Paws and Reflect

by Neil S. Plakcy

  When something like that happens, it changes your whole perception of how amazing these animals are. I don’t understand people who won’t let dogs on their couch and on their beds. It almost feels like, “Why do you have a dog?” Our dogs are absolutely members of the family. We have a car, and we take them everywhere.

  Something has paid off recently from what happened in my childhood. I just recently converged my entire family under one roof. So I’m at the point where I’m taking care of everyone. My mother and my grandfather. We all live in Astoria now, and we have two dogs and three cats. Kind of a full house.

  Besides Shiny, our other dog is Lucy. David and I found her by the side of the road in Pasadena, Texas. A guy was selling her for sixty dollars. She’s a beautiful terrier mutt. Terriers are kind of a unique subdivision within dogs, and if they’re not disciplined, they can be nuts. Lucy sort of looks like Sport/Christy. She reminds me of her, and how close I was to her. And then, the other day, my grandfather out of nowhere told me that the dog was trying to tell him something. He has never said anything like that in his life before. He thought Lucy had something to tell him, but he didn’t know what it was. So he’s basically saying the same thing that I said about my terrier when I was four. I thought that was really interesting.

  But I can’t take him back in time and get him to change the way things were. All I can do is try to make things work now, with my family and my dogs.

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  Matthew Phillips: DO DOGS GO TO HEAVEN?

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  As a child, Matthew Phillips was upset by a Sunday school teacher who told him that there were no dogs in heaven. Though this may have been the thinking once, attitudes are changing. Today, even the most conservative of congregations may offer a blessing of the animals, and people of every religion are coming to accept the spiritual role animals play in our lives.

  Buddhists have always regarded animals as beings at different stages of reincarnation. Hindus embrace vegetarianism out of respect for all living creatures. Native American cultures believe that animals have spirits. Attitudes are changing among Jews and Christians; more denominations allow clergy to bless pet weddings and funerals, and the debate over whether animals have souls continues to rage.

  An old woman on her deathbed asked James Herriot, the late British veterinarian and author of All Creatures Great and Small, if she would see her beloved dog in heaven. He replied, “With all my heart I believe it.” He explained his reasoning: “If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans. You’ve nothing to worry about there.”

  The poet and novelist Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.”

  American humorist Will Rogers wrote about the dog-and heaven controversy, “If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”

  And the French Catholic monk St. Bernard of Clairvaux wrote in his twelfth-century Sermo Primus, Qui me amat, amet et canem meum (“Love me, love my dog”), which seems to put a holy imprimatur on the matter.

  Will you see your beloved pet in heaven? A lot depends on what you believe here on earth. For some dog lovers, a heaven without our faithful companions by our sides would be no heaven at all. Matt, who lives with his partner and two Brussels Griffons in New York City, recorded a few of his many memories of his beloved childhood dog, Brandy.

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  IN THE BACKYARD of our upstate New York home, my father built a tree fort for me in an old and welcoming oak tree. I could climb up six wooden steps and be in my own world. I had a table and two chairs, and various implements that I carried from the house as it occurred to me I would need them: a plate, a fork, two towels, a bottle of instant cleansing and disinfecting hand soap, all my mother’s hair combs, her brush, her hand mirror, and, the best prize of all, her scissors.

  My English Springer Spaniel, Brandy, stood patiently as I clipped little strands of her bright black and white coat, which gave me a great idea for a career—I would become a hairdresser. With Brandy at their side, my various friends in the neighborhood followed the path out back and climbed up into my tree-fort salon, where they sat down and I went to work. I told each one that their mothers would be so pleased to have their child be the recipient of a free haircut.

  Acting like a complete expert, I lifted and cut strands of hair from my friends’ heads. One girl had had silky hair that had grown all the way to her waist. All this ended up as clippings on the floor. When I stood back to survey my work, I was proud of the new, short hairdos. I felt myself equal to the famous hairdressers I’d seen on commercials, like Vidal Sassoon and Paul Mitchell.

  That evening, the doorbell did not stop ringing, and each time it was another outraged mother, holding her child, claiming I had deformed them. It gave me an idea of what mass hysteria must be like. Unfortunately, I did not like bangs, so I had been particularly careful to lop off any and all hair around my friends’ faces. I thought they looked pretty good. But some of these women were using words that would make a whore blush.

  Brandy seemed to know that I was in big trouble. She was not allowed inside the house, so she maintained a vigil outside the living room window. She howled each time a parent started in, and she ran to the back of the house every few minutes to look up toward my bedroom to check on me.

  My mother made me hide in my room. I was scared when I heard my mother’s response to all of these moms. She apologized profusely and reassured them that the minute my father came home I would be severely punished—and with a belt! This appeased the mothers but made me mortally afraid.

  Finally my mother came up the stairs. What was she going to do? Was it going to involve belts and spanking and bruises? I kept my mind focused on Brandy. I could hear her outside, barking under my window. That wasn’t usual for her. It was as if she wanted me to know she was there and wanted to protect me. The sound of those barks gave me courage.

