“The only hope he said, was in children. ‘Adults are locked into car payments and divorces and work,’ he said. ‘They haven’t got time to think fresh.'” –

Clay Risen on Gary Paulsen, NYT Oct. 14, 2021

If we’ve talked books and dogs before, I’ve probably recommended Gary Paulsen’s beautiful little book, My Life in Dog Years. Paulsen died this month, and I’ve been thinking about how reading that book–which I would annually to fourth graders in my classroom years–probably got me into my current predicament. (At one point, I actually considered a Great Dane pup, confusing, I’m sure, Paulsen’s hotdog loving giant, Caesar, with any giant homewrecker I may have adopted. Still, the name Zdeno Chara for a Great Dane has to be a thing for someone, some day.)

Anyway, this morning, as I return to an exceptionally well-cared for Cedar (thanks, Jordan!), I’m thinking about how much of Cedar’s life I missed in just three full days (21 days in “dog days”.) She’s 77 actual days today–or 539 days if we multiply by 7–well into to toddlerhood in human terms.

This morning’s email from the AKC mailing list (precious, I know… I’ve been mulling a piece on my choice of a purebred pup over a shelter dog, along with the indulgence of writing about a dog at all…) is a bit ominous. “11 Weeks: How to be Patient with Your New Puppy.” Among the five tips, “Try to see life from your puppy’s perspective.” Hmm. Could be a long week for both of us.

As an autobiography intended to be read by teens or tweens (I think), My Life in Dog Years was as much a gem for my fourth graders as it was for me. The room would quiet to the munching of snacks or roiling laughter as they ate their chips and I sipped my coffee, and we read about Cookie, who pulled Paulsen from under the ice, or Dirk, who saved the homeless Paulsen from violent gangs, or Caesar’s remarkably efficient homewrecking skills. Paulsen gives us fairly unsentimental glimpses into a rough childhood in the thin little book, but I had never pegged him, as Clay Risen does, as a misanthrope who hung his hope on youth.

Fresh from a visit with my son, Tim, part youth, part man, who is still very much thinking “fresh,” I’ll step into week 11’s dog days with a spiffy clean Cedar. While I don’t have much hope that I’ll see the world like she does, I’ll try to be a little more alive to the person she brings out in me.

“I sha’n’t be gone long…”

Robert Frost, “The Pasture,” opening poem to _North of Boston_

Last night was not a great night to be a Boston sports fan, so it’s a good day to focus on a dog and its very present-tense presence. We’re here, at latitude 58, able to momentarily forget about the dashed hopes that earn Boston fans all that grit, and celebrate another day here in the crappiest month of the year in boreal paradise.

My little Cedar-calf is beyond “tottering,” and starting to outright run, just for fun. But she’s not all that sophisticated yet, as a few clips below suggest. And like Frost’s farmer (or “fahmah” as he might have called himself, and as our gym teacher, Mr. Rose, routinely called us in high school), I’ve got some chores to do before I–get this–leave our little girl for the weekend. (I’m going out to see my man boy, Tim, in Walla Walla.)

Cedar has a great sitter, Jordan, who I know will love her up, and there certainly will be some licking (and biting, sorry, Jordan!) but I’m sort of petrified. She is so young. Would you come, too?

Two images and a few morning moments below.

My cousin-brother Steve, with whom I grew up, thanks to our parents’ risks, and in particular our fathers’ family bonds, had the most honest response of anyone when I told him we were getting a pup. Our dads were from a sizable litter of Boston Irish—seven boys.

“Sucker.”

I was indeed suckered in, and to be honest it was in part because I saw my father, Paul’s, eyes in Cedar. Katrina and I had seriously considered naming her, Paula, which would have resurrected an old family joke, where one of Paul’s brothers, who lived right next door, named his St. Bernard, Paula, poking some fun at his bro, which seemed to be a serious family sport.

The Monks, of course, advise against people names out of respect. “Instead of choosing human names, we should select those that speak to our dog as a dog, yet respect her own dignity and uniqueness. Otherwise we can easily fall into the trap of giving her human status…and we end up anthropomorphizing our pets, forgetting how differently they see the world.” I maintain that Paula would have allowed her plenty of respect, dignity, and uniqueness, but Cedar came to me and Katrina together, and when she arrived she just felt like a Cedar… the soft but resilient, water-resistant wood that holds up so well (although grows fairly rarely) in this part of the rainforest. Still, I consider her middle name Paula .

