Proof of Love

I expected that Christy would have posted this long ago, but she hasn't...so I will do it for her. A few months ago Milo spit up on Christy's pants. It was clearly some sort of theophany, like the virgin appearing in the browned face of an unbuttered toast. Doesn't it just melt your heart?

In Memory

My Grandma, Beth Reynolds Blake

1916 - 2009

"Late Fragment"

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

-Raymond Carver

(see also)

Grizzly Years

My dad was the son of a sheepherder, which made him a sheepherder by default until he went to college. He spent his summers in the mountains of south eastern Idaho, and life revolved around the next opportunity to shoot his gun. With sheep being the trade and lifeblood of the family it was necessary to ward off predators, the largest of which were bears. I don't think my dad ever shot a bear dead, but he, his brother, and my grandfather poisoned plenty of them (over twenty if my memory serves). In all those years growing up they killed only one grizzly bear, and he was massive.

Our photo slides are replete with him posing next to dead bears, or actually posing the bears themselves like awkward fly swarmed mannequins in human positions. One photo, we title "the Laughing Bear" shows a dead bear sitting with his back against a large tree trunk looking very relaxed and wearing a large goofy grin on its face. He cradles a rifle in his paws and perched obediently next to him is the old sheepdog.

Now the thought of shooting animals for sport (or food for that matter) holds no appeal to him. At some point that switch turned off. He hasn't killed game in decades. And that's the way it goes.

My friend Nick, uber outdoorsman and literary mind, gave me a book for my birthday called Grizzly Years: In Search of the American Wilderness by Doug Peacock. The book is a mix of war story, alienated humanity, and conservationism. I know very little about "the American wilderness", or the ecological and environmental issues that so many hold dear. But I'd like to think I can appreciate what would make it such a passionate cause for some. Peacock was a friend of Ed Abbey and for over 20 years his life revolved around the Grizzly Bear. After coming back from Vietnam a wrecked and empty person he developed an almost codependent symbiosis with the Grizzly bears of Yellowstone & Glacier National Park, among others. It is a detailed account only a fanatic journalist with an all consuming passion could write. For Peacock, the passion for Grizzlies is truly a love that comes out in the detailed description of his encounters. Naturally so, for his relationship with them saved him to a large degree from the horrors of Vietnam.

I couldn't relate to much of the book though I absolutely loved it in parts (particularly his war stories). Peacock quotes Luther Standing Bear of the Ogalala Sioux, who said "Only to the white man was nature a wilderness and only to him was the land infested with wild animals and savage people. To us it was tame. Earth was bountiful and we were surrounded with the blessings of the Great Mystery." This is true. We look around us and see the unusual, the foreign, the unknown and we flee or try to change it to fit our notions, rather than trying to look at things with fresh eyes. For Peacock it came through his experiences with bears. For someone else it may come through a bassoon or a rifle or a surfboard or a garden. But we should all be looking for the Great Mystery, and willingly acknowledge its manifestation.

Birthday Discount

My Dad turns 65 today. Isn't that the magic number that gets you into buffets for discounted rates? I gave him a birthday post a few years ago, but its time to reiterate (in a few short reasons) why he is the GOAT (greatest of all time).

When I was 14 my Dad took me to Cedar Point. Just me and him. We waited for well over an hour to get on each ride. The Demon Drop, Mean Streak, the Magnum, and on and on. Looking around at everyone else in line it became obvious no one else was as nearly as old as he. I'm positive he was turning green by mid day but he grinded it out like a champ and smiled the whole time.

When I was young and obsessed with the sport of wrestling, my Dad would dedicate all sorts of Saturdays to drive hour upon hour to little league freestyle tournaments all around the state, sometimes to only watch me wrestle a few minutes, sometimes for an all day affair. He never required more of me than what I wasn't already willing to give.

Dad took me on several trips across the country to participate in the National Matches of Highpower Rifle Shooting. We saw fabulous lightening storms, the ghettos of Chicago, endless corn fields, and no insides of a hotel. Although I must have been an absolute dead beat traveling companion, and of no utility when our timing belt went out, he was happy with me.

