeze instantly...

...but The Doo would be walking on a 'tread' surface.

FINALLY!!!

After 20 years of sheer silliness and (honest) stupidity (which Kira would tell you from experience with me), something worked! And it worked well!

It was flawless and served Darla perfectly, who despite her urinary disfunctions, still "pooped" outside. It gave her the needed traction and ease and safety of movement. Additional rain/ice storms made the cloth wet, but the freezing process only reinforced the texture. Snow storms were nothing to worry about: simply broom away the snow and the new texture still stood.

By spring, rain washed away the poop and ice, leaving behind just a very damaged rag, to be tossed away as soon as it dried out.

The great, late comedian, George Carlin, once said: "nail two pieces of wood together and someone will buy it." If I had $10,000 extra, I'd corner the market on thermal blankets and plastic milk jugs and sell this on an infomercial at 3:00 AM, probably earning $1,000,000.00 dollars the first month (note to would-be entrepreneurs: I haven't. Go for it! Better you than me! LOL!)

My success in this could not undo my sins of the past regarding Kira, nor would it ignore that Darla had other issues facing her. But, at least, for a moment, this resolve and successful effort did provide some ease of things.

Meanwhile, the "food wars" had escalated. Dar was no longer eating the standard dog food I once gave her, made by the major manufacturers. She literally stood by me at the stove, salivating, as I cooked up hamburger, steak, filet mignon(!), free-range boneless chicken breasts, and like meals.

At the same time, I was still trying to crush up meds into what she ate. For the most part, The Doo ate what I served, but between the beginning of January and late March, she dropped six pounds, nearly 1/4th of her body weight. She was getting 'picky' while her sense of hidden 'meds/vitamins' remained sharp and clear.

In time, I started realizing that things no longer really mattered in regards to her diet. I wasn't raising a puppy; I was dealing with a failing senior citizen. Why deny joy in favor of an impossible health hope? Dar got milkshakes, Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers, white cheese pizza slices, ice cream, ham slices, cheese slices (I hope she had a flashback to her Grandpa Joe), and things I'd care not to explain here that I ate, that The Doo got a sampling of.

She 'burped' a lot, but never seemed the worse for the effort.

Friday nights in January and February became 'special.' The end of the week, as I

was exhausted from work, were quiet nights: lights would be turned down and I would either read a book or else download a movie off my cable TV. At that time, ice storms still raged. Dar would move her body next to me – without touching – and snuggle up. I'd often fall asleep sitting up, finding her head moved onto my lap. Once I woke her, she would move far away. (By the way, she came to love watching movies with me. She'd actually watch the TV screen! One day, I came home from work with no welcome from Dar! I got worried. I always left the TV on during the day after Shad died, so to provide 'comfort noise.' On that particular evening, I found The Doo wasn't paying attention to my arrival because she was sitting in front of the TV, looking up and watching cartoons!).

Songs play such significant importance in our loves. I still didn't understand the importance, but I did know I was hurting emotionally regarding Dar, and that song I mentioned earlier hung heavy in my heart.

What touched me so much is entitled "The Love Is Gone." I guarantee you don't know it. It's from the "A Muppet Christmas Carol" movie and it's a minor song, sung between a remorseful Ebenezer Scrooge, in his younger life, and his lost love, Belle, after he chooses wealth over love (it's sadly not available on the DVD version).

This is during a scene when the 'Ghost of Christmas Past' takes Scrooge on a tour of his history.

The love is gone, the love is gone, the sweetest dream that we had ever known.

The love is gone, the love is gone, I wish you well but I must leave you now alone.

The final verse gave me a deep chill:

But adventures call with unknown voices pulling you away...

Be careful or you may regret the choices you made someday...

That I was now so alone, with Kira long gone, leading a new life, with my entire immediate family consisting of a lone, elderly dog, did NOT escape me. Nor did it elude my attention just how much I loved The Doo and relied on her for companionship. I wasn't then, and couldn't be then, fully aware of the real meaning of all of this. Daily needs, such as my job, NEW cooking chores (don't ever doubt that Dar didn't know the difference between barbequed and microwaved food and easily showed her distain for

microwaving by refusing to eat!!), and more, took on a greater, more immediate significance.

As for that song from "A Muppet Christmas Carol?"

At the end of the film, it is repeated but words have changed, as a re-born Ebenezer Scrooge happily joins the family of Bob Cratchit (and an entire plush set of Muppets) for Christmas dinner and a grand musical finale:

The love we found, the love we found...we carry with us so we're never quite alone...

The love we found, the love we found...the sweetest dream that we have ever known...

I could only hope for so much at that time.

CHAPTER 35

WE, AS HUMAN BEINGS, HAVE THE ABILITY TO CREATE SOME WONDERFULLY CONFUSING, OBTUSE, VERY QUOTABLE "QUOTES:"

"Things never change, but then they never stay the same."

"I think; therefore I am." (No kidding!; what was your first clue?)

Robert F. Kennedy: "People say I am ruthless. I am not ruthless. And if I find the man who is calling me ruthless, I shall destroy him." (Woah!)

(Ya gotta love this one!) Elvis Presley: "I don't know anything about music. In my line you don't have to."

Then again, you have...

Benjamin Franklin: "A slip of the foot you may soon recover, but a slip of the tongue you

may never get over."

I could easily start this out with: In February, The Doo wasn't getting any better but she wasn't getting any worse.

Not a good quote – it tells you nothing and really just means 'things remained okay.' It roughly means nothing catastrophically bad happened, but things did indeed change for Dar – they worsened by just minor increments instead of whole, horrid episodes.

