We were getting ready to leave for a Chillicothe Paint’s baseball game when the phone rang. It was my father who rarely called, so I instinctively braced myself. He said they needed to talk to us as soon as possible and would be leaving their retirement home in Tennessee the next morning. He asked if they could stay the night since they had something important to tell us. That was a Friday, and they’d be arriving on Saturday.
Saturday afternoon, we all sat around a table on our screened porch with glasses of iced tea. Without any prelude, Bob said that he’d gone to Vanderbilt University Hospital in Nashville, where he’d had his heart bypass a few years earlier. His heart surgeon did numerous standard tests, checking his heart's function and the bypass's condition. In the process, his surgeon found an aneurysm on Dad’s aorta. The aorta is a large blood vessel; sometimes, its walls can weaken and bulge in an aortic aneurysm. A ruptured aneurysm can cause massive internal bleeding, which can be fatal. His surgeon said 8 out of 10 people with a rupture die before they reach the hospital or don't survive the surgery. The doctor insisted that removing the aortic bulge surgically was possible, but Dad would only have a 50/50 chance of surviving the operation if he did.
Oh, dear God, I thought but didn’t say anything yet. I needed to hear more. I looked over at my mother, who had not spoken since we sat down. Worry and fear etched her face.
Al wondered aloud, “Dad, are there other options?”
“Yes, there are,” he replied, then sipped his tea. “I could roll the dice and continue on the way I’ve been going, golfing with my friends and helping Nancy in the garden. Although I am not supposed to lift anything heavy. If I do that, I will take a chance that the aneurysm might rupture. My doctor said that if that happened, I’d most likely die fairly soon after that.”
I swallowed hard, not wanting to cry, but it was tough to hold back my tears. They kept slipping down my cheek.
Dad looked at me when he said, “Your mother and I have gone over the choices but decided to roll the dice. I got the impression that many patients who go through with the operation don’t survive the surgery.” He paused, then said prophetically, “I want more time to live as many days, weeks, and years as possible. So I’m gonna live with it, but be very careful.”
“Did they tell you how long you could go on without having the operation?” I asked.
“Fifteen years, maybe, if I’m really lucky,” Dad said. "There is always hope, honey. As the doctor told us, science continues finding new solutions to critical medical issues like mine, so maybe someone will develop a new procedure to help me."
We hugged each other and assured my father we would do anything to help him. All he had to do was ask us, and we’d be there for him.
They left the next day for West Virginia, planning on telling the rest of my family. I finally let myself cry, for it was the worst news I’d ever heard. I also knew that his condition could have a terrible and tragic ending. Al and I felt helpless. But as my father said: if he was careful and didn’t lift anything substantial, he could live fifteen years longer. I would’ve made the same choice if I were in his place.
*
About twelve years later, my brother Rob called while I was playing with Katy’s kittens in our Springfield, Ohio, living room one evening. Rob phoned me now and then, but I knew from his voice that something was wrong. He told me our father had not felt well that morning and thought he might have a bad cold. When my sister Jill finished teaching school that day, she stopped by my parent's house in St. Albans (they’d moved back to West Virginia a few years earlier). After talking to him for a few minutes, Jill decided to take Dad to the hospital, just in case it was something more serious. Mom went with them, of course. It was about four in the afternoon, and Jill had an important parent-teacher conference at her school. After checking him into the hospital, Dad told her to go on to her conference. When Jill called the hospital after the meeting, Dad was in ICU. His aneurysm had burst, and he was critical. Jill rushed back to the hospital, where Rob and his wife Jo were waiting. My sister Angel hurried to West Virginia from her home in Richmond, and my brother Rex could not get a flight out of Corpus Christi until the next day. And I made a hotel reservation in Charleston, threw clothes in a suitcase, kissed Al, and hit the road at midnight. I was three hours away.
Once at the hospital in South Charleston, I went right to ICU. You had to have a doctor’s permission to see any patient there, so I sat with my family in a waiting room outside the ICU. We soon learned that the news was not good. After being admitted, Dad went into shock. They rushed him into an operating room, where they discovered the aneurysm had burst. There was nothing at all that the doctors could do to help him, so they took him back to ICU. Dad held on for another day and a half. We’d told him that Rex was on his way, but in our hearts, we knew they both would want to say goodbye. I made sure that his doctor knew that was our wish… to do whatever was possible so that our brother and our father had time together before Dad died.
