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My Dog Is My Hero

Me & Shadow

Andrew McAleer

From the moment I saw her, in a humane society cage, I sensed something special about Shadow. While still a puppy, Shadow had lost her right foreleg in a car accident, and the volunteers had attached a card to her cage that read: “I’m Shadow, I’m four and half, and I only have three legs, but I still love to run and play.” A Black-lab mix, she had been admitted five months earlier by her owners, and I could tell she had been caged too long. I decided to take her for a trial walk to boost her spirits.

On the walk, despite only having three legs, Shadow bounced from flower to flower, shrub to shrub, drainpipe to drainpipe, pulling hard, as if she were a lead sled dog. I couldn’t bear the idea of returning her to a caged existence. I signed for the adoption and happily lifted Shadow into my truck, making this the first of thousands of times I would lift her.

Shadow didn’t view herself as crippled. The first time I took her to the beach, she leapt into the water and vigorously chased drifting seagulls, so vigorously I was afraid she would tire herself out and waded out to escort her back to shore. When the local kids played street hockey, Shadow swiped many a ball—raising her backlike a slinky and pogoing her front legs as she made her escape. Clearly, Shadow loved those kids:  She rushed out in the mornings to play with them at the bus stop, and waited anxiously to greet them when they dropped by after school.

Shadow made friends easily, but she made a few enemies too. One day, as I was mowing the lawn, Shadow discovered an underground bees’ nest, rooted around it, and soon came scurrying over to take cover between my legs. When the bees surrounded us and started to attack me, I scooped Shadow up and hotfooted us to safety. Shadow recovered from the trauma and was soon sleeping peacefully on my bed—I didn’t have the heart to awaken her so resumed mowing solo.

Shadow had become a valued companion, but I had no idea how much she meant to me until a dark day in October 1999.  It began as our usual Sunday in the park, but screeched towards disaster when Shadow leapt out of the truck and ran across the street towards another dog. Just then, a car careened around the corner, and struck Shadow, tossing her about thirty feet onto the curb. I dashed over to her, gingerly lifted her, lay her on the seat beside me, and raced to the vet. After an examination, the doctor delivered the good news:  She had not sustained any damage to her organs. And then the bad news: Her back left femur had been fractured in ten places. About that time, I heard Shadow barking from her cage, calling me. When I entered the room, she pulled herself up on her two good legs and cried for help. I asked the doctor to sedate her for the night so that I could take her to a specialized facility the next day. 

The next day, Shadow survived an eight-hour operation during which the bone specialist wired her shattered bones together and screwed a metal plate into the remaining chunks of bone at her sockets. He had to use more than sixty staples to secure the wound. Even though she had to stay in the dog hospital eleven days, Shadow displayed her trademark determination and never gave up.  

Shadow’s recovery was slow, and she wasn’t always patient. She had been home only a few weeks when I carried her outside for some sun. Since she couldn’t walk yet, I went back inside to retrieve a book. When I returned, the patient was gone! I ran around to the other side of the yard where I found Shadow toe-touching on her traumatized leg.  Worried that she would reopen the wounds, I clapped my hands in a disapproving manner. For the next few months, Shadow found other ways to stabilize her wobbly body. While conducting business, she would lean against the magnolia tree, buttress herself in the pachysandra, and extend her back leg out as if doing a runner’s stretch. With time, a lot of patience, and incredible fortitude, Shadow eventually recovered almost full use of her leg.

Shadow’s indomitable spirit inspired not only me, but also my entire family. When my father’s lymphoma worsened, I would often find her either sleeping in his office while he typed or waiting on the front lawn for him. Shadow and my father bonded over food—my father would often stash a box of oversized bones in his car and dole them out to Shadow regularly.

When my mother was diagnosed with fourth-stage breast cancer and quickly declined, Shadow would consistently park herself next to my mother’s chair, dozing with a watchful eye that popped open regularly. When we moved my mother’s bed into the dining room, Shadow would sleep by her bed night after night. 

Shadow proved her loyalty by tending to my parents throughout their illnesses and death, but more trials lay ahead. Shortly after my parents died (within months of each other), I was diagnosed with third-stage melanoma and required immediate surgery. Two days after the procedure, I toe-touched it out of the hospital with a wound running from my inner thigh up to my pelvis.

