Portrait of Betsy

By Betsy Howard and Leland William Howard

She wasnt a dog anyone wanted. Bald from the nape
of her neck to the tip of her tail, she was a scrawny
little black dog with little to recommend herself to
anyone other than the little tricks she used to perform to
amuse people. A loser dog.
But then, I wasnt a person anyone wanted either. A loser
in the eyes of the world. A neer do well named Jamie
Fairchild, who, at the age of forty-one, had tried his luck
in many places and invariably had failed. For twenty
years, I had become a stranger even to the members of
my own immediate family.
I didnt want a dog. I wasnt even looking for one. But
God has a way of intervening, regardless of our hopes,
dreams, and personal wills, not necessarily giving one
what one wants but what one needs.
Th ey tole me you needed me, Betsy told me.
Who told you?
My superior offi cers, she smiled, elevating her chin
toward heaven. Th ings hasnt been goin so well with
ya these past twenty years. I hear tell ya had big dreams
once, but you went bust, was homeless jes like me fer
awhiles. I also hear tell them folks of yourn aint much
of a family. But then, mine twerent neither. I hears ya
likes adventure, aint afeerd of takin risks. I aint either. I
also hear tell ya likes to perform. I does too. But ya lost
your confi dence along the way. Well, Im here to give it
back to ya.
Before long, Betsy was putting me through my paces.
Ah-ten-tion! shed bark at me. Th ats what our
C.O. always barked at the fellas I worked with in New
Guinea. Saunders was his name. Man, he was a doll,
but he could also be one mean sonofabitch, let me tell
ya. When Saunders barked them orders, them guys all
shot up straight as ramrods. Shoulders up, ass in, chest
out. Now, lissen up, Pop. Ah-ten-tion! Git that chin up!
What goods it doin hangin down thataways on your
collarbone?
Well, no one would be able to cuff me under it if its
hanging down.
Lissen, Pop, she would say. No ones gonna cuff you
under the chin. And if they does, Ill take care of em so
good, they wont need to wear no shoes! No one messes
with a Marine. Not if they know whats good for em.
Now lissen up! Chin up! Shoulders back! Ass in!
Awkward as these unaccustomed positions felt to me, I
complied with her commands.
Yeah, her muzzle widened into a grin. Th ats more like
it, Daddy.
If Betsy had set me onto the road of physical exercise,
she also corrected my posture. If it hadnt been for the
disciplines that she imposed upon me, Id now be a
walking question mark.
Why are ya walkin with your shoulders down on
your chest? shed bark. You wanna be a hunchback
one day?
No, I said.
Th en stand straight and stop hangin your head, she
said. How are ya ever goin to see where youre a-goin
lookin down at the ground all the time?
You look at the ground when you sniff , Id say.
Yeah, but thats only to get the smell of direction. Its in
the dog world what you call a map in the human one. But
ya caint go nowheres by always lookin at the map. Time
comes when youve gotta keep your eye on the road.
Th is was the army now, and I had become Private Jamie
to Sergeant Betsy. When I would slump down into that
easy chair, one of whose armrests she had completely
disemboweled, and had sunk into those pointless
ruminations about what I should or should not have
done so many years before, Betsy would approach my
feet and deposit at them the tug o war rope, fall back
on her rear haunches, her big brown eyes shining with
excited anticipation, her muzzle dropped open in an
eager smile.
Come on, Dad, lets play.
Oh, please, not now, Betsy, Id say.
Oh yes, now, she insisted. Come on. What goods
settin there goin over

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456726232

Betsy Howard

Betsy Howard is an old and very wise soul who previously served her country as a messenger and scout for the Marine Corps in New Guinea during the Second World War, at which time she laid down her life for a buddy soldier. She has also, in other climes and times, herded cattle, performed as a circus dog and street performer, and lived a life of total and loving service to her fellow beings. Leland William Howard was born in Jackson, Tennessee. He attended the University of the South at Sewanee, Tennessee and resided in New York City, where he studied singing and performed with the Light Opera of Manhattan. In New Orleans he worked as a hospital orderly, groundskeeper, and secretary, and was a periodic contributor to Impact, Gulf South News and The Advocate. In 1986 he studied at both the Cours de Civilisation Francaise de la Sorbonne and l’Alliance Francaise in Paris. In 1988 he studied under the late Herbert Berghof at the HB Studio in New York City, interpreting the female characters in the plays of Shakespeare. In 1990 he acted as administrative assistant and publicist for the summer season of The Millbrook Playhouse, publishing a number of feature and interview stories in local and regional newspapers in central Pennsylvania, amongst them The Lockhaven Express and the Centre Daily Times. In 2002 his first novel, Pirouettes Get No Applause in Goldengrove, was published. He earned a B.A. degree in English from Hunter College of the City University of New York in 2004 and an M.A. in English Literature from New Mexico Highlands University in 2008. His second novel, The Grass Hut was published in 2009.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedications

To

BETSY HOWARD

First Trip to California

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Return to New York City - March 12, 2009

Dedications

To

BETSY HOWARD

b. New Orleans, Louisiana 1990

d. Las Vegas, New Mexico 2008

BetsyDED.jpg

A daydream: that’s all you were in the beginning, and a fleeting one at that, forgotten as I walked to the A & P in the distance of whose parking lot you became incarnate: a lean, virtually hairless street dog, scampering here, there for a morsel or scrap thrown by a kind-hearted shopper.

My heart felt the first forgings of a bond, kinship: another outcast, like me, the heart more hungry than the stomach. Your image followed me into the store, down every aisle. What was it that I was looking for anyway? I had quite forgotten, my own hunger too. I could only feel yours all the way to the pet food section.

You were ready and waiting before the sliding doors even before I came out, Gainesburgers in my hand. You knew I was the one.

How greedily you devoured the contents of each pouch, before they were even opened. That’s when they started to come, my tears, one by one, swelling to rivulets, a river, and finally a veritable Niagara scorching my eyes to the burning blindness called for by faith.

The angel at your side softly said, She’s asking you to take her home with you.

On the walk home, how easily you nestled in my arms, as if you had known me for eons,

two outcasts long separated by time, distance, space.

My eyes opened the following dawn to hear another angel say, Her name is Betsy.