Bob did not say another word or open his eyes again, but we knew he could hear us. Off and on, he’d nod or try to speak. We sang familiar hymns and some of his favorite songs. Then we told stories about our camping adventures as children, recalled his many trips around the world with our mother, and prayed together while we waited for Rex. We later learned that the nurses in ICU stood outside our father’s door and listened while we sang to him. They told us it was one of the most moving displays of love and devotion they’d ever experienced in the hospital.
Most of Bob’s family stood around his bed on the last day of his life. I looked at the faces of each of my siblings and could see they were all caught up in the sadness of knowing we were about to lose our beloved father. I turned and looked at my brother Rob. His head was down, and I could see him whispering a silent prayer. My mind flashed back to that crisp spring day when Dad took Rob and me fishing on Watoga Lake. I remember how relaxed and content my father had been as his eyes swept the scene before us. The mist was still hanging onto the mountains, the sweet smell of honeysuckle was in the air, and a fish flipped out of the water and dove back into the lake. Dad looked at peace there, holding a fishing rod and enjoying all the beauty of West Virginia at its best. Then I finally let my eyes search Dad’s face as he rested peacefully in his hospital bed, waiting for his youngest son to arrive so he could be with him one last time. He was ready now, I thought.
Rex had a little time with Dad, and I was so grateful he had the chance to see him again. Sadly, our father died while we were all around his hospital bed. With my head down and tears running down my cheeks, I said a prayer to send my father’s spirit home.
We had a memorial service at our parent’s church four days later. Friends filled the pews, and many families from our old neighborhood were in attendance. It was a tear-filled tribute, and I won’t forget it. After the service, Angel drove home to Richmond, and Rex got a flight back to Texas. Rob and Jill took our mother to her home in St. Albans, where she’d have to learn how to care for herself for the first time since she married Dad in l946. Then, Al and I headed back to Springfield. I cried most of the way home, but Al was sad too. He and my father were best friends. When together, they talked for hours. Al felt the loss as deeply as I did.
JULIE
After Al and I returned home from the service, it took me a while to get over the loss of my father. We distracted ourselves by interviewing prospective families who wanted the three black kittens. I didn’t cry when they left with their new families; I was happy they’d have cat-loving folks to care for them and felt sure they’d have good homes. Julie and Katy became inseparable. They played together, slept together, and ate together. Julie was still a wild child and constantly begged to go outside, but she was still too young. I hoped she’d calm down over time.
An idea emerged: I wondered if I should give our kitten Julie to my mother. Boy, that was a tough one. I knew Mom was lonely, and she’d had difficulty adjusting to life alone. I spoke to my sister Angel, and she thought it was a good idea. Then I asked my sister Jill and brothers Rob and Rex what they thought, and they said go ahead. I didn’t want to lose Julie; I’d come to love her very much.
When everyone agreed that a kitten would be a good companion for our mother, I called Mom to see what she thought about it. Right away, Nancy said it would be fine. She’d love a pet in the house to keep her company. All the while, in the back of my mind, I remembered my mother never liked cats. But with a sinking heart, I snuck Julie out of the house so Katy wouldn’t notice, put her in a cat carrier, and took her to West Virginia.
The poor little kitten was terrified in the car. I’d brought along food for a month, a new kitty litter box with bags of litter, toys, and her shot records from the veterinarian’s office. At first, my mother was as charmed by Julie as anyone would be. She’d never had a cat, so everything was a new experience.
A month passed, and all seemed fine. Then things changed. Every time I spoke to my mother, she complained about Julie. She said the cat always wanted to go outside and often escaped when she opened the door to greet guests or get the mail. One of her neighbors would catch Julie and bring her back. But I also heard that Julie loved my mother, even though she wanted to go outside. Finally, my sister said that Julie would sit on our mother’s lap every time they visited and purr. Then, Nancy started complaining that Julie’s claws scratched her hands. So finally, I’d had enough; the grievances became too serious. I asked if she honestly wanted Julie there, and Mom said no. She was afraid that she’d fall while trying to take care of a cat.