Well-meaning family and friends expressed concern that I would no longer be able to lift Shadow—or care for her basic needs—and offered to take care of her at their homes. Shadow was almost fifteen-years-old at the time and could no longer negotiate the stairs, nor leap into my bed anymore. Nevertheless, Shadow knew that I needed her, and I knew that she needed me. When she needed a lift, I assured my friends, I would simply find a way to manage. 

Two months after my surgery, I faced rounds of chemotherapy that led to nausea and vomiting. For a while, I couldn’t take fluids except intravenously; I couldn’t eat because of the chronic vomiting. Soon, I could count my bones. My normal fight had subsided, and I often lay limp on my bed. Many well-meaning friends again offered to take Shadow off my hands. But Shadow made it clear that her place was at my side. If anyone tried to lure her away, she growled and glued herself to my side.

As my ordeal dragged on, every step of the way, Shadow saved me. To many she looked lazy, curled up at the end of my bed, snuggled up in my father’s elbow-worn Pendleton’s, dreaming of roast beef. To me, she looked like the most loyal companion a man could want. The feel of her frosty snout resting on my bad leg was just the lift I needed.

AndrewMcAleer is an attorney and writer living in Massachusetts. He recently authored 101 Habits of Highly Successful Novelists.

My Dad Is My Hero

 That Silver-Haired Daddy of Mine

 Paula Munier

 My father is a sophisticated man. He speaks several languages, has lived on several continents, and has traveled all over the world. He’s led many lives: military officer, financier, even diplomat.

 But to hear him tell it, he’s just a farm boy who made good.It’s a claim he always makes whenever he sniffs even a hint of snobbery/ego/impertinence on my part.

“I’m just a hick from Perry County,” he says. “You come from a long line of hicks. And don’t you forget it.”

This “hick” persona is one he pulls out whenever he finds himself in the company of elitists. Much like the “hired killer” role he assumes for any military-bashing civilians he may encounter, his hick character nearly always fools the, well, fools. He lays it on thick; in a suddenly trilling Midwestern twang, he’ll launch into a long, bumbling hymn to hounddogs, rabbit stew, and country/western music. He’ll even sing, usually something by his favorite guitar-slinging cowboy, Gene Autry. Red River Valley. Tumblin’ Tumbleweeds. Back in the Saddle Again. 

Now that country is cool, this last ploy sometimes backfires. All manner of snobs now profess to be fans of the musical genre once reserved exclusively for the “Hee Haw” crowd. You can imagine what Dad thinks of these latte-drinking, BMW-driving upstarts. I once took him to a Garth Brooks concert at the convention center in Las Vegas, where he denounced the ratio of foreign cars to pick-ups in the parking lot. “Who are all these people? Why aren’t they over at the Hilton lining up for Barry Manilow?” Still, Dad enjoyed the concert, even though he grumbled afterwards that Garth was “no Gene Autry.”

When I was a kid, I’d sing along with my dad to the radio.There was no new fangled crossover country back then; it was all Hank Williams and Ernest Tubbs and the ubiquitous Gene Autry. We got a kick out of the silliest lyrics—the cornier the better—and the sorriest narratives—the more pitiful, the better.  Our favorite sing-a-longs: Roy Clark and Thank God and Greyhound She’s Gone. Johnny Cash and A Boy Named Sue.  Eric Heatherly and Countin’ Flowers on the Wall.

I can see now that the writer in me was born somewhere on the back roads of Indiana, driving around with Dad and listening to these sad, ironic stories masquerading as ditties. I’m grateful to him for it, but I’m not sure he would tell you he’d done a good thing there.

It’s not that Dad doesn’t like writers or writing. He likes a good Louis L’Amour story as much as the next guy. Dad’s own father was aschoolteacher, who valued fine storytelling above all else. My grandfather was a lively character, always quick with a story but sometimes slow to honor his familial obligations. He taught Dad to love stories, even as he might distrust storytellers. Dad would grow up to become everything his father was not: a man who put family, God, and country before all else. A man who could fix your car and train your dog and take in your wayward teenagers. A man who could jump out of airplanes and handle any manner of weaponry and save your ass in combat. A man who might spin you a good yarn, but would also protect you from all enemies, including yourself.

