A loving dog has greater value than a hateful human.
Winston
The Illness
We had planned to take him to the vet that very day. I had ordered a muzzle, which the vet required. I dreaded putting it on because I didn’t want manhandled him. He dreaded the vet’s office—too many smells, too much noise. By dying he avoided returning to the place he feared. He spent most of his time outdoors lying in the grass or chasing a car passing on the other side of the fence. The veterinary clinic must have seemed alien to him. I understood because that’s how I feel about cities, hospitals, and bureaus of various kinds. Such places are Kafkaesque, unpleasant, confusing, at times threatening. To Winston the veterinary was a frighteningly unnatural. After his fall Brigitte spent a few minutes stroking him, reassuring him that he wasn’t alone. I thought he might die during the night and wanted to stay by his side. Perhaps I should have. Now I’m hunted because I didn’t. He shouldn’t have died alone.
Winston had been sick for about a month. The illness came on rather suddenly. We had taken him to the vet, a rather disastrous visit. I had put a muzzle on him, a simple device ordered online that he removed before we even got inside. Understandably, the vet didn’t want to examine him without a muzzle because it was clear he was a nervous wreck and might snap at her. She sold us another muzzle and a hood and told us to come back. The one I bought was an easy on muzzle, but apparently also an easy off muzzle. I wasn’t happy with the idea of returning because I saw the visits were traumatic for Winston. When he was younger he was better behaved, not well behaved but better. And the previous veterinary was a simple small-pets operation, but that vet retired. She was a sweetheart. The new veterinary cared for all sorts of animals—you know all creatures great and small. Once I saw a goat being taken in. He didn’t want to go in any more than Winston did. The owner had to pull him by the horns. The smells and noises to Winston’s sensitive nose and ears must have been overwhelming.
The wind had a similar effect on him. If the wind was blowing, he would want to come inside. If we weren’t at home, he would hide in his doghouse. Strips of plastic kept the rain and wind out. When he became ill he would find sanctuary in a bushy cypress where our grandson likes to hide. In fact, it was because of the wind that we put a bed upstairs near the bedroom because he would come upstairs and sleep in our room right next to the bed. I feared that getting out of bed at night I might step on him or that Brigitte would trip over him. He was happy with his bed. And sometimes when no one was in the house, he would go to the upstairs bed.
Winston was a loving dog. In fact, love was what he was all about. Some people might question such a notion, but dog owners would understand my meaning. When I was a kid, we had a fat mongrel named Alex who would lie next to my stepfather, George Turner, when the family was watching Sunday night television. If my stepfather needed something from the fridge, such as a beer, he would ask one of us to fetch it because he didn’t want to disturb the boy. My stepfather wasn’t a happy man. His life would remain a mystery to me. He grew up in the countryside somewhere in Texas. He joined the Navy during the Great Depression. When he was about the leave the Navy for civilian life, World War II broke out, so he spent about ten years in the Navy. He had a photo album of his life aboard ship. After the war, he ended up living in a maze-like Californian suburb called Lakewood built just for veterans. The houses were inexpensive, roomy, functional, and all exactly the same, little stucco boxes. It was a LEGO community, totally artificial. He works nights and some split shifts. When not working he spent his time in the garage where he did woodworking. He was totally isolated from the urban sprawl that surrounded him. We never interacted with neighbor beyond friendly greetings.
The block we lived on wasn’t like in those old TV shows like Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best. I’m not sure such places really existed. Certainly, Lakewood wasn’t like that at all:
Lakewood California
As the photo clearly shows, it wasn’t a community. Its design is functional and rational. Aesthetics were unimportant. Thus, the community was totally artificial, rather than organic like communities that grow naturally over time. Community came from elsewhere for the people who lived on our block—church and the job. For my stepfather I believe where he work was his true community in the sense that was where he knew and interacted with other people. Otherwise, he didn’t like his job all that much. He was a bartender. In the Navy he had been a navigator. Living in a maze made of concrete, asphalt, and stucco, he must have felt trapped
in a way of life that was artificial and totally structured. The only remnants of nature were trees, bushes, and patches of
grass planted along streets by one city or another. There were humans, but of course
they too were artificial, living artificial city lives like my stepfather—as routine
as the lives of soldiers. Unlike animals such as horses, goats, sheep, and
dogs, when humans are domesticated they lose their natural beauty. My
stepfather’s life was a routine as a clock or watch because the city was like a watch or circuit board. There was very little looseness
in his mechanized life. What I mean by looseness is the absence of
ridged space and time such as one finds in the lives of farmers and fishermen. Clock
time is still present but lived time follows the Sun rather than the clock. And a
half an hour might be ignored to carry on a conversation. Minutes didn’t seem
to exist at all.
