Fassen Files

Coming Soon: 

Fassen Files 

by Mary O Paddock

October 8^th

Every word in this journal is Trish's fault. She wants me to record my daily activities, thoughts, and insights for one year. At the end of this year, we'll look through all the words I've written and find what's wrong with me. I'm not sure how this is supposed to help. I told her that I know words—I know them well—and they've never done anything except get me in trouble. But maybe I need more trouble in my life. It's obvious I need something.

Ellen Gerhtz 

Maybe what Ellen needs is a small shaggy mutt who can do something highly unusual. Something that lots of other people would be interested in. People with power. People with guns. One of them will lover her. Another just sees her as in the way. 

Fassen: (ˈfasən): to believe 

Dog Story

 Do you remember the little boy who stuck his finger in the dam to stop the leak? Today I was that little boy--only I didn't have enough fingers to plug all the leaks.  

  I'm beat. and am going to bed.  I don't feel well--I think I have Gary to thank for this as he is home from work sick tonight. Humans need color strips on their heads that dictate whether or not they are carrying something contagious so that the rest of us can give them a wide berth. Especially those of us who are inclined to kiss those we're fondest of. 

IX

The Visitor

They smelled the Visitor long before they saw him, heard him scuffling across the floor behind a closed bathroom door.  And they heard the words, “stray” from the mouth of the Woman and the Man. The Man had seen him in the ditch on the highway, where he’d seen strays before, but had felt an unusually powerful urge to stop and pick this one up.

Is this the help you called for?  They asked the Old One.

He hoped not. He had envisioned a Warrior that could take his place, not ancient, but old enough to be battle scarred and wise. The scuffling indicated a small dog and the smell that wafted from behind the door indicated he was dirty and unkempt. A stray would be hungry, weak, and distracted by his own physical needs. None of which promised the strength which they’d prayed for.

And, indeed, when they saw him, they were disappointed. He looked like a wad of black and white hair and filth that had taken on life. He was long of body, not much taller than the Small Dog, and curtain of hair hid his eyes so no one could tell what or who he was looking at.

He did not respond to questions, did not seem interested in meeting them at all, preoccupied with eating and sleeping and staring anxiously after all the Humans through the bars of a kennel the Woman placed in the center of the house.

Can we send him away? asked the Hound, wrinkling his nose. I like the fragrance of dead things as much as the next, but he smells like the bowels of a diseased cow.

The Old One had asked himself the same question, but held off on his reply. The visitor would have to answer them sooner or later and the Old One knew the routines of the humans and new dogs well enough to know that the first stages would very likely make the visitor unhappy. And he was right; first came a bath, and a haircut, and then she finally closed him in his kennel for the night.

He’d taken the haircut and bath with little complaint, but being kenneled and left alone was more than he could take.  And he let everyone know about it.

It was several hours after dark and Humans were all asleep, when the Old One left his post at the Woman’s side. He found the Visitor whining, and clawing at the kennel door. Inside was a blanket, a dish of water he’d turned over, and a bone that was meant to keep him busy until dawn. He looked better now—under all that hair he was not as thin as they were afraid he would be, and his eyes, now that they could see them, were bright and intense.

Out. Out. Out. He panted and paced and clawed.

The Old One lay down in front of the kennel and watched him claw at the hinges. He was silent, waiting politely for the stranger to pause. When he didn’t, the shepherd chuffed to let him know he was there.

It did little good.

The Old One crept closer, placed his nose at the bars, noting that the visitor smelled better now, and delivered a long, low growl. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

The Visitor froze.

 Settle. If you’re who I’m afraid you are, then you must be better than this.

The smaller dog focused on him. Who are you?

They call me the Old One these days. And you?

I have no name.

No name? He repeated that unbelievingly. No natural name? What do other dogs call you?

I’ve known no other dogs. I’ve been chained since our child grew cold two years ago. The Woman was angry and sad and put me outside. One day she stopped coming out to feed me, some other humans came.  One of them let me off the chain. I ran away.