Betsy, Betsy. Soon to take on many a variation: Betsy Tau, Koleikola, Betsy Koteach, Na-Ya-Tau Koleikola, Bookelah, Boo-tique, all uttered or sung to an improvised melody out of a distant Chinese ancestral past.

But none of these names were enough to contain the love I felt for you.

Yourself rejected by all, you were Sent to rescue me from loneliness and grief. With your broad smile and shining eyes, you made a heaven of hell and life itself a Blessing for which to give continual praise.

With you, every walk was an adventure, holding the promise of a new friend or acquaintance.

You kept me young. Your discriminating eye and sniff led me only to those working for my highest good, and for those who meant me harm, a shrill bark or blood-curdling growl.

You were the draw, of course. I had neither your charisma nor confidence. You might have been a movie star on our promenades down Fifth Avenue for all the requests for your snapshot.

Though in the body of a dog, you were so much more than that - your eyes - they’re human, people would say.

And yet, how unbearable, the discriminations you suffered for your canine status, barred from trains, buses, subways, restaurants, bookstores, libraries, and on planes, being obliged to suffer the indignity of the cargo hold.

The New Yankees would have been lucky to have you as their shortstop. A born athlete,you required no special training other than the gifts Nature had bequeathed: to stay on a circular running course, sure as a racehorse in a steeplechase and without losing a breath; or to soar high into the air with all fours to snatch up a fly ball as easily as if you were pocketing a handkerchief, and to come back to earth on all fours with a grace surpassing that of Nureyev.

Your only limitation, the gift of human speech, must have been frustrating for one who, carrying the wisdom of the ages, had so much to teach me. And yet, you did succeed in teaching me much.

And yet, you bore with it all without complaint, happy enough to be my companion.

Through seventeen years, you were my teacher, guide, best friend, playing with me, bearing with me, licking away the tears of every trial and tribulation.

Had I no other friend, I couldn’t have had a happiness as complete, as whole as that you gave to me.

Now you’ve moved into another sphere, dear, great lady of a Barbara Stanwyck toughness and heart of gold.

All I am, will ever be, have ever done, will ever do, I owe to you. And yet, I still feel you here alongside my pillow as I sleep at night, trotting eagerly ahead of me as I walk our accustomed routes, and all the while I still hear you say:

Of all the stars in heaven,

There’s one that’s your’n alone,

Follow it with faithful eye,

And you will find your way back home.

Dr. Jane Gorman

Great teacher, animal advocate, rarest of souls, and cherished friend, whose love and appreciation for Betsy transcend time and space, and who, over the course of the past year, has given me much emotional and spiritual support.

Maxine Gordy Thatcher

Dear and brilliant friend of Betsy and me who understood Betsy better than most others and, in the wake of whose passing, listened not only with her ears but with her heart.

Jane Gorman’s beloved horse Jerome

1980-2011

Perennial pilgrim, you crossed centuries and continents from an age of the Angelus to grace a time when the depth, duration of human interconnection is no more than the hurried words exchanged between travellers in a railway station rushing to catch a train.

Steady of course, with patient plod, the plow and cart as unquestioned in your heart as the monastic stone floors where, your knees rubbed sore in prayer, you shed, as a snake old skins, a series of selves to serve God and others.

In many a Santa Fe fiesta, your noble profile and all-seeing eyes inspired many a smile and admiring glance, until cruel chance, claiming a beloved father, the measure of whose love no one could replace (or so you thought) made you want to quit the race.

The offer of a new owner thrilled your ears no more than a musical stanza stranded to a maddening repetition on a phonographic record groove. But you, old pilgrim, had long since learned that the pilgrimage to the City of Love entails sacrifices along the way: stays at humble, perhaps uncomfortable wayside inns or even on bare earth beneath a roof of stars. You also knew that for the sake of a journey to one worthy soul, many equally unworthy had to be suffered for and through. You gave your consent to one more lap around the track.

The agreed-upon meeting, to which you looked no more forward than a sack of meal, turned reunion: the flash of recognition, turning centuries to seconds, revealed a long lost and beloved friend crossing the field to where you stood.

You yielded to her lead, sensing a kindred soul, accepting you not for what you could do, but for who you are. For seven years, it was enough to be, the halter and rope things of the past. You were like a tree in autumn, stalwart as a sentry standing fast, there for her, as she for you, in times of darkness, loss, not through what was said or done, but felt, two hearts beating in unison to the strains of an old Hindu hymn.

Now the field you roam is the vast infinitude of space, and every star, Orion, Little Dipper, and great Pleiades, are hurdles, fences taken with far more ease than any you knew on earth, and over which you and your much loved father, now reunited, leap, and gallop, and race like Pegasus in a pyrotechnic display unrivalled by any fireworks on Independence Day

By neither body bordered nor fence confined, you come and go where you will, but still do not forget the one soul left behind, into the fabric of whose heart you have been woven, and, like the wind, whistle down from time to time to whisper words of consolation, gratitude, and blessings to her for giving to you (as you gave to her) in this earthly realm the gifts for which even an answered prayer cannot compete for joy: acceptance and love unsought, unexpected, and coming, as the cries of hidden celebrants upon the ears of the unsuspecting guest of honor when, opening the door to a darkened room, flips on the light to hear: Surprise!

Rosemary De Angelis

Whose mellifluous voice in the 1972 HB Playwrites Foundation of The Ex-expatriate still resounds in my memory and who, in 2007, suggested that I write a memoir about Betsy.

Ivana Iworska

Dear neighbor on West 49th Street who adored Betsy and who, in 2004, also urged me to write a memoir about her.

Elizabeth Bell

Who was the first to suggest back in 1992 that I write a book about Betsy and who, without asking anything in return, was always there to help Betsy and me.

Rabbi Joseph H. Gelberman

Guru and teacher, who gave me spiritual guidance during a very troubled period in my life.

Katie Mae Wilson

Great lady of true faith, tremendous courage, and a strength as enduring as an oak tree, who gave me courage in the face of my profoundest fears and pointed me to the path of a miracle that made it possible for me to go on.

Marjorie Liebman

Joyous, exuberant, lovely lady who, over the course of more than seven decades, celebrated color in her paintings and who, with an open palm, taught me that one must let go before one can receive.

Alan Balicki

Who literally saved me from the mercy of the winds and loved me for who I was.

Jim Arena

For giving me friendship and for setting me free.

