Tale of Four Dogs

For the last two years, four dogs have been building a friendship on long walks they've taken together in the woods of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Now, sadly and inevitably, they're starting to get old together.

Lucy, my dog, is the runt of the group. She's a twelve year old, twenty-two pound rat terrier. She's eager to be liked and petted, and loves to run as long as she keeps the rest of the group in sight.

Cooper is a twelve year old black Lab mix. He's neurotic. His owner says if there was a nuthouse for dogs, Cooper would be one of the star patients. He barks loudly--"Let me out!! Let me out!!"--all the way on the car ride to the the trailhead where we walk, but then once we exit the car, he usually falls meekly in line behind his owner, scared of what might lie ahead. Strange noises scare the hell out of him. But other times, inexplicably, he races off with total abandon. He climbs to the top of ridges, he slogs through heavy snow, he pursues the scent of some unseen wild animal. He's our bi-polar adventurer/wimp.

Lokey is a ten year old yellow Lab. She's a good-natured gal, lumbers along with us, never sprints, and never ventures off the trail unless it's to roll around joyfully in the snow.

And then there's Fidel, an eleven year old, one hundred seventy pound Newfoundland. All black, with a mass of thick hair. He really lumbers, just barely able to keep up with us. He's noisy as well, breathing heavily through his mouth which is frequently covered by saliva, snot or snow, or all three.

Last summer and fall, the four dogs all eagerly walked and ran with us on a three mile trek along a lake amid a forest of pine trees. It was the highlight of their day. The cool air, the sun peeking through the trees, the smells of other animals who had passed this way, and the ability to get out and stretch their legs all brought out the natural exuberance of Lucy, Cooper, Lokey and Fidel.

Life was good. No, great.

Well, Lucy these days is still able to sprint up and down the trail, as long as she keeps us in sight. And Lokey, who's always in a good mood, still plugs along.

But Fidel, the big Newfoundland, is slowing down, actually stopping sometimes when his lungs and his heart tell him they need a break. We've shortened our walk on occasion to accommodate him.

And then there's Cooper, the erstwhile crazy dog, the barker, the hunter, the sprinter, the bi-polar adventurer. His back legs are giving out. His right hind paw is pointing outward. He slips frequently on the trail. He doesn't run anymore, and yet he wants to, badly. You can see it in his eyes. Sometimes, we've had to turn around after a quarter mile because his back legs have turned to spaghetti. Sometimes, we've even had to leave him at home, which breaks his heart.

It's hard to say whether Lucy, Lokey, Fidel and Cooper know what's happening to them--that they're slowing down, they're getting old and infirm, and that they'll eventually die. They must have some instinct that  allows them to accept sickness and death as the natural process of life.

Regardless, the four of them still seem to enjoy their lives. There's light in their eyes, they bark, they wag their tails, they're always eager to take on a new day. They truly seem to value their friendships, they adore the outdoors, and they long for adventures, even when their aging bodies are telling them to slow down.

Whether they know it or not, they're teaching their human friends a valuable lesson.

Strange Little Tribe

We're a strange little tribe here in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, aren't we?

That observation came through to me clearly Wednesday night as I wandered the campus of Michigan Tech in Houghton. The university's enrollment is about 6000, and I'd guess at least 3000 of them were outside, bundled up but smiling, well into the early morning hours.

It was all part of Tech's Winter Carnival. The temperature? Eighteen degrees, with light but steady snow falling, and yet the campus was crawling with revellers.

Some observers might wonder, "What the hell is wrong with those people?"

I would have liked to ask that question, or something like it, of a blonde coed who was standing amid a crowd and watching a broomball game at the festival. For the uninitiated, broomball is like hockey except 1) the rink is tiny  2) the players use little brooms and big nerf balls instead of hockey sticks and hard pucks  3) the players scramble awkwardly around the rink in shoes rather than skates, and  4) the goalie (usually a large guy) kneels in front of his tiny goal rather than stands.

The game ain't pretty but it's fun.

Anyway, the blonde student stood there alone in the crowd, with a subtle smile on her face and talking to no one, for forty-five minutes, and she actually seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the experience. In eighteen degree weather with snow pelting her!

I don't know, maybe she had a boyfriend out on the ice, but still. There's something going on out there that only those in the U.P. tribe (and maybe their brethren in Wisconsin, Minnesota and the Dakotas) can understand.

Other images from this strange but exhilirating snowy festival:

           High-spirited students lining up patiently to play minigolf on a makeshift, icy course that rewarded luck rather than skill.

          Two girls, away from the lights and fanfare, sharing a teeter-totter and a conversation as part of a Cystic Fibrosis fundraiser. They and their friends see-sawed for thirty-six hours straight, day and night. I stopped by twice with donations. Couldn't help it.

          Students selling hot chocolate for fifty cents and "flaming" hot chocolate for a dollar. The "flaming" hot chocolate contained chili peppers.

          One student giving away bowls of chili. Free. No idea where the food came from.

          Maybe a hundred students, arms in the air, dancing wildly in the snow to the deafening music that came out of an enormous boombox made of ice. Had to be at least ten feet tall. The music reverberated throughout the campus.

          And of course, there were the dozens of snow sculptures, all under feverish construction by student groups, armed with axes, hammers and chisels. They had until 8 a.m.Thursday to finish their works of art in the campuswide competition.

Like I said, we're a strange little tribe.

I suspect folks in Florida and California, so proud of their year-round warmth and sparkling beaches, wouldn't get it. But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? It takes a strange and special kind of person--or 3000 of them--to appreciate a party in the dark, in the snow, in the cold.



 

The Death of Newspapers

I give up.

I'm a lifelong lover of newspapers, but after a battle that's lasted nearly a decade, I'm finally waving the white flag of surrender and bowing down to the almighty digital media.

Two events tells the story.

Event #1: August 2004, I arrive in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (aka southern Canada) and discover to my dismay that morning newspapers don't arrive here until 11 am. Eleven am!! That's not morning, that's almost lunchtime. How can you possibly enjoy your morning cup of coffee without your newspaper? How can you replace the tactile joy of the newspaper, the turning of pages, the wrinkling of pages, the distinct aroma of newsprint, the smudge of newsprint, the giant ads that don't even draw a second look?

I suffered newspaper withdrawal symptoms for years.

Event #2: October 2012, I vacation in South Carolina and one morning, discover a USA Today lying just outside my motel room door. In years past, my heart would have skipped a beat, I would have swept up the newspaper with glee, joyfully poured a cup of steaming coffee, and then sat down to enjoy my daily, hard-copy fix of news, sports, business and entertainment. Hallelujah, life was good!

But no. On this fateful morning, I picked up the crisp USA Today, bold with print and bright with color, and said to myself, "This feels good, it looks good, but this is old news. It's at least eight hours old. I just got the newest news on my iPad. Why would I want to read the old, dated news?"

So that was my epiphany. Newspapers are quaint, charming artifacts, kind of like the horse-and-buggy, but they've outlived their time.

Oh, they'll be around for awhile but there are fewer of them, they're getting physically smaller, and fewer people are reading them. True believers insist the big, national newspapers will survive, or the tiny, community newspapers will thrive, or....Give it up. Wave the white flag of surrender. Hold the presses. Park the delivery trucks. Stop chopping down the trees.

It's over.

I'm not sure whether that's bad or good. It just is. And cheer up; we all still love horses and buggies, right? We just don't use them.