I know this because I worked on family farms. Two were in Texas, one belonging to my mother's sister Maureen Henderson and the other to her brother Othell Simmons. Another farm was in Missouri. It belonged to her brother Ralph Simmons. (All those people including their children, my cousins, are gone.) When I would return to the city, I always immediately felt the difference between city life and country life. My stepfather felt he didn't belong in the mechanized society in which he lived. It was alien to him. I think that is why he loved watching western movies. They provided him with a brief artificial escape. How did my stepfather
show his unhappiness? He drank.
His one and only true friend was the family dog Alex—a loving odd-looking overweight mongrel. He was the one constant source of affection in my stepfather's life. That's because affection for their masters is what defines a dog's life. The constancy of a dog's love is superior to human love which is often hot then cold. I’m sure my stepfather loved all of us in a way, but his love for Alex was unsullied by the conflicts and complications that compromise human relationships. Eventually, my mother and stepfather would divorce. Alex was gone by then, which was too bad for my stepfather. Being an uncomplicated beast Alex's love for the members of the family was pure and simple. In fact, he was probably the only untroubled member of the family. And it may have been the case that he was the favorite member of the family for each of us, but especially for my stepfather.
Me and the family Dog Alex
Ironically, my stepfather had a big collection of guns, mostly old fashion guns from the olden days of the Wild West. He loved guns for either their history or for the wood and metal they were made of. Once he took me to a gun show. Most of the guns were like the ones seen in western movies, six-shooters, Colts, Remingtons, and Winchesters. I saw my stepfather shoot a gun only once on a camping trip. We shot a 22 caliber pistol at cans. He didn’t really care about shooting guns and had no desire to shoot animals. He looked forward to retiring and building a cabin somewhere in nature away from people, but he would want a dog to keep him company. His dream was never realized. He died at work before he could escape. At the time, he lived in a small apartment with all is woodworking equipment stored in the garage.
Winston’s personality
Winston was a dog that loved most of all to be with people. He would play with other dogs and never wanted to fight them.
Sweet Friska and Winston are now both gone.
What Winston truly disliked were cars and motorcycles—speedy vehicles, in other words. Perhaps his DNA considered them mechanical sheep. Other machines such as tractors, large trucks, and construction equipment seemed to fascinate him. If a backhoe was digging up the street, he would spend hours at the fence silently watching it, a mechanical monster he didn’t quite know how to respond to. I think to be considered an enemy the machine had to move quickly, a machine he would chase if he were allowed to. I never heard Winston growl. He snarled a few times. Once on a walk in the countryside he was aggressed by a vicious dog that couldn’t be control by his elderly owner. It was as if she had a lion on a leash. Brigitte told the woman to control her beast but the old lady said he was too strong. The old lady struggling to control her beast seemed comical. The creature was most likely a loving companion to her. I picked up a big branch with which to keep the beast at bay while we escaped.
I think Winston had a lover somewhere in the village who wasn't the neighbor's dog Friska because at times he would dart off when the gate was opened for a moment. Once I opened the gate to remove the car and he shot off like an impassioned Romeo ignoring my angry calls for him to return. His look was one of madness. However, we knew he would return as he always did, so the gate was left opened once he took off. Clearly, he had a secret life.
When Winston became ill I got on the Internet to research the longevity of border collies. He was ten years old when he died. I was impressed by the numerous afflictions that he could suffer from. Disease, old age, and death are a bond that all of nature’s creatures share and ones we share with all creatures. What surprised me is that on a list of aliments affecting border collies was separation anxiety. I didn’t investigate further, but the condition seemed to be part of Winston’s personality. He did enjoy lying alone on the grass in the warmth of the suns, but otherwise he wanted to be near someone.
