Dogs have Souls

My dog Marby died this past Tuesday.

 

I loved her.

 

Today I know for sure that animals have souls.

 

Because her absence has created a hole in my heart only possible because a warm loving soul has made an unexpected exit from my life.

 

She was a golden retriever a little on the small side.

 

She was the runt of the litter, born with a heart murmur that made her unmarketable for the dog breeder.

 

We rescued her from the  euthanasia needle because she seemed to tell us she belonged in our family.

 

She was right.

 

For nine years, she defined gentleness and unconditional love.

 

Her favorite game consisted of waiting for you to leave the room.

 

Then she would grab anything of yours and take it to wherever you went.

 

Glasses.

 

Pens.

 

Cell phones.

 

When you went to grab it out of her mouth, she pulled away at the last second.

 

Funny thing.

 

She never scratched or damaged any object she ran away with in her mouth.

 

She knew these were delicate items, so she treated them delicately.

 

Well, maybe a little drool, but that's harmless.

 

Most importantly, she wanted to be where I was.

 

Many late nights, I'd be toiling away at the computer.

 

In my Dave-cave in the basement.

 

Marby would always  camp out right next to my desk.

 

Being with me.

 

I've  heard it said that if you want to show someone that you love them, spend time with them.

 

Marby did that in spades.

 

She couldn't form words.

 

But she could be with me.

 

Sometimes listening to my troubles.

 

Looking right at me with those soulful brown eyes and amazingly expressive eyebrows.

 

And at times of struggle, she seemed to sense it.

 

Her expression told me that she would gladly substitute herself for me and absorb my pain if she could.

 

But for the moment, she would do all that she could.

 

She would be with me.

 

In the Old Testament Book of Ruth, a young woman tells her widowed mother-in-law not to be sad or lonely.

 

"Where you go, I will follow."

 

That's a moving tale about unparalleled love and loyalty.

 

That's what Marby gave us.

 

I'm having a hard time now, watching TV.

 

I look to the spot where Marby pressed against my stocking feet and I  miss her terribly.

 

She's there.

 

But when I reach down to scratch her on her favorite spot, my hand finds air.

 

Dogs have souls.

 

I know because I ache  for one who left her furry body just a few days ago.

 

Admit it.

 

They aren't just pets.

 

They are very dear family members.

 

I cried when we got to spend a few minutes clutching her lifeless body at the pet hospital.

 

She looked peaceful and content.

 

That's how she made me feel.

 

Even in times of distress.

 

Love you, Marbs.

 

Someday we'll walk together again.

 

I miss my best friend.

 

 

Rebel who is telling us about a cause

Is fat funny?

 

I don't think so.

 

Recently I watched a sitcom starring an actress by the name of Rebel Wilson.

 

This young lady is a terrific comedic actress 27 years old and she is on top of the world.

 

ABC is promoting the television program "Super Fun Night" starring Wilson in  one hilarious moment after another.

 

Here's the problem.

 

Half of the jokes revolve around Miss Wilson's rather gigantic waist, chunky legs, and conglomeration of chins, all of which are testament to her extreme obesity.

 

All of us know that the fat comic has been a staple of humorous entertainment for very long time.

 

Oliver Hardy.

 

Fatty Arbuckle.

 

Jackie Gleason.

 

John Candy.

 

These folks are legends of comedy and were willing to let their  rotund figures serve as important aids in their slapstick  escapades.

 

But what does that say about us?

 

We know the dangers inherent in carrying around extra pounds on our frames.

 

Despite this, we continue to reward film and television producers who parade one jiggly fatty after another before us in search of ratings and box office bonanzas.

 

There is  something wrong about that.

 

But there is something even worse.

 

I'm troubled that we are willing to let these larded court jesters make fun of themselves to earn the dollars the networks and film studios are willing to throw at them.

 

We've turned these giant sized gluttons into  pathetic victims in a tragic comedy.

 

And that's not just because so many of these media clowns have come to a bad end in the county morgue wearing a tag marked drug and alcohol victim.

 

There's  something about living a life that's larger-than-life in a body overtaxing the cardio-pulmonary  system that seems sadly typical for these giant comedy giants.

 

Belushi and Farley's horrible demise at the hands of booze and cocaine.

 

Unfortunately not uncommon.

 

I have a theory.

 

It's wrong for us to encourage these entertainers to eat themselves into ZIP Code size trousers as a way of promoting their art.

 

And their careers.

 

But I also think that deep down inside these objects of their many fans love are killing themselves with  loneliness.