  My mother opened the door to my room and said, “Matthew?” I decided to be the courageous boy Brandy thought I was. I came out from under the bed. There was something in my mother’s hands, and while I was still trembling with fear, she pushed her hands toward me. Through squeezed eyes I saw—a plate of freshly baked butter cookies. The thing my mother baked when I needed to feel better! She ran her hands through my hair and kissed me on the cheek, not just once, but several times. Then she started laughing, louder and then uncontrollably. I started laughing, too. We both laughed till tears ran down our faces. Brandy was still howling outside my window, except this time the howling sounded different. I’m sure of it, Brandy was laughing.

  My parents bought a second home at Eagle Lake, about forty-five minutes north of Lake George. We were a Swiss family and our vacations always involved mountains and cold weather, rather than beaches and blazing heat. Our vacation home was a mansion, a seemingly endless maze of rooms, corridors, foyers, and secret passages. For me and Brandy, it was a hide-and-seek paradise.

  The estate sprawled across the side of a mountain. It became our family’s summer and winter retreat. Each massive room with its solid carved wood door could only be opened by its own key. There were various keys to the many parlors, library, red room, blue room, sewing room, conservatory, and other rooms. Each door to each room was always closed and always locked. Always. It was a real chore keeping all these keys organized, so a skeleton key was attached to Brandy’s collar. If we misplaced our own keys, Brandy was always nearby and we could borrow her key to gain access to any of the rooms. Simply by whistling for her, Brandy would come.

  The mansion was wrapped by a wooden porch. From here, you could sit and look out over the lake and the Adirondacks Mountains. When I sat on the dock, swinging my feet above the lake’s surface, the water was so clear that I could see fish on their daily travels: lake trout, steelhead, walleye, and m
uskie. Brandy and I spent hours there, my arm hugging across her back, looking out onto the water and the mountains. It was a powerful, majestic view that still stays with me after all these years.

  Not long after the haircutting incident, on a hot summer day, my mother packed a picnic lunch for my brother Steve and me. The two of us climbed into our small wooden canoe and paddled off to meet up with our older brother, Rich, and Father on Turtle Island. Brandy was swimming the distance by the side of our canoe. She had webbed feet, a unique characteristic of all Springer Spaniels, and was a powerful swimmer. Her legs cut through the water like oars.

  Halfway out into the lake, the canoe started to fill up with water. I became hysterical, not because we were sinking, but because my butter cookies were getting soaked! Brandy was barking and then just disappeared from the water’s surface.

  Suddenly, a sharp push from under the canoe made us both almost fall out. Brandy was trying to prevent us from sinking, and pushed the canoe up from underneath! She repeated this action again and again, only coming up for air.

  Brandy became visibly exhausted when we were still about a quarter of a football field from Turtle Island, but she kept working until we reached the shore. My father and brother were at the shore’s edge to greet us. They could see we were having difficulties but didn’t realize how serious it was until we got much closer.

  My father scooped up Brandy and carried her out of the water. He held her and kissed her face. After that day, he loved that dog as if she was his fourth child. My mother, though, for as long as I could remember, always fervently referred to Brandy as

  “The Beast, ” because her thick black and white coat was always covered with matted spurs, thorns and twigs. She was always into something. Brandy was incorrigible. But Brandy was no Beast. To me, she was Beauty. Her big black eyes were like pools, about to overflow. She would allow us to do anything to her, so we did do our best to keep her clean. She was never sick.

  That Halloween, I wore the same costume I did year after year. That’s the way I liked it. I was a traveling hobo. I wore rags for clothing, lots of patches, a straw hat, and carried a red stuffed bandana on a stick over my shoulder. Brandy always wore her red bandana, too. She joined me on this night like she had done for years, following me door to door.

  I had my usual group of five friends, and we planned this particular evening in every detail. This was serious stuff. We carried big pillowcases. We knew the good houses, and the bad houses, the cheap houses, and the rich houses. As we laughed and joked, Brandy would nuzzle our bags for a treat, and we always had an absolute blast. At the end of the evening, knowing I had to unload my pillowcase and give it back to my mother, I started to run toward home. I was right in the middle of the road when Brandy ran at me, full speed, hitting me with such impact that I was thrown backward a great distance. At that exact moment a car came zooming by, missing us both by inches. Brandy lay next to me on the dirt road, licking me and whimpering.

  Good girl, I said. Good girl, I’m OK, I’m OK. That car had come barreling out of nowhere on this quiet country road. I hadn’t heard it. It had rounded the curve at great speed, totally unexpected. Where I had been, there was nothing left but a shredded pillowcase with scattered treats. My candy had been flattened.

  Then it was winter. I remember running through the snow as fast as I could. I was determined to beat my brothers, who were both older, to the lake. I was so anxious to learn ice skating that I must have fallen a dozen times before I got there. Even Brandy was out of breath. The cold was biting and I could see clouds of her breath, thick and white.