Not being a "dog person' either by nature or allegiance, I must admit I was stunned by this dog's adaptive capabilities; at the same time, I can't tell whether to accord them to instinct or intelligence. She decreased the situations of falling over by 'gliding' her body next to large furniture objects; Dar coped. She also made her trip movements minimal, which must have been difficult. It is how given the innate desire of dogs to be active in light of "Canine Cognitive Disorder."

In February, understanding her condition, I did a few things. Some were out of

sheer need; others were out of love for Dar and wanting to please her. That second month of the year continued the cold, sometimes icy weather, but March would prove to be much warmer and easier.

The first thing I did was to restart a long-lost tradition started by Kira some 5+ years before: Friday night became "pizza night." While I had no need for a full pie, and personally liked white cheese pizza more than a regular one, I would walk down the street to the local place to pick up two slices of white cheese – where I once broke my foot. The Doo's "cookies" were back on a regular basis. She was thrilled.

The second thing I did was to get her back to the Vet. The meds and vitamins weren't working and I needed an assessment. A good neighbor and older gentleman named Dave, who knew both Dar and me, offered his pickup truck and himself for a Saturday morning trip. Dar was already now fearful of the Mustang as she equated it with a "vet visit."

I took my neighbor up on the offer.

This was probably one of the last truly funny things that ever happened during Dar's life with me. Forget "doggie alzheimers;" the Doo clearly remembered the look of the vet's office and refused to walk up the ramp to the front door. I ended up having to carry her in.

Once inside, Darla cowered between and behind my legs as I stood in front of the expansive front desk (the vet, with a thriving business due to a well-deserved reputation for compassion and good healthcare for pets, had moved into a million-dollar facility).

Suddenly, a Hispanic woman, there with her little daughter and a cat carrier, began to yell:

" ¿Usted perro? USTED PERRO! Your DOG!!!" She pointed behind me!

I reacted immediately, expecting to find little Darla being challenged by a large, snarling brute...

This lady's panic caught everyone's attention!

The minor pile of poop Dar had left steaming on the tiled floor even caused the vet's staff to laugh. I offered to clean it up with paper towels and a cleaner bottle. The nice ladies told me not to worry about it.

A weight test, some blood exploratories, and a x-ray effort later, the news wasn't good. Dar had lost 3.5 pounds and the medication for Canine Cognitive Disorder (useful in 75% of all dogs) wasn't working.

The vet I had been dealing with (I'll call her 'Doctor C'), was young, comely, and nice; also very sensitive and caring, very sweet to Dar, and me. Her answer wasn't good: there were no other alternatives and sooner or later, I'd have to decide when the Doo crossed "the bridge" between quality-of-life and a peaceful passing.

As I previously stated, I may have carried the Doo into the vet, but she walked herself out that day, nearly at a trot, in a rush, showing NO signs of aging. I walked out like an old man, sad and hopeless.

I can't say I was devastated about Doctor "C's" call; I kind of had suspected that would be the result. But the truth of it – the REALITY of it – hurt down deep in my soul. I'd be once again put into a life-to-death process, regarding someone close to me, for the fifth time in my life. I hated the thought.

DAMN!!!! I had a sneaking suspicion that the final decision would not be too far in the future.

The third thing I did that February was to discontinue all meds and vitamins. I decided that the Doo should enjoy all her meals. There was nothing left to change things as they were. I was bitter, in a way, but not with Darla. I'd lost my only grandparent at age 8, I'd had to be the main person to bury both parents, and deal with of the death of a friend – a good friend – and then finally, later deal with the death of my own brother, who came to hate all three of us, my parents and me, as his brain tumors kicked in. I remember coming home that Saturday with Dar, me crying, and saying "God!!! Why do you keep dumping on me?!!"

Now, with Dar, I just wanted things, to irreverently quote Jesus of Nazareth, "to pass this cup beyond me." In truth, I knew it couldn't. I was "Darla's Dad."

And as the responsible person...I stopped all meds and vitamins.

Late in February, the weather changed. Suddenly, cold was warm. A funny but sad situation occurred one Tuesday evening: Dar desperately wanted to be outside to "poop." It was pouring rain like your bathroom shower! She barked incessantly. I let her out; she quickly hid under my back deck glass table...and stayed there.

After 5 minutes, I tried to reach for her to bring her back in, but she backed off (her vision was failing more heavily also, according to the vet), so she probably didn't recognize me much through the heavy rain.

I opted for another approach: I left the back door to the back deck door open and stepped away (I could deal with a wet floor).

One minute later, Dar shot in like a rocket up onto the couch – soaking wet. I dried her off as best I could (she was still not liking touching).

That night, I still slept next to her on the couch...with it semi-wet. Now I was two years on the couch (as opposed to a regular healthy bed and mattress). I have a lot of back and spine pain still to these days, though I'm only half a century old. I fully believe that a doctor will, one day, say to me: "Did you serve time in active duty? Your spine is mis-aligned and in awful shape causing the pain, and maybe cancer is to be expected because of that..."

"Yeah, I did active duty. I slept in the trenches," I'll say to that. And I'd add...

"...I wouldn't trade an 10 extra years for any of it."

My commanding officer was a gem.

More precious than I would ever know again.