The Old One was frustrated. None of this- the child growing cold, the probability that the Woman at his home had grown cold as well, was the Visitor’s fault. But this was what the Whole had sent to them? This maladjusted little dog needed training he didn’t have time to give him.  So you did not answer our prayers?

The Visitor peered at him with his strange intense eyes. I did hear them and I did join in, but I did not know it was you and I did not know I was the answer.

The Old One exhaled, stood up slowly and painfully, and repositioned himself so that his aching legs were under him. What do you know about the Many?

Only that I could not keep them from my house because I was chained in the backyard and they are why my Human who was not old stopped coming out to feed me.  The Visitor trembled.

The Old one observed him more closely. The Visitor was not trembling because he was afraid. He was angry. What are your strengths?

I can walk in dreams, if they will let me in.

 He sat back, ears erect, eyes returning the intense stare of the other dog. The Whole knew what it was doing after all. 

Today's thoughts and the next section of the Dog Story

My room, the repository for all the household clutter it seems as well as doubling as my office space has been a mess since I started school last Fall. After three or four days of picking up and rearranging, storing, and filing, it's not anymore. It is easier to breath in here now. And, yes, this is one of the places I write these days.

I have numerous projects of this scale that I want to get to this summer, but I've refused to try and complete them all in the first weeks of summer. My utility room/pantry needs to be cleaned and reorganized; Daniel's carpet needs to be ripped out and replaced; and the cabinets in the kitchen need (desperately) to be scrubbed inside and out. And so on. I've opted to do all this around the things I want to do--like spending time with Gary and the boys, reading, writing, and gardening. I guess, what I'm saying is that after several months of fretting about deadlines, it's nice to do things on my own time. I don't mind working hard, I'd just like a few minutes here and there to appreciate the results of it.

This morning I watered the garden, weeded, and harvested lettuce and took time to appreciate my flowers. Roses, tiger lilies, Irises, geraniums, and begonias are all blooming. I've decided that there needs to be more flowers in my life, more moments of whites, yellows, reds, and oranges.

The garden can be left for a day here and there now so I have other outside projects to get to. My next project is to sand all those gourds I grew last year, drill holes in them and paint them. I expect this to take all summer. And this year, I will put in the path around the rose bed I built from rock and mortar last year and build other beds in C shapes around that. Someday there will be a fountain built from salvaged materials and more rock.

Meanwhile, the Dog Story (Have I mentioned that it needs a better title?) is flying toward the close. It's actually been hard to put it down today. This is the advantage to shorter projects. Completion is never far away. You are several chapters (probably not the right word for a short story) behind me at this point.  I can see the entire world I've created--which is far bigger than the story on the page--and it all fits together better than I expected it to.

If you are following along or have just joined or are lost--here are the links to the previous sections. When I have more time, I'll add them to the side bar. (Meanwhile--click on the roman numerals)

I
II
III
IV

V

The Chink

They swarmed like bees to a queen, brushing against her in their excitement, keeping limbs, wings, tails, talons from the fringes where morning daylight burned.   

They had News.  A Creeper had found a way in.

She knew that. She also knew the Creeper had been dispatched quickly by One of the Whole and that a second attempt had been rebuffed by the oldest of them before it got past the inner boundaries.  It is not news if he was caught.

The Creeper came forward. I was too greedy, he admitted. But they don't know how I got in. They think it was a moment of inattentiveness at the windows.

She gave Creeper's words little credence. Darkness was the mother of many fools. 

He must have sensed her indifference. The young one dreams—the entrance is narrow and fleeting, but it is there.

  They leave it unguarded? This didn't sound like the Whole.

They don't know he's having the dreams yet.

She thrilled.  The boy was young—too young to be having the dream. But perhaps it was possible. If it was true then they didn't have much time.  The Whole wasn't without its strengths, as much as she hated to admit to it, and one of those was their attentiveness.  Maybe. If we move very fast . . .  

