Unconditional

When I was twelve, my dad and I went to Botswana.

A camp manager greeted us on arrival.

His name escapes me, but for reasons that will remain classified we’ll dub him, The WhiteWolf.

WhiteWolf was a red-headed, fifty something Afrikaans.

At dinner that night, WhiteWolf regaled the camp guests with tales about being a game warden in a park called Kruger.

The drunker WhiteWolf got, the more he revealed about himself.

He conspiratorially told everyone within a quarter mile earshot that his co-worker and best friend at Kruger was a Black Man (pronounced “Blek Man.”)

For the sake of the story, we’ll call him BlekSideKick.

Part of being a game warden means protecting Rhinos, Elephants and other Big Game from Ivory Poaching.

Meaning effectively; WhiteWolf and BlekSideKeck’s job at Kruger was to Poach Poachers.

Of course, my Dad was riveted.

Corporate Poaching is his favorite pastime.

So much so, our competition derisively calls us ‘The Rivermaid Traders.’

BlekSideKick’s job whilst Poaching Poachers  was to “Slap the Bullets in my hand” when WhiteWolf needed to reload.

One night, BlekSideKeck called in sick.

This left WhiteWolf all by himself on Poaching Poacher Patrol.

WhiteWolf patrolled alone until daybreak.

As the sun crested over the horizon, WhiteWolf spotted someone through his scope with a freshly harvested Rhino Horn.

When he focused his sights, he realized that the man who killed the Rhino was none other than BlekSideKeck!

“I had no one to slap the bullets in my hand!” WhiteWolf crescendoed. Tears welling in his eyes.

WhiteWolf went on to tell us that he was forced to shooting his best friend, BlekSideKeck, for Rhino poaching.

This sent my Dad and I recoiling in horror.

If the Weasel Warren has taught my Dad and I anything it’s that:

Et Tu moments accrue as your hairline recedes you.

“Batman’s real arch-nemisis is a good therapist who knows how to cope with loss.” -Michael Malice

Two weeks ago, we made that awful trip to the Vet that no good dog owner wants to make.

Until the last month of his life, our dog eyed me suspiciously as if he knew this day would come.

Initially, I didn’t want to like him.

He was a Six Pound-Six Ounce Yorkie. The Runt of his litter.

Eventually he won me over.

In a weird way, he was the crucial grounding point that formed the relationship between my girlfriend and I.

He was fiercely protective. I routinely watched him walk-down dogs ten to fifteen times his size.

He’d chase cats, chickens, possums, squirrels or anything that (his words) “Deserved to Die” for invading his territory.

I am a territorial man. I beam with pride writing this.

 

Last year, The Fear forced me into taking 10 minute 45 degree ice baths to calm nerves. The dog was my right hand man throughout the whole process.

He, like all dogs or real friends, appeared not when he needed you.

But when you needed him.

“Through him….With him…In him…..”

In 2018, the Catholic Church will unveil it’s new “Sin Forgiveness Program.”

It is an In-App Confessional Booth/Collection Plate that doles out varying sums of ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Mary’s’ based on atrocities committed.

It’s an effort, which I fully support, to keep Ol’ Padre’s tentacles from extending past The Rectory.

When I reached my majority, I developed an antagonism with The Church.

Catholicism put a definite, almost permanent, strain on my relationship with the Almighty.

For now, I’d like to clarify my stance.

I’d never publically shame an organization that subsidizes pedophiles or shelters cruel hypocrites.

What if I am Freddo Corleoned in a ‘Happy accident’ or given a terminal diagnosis?

That would destroy my eventual plan to baseball slide into spiritual home-base, returning to my predisposed religion just under The Almighty’s tag.

“You think dogs will not be in heaven? I’ll tell you they will be there long before any of us.”-Robert Louis Stevenson

It is said that Grief is so painful people that invented people invented religion to endure the emotion. I totally agree with this sentiment.

Grief avoidance or Grief repression is like holding your soul hostage. It leaves you dead on the inside.

For the first time in a long time, I felt real grief for my dogs passing.

Feeling feelings is Cathartic? Cazart!

In spite of the grief we are enduring, Lolo and I realize how lucky we are to have had him 12.5 years.

He left no lawn unanointed. No loved one unloved.

We are going to miss Lazy Saturday’s, “Double U’s”(Walks) and going on adventures.

But most of all, we will miss missing him.

Which to me, is the hardest part of losing any loved one.

It is my one true hope that the Dogma that ‘All Dogs go to Heaven’ is real.

Because if I slip past St. Peter’s gate, I’ll get to say “Sorry, Skeety for being late.”