Copyright © 2015 Colin Campbell
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
Doubleday Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House of Canada Limited.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Campbell, Colin, 1962-, author
Free days with George : learning life’s little lessons from one very big dog / Colin Campbell.
ISBN 978-0-385-68287-9 (bound). ISBN 978-0-385-68288-6 (epub)
1. Campbell, Colin, 1962-. 2. George (Newfoundland dog). 3. Human-animal relationships. 4. Marketing executives–United States–Biography. 5. Marketing executives–Canada–Biography. 6. Surfers–California–Los Angeles–Biography. I. Title.
SF422.82.C36A3 2015 636.70092 C2014-907479-4
C2014-907480-8
Unless otherwise stated, all photos are courtesy of the author.
Cover design by Terri Nimmo
Cover image: (George) courtesy of the author;
Image on this page and this page: © Olgacov | Dreamstime.com
Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada,
A division of Random House of Canada Limited,
A Penguin Random House Company
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
v3.1
In memory of my grandfather Nick Howes, who taught me to embrace and love the ocean, the value of a strong work ethic, and to recognize and cherish free days.
HERE ARE A FEW THINGS I KNOW:
I know that the people who matter most to me in my life are those who can look me in the eye.
I know that I love the ocean and that it brings me back to myself.
I know that my grandfather, the man who taught me how to swim and how to live life to the fullest, remains one of my most important mentors and guides, even though he died many years ago.
And I know that one of the most powerful experiences of my life so far has involved my deep and abiding friendship with a dog named George, who brings all the things I know together.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One: Under Water
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Two: Rescue
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Three: California Dreaming
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Four: Surfing with George
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Photo Insert One
Photo Insert Two
Acknowledgments
Organizations to Check Out
I am a swimmer and a surfer. I love the ocean. My dog, George, a 140-pound Landseer Newfoundland, also loves the water. I hesitate at the language here, because “my dog” makes me sound like I own this being I share much of my life with. As I hope you’ll see in this book, George is possessed only by himself, and we humans lucky enough to know him and to have had our lives touched by him are merely the recipients of his generous gifts.
George is the dog who changed my life. When I was at my worst, he was there to comfort me. He was homeless when I took him in as a “rescue,” but as it turns out, he’s the one who rescued me. He taught me how to walk and how to wait, how to sit and be patient, and how to accept and embrace change. He taught me the power of hugs, to whisper instead of yell, to listen more deeply to others around me and to be sensitive to those in need. He taught me to ride the waves of life instead of letting them wash over me and drown me. He taught me you can swim out to sea too far—and he’s towed me back to the safety of shore more times than I can remember. He taught me that the sport of surfing, like life, can’t be taken too seriously—that sometimes just getting up on a board is all you need to do to make yourself and those around you happy.
Many of the life lessons I learned with George were reminders of lessons I’d learned long ago. Isn’t it true that often without our recognizing it, life comes full circle?
My grandfather Nick Howes was the first positive force in my life, and in so many ways he was my first teacher. He began teaching me the lessons that George would later bring home to me when my grandfather no longer could.
So let me rewind a bit here and tell you about my grandfather Seymour Wylde Howes III. He was born on a sugar plantation on the Caribbean island of Montserrat in 1913. He preferred to be called “Nick.” I called him “Grandpa.” A decorated World War II hero, he was one of the first to arrive on the beaches of Normandy, France, on D-day, where he saved several of his fellow soldiers from drowning after their landing craft struck a mine. After the war Grandpa lived what would be deemed by most standards a modest, ordinary life. Yet to me, he was anything but ordinary.
My younger brother, David, and I had a very close relationship with our grandfather. Grandpa lived his life passionately and selflessly, making us feel special in both little and big ways that would help shape our lives for years to follow. As boys, we used to spend all summer at his cottage on a serene beach in a quiet cove in Nova Scotia, Canada. Most mornings we woke up to the smell of sizzling bacon and the sound of my grandfather’s deep, enthusiastic voice. “Get up, lazy bums!” Grandpa would bellow as we lay in bed. “Today is an important day! We have important things to do!” According to my grandfather, we had “important things” to do every day.
“Let’s see …” he’d say, standing in the doorway to our room. He’d be checking an invisible schedule that hovered outside beyond the cottage’s picture window, somewhere down where the ocean lapped the shores of the sandy beach. “We have swimming to do today. And sand castle building. Then we have lawn mowing, and firewood chopping, and more swimming. Then we have sailing, followed by a quick trip into town for some grocery shopping. Then we have a barbecue scheduled. Then I’m pretty sure we have some blueberry-pie eating to get in there right after. Then we are going to finish with some tooth-brushing, pajama wearing and bedtime-story reading.”