The Reverend Percival Val Rogers

For rescuing me from six years of unending chaos and who, through Our Lord Jesus Christ, helped to restore within me a sense of inner peace.

Vincent Woodrow Beach

For extending to me the hand of friendship and for inspiring me to write poetry.

Bruce Bascle

Unique and rarest of souls, who believed in me, was there for me, and gave me friendship and moral and material support when I needed it the most.

Anne Bell

Expert businesswoman with a heart of gold and Founder of the Southern Animal Foundation, to whom many a stray animal and pet lover should light a grateful candle, and without whose help and influence, the seventeen glorious years that Betsy and I spent together might never have been.

Debra Ceaser

For extending to both Betsy and me the hand of friendship when we were in a very dark situation and for putting into my hands a prayer that worked the miracle of Betsy’s and my continued relationship.

Larry Butler

Who, during the dark days following the passing of my mother, held out to both Betsy and me the hand of friendship, opened his door in hospitality to the two of us, gave me the gift and practice of the Rosary; and who, in faithfulness and obedience to the prompting of the Holy Spirit, saved the life of my beloved dog Betsy.

Rix Mohay

Who was healed from a terminal illness by the Love of Our Lord Jesus Christ and from whose laying on of hands, I received, from Our Lord Jesus Christ, healing from a potentially serious skin condition; who has been a true Christian brother; and who, at any hour of day or night, has unfailingly put aside his own concerns when I have needed spiritual guidance, and with heartfelt and devout prayer, helped me overcome many obstacles standing in the way of my relationship with Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Dr. Regina Briefs-Elgin

Great lady, teacher, nurturer, and listener who helped me get through a very difficult Master’s Degree program; who recognized who Betsy really was and is; and who, when Betsy passed away, gave me compassion, consolation, and emotional support.

Dr. Helen Blythe

Natalie Farr

Casey Applegate and Katie DeLion

Dear friends who never forgot Betsy’s or my birthdays and whose gift of Pupcorn on the occasion of Betsy’s seventeenth birthday will forever be treasured.

The Reverend Randy Campbell

Who was gracious enough to let me bring Betsy to church with me, and who, since her passing, has given me emotional and spiritual support.

Maureen O’Brien

Who has tirelessly given of her time and energies in rescuing homeless and stray animals in the state of New Mexico, and who, during the past two years, has given me much emotional and spiritual support.

Gavin Rudolph

Mimi MacDonald

Gus and Mike and John

Two great and loving G.I.s and buddies of Betsy, who daily braved the dangers of savage fighting in the jungles of New Guinea during the Second World War and without whose courage and selfless devotion to the preservation of our nation’s freedom, I would never have had the freedom to choose my own life and to derive joy and fulfillment from my writing endeavors.

Herbert Berghof

Great actor and director, who doubtless would have been Germany’s greatest actor had it not been for the anti-Semitic policies of the Nazi Regime; who, for over six decades, consecrated his life to the quest for beauty and truth in acting on both sides of the Atlantic; and finally, through the establishment of the HB Studio in New York City, gave to generations of aspiring actors and actresses an affordable home where they could cultivate their talents.

Saundra Halberstam and Eliot Cameren

Who, through their Clinton Chronicle, have given The Clinton area of Manhattan a voice where the major issues of the city can be honestly addressed, and who generously accorded recognition of my first published novel, Pirouettes Get No Applause in Goldengrove.

Brian and Nell Rodgers

Who, without asking anything for themselves in return, devoted long hours in salvaging from my dead computer many writings that would otherwise have been utterly lost, including my second published novel, The Grass Hut.

Martina Holguin and her brother Marcos

Tireless and devoted workers for the Las Vegas, New Mexico Animal Welfare Coalition, to whom many a stray pet is now grateful for their loving homes.

Betsy’s veterinarians

Dr. Hank Klimitas, Dr. Adrianna Sagrerra, Dr. Martha Lucas, Dr. Richard Fried, Dr. Charles Schaubhut, Dr. Marcie Fallek, Dr. Andrea Jacobsen, Dr. Daniel Giangola, Dr. Terry Jantzen, Dr. William Brainard, Dr. Ben Nelson, and Dr. Joy Aldsdatter for the excellent and loving care they gave Betsy for eighteen years.

Susan Plagge

Miss Katharine Hepburn

1907-2003

The living embodiment of the Emersonian ideal of individualism and greatest screen legend who, over the course of seven decades, enriched and inspired generations of movie-goers with her magical performances and who, during the moral decline of a great nation, was a reassuring icon of honesty and integrity.

Miss Olivia deHavilland

Gracious lady and great actress who, over the course of seven decades, has enchanted generations of movie-goers with her sensitive portrayals.

Miss Elisabeth Bergner

1897-1986

Enchanting actress who, until she was expelled from Germany by the Nazi regime, was that nation’s leading dramatic interpreter of Shakespearian heroines and beloved acting colleague of Herbert Berghof.

Stormy Yin Yang Døg

Beloved cat who inspired me to finish my first published novel, Pirouettes Get No Applause in Goldengrove.

Orange Buddy

1985-2006

Beloved cat and fellow red-head who hung on long enough to be my friend and guide.

Lily Claudette

Namesake of the celebrated screen actress Claudette Colbert and beloved companion and prayer partner, who mysteriously disappeared in 2005 and whose presence in our lives is sorely missed.

May God be with you, dear heart, wherever you may be.

Rebecca Teacup

Beloved cat, prayer partner, and sweetest little angel that ever walked on earth.

Merry

Beloved miracle cat, who, despite having been born with hind leg paralysis, is an edifying example to both humans and animals alike, of a spirit of determination, and who, at fourteen, is still going strong due to that spirit of determination and also to healings he has received from Our Lord Jesus Christ.

Peanut Butter

Beautiful black cat who insisted upon joining our family and has enriched it with her presence.

Betsy’s canine pals Zeke, Bella, Simba, Star, Shelby, Sutter, Bruno, Rumi, and Dillon

Rhonda Redd and Ken Sistrunk

and

their beloved Labrador Retriever Daisy

1990-2002

Debbie Wren and her beloved Dalmatian Victor

1988-1997

Maureen O’Brien’s beloved Pit Bull Ishmael

Gordy Thatcher’s beloved dog Socrates

Jane Gorman’s beloved pets Malengo, Peaches Patches, and Ambrosio

Ms. Gloria Brown

To whose memory many a student at New Mexico Highlands University should light a grateful candle for all the loving counsel she gave to them.