Still, as a good son Dad passed on the best part of his father’s legacy to his only child. When I was a kid, whenever I cried Dad would cheer me up with Grandpa’s favorite aphorism:  “It doesn’t matter what happens to you, little girl, as long as it makes a good story later.”

Of course, Dad doesn’t tell me that any more; he doesn’twant to encourage me. I’ve written about a lot about my dad and his heroic exploits—and lot of what I’ve written has been published. Often to his chagrin.

“She makes it all up,” he tells people who ask him about my writing. “Those things never really happened.”

Poor Dad. As much as he loves me, I know I am at times an embarrassment to him. In this way and many others I am much like mygrandfather. I laugh too loud and too much. I’m a terrible driver. I have trouble staying married. I can be way too full of myself.

And I believe in turning bad luck into good stories.

Which is, after all, what country music is all about. And whether he likes it or not, I have my father to thank for that. He introduced me to country music. In the age of Elvis and the Beatles, he turned me on to Hank and Ernest and Gene. (Did I tell you about the time Dad met Elvis? Elvis was a G.I. in Germany, and helped my dad pull a jeep out of the mud. “Good soldier,” is all my father has to say about this momentous event.)

Even now, when my iPod’s loaded with everything from Mozart to Maroon 5, I still turn to country when I need inspiration.  Feminist that I am, I’ve added girl singers to Dad’s repertoire of real men: Patsy, Dolly, Mary Chapin Carpenter. But my all-time favorite country song remains the one that reminds me most of my father, the classic written by his pal Gene Autry and Jimmy Long, ThatSilver-Haired Daddy of Mine. In this solid-gold tearjerker, the singing cowboy laments the cares and woes he has visited upon his father, and wishes he could take back everything he ever did to worry dear old dad.

As a parent now myself, I understand how great that worry can be. I also understand that the hardest things to give your kids are the only things that really matter: a strong sense of self and a good character.  For these they learn only by example—yours, good and bad. For these I had the very best teacher, my dad. From him I learned to be true to myself as a writer and as a woman. And whenever I got a little too big for my britches, he was there to set me straight. He still does. The good news is that the older I get, the less I need it. As a young woman, I was desperate to be considered urbane, intellectual, and worldly. I’ve spent the last fifty years adding layer after layer of sophistication to my persona, only to realize that my father had it right all along.

It’s fine to be sophisticated in the ways of the world, as long as you’re homely in the ways of the soul.

Now I’m proud to say that I’m a hick at heart.

Just like Dad.

My  Teacher Is My Hero

When the Great Scorer Comes

John Forrest

The final horn sounded in my mind. The fans rose as one to cheer our victory, our bench cleared en-mass, and the on-ice celebration began. We were winners; but it was the end. As a team we would never play another game for The Coach. Order was being restored when I spotted his tall figure standing alone at the gate to ourplayers’ box. I knew he would not join us on the rink. Retrieving the game puckfrom the melee, I skated to him and proffered it.

As I began taping the poem to my son’s bedroom mirror, the memories came flooding back.

His name was Frank Danby, but to me he will always be “The Coach.”

The Coach took on the task of forming a new ice-hockey team, with a group of teenagers that was literally a 1950's version of Disney’s Mighty Ducks. We were not his first hockey team, but we would be his last. Most of us were local boys. Some were new to the league, and some were castoffs, cut from established teams in neighboring communities. We reflected a wide range of size, talent, and personalities. A few were very good players, and a lot more were boys who wanted to be good, but had a long way to go. Yet from scorers to checkers, we were The Coach’s team, and he believed in each of us. No one who gave their best was ever cut or benched to help us win.

Ice-time was scarce in those days, and older age teams drew the worst practice times. Ours was brutal—Saturday mornings at 6:30 a.m. When we whined, The Coach responded by convincing the arena's manager to let us on earlier, and then challenged us to skate with him at 5:30 a.m.! Although he was in his sixties, The Coach always beat us to the ice; and even though some of us arrived a little worse for wear, straight from Friday night parties, no one ever considered skipping one of those two-hour practices.

