GROWING OLDER

c.2009VirgilT

Last night I learned of the passing of Walter Cronkite. If you don’t know who Walter Cronkite is – was – stop reading this immediately and send me an email. I’m taking you off my list of Dose recipients.

The title to Hemingway’s novel, “For Whom the Bell Tolls” derives, I think, from a John Donne quote, “…ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” I have tonight truly heard that bell’s sad clangor.

I can’t think of another individual whose presence on this earth helped place me more fully in my time and place than Cronkite. He was an anchor in more ways than one, and held fast the mooring lines for three generations.

It was he who grieved with me over the assassination of President Kennedy and our nation’s transition from adolescence into full and knowing maturity with its concomitant recognition of evils in the world.

It was Uncle Walter who walked me through mankind’s spectacular arrival, first steps on and successful return from the Moon.

It was he to whom I and millions of others turned each evening to learn the true state of our nation and that of the other nations of the world. If Cronkite said it was so, it was so.

Under his firm hand, the CBS Evening News coalesced and matured into top-notch must-see television programming. The same could be said of his series, “You Are There,” which always fascinated me with its reenactments of historic events and Cronkite’s narrative making it clear just how and why things transpired as they did.

His tenure bespoke an era; that of the post-WWII generation with the dawn of the technological age: space programs, computers, cell phones, Concord, better automobiles, high-speed monorails, expansive Interstate highways and much more, an era carefully examined and detailed by Mr. Cronkite's skilled journalism.

There has not been, and is not likely to be, another who had – and deserved – the complete trust of a nation as did this singular individual.

I am unmoved by the death of bizarre pop star Michael Jackson, and I will be glad when the tabloid media move on to other matters, just as I was when that busty blonde chippie who married the elderly millionaire died. I can’t even remember her name. Oh…Anna Nicole Smith.

They are the chaff of life’s threshing, and deserve to be borne away on the passing winds of time.

Saying goodbye to Walter Cronkite is a different matter altogether.

His passing tells me that the bell is slowly, inexorably banging out its single dolorous note for me, and that my time, too, is finite, and his demise does so as no other event could have done.

I WANNA GO LIKE MAX

c.2008VirgilTeague

If you ask me whether an animal has a soul, I'd be hard-pressed to say no. No doubt I have some animistic leanings; I once apologized to a tree for felling it to make room for a cabin. But there is something, call it what you will, that animates even the most insignificant creature.

Maybe it's just a projection of our own insecurities: there is a hope in each of us that someone will be there to care for us kindly and lovingly when we can no longer function effectively and painlessly.

Max proved this to me. Maxmillion Dollar Apple was his kennel name. He was supposed to be a miniature dachshund, but it seemed as if he were cobbled together from spare parts: the body of a standard-sized dachshund, miniature legs, a small and pointy head, and more tail than absolutely necessary. Nonetheless, he was my mother's best buddy for eleven years.

After her demise, life changed for Max. I didn't have the time or inclination to cater to his every whim as my mother had. No longer would he be tucked into a human bed each night with his head on his very own pillow; there would be no treats passed to him from the plate of a human being at dinner time; his inventory of chew toys was reduced to a mere half-dozen. In short, Max found that he was not, as he'd always assumed, the center of the universe.

Still, he got regular checkups from the vet, his nails clipped, an occasional bath, good quality dog food and the run of the house and the two acres surrounding it. In fact, in some ways life improved for Max: he didn't have to take his walks at the end of a leash, he could hide his chew toys wherever he liked (I'm a bachelor and rarely go poking around in dusty corners or under the bed), he could chase squirrels and bark at every bird that dared poach a worm from the yard. He could doze for hours in the warmth of the sun from the vantage point of the deck attached to the back of my house, and - his favorite thing - he could go for car rides standing up in the passenger seat with his pointy nose out the window where all manner of exotic scents tickled his fancy and fueled his doggy dreams.

Max always preferred the company of women. Let a female visitor show up at my house and Max would do his best to monopolize her attention, jumping up on the couch to lie with his head in her lap, soulful brown eyes begging for a caress from a perfumed hand, tagging along wherever she walked, sitting outside the bathroom door until she reappeared. He had no sense of propriety whatever.

I'd been reluctant to take Max in. I had my own pal, a female Golden Retriever named Ginger. But where else would he go? After all, he'd been a good companion to my mother for eleven years. And I'll admit after a while he became a fixture at my house, too.

He still thought he was in charge in many ways. He insisted on being the first through a door, for example, and thanks to her affable personality, Ginger allowed it. His dish had to be filled first or he'd register his displeasure by plowing into Ginger's dish, scattering kibbles and grumbling around a mouthful. He got used to sleeping on the floor, but only on his own blanket - and it had to be over a floor register for the warmth he found there.

But time passes, and in his sixteenth year, Max was running down. The birds and squirrels were safe since his arthritis had grown so bad he had to be carried into the yard several times a day to do his business. Jumping up onto the couch became impossible, so he'd whimper and plead to be lifted up to lie quietly while I read or watched TV. Filmy cataracts showed up on his eyes and he began to bark at shadows. He was almost deaf, lost interest in his toys and slept most of the time.

One day his rear legs just wouldn't support him. He'd tried to get to his food dish by dragging himself slowly along the floor and seemed confused by this development. I knew his time was short, poor fellow. He couldn't even turn his head to gnaw at an itchy place and it had been some time since he was able to lift a leg to scratch.

I called the clinic. After some discussion, I said I'd bring him in one last time. To their credit, they understood my angst.

Max lay quietly in the passenger seat of the car on his blanket as I picked up a chicken snack at a drive-through. Chicken had always been his favorite food, and I hand-fed him as much of it as he wanted. When we got to the clinic I left him in the car while I went in to fill out the necessary paperwork and explain that I didn't want Max subjected to the smells and sounds of the place.

After a few minutes, a young veterinarian and his assistant came out to the car. She opened the passenger side door, turned and sat in the floor of the car in her nice white uniform. She took Max's head in her hands, stroking him and speaking softly. He sighed. He always did like women.

I got into the driver's seat and patted his back while the vet inserted a needle into Max's foreleg. There was no resistance: Max had a stomach full of chicken, was warm and comfortable lying on his favorite blanket with his head cradled by a gentle young female.

The vet attached a tube and a syringe to the needle, then looked up and asked me if I was ready. I could only nod; my eyes were full of tears and my throat wouldn't work. He slowly depressed the plunger as his assistant continued to stroke Max's head.

Max looked up at her, closed his eyes with a big contented sigh, and just drifted away.

As difficult as it had been to make the decision, euthanasia was the kindest thing I could offer this creature who had been a part of our family for sixteen years. And despite my grumblings about his many odd habits and preferences, I'd come to love this odd little dachshund in spite of myself.

I have some hope that when I am old and tired and used up, there will be someone with the courage and generosity of spirit to help me make the transition to wherever or whatever lies beyond, to make it possible for me to drift away in comfortable surroundings with my head in the lap of a pretty lady who keeps telling me what a handsome fellow I am, despite my short legs and ungainly body.