Stella Mason

Gordon MacDonald and Holly Hunter

and their two sons, Claude and Press

John Clayton

Patricia O’Grady

Nick Katsinis and Jodie Olsen

Elene Katsinis-Hoffmann and her husband John Hoffman

Carol Knopf

Willow Allen

Susie and Terry Mossman

For renting to me the loveliest home and yard I have ever enjoyed and where I was able to write Portrait of Betsy.

My Mother, Bernice Ball Howard

1918-1992

Who survived the poverty and backwardness of an upbringing in the Mississippi logging camps during the 1920s and who went on to become a loving and devoted mother, accomplished and award-winning artist, and active fund-raiser for the American Heart Association.

My Father, Leland William Howard, Sr.

Civil Engineer, who served his country by helping to build bridges across Europe for General Patton’s advancing Fifth Army during that continent’s liberation by Allied Forces during the Second World War and who instilled within me the values of hard work and a sense of responsibility.

Ms. Shila Shell

Who took time out from a very busy schedule to help me select photographs for The Portrait of Betsy.

Cher LeFebvre

Dear neighbor and friend who, during the dark days following Betsy’s passing, offered me emotional support and hospitality.

Terri Carlin

Dear neighbor and friend who so generously brought my outdoor cats food during the brutal winter of 2009-2010.

Dr. Miriam Langer

Chairman of the Media Arts Department at New Mexico Highlands University, who generously offered departmental assistance in achieving high resolution for all the photographs in this book.

Stacy Kay Anastasia Romero

Miss Las Vegas of 2008 and graduate teaching assistant in the Media Arts department at New Mexico Highlands University, who devoted much of her valuable time in bringing both the cover design and the photographs in this book to as high a resolution as possible.

Dennis Marquez and Christopher Dees

ITS staff members at New Mexico Highlands University who generously helped me merge all files pertaining to this book.

Dr. Perry and Dawn Goldstein

For extending the hand of friendship to Betsy and me at the Blessing of the Animals at the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine in New York City in October of 1995, and for giving us photographs from that happy day that we will always treasure.

To Charlie Sandoval and the entire staff at Charlie’s Bakery and Café

and to

Ms. Beth Byrge and all the members of the Tigris Team at AuthorHouse, who have done such a splendid job in preparing Portrait of Betsy for publication.

Betsy3.jpg

First Trip to California

I hope that you’re here, girl, smiling at me from the empty seat across the way, just as you did when we headed out this way almost three years ago. I’ve put your picture there, because it is the next best thing to your actually being there. A year earlier, a trip this like would have excited me. But I’m even more lost than I was when my mother died in 1992. Larry Butler once observed, you were my right arm. And I’ve lost it. I don’t know how I’m going to get along with you. You would have loved this trip. Just think. It would have been the first time you and I would have seen the Pacific Ocean. We saw the Atlantic. But that was some time back, wasn’t it?

God, it’s such a beautiful day, girl. Full of sunshine. Awe-inspiring as the Atlantic, the landscape does not stretch but rolls in all directions toward a horizon whose line eludes definition but seems contiguous with the sky which domes it. One’s eyes are always drawn heavenward. Maybe that’s because there’s so little to see on the earth except for scrub bush, tumbleweed, and the distant mountains. We’re now passing a group of grazing horses.

Man, they’s the biggest dogs I ever seen, I remember you saying the first time you ever saw a horse.

An armada of cumulus clouds sails slowly overhead. I look at them now just as I did from a moving automobile when I was ten, not long after Big Mama died, searchingly, as if I looked long and hard enough, I might see her up there, lying on one of them like Cleopatra on her barge.

I look into your eyes. How penetrating they are, expressing volumes. You knew me better than I know myself. If only you were with me on this trip.

Whatcha sayin’, Pop? I am.

All right, I’m willing to accept that. But maybe it’s only because I want to believe it.

You kin believe it if you want.

All right then. I’ll take your word for it. I am not about to argue with what answers for my comfort. But I miss your physical presence: those beautiful brown eyes, those aerodynamic ears that, when projecting outward from each side of your head, made you resemble Yoda in Star Wars, and your beautiful black mink coat. I miss being able to hold you, to stroke you, to feel your wet tongue upon my cheek.

You really loved our journey on the Southwest Chief almost three years ago. Or did you? I was looking at a photograph of you sitting on a similar seat, and you looked sad. Were you longing to be back home in our old charming railroad flat in New York City? I still remember those road trips we took: Cape Cod, Old Saybrook, Virginia. But what I remember most was how happy you were to return to our digs on West 49th Street, and how you strained at your leash on our way to Clinton Park, as if you couldn’t get there fast enough. Come on, Pop! Let’s go to the park! And I remember how crestfallen you were when eventually they erected those big gates later to bar entrance to it after ten o’ clock at night. That was one of the deadly by-products of 9/11. Terrorism has far worse consequences than the destruction of buildings and human lives.

I don’t know how I’m going to get along without you, girl. You’ve always been there, in good times and bad, through victories and losses.

Seventeen years is a long time, particularly in dog years.

We have now arrived on the beach at Malibu. And there it is, stretching endlessly in all directions from the shoreline: the Pacific. Your godfather and his two sons are down there on the beach now, their poppa taking easy strides, the boys scurrying off in every direction with their sand buckets and scoopers, all smiles. I don’t join in. I can’t. I’m still with you. The ocean is no longer the Pacific but the Atlantic, the beach no longer Malibu but Herring Cove in Provincetown. February 1998. Godpop and his boys are now you and me, running along the beach together. Its emerald green waters become misty through my tears.

But I am here! I hear you cry. And man, ain’t it perty! It’s sure bigger than that bay we was on up in Cape Cod!

You would like to have seen him again, your godpop. And you were holding on as long as you could, poor baby. It was your body just couldn’t hold out anymore. If it only had, you might be sitting across from me now.

Your godfather dropped me at Union Station this afternoon, four hours before train departure time. I am sitting in the station cafe. A little sparrow has flown into it. Immediately I think of you and my eyes moisten. I walk over to the Plaza, and when I hear the Mexican music, I see you again, surrounded by a group of Mexican mechanics in Alex Vargas’ body shop. They called you Jessica. And I remember the way you looked up at me from the midst of them, slightly haughty, slightly indignant, as if asking, And where have you been?