CHAPTER 36

MARCH IS A STRANGE MONTH IN NEW JERSEY. IT HERALDS CHANGE IN A WAY THAT IS SO FULLY UNCERTAIN. WINTER BEGINS TO WAVE FAREWELL, YET SPRING IS FEARFUL TO REPLACE IT. SNOWSTORMS OF SERIOUS MAGNITUDE ARE NOT UNCOMMON; TWO DAYS AFTER, BRIGHT SUN AND TEMPERATURES WARM ENOUGH FOR ONE TO WISH FOR THE JERSEY SHORE ABOUND.

By the early part of that tumultuous month, I had finally begun to accept where

things actually stood with Dar. At least two trips to the vet were confirming that The

Doo was nearing the end of her time on earth. Not only was I back to believing in God; I was praying for whatever help I could be given.

Feeding my aging 'Eskie' had moved beyond sheer "creativity." Now, at random times, Dar would even reject prime cut, grill-cooked sirloin steak for no good reason. It just depended on the mood she was in at that moment. My arrivals home each night still elicited her impassioned love, but now she would shoot around the first floor, like some sort of unguided rocket, often crashing into and falling over objects she was familiar with otherwise.

Darla had had a toy at one point, a "Budda." It was a soft, plush, squeaky thing, roughly shaped like a dog bone. Over the last few months, as her emotions got out of whack – in line with her disease – this novelty became her sounding board: the more she chewed on it, the more stressed I knew she was.

Sometime, by mid-February, it disappeared completely. She would go searching for it, to no avail. I went searching for it too, like a crazy man, upending furniture, looking in the yard, anywhere I thought it might possibly be, again to no avail. (Months later, long after Dar's departure, I would find it, shoved in between two layers of the couch's backrest -- flapped pillows attached to the couch. How she ever managed to wedge it there, I'll never know. It made me very sad, in retrospect, that it was so lost at such an important time in her life. I finally found it 3 years later, wedged into an upper section of the couch. Huh?!!).

Blue Baby, never far from her, anyway, now became a vital component in Darla's life. She wouldn't even travel the 15 feet from the couch to her water bowl without it. It was both her baby and her security blanket. Each morning and each night, I would make

sure it never got lost. Red Baby saw an occasional bit of attention, but it was Blue Baby she now relied on so intensely, and intently.

By mid-March, the weather turned decidedly warm on a near-permanent basis. I chose to take a week's vacation late that month, for a variety of reasons, but most specifically because I had a deep sense Dar's time was running out and I wanted time with her.

One more trip to the vet confirmed this.

Doctor "C" said: "Yes, who she is basically 'gone.' There is just a little remembrance. She knows you well but not much else. The Selegiline isn't working and we have nothing to bring her back from the failed muscles..."

Easter was just around the corner, in early April...a time of death and rebirth.

How appropriate.

CHAPTER 37

WHILE CHRISTMAS HAS, IN MANY WAYS, SUPPLANTED EASTER AS THE MOST IMPORTANT SPIRITUAL HOLIDAY IN THE SECULAR WORLD, EASTER ACTUALLY IS THE MORE SIGNIFICANT OF THE TWO FOR CHRISTIANS WORLDWIDE.

It is a time of both loss and rebirth. Christians believe that Jesus of Nazareth, being the only Son of God, was crucified and died on Good Friday, to be re-born on Easter Sunday, delivering a promise of eternal life to all.

Easter was at hand, and Darla was still with me, but more and more, I knew the time for her to go was at hand. I hadn't yet admitted it to myself openly...then a unique and unplanned thing changed all. My graphics department had expanded our web and video capabilities immensely in the prior year. We were now using very expensive, high-definition video equipment capable of rivaling the quality seen on regular television. Left in the shadows (and a closet) was our original $600+, hand-held video camera.

I decided to borrow our old standby camcorder over Easter weekend and our video production specialist happily showed me how to use it. I already had thousands of photos of Dar, taken with my digital still camera, but no real live footage of her.

Arriving home early on Good Friday afternoon, I took out the camera and began shooting away. I had expected to fill the cassette with about an hour of "The Best of The Doo." Instead, I filmed all of 10 minutes.

There's an old expression: there are none so blind as they who will not see.

Over the previous months, I had watched Dar refuse to eat, fall over, vomit, whine, use

Blue Baby when emotionally upset, stare off into space, obsess on minor things, and more. But these were isolated incidents and seen through my own, loving, and hopeful eyes.

The camcorder did not offer a direct viewfinder; rather 'you' watched through a flip-open panel and followed the action that way, as if you were watching a tiny TV screen.

What I saw upset me deeply and made me profoundly sad. The cold, emotionless lens of the camera showed an elderly dog, feeble and struggling, hopeful of life and still

going on, but incapable of the quality of life and dignity she deserved.

That Monday night after Easter Sunday, Dar and I visited the vet yet again. Doctor "C" and I discussed final options. I do have to say that this sweet woman was gentle, kind, and caring in so many ways, both to The Doo and me. It was clear (unless I'm a very bad judge of human nature) that our many visits had caused her to develop at least a minor affection for this aging Eskie. She handled her with a gentility I've never seen from any veterinarian.

It was arranged that I would finally bring the Doo in two Saturday mornings hence, to be finally "put to sleep." Prior to that, I would return in two days, that Wednesday, for the Doo to get steroid shots. Doctor "C" warned that, although these might seem to return Darla to 'normalcy,' they could only give her a brief 'quality of life' boost.

There was now no going back from that the end was indeed at hand.

The few people at work who knew what was going on applauded my actions and told me that the steroid shots WOULD INDEED return Darla briefly to her past self. My plan had been to give her back her old life and for us to share our final time together in a happy way: one last trip to the park, wonderful food for her, a clearheadness on her part and no falling over, etc...