In my latter high-school years I helped Dad in the construction of an impressive addition to the family house. I didn't really know which end of a hammer was which, but he taught me what he knew. Without this experience I wouldn't have had the courage to tackle my own home remodeling project that took three solid months out of the early part of this year. Dad made the 4 hour drive down from Idaho week after week to lend his "expertise" to the job.

In my younger, more vulnerable, days I dabbled in shoplifting just long enough to get caught. I sat at the police station all day convinced I was going to hell and would be forever alienated by my family. When my mom finally came to pick me up we took the long and silent ride home. Upon arrival I was compelled to confess my misdeeds to my dad. I expected anger, lecture, and punishment (all of which would have been justified). What I got instead was a smile, a story, and a hug. The love and understanding he showed me turned out to be, for me, the defining moment in my feelings towards my dad.

I've learned more about what it means to be a good human being from watching my father than from anything else in life. I dislike watching him age more than I dislike aging myself, only because he needs to be around to help me give my children what he has so lovingly given me.

Dad, this is your senior citizen birthday. I can't get you anything that will put a bigger smile on your face than the one you'll have from many years of discounts that are now coming your way.

Much Love,

Les

Relay Ridge

On our last day of the Idaho trip we drove out to Relay Ridge, between Rexburg and Driggs, looking down on the Teton Basin. The drive was a little tiresome with a screaming child (1.5 hours one way), but I got to see a view I'd never seen before.

(Click on the photos to see full versions)

Gus & Me

Christy + Gus Eating a Starburst

The Family

Gus with Cousins Keith & Michael

Tetons and the Basin

Cave Falls

We spent the last week in Idaho for a Blake Family reunion. Here are some photos of us up at Cave Falls, it is about 25 miles northeast of Ashton, just along the border of West Yellowstone. It is the widest of all the falls located in the park, and just one of many in the area formed due to fault lines and lava ledges.

Mesa Falls is also nearby and is a must-see if you are in the area.

Gus & the Falls

Beautiful Christy

The Family

Tristan (niece) wades the river

Gus & me perched on a rock

Gus cools his boots

The Gus always looks concerned

The Family

One Year

A few days ago Gus hit the year mark. He received some fantastic gifts from friends and both sides of the family (thank you!). He has added a ridiculously large measure of joy to our existence and we feel very blessed, very fortunate to be the keepers of his rambunctious spirit. Here is a video of him methodically demolishing his cake.

An Eternal Round

Sixty three years ago to this very cold day a petite, softspoken woman labors under travail of child in a Tooele hospital that bears her same name. This is the beginning. The woman has done this four times previous and despite doctors recommendations otherwise she is familiar enough with her ailing body to know it can endure one last run. Her breath catches. The almighty spirit of God rests upon the woman and she brings to light a daughter (not without complications). This is Rhea. A product of faith, destined to disseminate the same.

We are so enamored with beginnings and endings, are we not? In the turning of the earth the day does not end, nor does the night for each orbiting planet, and in the furthest reaches of a universe without age there is no beginning, and that is a thought I turn over and taste in my mouth from time to time. Because in a little hospital in rural Utah, in an oxygen tent feet away from a selfless mother, cries a baby whose life has just begun, at least by our standards. Yet in spheres beyond this stand scores of onlookers with eyes of finer material who see not a beginning but an ending. Now that is perspective!

Rhea lives and grows. She laughs and cries. She plays. She kisses, she falls, she learns, she thinks. She meets a prince and settles down, and in rural hospitals of her own she six times labors under travail of child and six times participates in the providential work of beginnings and endings.

I will not cheat the logs of heaven nor the jorunals of earth a descent life's rendering. But I merely offer, on a day fit for remembering, a small thought for a being whose familial sacrifices will impact generations of beleivers, scientists, athletes, musicians, prophets, politicians, linguists, and dancers in countries not her own and in homes that vicariously are, because isn't that where it begins and ends?