If Brigitte or I was reading outside, he would come over and flop down next to the chair. If Brigitte was working in the garden, he would find a place near her to lie down. He didn’t do that with me because I had chased him from the garden a couple times. I had put a bird feeder in the garden and considered the garden a sanctuary for birds, though he would still bark at them. Being a big fan of birds that behavior annoyed me, but I tolerated it because going after birds was part of his nature. In ten years I believe he killed only a lizard, which I regretted because I’m also a big fan of those little reptiles. Lizards share an ancestry that goes back millions of years to those giants of the Earth—the dinosaurs. I find lizards to be mysterious creatures: the ancient ones who live in deserts, forests, prairies, marshes, and rocky areas, on the ground or in trees.
When Brigitte was in the kitchen reading, at the computer, or cooking Winston would want to be as close to her as possible. He would lie under her reading table. When the family had a meal outside, he would lie under the table. When the grandkids were reading or crafting outside, he would go lie next to them. If Brigitte and I were having an animated conversation, he would become nervous and come over to us with a pleading look thinking we were arguing. Love, harmony, and happiness were all Winston wanted from life. That was his wisdom.
I never liked the idea of leaving him overnight at the vet among strangers or no one but other creatures that were no happier being there than he was. Fortunately that never happened. Even the idea of leaving him alone at home for a night or two made me uncomfortable. There are plenty of people in the village who would check on him, making sure he was fed and had water, but I believe he would have suffered being separated from family members. So Brigitte and I never took an overnight trip. Besides, there was no better place to be than in our alpine village. (Not quite true in winter. Sometime a big, cold snow would make me long to spend a couple days someplace warm.)
Good Dog Winston
I’m writing this not only as a tribute to Winston but to all creatures. It’s my belief that most of humanity takes for granted nature’s wildlife—both plants and animals. Their view is simplistic even simpleminded. Of course, there are scientists who understand that life on earth is profoundly mysterious and the life forms are extraordinary entities. These aren’t just zoologists, ethologists, and other biologists, but also physicists, astronomers, and cosmologists. Let me use a simple illustration of why my dog Winston was so amazing. Two molecules of hydrogen (H2) combined with one molecule of oxygen (O) magically creates a molecule of water (H2O). Neither logic nor imagination would enable us to predict that combining hydrogen and oxygen would produce water. The transformation is magical:2H + O = rain, snow, lakes, rivers, and oceans
and the water becomes a playful setting
all magically.
More than that it makes possible
children and parents
and all of life.
***
That too is taken for granted
except by scientists and artists like Edward Henry Potthast.
And without the magic of those two atoms
there would be no tears.
And why is Winston is more astonishing than rain, snow, lakes, rivers, and oceans? Because he was alive. Yes, in a way, rain, snow, lakes, rivers, and oceans and each of nature’s creations has a life of its own. Yet, there was an emotional bond between Winston and the members of the family. We love rain, snow, lakes, rivers, and oceans but they don’t love us back. Winston did. And his love was more pure than ours because sometimes we’d get upset with him for doing something he shouldn’t. But he never got upset with us. And, like all dogs, he was forgiving and didn’t hold a grudge as people often do (myself included).
We even take love for granted even though its mystery is absolute because it magically creates a bond between creatures capable of loving others. Astronomers think supernovas are spectacular, and they are, but they are less spectacular than love. It is a paradox that the meaning of the biggest event in the Universe doesn’t compete with an emotion that draws two people or a person and a creature to create a new reality—a relationship bonded by an emotion. And what is love? It’s a conveyor of value. It is an emotion that conveys absolute value to another person or creature or thing. Yes, things can be loved. Nature is full of things such as rivers, lakes, and oceans that people love. People love certain works of art including movies, hometowns, villages, and neighborhoods. Buddha, Lao Tzu, Basho, and Jesus showed the value of unrequited love—unconditional love, loving just for the sake of love. Artists and poets often illustrate unrequited love. As seen in Edward Potthast’s painting Children at Play on the Beach. That painting is an expression of love. Love is like a rainbow with many different shades. Interestingly, Jesus' conception of love required caregiving. That is the love creatures who are companions receive from their owners.
