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|  Sunny in the bullrush - photo by Rick Hammer  Sunny and Steve - photo by Rick Hammer In Celebration of a 'One-Off' WonderPart 1 of 3 By Steven Gienhart Sunny, thank you for that smile upon your face//Sunny, thank you for that gleam that flow[ed] with grace// [You were] my spark of nature's fire// [you were] my sweet complete desire// Sunny one so true I love[d] you "SUNNY"/4th and final verse/ copyright 1965 Bobby Hebb - Portable Music Company Inc I reckon that, if over the course of the last four years or so, you've had much occasion to commute anywhere along County Road 3, between the post office and The Hairafter in Crosslake, then you've probably seen me walking along the shoulder of said road, if not down in the ditch adjacent to it. There was this big, smilin', gleamin' red-haired, wellbehaved, handsome devil of a dog - literally walking himself - hard by my left heel, on virtually every one of those many occasions. As the brackets surrounding changes in the tense of certain of the above quoted lyrics suggest, he is gone now: humanely euthanized March 12, 2008. Around Crosslake, and everywhere he ever went, for that matter, that dog was conspicuous for two things: his especially friendly, yet placid, demeanor and of course, his custom of carrying his own leash. It is my hope that in memorializing those two facets of his personality, as well as the resolute manner in which he met 'his day' and, particularly, the impact of that day's immediate aftermath upon my spirit, that I may provide the reader with a pleasant story and myself, with an avenue to catharsis. He meant a great deal to me. His name was Sunny: for having been born on the first day of summer. I could leave that dog anywhere and never fret that he'd be there upon my return. It was like that from the second week of his arrival, back in 1996. The girls had returned to school and Sunny was given 'permission' to accompany me on my little lawn and gardening route. I placed that tiny, ten week old fur ball on the front stoop of an apartment building in south Minneapolis and went about my work. When the time came to go mow 'round back, I simply set down on the stoop with him and explained that I didn't want him to follow my mower around, for fear of flying debris. I told him that I was terribly busy and I'd forgotten his leash. I concluded by pressing my palm outward, toward him, admonishing him to"stay" and went on my way. I was apprehensive, of course and I even went so far as to sneak a peek around the corner at one point. He was taking a nap.... Twenty minutes later I came back out front and there he sat - wide awake - with that same placid expression on his face which he exhibited hereabouts - whether at the post office or at the church, or Pine Peaks, 'Holiday, Reed's, Crosslake Ace, Aunt Bea's, the Riverside, Maucieri's or The Hairafter. He was just sitting there watching the pedestrian traffic go by; looking as sublimely relaxed as the Sphinx itself. It was always so. Sunny's demeanor allowed that he was a friend with all creatures, great and small: human beings and critters, alike. One of my fondest memories of my down home days was our Friday 'family movie and a pizza nights'. Laying in the dark, the little girls would use his broad back for a headrest in front of the TV. Meanwhile, Sunny and the family cat would go jaw-to-paw. He would be snapping/growling/nudging, tenderly, at her, while that little Calico kitty was taking swipe after swipe at his big floppy ears as she lay upon her back, draped across his feet, right under his nose. As if that scene lacked for comic relief, the 'kicker was that these epic, cat and dog sparring matches were often 'refereed' by a pearl gray cockatiel perched atop Sunny's head; bobbing and weaving - like a surfer riding a frothy curl - in order to keep its balance as he lunged at the kitty. Sunny's custom of carrying his own leash evolved out of an Easter Vacation road trip to visit my folks in Hot Springs, Arkansas. We'd decided to take the Great [Mississippi] River Road the entire way down. Day-two of said trip had brought us to Memphis, Tennessee: on a picturesque, early spring day when the sultry air on Beale Street was heavily scented of magnolia blossoms and barbecue. By and by we were enticed by the aroma of hickory smoked pork and the sounds of a solo bluesman's riffs wafting from a rib joint which had thrown its front doors open wide to the fine weather. Before entering, I tethered Sunny to a parking meter right outside the door. I knew he wasn't going anywhere had I not tied him to the meter... but I didn't want to leave him unattended and un-tethered in an unfamiliar town. (You never know when someone might mistake him for a stray.... but that's another story in and of itself.) We were shown to a table in the farthest corner of the crowded room. There, we were left to tap our toes to the great music whilst we awaited the fare. Presently, a peel of laughter from up near the sidewalk precluded a wave of applause accompanied by the chinking of flatware on drinking glasses - such as rolled across the entire dining room floor. The blues man stopped in mid-chord, gave a throaty guffaw and offered a comic "...well I'll be 'dogged'". Then he launched into a spontaneous improvisation of a tune by Memphis' favorite son: "...you ain't no ordinary hound dog," he rasped, "...smilin