*
I went to my mother's house in West Virginia, retrieved all the cat stuff, and took sweet Julie back to Ohio and what I believed would be her forever home. I watched Julie closely and could tell she had changed. I feared she’d revert to the wild side of her family, killing mice and hiding away from people. Julie would sleep inside at night, but that cat was out the door after breakfast. Most weeks, we’d not see her for days, and then like clockwork, she’d appear on the stoop at our side door. The cycle continued until I decided to follow her, hoping to discover where she was hanging out for the days when we didn’t see her.
One morning, I waited until Al left for work to let Julie outside. As soon as I saw her trotting down the sidewalk to the intersection of a street perpendicular to ours, I took off after her. I stayed behind far enough that she didn’t know I was following her but close enough to see where she was going. Julie crossed the intersection (it was not a major road), ran up some steps, then walked down the sidewalk until coming to a large brick house I’d not noticed before. I saw her run around to the rear of the house. I was close enough to see the back door open by then and watched Julie slip inside. What the heck was going on here, I wondered.
When she returned home the next time, I did not know what to do about her covert activities. I thought of talking to the people in the brick house, but I hesitated. Then, out of the blue, I got a phone call. I learned it was a woman I’ll call Mary, who lived in the brick house with her husband. They were older, retired, didn’t have children, and lived alone. Mary confessed that they were sitting in their sunroom at the back of the house one morning when a little tiger cat scratched at their door. They let her in, and she charmed them. They adopted Julie and fell in love with her without any idea that the cat already had a home. What worried them was that she disappeared three or four days each week. The woman finally realized that Julie was our cat. Mary feared I wouldn’t allow Julie to be theirs on the days she spent with them.
I wanted to jump for joy. Yippee! After all that worry on my part, Julie hadn’t turned into a wild cat, running the streets and killing small animals for food. She simply missed my mother, found another older woman and man to love, and spent half her time with them and the other half with us. It made sense to me, finally.
I told Mary I was thrilled to know Julie had a second family. The relief I heard in her voice was evident. I explained how Julie had a difficult early life and that I’d made a terrible mistake by taking her to live with my widowed mother, who didn’t like cats. Now that she was back home, I think Julie missed my mother so much that she adopted a new mother figure to love. Mary laughed, and we became friends and stepmothers or something. This relationship between the three of us went on for a few years.
Before we left Springfield for our new home out of state, I asked Mary if she and her husband would take care of Julie from then on, and she agreed. Mary loved her like I did, with all her faults. I still miss that mixed-up wild child of a cat, but I left her in good hands. She lived a good life with Mary, but I understand she still enjoyed roaming outside. However, there was one key point that this tragedy-turned-sweet story taught me: Guardians of the Road can make mistakes. I had negatively altered Julie's young life by giving her to my mother, no matter the good intentions behind my decision. I wish I could go back and fix that mistake, but I will never do that again to any animal if I can help it.
*
THE INTRUDER
Three years after my father died, I woke early one weekday morning. While Al was getting ready for work, I went downstairs to the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker.
Walking into the kitchen, he asked, “Hey, honey, have you seen my wallet? I usually put it in the bowl here with my keys.” Al rummaged through the bowl on the table in the kitchen. Then he added, “Oh, shoot, my keys are missing too!”
I went over to the table and looked on the bottom shelf where I always put my purse. “Al, my green purse is gone.”
He hurried to a window and looked down the driveway. “So is our car.”
It immediately dawned on us that someone had broken into our house while we were asleep, stolen my purse, Al’s wallet, and keys, and driven off in our new car, a black Grand Prix.
The next few hours were chaotic. We phoned the police, and an officer came out in about three hours. While we waited, we carefully made a list of what we thought had happened. Our house still had the original 1920s casement windows, which you push open and close with a metal clasp. Someone had forced the window open, climbed over our sofa (there were still muddy shoe prints), and made their way to the kitchen. Then they stole what they’d come for, a wallet, a purse, and the keys. They left through the sunroom, got in our car, and drove off. Al had nine dollars in his wallet, and I had about twelve in my purse. Then there was Julie. She had been sleeping in the sunroom when we went to bed, and before the robbery, she was now missing.