I can still feel the frigid arena air clutching my lungs during warm-up circuits. We didn’t have to wear helmets in those days, and as we ran our drills, the heat would rise from our heads, forming vaporous halos in the freezing air above. We would skate, shoot, and check to the point of exhaustion, and then beg to be allowed to scrimmage for the pure joy of it. And at the end, when the skates came off and warmth began to seep slowly back into our numbed feet, we experienced the delicious agony of tingling toes. Every Saturday, without fail, The Coach was there, teaching and guiding us throughour paces. He honed what physical skills we possessed, and he set an example for us in his attitude toward sport and life. For him, winning wasn't everything, nor the only thing—how you played the game was!

I can picture him still. A tall, gaunt, figure stooped slightly at the shoulders, towering above us behind the players' bench; fedora pushed slightly up on his forehead, hands clasped loosely behind him as he rocked slowly back and forth; his expression thoughtful and all knowing.His voice was low and gravelly, and he spoke in measured tones, with the odd "humph" for emphasis. He rarely yelled, and I don’t ever remember him belittling a player or disrespecting an opponent or official. The Coach didn't demand respect; he commanded it! He taught us that if you practiced and played his way—hard, clean, and smart—and gave 100 percent every time you laced up your skates, winning would take care of itself. We believed him, followed his lead, and other teams soon found us tough and disciplined challengers.

Two years in a row we made the playoffs, but two years in a row injuries forced me to sit in the stands and watch in frustration as team—with perhaps more individual talent, but certainly less character—denied us the championship. Some coaches might have dropped me, or players who were still learning, and replaced us. Some coaches may have considered themselves cursed and called it quits, but not The Coach. He knew it was just a matter of time.

When we lost our first game of the season the following year, other coaches might have lost faith, but The Coach didn't, and he told us so with no uncertainty. He made us believe in ourselves and assured us our time would come—and he was right. We never lost again. Finally, all that hard work fell into place and for the next two years we went undefeated for over 70 games. We won two League Pennants, two County Pennants, and a City of Toronto Championship. From that point on, nobody beat The Coach's team.

We were too young to fully comprehend the pride he felt, but I understand now. Pride, not for coaching winning team, but pride in his ability to successfully transform a group of undisciplined rookies into a team of focused, dedicated, hard-working young men who believed in themselves. TheCoach taught us more than hockey skills; he taught us skills for life. And as the years passed, he followed our careers and spoke often of our successes. Almost twenty years later, the measure of our respect for him was evident when former team members called, wrote, and traveled from across the country to honor The Coach on his eightieth birthday.

Today I'm a coach, and my son plays hockey. It was a verse that I was taping to his mirror. It read: "When the one great scorercomes, to mark against your name; it matters not who won or lost, but how you played the game."

Well, the one great scorer did come to mark against TheCoach's name, and I have no doubts how that score sheet read.

I ran my hand over the paper and tape, smoothing it to the glass, savoring those memories of my final game under The Coach’s tutelage. 

The Coach took the puck from my hand. Eighteen year old, 200-pound defense men weren’t supposed to cry, so no words were exchanged.The Coach studied it for a moment, turning it slowly in his hand. That battle-scarred black disc represented hundreds of lessons taught and well earned, the achievement of a goal and the end of a journey that would forever mark the lives of a dozen young men.  My hero nodded, slipped it into the pocket of his coat, turned and walked slowly down the ramp toward the locker room. Not much of a trophy—but it was enough.

 My Teacher Is My Hero

Observations and Lessons for the Extraordinary Woman

 Emma Gordon

We often find teachers in the most unexpected places, at the oddest times, and usually when we don’t even know we’re looking for them. As a driven young actress who had traveled around the world solo and chose to live in New York City to train and work, I thought I was last person in need of guidance. I called myself “The Little Aussie that could.” Even in the wake of being diagnosed with Melanoma while thousands of miles away from my family, I was confident I could cope perfectly well on my own. Inevitably, however, my façade began to crumble, and I reluctantly sought help in the form of a Wednesday night cancer support group at Gilda’s Club in Greenwich Village.

Enter Margie Myers. I remember our first meeting clearly.This fabulous woman with fabulous hair and a fabulous outfit, moved seats to sit next to me—to console me—and as she held my hand, she said defiantly, “This…is my age! I’m twenty-eight…I’m not fifty-eight…I don’t know when that happened! Really, when did that happen?” I liked her immediately.

