Sunday, January 16, 2011

The Wisdom of Snoopy

I have a cartoon I clipped out and pasted in my journal. Charlie Brown and Peppermint Patty are sitting underneath a tree discussing the meaning of life when Snoopy strolls into the frame. “Snoopy, what do you think the secret of living is?” Peppermint Patty asks. Without saying a word, Snoopy walks up and kisses her on the nose.

Brilliant.

I love Snoopy. Always have. Some people are all about Disney and Mickey Mouse. Not me. I’m all about Snoopy. The dog is smart and imaginative and witty. He takes on the Red Baron while wearing goggles and flying a dog house. He plays hockey while wearing a knit hat and no skates. He imagines himself a writer. Mostly, though, what I love about Snoopy is that he’s funny. If he’s in the cartoon, chances are I’m going to laugh.

We have a dog like that. Dusty, so named because he looks, well, dusty. He has a second name, as well, his Native American name: Dog Who Runs in Circles. He earned that name because when you say the word “walk,” his floppy ears perk up, his head tilts to one side and then, after about two seconds, a switch flips. His eyes get wide, his tail starts wagging a million miles per hour and he starts running around in circles. All the way down the hall and all the way to the door. Cracks me up.

We used to have a cat who made me break into a smile every time I saw her. Annie, so named because she was a little orphan. Whenever I would sit in the chair with my feet up and this one particular blanket over me, she would stop whatever she was doing and come running, jump up on my lap and make herself at home. She would work herself into the crack between my legs, turning the blanket into a hammock. Unfortunately, Annie died a few years ago and I buried her out back near the shed, wrapped up in that favorite blanket. I cried like a baby the entire time I dug the grave.

We have a new cat now. A couple of months ago when my wife came home for lunch, she got out of her car and heard a meow. She looked around and a cat came running up to her like they were old pals. When Beth walked onto the screened-in porch, the cat followed. When she walked into the house, in came the cat—never minding that Dusty was so excited he was running in circles. It was too cold to send the cat back outside, so we kept it while we searched for an owner. We took it to the vet to see if it had a microchip in its shoulder. Nope. We looked for “Lost Cat” signs that are prominent around here whenever a pet goes missing. Nothing. I walked around the area knocking on doors and asking strangers if they lost a cat or knew who the owner might be. “Oh, it tried to run inside our house, too,” was the only response I got.

After three weeks, we gave her a name: Zia, so named because, well, Beth likes that name. Then we took her to the vet to be fixed only to find out that—oops—Zia was a he-a not a she-a. So we renamed him Zeke. I call him Z.

Last night I was sitting in my chair reading a book when Z came bounding down the stairs, jumped up on my lap and settled in. He sat down, put his head on my chest and started purring. I put the book down and just took it all in. I’m not sure who was happier, me or Z.

Funny thing about pets: They steal your heart without even trying. And, you know, it seems to me that we could learn a thing or two from our pets. They don’t try to be something they’re not. They don’t go behind your back or have a bad hair day or hate you because you have different political beliefs. They love you because, quite simply, you’re you. Imagine if we all behaved like that.

Yes, there’s a lot of crap that happens in life that makes it messy, but, really, is there anything else that genuinely matters? No, I would say. Love is what life's all about. Love is why we are here. Love is the secret of living. Snoopy got it right.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

The Oldest Generation

I went to a funeral today. A good friend of mine, Doug, buried his father. His name was Paul. Paul battled cancer for four years before it finally won. He reminded me in many ways of my own dad. They battled the same kind of cancer and they both never met a stranger. It would take my dad an hour and a half to walk his dog around the block because he would always stop and strike up a conversation with a stranger. Or two.

Paul was the same way. Although I didn’t know him that long or that well, it was easy to see that there were three things he loved: Racing, beer and people. When we went to a Nascar race, Paul would disappear for hours at a time. He’d eventually return and tell us about the people he just met and it would sound like he was talking about a long-lost friends.

I didn’t inherit that gene. Sometimes I wish I had.

During the homily, the priest kept reminding us that Paul was with God now, and I must plead guilty to missing part of the Mass because I was daydreaming about what that initial meeting must have been like.

God: Welcome to heaven, Paul.

Paul: Thanks for letting me in.

God: I didn’t let you in, Paul. You let yourself in. Your faith was the key. Plus, you did well. Good family. Honest, hard-working life. This is your reward. Make yourself at home—after all, this is your new home. Any questions?

Paul: Just a couple. Where’s the beer?

God: We keep a cooler on Cloud 9.

Paul: And what time’s the race start?

God: The race?

Paul: Sure. With all the great drivers who’ve died over the years, there must be a race up here somewhere. You know. Mark Donahue, Alan Kulwicki, Dale Earnhardt.

God: Earnhardt?

There in the casket Paul had two things with him: a picture of his dog and his Greg Biffle hat. My dad wanted to wear his Ohio State shirt. We are what we wear, I suppose, but that’s another thought for another time.

Mostly what’s been haunting me since the funeral—and since my own dad’s death a year and a half ago, really—is that my friend Doug and I now share another thing in common: we are now the oldest generation. That’s one of the funny things about life: it keeps turning over. Kind of like a Slinky on an escalator. The old pass on and the young become the old. Generation after generation.

For the most part, we have 40, 50, maybe 60 years if we’re lucky in which we have an older, more experienced voice of wisdom and reason we can turn to for help or advice. Whether we do or not is a separate matter. There are family dynamics that come into play. There’s the fierce belief in independence that dominates society today. There are logistical issues and societal issues. But if nothing else, there’s at least a sense of security in knowing there’s someone there. Someone older.

I’m not sure I’m ready to be the oldest generation. To be the one who people look to for advice and wisdom. I don’t really feel that old, and I’m not really sure I’m qualified. But that’s another funny thing about life: it doesn’t care. It seems to me that you are who life says you are, and when it says you are. Ready or not.