I submit that she will be comforted. I submit that she will inherit the earth. I submit that she will obtain mercy and kingdoms. I submit that she will see God with eyes open wide. For what does he see in her? He sees "what in God's eye (s)he is--Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his to the Father through the features of men's faces."*

Happy Birthday Mom.

*Gerard Manley Hopkins

iPod Squad Part 2, 1:00-1:59

This is a fun playlist that has selections from the 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's, and 00's. My brother-in-law, Jeremy, introduced me to Hayden a few years back, and I love his music. Colby loaned me a book on the life of Nick Drake which I almost finished...he is a wonderful musician (Nick or Colby, or both?). Christy's friend, Michelle Buhler, introduced us to Spoon years ago, and I first heard Cat Stevens through my lifelong friend Faren. I have a strange fixation with Blind Melon's "Soup" album, so I had to include one of those tracks. The rest of the artists I've come to know and enjoy on my own. I've linked to a few more selections this time, but they're only availible for 7 days, so enjoy!

1. Aimee Mann - Just Like Anyone
2. Page France - Finders
3. Neko Case - At Last
4. Nick Drake - Horn
5. Spoon - You Gotta Feel It
6. Cat Stevens - Tea For the Tillerman
7. Hayden - Stem
8. Johnny Cash - Country Trash
9. Mississippi John Hurt - The Chicken
10. Innocence Mission - Medjugorje
11. Randy Newman - He Gives Us All His Love
12. Caribou - Lord Leopard
13. The Smiths - Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want
14. Loretta Lynn - This Old House
15. Blind Melon - Skinned

The Rifleman

I'd like to sincerely thank Colby Stead: a good friend who took it upon himself to spend some time with my family and me this past weekend at the Idaho State Service Rifle Championships. He took some footage of the event and compliled it into a video entitled "The Rifleman" that you can see here, along with other short documentary style films featuring individuals more gifted and unique than myself.

Last year I wrote a poem entitled Spent Powder, which you can read here, which embodies the beautiful bond that shooting has created between me and my Dad. Colby could have edited the film to communicate a varitey of messages from any number of family and friends, but ultimately what this breif glance into the shooting world became wasn't the technical or even cultural aspect of it all, but rather the personal effects it has had on a father and a son.

Mother, If I Only Knew.

When I was younger, twelve or thirteen maybe, my Mom brought me downstairs before school and made me watch “The Miracle of Life.” This was the first and only time I’ve had the actual birth of a child played out before me. The only precursor for me was You Were Smaller than a Dot—a cleverly illustrated children’s book that explained in the most tactful of terms that there is no such thing as a stork.

I must admit. It was pretty shocking. I’ve got to hand it to my Mom. She took matters into her own hands, whereas nowadays it seems many parents circumvent the whole teen pregnancy issue by closing their eyes, shutting their mouths, and pretending really hard that there isn’t an issue at all. Perhaps this video turned out to be the best type of sex education. It showed me that there are actually some painfully non-romantic consequences to exercising the bidding of my raging hormones.

Last week Christy and I attended the second of three Birth Education classes at Jordan Valley Hospital—where Christy will give birth. They showed us four videos of births—3 vaginal and one C-section. I’m still in shock. I’m trying to wrap my brain around the fact that this will be us in a month and a half. I’m trying not to think about all of the many mishaps that can occur. I’m trying to trust that Christy will be okay and the baby will be okay, and that I can be a man and stand there as a pillar of strength, instead of a jello-kneed bystander likely to collapse at any moment.

One thought that kept occurring to me again and again was “Thank you, Mom.” Yes, for showing me the video years ago, but not because of that. Thank you, Mom for going through this ultimate life experience to bring me into this world. If anywhere there exists a valley of the shadow of death, it would be in all of the proper and makeshift maternity wards across the world. Thank you, Mom. Thank you. I should have been a nicer son.