  Ignoring the exhaustion from my run, I proceeded to hike down the steep banks of the lake. Before I knew it, I was far from the shoreline and well onto the middle of the lake. My skates were flung over my shoulder.

  I remember hearing a loud cracking noise and thinking, What’s that? Then the ice underneath me gave way. In the blink of an eye, I plunged into the freezing water. The water was unbearably cold. It filled my mouth, eyes, and ears. I was bobbing up and down, and felt a current pulling me under. I was panicked, and at the same time completely paralyzed. I was unable to scream for help. Breathing was almost impossible.

  A strong tug on my jacket hood prevented me from going completely under. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my dog, sprawled out on her stomach, reaching so carefully to bite the hood of my jacket, pulling me up. She held me for what seemed forever, until my brothers finally arrived and rescued me.

  Brandy got a T-bone for dinner that night and for the first time ever was allowed in the house for the evening. My mother said, “Good girl, Brandy, ” very matter-of-fact. My father just kept shaking his head. He looked at Brandy, then at me, then had to look away.”That dog, ” he said.

  That Sunday, we were all packed and loaded in the station wagon, ready to return home. But where was Brandy? It was starting to snow, and my parents were getting impatient. We spent hours looking for her, but Brandy could not be found. My parents were very concerned and stopped by our neighbors, who lived at the lake year round. The Moshers promised to check for her and leave food on the porch until we returned in two weeks.

  My father, the quintessential Marlboro Man in his trademark shearling jacket, seemed nervous. Sensing this made me scared, he repeated out loud, “She’s a hunting dog, for Christ’s sake, she can take care of herself.” It was starting to snow. My great-grandmother, whom we all called Nanny, held me tight so I wouldn’t cry, but the thought of losing Brandy shook me to my soul.

  Two weeks later, we returned to the house. My father was doing ninety miles an hour. In that speeding car, the entire family was thinking of only one thing: Would Brandy be there? We’d had no news about her.

  When we hit the driveway, my father gave an abrupt hoot. There she was, happy and jumping up and down on the porch. A little thin, as she hadn’t gotten any dog food from the neighbor. We later learned that Brandy would not allow the neighbor to enter the property, much less approach the porch. She had become very protective of the house and scared the neighbor away because she appeared to be vicious.

  Brandy? Vicious? Puh-leeze!

  Another scene in my head was from Easter Sunday. My family and I had just returned from church and we were looking forward to enjoying Easter festivities, with all our relatives coming for dinner, a traditional meal with braided Easter bread with eggs baked in, cucumber salad, lamb, and mint jelly (yuck!).

  I’d had an upsetting time with my Sunday school teacher that morning. The subject of animals and heaven had come up, and my teacher informed me that only humans enter heaven. He said that’s because only humans have souls. Animals do not have souls, and therefore do not enter heaven.

  I kept asking, “You mean I won’t see Brandy in heaven?” I was on the verge of tears. The thought made me feel physically sick.

  This particular teacher made us hold a wooden match between our fingers and recite all the books of the Bible by memory before it burned our fingers. To this day, I can say them all so fast it sounds like a foreign language: genesisexodusleviticusdeutero nomyfirstandsecondsamuelsfirstandsecondkings.

  It was an unseasonably mild Easter. I was wearing seersucker shorts with suspenders, a white, short-sleeve, collared shirt, and white knee socks. My mother and I had spent several hours the night before dyeing two-dozen hard-boiled eggs in bright colors, and one of them had come out an amazing shade of pink magenta.

  I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten that color; it wasn’t one of the colors in the kit. It seemed like a jewel to me, one that had appeared by magic, so I laid it carefully on the fake green grass in my Easter basket and carried it with me all day.

  I was swinging the basket back and forth by my side, with Brandy tagging after me. I was feeling miserable about this dogs-and-heaven thing.

  I decided to visit my playmate Robby to see what he knew about it. Robby lived across the empty cornfields. The fastest way to his house was to cut through the woods. As I followed my usual
path, suddenly an extraordinary scent floated to me: the scent of lilacs. Lilacs were my favorite flower. There were clumps of lilac trees that grew in these woods. But this perfumed scent was so strong it was intoxicating. I had to find out where it was coming from. So I took a detour into the woods, to visit my favorite spot, where I knew lilac trees grew in abundance. The scent got stronger as I got closer to them. They always made me smile because they grew in big, crazy clumps of color, with huge bunches of purple, violet, and white. Lilacs are more gorgeous to me than the word “gorgeous” can describe.

  Brandy and I wandered among the great oaks, blue spruces, dogwoods, and baby crabapples, across clusters of violets growing sprawled on the ground. Following the rich perfume, we went deeper into the forest, far off the path we knew, where we discovered a field of lilac trees we’d never seen before. In one spot, the sun shot down through the lilacs, creating a perfect circle of light.