In days. In days, the crowd agreed. A shudder of excitement went through them collectively and the chant rose in dissonant rhythms. We kill. We kill. We kill. 

Kill. Yess. We kill. But first we return some favors.

The hissing rose, wings beating rapidly, maws gaping in rapture, sending a chilling breeze out on the wind looking for a mark.

   

Born a dog, died a friend 12/98-12/10

 On Saturday morning, I faced the fact that Solomon was done. In the previous days, he'd gotten lost (wandered more than three miles from home--which is so far from the faithful "nobody gets left behind" dog I know that I knew then that something had to be terribly wrong). and had numerous seizures which I could not control or stop. He was weak and tired and "not home" when he was conscious--he ate and drank and asked to go outside, but he couldn't find his way to the door. His back legs which had been weak, were failing him, seemingly all at once and he needed help getting to his feet.

I stayed up with him for two nights praying for a change, for a little more time.  I cried a lot. 

On Friday evening I told the boys what had to be done: No more pain. No more seizures. No more confusion. They offered no argument, no "but what if"s.  Each retreated to handle their grief in their individual ways. Sam, as I expected, took it the hardest. But he echoed me after watching Solomon struggle through another seizure, "It will be a relief," he said. 

I sat with him on Friday night, stroking his head, talking softly to him. The things I said to him are not for public consumption. They were the kinds of things one says to a dog who has been with one through joy and sadness. At one point, he grew restless, so I sang to him (you had to know the dog), he  placed his head in my lap, inhale my scent, sighed, and rested. That made the next thing I had to do much easier. 

On Saturday morning, Gary carried him to the van.  We went to a trusted vet. It was quick. And then it was all over. 

He is buried with his favorite ball in a marked grave near the garden where he used to lay and watch me work. I am not big on graves, as regular readers probably know, but Solomon earned this honor. Before the winter is up, he will have a head stone.  

We stood around the site and said goodbye to him as a family, each offering up their own fond memories. Solomon liked music (We had to put him outside when we wanted to listen to music because he wanted to sing along), loved football (once he learned that it was legal to knock people down in order to get the ball, he became a passionate player), would do virtually anything for chicken, loved "hide and seek" (there was no hiding from that nose), never met a body of water he didn't like (though he hated it when we tried to to swim and would paw at us and grab at our clothes to get us to go back to shore), and he actually seemed to enjoy having his picture taken (I think because it so often involved cookies). He was loyal to a fault--a protector of all that was his, a clown, a playmate, and a quiet companion.  

When Solomon was a puppy, I was told often, first by his vet, and then by family and friends, how I'd probably saved his life.All I did was agree to take on and nurse a sick puppy that nobody else wanted. That was easy. What they did not, could not understand was that, in actuality, he'd saved me. That was the extraordinary thing.

To say that I miss him does not even cover the full spectrum of the emotions I'm experiencing. 

Solomon--three months

This is the only picture of me that I like.

He loved water!

Was a great hiking companion

I wanted a picture of the light on the trail. Solomon heard the zipper
on the camera case and leaped into view

He was never happier than when he was outside with us

Have I mentioned that he liked football?

In his older years, Solomon and the cats became good friends.

Solomon and Sam

Tug-a-war. 

Good friends, these two.

His last spring with us.

He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life,

his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart.

You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion" - Unknown

Dogs and Kids

Today's entry was inspired by an article I found on
CNN entitled "I don't like your dog and you can't make me".

It struck a chord and I decided to express my thoughts in the comments section below it, but re-thought it when my "comment" became several paragraphs (no your blog isn't the only place I do this). I reminded myself that this is what personal blogs are for so I brought my opinion here instead (Yay me).

In case you're a newcomer to this blog let me tell you up front: we have several dogs. Five to be exact. Each of my sons has a dog of their own and I have a much beloved German Shepherd. Yes, that's more than most, but it's only too many if you don't know them or us. Our dogs share our home and our daily lives, which makes for a bit of extra cleaning, extra diligence, and a lot of training to make everyone pleasant to live with. We believe it's worth the work to have them near us. I've never understood why people get a dog and then relegate it to an empty back yard or chain for the rest of its life, or let it roam the neighborhood making the neighbors' lives difficult.

