Patrick. He stood up for the puppy Psmith. Big Time. He weighed 80, the bully 90. First time I heard Patrick growl. Only time. Bully hid behind mommy’s pants.
So I did a lyrical post on greyhounds. Mentioned a boy named Patrick. I buried my grief at his loss because my wife thought it was verging on ostentation. Like I missed him more than she did, which was patently untrue. There were more greyhounds who needed rescuing. I conceded and got with the program. How we got Andrew.
But why did I get so cranky with everybody yesterday? With Lake and my wife in particular? They loved and praised my post, and I nevertheless gave them both hell. The answer is Patrick.
I loved that boy. More than I can say. It spilled out in text messages to my friend Lake. I criticized his comment. He offered to pull it, aware that I was on a tear. I said:
“No, I don’t want you to pull it. I was disappointed. I keep forgetting about different strains of Christianity. My point was that greyhounds ARE angels sent to help us. Your immediate interpretation was that those of us who help them are good Christians who condescend to help helpless animals. I just thought you’d catch my drift.
Patrick was giving my dying mother communion, and I think she knew it.
I was so devastated by the death of Patrick that my wife told me to stop it. She had to move on. So I tried to forget him. He never licked me once. But we had a nonverbal bond. I hugged him and he swelled. He was as important to me as Psmith and Raebert. In a fraction of the time. He never said a word.
Dogs are also creatures of God. There is no convincing story of human civilization that doesn’t depend on dogs. In many ways they are our moral superiors, altruistic and loyal beyond human understanding. But there’s a rumor out there that they have no souls. Your interpretation of my post leads me to believe you share that view.
I believe… I believe that a huge part of what Pat brought me was the experience of sight hounds. I grew up with shepherds, terriers, smart, smart, smart, and interestingly, in my earliest youth, Irish Setters, now mythologized for their dumbness, which is supposed to transcend their beauty. (Just a mention for Irish Setter Katie… Smartest dog I ever even heard tell of.)
Smart dogs reinforce human superiority. Is this the best they can do? Great. So dogs are all stupider than us and we feel smarter. Dumb dogs are different. The smartest woman I ever met was engaged with what I’d been taught were the dumbest dogs ever. And she was entranced.
Education. The smartest woman I ever met was also a skeptical, truculent Catholic. She had a way with her dumb dogs and feral cats.
Since then, what? She made it her business to make all my dreams come true. In every realm. In the animal realm she learned that I had had a Bengal cat who died young. She got me a new Bengal. We still have her, and she’s a joy to both of us.
She learned that I had a fantasy about Scottish Deerhounds because I had seen a picture of one on the Internet. She arranged to get us one.
His name was Psmith and he lived and died with us.
She already had greyhounds. Two of them. Why she was willing to step up to a deerhound, which is a whole other order of commitment. She saw that I was the one who brought her male feral cat out of his shell onto my lap, and she knew we could do this whole spiritual adventure together.
Since then, we’ve been through heaven and hell. We’re too old to have babies. We have cats and dogs instead. What we prefer. And, yes, we have grand kids, but that’s an old and predictable story. What’s not predictable is the shafts of light we get from dogs and cats. Which are stupendous. Raebert is way way smarter than he’s supposed to be. His paw is articulate all on its own. Molly thrives. THRIVES. Is this a reward? Or just an exception? Our pug is not fat, our Bengal is not impossible, and of our two feral cats, one is the coolest man in the room. Then there’s Elliott. Think of him as the Daniel Craig of cats.
Maybe I should post this. But I don’t want to jump up and down on you. My sense is, you just don’t get it. Please tell me otherwise.”
Lake, being the man that he is, saw unexpressed grief rather than insult and said, “Post it. I get it.”
So I just did. What grief looks like. Sometimes ugly, always bloody. But the beat goes on.
I’m 11. God’s gift to Pat and Robert. I can still outrun that ratty-ass Raebert.
I’m glad you posted it. This is what makes this site different.
Okay. Go to the other site and do searches for “Psmith” and “Patrick.”
Here’s the heartbreaking one on the death of Psmith.
And here’s the progenitor post for yesterday’s post here.
Patrick’s final memorial on IP has been harder to find.
Patrick was a special dog. Sonny’s new companion when Achilles moved out with his mom. But a wonderful boy in his own right. And he loved cheese.
I love that photo of him.
Look at those demon wings on Molly.
I think I understand.
I had two cats at different times, one years before the other. The first was a gigantic black Japanese bobtail. The second, also black, was a generic American shorthair. Each was a companion at a very difficult time in my life. Especially that bobtail… He was a huge, gruff, samurai of a cat. Fierce, and commanding total obedience. But he was also empathic; and when you were in bed in the dark and about at the end of your rope, the samurai would put his blade down, hitch his armor up, sit down next to you, and put your head in his lap. Nary a word spoken, but he wanted you to know that he was a man who could make things happen, and it was all going to be okay if he had anything to do with it. At times like that, you wonder who is taking care of whom.
The two cats ended up living together with me eventually. The American cat died early from diabetes. With his younger charge gone, and having already seen me grown, married, and established, the hoary old samurai’s work was finished. He died a few months later. It was very, very difficult… But I had someone else to sit with me then, and I think he knew I was going to be all right.
Thank you, Ron. Tears here. Not kidding. Wife can attest.