Julie returned home four days later and acted strange and fearful. But it took two weeks to find our car; it was scuffed up and filthy, but otherwise, we could still drive it. We were so upset that we eventually put the house on the market and searched for property in the country and away from all the crime. But we couldn’t sell our home. It didn’t sell for two reasons: one, because the housing market across the country had totally tanked during the Great Recession, and two, it needed a new roof, all new windows, a new chimney, and a new driveway. We took out a second mortgage and had everything fixed or replaced, but we still feared that someone would rob us again.
Everyone in our neighborhood knew someone had broken into our house while we were sleeping upstairs. However, no one came over to see how we were doing, which was disappointing but not surprising. We soon discovered that there was a high number of robberies in the most coveted neighborhood in Springfield, our beautiful and historic Ridgewood. I got angry and formed a Ridgewood Neighborhood Watch, which helped me overcome what happened to us. But for a long while, we felt violated in our home, which was unforgivable.
*
Several weeks went by, and no word about the robber. Then one morning, I was outside checking my flowers when Mary, Julie’s other mother, came hurrying down the street. I had never seen her outdoors, but in her hands was my green purse. She had been weeding their front shrubs and spotted a purse underneath them with the items inside scattered on the ground. Mary opened the purse and found my driver’s license. The thief apparently took the money from Al’s wallet and my purse, then threw the bag under Mary’s bushes as they drove off in our car. Mary was thrilled she’d found the purse, and so were we. I looked down at Mary’s feet and watched, amused, as Julie rubbed against her leg. It was the first time I’d smiled since the robbery.
*
Over the next few years, crime seemed to be a part of our lives. Someone stole my new bike from our garage, so we bought another one but had to store it in the basement. That meant any time I wanted to ride, I had to carry the bike up the fruit cellar steps to get it out of the house.
Two times, a man chased me while I was riding on the bike path. He was on an ATV, obviously drunk, and yelled at me for no apparent reason. Even though I reported it to the police, I’d still see the same drunk guy on the path. I refused to give up biking, but I had to always be alert on the trail. I started carrying a cell phone, even though I feared I might drop it on my ride. Once, I encountered some people who acted like they were selling drugs. I called the police, then had to ride out of my way to return home. Another time I saw a young girl taking money from an older man who was acting suspiciously. I found another way home again.
Then there was the memorable time I rode around a bend on the path and immediately came upon two college-aged kids spray-painting graffiti on the blacktop. I slammed on my hand- brakes to keep from hitting them, then crashed my bike. I wore bike shoes that clipped to my peddles, so I couldn’t get my right foot free quickly enough when I fell. When I hit the ground, I cut my leg, something awful. Blood was pouring down my shin all the way home. I was not hurt that bad, but I was angrier than I remember. I still have a scar on my leg to remind me. The graffiti artists grabbed their backpacks and spray cans and raced away without seeing if I was hurt. Figures.
It all was adding up, and I felt this town was no longer safe for us to live in. I finally reached the end of my rope and began talking to Al about moving.
*
DAD, MOM, AND ANDY
My parents moved from West Virginia to Fairfield Glade, Tennessee, after Dad retired from Union Carbide. They built a beautiful house on a lake in that golfing community. For over fifteen years, they had a wonderful time in ‘The Glade.’ They golfed with men and women who had also moved there from other places, some from West Virginia and some Dad had worked with at Carbide. There was almost no stress on either of them after they moved into their new house. Dad would take his small sailboat out on the lake or go golfing with his buddies, and Mom would go shopping with friends from church, tend to her flower gardens, or work on her crafts. They also had their spoiled but much-loved dog, Annie, with them. Their five children, along with their families, came to visit them often. Bob and Nancy helped me at one of my biggest art shows in Northern Ohio each year. So I believe they had a good life after Dad retired.