Human love is most remarkable because it is the most pervasive. But the love between a dog and his human companion is no less remarkable or valued. Dogs grieve and mourn as people do. The American Kennel Club says, “It's not unusual for dogs to grieve the loss of a person they've bonded with.” How can such a creature not be loved? Winston loved the members of the family, Brigitte and me most of all. And we loved him as we would any human, perhaps more so because his appreciation for us was pure and absolute. I find that quite amazing—a loving creature. Love is more magical and mysterious than creation of water and the resulting rain, snow, lakes, rivers, and oceans. How do we know that? We don’t know it. We feel it. The loss of a creature can break our heart and bring tears to our eyes because they are our companions who are victims of disease, old age, and death. Mary Austin refers to creatures as furred and feathered folk. She probably acquired that idea from Native Americans, whom she knew, and from her companionship with beasts and trees in the land of little rain.
Human love is most remarkable because it is the most pervasive. But the love between a dog and his human companion is no less remarkable or valued. Dogs grieve and mourn as people do. The American Kennel Club says, “It's not unusual for dogs to grieve the loss of a person they've bonded with.” How can such a creature not be loved? Winston loved the members of the family, Brigitte and me most of all. And we loved him as we would any human, perhaps more so because his appreciation for us was pure and absolute. I find that quite amazing—a loving creature. Love is more magical and mysterious than creation of water and the resulting rain, snow, lakes, rivers, and oceans. How do we know that? We don’t know it. We feel it. The loss of a creature can break our heart and bring tears to our eyes because they are our companions who are victims of disease, old age, and death. Mary Austin refers to creatures as furred and feathered folk. She probably acquired that idea from Native Americans, whom she knew, and from her companionship with beasts and trees in the land of little rain.
I believe only people who have pets for companions will understand what I’m trying to say, which is that today people have drifted away from the primordial relationships that human once had with not only animals but plants as well. Brigitte loved Winston but her world is her garden.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.
(Byron Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto 4: 184)
When we relate to nature’s creatures—plants, animals, and insects—and her creations—mountains, valleys, canyons, plains, lakes, rivers, and oceans—we relate to that which is absolutely profound and mysterious. We Homo sapiens are newcomers on the cosmic scene, appearing about 300,000 years ago. But complex societies with a complex language that made intellectual sophistication possible began to appear only about few thousand years ago (and much of the world still hasn’t caught up). What came before? 14 billion year of cosmic evolution and life beginning on Earth about 3.7 billion years ago. Everything that came before us should thus be considered quite mysterious in part because though it produced us it’s not us. Plants and animals should be considered by humans as mysterious life-forms—to be understood, respected, and revered.
She guards her plants like D.C. Comics Ivy. I’m allowed in the garden only under supervision. Brigitte’s view is more personal than philosophical. To understand her relationship with plants one must recognize that she see plants as what Austin would call the leafy people; in other words, plants are not simply living objects but subjects having unique lives. The idea is expressed by Martin Buber, though the idea is ancient. According to him the “I” relationship avoids objectifying the other as a thing or object. What results is a living relationship between two subjects or life forms, though such a relationship is also possible with nonliving entities. This way of relating to the world was how Native Americans lived for centuries. Having spent many years boogie boarding in the ocean, I will go so far as to say that many surfers relate to the ocean in such a way, with respect and awe and friendship.
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.
(Byron Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto 4: 184)
In fact, humans may very well be the true aliens on Earth and in the Universe. Modern humans have forgotten the wisdom of earlier societies such as the Native Americans who were in awe of nature and her creatures and considered mysterious. We’ve become aggressive intruders. With our ideologies and technologies we consider ourselves the lords of the Earth mostly because of destructive capability. We have artificially isolated ourselves from the rest of creation in a spirit of anthropocentric indifference.
What that means is taking the natural world for granted in a dull-minded fashion thus incapable of understanding why the ancient world that came before us is mysterious and deserving veneration as our mysterious ancestors. Winston was a dog, but to me he was my mysterious companion. I tried not to take his doggyness for granted. To me he was a loyal creature companion who was easy to understand but no less mysterious for that. He loved me (and the rest of the family), and I loved him.