When it Began

In 1987, or thereabouts, my father became involved in competitive highpower rifle shooting. It has since become a family affair. The current roster of avid competitors is my father Dick Blake, brother Frank Blake, brother-in-law Greg Lewis, and cousin Brig Blake. Other family members besides these compete from time to time. Some families get together on Sundays to watch football, but those families are boring. This is a weird sport full of weird people, and we’d only be kidding ourselves if we refused to be lumped in with them.

In August of 1992 my Dad coaxed me into taking my first foray into competition. I had never participated in an organized match before, so what better place to test myself than at the National Championships in Camp Perry, Ohio? From St. Anthony, where I grew up, that was a 1,875 mile journey. Not a short drive, by any means, especially in a raggedy old Buick with no air conditioning. But it became the absolute perfect way for a father and son to spend time with one another. This was the first of many trips, and hindsight tells me that this time with my Dad saved me in many ways.

Shooting is a great mystery to the women of the family, and it might always be that way. I look at the fabric stores and craft shacks of the world and all I see is a cloud of bewilderment. But I have not tried to understand those things. Likewise the magnetism of wind flags and the smell of burnt powder are lost on our loving wives. But the sport has become a big part of us, not merely due to the technique, the task, and the challenge, but it has also become a metaphor for life: Breath! Where is your natural point of aim? Focus. Control your wobble zone. Don’t jerk! Follow through!

A Picture is Worth a 1000 Words

That’s what they say right? But if that were true, rather than turning in a 50 page research paper we would be able to submit a small portfolio of photographs and call it good. We’d all be photographers, and instead of writing journals, we would only scrapbook. Newspapers would be much more accessible and would no longer alienate the illiterate.

Actually, I have this all wrong. I’m describing, “A 1000 words is worth a picture.” And there is a reason we all write journals and read newspapers, and speak a hundred thousand words a day and then compensate by supplementing it all with photo albums. After all, paintings and photographs and art are each meant to communicate something so unique that another medium just can’t say it. And a picture is usually worth way more than a thousand words anyways (except a small collection of photos from my high-school days which can summed up pretty neatly with “idiotic”).

My brother Frank called me to rejoice in the birth of his healthy newborn son Michael Ward. He expressed how he counted all the fingers and toes. He expressed that there was an inexplicable spirit in the room. He said, of the pending birth of my own son, “It’ll take all the man out of you.”

Frank sent me a photo, over the weekend, that to me communicated much more than any grade A research paper I ever wrote. The picture is him, cradling his newborn son. Michael is crying and making a ruckus. Franks hair is disheveled and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. His eyes are hidden from the camera, but you can tell they are puffy from tears. He is looking down at this beautiful crying baby with an expression of utter amazement. The look is more than a welcome mat. The look is more than a “hello.” The look is more than fatherhood. The look is LOVE.

Steven George Pehrson 1977-1989

The last moment I shared with my cousin Steven Pehrson was at Green Canyon Hot Springs in rural Idaho, in the winter of 1988. I was ten, he was eleven. I specifically remember standing outside of the entry doors on a freezing wet rubber mat waving to him through fresh falling snow. It was dark outside and my hair smelled strongly of chlorine. I had to get back inside where it was warm, and he had to get home before the roads closed in. We had spent the last few hours giving some poor lifeguard a headache by dangling from the end of the diving board leg wrestling each other. We laughed ourselves sick.

Steve was a skinny, beautiful toe-head. He spoke with a slight lisp and had a wide smile. He was extremely coordinated and excelled at each sport he attempted. He loved the Los Angeles Lakers, the Chicago Bears, and the BYU Cougars. He had a curious lack of fear, was endowed with an amazing sense of independence, and aspired to be a great fly fisherman. He was a leader among his peers, and I had the chance to see first hand how they would follow him. He played hard, worked hard, and had the wide open spaces of the Teton Basin as his playground. He was pretty well traveled, by my standards, but his heart (which was tender) never left home.

In mid January 1989, while camping with the scouts, the roof of the A-frame cabin in which they were sleeping collapsed. He was crushed by a log. His dad, I’m told, was with them and was up late singing happy songs on his guitar. Upon going to bed, I’m told, they said to one another, “I love you.” If I were forced to choose, I suppose, those would be the last words I would go with.

