March 21, 2026: “Jack and the Moon,” Daughter’s Visit, “Playing Fetch with a Ghost”

Well, it has been about one week since the blizzard hit.  We’ve had a couple sunny days to melt some of the snow.  The banks are definitely not as tall as they were on Tuesday.  My driveway is down to bare concrete in places.

My daughter and her significant other drove up from Mount Pleasant for a visit this past Wednesday.  They just left for their return trip about a half hour ago.  Of course there were tears (on my and my son’s part).  Of course our puppy is going to miss them terribly; my daughter has had a special connection with her since we brought her home.  Sometimes I’m not sure who my daughter is more excited to see during visits—us or our mini Australian shepherd.

Marie Howe writes about her puppy . . . 

Jack and the Moon

by: Marie Howe

After driving home through the forest,

I curled into bed to sleep, but Jack wouldn’t let me.

He whined and barked—high-pitched barks I’d not heard before.

No, I said, from under the blanket.  No.

Still , he barked and paced and paced and barked.  No Jack!

Then yelped strange high yelps, followed by low growls, as if he might,

by the mere scope and scale of his pleading, persuade me, 

until I did finally throw off the covers and open the front door

through which he hurried, not to sniff or pee, but to sit on the lawn,

his back to me, a small white dog facing the moon

lit by light so bright I could have read these words within it.

And when I went to fetch him, he scooted farther away to sit

tucked into himself, gazing into the flooded distance.

A very cold night—I stood a while at the open door—calling Jack!

Jack come, come now! (willful, stubborn dog!)

And when he didn’t come, I curled on the couch,

wrapped in a shawl and dozed for I don’t know how long . . . 

then woke, went again to the door and said quietly, Jack.

It was then he turned and came in, cold and calm, soaked with the moon.

For most of my kids’ childhoods, we did not have a dog.  Up until the time my daughter was a one-year-old, we did have a crazy cocker spaniel named Nick.  I use the crazy “crazy” with intention.  Nick was highly protective.  He didn’t like strangers, and, I think, when we brought our newborn home from the hospital, he saw her as a stranger. I could almost see what he was thinking as he sniffed and nosed our daughter:  What is this strange-smelling thing?  Why is dad holding her instead of playing ball with me?  

When our daughter began to walk, my wife and I made the difficult decision to re-home Nick.  It’s not that we didn’t love him anymore.  I just had a vision of our daughter toddling after him and him not liking it too much.  (My hands still bear scars from Nick biting me when I took shoes or food out of his jaws.). We didn’t want to chance our little girl becoming a chew toy for Nick.

I was the most attached to our cocker spaniel.  When I was living downstate by myself, attending graduate school, Nick was my companion.  He sat in my lap while I studied, slept at the foot of my bed.  We went for walks and runs.  I was lonely, and he made me less lonely.  

He would also steal pizza from my plate.  Chew up new shoes.  Bark at the sounds my neighbor made in the apartment next door.  Once, a lady from the Methodist church I attended stopped by with a homemade apple pie as a welcome gift.  Nick barked and snarled so loudly that she wouldn’t come into the house.

So, you can see why we had to re-home our little cocker spaniel.  It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make.  For weeks after, I had nightmares of Nick sitting in an empty cage, whining and moaning for me to come save him.  I felt that guilt for years.

That’s why I refused to get another dog, even when my daughter and son begged me for one.  Only when my daughter was in college and son in middle school did I relent, and it was one of the best decisions of my life.  Our current canine is the most loving dog I’ve ever met.  Docile.  Submissive.  Sweet.  She quickly became everyone’s favorite family member.

Tonight, as I’m sitting on the couch writing or watching TV, our puppy will jump up next to me.  I will scratch her ears and belly, and I know I’ll still be able to smell my daughter’s shampoo or perfume on her.  She’ll carry my daughter’s scent around all next week.  When it starts to wear off, our puppy will go into the bedroom where our daughter slept and roll around on the bed to drive the smell into her hair and pores again.

Our dog is young; she’s going to be with us for many years to come, and that fills me with hope and happiness.  She’s not going to graduate from college and move out.  Or get a job in another city or state or country.  She won’t fall in love with her high school sweetheart and get married.  She’s our baby, and she’s going to remain our baby.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about his crazy cocker spaniel for today . . . 

Playing Fetch with a Ghost

by: Martin Achatz

Most people don’t believe me:  I

am haunted by a cocker spaniel, a

revenant that runs his ghostly

tongue over my fingers at night as

I sleep, presses his ectoplasmic 

nose in my crotch, inhaling

all my smells, as if my salt and sweat

called him back from whatever canine

heaven he found himself in

after he chased that final stick I 

threw on his final walk, watched him

zoom away through the hungry pines.