When Brigitte was ill
Winston was my companion. Brigitte was afflicted by numerous serious illnesses and as a result was in and out of the hospital sometimes for days. It was a difficult time. Yet, Winston was always with me every minute of the day and night. With him near I felt less alone. And caring for him was something I could do when I could do nothing for Brigitte. That was left up to the doctors and other caregivers—to whom I owe a great debt. In a way it was just me and Winston. My daughter would pay me a visit, but she didn’t live nearby and had to work. My good neighbor checked in on me occasionally. But in sense Winston was the ideal companion. I had to care for him and he would always be close by. I would talk to him, but we obviously didn’t engage in conversations, which I appreciated because I didn’t want to talk during that time. Even now I write about my good dog Winston, I don’t want to talk about him to others. Doing so only makes me sad. When Brigitte was sick, she would either get well or she wouldn’t. Sometimes words are useless. And now there is no reason to talk to someone about Winston. I will write about him because I owe him that much, and because I don’t want him to disappear altogether. The worst thing about death is that it causes peoples and creatures to disappear forever.
Our bond was not intellectual but emotional, so words were really unnecessary, though I found myself constantly talking to Winston just as now I keep thinking about him, even when doing so is painful, such as the memory of the last time saw him an hour or two before he died. He watched me with love and fear. I thought I should stay with him, but tired and distraught I went back to bed. That I left and he died all alone will haunt me for the rest of my days. Why? Because he would have wanted me to stay. And I let him down, when he never let me down, not once. What could be more mysterious than such feelings between a creature and a human? Could one have a similar bond with a robot—based on intellect rather than emotion? Perhaps, but love could not be part of the equation, which would avoid a broken heart when the robot became inoperable. Besides, robots can be repaired just as old Deuch'vaux are. And a robot would never feel sad as Winston did. What I do know is that Winston felt an emotional need, that I call love, to be close to me or to some other member of the family.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.
(Byron Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage Canto 4:178)
I do love nature more and man less because nature is not cruel, stupid, and immoral.
Winston my constant companion
And that might explain my deep sorrow when he died. I moved around from place to place during my early life. I settled down only after meeting Brigitte. So I had very few friends. After settling down my friends were mostly those of Brigitte. In San Diego we lived in apartments and condos, not communities. I’m old now, born during World War II, so the few friends and relatives I had are mostly gone. My best friend was my brother, but he’s gone. I pretty much lived as a loner until I met Brigitte, but she would say that I continued to live as a loner—mostly because I never made new friends. So as a loner I came to France. And having poor knowledge of the French language (I took a year of French in college after met Brigitte but that was it except for reading old French textbooks bought at secondhand bookstores). As a result I really couldn’t make friends in France. So my best and only friend was Brigitte, my wife. We have a daughter here, but she came years after us and her family lives in Grenoble, so I see her a couple times a month.
What that means is taking the natural world for granted in a dull-minded fashion thus incapable of understanding why the ancient world that came before us is mysterious and deserving veneration as our mysterious ancestors. Winston was a dog, but to me he was my mysterious companion. I tried not to take his doggyness for granted. To me he was a loyal creature companion who was easy to understand but no less mysterious for that. He loved me (and the rest of the family), and I loved him.
Winston was my companion. Brigitte was afflicted by numerous serious illnesses and as a result was in and out of the hospital sometimes for days. It was a difficult time. Yet, Winston was always with me every minute of the day and night. With him near I felt less alone. And caring for him was something I could do when I could do nothing for Brigitte. That was left up to the doctors and other caregivers—to whom I owe a great debt. In a way it was just me and Winston. My daughter would pay me a visit, but she didn’t live nearby and had to work. My good neighbor checked in on me occasionally. But in sense Winston was the ideal companion. I had to care for him and he would always be close by. I would talk to him, but we obviously didn’t engage in conversations, which I appreciated because I didn’t want to talk during that time. Even now I write about my good dog Winston, I don’t want to talk about him to others. Doing so only makes me sad. When Brigitte was sick, she would either get well or she wouldn’t. Sometimes words are useless. And now there is no reason to talk to someone about Winston. I will write about him because I owe him that much, and because I don’t want him to disappear altogether. The worst thing about death is that it causes peoples and creatures to disappear forever.