all the time!" Indeed, Sunny had untied his leash, gathered the tag end in his maw and let himself in through the open, front door of the restaurant. I once heard - I think it was on an Animal Planet show about dogs - that a canine's sense of smell is about forty times more sensitive than that of a human. Still, amidst all of the aromas of ribs and corn bread and people and beer and magnolia blossoms, Sunny was having some difficulty finding us. He was sauntering from table to table with that leash in his mouth; looking/smiling/nudging at people as though he were a celebrity 'working the room'. The proprietor came shuffling out of the kitchen; shaking his great head of hoary grey hair. His 'ample' belly - only partially cloaked in a bib apron, which was totally soaked in barbecue sauce, perspiration and corn bread batter - shook like the proverbial bowl full of jelly. The old man fell in behind Sunny and followed him to our table. I had already stood to offer my sincere apology and coral that big red devil. The proprietor motioned me to lend him a private ear. "Sir," he drawled in a halfwhisper, "if you would kindly use the fire exit to your rear, I'd be much obliged." "Not at all, sir... and with my humble apologies" said I, setting about to lead Sunny out by that way. "NO! NO! NO! Where are you headed?" responded he, "... I meant, once you all are finished eatin!" No sir, that there dog's got the 'Shine upon hisself... and 'jus as long as he stays here in the corner with you good folks, we're cool, my brother...and oh, by the way, may I recommend a nice beefrib bone accompanied by a bowl of our present year vintage H-2-O?" Well, Sunny was a quick learner and I guess he learned right there and then that all good things come to dogs who carry their own leashes. From that day forth, he walked himself... while accompanying the girls on their trek around Parker's Lake. I never had much cause to leash him up as I'd granted him voice-command privileges ever since the 'stoop incident'. Sunny got lots and lots of Crosslake's finest H-2-O, too. At Aunt Bea's Pantry, Mel used to provide him curbside service. She'd carry a big bowl of cool water out to him and place it down before him while he basked on the warm concrete, under the shade of the Adirondack chairs out front. (Then she'd ask my if I wanted anything...) To show his appreciation - after I'd dumped the unslurped portion of his drink into the geranium planters hanging off the picket fence enclosing the patio - Sunny would pick up that bowl, let himself into the 'shop and return the bowl to Mel with a grateful wag of his tail. He was neither pretentious nor submissive in carrying out this gesture. The truth of the matter was that that dog even had manners. | In Celebration of a 'One-Off' WonderPart 3 of 3 By Steven Gienhart It is all of .2 miles from the Crosslake Recycling Center - where I have lived with my dog, for almost four years - to Maucieri's; .8 miles from the house to the Doctor's office; 1.1 to the 'Riverside; 1.3 to Aunt Bea's; 1.5 to the post office and a good 2, to the old site of the pharmacy. I ought to know: that dog and I carried that big blue sky around on our shoulders almost every day - to one or several of those locations - that whole time. I have calculated that, in so-doing we actually hiked the various distances to those Crosslake landmarks enough times to have walked one from one of this country to the other and back. However, on the 12th of March, I was in my old pickup truck, delivering precious cargo to its final destiny. After I'd stood outside the 'Vet's for a little while, I regained my composure enough to go back in and thank Anne's staff, as best I could. They'd had to be as brave as him or me, from that defining, resolute moment when Sunny had refused to cast me a backward glance; upon hearing the assistant's offer to run some tests. I then drove .2 miles to Northern National Bank. It only took a minute. I used the drive-thru window for perhaps only the dozenth time in those four years. Sunny equated the drive-thru with dog biscuits. Then again, he equated the bank in general with dog biscuits. Whenever we'd be out walking he would look over that way - if I was intending to pass it by, on the way to Reed's - and then look back or up at me. He liked it when I used the walk-up counter around back: so he followed me inside. Rearing up on his hind legs, he'd put his paws on the counter and give the tellers his "What's a dog gotta do to get a biscuit in this joint?" look. They always gave him two... On the 12th, Bob was already fishing the biscuits out of the bin when I told him it wouldn't be necessary. I held up my hand and produced Sunny's collar. And wouldn't you know it, his face grew long too. So did Leah's and Sue's when they came up to say hello and saw that big, weathered, leather collar dangling from my hand and my eyes welling up with tears. It only took that first 'Crosslake Minute' to impress upon me the fact that Sunny meant something special to lots of folks up in this neck of the woods. Still, in my mourning I had difficulty getting myself out of the house until Saturday, the 15th. It was a breezy, bustling Saint Patty's Day in Crosslake. I had to strap his collar around my boot just so I could hear his 'tags go jingle jangle while I walked. I felt about as festive as the chunk of road snot which had fallen out of somebody's fender well