“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.