A good cry . . .

Recent heart-tuggers tastefully paraded around the internet include a young woman with inoperable brain cancer playing collegiate level basketball – and the opposition accommodating her by agreeing to move the game up and ceding home court advantage. Oh, and don’t forget the young men who suspended their own basketball game because one of their cheerleaders, a young woman with Down’s syndrome, was being bullied. And the dignified honor guard afforded by Delta tarmac workers for returning remains of lost U.S. soldiers (and a military service dog lost as well).

Oh yeah, I’m a crier. Sure, I shoot guns, hunt big game, waterfowl and upland birds. I drive a pickup truck and I’m that friend who remains calm during trying times and can hold it together at funerals.

Just don’t look at my eyes during certain television ads (especially at Christmas) or during performances of the University of Michigan Men’s Glee Club (I’m currently their faculty adviser and get to mentor these remarkable young men). For some reason, the happy occasions and joyful portrayals evoke more tears than the devastating and sad . . . who knows why?

Tonight, I traded emails and photos with my longtime friend and fellow Labrador Retriever fan Kathy (although she remains a misguided adherent to the mutant “yellow” versions of the breed). She and I would trade Lab-sitting duties to accommodate travel and our dogs became fast friends. Her mis-colored buddy was named Teal; Shakespeare was my ebony companion. Both Teal and Shakey have left us (or as we hopefully believe, await us at the Rainbow Bridge) and from time to time the thought of those two bandits evoke a tear or two.

I miss having a dog. Of course the natural question of why not getting another is a fair query. I don’t have a puppy friendly schedule nor a local friend like Kathy to help fill in the gaps (she's now in New York). I’m not telling dog lovers a thing when I laud how having a pooch makes life better . . . they are happy dependents who celebrate every moment with their human.

There was the time that I had both dogs for an overnight – at the end of a very long week, I let them out for their last “piddle” of the day – usually accompanied by a lap around the house to assure all was right in the world (both could be trusted to stay on property). I made the mistake of sitting down and immediately fell asleep. After waking up at 3 am, I found the two of them sitting quietly by the door – covered in dew.

Of course, Retrievers retrieve. Kathy and I laughed a ton when we kept asking the two of them to “go get it” and the dogs picked up everything they could find on the floor and delivered it to me – I think my lap was full of 10 shoes, two remotes, a couple pairs of socks, one book, and a golf ball.

It was both hard and correct when I said, “goodbye” to Shakey. He had lost a fair amount of mobility; his teeth lost their pearl; bowels were no longer dependable; he could barely eat. Most of all, I remember his eyes – for 14 years bright and happy . . . then clouded and sad.

The first photo featured with this post is of Teal, Shakey, and Keota (the puppy) . . . Kathy and I started tonight's exchange after she posted a picture of Keota and the younger Rowan (the other mis-colored Lab). Kathy referred to Keota as the “old dog” . . . yet I remember nuzzling a scamp puppy named Keota.

Time goes on. May I have a tissue?