and which I took a kick at, out front of Northern Lakes Nursery. Naturally, it had frozen to the roadbed over night, so I stubbed my toe very badly. Plus, the dog tags didn't jingle so much as a single note. Having worked in Northern Ireland for a time, my Irish invectives were impeccable. By the time I reached Maucieri's I was too full of selfpity to walk another step. I bummed a ride from Adam [O'Ruud] who was just then heading into town to set up shop in Town Square. I had to go to the bank and so, was passing through the parking lot at Reeds when an old fellow who was stowing groceries into his SUV stopped me. "Where the heck's your dog?" he asked. I tried to "man-up" by simply telling him that Sunny'd gone on to the Happy Hunting Grounds. That man approached me and held out a sympathetic hand and as we shared a 'shake he said to me: "Ya know, I got a lot of personal satisfaction everyday that I saw you two moseying around. That was the most well behaved dog that I ever did see and I have seen a few in my time." "I am truly sorry," he continued, as we met each other's gaze, "...truly sorry for what must be a grievous hard loss for you.... and if you don't mind - seeing as how I'll likely join him there ahead of you... I'd be pleased to look him up on your behalf." That did it. There's no way to man up to a statement like that... and so I wept... but with a smile on my face. I went on to the bank. Wouldn't you know, the staff had prepared me a poignant card of sympathy. I smiled, (and wept), some more. From there, I went in to my post office box. I found cards of sympathy from my dear Mom and the staff at Crosslake Veterinary Hospital. Those folks had never seen me inside the door of that business excepting that one time. Yet, they'd seen Sunny and I many times and penned some very sweet words of comfort; knowing how much I'd miss him. As I was exiting, a tiny little blue haired octogenarian was going in. I held the door for her, and she said to me: "Why thank you... and where the heck’s your dog?" I couldn't even respond. "Oh, Lord," she said, "...please tell me it isn't so." "It's so," was all I could get out. And then she reached up and put her arms around me and said: "Ya know...with all the crap I have to listen to on TV... and all the stuff I read in the papers, seeing you two out and about most every day - rain or shine - always gave me pause to stop and say to myself, ‘It’s the sight of things such as those two that keeps me firm in my faith that God is up in his heaven, and all's right with the world,’ And I smiled down at her pretty little face... and we both sobbed. The expression "one-off" is something of an engineer's jargon for a creation, which has no duplicate. It is created and then the mold is broken. I've convinced myself that the thing that hurts the most is really the notion that I have lost the companionship of a creature in whose eyes I could do no wrong. I also tell myself that Sunny was a fine figure of a dog: but that he was just a dog. He wasn't one of my 'folks or my sisters. He wasn't someone I'd known since back in the day. He was not even a better dog then any other genuine, doglover's dog: oh sure, my dog even picked up sticks off people's lawns in order to get them out of the way of my mower, and oh sure, from the very first time that I fired my Baretta in his presence, my dog's smile would always tell me that its report was like "Ode to Joy" to his ears, and oh sure... So, you see, the "one-off" being herein celebrated isn't even my faithful companion of nearly twelve years. I have no doubt that had Sunny and I actually walked this country from end-to-end, we would have never entered into a town like Crosslake, MN. It's a one-off wonder of wonders, where virtual strangers can provide succor in a body's hour of need. I declare that it is a pleasure and a privilege to live work and play beside and among you… and that Sunny surely thought so, too. In Celebration of a 'One-Off' WonderPart 2 of 3 By Steven Gienhart He came out of the winter of 2006-07 blind. Fortunately, by that time Sunny had 'marked' more or less every linear foot of ground between our place and the post office and so was undeterred by his infirmity. I simply switched from tossing him a tennis ball to using one with a ringy-dingy bell inside of it: and so our three miles long games of fetch went on, more or less as usual. The winter of 2007-08 was a hard one for Sunny. He went off his feed three times between the day after Thanksgiving and the day before Christmas and I thought he'd never see the New Year. But he came out of it on Christmas Day - truly a gift which I can never repay - by wolfing down a hearty breakfast, taking a long deep drink of water and grabbing that old yellow leash. He came and got me out off the couch by levering his snout under my arm and giving me his standard, "... get your shoes and jacket on, mister... we're going to go out and put that big blue sky on our shoulders and carry it around for a while," look. January was nice. His strength seemed to return completely and we were able to "...carry that big blue sky around" for hours at a time, once again. But come those bitter cold days of this past February, our walks dwindled down to a 'mere' half a mile a day. During that time he seemed to be growing restless and irritable and even a little disoriented. When the Ides of March came upon us, he went off his feed