While I've never run across anyone who didn't like dogs who I particularly liked myself, I have never expected other people to automatically love mine. I tend to assume that others aren't as enamored of them we are at our house, and,unless I'm told differently, I typically take steps to avoid imposing them on others.

As per the article--The passing stranger who allowed her dog to nudge the writer's food was being quite rude. Well-trained, socialized dogs that have been treated like--well--dogs and not children respect a human's space when they are eating. The proper response should have been something to the effect of "Milo! Leave it" or a quick, quiet withdrawal by way of the lead and a request that the dog heel or sit. Instead she behaved like her dog was an over-indulged two year old who was--in her estimation--being mildly naughty but cute. Personally I would have felt comfortable telling the dog to back off or asking her to control him. Then again, if I'd been that woman, I would have very likely sensed that these weren't my kind of people and moved away. Who wants to hang out with a crowd of people who don't like dogs?

More than the article, the comments made by other readers, were the impetus for my current train of thought. It was an interesting conglomerate of opinions. There were dog haters, kid haters (and, yes, I find this to be a strange, somewhat sad group too), and people who (like myself) felt that the woman should have simply controlled her dog. However the crowd who brought me here this morning to write this entry were the ones who stated that they "loved their dogs as much as anyone could love a child".

You might want to look away while I use a borderline word: This is absolute crap.

This isn't about criticizing people who can't/don't have kids for various reasons. I have the deepest sympathy for the first group and understand why second group doesn't. I even get why people choose to keep dogs instead of having kids. Dogs are less expensive, less likely run up your phone bill, stay out all night and lie to you about where they've been, develop drug habits, move out, move back in, and move back out again--calling you names every time you question their decisions. They don't usually hit a crisis in their lives because they've made a lot of bad decisions and blame you for it. Dogs are (generally) faithful and their expressions of love are not contingent upon what you did or did not get them for Christmas.

But I am suggesting that those who don't want children and keep dogs instead not fool themselves into believing that their relationship with their dog is the same thing as loving a child. As someone who loves both, I can assure you that the difference is of mountainous, perhaps even planetary proportions. I would die for my sons in a New York second. Without pause for thought, I'd step between them and a freight train or bullet, give them my kidneys, all of my blood, and every single cell in my body. This is what motherhood is all about--pouring yourself out for another human being and the sacrifices you make being second nature. It's about taking your heart out and putting in their chest, and sending it off with them when they leave home, even if they for whatever reason never return. And if they cannot (God forbid) make the rest of the journey with you, letting them take to the grave as well. Living longer than any of my sons is too much for me to even think about, so I'm going to leave that thought unfinished as an illustration of my point.

As someone who has shared her life with one of the most devoted of dog breeds for better than ten years, I am here to tell you that my love for Solomon is pretty powerful. So powerful in fact that I have decided not to prolong his life when he finally succumbs to the degenerative disease he is currently suffering from. When he can not longer pick himself up and carry himself out the door, I will carry him to the vet and ask that they end his suffering. My chest gets tight even thinking about this moment and I tear up (even as I type). He has planted his feet in my soul and every picture of my life without him contains his shadow in the background. But I know something else too; I will eventually have another dog that I will love differently, but every bit as intensely. There were dogs before Solomon and there will be dogs after him. And the ability to type this is the difference between loving a dog and loving a child. The thought of one loss is an almost unimaginable, life altering event--the other is a fact that goes with keeping pets.

In my mind people don't do themselves or mankind any favors by using stand ins for the real thing and telling themselves that it's the same. If you don't want children, that's understandable. If you prefer dogs to children, then fine. But keep it real and learn to be comfortable with saying that you simply love your dog and leave the comparisons out. You will sound less defensive and like you're trying justify your decision and people will be less likely to feel sorry for you.