About being Blue...

Last week, when I wrote about my Grandfather, I mentioned his spectacular mountain of a dog, Blue. Today, Blue is as much a part of the family lore as any of our colorful human personalities. So was Blue's companion Madchen, a gorgeous Black Lab mix. She had silky black fur, kind eyes, the sweet spirit of an angel and was a ferocious rattle-snake killer. Madchen and Blue were such companions that you cannot really mention one and leave out the other.  It makes me smile to think of them all these years later. But today, I am remembering Blue.

When Blue died, we all cried, as though he weren't just a dog. But in fact, he wasn't and never could have been only that, to our family. He was my Grandfather's dog. And because he was well-loved by Grandpa, we loved him even more. He was a part of the family and as much as he belonged to us, we belonged to him.

When Blue showed up on the family compound, an essentially unpopulated, 50 acre area of sprawling Florida nature, replete with racoons, alligators, moss-laden oaks and rattle-snakes, we all thought he was sort of funny looking. Not just a bedraggled funny-looking, in the way of uncared for lost dogs, he just wasn't like anything we'd ever seen before. His color was "merle," small black spots on a silver-gray coat. His head was a Charlie Brown round hound dog sort of head...a funny looking head for just a pup. From a distance my Grandpa said he looked blue. And that was his name.

Blue was a loner most of the time. His only canine friend was his older companion, Madchen. When it came to intruders, animal or man, the two of them knew what it meant to work as a team. They had an upspoken understanding about guarding their home. There was no stopping them once their mission was begun. Their agreement had developed without a lot of fuss. Madchen, a Labrador Retreiver mix, definitely the more level-headed of the two, usually took the lead. Blue could sleep through an earthquake, but one yelp out of Madchen and Blue was on his feet, running toward the object of Madchen's agitation. It didn't matter who or what her excitement was about, Blue's blind faith in his partner's judgement always sent his muscular bulk hurling towards the offender with a sonerous baying and flash of blue thunder that sent small animals, stray dogs or even the local postal delivery person looking for cover. Unannounced strangers lucky enough to be near their cars could count on staying inside their vehicles until such time as they were given permission by Blue to get out. Blue was vigilant in waiting to get the okay sign from Grandpa. If Grandpa wasn't around, then one of us would do.

We found out later that Blue was a Catahoula Leopard Dog, a Lousiana herding breed. Catahoula's are cow dogs. Their innate desire is to round up cows, only we didn't have any cows. That small technicality never stopped Blue. We did have chickens. We did have horses. And finally, later, we did have a cow...one small cow. And Blue herded all of them...even the poor cow.

Blue went everywhere Grandpa went. If Grandpa couldn't be found, looking for Blue was the next best thing. It sort of went: find Blue, find Grandpa. And we were all amazed at the way that dog seemed to understand English. Grandpa gave instructions to Blue with the confidence of a General to his troops, never doubting his task would be accomplished. For example, bringing up the horses. Blue's favorite task of the day was bringing the horses up from the back pasture for feeding time, dodging the spunky ones who kicked at him, while urging the slower ones toward the barn. He nipped the air behind them always seeming to manage missing, just narrowly, a hoof to the head. We all watched him, shaking our heads in disbelief, our faces full of mirth mingled with some kind of pride at this innate herding acumen. There were times that I wondered if Blue just thought the whole place...the houses, barns, hayfields and animals were entirely his charges. It was all his domain. There was a sad irony that he died protecting the place that he loved so well.

Blue's kingdom had been invaded. When two stray dogs had the audacity to come over into his territory, he never looked back or to either side. With the reassuring yelp from friend Madchen, Blue's only direction was straight ahead with a ferocious determination to rid his kingdom of these unwanted strangers. His determination was so focused that he never realized his success. Stopping at the property's borders wasn't enough. He would scare these interlopers...teach them a lesson. He never saw the car coming. The driver didn't stop.

Grandpa buried Blue under the shade of the Oak tree near the Northeast corner of the home that Blue so diligently guarded. He wrapped Blue's beautiful merle massive bulk in a white sheet, twice over and laid him in the grave that my brother-in-law had made. Grandpa asked for Blue's head to face East, "where the sun rises," he said.

We all felt the loss and emptiness of a death. All of his life Blue gave my Grandpa...and our family...his whole-hearted, willing best. He was loyal to us all and he loved my Grandfather with all of his boyish heart and mind. He was never sick. He was content to be invisible. He never demanded attention, but he loved to be talked to and his silky black ears would always drop with humility and gladness for any of our attentions.

My Grandfather had the strongest, steady heart I ever knew. Over his life he buried his wife, two children, his parents and all but one of his brothers and sisters. That day, Grandpa bore Blue's death as he had borne the other sadnesses that come with the slow depletion of those people we hold most dear...silently. We all expected that. But Blue wasn't a person. Blue was a dog. The thought occured to me that morning as our Blue was buried in the place where he had grown, the place of his adventures, the place where he had loved us all so well and we had loved him back.
On that morning Grandpa's heart seemed not to know the difference...

and my Grandfather wept as we placed that good boy in the ground.

Connecting Generations...

February 15th of 2003, the day after I lost my Grandfather, began a regret in me that grew over time. Most especially that regret became more tangible as my own child began to grow older and asked me questions about our family. My Grandfather died when he was 91 years old. He had lived an epic life and I was reduced to words when I told my child about him. I had some photographs. I had family pictures and videos here and there, but the man was so much bigger.  I did not know where to begin.

While the words I used to describe my Grandfather were heartfelt and significant, I struggled to use them in any way that was adequate to describe the man; of how he raised a family in the Great Depression working three jobs or that, despite his age, he signed up and served in the Theatre of the Pacific in World War II. When he returned from his journey, my mother, his 3 year old was in the second grade. Or that he worked as a sponge diver as a young man. He was knowledgeable enough to tell us the magical stories of generations past who had fought in the American Revolution or of a French princess who married into our family. We even had an American vice president somewhere down the line. But my Grandpa was gone now and I was left with only the words.

Time has passed. It is six years later...and there is not a single day that I don't think of him...not one. I try to find ways to incorporate his presence into the life of my growing son with anecdotal stories that are funny or something resonant of the old man's personality. I even relate the sad ones, like the day his dog, Blue, died. Losing his Blue was the first time first time in my life that I'd seen him cry. Or, I explain to my boy why my Swiss Army knife that Grandpa gave me is special and why I really can't part with it just yet. My son may not remember his great-grandfather, but it is important for him to know where he came from. And I will always remind him, this youngest generation of my family, of the place and time of that older generation; of that dearest man who carved this deep well in my heart that continues to overflow...and it pours nothing but love, tenderness and remembrance.