My prior life, as I have already mentioned, was filled with losses I couldn't control.

Privately, I always envied Kira, who was able to spend time saying 'goodbye' to her mother, who had died, like my mother and brother, of cancer. I wanted that now with Darla, my once, 'surrogate Mom' early on, and then, later, my 'daughter.'

It was not to be, and yet it was. My plans weren't God's plans, but then this 'loving parent' whom Darla had finally brought me back in contact with, delivered a unique, so special ending.

The steroids did NOTHING. There was no response at all from Dar. A call to the vet from me at work on Thursday morning confirmed the worst. Doctor "C" talked to me directly on the phone:

"I was afraid that might happen. I gave her two different steroids. One should have kicked in within 15 minutes; the other should have shown results in three hours. She's too far gone: the 'canine cognitive disorder' is overriding her bodily functions. I'm sorry..."

I chose to keep to the plan but Darla's body had other ideas. By the weekend she was pooping badly and dehydrating very quickly. She held close to Blue Baby and to me. Her upset over being touched had diminished; it seemed she was simply trusting deeply in me.

By mid-Sunday, I knew another six days weren't likely. I didn't want her to suffer; at the same time, I didn't want to leave her for work, to find she had died alone. She had spent too much time alone – this beautiful creature of God who only wanted to give, receive, and share love.

Five and a half years after this pest had hopped up onto my chest, and into my soul, I knew I had to give her what she needed and deserved.

That Sunday afternoon was warm, sunny, and pretty. About 5:30 PM, I decided to lift the Doo up and take her outside to share the sunset. She didn't struggle at all.

I hadn't planned anything. I was just holding Dar in my arms on my front-yard bench. An SUV rolled up into a driveway across the street. Out of it emerged a middle aged couple and a tall, thin young woman. The couple headed onto the house; I knew them as friends and had already told them I would be "resting" Dar, due to her age.

The tall young woman was "Kay," their daughter, whom I had hired to walk Darla for about a year three years before when my health wasn't great and work consumed my schedule. Eventually, Kay faded off, as I have previously mentioned. As I watched her approach, I was startled. She had always been skinny – back then, she was a silly, giggly kid. It was a young woman, tall and self-eased I saw now. She looked down at Dar and me sitting on the bench and smiled sweetly. She held out her hand for Darla to sniff.

Darla smelled a bit and "grnumphhed" lowly, not out of not recognizing, but as if to say "where the hell have you been?" Then The Doo accepted the ensuing petting.

I looked up at Kay; I began to cry. All I could utter was "it's time" and "she's too far gone." Kay simply smiled and caressed Dar's face.

Finally, after another minute, I looked at Kay, tears still streaming from me, and waved her off. "Thank you for us. Go."

I can't say how long I remained sitting out there in the yard after this young woman walked away; it might have been a few minutes or half an hour. Dar seemed happy and comfortable so I just sat with her, cradled in my arms. Finally, The Doo's head turned slightly in my arm to watch the sun sink behind a house across the street. I briefly saw an energy as she watched it. Then her eyes closed...I thought she was falling asleep. Suddenly, they opened wide and looked at me as if to say "aren't we going in?"

Later, I thought of Kay and how Dar had been her first step towards responsibility

at age 15. And now I was amazed at Kay's maturity. I also thought about how I had never seen a sunset through simple, loving eyes, but Darla had now shone it to me.

The Doo wasn't doing well at all by Monday morning and I knew my Saturday plan was no longer an option. She was barely eating and had vomited a few times. I called my boss and told him I needed the day off to be with her.

He was exceedingly understanding, being a long-time 'dog person (despite his stupidity, he was capable of caring).' In the end, later in the day, when I spoke to him, he offered perfect advice, as if it had come from another voice other than his selfish one:

"They are very special to us, and they want to stay with us. But they don't know how to say 'goodbye.' So it's up to us to be strong and make that decision..."

At 4:30 PM, Monday, April 20, 2009, I called the veterinarian's office and arranged to bring Darla in to have her "put to sleep" at 4:00 PM the next day. I called my boss back to tell him I would be taking Tuesday as a personal day to do what I had to. He reassured me I was doing the right thing.

So many years had past since the losses that I had allowed to steal my humanity. To all those around me, except possibly for Kira, I had remained a happy, outgoing, friendly soul. Down deep inside, prior to this, I had grown selfish and resentful. Now, one more time, I was being asked to give up a family member, to be alone yet again. But something was different this time: Rather than losing family, I was giving up selfishness for the good of someone else. I had come full circle, back to the man I was always meant to be.

Darla's time, and her mission, were done. All that was left was to finally say "goodbye."

To her, and so many things.

And in doing so, rediscover life and love...

CHAPTER 38

RAIN IS A VERY STRANGE THING.

Farmers obviously rely on it and want it, until such a time when it may flood their fields

and kill their crops. Singers, song lyricists, filmmakers, and writers, among others, love to use it as a metaphor for sadness and desolation. Some people may enjoy a late spring sun shower, hoping to catch a glimpse of a rainbow afterwards. Others regard a rainy November Saturday afternoon as a time to stay in and get cozy, or be "domestic." A few find great joy in watching nature unleashed during a violent thunderstorm.

I arose to gray, dismal skies and the threat of rain on that last day, Tuesday, April 21st. Dar woke up with me, her head having rested near mine on the couch for most of the night (I woke up very often).