My brother and I would listen to this from the warm comfort of our bunk beds, pretending to be asleep, until Grandpa would say, “But before we get to all that, I’ve got to get you lazy bums out of bed!” And with that he would launch at us and tickle us through a mound of blankets as we laughed and giggled and laughed some more.
No matter how old we got—for years, for a decade—that’s how we started every summer day with him.
He ended our days almost the same way. After our agenda of chores and fun, dusk would be upon us before we even realized it. We’d be dog tired as we changed into our pjs and prepared for bed. He would come in to read us a story, and before he would turn out the light, he would ask, “Boys, did you have a good day?”
“Of course we did, Grandpa!”
“You know, boys,” he’d say, his voice soft and gentle, “today was a free day.”
“What’s a ‘free day,’ Grandpa?” we would ask without fail.
With a big smile he would look down at us and say, “A free day is when you spend a w
hole day doing things you love to do—like building sand castles, flying kites or going swimming. And when you do those things with people you love who love you, you don’t grow old that day. It’s a free day.” He would pause and brush the hair off our faces as he looked deep into our eyes. “Today, boys, we had a free day on earth. Today we didn’t grow old. Sleep tight. I love you.”
Then Grandpa would switch off the light, and we’d drift off into a rich, deep sleep. We loved him with our whole hearts, and he loved us back even more.
It was only much later in life, after I lost what I loved the most and long after Grandpa was gone, that I learned how hard “free days” are to come by in this life. I forgot what they felt like until George helped me find them again. Now, with George’s help, I try to make every day a free day.
ONE
The clouds had covered New York City all day, a rumpled gray blanket thrown over the skyscrapers. It was February 2008, and cold enough that even if New York refused to sleep, New Yorkers would certainly have preferred to stay bundled up in bed. Those unlucky enough to have dragged themselves upright and out into the cold world now hurried through the streets with miserable determination, their collars turned up and their coats pulled tight against the chill. I was in New York on a business trip, and all I could think of was finishing my day of meetings and flying home to my lovely wife of four years. None of the chill and chaos bothered me, because soon I’d be flying home. Soon I’d be with Jane.
I was working as an executive for MKTG, a hip marketing firm based in New York City. I loved working there—these were the smartest, most innovative people who I had ever worked with. They were professional and fun. I ran their Canadian office in Toronto. I had come to New York to follow up on a television show we had pitched to NBC. A couple of weeks prior, we had convinced NBC’s vice president of sports programming to green-light a sports reality show I had created. Life was great. I had a beautiful, loving wife and a great job working with smart, nice people.
That morning I had found myself awake and looking out the window across the rooftops an hour and a half before my alarm was set to go off. I couldn’t sleep anymore, so I texted Jane to see if she was also awake. Moments later, instead of the ding of a return message my phone rang.
“Hey, you’re awake!” I said.
“Kind of,” she answered, laughing, her voice still soft with sleep. “I saw your text.”
“I’ll let you go back to sleep,” I said, just above a whisper. “But it was nice to hear your voice. Thanks for calling.”
“When’s your first meeting?”
“Nine thirty.”
“You’ll do great.” I could hear her smiling.
“Thanks, it should go okay.”
“I love you. Good luck. Call me later.”
“I will. I love you, too,” I said.
I hung up happy to have heard her voice. Even though my job allowed me to travel all over the world, stay in great hotels and eat in fantastic restaurants, I always missed Jane when I was away. Our work schedules often took us away from each other, but that time apart made me appreciate more the moments I got to spend at home. To me home meant Jane.
I got up, showered, dressed and headed to my first meeting, which went better than I’d hoped. My colleagues and I decided to go out for an early lunch before diving into our afternoon meetings. I was scheduled to fly out that night, but by the time we finished eating, the wind had kicked up and turned the sky into a deep bruise of dark purples and gray. Snow hadn’t started to fall yet, but the news services were broadcasting a winter storm warning and I knew the odds of my plane taking off as planned were diminishing fast. As I watched New Yorkers scramble to get back to the warmth and the shelter of home, I felt a powerful urge to do the same. I didn’t want to be stranded in an airport. I wanted to go home. I wanted to see my wife. I wanted to be with Jane.
Jane and I met almost fifteen years earlier at a fund-raising dinner in support of the United Way. She was someone who always stood out from a crowd. She was prettier, taller, blonder and more vibrant than anyone else in the room. I’d seen her from a distance, speaking to another attendee, and I was awestruck by her natural poise and elegance, not to mention her smile. It made me melt. When I got within a few feet of my assigned table, I realized that not only was she seated at my table but my chair was right beside hers. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, drowning out every noise in the room.
Before I could get too nervous, a hand extended toward me. “Hi, I’m Jane.”
