For Dad

I was cleaning out a closet the other day and found this old photograph of my father and his parents, Frank and Mary. They were from the old country of Italy and are the typical immigrant story. Grandpa was from Sicily and Grandma was from Naples. They say that you can look up your relatives in Sicily just by saying your name to the people that live there. I bet they would be surprised they have a long lost Asian relative. This photo was taken on the steps of my grandparents house in upstate New York, in a small town called Friendship. I remember spending summers there and when seeing my grandparents for the first time, my grandmother touching my face said "bella, bella". I remembered their house smelled of brown eggs and malt and my dad bringing Grandpa Frank a mysterious bag of hops. Little did I know then Grandpa was a brewmister and brewed his own beer in the cellar. Grandma had chickens in the backyard and grew her own vegetables. I remember the heat of the summers and reading comics in the attic. And when we left for our long car trip back to California, Dad would cry beneath his sunglasses and silently wipe away the tears. When I made a copy of this picture for him, I knew he remember those days and I shared in his longing for them. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Of All The Dogs I've Loved Before

As we came to the finale of the Greatest American Dog, I stopped to think about all the dogs I have owned and loved. My fellow loving, loyal companions of my past, two which rest in cedar boxes on my library shelf.
My only dog of my childhood was a beagle that we got when I was eleven and lived in Hawaii . Only a few memories linger from "Susie", like the one of the day I was taking her for a walk on the base, (we lived on Barber's Point Navy Base, Oahu), when Susie took the biggest snake of a poop in someone's calla lilies. I remember standing there frozen in sheer terror at the size and it's slithery ability of it snaking down the leaf to the stalk while the homeowner yelled at me from his front porch for me to clean it up! Of the time that Susie had gotten bitten from a centipede in the backyard and almost died and had for the rest of her days eat this horrible smelling dog food that my mother would extract from the can in a solid lump and cut it up into small bite size pieces. And of the day Susie died, my mother standing in the doorway in her blue nightgown and hair net, crying hopelessly. I had never seen her cry before.
The first dog of my young adulthood was Charlie, a mutt that someone was giving away in front of a mall in San Diego while I was attending college. She was smarter than most humans and could jump from a sitting position into your arms. She traveled with us from our house in San Diego to San Francisco, feeling at home anywhere she could sleep between us, head on the pillow, snoring. She would sit across the room by the fireplace staring at my dish because that was how she begged for treats, until one day she no longer did that and chose just to sit next to me barely breathing. When we took her to the vet, they told us she had lung cancer, to which I told the vet that I didn't know she smoked. On her final day I brought her to the vet, she knew it was going to be our last day together and as I hugged her while the vet gave her the shot, I could feel her cold nose press against my cheek, her tongue lick my tears, and felt her swallow her last breath. Now I know how my mother felt that day in her blue nightgown and hair net, crying, hopelessly.
There after it was a series of dogs, mostly big goofy labs. A black one named Peppercorn, who insisted on digging up my roses in the back yard, until one day she made a hole so big it was almost in the neighbor's yard, that I put her in the hole and hosed her down with water until she was a muddy mess. She never dug again. A yellow lab named Fanny, hopelessly sweet and kind hearted, who had a benign fatty tumor on her stomach the size of a small football. A purebred Sheltie named Dottie. The day we went to pick her up at the breeder's farm in Livermore, she came out of the barn with her tiny tips of her ears taped down. She was stubborn and refused to be house broken, until into the 8th month, out of frustration, I held her over the balcony of my three story house and told her if she didn't learn to be potty trained she would end up in the garden. She never made a mess after that and her ears never did stay down. The past has been filled with lovable big dogs, sloppy in their affections. Now we have two small Chihuahua's, Henry and Hazel. Loveable, sweet, kind, terrors!