Shortly after I showered and dressed, the phone rang. It was a good friend of mine, Bobby, a tall, broad, incredibly friendly guy of Italian ancestry, who was in his mid-thirties. We had become friends over my time at the job I was at. He was calling to arrange for a time to come down from North Jersey with some day laborers he had very generously hired on my behalf to dig "the hole."

What was "the hole?" I had intended to bury Darla in the yard, in a spot not too far from Shadow, but I had not yet been able to get to digging it myself. I intended to have my regular landscaping guy to do it, but he hadn't yet returned my calls. Bobby and I agreed to a time around 10:00 AM.

The Doo wasn't doing well at all. She fell a couple of times (quickly got back up), but seemed more feeble than ever, much older than her years. I wish I could say what I did between my 8:30 talk with Bobby and when he and his crew arrived at 10:15 AM, but I honestly can't.

Time seemed to be both crawling and rushing by all at once. I gave Dar the remnants of a Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburger I had left from a bag of eight I had bought for her the previous Thursday. A time was that she'd eat the whole thing once I removed the lettuce and the tomato slices; now she'd use her nose to push away the bun parts and just consume the the cheese-covered beef and bacon strips. This morning, she didn't even down half of what she found, but did manage to produce one of her "patented burps," sounding like one of those obese guys who routinely wins a hot dog-eating

contest at a country fair. 'One for the road, huh?,' I pondered, trying to raise my own spirits.

Bobby and I stood out in my side yard, directing the guys where to dig. A slight rain had begun to fall. The two of us retreated back into my front dining room and began to talk, me explaining the day's schedule. My friend, as he always was, provided support and kind, assuring words. He offered to come back later in the day and go with Darla and me to the vet, but I'd already decided that was one trip which would absolutely need to be made by just The Doo and me.

Bobby, being Italian, is big on the restorative nature of a good meal and suggested we go get some breakfast. Just then, I heard a slight noise behind me. I looked back to the kitchen and found Dar, whom I guess was attracted by my voice, waddling out to see where I was and what was going on.

She looked so old.

"You see what I'm talking about?," I said to Bobby, fighting back tears.

He nodded. I walked back, picked her up and carried her to him. Bobby's allergic to dogs, so he couldn't pet or touch her, but you could tell Darla had lost none of her innate charm: as his eyes softened, he said: "Yeah, I can see, but you can tell she's so sweet."

Dar just stared back at him, frail but wondering, her eyes timid but curious.

We ate at a tiny diner just a few blocks from my home, Bobby having driven. I'm not much of a breakfast' person, except on vacations, but a plate of sunny-side-up eggs, toast, bacon, and home fries is something I never leave with anything left on it, except for the knife and fork. This time, by the end, the plate remained half full. Bobby was sweet and caring, assuring me I was doing the right thing. Once again, I don't remember much of the conversation other than me half-heartedly agreeing.

By the time we got back to my house, the day laborers were done with "the hole." I fought back tears as I looked at it.

Shortly, thereafter, after a few more words of encouragement, Bobby and crew were off and gone in his car. "Call me," Bobby kept saying, over and over.

It was nearly 12:00 noon. Time was flying. Darla rested peacefully on the couch, Blue Baby by her paw.

I cooked her a lunch of ground beef, which she wouldn't eat.

I picked up the phone and called Kira, leaving her a message to let her know what was going on. She called back around 1:15 PM and we talked for a few moments. Like

Bobby, she was assuring me I was doing the right and proper thing; I began to cry again.

By 1:30 PM, I decided how I wanted to end my five and a half years with Darla.

I picked up the plate of uneaten, cooked ground beef and wiped it off into the kitchen

garbage can. I pulled out, from the freezer, a piece of rock-hard-frozen filet mignon (oddly, part of a Christmas gift that past winter from Bobby). I microwaved it to unfreeze it.

I pulled out a DVD movie to watch: "Underdog," a Walt Disney Picture made in 2007. It was a silly little film, starring Jim Belushi, and it was a thinly-veiled doggie version of "Superman." "Shoeshine Boy," a mild-mannered, average street dog, became this heroic alter-ego whenever love interest "Sweet Polly Purebred" or the town was being attacked by villains like 'Simon Bar Sinister' or 'Riff Raff.' Underdog always spoke in rhymes like "There's no need to fear, Underdog is here!" The movie was a live-action version of an even sillier, formulaic cartoon series I grew up with in the 1960s.

I didn't pick out the film necessarily because it was about a dog. It had appealed previously to my tastes, and further, I remembered a cold, windy, Friday winter night the year before when I picked it up and Dar and I sat together watching it. Back then, she wasn't so far along in her condition.

I started the movie at about 1:45 PM. It wasn't that long a film, less than 90 minutes. The sun outside had since replaced the clouds. The rain had long since stopped.

Something extraordinary was about to happen, though I didn't know it yet...

Dar sat next to me on the couch, not dozing or sleeping. There seemed to be a calmness in her that was natural and untouched. She moved closer and rested her head on my knee. As the DVD started, I tried to pet her. She gave no resistance, but instead seemed to really enjoy it.

At about 2:30, I let the movie keep going, but went into the kitchen and cooked up the filet mignon on an indoor grill I had; it was a large piece. Dar followed me out there and dutifully waited, but when I served it to her, she walked away, back to the couch. I felt saddened over that, wanting her to have at least one last, great, tasty meal.

We returned to the couch together and kept watching the film, all the time with me petting her – with no resistance!