Our bond was not intellectual but emotional, so words were really unnecessary, though I found myself constantly talking to Winston just as now I keep thinking about him, even when doing so is painful, such as the memory of the last time saw him an hour or two before he died. He watched me with love and fear. I thought I should stay with him, but tired and distraught I went back to bed. That I left and he died all alone will haunt me for the rest of my days. Why? Because he would have wanted me to stay. And I let him down, when he never let me down, not once. What could be more mysterious than such feelings between a creature and a human? Could one have a similar bond with a robot—based on intellect rather than emotion? Perhaps, but love could not be part of the equation, which would avoid a broken heart when the robot became inoperable. Besides, robots can be repaired just as old Deuch'vaux are. And a robot would never feel sad as Winston did. What I do know is that Winston felt an emotional need, that I call love, to be close to me or to some other member of the family.
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.
(Byron Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage Canto 4:178)
And that might explain my deep sorrow when he died. I moved around from place to place during my early life. I settled down only after meeting Brigitte. So I had very few friends. After settling down my friends were mostly those of Brigitte. In San Diego we lived in apartments and condos, not communities. I’m old now, born during World War II, so the few friends and relatives I had are mostly gone. My best friend was my brother, but he’s gone. I pretty much lived as a loner until I met Brigitte, but she would say that I continued to live as a loner—mostly because I never made new friends. So as a loner I came to France. And having poor knowledge of the French language (I took a year of French in college after met Brigitte but that was it except for reading old French textbooks bought at secondhand bookstores). As a result I really couldn’t make friends in France. So my best and only friend was Brigitte, my wife. We have a daughter here, but she came years after us and her family lives in Grenoble, so I see her a couple times a month.
The isolation changed when a friend of Brigitte invited us to adopt a newly born border collie, who was Winston. Winston then became my constant companion. During the night he would sleep on his bed tucked in a corner outside our bedroom. When I had to use the restroom at night I used a small flashlight. I would see him curled up in his bed. Usually, only his eye would move would to watch me but sometimes he would raise his head perhaps expecting a pet, which he always got. I was always deeply affected seeing the little creature in his bed upstairs wanting to be close to his two masters. I can’t say why exactly, but I think I was moved by the creature’s love and by the sweetness of his being. He was precious as a creature who like us needed to sleep.
If that sounds sentimental, it’s because that’s how I felt. The psychologist William James distinguished between two temperaments: the “tender-minded” and the “tough-minded.” By my definition, I fall in the first category. I’m interpreting “tender-minded” as something like sentimental. James’ meaning is different: The tender-minded are intellectualistic, idealistic, and optimistic, among other characteristics. I’m not idealistic nor optimistic. The tough-minded are empiricist, sensationalistic, materialistic, pessimistic, irreligious, fatalistic, pluralistic, and skeptical. As it turns out, I am also tough-minded, but not when it comes to Mary Austin’s little folk—both plants and animals. Plants and animals never taught me to be negative, pessimistic, or fatalistic. I got that from men like those who are today causing fear, loathing, and harm. What the tender-minded isn’t, according to my definition, is indifferent, detached, disdainful, or callous. As recent events have shown, there are many such people in the world who are indifferent, detached, disdainful, and callous, such as the men and women (yes even women unfortunately), who work for Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin.
I apologize for sullying my remembrance of Winston with reference to such people. That said, I will continue by saying one reason Winston was so lovable is that he was totally unlike those men and women. In addition, I will also say that what the White House and the Kremlin have in common is an absence of love and an abundance of hatred. Winston was thoroughly good, whereas Trump and Putin and their followers are thoroughly evil. And that shows that creatures are infinitely superior to some humans. And I am speaking not just in terms of their behavior—such as making people happy—but morally by not intentionally doing harm or encouraging hating others.
Winston was a good guy, and his way of life, like that of other creatures, illustrated that he possessed a good deal of wisdom. Today, we live in a world that has little knowledge of what wisdom is, thus no appreciation for wisdom. Men like Trump and Putin think they are wise but that is because they are fools who believe foolishness is wisdom. Yes, Winston chased birds and lizards (and flying insects) and would do them harm, but he had no inclination to harm dogs or people. And he didn’t hate the birds and lizards that he chased. He acted instinctively, and I doubt he even intended to kill them. It was a chase game to him. If he caught them he would tag them with a bite and leave them. Unfortunately his bite could be fatal to little creatures.