I resisted taking you, not because I didn’t want you but because I was full of fear in those days, afraid of breaking the rules. I can still see that sentence at the end of the lease, typed in big capital letters: NO DOGS ON PREMISSES!

I didn’t want to get into trouble.

Hadn’t I had enough of it already?

Fear: that’s all my life had been for many years. Fear of making mistakes. Fear of going crazy. Fear of dying.

And there you were, in the midst of them, justifiably miffed that I had taken you back out, carried you in my arms through the darkness all the way to Coliseum Street, set you down, and turned to walk back.

I obeyed the rules that night. I, who had learned to be afraid of rocking the boat and stepping on someone else’s toes.

But obedience does not always bring inner peace. I couldn’t sleep.

All I could think of that night was you out there all alone in the darkness. I hadn’t known you very long. Only a day and a night. But I tossed and turned as if we had know one another forever and that I had lost you for the first in all of eternity. Had you found a nice safe place to sleep? Or had you been hit by a car as you tried to cross Magazine Street?

When I awoke early the next morning, a Saturday, I heard a very soft interior feminine voice say, Her name is Betsy.

Betsy.

I didn’t choose your name, girl. It was already yours before you came into this world. And, an identity uniquely your own, as I would soon learn.

Somewhere out in the darkness, love was crying out for a home and I had been too afraid to give it one. What, after all, would the others say if they knew?

L’enfer, c’est les autres, said a character in Sartre’s Huit Clos.

Hell, it is others.

For years, I had taken the light from other’s eyes instead of my own.

From the moment you jumped up on my lap in front of the grocery store, there was tapped within me a wellspring of sorrow so profound that I could see no more clearly than through an automobile windshield drenched with relentless sheets of rain during a torrential thunderstorm. They just wouldn’t stop coming, my tears, relentless as Niagara. I don’t think that I had ever cried for so long and so hard, for anyone or anything. They burned my eyes, my tears. They scalded them. And yet I couldn’t stem their tide. The fastest windshield wipers couldn’t cut a clear path across my field of vision for the rapidity with which they came. The other wetness I felt was your tongue against my cheek, sandpapery, wiping my cheeks clean as they fell.

I didn’t want a dog. I wasn’t even looking for one. But it doesn’t matter whether one wants something or is looking for something. Life has a way of intervening, regardless of one’s hopes, dreams, and personal wills. Love was in my lap, wild, rambunctious, feral, an endless pressure of paws, quivering with life, irrepressible, unabashed, eager. I couldn’t for the life of me push it away.

All I had wanted to do was to buy some food and get home before dark. But I couldn’t leave.

You made little noises too as you scampered over my lap, as if even kissing me wasn’t enough to express all the love that you felt for me - a love so strong, it hurt just to hold it.

Then, I heard a voice above me saying, She’s asking you to take her home with you.

Looking up, I wiped away my tears to see a woman, a neither here nor there sort of person. Unprepossessing and unremarkable in appearance. Quite ordinary looking really. Tall, large-boned, with a round, chubby and somewhat pockmarked face, its texture like that of a congealed Crisco. She was wearing slacks.

I knew that what the woman was saying was true. For years I had fought the prompting of my heart, preferring to deny them for the supposed-to-please others mode. But I also knew that punishment was the result of breaking the rules.

But we’re not allowed to have dogs where we live, I explained to her.

But she’s asking you to take her home with you.

Obviously, rules weren’t that important to this woman.

Low, muffled, quick whimpers left your lips as you continually changed positions in my lap, devouring each caress as greedily as you had devoured the three packets of Gainesburgers I had bought in your behalf. In each whimper I heard my own hunger for love and acceptance and I began to cry.

It was already getting dark when you, and the woman, and I were in front of the store.

Love finds a way, the woman said, leaving both of us with a reassuring smile.

I was still afraid of breaking the rules of the house. But I was in the grip of something stronger than my fears.

She’s asking you to take her home with you.

The woman’s words came back to me.

I finally made up my mind. There was no way I could leave you there. You had chosen me, out of all the vast myriads of people you might have chosen.

I was getting ready to pick you up in my arms when a momentary flash of doubt crossed my mind. If what the woman had said was true, and you really wanted me to take you home with me, you would follow. So, getting up from a crouched down position, I walked over to the edge of the store and started to walk up Toledano, always looking behind me. And sure enough, I had gone only a few paces when I saw you round the corner, quickening your little paws to catch up with me.

You were so dirty, and but for the hair on your head and legs, were completely bald, from the nape of your neck to the tip of your tail. Your skin was infested with mange. You were a scrawny, scruffy looking little dog, and had little more to recommend yourself to anyone other than for a little trick you used to perform to amuse people - that is, rolling over onto your back, and rolling yourself back and forth while stretching out your legs, and releasing from your wide-open mouth a series of little snarls that sounded like a cross between a yawn and a growl. I had seen you performing this trick for a group of elderly men who were always sitting on a bench in front of the store every evening to chew the fat.

But all they would do was stamp their feet. You would scamper away, frightened, and they would laugh - not the light-hearted laughter that denotes affection but dark, nasty chuckles, born of the desire for a sense of power they probably never had, and seizing the opportunity that had presented itself to them of being able to inflict back the pain that had been inflicted upon themselves when they, like you, were unable to fight back.

Betsy4.jpg

Chapter One

She wasn’t a dog anyone would have wanted. What most people would have called a loser dog.

But then, I wasn’t a person anyone wanted either. And I, too, was a loser in the world’s eyes. A ne’er do well named Jamie Fairchild, who, at the age of forty-one, had tried in his luck in many places and invariably had failed. Even my own family didn’t want me anymore.

I always knew he’d never make it, I could hear my sister Diana saying.

And that’s why I hadn’t.

Because she didn’t believe that I could. I accepted her disbelief and made it my own.

I didn’t want to disappoint her, after all. I loved her. To not fail would have meant the destruction of my sister, and I didn’t want to destroy her.

It was hot that night. But New Orleans in mid-July is like a steam bath.

I wasn’t much cleaner than the dog. We were both pretty scruffy looking. I was hot and dirty, leading the way for a dog just as hot and dirty.