You see, although Margie’s body had aged and the ovarian cancer had begun to take hold, her spirit had not seen a day over age thirty.She lived out loud. Often I would sneak in late to our group meetings, and I could hear her halfway down the hall, telling what I was sure was an outrageous story of her days as one of the first wholesale shoe saleswomen on the road. I would open the door to find her acting out the story, and the other women practically in tears laughing. When the tears were not from laughter, but flowed because one or the other of us was having problems coping with the debilitating and heart-breaking disease that had disrupted our once halfway normal lives, she would listen, comfort, and then . . . tell another joke.

The jokes and stories continued well after the group had ended, over a glass of wine or on the phone, and we swiftly became part of each other’s everyday life. Sometimes I wondered how was it that a middle-aged Jewish shoe saleswoman from New York and a young actress from Australia could even relate to one another, let alone become such close friends. But the bond between us was stronger than either of us understood, and the lessons stemmed from the challenging and confronting places of our polar opposite personalities and lifestyles.

Margie could be both irritatingly bossy and ridiculously vain. I was a struggling actress with three jobs and no money to spend on fashion, yet she never failed to criticize my wardrobe, particularly my scuffed shoes. But the next time I saw her she’d be laden with armloads of expensive, perfect hand-me-downs. She told me I was beautiful in one breath; and criticized my tousled, unkempt hair and lack of makeup in the next. However, a day later, she’d invite me to her house and introduce me to her “hair guy” Tony who was instructed to “fix it,” for which she gladly paid a significant amount of money.

In her own language she was teaching me that I am worthy of better things; that my beauty is worthy of a second glance; that my voice is worthy of being heard. I observed Margie like rare creature, taking mental notes about life and love. Watching Margie meticulously order a salad, taught me how to get what I want. Watching Margie accessorize her outfit and proudly do a turn in front of the mirror, taught me how to appreciate my unique beauty. She embodied qualities that I craved in myself. Whether they were already there and just needed her encouragement, or whether it was she who instilled them, Icannot be sure. However, I began writing my uniquely Margie lessons down—theway she delivered them—in a small booklet I liked to call:  

Observations and Lessons for the Extraordinary Woman, by Marjorie Myers
Expressly For Emma Gordon and Other “Young Things”

Lesson One:
These days women under thirty don’t carry umbrellas. Stupid. If it looks like rain, carry an umbrella; it’ll save your hair.

Lesson Two:
Try on as many shoes as needed, with no guilt. Likewise, try on as many men as needed, with no guilt. However if foot is too wide for shoe, do not push. Alike, if woman is to wise for man, also do not push.

Lesson Three:
“Fake it until you make it.” If you have absolutely no idea what to do, smile like this (Margie illustrates wide confident smile) and pretend. (Margie shrugs her narrow shoulders) “What, you think I knew how to sell shoes?”

Lesson Four:
Speak up and be heard. Always. Have a voice regardless of what accent it comes in.

Lesson Five:
Love…Love…Love! Give it shot. You never know. Nobody’s an expert. None of us know. Just give it a shot!

Lesson Six:
Always use a coaster. (Margie had a thing about water spots on good furniture, and proper guest behavior.)

Lesson Seven:
Treat yourself to real clothes. You only live once. Your body deserves it. Wearing real fibers means that when your body sweats it is actually crying in relief!

Lesson Eight:
Share. Nothing is ever good alone. Share the goodness.

Lesson Nine:
Cultivate friendships. Raise them, grow them, and nurture them, for they too are family.

For me my friendship with Margie was unique and irreplaceable; however, if one were to attempt to concoct a similar relationship, you would need: One Cup Mother, One Cup teacher, One Cup Friend. I am honored, in the truest sense of the word, that she invited me to be a part of her journey. Margie died on February 19, 2007. She approached dying as she did living—with laughter, courage, and the grace that defined her life. I had known Margie  just shy of two years when she passed,and I remain painfully jealous of anyone who had the opportunity to know her longer. I am still struggling to conceive of—and live in—a world without the life force, the powerhouse, the firecracker that was Margie Myers.