I was playing a game of Junior Jazz Basketball when Frank rushed in, pulled me away early, and told me Steve had been in an accident. I didn’t realize until later its severity. I remember my parents being gone all day. I remember being mad that my mom wasn’t there to explain things to me. I remember holding a faux-gold framed picture of Steve in my hand and asking God to help him live. I remember cousin Bruce coming over when it was dark that evening, attempting to explain that Steve had died, so I locked myself in my room. I remember lots of questions and no answers. I remember lots of tears.

His funeral was fittingly cold. I overheard my mom whisper to someone in a concerned and tearful voice, that older brother Jeff had told his parents that he was done crying. He’d cried about all the tears left in him. I remember thinking he was stronger than me. When I stood by the open casket I noted the large bouquet of light colored flowers draped by a banner that read “Beezer.” This is what his dad called him. His sister Jenny placed her favorite polished rocks in his hand. His best friend Brian left some fun photographs of them both lining the insides of the casket. Aunt Kristy commented on how happy Steve would be to see them when he awoke someday. When the grave dedication was over I went up to the casket and touched it one last time through teary eyes. Its shininess fogged at my breath.

Brian and I became friends at the funeral. There was a large table filled with flowers sent by many members of the ward and community. Aunt Kristy told all the children that they could go and pick out their favorite and take it home with them. Brian and I walked up to one side and saw the perfect ones. Two separate flowery plants that looked like twins, one whose blossoms were bright red, and the other’s were purple. We took them and said goodbye. On the drive home I told my mom a secret. I was going to care for this plant and make sure it lived. I was going to find it a bigger pot, if it needed one. I would put it in a place where it would get a lot of sun. On the morning of the resurrection, I told her, I would give it to Steve who would be happy to see the bright living blossoms of a flower I got at his funeral. He would like that, I imagined.

I look back on all this now with the memory of a ten year old (which is pretty fallible and inaccurate). I look back on it a little bashful about the ache that is still there in my heart. When my mom finally, finally, finally came home from the hospital, that day Steve died, she knew just the way to hug me. I confessed to her that I was afraid that I would forget Steve—how his voice sounded, how his jumpshot looked, how he made me feel. Mom held me in her arms and asked me to start right then and tell her all of the different things Steve and I used to do. She told me to say them out loud and in my head. She told me to recite all the details of each fun experience we had, and why I loved him, and to do it often. She listened until I was done and promised me that I wouldn’t forget him.

I coursed over again and again in my mind all that you are, Steve. The dog kennels, the motorcycle, the sleeping bags in the tent, the race car track, the Legend of Zelda, the Sand Bar, Christmas and Grandma Blake’s, filling the coolers, lightning on the carport, your artful Sunday School lesson on the worst ways to torture someone, snow sledding, and on and on and on. My mom helped me remember you in ways that make a ten year old brain spin. The one I pick the most, though, is me standing outside Green Canyon Hot Springs with cold wet chlorine hair, and waving you off into the night. Each time I choose it first. That bright flower that I brought home from your funeral never bloomed again. I hope its okay that I threw it out before I went on my mission. I figured you wouldn’t want a shriveled up plant anyways. It may not be alive, but you are. Time and time again, and especially today. Happy Birthday!

Twilight Disclosures of a Grandmother

Though it doesn’t help much, I keep telling myself
It’s only dirt, it’s only dirt, it’s only dirt.

His casket (the color of wilted dying tulips
Six years ago my gift) snapped from its platform and
Slammed, with screeching protest, into the earth
Causing a crescendo in the weeping
Then more eerily, though inaudible
Settled in like home.

Now scratchy blades of grass grow there
And though the work of his bones and
His father’s bones cry America!
He’s not decorated with any flag or ribbon
For his was an essential occupation
But he does get irises, and garlands, and wreaths
And a pallet of memoranda that he didn’t care
Much for in life.
They are all planted about him—growing things.
And underneath his own height worth of
Pathetic, lifeless dirt. Six feet.
Six years.
Six eternities.