Behind the A & P there was a little playground, rather run-down, with a slide and jungle gym. I seldom saw children playing there. Alongside the fence enclosing the playground was a couple of garbage pails. One of them was overturned.

It was at this moment when I learned my first major lessons about the care of ex-street dogs: watch for overturned garbage bins.

The dog made a bee-line for something, lying not far from the pail, fast a lightening. I heard the sound of bone upon bone resonate through the deepening dark and it was coming from where the dog lay down on her belly, stationary. She had a chicken bone in her mouth and appeared in no mood to part with it. I didn’t know at the time how deadly chicken bones could be to a dog, particularly if they become splintered. But I had to get it out of her mouth. I may as well have tried to extricate a nail embedded in hardened cement.

I then learned my second major lesson about caring for an ex-street dog. When such a dog finds a bone, all else ceases to exist. Love, fidelity, obedience goes out the window.

I have found this bone, and for this reason, the bone is mine. And it will be mine until I have chewed it to bits and sent it to my belly, where it will still be mine. Anyone who dares to take this bone from me will do so at his or her own peril.

I dared, but the moment I tried to remove the bone from her mouth, her jaw locked down even harder than before, and a fierce and stubborn determination blazed from her big black eyes.

Then, I did something that I shouldn’t have done. I pried her mouth open, and just as I was beginning to withdraw the bone from her teeth, she bit down in a last-ditch effort to retrieve the coveted treasure. She probably thought that she still had the treasure, not realizing that the treasure was my finger.

It didn’t hurt, probably because I was so happy that I had dislodged the bone. I had only known this dog for, at most, a half an hour. But I felt as if I had been with her forever.

Our first meeting in front of the A & P had been more of a reunion than a first meeting. And why was it that, spotting her during my periodic visits to the store during the preceding two weeks, I had felt such an especial concern for her? Why was she there? Did she belong to anyone?

But what was even more amazing was that, during the afternoon of that very same day, as I was taking my fifteen-minute break in the kitchen of the food company, I went into a reverie: I was sitting on a beach up in Cape Cod, a factor even more interesting in that I had never been there or had even consciously dreamed of being there. I was feeling very lonely and dejected as I sat there on the beach. I had no friends, no real family, and every hope and dream I had lay in utter ruins. All of a sudden, a black dog came running up to me and seeing how sorrowful I was, began to lick away my tears, the tears that coursed down my cheeks not only in the dream but in the kitchen. As she licked away my tears, I felt a sense of inner peace.

Once I had retrieved the bone from her mouth, I picked her up in my arms and decided to carry her for the remainder of the way, lest the same episode be repeated.

She didn’t struggle in my arms. I needed no further proof that she preferred the independence of the streets to domesticity. On top of that, her mouth was wide open, though she wasn’t panting, the upper palate of her long black snout rising and falling ever so slightly, as if she were laughing. I never saw a happier face. She had found a home. Love had found safe harbor.

As I carried the dog up Toledano Street, the shadows of evening had already closed in. The only sounds were my footsteps and the steady, monotonous chirrup of crickets.

Forty-one and I had come to this. Every dream I had once had of being a great actor or writer had come to naught. I was still working in subservient positions, earning just enough to keep myself alive, but nothing more. My mother was dying of cancer and didn’t show me any sign that she wanted me in Forrest Abbey to be near her during her final days.

I think you’d be much better off in New Orleans, she had said.

She was thinking of Diana, of course, and the inevitable eruption of quarrels that would result between the two of us if I remained there.

I couldn’t blame her. Who would want their final days on earth marred by continual quarrels?

She may also have known that Diana didn’t want me there. That had been policy with Diana ever since I returned there in 1973.

If love had overcome any fear of violating house rules, it hadn’t overcome my fear of Mr. Boudreau, the old ex-Korean war veteran and Cajun who was the apartment house manager.

Boudreau was from the swamp lands of Louisiana and, if military service had broadened his emotional and intellectual horizons to any extent, it was in no way evident in his attitudes and behavior.

He was a little man, not only in stature but in mind and spirit. If any expression had been stamped upon his old and weather-worn and wrinkled countenance, it was that of anger and bitterness. His eyes were mean.

Not only did he have a hair-trigger temper that could be ignited at the most trivial provocation, he frequently boasted to his tenants that he kept a loaded revolver in his apartment. Not only was this boast calculated to keep the tenants in line and as a warning to the tenants not to cross him in any way, it also betrayed his inveterate paranoia, his own feelings of impotence, but more importantly, his own fears.

He trusted no one.

As far as I could learn, he had never been married, and it wasn’t surprising that he never had. For one thing, it is doubtful that any woman would have found him appealing, physically, sexually, or emotionally. But more importantly, he was a hardened and cynical man who had viewed with much cynicism the changes that had occurred in this country since the 1960s.

My dear friend Bruce had told me that, during the Mardi Gras festivities that year, he had stood on the top steps of the apartment building’s entrance stairs and had, in the manner of Cotton Mather delivering his fiery sermon Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, berated several young women for their scanty and revealing attire.

Git some clothes on! he had thundered at them. You look like a bunch of whores!

Fortunately, at least for him, none of these young women’s boyfriends decked him. As Bruce observed, He should watch what he says to other people.

But Boudreau was a child of the swamp lands, incautious, precipitate, and paranoid. Had he been back in Cajun country, he doubtless would have been the first to take down his shotgun at the approach of a strange vehicle, particularly if said vehicle had New York State license plates on it.

But I think the main reason Boudreau had never married was that he loved no one, not even himself.

As I approached the front of the apartment building with this bundle of love in my arms, I saw Boudreau seated like some old gnome on its front steps, smoking a cigarette. I knew in my heart that he’d never let me cross the threshold with this dog.

I debated turning around, retracing my steps, and then returning when he had quit his post of sentry. But never having been one who liked to practice deceit of any kind, I decided to see if somewhere in that hardened and cynical heart of his there might be some soft spot that would grant the bending of the rules.

But I was mistaken.

Coming up to the front steps, I asked him, as courteously as I could, if some special dispensation could be granted me where the dog was concerned.

The lease says No Pets, he was adamant.

My hopes were dashed. But more importantly, so were the dog’s.