 

Loneliness and sadness that is a function of the realization that they are desired, not because of who they are, but because of the laughter created by their overweight appearance.

 

The fat guy is always the life of the party, right?

 

You laugh at their antics?

 

I hope not.

 

But the fact is that we have been laughing at their shenanigans for very long time.

 

Rebel Wilson is a clever and talented actress and I have only  best wishes for her.

 

But for the rest of us, I wish us to look into our hearts and stop laughing at those whose hearts are enlarged by years of obesity.

 

And to stop laughing at those whose hearts are breaking.

 

I began this column by asking if fat was funny.

 

Here's the answer.

 

It's not.

Save your judgement for cooking contests

I have a friend who's beating himself up.

 

And I'm writing this column to bring a small degree of relief so that he can realize he's only human.

 

 

Here's the story.

 

This middle-aged fellow had experienced a fruitful and fulfilling marriage with a beautiful lady.

 

He was living that commitment and he felt that in his heart.

 

Like many marriages, there were some ups and downs and of course the inevitable staleness that occasionally presents itself when you been living with the same person for very long time.

 

True love overcomes all that, right?

 

Well, that is generally true.

 

He just happened to run into an old flame.

 

This was a girl that he had fallen in love with many years ago as a youth.

 

He had formed an idealized picture of this gal from many years ago.

And this picture  stuck in the back of his mind and perhaps even in some corner of his heart for very long time.

 

In any case, this long-lost love from long ago somehow crossed paths with  my friend.

 

And in some unexplainable moment of weakness, that part of his inner psyche that gives us permission to do the unthinkable got the better of him.

 

He began an affair with a girl he had never quite forgotten, and foolishly sacrificed his happy marriage.

 

You can probably guess where the rest of this story is going.

 

With the divorce over, he  shifted his new relationship into first gear to finally fulfill all the dreams that he had been harboring since junior high school.

 

Only it turns out that Miss Wonderful, viewed up close and personal from a vantage point that he had never had before, turned out to be not so wonderful.

 

A few weeks ago, my dear friend woke up in a cold sweat, only to realize that he had tossed aside a really good thing for an  idealized vision that could never be a reality.

 

The old flame turned out to be an old hag in terms of her true personality.

 

This fellow is not the first to abandon a good woman in pursuit of something more exciting.

 

It's easy for all of us to judge him.

 

But the fact is that making  mistakes like this is part of the human condition.

 

It's just that in some instances the fall from grace seems more spectacular because it's all out there for everyone to see.

 

My friend made a mistake.

 

All I'm trying to get at is that there are times when we have to figure out a way to forgive ourselves and move on.

 

And then the rest of us have to learn how to extend kind understanding and compassion for those  feeling wounded because of their own screw ups.

 

Welcome to the human race, kiddo.

 

We still love you and you can still count on your friends to be there for you.

 

Every person who is perfect and always has been perfect is invited to offer criticism of this column.

 

The rest of you?

 

The rest of you should consider this column  your annual certification for membership in the human race.

 

Peace.

Laugh all you want but this really got to me

Some of you are going to find this column ridiculous.

 

Some of you are going to judge me wimpy and without manly fortitude.

 

I was driving down the street yesterday, about two blocks from my house.

 

A squirrel  darted across my path just ahead of me.

 

For an instant, I thought he made it.

 

But then I heard this kind of thump that told me that Rocky had an encounter with my tires.

 

I looked in my rearview mirror to see what carnage I had caused.

 

This little creature was spinning in a circle, pivoting around a single point where his limb had been flattened to the ground.

 

I drove even more slowly, keeping my eyes on the rearview mirror.

 

Eventually, the spinning stopped and this little rodent somehow was able to get the smashed portion of his body unstuck from the pavement.

 

Then he clumsily dragged himself to the other side of the street.

 

I was overcome with a sense of guilt.

 

This animal obviously was experiencing excruciating pain.

 

I began to fantasize about this innocent creature returning to his nest.

 

Family members would react in horror, observing the mangled and bloody body of their  loved one.

 

Imagine the suffering you experience at the dentist's office or in the emergency room when some minor procedure is undertaken.

 

At least you have the chance to receive an anesthetic or maybe a shot of Novocain.

 

I briefly said a prayer to the patron saint of animals, St. Francis, and asked him to intercede on behalf of this furry animal and to ask God to grant me a little forgiveness.

 

Some of you are laughing right now, thinking about my overreaction to events affecting only a dumb animal.