Then my father had to have triple bypass surgery in Nashville, Tennessee. And later, in Nashville, Nancy was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and underwent chemotherapy treatments. So they stayed in their house in Fairfield Glade for a while longer. But after Mom became weaker from the chemo and Dad’s surgery had taken a toll on him, they decided to move back home to West Virginia to be near family. I never heard them complain about their health, pain, or the ordeal they experienced. Even so, Al and I went down to help them pack, and my sweet sister Jill and her kind husband Markam picked them up and drove them to West Virginia.
With my brother Rob’s help, they found a charming 1950s ranch home in St. Albans. It happened to be right down the street from where our Grandmother Hoy used to live and just down the road from my brother and sister’s homes. The house they bought happened to be downhill from their first home in West Virginia, the one they brought me and Rob home to after we were born. Bob and Nancy settled in, returned to their church in the Valley, took long walks down their street, and seemed to be doing much better in West Virginia. By this time, though, Dad was, as he described it…a walking time bomb. He had an aneurysm on his aorta and was very careful not to lift anything substantial or do anything too strenuous.
For years, my mother had trouble with her knees. Once my parents moved back home to live in West Virginia again, they decided she should undergo a total replacement of her right knee. She was 82 when she had that surgery in South Charleston. She spent two weeks in a rehabilitation center in Barbersville to regain mobility. That left Dad in their house alone. He disliked cooking, so I offered to keep him company and prepare some dinners. I knew Nancy wouldn’t be able to cook when she returned, so there’d be food in the freezer for both of them. I made meatloaf, stew, spaghetti, soup, chili, etc. I cooked up a storm and froze them in small packages. One day, Dad asked me if I knew how to make his favorite dish. His wife, his mother, and his German grandmother used to make that dish for him: Chicken Fricassee and Dumplings. I made four batches.
Each day that Nancy was in the rehab center, I’d drive Dad to Barbersville, West Virginia, to see my mother and ask the physical therapy staff how her recovery was progressing. On the way back to their house one afternoon, he revealed a secret wish he’d kept from my mother. By then, their Cocker Spaniel, Annie, had been put to sleep over health issues from old age. He said his secret wish was that he… really wanted one more dog before he died.
Oh, boy, I thought quickly, is this a good idea? Was he putting a guilt trip on me or just using good psychology? Of course, he was smart, so I wasn’t sure on either count. We talked about what sort of dog Dad wanted. He admitted that he’d like to adopt one from the pound in Winfield, which was on our way home and not far from St. Albans. The dog didn’t have to be any particular breed, and Dad admitted that a puppy might be fun. It was the first time since I arrived that he looked hopeful. I didn’t think it would hurt if we stopped to see if there were any dogs there, so I drove down a dirt road in Winfield to the pound. As I’ve said before, these places are usually hard for me to visit. I’ve done it numerous times, and it always took a lot out of me. But this day, I was trying to pick up my father’s spirits because it was easy to see that he was down in the dumps. So we walked into the building, just planning on looking at the dogs held there, not adopting one. Just looking, I reminded my father.
It was a spotless pound, as they call them in West Virginia, and each dog had its own inside chain-linked kennel/cage. Slowly, we walked down the aisle and stopped at each kennel to look at its occupant. Every cage had a sign on the door stating the dog’s breed, approximate age, and when/where it had been surrendered to the pound. At first, Dad didn’t seem to find any of the dogs interesting, and when we got to the end of the aisle, I figured he’d struck out. Instead, Dad turned, walked back past four cages, and by then, most of the dogs were barking excitedly. Then Bob stopped at one, where a small black and tan dog was curled up at the back of his kennel. Dad bent down and called the dog. It stood up, strolled to the front, and looked into my father’s eyes.
I studied the sign on his kennel, but Dad was so fixated on the puppy I read it aloud:
Beagle puppy, male, six months old, found at the dump
Dad pointed to the black and tan dog. “This is the one I want,” he said with certainty.
I looked over at him, and he smiled for the first time since I’d walked into his house a few days earlier. By then, the dog had his tongue out, trying to lick Dad’s face through the cage.