If I were to return her to the grocery store parking lot, her days would surely be numbered. It would only be a matter of time before she would either be run over by a car or taken off to the ASPCA. And looking the way she did, no one would have adopted her, which, in turn would only spell one fate: euthanasia.

But, to a landlord, carpeting is of far more value than life, and principally because carpeting means money.

Money: the most important thing to my family, more than love, loyalty, and compassion. In our family money was the measure of a person’s worth. If one had it, one was someone. If one didn’t, one was nothing.

Every time I went back to Forrest Abbey for the Christmas holidays, I bore with me my home-made Christmas cards and presents of poems or pictures I had drawn, but the merits of these creations, even if appreciated, never elicited from my mother and sisters those ecstatic paroxysms of joy and gratitude as did the fancy store-bought items they gave one another and me. They never even hung up the still-life pictures that I had drawn despite the fact that an artist friend said that they revealed much talent but shut them up in some drawer or other, and quite possibly, for the same reason they would suffer my near presence only during the Christmas holidays. As long as I remained at a considerable geographic distance from them, they could banish not only me, but the guilt of how they had dealt with me, from their consciousness. My mother, an accomplished painter herself, immediately examined each picture with the view to finding some flaw, any slip of the colored pencil with which to discredit the entire work.

There always had to be something wrong, either with me or with my work. Nothing I ever did appeared to please them.

And pleasing them was what they invariably demanded of me.

When you come to see us, Diana said to me. "You are here to please us."

I didn’t argue with her. I had learned, through painful and bitter experience, not to. To argue would have meant a quarrel that would escalate to such proportions that my mother, eventually taking sides with Diana, would begin to move against me as well, and leaving me, in the end, to have to leave the apartment complex for a long walk or to an all-night breakfast at the Toddle House.

Fear of a quarrel had finally conditioned me into complete submission to my sister. And this fear followed me, throughout the years, wherever I had gone, whether it was New York, New Orleans, or Paris, informing and infecting every relationship I had with supervisors, co-workers, friends, and even lovers.

My fear of Diana had rendered me completely incapable of speaking my mind and standing up for myself. For, in my mind, to do such things meant only one thing: punishment.

I’d like a dog too, Boudreau said.

It was only too clear what he meant. If he couldn’t have something that he wanted, then why should I? If he couldn’t be happy, then why should I?

For twenty-one years I had attracted such people into my life, people bitter, disillusioned, cynical, all feeling that Life had cheated them in some way. People who had failed to realize the dreams of their youth. People who had failed to find fulfillment in love relationships. The main reason why I attracted such people was that I was deathly afraid of Diana. From the time I awoke or was awakened from sleep one night as a little boy, to find her standing over my bed, both her hand curled to the configuration of a tiger’s claws, and her mouth opened to resemble the growl of some predatory animal, my sister, by even the slightest remark or suggestion, was able to strike terror into my soul.

Diana knew what my deepest fears were, and, throughout the years, she had played upon these fears with all the practiced expertise of a concert pianist.

If there is any foe of faith, fear is its most formidable. Fear weakens resolve and determination. Fear shatters confidence. Fear, if indulged, breeds even greater fears that, in time, can completely paralyze a person.

For many years, most of the decisions I had made were based entirely on fears. Fearing that I might be a homosexual, I submitted myself to a form of psychotherapy that ultimately led to a nervous breakdown. Fearing that I might lose my immortal soul, I left New York City. I left Forrest Abbey because I was afraid that I would go insane. I left Oxford, Tennessee because I was afraid that I would die. I left Paris, France because I was afraid that would run out of money or that Madame Bonaparte would have me deported or that I would meet with some unfortunate accident.

What I failed to realize, however, was that if others had the power to intimidate me, it was because I had given them that power. And I gave away this power because I was afraid of going against my sister. The result of these fear-based decisions was that I had ended up exactly as Diana had wanted me: alone, isolated, trapped, and utterly impotent, both in my own work and in my interpersonal dealings with other people.

I wanted the dog, and the dog clearly wanted me. But our respective desires didn’t stand a chance in the face of this old, bitter, trigger-happy Cajun whom the building owner found useful as a watchdog.

What will happen to the dog? I asked Boudreau.

The ASPCA will probably get it, he said. They’ll know what to do.

He didn’t have to explain.

I knew that it would be of no use in arguing with him. Just as I knew it would have been of no use for a Jew in Nazi Germany to refuse to wear the Star of David.

Just take her back to where you found her, he said.

The voice of authority had spoken. And even if it was that of a bigoted, self-hating, and trigger-happy man, I had no choice but to obey.

But it had always been this way.

At twenty-two I had stretched my newly-sprouted fledgling wings for flight into the heavens. But my sister and her minions, sensing the promise of a glorious future for me, barged in and clipped those wings. And when they had made absolutely certain that I would never fly again, clapped me into a series of cages called drudge jobs, where the fires of enthusiasm and creative energies of youth were siphoned off in the service of employers who, sensing my low sense of self-esteem, timidity, and eagerness to win the approval of my own family had withheld from me, exploited those failings to get the most out of me.

You’re always going to be under someone, Mrs. Eastham, my boss at the Martha Bilbo Museum had once said to me.

Not if I can help it, I thought. The only being under whom I wanted to be under was a loving, forgiving, and merciful God.

But the people under whom I had worked were far from loving, forgiving, and merciful. They were carbon copies of my own family members. Loud, booming, money-minded men like my father. Domineering, loud-mouthed women like Diana. Mild-mannered secretaries who were as afraid of their supervisor as my mother and sister Jennifer were afraid of Diana. The pattern unfailingly repeated itself. And I, of course, was forced to resume the role I had played in my own family - that of the quiet, shy, withdrawn little boy with whom the other family members continually found fault and teased, ragged, intimidated, and humiliated.

Years went by, and I grew older, but nothing had changed. I was still a little boy, in a grown man’s body.

Now I was in exactly the kind of situation that my fear of Diana wanted me in - as a sales discount clerk in a food company. Its president, Jerry, was just as my own father had been - pragmatic, money-minded, and had a special affection for Maggie, my immediate supervisor who, though fourteen years my junior, talked down to me as if I were a child of six, and Jerry, as had my own father, let her do it. Then, there was the secretary, Tabatha, Maggie’s girlhood buddy. Like my sister, Jennifer, she both loved and feared Maggie, just as Jennifer had loved and feared Diana. Together, they ragged and teased me whenever they could. If Diana could have been there to watch them, she would have danced the same jig of joy that Hitler did when he viewed, through a telescopic lens, the ruins of Warsaw.