We talked about the weather, the Toronto Blue Jays, our jobs—mundane things—but in her presence they took on a new significance. She was a reporter covering the fund-raiser for a local newspaper. She immersed herself in our conversation and made me feel I was the most fascinating person in the room. I could see she was razor sharp and worldly. She also swore like a sailor—not too many women can pull that off. And I loved it. Halfway through the entrée, I already had the feeling we had a connection and I’d met someone special.
At the end of the evening, I suggested we stay in touch, and we exchanged business cards. As I was leaving, I told a colleague I was going to marry that girl. He laughed. “She can probably marry whoever she wants to, and it likely won’t be you.” I laughed back and said, “You wait.”
I picked up Jane’s business card repeatedly over the next few days. To call or not? I wanted to wait a sensible amount of time and not seem too eager. I lasted all of a day and a half before inviting her out for coffee. I left her a voice mail at work, and while I waited for an answer, I told anyone who would listen that I’d met this incredible woman. I acknowledged I was getting a bit ahead of myself—I really didn’t even know her yet—but at that moment, I didn’t really care.
Jane called me back a day later. We went for coffee. After some enthusiastic small talk she told me she had just started to see someone. She said she couldn’t deny the spark between us at the fund-raiser, but she was serious about this other guy. She wanted to be up-front about her relationship, she said, because she still wanted to be friends. I was disappointed, but I wanted to be part of her life any way I could. Also, call it youthful arrogance, but I seriously thought it was only a matter of time before she dumped that other guy and chose me. After all, she was the woman I was going to marry. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together. It would just take her a little longer to realize it.
Over the next few months, we settled into a warm friendship. As difficult as it was not to flirt with her, I did my best to respect her boundaries. But I still made any excuse to see her. Through work, I signed up for Meals on Wheels, a volunteer program to deliver meals to disadvantaged people in the community who aren’t always able to cook for themselves. When I found out you needed a partner to make the deliveries, I phoned Jane and asked if she’d be mine.
“Definitely,” she said. “When do we start?”
“This Wednesday at noon. Or next week—whatever’s better for you.”
“I could do this week. It’s a date.”
“Awesome,” I said, grinning my head off. “I’ll pick you up from work.” Delivering meals meant that for ninety minutes every week I’d get to see Jane. I knew the volunteer work wouldn’t be glamorous, but knowing that Jane would be there was all the glamour I needed.
From our first delivery, the division of labor was clear: Jane knocked on the doors and did most of the talking to the clients; I carried in the big bag of food. Our clients lived in subsidized housing in one of Toronto’s roughest, most impoverished and violent neighborhoods. These were people life had beaten down. Some were older, and many had been all but abandoned by their families. Others were living with HIV/AIDS, and over the weeks and months, we watched them waste away before our eyes, even as we delivered them nutritious food. Both Jane and I could feel their loneliness and desperation, and we did our best to offer some kindness and quiet support. Friends would ask me how I handled this without getting depressed. “It’s easy,” I’d answer. “I do i
t with Jane.”
Crossing the threshold of each opened door, Jane brought with her the same rapt attention she’d bestowed on me the night we met—always making a profound impact. I watched, spellbound, as person after person fell in love with her. And I couldn’t help but fall deeper and deeper in love with her myself. The more time I spent with her, the better I got to know her. And the more I knew her, the more I felt that my initial impulse to spend the rest of my life with her was not so crazy after all.
Every week she would turn her attention to me before we got started. She’d look me right in the eye and ask, “How are you, Colin? What’s new with you? What’s good in your life?” It’s a common thread in my life: the people who have the most meaning to me look me right in the eye—my grandfather, my good friend and boss Charlie, Jane. And later, my dog, George. Whenever Jane looked at me like that, I felt connected and answered her questions eagerly. She in turn would tell me amusing stories about her work or her friends, and we would laugh together and commiserate. Spending time with her was comforting and familiar, and in that weekly meeting we managed to make a cold, depressing, hidden part of the city our haven. At the end of the delivery we would shake hands and she’d say, “Have a good week.” I’d wave and smile as I walked away. Then I would miss her for the next seven days.
This went on for months, becoming a predictable rhythm in my life. Occasionally our paths would cross at other work-related events. Seeing her was always great and my feelings of wanting to marry her never faded; in fact, they only got stronger. Then one day Jane called me out of the blue, and it had nothing to do with our volunteer schedule. “I’m wondering if we could grab a coffee,” she said. She sounded different, more serious than usual.
“Of course,” I said.
A few days later we met at a Starbucks. She seemed nervous and fidgety, but when she sat down across from me, she eyed me with that direct, almost intimidating gaze of hers. Calmly she said, “I think I know how you feel about me and I know there’s something special between us. I really value what we have as friends and so I wanted you to hear this from me before someone else says something.”
Free Days with George Page 1