“Um, well, maybe we should ask the man up front if he knows anything more about this dog. The sign says the dog is a male and a puppy. Beagles don’t get that big or that tall, right?”
Dad nodded eagerly.
“So let’s see what they say about him, go home, talk it over with everyone, and then think about it. How’s that?” It felt like I was talking to a child, but I didn’t want to encourage him if this secret wish of his wouldn’t work out.
His shoulder’s drooped, but he finally agreed. “Okay, but I still want to adopt him. I’m positive! We don’t need to talk to anyone about him, especially your mother.”
I wisely did not respond. Instead, we went up front and asked the attendant if he knew anything more about the Beagle puppy in Kennel 6. The man was in his 50’s, I guessed, stocky and short, wore dark tan canvas overalls, and smelled of dog.
“Only had him one day. I don’t know nothin’ more ‘bout him,” he said. “But I can let him out of the cage, so you can look closer. That pup’s been real quiet, never barked or nothin’.
Yikes, I thought, this was getting serious, and I had not run Dad’s secret wish past my family but especially my mother, which could be a big mistake.
The attendant took us down to Kennel 6. The Beagle was still sitting by the door of his cage, a floppy tongue hanging out of his mouth and an expression of pure happiness on his face. Oh boy, I thought as the attendant opened the door and let the dog out.
The beagle ran into Dad’s arms like he was auditioning for a part in a Disney movie about a dog who finally gets a chance at a happy life with a nice older man in West Virginia.
“See,” Dad said, pleading with me to agree. “He loves me, Kathy!”
“Yeah, right. I can see that, Dad.” I had to admit the puppy was adorable. From its profile, long ears, and sharp snout, he was clearly a hound. But, of course, beagles are hounds, so perhaps the sign on his kennel was correct. I asked the attendant if the dog had his shots, was potty trained, neutered, and the other usual questions.
“Don’t know if he’s potty trained. But if ya want to adopt him, you have to pay $75.00. Then we give him his shots an’ have him neutered the same day. If ya want, you can take him home the next mornin’.”
“Got it,” I said, “So, we are going to go home, talk to our family about it, then we’ll call you tomorrow with our decision. Would that be okay?” I asked, now in a no-win position.
Dad held up his hand. “I don’t want anyone else to come in and adopt him. Can we put a hold on him or something?”
I sighed. This situation was getting out of control, but I held my tongue.
“I’ll put a note on his card, sayin’ that yer gonna call tomorrow and not to adopt that Beagle ‘til then. How’s that?” the attendant said agreeably.
“Sounds great,” Dad said, relief in his voice. “I’d give you a check right now, but I didn’t bring any.”
“That’s okay. I take ya for your word, sir. My name’s Jim Bob Henson. I work tomorrow. Ask for me when ya call.”
I wrote Dad’s name and information on a notepad and left it with Jim Bob. As I drove back to my parent’s house in St. Albans, all Dad did was talk about the black and tan puppy. Wasn’t he handsome? Didn’t he have good manners? Did you see how he licked my face? On and on, he pleaded his case for adopting the dog. I didn’t say much because I knew Dad would be devastated if our family objected to the adoption. I was the one who’d taken him to the pound, then given him hope he’d get the dog. I was the one who everyone might blame if this didn’t work out for my father. Nevertheless, to me, his happiness was worth the gamble. But I did have my concerns. Perhaps having a puppy was too much work? Also, where they lived, Dad would have to walk the dog down the street to go potty, which I feared might be hard.
Once we settled in the house, Dad took a nap, and I called my sister Angel in Virginia. I told her about the secret wish, how Dad pleaded with me to have …one more dog before I die! She felt we should go ahead with the adoption but keep a close eye on Dad and the dog. My brother Rob and his wife Jo thought it would be good for our father to have a puppy and volunteered to take the check to the pound in the morning if that’s what we all decided to do. Unfortunately, Rex was at work in Texas, but my sister, Jill, agreed. So after talking to just about everyone in the family, we’d decided that Dad would get his dog.
With all the excitement about a puppy, I had forgotten that my mother’s time at the rehab center was almost over. In two days, we would be able to take her home. That’s when I realized we still had a battle ahead. God help us all if we fail, I thought.