When I would awake in the morning he would be there. Wearily he would get to his feet to follow me down the stairs. I went before him so if fell he would fall against me. I would open the front door and throw a treat which would go after and then do his business in the far corner of the yard. Afterwards, he would return to me and watch me make coffee. Then we would go next door where I would go upstairs and turn on the computer and heater if it was cold. Then I would come down and we would return to the kitchen. I would feed him outside until he got sick during which he was fed inside.
In the room below where the computer was located were a television and an Xbox game console. Other than big Christmas or New Year’s Eve shows Brigitte and I watch only mostly BBC TV series. My high school students were responsible for my becoming interested in playing video games. I believe games have many things to say about the nature of modern society, such as why young and old gamers seek to escape from it into cyberspace. I have favorite games but Mass Effect has pushed them aside. Serious video games say a lot about the world we live in. In Mass Effect the general theme is that evil men or evil machines threaten civilized society, just as evil men do today with their evil machines. In my science fiction novel Her Quest autonomous machines or AIs are more humane than most of humanity. They are because their AI controller, called Computer, achieves moral intelligence, which evil men such as Trump, Putin, etc., never do. In fact, they achieve very little intelligence at all because their only interest is egocentric. The will to power is the product not of intelligence but by an irrational, inflamed ego of dull-minded men.
When I would awake in the morning he would be there. Wearily he would get to his feet to follow me down the stairs. I went before him so if fell he would fall against me. I would open the front door and throw a treat which would go after and then do his business in the far corner of the yard. Afterwards, he would return to me and watch me make coffee. Then we would go next door where I would go upstairs and turn on the computer and heater if it was cold. Then I would come down and we would return to the kitchen. I would feed him outside until he got sick during which he was fed inside.
In the room below where the computer was located were a television and an Xbox game console. Other than big Christmas or New Year’s Eve shows Brigitte and I watch only mostly BBC TV series. My high school students were responsible for my becoming interested in playing video games. I believe games have many things to say about the nature of modern society, such as why young and old gamers seek to escape from it into cyberspace. I have favorite games but Mass Effect has pushed them aside. Serious video games say a lot about the world we live in. In Mass Effect the general theme is that evil men or evil machines threaten civilized society, just as evil men do today with their evil machines. In my science fiction novel Her Quest autonomous machines or AIs are more humane than most of humanity. They are because their AI controller, called Computer, achieves moral intelligence, which evil men such as Trump, Putin, etc., never do. In fact, they achieve very little intelligence at all because their only interest is egocentric. The will to power is the product not of intelligence but by an irrational, inflamed ego of dull-minded men.
If Winston hears me playing a video game he comes to the window and gives me a look that says he would like to join me. Once inside he would go to his third bed or lie on floor. He would watch me and sometimes would fall asleep. If I mowed the lawn he would lie in the grass some distance from the machine and watch me work. If I had some other task in the yard he would flop down nearby and watch me. He might get up and chase a car if one drove by. He enjoyed most of all chasing the mail man by running back and forth along the fence. As he became less active, he simply wanted to lie near wherever Brigitte or I was. Had we got him to a vet sooner might he have been saved? I don't know, and I am haunted by the idea that we should have done more. He didn't make it easy. One time at the vet he snapped at Brigitte causing a tiny puncture wound. Because of her low immunity the wound put her in the hospital for a couple of weeks. (That event is described in another blog article.) So at the vet I was always nervous because Brigitte would pet him to reassure him and I feared she would be bitten again.
At lunch he would be with us. After lunch he was usually taken on a walk, mostly by Brigitte but also by me.