I think of her and my dad often as Cedar does her thing, following me around. (Since I’m writing this on a college blog, I guess I have to have some product-placement for my English degree, so here comes the literary reference…) Seamus Heaney, another deceased Irish boy, wrote this amazing piece memorializing his father’s expertise, and keeping it alive with his own craft.

Neither my dad nor I had any business growing anything, really, but I’d say he’s following me in the sense that I instinctively turn in my head back to him when I need guidance with the big things —mortgage strategies, stretching financially, planning for the latter half of life. Fair to say, he was an expert there. Paul was an amazing man, utterly dedicated to his family and my mom; it was never just about him (except maybe when a little too much red wine poured). He wouldn’t understand why I would write this blog, really, instead of, say, taking an extra job to pay off the house, but he would respect my individuality and let me know it. Not bad, I say, for a “kid” who grew up in a family of nine during the Depression.

So Paul, meet Cedar, the newest incarnation of Paula. Cedar is spending a lot of her time tripping, falling, but only yapping when she gets under foot. She’s my follower, whether stride for stride around the yard (I occasionally get a little surge of worry when she disappears at night, but nine times out of ten, she’s right there by my feet), or with her big, sensitive eyes as I putter around the kitchen.

I’m still stumbling, Dad, but you’re the one who gave me the advice to go out and make mistakes in the world. I’m guilty as charged—a sucker.

When I grow up, I want to be Scott Simon. Not only does he hold his mom in high regard (Hi, Mom!), but he interviews with such grace that I have to listen. This morning, as Cedar and I headed out for the beach, we heard Simon interview Finneas, whom I had never heard of, but maybe Cedar has some kinship for, in the world of one-word names. Finneas is a 25 year-old song writer and musician, brother of Billie Eilish.

Simon pressed him on his choice of a title for his new album, Optimism, during these trying times. Finneas: “Optimism is something I try to strive for. At my most optimistic, I’m also the hardest working and …the most successful.” I thought, “Fair enough, and pretty sophisticated for a kid.”

But as Finneas dove into some of the darker themes of the album, he spoke about his grandfather’s death as a gateway to understanding “the human condition, which is having your heart broken.” I wondered about that. But not too hard. Saturday morning, coffee, and sunshine quickly shifted me into musing about the “canine condition.” Is it having your heart filled? Is it some kind of sentence of captivity? Is it pure brainstem response, like we might experience on a flawless ski run or a perfect hockey play or a dive into clear, warm water? Whatever it is, I’ll keep turning my brain sideways a bit while I wonder, like Cedar does with her whole head when she’s trying to figure me or the world or some XtraTuffs out.

Simon, because he’s Scott Simon (a guy old and humble enough to have two names), went on to challenge Finneas, lightly.

Love is also love. Love is also light. Love is ah, love is what keeps us going. 

Scott Simon, Oct. 16, 2021

For today, at least, Cedar gets the last word on love, light, and the canine condition. Not sure if she’s an optimist or not, but also not sure it matters. At all.

I know, I know. Shakespeare has no place in a dog blog. But my mom, the chief typist of my high school English “career” (and maybe the only one actually reading this blog–Hi Mom!) might understand. I’m sure I wrote some real schlock back then, Mom. Sorry, not sorry, because here’s more.

How could I not think of Hamlet’s lines to Horatio this morning?

There are more things in heaven and earth, Cedar,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

They were looking at the ghost of Hamlet’s pop, but I think this thing was every bit as mindblowing to our little philosopher.

Cedar is learning. She knows her name and comes most times. She sits occasionally. She can go about 5 seconds on the leash without biting it. Wheelbarrows look different right side up. She also knows how to jump up. Knees will be meeting Cedar skull on a semi-regular basis for a little bit. (Alas, poor Cedar…) She has stayed home twice now while I’ve been out running errands or exercising.

And she’s teaching me a thing or three, I guess. One: It would be better to get a pup when the weather is not godawful. Two: There is one flower left in the entire yard. (Unfortunately she can’t teach me the name of the shrub it’s on.) And three: my maritime ghetto (as Katrina calls it) beside the house is a pretty good playground. A photo I did not capture was her adventure inside of a king crab pot.

This afternoon, we’ll try the wheelbarrow again as we put the garden to bed. Cedar “helped” to pull the last of the kale yesterday. At least now, Mom, I know where to put some of the schlock—in the compost bin.