It was always an orchestrated event when Nancy and Bob’s grown children got together to surprise their parents with something big. Rob and Jill helped me tell our father the good news. Dad was more pleased about the adoption than I had seen him in a long while. My father was not a typically demonstrative person, but he hugged each of us several times. Then he remembered Nancy and wondered how we could convince her that a Beagle puppy would make them both happy.
Just about everyone was involved in the big reveal. I called Jim Bob Henson at the pound and told him my father wanted to adopt the Beagle. My sister and sister-in-law went to Winfield to pay for the dog, then planned to pick him up the following morning. They’d wait until Dad and I returned with Mom from rehab to bring the puppy down to the house and surprise her. Rob volunteered to buy dog food, collars, and leashes at the pet store and would ride to the big event with the others. I had no idea what I would say to convince my mother that a Beagle puppy would make her happy too. She did love dogs. I was banking on that.
*
I stayed up late trying to plan what I’d say to my mother, called my brother Rex in Texas, and ran my concerns past him. He loved dogs, too, and told me to go ahead and worry about problems if they came up down the road. I appreciated his heartfelt advice. I hoped my mother would see this was important to her husband and also be good for her. Considering my father's condition, I was still not sure this was the right thing to do. But Dad deserved a chance to have his dog, so I would support that unless circumstances changed.
Dad and I picked my mother up from the rehab center on the big day. On the way home, she told us stories about her physical therapy and stay there. She still used a cane but walked better than I had seen her in at least a decade. We helped her out of the car and walked up to the house. I called Jill, letting her know we were home. Fifteen minutes later, Jill walked in the front door and gave me a big smile. Then we went to the family room at the back of the house and listened to Mom tell more stories about her experience. I heard a commotion at the front and looked at my father, who had a worried expression.
“Dad,” I said pointedly, “why don’t you tell Mom about our big surprise for her?” I’d put it on the table; now it was his turn.
He walked over to where Mom was sitting and bent down to hold her hand. “Honey, guess what? Kathy and I found the most wonderful puppy. It’s a male, a Beagle, and he’s adorable. I know you’ll love him as we do! Um, we adopted him the other day, and um….”
Dad looked up, and there was the black and tan dog, with Rob and Jo behind him. The Beagle nearly bounced into the room, ran to Dad’s side, licked his face, then turned and licked Mom’s hand.”
I did not need to say one single word. The dog sold himself. Nancy was a bit disconcerted over all the commotion but soon warmed to the Beagle, for who wouldn’t love a puppy? She reached out her hand and rubbed his head.
“What do you want to name him, Mom?” Dad asked. He looked over at me, and I gave him a sly smile.
“I’m not sure.” She looked at Dad for help.
“Didn’t you tell me once that your friend had a nice dog named Andy?” Dad said.
“Yeah, Andy. I like that name. Let’s name him Andy,” she said.
A whoop went up from all the characters in the room. Mom seemed fine with having a dog, helped choose his name, and looked pleased that her family thought she’d come through for her husband.
There was no way out of this now; our parents had a dog named Andy. I’m sure we were all hoping and praying everything would work out.
*
I called and spoke to my father at least once a week after returning home to Springfield. Things seemed to be going well. Andy was indeed a puppy, but not a hyperactive one. The dog never went to the bathroom in the house, so he’d been potty trained by someone. Most of the time, they let him go potty in their small fenced-in backyard, which I thought was a great idea. Dad said Andy was a loving dog devoted to Nancy but stayed close to him and behaved well. Andy seemed aware that he needed to keep his distance from her when she walked around the house, but they kept a close eye on him until she walked independently. Dad felt that Andy sensed she was unstable because she still used a cane, and he stayed out of her way.
Then out of the blue, I got a call from my father. I was surprised. Mom was the one who usually called. Dad seldom called me himself. Phones weren’t his thing.
“Guess what?” he asked, sounding mischievous.
“I don’t know, Dad, what?”
“Took Andy to see the veterinarian for the first time. Not the one we took Annie to, which we didn’t like, but a new one.”
"Okay, so what did the new vet say about Andy?”
