A Wag, a Kiss, and a Forever Friend

Our boon companion

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

There are a lot of interesting things one can find via social media these days if you're willing to endure the steady diet of politically-based hate that propagates there on a regular basis.  Yesterday I ran across a video where people were crying, either for real or fabricated, and their pets strove to cheer them up.  In some cases, the dog would embrace their human with their front paws, much as one human shares a hug with another.  A lot of memories returned for me from the depths of memory.  I have always been a pet person, usually a dog.  I think I sought that companionship because I was a kind of solitary child and spent much of my time alone.  We had two dogs growing up, both dachshunds, one died after consuming what we think was a poisoned rat tossed over the back fence.  The second one lasted for nearly 17 years before finally surrendering to the terrible spinal problems endemic to that breed.  "Brownie," as we named him was in many ways, my best friend.  We went everywhere together and shared a bed at night.  Although there were a lot of adventures in that relationship, the best times were when we just sat on the couch and shared each other.  In human terms, we call that a ministry of presence.  You don't have to say anything, or do anything.  Just be there.

I didn't have another pet until after I got married and had kids.  My wife had promised me that when we acquired a house with a fenced back yard, we could have a dog.  We were in Columbia, Missouri when that finally happened and once we were settled in, I began to pay visits to the local animal shelter. I saw a lot of dogs I would have liked to own, but I am an emotional kind of guy, and if it were up to me, the house would be filled with animals.  One day, Cheryl and I went after she got off work and began to walk among the cages.  There were many who were jumping around, all seeming to say "Take me! take me!"  Suddenly, she stopped and kneeled down before one particular cage.  Inside was a beautiful white long-haired dog, a Samoyed as I would eventually find out.  This dog was sitting patiently, composed, as if waiting for something.  Cheryl stuck her fingers inside the fencing and the dog got up, came over, and licked them.  She then turned to me and in that tone of voice I have learned to obey, said, "This is the one."

Life, and the Guidance of Role Models

Dad

           

                                          Rick Jason as Lt. Hanley             Hugh Beaumont as Ward Cleaver

Copyright © 2019

By Ralph F. Couey

For most people, I think, the way in which life has worked out has had very little to do with how it was imagined when we were young.  The twists and turns endemic to this path we live has shown the tendency to turn plans on their collective ears, forcing us down unfamiliar paths.  

As a child, I imagined life would work out like it did for my role models.  My father, first and foremost in my personal pantheon of heroes, was a man of intelligence and great wisdom.  He was dignity personified and had embarked on a life of service and discipleship, most of which I became aware at his funeral when countless people told me of the impact he had on their lives.  It was like being introduced to someone new.  Like others of his generation, he knew the value of hard work and in the lingering shadows of the Great Depression, never took prosperity for granted.  I loved and respected him deeply, but despite his concern, support, and encouragement, I always felt that I never really measured up.

Being a child of the '60's, I spent a lot of time watching TV, from which I gained a certain make-believe perspective.  But there were role models there as well.  Ward Cleaver, father of the Beaver, so perfectly played by Hugh Beaumont was one of my favorites.  Through the lens of childhood, I saw a lot in him to be admired and respected.  It's no accident that my regard stemmed from the fact that he shared so many valuable attributes with my own father.  Calm and steady even in the fiercest storms, both of them possessed seemingly boundless courage and wisdom.  They always had the right answer to any question, the right solution to any problem.  True to the cultural norms of those halcyon days, they were in unquestioned command of their household realms.

Both Dad's, mine and the Beaver's, wore suits and worked in offices.  I knew what my Dad did, but the nature of Ward's profession will forever remain a mystery.  We would see him occasionally answering his office phone while sitting behind a desk mysteriously bereft of papers, folders, or in-and-out boxes.  The only observed accouterments being a phone and a pen-and-pencil set.  Whatever he was doing, he was nonetheless a man of authority.

Clearing the Clutter of My Random Thoughts

Waikiki on a Sunday night

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

Normally my offerings here are of the single subject variety, but while I have a box full of random thoughts, none of them were really expandable into a single essay, So, I decided to offer a collection of some of those random thoughts.

Working nights is, for me anyway, a royal pain.  It impacts the rest of my life in so many negative ways that it's kind of sucked the fun out of what is a very interesting job.  I do have days off, but rotating to a day schedule in order to interact with the rest of the world is tough.  I get off Thursday morning and just stay up until sleep grabs me by the eyelids, usually by mid-evening.  Last week, I retired about 8:30 pm, and slept for an unbelievable thirteen hours, not even getting up once to attend to the urgings of my prostate.  But that much time spent horizontal left my back all stiffened up, and a week later, I'm still dealing with that pain. 

But one of the benefits is being exposed to life that exists during a time I would normally be in bed.  I wrote about this in the previous post, but I wanted to include the one thing positive I get out of being on this schedule.  

My commute used to take me along Interstate H-1 through downtown, almost to Kahala.  But the Hawai'i road crews have been working on some overpasses and that has created some annoying traffic.  So instead, I take Nimitz Highway along the harbor to where it joins Ala Moana Boulevard, and eventually becomes Kalakaua, the main street through Waikiki.  

The Realm of the Night

Copyright © 2019

by Ralph F. Couey

There are two worlds that exist.  One is well-known.  Daylight.  Everyone's up and at work.  Traffic is flowing and the stores are crowded.  The parking lots are full and the sidewalks and malls are full of people going about the business of their lives.  In season, kids are in school and twice a day the yellow buses roll delivering them to school and taking them home.  In the summer, the kids are in the streets, parks, playgrounds, or in front of a TV and gaming console, engaged in play in all it's myriad forms.  

Towards evening, the sun descends toward the horizon.  For a few brief moments, the sky is brilliantly colored by the hues of sunset.  The light fades and night descends.  Dinners are being eaten, by families at home or in restaurants between people doing business.  The lights come on in homes across the landscape.  It's homework time for the kids and TV time for the parents.  Later on, eyelids will grow heavy, eyes begin to get that dry, sandy feel that tells us it's time to go to bed.  Outside, there's still life going on.  In clubs, bars, and taverns across the city, the sounds of people having their version of fun spills out through the often-opened doors.  It's late now, time when yesterday becomes tomorrow.  The streets are emptied out and the denizens of the night now move in to take over the city.  The homeless take possession of closed and locked doorways and bus stop benches.  Police patrols are vigilant.  This is, after all, the time of day when most violent crime occurs.  Sailors all know that on the streets nothing good ever happens after 2 a.m.  Everyone still on the streets gets a hard look.  Alleyways are dark and full of the frightful unknowns of night.  For those who are temporary visitors to this alien world, they walk swiftly, taking more than an occasional look around and behind them.  Sometimes in some places, the night is disturbed by the sound of gunfire.  Those awakened lie still in bed, waiting for the inevitable rising wail of a police siren.

The moon rises, bathing the landscape with it's silvery glow.  The streets are quiet now, except in areas where the drug trade is plied.  There, the corners are occupied.  Business is being done, people using what they think of as the cloak of darkness to obtain their chemicals.  Just as commerce ran the streets in daylight, fear runs those same streets at night.