again: only to rally once more, on the 9th, in the same manner as he'd done on Christmas. On the 10th, I drove to 'Riverside for brunch. Tender Terry inquired as to 'mine Truly'. She'd noticed that he'd been conspicuous by his absence of late. I was glad to be able to say that he was well and that I intended to walk him home from there, after breakfast, and she was glad to hear it. Homeward bound, into the bright mid-March/midday sunshine, that dog was up on his toes - as the saying goes - the entire way. When he got out ahead of me a little ways, I saw the rays of the sun glimmer off the golden tips of his richly red fur. I thought of that old boy, down Memphis way: how he'd said that Sunny had "the shine upon hisself". He did... he had an aura. I saw it many times: even in the dark of night when his coat would glow in the high beams of approaching automobiles as we'd make our way home from a 'lil canuper at Maucieri's. Folks may not know it, but I was perpetually gabbing with that dog, as we'd walk all up and down the highway. "... There goes so-and-so, Sunny!"; "... did you see suchand-such, Sunny?"; "Ain't it a BE-autiful day, you big red devil?". To each of those queries, he would enthusiastically swish his tail enthusiastically... and just keep on truckin'. On this particular walk, I also asked him the three, daily questions I'd posed to him since he was a pup; “You know that you are a very smart fellow, don't ya?"; "You 'an me's BFF's, right?"; and "… Are you just the healthiest/happiest dahwgie in the whole wide world...or what?" I only got two big swishes of his tail, by way of reply. When we got home that day, Sunny basically took to his death mat. He wouldn't eat again: not dog biscuits; not meatballs; not fried peanut butter and banana sammiches; not even Cherry Garcia. Consequently, I couldn't sneak any anti-biotics down his gullet. By the next morning, he was dis-oriented again. He went out on the lawn to do his business and wandered off into the thicket north of the house and collapsed. I went out and gathered him up - jacking his slim, displaced hips beneath him - and broke him a trail thru the crusty snow back to the porch. I then called Crosslake Veterinary Hospital. The time had come for my dog to "have his day" and I was a wreck on the telephone: to the point were the veterinary assistant, whom I'd never even met, started blubbering right along with me. When we arrived at the clinic a couple days later, Sunny walked in under his own power. I hadn't leashed him out of respect for his respect for my voice commands. But the sign on the door said "thank you for leashing your pet" and so I grabbed a spare, hanging there, and in he marched; knowing full well, I do believe, what lay in store. If, on the evening before, I hadn't taken him out to the Riverside for a last supper and had my buddy come over, so that we could eulogize him over a six pack, in his own presence and hearing - I'm not sure that I wouldn't have 'caved in' to the veterinary assistant's offer to run some tests first. The assistant gave him a mild sedative and we went back out and had a quiet moment: no blubbering, no second thoughts, no regrets… just one last moment together... to breathe deeply the morning air... and to watch the snow flakes spiraling, spiraling down quietly amidst the noise and the haste around us. In that quite, mid-morning air, in the span of two-some minutes, his whole, wonderful life did flash before my eyes. And it was all good. So, we went back inside the clinic. I removed his leash and beckoned him 'come sit with me on the pad that would launch him away. When the assistant's needle found a vein, a little 'puff' of blood - like smoke - shot into the syringe's cylinder. As she deftly drew back the piston I was amazed to see that as his life blood mingled with the bittersweet elixir of his 'Release... and my Remorse - it actually began to curl; curling and swirling...gently twirling into a "double helix" configuration: the molecular configuration of his, yours, the world-full of living things' DNA. And right before she compressed the plunger, while I held his paw and choked on my tears, I said to him "... Sunny, it has been my pleasure and my privilege to be your "steward"… for by the way in which you carried your bloodline so regally, all the days of your life, you never even really needed a "master". And he heaved not even a heavy sigh...and was gone. Three or four or maybe even some minutes more, the veterinary assistant aided me to my weaky-creaky knees and thence to my shaky feet. She gave me a fistful of Kleenex for my achey-breaky heart. She held me in her arms whilst I wept to the point of dehydration. I looked upon his earthly form for the last time and I walked out then door. And I thought what a miserable wretch of a human being I was: truly only a lonely man in this world. And within a 'Crosslake minute"... this town devoid of stop lights, street lights and golden arches glow, this little, one-worded village hard-by a two-worded body of water of the same name, this hamlet where, in winter, the populace is more deer than people, this place that a river really does run through, proved to me how gladly mistaken I was. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Northland Press | P.O. Box 145 | Outing, MN 56662 | (218) 692-5842 Email: news@northlandpress.com | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