"Said he isn’t a Beagle.” Then nothing more, only silence on the other end.
“What do you mean he isn’t a Beagle? That’s what they told us he was at the pound.”
“I know that, Kathy. I was there. The vet said Andy is mostly Bloodhound! Also, he’s only about four months old, not six months, so the vet said he’s gonna get a little bit bigger. What do you think of that, Miss animal lover?”
I could hear the amusement in his voice, so I knew he was kidding me. I hurried to my internal animal encyclopedia, flipped to the dog section, and tried remembering what I knew about Bloodhounds. For one thing, they were just about my favorite dog. But I knew from reading about them that Bloodhounds were gentle dogs who drooled, loved children, were great family pets, didn’t need long walks, and were easy-going with a keen sense of smell.
So I told Dad what I’d read about Bloodhounds, who seemed impressed but not surprised.
“Yeah, I knew most of that,” he said. “Andy has a good nose on him; he’s always sniffing out wild animals on our walks. Did you know that my grandfather had a Bloodhound?”
“No, I didn’t know that! Cool, Dad. Um…does he pull you down the road when you walk him?” I was still worrying about it being too strenuous.
“Nope, he’s doing fine. Mostly we put him in our fenced-in backyard to do his business. I wanted you to know he’s a Bloodhound; the vet said another breed, like Beagle or hound dog, could be mixed in. He’s healthy, eats and poops twice a day, and loves me.”
I felt tears well up. “I’m so glad Andy loves you, and I am sure he loves Mom too.”
“Yeah, he loves her. He’s got this way with her, honey. Sits very still by her chair in the back room, waiting for her to pet him. I caught her the other day. Nancy bent down and kissed his nose. I am so glad you got me this dog. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” I didn’t get him this dog but didn’t correct him. Oh, boy, now I was crying. I took a deep breath, then asked him to send me some pictures of Andy when he could, but he forgot. So later, I asked my sister if she’d take a picture of Andy for me.
*
One day, a good while later, I received a package in the mail. I opened it, and inside were pictures of the family, and then I found one that really made me smile. Jill is our family photographer; she has kept a photographic record of all of us through the years. She’s the middle child and the most loving, kind, and helpful person. So when I came upon the picture of Andy, I cried, of course.
In the photo, my mother and father were on the king-size bed in their bedroom. Both seemed to be taking a nap. Stretched between them and laying on his back was a black and tan Bloodhound/Beagle with long floppy ears. Andy looked delighted, as though he was the happiest dog in the world. Mom’s hand was on his head, and although he’d shut his eyes, Dad looked happy too. Once he’d been dropped off at the dump like a throwaway, he was now the king of his castle. Good things happen to good people and good dogs. All dogs are good, though some people aren’t.
Dad sometimes walked Andy down the street to give him some exercise, and the dog had grown a bit larger as the vet predicted. A nearby neighbor had known my parents for decades since she’d lived near our grandmother. Everyone in my family called her Irma. She began to worry about Dad walking Andy because a Bloodhound is a strong dog and can pull hard against a leash. Irma didn’t want anything to happen to our father, so she spoke to my brother Rob and told him about her worries. She explained that a friend had a farm in Clendenen and lived there with his wife and young children. Her friend had always wanted a Bloodhound for hunting, and Irma wondered if our father would consider giving Andy to him. Andy would have a loving home, she promised, sleep inside with their other dog, and would have kids he could play with and land to roam.
*
I didn’t hear about it immediately, but my parents agreed to give Andy to Irma’s family friend. Mom told me that Dad cried but said it was probably the best thing for all of them.
This animal story has a happy ending, even though I know it had to have been hard to give Andy away. My parents did the right thing for a sweet dog. They’d saved him from a possible death sentence at the Winfield pound and loved him until the right new family came along. I did hear from folks in the know, including my parents and siblings, that Andy was doing well. He loved his new family as if he’d been born on their farm, bonded with their old dog, and their children were thrilled to have a Beagle-Bloodhound to love.
And my father, Bob….
He did get the chance to have one more dog before he died.
Check back in about two weeks for the next installment of my blog: 'Guardians of the Road.'
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