 

Maybe you've got a 10 point buck mounted on the wall of your rumpus room and discussions regarding animal suffering are regarded by you as silly.

 

I just know how I felt at the moment.

 

Yes, I know that it was an accident.

 

But that didn't and  still doesn't make me feel any better.

 

What do we really know about the suffering of animals?

 

Are  their nerve endings  so different from our own that they can't really experience the kind of pain that we do?

 

I don't believe that.

 

Animal pain is just as painful as human pain.

 

Some animals form such deep relationships with one another that they go into deep mourning when one of them is lost or destroyed.

 

Studies of elephant herds describe the deep depression experienced when the mother loses a child to the attack of a lion or the shotgun blast of a poacher.

 

Look, I'm not a member of PETA or a radical who will throw a cup of blood on the starlet wearing a fur coat to a Broadway opening.

 

I just know what I felt.

 

I felt somehow connected to the agony and the sadness and the tragedy of running over a squirrel.

 

And it made me think.

 

I drive more slowly and more carefully in the neighborhoods these days.

 

And I'm still thinking.

 

Are you?

Wide open spaces in the ice box become rare

I love my mother-in-law.

 

But after all, she is my mother in law.

 

In any case, she moved into our household a few years ago and it's been a good thing for all of us in our family.

 

However, she has made her presence known here in our spacious home.

 

This is especially true when perusing our refrigerator.

 

See, my mother-in-law, a widow, has a very active social life as she makes the rounds going out for lunch and the occasional dinner with her friends.

 

Many of them are widows also and it seems that the most popular social activity for these ladies is grabbing a bite to eat at the many hundreds of restaurants throughout Northeast Ohio.

 

In any case, she and her friends rarely finish the enormous portions that seem typical for eating establishments here in the USA these days.

 

Here's the point. Despite her very healthy appetite, my mother-in-law just can't finish these wonderful meals served up to her and her grandma friends, eating their way across the landscape as their way of keeping in touch with one another.

 

That means she is constantly bringing home leftovers.

 

Italian, Chinese, Outback, Mama Roberto's, Chipotle, Petie's Restaurant, American diner style, etc.

 

And the containers.

 

I never realized how many varieties of styrofoam and plastic containers existed in the world.

 

 

 

So throughout my refrigerator, space is at a premium.

 

 Because my wife's mother can't finish a restaurant meal and her calendar keeps filling up with new dates with new opportunities to bring home a doggie bag, the contents of which she doesn't have time or opportunity to consume.

 

Let's be blunt about this.

 

We really don't have a refrigerator at our home.

 

It's more like a Smithsonian Institute Museum display, making record of the eating habits of the modern American socially mobile grandmother.

 

And now I can't find anything.

 

My favorite soda pop is sandwiched somewhere between Tuesday's leftover spaghetti and Wednesday's leftover burrito.

 

I'm trying to find the cottage cheese.

 

Unfortunately, it's hidden behind a stack of containers.

 

Three containers holding Friday's leftover fish, some type of lemon cheesecake, and the remains of a chicken salad that originally resembled Mount Vesuvius in size and shape.

 

If she is  ever accused of murder, the police could easily re-create her whereabouts by stacking up all the containers and  tracing them back to the restaurant of origin and the corresponding gray hair gatherings that became the excuse for another meal served away from home.

 

God bless her and all her pals reminiscing about the good old days and exchanging stories about their grandchildren.

 

The thing is though, I'd like to get my Frigidaire back.

 

With all the kids out of the house, I long for wide-open spaces where bottles of water can be chilled and maybe even some bubbly can sit there waiting for some magic moment where it can be  accessory to a celebration.

 

So eat on m' lady and enjoy this great life that you have so richly earned.

Just stop bringing home so much dad-blasted food with your name written on the container with a sharpie.

 

My pride and my dignity cry out for a little space at 36 degrees Fahrenheit.

Is that too much to ask?

There's a ballgame that everyone wants to win

I am a huge sports fan.

 

But today, in this column, I'm about to tell all my fellow sports fans to go to hell.

 

Literally, you are going to hell.

 

This is what I mean.

 

Sports fans carry that name because they are fanatic when it comes to their favorite teams.

 

We attach real significance to events that in fact have no value whatsoever.

 

Let's look at the scene early Sunday morning at the municipal lot adjacent to Browns Stadium.

 

Tailgaters who've made their plans weeks in advance, grilling the most delectable cuisine.

 

Beverages, mostly the beer variety, are carefully chilled so guests can have their fill of their favorite Pilsner.