I would take him where I could let him go off the leash and he would take off like a coyote, which he looked very much like. He might disappear but would always return. At dinner he would be with us. After dinner Brigitte and I would watch a show, and he would be with us. Then it would be bedtime, and he would follow us up the stairs to sleep near us. In other words, he was totally interwoven with our lives. Knowing little French, my world was Brigitte and Winston. I would talk him, more like thinking out loud but to him. No one was closer to me except Brigitte. He was my silent companion, though occasionally he would bark to be let into the house. Now everywhere I go I expect to see but don’t. Actually, I do see him but as memories. His absence is palpable, felt with a deep sense of melancholy. It’s as if Winston is gone but his ghost has remained in the form of recollections. In fact, house is full of ghost from generations past. It is truly a haunted house. The village also has ghosts, people I knew who have died. I encounter them on my walks through the village. As one grows older more ghosts appear, and one's life becomes haunted, at times unbearably so.
I must emphasize that to me Winston was a creature person. I related to him as if he were a person, not human, but a person, nonetheless. We shared a life together. We shared an emotional bond together. He could make us happy and we could make him happy. When his leash was put on he would take it in his mouth and hurry off to the gate. Going for walks was his favorite pastime. He investigated by sniffing messages left by the by other dogs and leave a message for next dog that came along. He loved to walk with any member of the family. And I truly find this human-creature relationship both amazing and mysterious. It may not occur anywhere else in the Universe. In terms of friendship, I place Winston very close to the top, and I believe he felt the same.
Like I’ve said, most the people I have known and cared about are gone. What was hard about my mother dying was she took all the family’s stories with her, most importantly her own, story of having living through the depression and World War II. But she was wheelchair bound, blind and deaf and in constant pain from shingles. So in a way death delivered her from a life of pain and frustration. I was working with my stepfather when he died of a heart attack. That was hard, but strangely no harder than Winston’s dying. Why is that? I don’t know, but I think my stepfather would have understood. However, My relationship with Winston was one of caring for him and protecting him. He was a little creature I had adopted as his human caregiver. Yet, I couldn’t protect him from death.
I feel that perhaps I should have acted differently. During his last hours I felt I should stay with him and now deeply regret that I didn’t. I don’t know how long the guilt will last. Supposedly, time is a healer. We shall see. I had placed a pillow under his head and went back to bed. I should have stayed as long as he could see me. However, finding him dead was deeply painful. His mouth was open, his tongue hanging out, his eyes no longer seeing. Yet, he was still my dear Winston. Leaving rather than staying I felt I had let him down when he had never let me down. Perhaps seeing his actual dying might have been unbearable. That sounds like an excuse and probably is. I’m now haunted by painful visual memories, yet strangely I don’t want to lose them, not one, not even of his death. I believe people who have dogs not as pets but as companions understand. And that’s also true of owners of cats and horses or any beloved creature.
Certainly one reason why I and Brigitte became so close to Winston is because we love creatures, animals certainly but also plants though not in the same deeply emotional way. When I’m playing my video game I’m often visited by a bird who alights on the fence outside the widow. I pause the game and marvel at him or her until the bird flies off.
I find birds just as amazing as elephants and whales, maybe not as amazing as a manatee, but absolutely beautiful. One of the joys of having a pet is caring for the creature, making him or her happy. They are grateful. I knew Winston was grateful for what we did for him because any time he saw me or Brigitte or the other members of the family his face would brighten and he would wag his tail. Often when he was lying on the floor he would catch me looking at him and he would respond a wag of his tail or getting up and coming over to me. And he would often jump up and put his paws on me as if to say I love you. He would also prostrate himself before me. I don’t know if that is a unique behavior of border collies. But it seemed that Winston was expressing loving respect for his master. Winston would express his appreciation for us in many ways. Some people believe dogs don’t s smile, but Winston seemed to smile when chasing a ball or playing with the grandkids.
All of nature’s creatures are beautiful. Winston was handsome. Pugs are cute, but their cuteness is beautiful. German Shepherds are also handsome. The Dobermann possesses a fierce beauty. Each breed of dog possesses a unique beauty. That’s because like the rainbow beauty like love comes in difference shades.
No animosity, hostility, or hatred
No jealousy or resentment
No cruel ambition
only love.
Grief
Talking To Grief by Denise Levertov
Ah, Grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.
I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.
You think I don't know you've been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider
my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.
I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.
You think I don't know you've been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider
my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.
Grief is love in mourning.
Without love there would be no grief.
Goodbye, Winston. You were loved.