At about 3:00, Dar stood up and stretched, left the couch and headed to the kitchen. I expected another round of non-stop 'water-bowl' trips. After a minute, I stood up and glanced into the kitchen (her food and water-bowl were visible there from the living room couch).

THE DOO HAD DEVOURED THE HUGE FILET MIGNON PORTION COMPLETELY AND WAS LICKING THE PLATE!

Was this really happening?!!

She returned to the couch and rested her head back next to me, again accepting my petting without complaint.

The movie finally ended by about 3:30. She wanted to go out onto the deck. The sun was now shining brightly. The skies showed a placid cyan blue with a few puffy white clouds; the grass glowed a bright green, due to the earlier rain. A soft warm wind started sweeping through the area.

I watched carefully from inside but didn't join her out there. She had not tripped or fallen all afternoon. She didn't pee or poop; she didn't try to get down to the grassy yard.

At first she just looked around a bit at the yard, but then she turned and faced the afternoon sun. Her eyes closed and she just stood there, her body strong, erect, and stable, her noble, well-formed figure a true picture of grace and beauty. She stood there for such a long time, just like that, basking.

...I don't know what to say here. I'll never know really what was happening then. Was Darla consciously saying goodbye to the life she knew? Was she dreaming of similar days when she happily chased squirrels to no avail? Was her mind gone and she was a million miles away, not even remembering who she was?

I'll allow whoever reads this to form their own conclusions. I have mine, but, in this case, it truly isn't for me to say.

The ride to the vet was shorter than I wanted, but of course, I wanted it to be as long as a lifetime.

Dar seemed unusually calm and spent the entire 10 minute trip in the front passenger seat, comfortably positioned (not like her in years), just staring at me (with an exceedingly unnerving, calm demeanor). She looked at me with a simplicity and a trust that bothered me greatly. I kept one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on her, petting her all the way.

Dar let me carry her in with no struggle. I dealt first with the portly, fiftyish, bleached redhead front desk nurse who was as emotionless as an old red brick.

"Do you want the 'cremains' to be individual or off mass cremation?"

'Cremains?' That was the new term? As you know, I work in advertising and

suddenly found myself ashamed of my field. Obviously, some skilled marketing genius worked long and hard at that asinine cross-reference.

"Individual," I replied, hurting. It suddenly became clear that this Township, unlike that of my former residence area, DID NOT allow for such as "the hole." (Oops on Shadow!, Town Guys!..but I still visit.)

The proper paperwork filled out by "Main-Bitch-On-Staff," Dar and I were escorted into the same examination room we'd seen often in the last two months. Two minutes later, Doctor "C" entered from another door with an assistant. She laid a soft blanket down for Dar on the tabletop, told me she was sorry for what was to come, and then explained the procedure. The Doo would be painlessly injected and would pass quickly as her bodily functions just faded away softly.

She started petting Dar, who seemed happy with that. The assistant petted Dar also, commenting, "she's so soft!"

It would take but a few minutes and then Darla would be gone to the ages. They'd leave me with The Doo as she passed, but Doctor "C" would need to come back to check to make sure Dar had passed properly. After that, I could stay as long as I liked, and then leave, uninterrupted, through another door.

I said my farewells and kissed The Doo, who looked up at with me with love in her eyes...and I think, a full understanding...

...and I simply said "goodbye."

I stayed only two minutes after Doctor "C" confirmed Dar's passing. I petted her one last time and wondered why her fur now seemed silkier and softer than I ever noticed. I passed through the side door, tears welling up in my eyes, and walked out to my car.

Once in the Mustang, with the empty leash and collar laid on the passenger seat, I finally lost it!

The tears flowed deeper than in many years and honestly with a pain and sadness I didn't think possible. I knew I had lost a mother, a child, my best friend, and my family, all in one moment.

Darla's mission had been completed, and in the very end, she had risen up from all her ills to show me the best of all we all could be. She died with a loveliness and dignity that reflected how she lived and loved. And, no matter what anyone else thinks, I

believe she found it in herself, either alone, or with the help of a higher power, to finally return to that dog from the first night she was with Kira and me.

That night, I spoke on the phone to Kira and Bobby, and a few other friends. The house felt empty. I felt empty. I went to work the next morning, exhausted and sad, but happy not to be alone at my house. I didn't want to be there, mourning Dar's passing, being so alone.

For the first time in so many years, I turned the TV and all the lights off as I left for work.

They were no longer needed. For a brief moment, I considered leaving them on, but then decided it would be worse when I got home with no "Darla."

Stepping in through the front door that night was "literally" like entering a "tomb." It was no longer a "home;" it was just a house. I felt so lost. I kept sleeping on the couch for a few weeks. I humored myself with explanations that I needed late-night TV (not available upstairs), but, in truth, I knew I was missing Dar.

The following Monday, I received a call at work from the vet's office that The Doo's "cremains" were ready. I got there and picked them up: a nice, carved, golden oak wooden box with an adhesive gold plaque with DARLA on it. The 'brick bitch' processed it. No problem off my Gold Amex card.

I've never been a "cremation" person for anyone, human or animal, so I didn't expect much emotion when I picked up Darla's "cremains."

Much to my surprise, I broke down crying, once again in the Mustang, even deeper and more intensely than before. I guess that put the "period" at the end of the "sentence."

Sentence. I guess that's a good word with many definitions. At worst, it means a person imprisoned: either by common law or that individual's own guides. I had been that type of person, self-sentenced, to a life of non-involvement, self-numbing, hiding

in plain sight, and faking wholesomeness. I was liberated, freed, against my own stiff will by an animal I once wanted nothing to do with, who won over my heart, and, in the end, spent the last years of her life teaching me how to live.

