It Hardly Seems Fair

This past Summer, we did what we hate to do -- we took GuntherDog to the Kennel. The management of this Maximun Security Pet Prison had us sign a note, indicating that we understood that Gunther was now a Senior Dog and it was understood that 'the older dog' is prone to sudden illness and even death. Geez ... Gunther was no more than 11 years old. How could that be?

There have been changes in G, our last-remaing child (the Cat really doesn't count as a child) that have been clear to us for some time. M and I can be out of the house for quite a while -- 4-5 hours or more -- and we'll unlock the front door ... and walk in ... and find Gunther napping on the job. And he's become less comfortable around visitors ... friendly? really friendly! but kind of manic. He'll beg at the table and precipitously charge off ... 40 pounds with four-paw drive but no limited slip differential. It's really quite a sight, as he tries to get to the back door with an apparent bladder emergency.

Ah! Old Men and their bladders.

The biggest change I've noted, though, is in his morning ritual. I'm most often the first up in the AM. Gunther reluctantly will get off his Seat of Honor and follow me to the top of the stairs after I've peed, that is. Then ... then, he'll sit. We have an understanding, we do -- Gunther and I. He requires that I scratch his head for several minutes and openly proclaim both my fealty to him and my sense of him as a Goo-Boy. "Yes, Gunther. You are the very best." When he "feels the love," Old Man GuntherDog will toddle down the stairs, looking back precisely once to demonstrate his awareness that he's Man of the House, now, and that other Old Guy's function -- the one holding on to the railing -- is limited to Door Man and Waiter ... and little else.

Yesterday, I went to a family's religious celebration. The Grandpa in the family (Grandpater Familias) had been my first graduate school professor in the 1960's -- and later a colleague and, for a year when he moved to this area, a houseguest before his family could follow him. Ah, such memories. I shared some of them with his youngest and her husband of maybe 20 years ... some of the last people on God's Good Earth to call me Howie. I told her about my first day in graduate school. I knocked on her Dad,


Prof. F's door.

"Dr. F ... I came to Buffalo to study Topological Lattices."

"You'd like to study. Good. I'm busy. Read this book and come back to discuss it before 830, tomorrow morning."

"Thank you."

I left his office and began walking down the hall and leafing through this pamphlet-sized volume ... no more than 100 pages. I was quicker in those days and, in spite of the anxiety of talking to this red-headed, blue-eyed Madman (of a truly Great Soul), I within less than five minutes realized that the author, Leopoldo Nachbin, had penned this gem in Portugese.

Pitter-Patter. Knock-knock. The young Doctoral student at the door cracked open by Dr. F stuttered out:

"But Dr. F ..."

"Whaddayawant?"

"Dr. F, the book is in Portugese!?"

Door slams and deep voice arises from within this Minotaur's Labrynth:

"DOES THIS KID WANNA BE A COMPLAINER 

OR A MATHEMATICIAN? 730 AM -- SHARP!"

I would soon have reason-enough not to argue with him. It was during that Winter in Buffalo, that walking on campus, the youngster suddenly found himself face down in a snow-drift -- victim of a flying tackle from his Professor who had little to say from above beyond a gruff: "Stay alert, Kid."

My Lord ... My Sweet Lord. Yesterday, we were both tearing up ... Old Men all seem to begin to tear-up more easily (maybe as soon as they read the numbers on their Social Security Checks). He was talking about one of his kid's long-time teacher ... a Pianist. She had died at 95+ and the family was still reeling from this loss of someone dear to the family for maybe 35 years. And talking of his kids (43-55 year old kids) would bring that wistful warmth to his eyes, as well.

Ach!

The guy who gave me my French Language Exam (Shit! I shoulda studied Portugese) in English was there, as well. I remember the day clearly. After reading Fleur du Mal for more than an hour in English, Dr. JC -- with a twinkle in his eye -- looked up and dismissed me with: "See. You know much more French than these Flatulent Brittany Cows in this Math Department." I passed.

I hadn't recognized Dr. JC until we were leaving the party. Alas.

Memories. The Fourth Quarter has lots of memories.

It was twenty years ago, just around December that I wrote some notes, the words of which returned to me, yesterday, at the party:

Witnesses

On the bottom of his closet,  like two soldiers they stood

A layer of dust demanded “You’ve seen these before”.

Witnesses for what he now couldn’t and once could

When he bought them.

Was it nineteen sixty four?

One at a time, he picked each up, turned it around,

“Look! The pattern on the toes is just the same,

The leather’s still good, the color still brown,

And inside

The author hadn’t changed his name.

Yet they spoke of different times and of a different man

Who wore them then more than a quarter century ago.

These shoes were now witnesses to god’s sinister plan,

That from vibrant forms,

Takes man and transforms him to Lore.

And now those same wing-tipped shoes are 50 years old. Nevermind Brittany Cow: Holy-cow!

With a nod to Drs. F & JC -- still among my heroes!