And all I can think of is the loneliness
Of that cold dark soil. And lament that the only
Thing planted there that matters
Does not grow.

Alison's Birthday RAM

I remember the deep sea of clothing that covered your bedroom floor. I remember pastel leg warmers, spandex drill team outfits, shiny silver parachute pants, and closets full of aerosol cans. I remember the Best of Bread, Air Supply, and Thriller. I remember the dexterity in your fingers and the weight in the busts of Bach and Mozart. I remember the heavy spirit in those silent moments sitting next to you in front of a newly decorated Christmas tree, and feeling total comfort in the wind outside. I remember green canyon hotdogs, and wondering if I could ever swing like you. I remember you giving the coils of the phone cord a workout while slowly licking a spoonful of peanut butter dry. I remember your mud-caked spud harvest jacket, liver dinners after a lamb butchering, and wide eyed nights in front of the slide projector.

I remember Primary Children’s. I remember concerned grandparents, Mom’s tears, and the salty smell of the lake. I remember you sitting in the hospital bed and dipping your head, cascading your brown hair forward and revealing the balding spots where the hairline should be. I remember taking turns, light-mindedly playing with the medical gadgets that you eventually brought home.

I remember watching the videotaped seminary graduation you had missed. I remember Pine View apartments, and learning the term “RAM” while visiting your computer class. I remember your bouquet, and the whiteness in your dress and in the snow. I remember the crème puffs and the big empty jars. I remember Greg, a soul full of unquenchable playfulness, and a brother in the most real sense of the word. I remember Roxanne, her affinity for peas and crickets, and her warm heating rock.

I remember the spirit of adoption, heaven sent and filling our world like God’s own breath. I remember your little girl with the widest eyes in the entire world. I remember your face—the very countenance of motherhood.

I remember letter after letter after precious letter. I remember photos, packages, and testimonies. I remember your love of the temple, the smile to end all smiles, and plenty of warm hugs. I remember saying to myself, “this is a sister” and knowing that no one else knew just what I meant.

Alison, this is my random access memory.

Lets not move our arms
Lets not move our legs
Lets not move our ears
Lets not move our noses
Lets not move our bones

Lisa

Your eyes are wonder bulbs
Always seeing for the first time
Pure
So disinterested in things
Only about the heart
You ask, and you ask, and you ask
about babies, and work, and a life
You'll never get to live

Impressions

Thanks to the generosity of Addie and Jeremy, Christy and I were able to get into the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Arts free of charge to see the wonderful works of the impressionists. There were featured works by Renior, Millet, Pissarro, Troyon, Boudin, Corot, and others. Below are two paintings that I loved the most.

Claude Monet, Flower Beds at Vétheuil (1881)

Vincent Van Gogh, Enclosed Field with Ploughman (October 1889)

It is impossible to truly appreciate these works of art without seeing them in person, to actually look at the depth and texture of the brushstrokes. They were amazing.

“It must be good to die in the knowledge that one has done some truthful work, and to know that as a result, one will live on in the memory of at least a few and leave a good example for those who come after.” Vincent Van Gogh, 1878

Song of My Father

Yesterday my Dad turned 63 years old.

Dad has those smiling eyes, the kind with permanent crow’s feet at the corners. He is a fan of cheap haircuts, however crooked. He knows his way around a kitchen, and makes a mean ensemble of dutch-oven cuisines. He loves German chocolate cake and Shwann’s Ice Cream. On a hot day he drinks lemonade with ice cubes. He was my Scoutleader, for a time, and devised terrific troop cheers while visiting the latrine. He loves the companionship of dogs, and a well cooked lamb roast. He knows the concept of good budgeting, and revels in driving an ugly old car into the ground. He has a contagious laugh that all of my friends recognized. He loves early mornings, and the smell of sage brush. Dad is patriotic, is fascinated by American history, and shakes with pleasure when he gets around military rifles. He loves his brother, and they get together often to laugh and cuss over BYU football. He’s never grown facial hair, though he probably could, and he’s now starting to turn gray. He labored many years on his own farm; he herded sheep in his youth, and knows how to do stoichiometry. “All roads lead through moles,” he would say. Dad knows how to tell a good story, and was adept at convincing his kids that there was a vicious beast called the Side Hill Gouger that lived in our potato cellar and ate naughty children. Dad is a father in the holiest sense of the word.

