Case,
I'm a day late on this one, but yesterday was two years to the day that we lost Casey, a creature so frantic and full of life and happiness that she reminds me of you. And that is perfect, because on her final day, as your mom and I sat in the vet's office anxiously awaiting word on her condition, we decided on your name. We had narrowed it down to Declan, Jackson and Cason (great name for an Irish law firm, BTW). We talked about it for a while as we tried to avoid addressing our fears surrounding the old girl, and we came to the conclusion that Case "flowed" better with Austin -- the middle name you share with your Great Grandpa Pallister -- and it would be a nice tribute to my constant companion of 14 years. When Casey was younger and spent her days frolicking as an "outdoor dog," I would arrive home and, before walking inside, go around to the back yard and greet her at the fence. EVERY single time, Casey would stretch her paws up as high as she could on the fence and start hopping on her back legs. No matter how bad my day had been, it always cheered me up to know she was so "hoppy" to see me. Only two creatures are capable of conditional love: parents and dogs. It's funny how much you are connected to man's best friend. From your name to your first word, "Ed," the shortened version of Edgar, our pug. You love Edgar -- sometimes a little too aggressively for his liking -- and if he could talk, I'm sure he would tell you how much he loves you every day, just like your parents do. A dog truly is a blessing. Remember that, and understand the importance of love and loyalty. A dog will always give you both.
You will see a few pictures of Casey as you grow up, and you've worn her collar around the house more times than I can count. :) I wrote the following a few days after she passed. This will give you a little insight into how great she was and what she meant to me (and your mom).
In a sparse, sterile, tan room, two blankets were placed on the floor. One was plain white, the other was white with blue, pink and brown stripes. Casey was carried into the room on another white blanket. She was not oblivious, but she was not all there. She was as still as I’d ever seen her. She was placed on the floor. I curled up next to her on the blankets, stroking the top of her head, whispering in her ear. Her big brown eyes were open, staring at nothing in particular. I started crying.
Casey was one of a kind. Anyone who was ever around her would inevitably ask, usually within the first minute, "What is she?"
No one ever knew. The best anyone could tell, she was some sort of border collie/corgi mix. Casey didn't have papers. She came from a cardboard box in the back of a pickup in an elementary school parking lot. She was free. She was priceless.
I spent the first hour with that high-strung ball of black fur sprawled out on the wet grass next to a softball field. While church league practice went on around us, I held her close to me, preventing her from scampering carelessly in whatever direction she happened to be pointed.
Casey was always so full of life -- from the moment we met until the moment on her last day when a cancerous mass in her abdomen burst.
For 14 years, she was my constant, loving companion. Through a marriage, through the fallout -- all those lost years -- Casey was by my side. From Arkansas to Florida to Chicago, back to Florida, back to Arkansas, to Indiana, once more to Florida, once more to Arkansas and finally to Virginia, Casey was there.
Then last March, after loyally and happily sticking with me through years of being cooped up in one-bedroom apartments as I tried to find myself, Casey got to meet her new mom. Upon picking her up at the kennel in Arkansas, the first thing she did was race to the nearest patch of grass and pee. That was Casey. The next thing she did was walk up to the stranger I'd brought with me, carefully lick her hand and look at her lovingly with those big brown eyes. That was Casey, too.
I am so glad they got to experience one another, even for a relatively short time. Knowing that Casey received so much love the last year of her life is the one thing -- above even the treasure of memories -- that makes her passing somewhat bearable.
Tonight, I will drive home and think about this column. And just like every night since we said goodbye, I will replay the memories. At some point, guilt will set in, and I will wonder why I didn't take more breaks from work to spend time with Casey, why I didn't make all the walks just a little longer, why I ever yelled at such a sweet, perfect dog.
I suppose in time the obsession will fade and Casey will take up residence in that place in our minds where all good things go to rest. In peace.
But it's been eight days and I'm still replaying ... still wondering ... still crying.
Love,
Dad
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Monday, April 1, 2013
Baseball and more
Case,
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
It's sad, but also very fitting that Major League Baseball's Opening Day falls on what would have been your Grandpa Pallister's 82nd birthday — the first since he passed. My fondest childhood memories involve playing baseball with your Grandpa. In fact, my first baseball memory involves a trip to Shabbona Park in Chicago. I was 6 and just learning about the sport. Before we started playing catch that day — an activity I looked forward to more than anything in those early days before organized baseball (and sometimes even after that) — Grandpa pointed to an older boy catching fly balls in a nearby field. The boy probably wasn't more than 9 or 10, and the fly balls were just high tosses from a man who likely was his father. But that boy looked like a giant to me, and each time the ball seemed like it would never come down. But as fly balls landed repeatedly in the boy's glove, Grandpa must have noticed my awe. "Matt," he said, "someday you'll be catching fly balls like that. All it takes is practice and desire." I never forgot those words, and I owe whatever I have accomplished and will accomplish in life — personally and professionally — to that advice. Just like all those subsequent afternoons when he would spend hours hitting me ground balls — constantly reminding me, "Stay in front of the ball! You don't always have to catch it. If it hits you, you've done your job." — Grandpa was teaching me how to play baseball, but he also was teaching me how to play a more important game.
Love,
Dad
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