The question has been raised to me: did I hold onto Darla too long, being selfish, rather than letting her go earlier to her just reward?

I have no answer to that other than this story. Where Darla is right now...I have no

clear answer.

But as I've regained my heart and soul through her, I believe she is with God and that I will see her again. The Bible is written by men; if you believe in a higher power, then the future and true reality is written...beyond us and our understanding...

I am only who I am...a would-be author. I like writing horror novels – none have yet been published. Though I have referenced "God" a lot in this story – I am NOT born-again. But this is a true-life story so I felt such needed to be said.

Once upon a time, a little dog, planned for death, escaped that and changed a grown man's life, in ways beyond belief. The weeks following Darla's passing were very difficult and lonely for me. Even now, I still miss her so much. In my entire life, I have NEVER met a soul so much in love, so dedicated to love, so pressed to give love...only ever hoping to receive just a little love in return. Darla gave so much love, first to Kira, then Kira and me, then me. She defended us against "violent" pizza delivery guys, goofy neighbors, errant squirrels, and finally, cats she once hated and then learned to love at an old age.

I have no answers except these...

There once was a dog named "Darla." She changed my life. As so it happened, she changed my world. In the process, I fell in love with her. In the process of loving her, there were many special moments. There were many special people...

Kira, who saw what others couldn't and did what others wouldn't.

That vet who saved Dar from human food and foolishness early on.

Children and adults, in parks and stores, who saw her sweetness and smiled as she brightened their days.

Doctor "C," whose gentility and caring helped so much.

Others too numerous to mention...

But of all those I might wish to thank, first and foremost would be the illustrious "Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln," Dar's previous owners. I don't know if they ever made it past 'South of the Border' or even to the NJ State line, but in their foolish haste to get rid of

her and get away, they did the most wonderful, important thing of all:

They left her with Kira and me.

As time went on, I continued to miss Darla. After so long a period, I discovered that would never end, only lessen. I also learned something else from this timid, sweet, little, all-white dog:

I used to believe love was a destination, and that when you got there, you were set.

It's not a destination.

Love is a journey. A trip down happy, sad, sweet, painful, joyous, curious and wondrous, ever-changing highways of the heart.

And for too short a time in my life, I shared that road with such a special 'child of God.'

The house is no longer unintentionally plastered with tufts of white hair, or badly soiled carpet, and most traces of Dar are gone except for a couple of framed photos. I gave her remaining food, vitamins, and medications to a co-worker who spends her Saturdays volunteering at a 'no-kill' shelter for dogs. I have held onto a few things: a collar and a leash, her dog tags, a hair brush, a couple of toys, and Red Baby.

Do not ask me what became of 'Blue Baby,' or of Darla's remains. I'll never say. Some things are meant to be private. I'll only comment that each had one last special journey to make.

Like love, life is a journey. Dar's has ended. It is for me, as my journey continues, to make sure I don't forget the lessons she taught me. I used to love playing 'hide and seek' with her, with me being the one always hiding.

I don't hide anymore.

At least, not from life...or my heart.

Epilogue

IN MANY, MANY WAYS, MY WORLD TODAY IS VERY FAR REMOVED FROM THE ONE DARLA ONCE SHARED WITH ME, BUT IN SOME WAYS, IT IS MUCH THE SAME.

I no longer work at the job I had in Darla's time and the 2003 Ford Mustang was totaled in an accident three years ago. I still live in the same house with the same furniture. "SJ" (no longer "Shadow Junior"or 'InvisoCat,' if you wish -- what I finally ended up calling her) left out the front door one day, never to be seen again. I haven't gotten another dog, although someday I probably will.

I still watch the same television shows (if not cancelled) and, while I drink much less Coca-Cola than I used to, I still eat pretty much the same foods, but a little healthier. I will admit to a certain sadness when having a Wendy's Junior Bacon Cheeseburger or a slice of pizza, knowing The Doo isn't there to bring some home to. I now sleep in the bed upstairs; occasionally, when the mood hits me, I'll sleep on the couch, but it's rare.

I go out to movies, have dinners with friends, visit home shows and pet expos. Mostly, I'm still alone. This past, I went to Christmas Eve Mass for the third time in nine years. I've started a new horror novel, my first in 12 years (it's about an evil, possessed, all black cat – LOL!). For the first time since the 'great bathroom disaster' at the old house, I'm doing home renovations.

Most specially, adult human love returned to my life for a time in the persona of a beautiful woman named 'Amy.' We cared deeply for each other and hoped for a long and happy future together, though, eventually, for many reasons, it didn't work out. I did go on vacation with her to Cancun, Mexico! It was my first real vacation away from home in almost 10 years, and my first one ever outside of the U.S.A. (if you discount Niagara Falls).

One Saturday in February, the year after Darla died, I got up early and made my way downstairs. The sun was starting to come up, so I stepped outside to look around. I had pretty much avoided the back deck and the backyard that last summer and fall, probably because it reminded me too much of bittersweet memories regarding her.

The horizon was painted in gold and amber hues and the sun was struggling to appear. But gray and dismal clouds were moving towards it and you could tell the coming storm was going to win out. It had been another weird NJ winter, with multiple symptoms, and it wasn't yet done.

I looked down at the wood beneath my feet. That would be another home improvement project for the coming spring: I would be replacing all the deck planks and refinishing the rest of it. But mostly I noticed that the winter's pounding had worn away most of the textured paint I had once laid down in a forgotten fall to protect Darla from slipping or falling in winter.