Dad would give the shirt off his back, the shoes off his feet, his bed, his home, and everything he owns if he thought you needed it. He’s got a head start on heaven based on his selflessness alone. Dad has always treated my Mom with love, respect, and flirtatiousness. He is the father of six children, all of whom have firm faith in Jesus Christ, which is saying something. Two of them have special needs, which is also saying something, because Heavenly Father arranged their care under Dad at some point prior to his birth. Whether he knows it or not he followed the Spirit on many occasions, saying something to me that I needed to hear, and certainly affecting the trajectory of my life for the better. He has a deep, full-bodied love of the gospel, and is my hero.

I love you Dad, Happy Birthday.

The Preacher Went a Huntin'

I have a neighbor who was bitten on the leg somewhat recently by a pesky neighborhood dog. His daughter was in a stroller and he was shielding her from the barking animal. Can you imagine if the ill-behaved, leashless varmint would have bitten her? I’m not a father yet, but I would think that this would bring out my inner savage, would make me want to snap its neck, tear out its liver, and bite it raw like John Dunbar did with the tatanka.

Please don’t take me for a pet hater. I actually love pets. I grew up with dogs and cats (though I firmly believe they belong outdoors). The thing that irks me is that this dog has bitten other people as well and the owners know about it. My neighbor called animal control and they instantly recognized the dog in question, but NOTHING has been done.

When I was about 10 years old I was bitten by a dog named Blackie right on the back. This same dog had bitten my grandmother as well, causing a large unsightly bruise on her thigh, but the neighbors refused to put it down. This went contrary to our social code of pets, so my family, and friends of my family, made it their personal mission to end this Blackie’s life.

It turned out to be a semi intelligent mutt, however, because when anyone approached it with ill intent, he scampered up and parked it on the front porch wagging his tail and panting with smiling eyes. The owners had a dozen kids in their family, so there was always someone home, and not much could be done with it sitting on the front porch. This went on for months. One day my father hatched a brilliant plan. Blackie’s owners were a very religious family. Each Sunday they would take up an entire row near the front of the chapel, and my father was the Bishop of the congregation at the time. He knew that the one time he could approach the house without the interference of a single soul, was during the church services.

So on a bright and cloudless Sunday, as the birds chirped and butterflies danced, my father, the Bishop, slipped unnoticed out of the chapel, drove home, and retrieved a pistol from his gun safe. As he approached our neighbor’s home Blackie jumped, like clockwork, onto the porch wagging his tail and panting with smiling eyes. My father raised his gun, and in my own imagination I like to think he drew his eyes into slits, twisted his mouth into a grin and said something like “You’ve got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky? Well? Do ya, punk?” But I know my father, and he said no such thing. He just put the gun to the dogs head and did the necessary thing—pulled the trigger. The dog’s blood and brains splattered onto the porch, and for a moment my father’s heart sunk as he doubted the likelihood of covering up his deed. There was no “Wolf” to call upon. He had to pull the mafia grunt-man-labor himself and hose the porch clean as best he could. He then took the carcass out into the sandy desert fields near our house and dumped it in an unmarked grave. He was back in church an hour later with clean hands and a happy heart. That family doesn’t know to this day what became of Blackie. My father didn’t tell us about it until years later, and after he was no longer Bishop of the congregation. Now that, my friends, is the epitome of discretion.

I suppose that if you are going to own a pet you need to go into it knowing that if it does something to violate established social norms (like biting people 'till they bleed) you must be prepared to reconcile it by any means necessary. By that I mean eating its liver raw. Or at least getting it put down. Your choice.