The central core of the conflict between Diana and me had always been that each of us had different goals and expectations where I was concerned. I wanted to be a writer. Diana wanted me to be the all-American guy she herself had always dreamed of being: athletic, sexy, socially popular, and a veritable lady’s man.

After hearing me talk about my family for the first ten minutes of a therapy session, Dr. Gelbard said, It looks as if Diana had to be the boy of the family.

She had always been a tomboy. And she often spoke to other men as if she were a man herself.

Only an older brother would have said, Other guys your age have already had intercourse.

It wasn’t the sort of thing a woman or girl would have said to her brother.

On one occasion, while we were in a heated debate over my reluctance to engage in sexual intercourse with a woman, she said, If you’re not going to use it, you should have it cut off.

Mother, who was within hearing range of this remark, exclaimed with horror, Diana!

Impervious to the maternal reproach and unruffled by her own nastiness, Diana casually reiterated her original adjuration: Well, he should.

Many years later, while on a visit to New York City, she tried to justify not only the cruelty of her remarks but the overall contempt with which she had treated me.

I only wanted you to be a man, she broke down and wept after her fifth martini in the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel.

Wasn’t I already?

Obviously not. At least in her canon of masculine attributes, I wasn’t.

By allowing her to take up so much space in my head, I was preventing myself from focusing my thoughts and energies upon the realization of my own dreams. I was both terrified of her and sorry for her.

Fear was keeping me in subjection to her and not allowing me to be who I truly was.

I retraced my steps and carried the dog back down Toledano Street in the direction of Magazine Street and the A & P parking lot.

But no sooner had I reached Coliseum Street than I stopped. No, I couldn’t do this.

She’s asking you to take her home with you, the woman had said.

The truth of the woman’s words resonated so much to the core of my being that I knew that compliance with Boudreau’s orders, no matter how much they would save me from trouble with my landlord, would be a slap in the face to God.

I had to take her back to the apartment. Out of his eternal time, God had presented me with this gift, and to throw it away would constitute the grossest act of ingratitude.

Boudreau wasn’t going to sit out in front of the apartment building all night. Even authority figures had to sleep.

For the first time in many years, the spirit of love was at last willing to defy authority, even to the point of practicing deception. Even to the point of being apprehended in that deception and punished.

But this is where faith came in. For whatever consequences I might have to suffer, God would take care of me and my needs. Until this time, I hadn’t reposed much faith in God or in His Providential Care. Ever since I had suffered a breakdown in 1974, I felt that I had to do everything for myself, had to control everything that transpired in my life. To date I had drawn only misery into my life. But that was because every choice I had made in life was the result of taking orders from the home office, namely, from my fear of Diana.

I know that had she been there with me that night, she would have directed me, in no uncertain terms, to leave this dog to her own devices in that parking lot and added, You can’t go against the rules of the house.

The rules of the house.

What had they brought me but misery and frustration?

Had Otto Frank complied with the rules of the Nazi forces occupying Holland, he would have allowed his family to be carted off to some concentration camp.

But he didn’t. Because he loved his family and wanted to save them at all costs.

I decided to wait a while. Eventually Boudreau would leave his post and retire into his own apartment which was on the first floor facing the street. Just in case he should spy on me through the Venetian blinds, I decided to take another route.

There was a pair of rear entrance doors, which led onto a small back yard, enclosed by and bordered by other apartment dwellings. That would be our gateway for entrances and exits from now on.

The apartment I was renting also enjoyed the supreme advantage of being at the rear of the building, far away enough from Boudreau’s apartment, lest the dog make any noise, but not as far away for my peace of mind as far as her detection was concerned.

I waited, walked a little around the Garden District with the dog in my arms, and then returned on the sidewalk closest to the building in order to minimize Boudreau’s catching sight of my cargo from his own windows. I carried the dog alongside the River side of the stucco building until we reached the glass doors at the rear. I hoped and prayed that no one would come of their apartment as I bore the dog up the rear stairwell. I opened the door as quietly as I could, and closing it just as quietly, walked with Native-American Indian tread (a trait I had probably inherited from my Choctaw ancestors) up the carpeted staircase.

I didn’t know how I could have expected to get away with such a ruse indefinitely. But I knew of no other way.

There was another risk that I hadn’t taken into account. From the moment of our first meeting, the dog had never let out of her mouth more than a few muffled whimpers while on her feet, and while receiving a belly rub, a series of strident groans of pleasure that were a cross between a human yawn and a creaking door. But once I had set her at liberty on the living room carpet, she began to yap, a shrill, high-pitched yap that, as adorable as it was, filled me with so much alarm that I immediately set to petting her and giving her belly rubs. The ploys worked. But I couldn’t spend entire days and nights pacifying her.

I needn’t explain to anyone who has found themselves faced with caring for a pet for the first time what a bewildering and helpless feeling it inspires. Had someone left a baby on my doorstep, I could have felt no less helpless.

But this dog was no baby. She had full use of her legs, and it was clear from her behavior that she, who had known the freedom of the streets, would be a task to civilize. She was running all over the apartment, into the kitchen, into the bathroom, the bedroom. She was filled with an irrepressible hyperactive energy that prohibited a stationary position of more than a few seconds’ duration.

What in God’s name had I gotten myself into? I didn’t know what to do. The only thing this dog wanted to do was play.

Had I forgotten how to play?

I think that I had.

It hadn’t always been that way.

I had loved to play as a little boy: the piano, with my building bricks, with my toy soldiers, and carving out settlements in the wilderness of the back yard, Plymouth Rock or New Zealand. I loved donning an old Molyneux gown from the Thirties that had belonged to my mother, or a woman’s bathing cap so that, when I looked into a mirror, I could pretend that I was Kay Francis wearing a cloche hat in a 1932 film.

I loved life and found that it could be a full of joy.

And then school. Everything changed. I hated its regimentation, having to sit for long hours listening to lessons that didn’t interest me, except for history, and that dread hour of recess when I was expected to play baseball with other boys, because boys were supposed to like baseball.

I did find ways of combating this new world of time-consciousness (not being tardy), adding and subtracting figures called numbers, and reading dull