"Ohhh, Dar...my dear Dar...," I sighed sadly, softly.

My thoughts turned once again to something that happened shortly after The Doo's passing...

I had chosen to stop in a bagel shop near work one morning to pick up something to eat. It was very much a family operation, and one of the workers was a woman clearly in her late seventies whom all the staff referred to as "Momma." She saw me waiting to be served and asked: "what can I get for you, young man?"

I laughed and said: "Thank you! It's been a long time since anyone has called me that."

As I drove off to work, I thought about the 'young man' comment. I was missing Darla tremendously and felt so old and lonely. At more than fifty years of age, my youth, I felt, had long since passed.

Then, for some reason, an uncle of mine who died many years ago came to mind. He was my father's youngest brother and had never been a very nice man. Late in his life, particularly after his wife died, he also became surly, selfish, and he grew bitter at the world. He was a man who would get angry at his local McDonald's Restaurant because it closed on Christmas Day and he couldn't get his morning cup of coffee from the place.

He lived alone in a garden apartment in South Jersey. He had no pets, no friends, and

expected most of his remaining relations, including my cousins and me, to call him: never the reverse. All he did was go for daily car rides, eat hungry man frozen dinners, and sit in his living room chair, chain-smoking while watching sports on his television.

He not only lived alone, but because of how he lived he died alone. He was found collapsed on the floor of his living room. Nobody knows exactly how long he was there like that, if he died suddenly, or if he laid in pain for a time on the hard polished pinewood. There were very few people standing by his grave on that cold, rainy winter morning the day he was buried; I was one of them, Kira by my side.

'There but for the grace of God go I,' I thought now as I steered the Mustang into

my then-employer's parking lot. I always got into work early, before most other people,

and once I parked the car, I just sat there in the driver's seat.

I began to cry.

That could have been my fate. It would have been easy, after Kira and I finally parted, to have grown bitter and remote and angry at life for not having gone the way I originally wanted it to. So easy to let work consume my life, for me to grow distant from my friends, and resent God for having taken my parents and brother too soon.

To resent Wendy's on some not-too-distant future Christmas Day for not being open so I could get a Coke and a junior bacon cheeseburger.

Darla had saved me from that fate.

This little white dog whom I never wanted, whom nobody but Kira wanted, had, in the end, saved my "life."

Darla desperately needed love. She also desperately wanted to give love and I was the lucky recipient. She had been, through it all, through the five and a half years, with its laughter, tears, occasional anger and occasional guilt, always the loved one. And the one who always loved.

I do, before concluding here, need to correct a misleading statement I made at the start of this. I foolishly referred to Darla as "my" dog. I was wrong; I was never "owner" of The Doo, though that's a convenient 'tag' we humans use.

In truth, I don't think any of us can ever 'own' any living thing, including ourselves: we are all, both great and small, only 'caretakers' of the lives and loves vested to us. We accept a responsibility to care for each other, no matter the shape, size, or form. We are all given souls and our "reward," here on earth, is but a "doggie treat:" a brief glimpse into heaven via a chance to share in the soul of another for just a moment.

There are still tears about Darla, mostly for myself, but laughter is beginning to seep back in. I know fully in my heart that she's in a happy, better place. After so many years, I now finally believe in that place because all we learn and experience here can't be for nothing and all we grow to be and become can't end with just a last heartbeat.

There is, at least for me, an afterlife and a 'Heaven.'

Darla lives yet within me, in my memory and in my heart. She had survived the worst blow anyone can be dealt with in life: to be ignored, alone, and uncared for, to be

unloved, and she came out, stronger and better and even more loving. I sometimes wonder if those who passed her along even think of her – if they have even the slightest clue about the diamond they threw away.

I almost did the same thing. I'll never make that mistake again. In time, I saw an 'old dog'become a 'puppy' at a time when old dogs die. Love can do powerful and wondrous and mystical things.

That first night, when the "Lincolns" showed up with "Dazi," she took one look at me and started barking. She focused solely on me with her yapping.

I was scared. I didn't understand.

As I've previously mentioned, American Eskimos are a very smart breed, and when they "talk" at you, they are communicating something, sharing something with you.

Darla yapped non-stop at me that first weekend. Me. In particular. In fact, when I think

about it, she never really did stop doing it over the next five and a half years.

I understand now it wasn't barking.

When children – or for that matter – any of us, are really, truly happy, we don't just talk...

...We sing.

I didn't know it then, but I was hearing Darla's song.

The End.

About the Author:

New Jersey native James Gerard Small is a professional Graphic Designer/Art Director with over three decades' experience in the advertising field. He has handled work for a diverse number of clients over the years, including Nabisco, Disney, Sony, and Campbell's Soups, as well as many lesser-known clients.

His creative efforts often include additional copy and headline creation work as well.

He has belonged to different writers' groups and has mostly focused in recent years on short stories and blogs as creative outlets. He is the author of two as-of-yet unpublished horror novels and is currently working on two additional books.

"Darla's Song" represents his first foray into the area of publishing an ebook, and at that, a non-fiction story.

As he explains, "it was something I had to do. I was always a 'cat' person until Darla entered my life – actually, she was kind of forced on me as an older dog. I went from not wanting her to falling completely in love with her. She possessed a gentle persona and sweetness I'd never before encountered in any living creature."

"I miss her dearly to this day; she changed my life. I just had to tell her story. And quite frankly, the book pretty much wrote itself."