 

As the morning progresses, so does the  inebriation, and by gametime the grill chef is usually three sheets to the wind. He staggers into the stadium, enduring the second half of the ballgame in a state of stupor.

 

He staggers home and falls asleep on  the couch. His children contemplate this disgusting routine capped off by a fit of vomit followed by more sleep and ultimately a hangover the next morning.

 

This exercise in futility makes me wonder about how we invest the  precious little time God has given us.

 

I love the Browns and I love the Indians, but  why am I willing to let hundreds of hours of my life slip away watching exploits of overpaid juiced-up crybabies who don't give a rat's patooti about what happens to me or my family.

 

Lots of guys and gals can't quite make their way to church during the weekend because of the elevated importance  assigned to  tailgating  and the football game.

 

If church is not  your gig, maybe you could volunteer.

 

There are plenty of  nursing homes where your smiling face and caring disposition could make the difference in the life of a senior citizen otherwise imprisoned in a nursing home where family members are too busy to visit this geriatric warehouse.

 

Meals on Wheels could use some help on Sunday mornings as well. There are shut-ins who wouldn't mind it if you sacrificed your Budweiser induced coma in favor of your effort to alleviate a little loneliness.

 

You see what I'm driving at.

 

It's a great time of the year as the baseball season culminates in the final drive to the playoffs and pigskin exploits capture our imagination at the high school, college, and professional levels.

 

But the fact is that none of that has any real value in the eternal scheme of the universe.

 

St. Peter's clipboard has a checkoff list which is devoid of points assigned for leisure time watching and drinking, watching and drinking, watching and drinking.

 

Look, enjoy it because it's fun,

 

But keep it in the background of your life so that you can really spend your time doing something important for somebody else or for God.

 

When you die, you will come across a really important scoreboard.

Your own personal scoreboard.

 

That's the game you really want to win.

 

Peace.

Little things change everything: It's within your power

1947.

 

And a gesture changed the world.

 

A gesture that was merely a human reaction.

 

Here are some details.

 

The place was Fenway Park. It was a day game.

 

It happened in the middle of the infield.

 

Between innings, the shortstop walked over to the second baseman and put his hand on his shoulder.

 

The two men talked about  the way they should position the infield as they faced the fierce lineup of the hometown  Red Sox that afternoon.

 

The famously cruel Boston crowd took notice and went quiet.

 

The Bostonians seemed especially angry that day, but the simple act of a hand on a shoulder changed everything.

 

Time stood still.

 

A hand on a shoulder.

 

That act of friendship.

 

Fraternity.

 

Acceptance.

 

In case you were wondering what the big deal was, let me fill in a few more facts.

 

The shortstop was Pee Wee Reese of the Brooklyn Dodgers, a star born and bred in the deep woods of the south.

 

A hero from  the heart of Dixie.

 

And who was the second baseman he treated as a brother that day?

 

Jackie Robinson.

 

Beantown was not a friendly environ for the first black man to break the color barrier in major league baseball.

 

And much more so than today with the NFL and NBA grabbing some spotlight, baseball truly was America's game back then.

 

In fact, baseball was America.

 

But when the bleacher bums of Boston saw the All-star shortstop casually demonstrate his solidarity with this brave pioneer, they knew they had to surrender.

 

They had to wave the white flag, so to speak.

 

That gesture changed America and the world.

 

Soon, "separate but equal"  would also fall.

 

"Whites only" signs would  begin to disappear and Martin Luther King's capturing of the national spotlight in the fight against racism was just around the corner.

 

And America would walk fitfully toward fulfillment of its destiny as a land of racial justice.

 

We still haven't eliminated racial strife in our great land.

 

But we have made progress, no doubt.

 

And that remarkable act that played out between Reese and Robinson before a sold out crowd silenced not only those that were present.

 

It began to  silence voices of bigotry that had  long been making too much noise in our Christian nation.

 

Look folks, you probably can't change history the way Pee Wee Reese and Jackie Robinson did that day in Boston.

 

But you can make a caring gesture now and then.

 

Slip a few bucks to a homeless man.

 

Tell a Marine that you appreciate his service.

 

Put your  hand on the shoulder of a handicapped child.

 

It's just a gesture.

 

But maybe there are angels out there in the bleachers, watching.

 

Maybe your gesture helps another to summon courage.

 

In our modern world where we protect our personal space, it's okay to touch people and to convey your moral support.

 

The impact can be meaningful.

 

Just ask Pee Wee Reese.

 

You're the shortstop.

 

Find the second baseman.