Month: November 2023

Next April my dog, Quimby, will turn 7.  When we first got her, we did what a lot of dog owners do with puppies.  We bribed her.  I mean, we trained her.  When we said “sit” and she sat, we gave her a treat.  When we said “come” and she came, we gave her a treat.  And when she went out into the yard to do her “business,” we gave her a treat.  To be honest, the training never really took.  To this day, when I say “come,” she mostly runs away. 

But one thing she has managed to get pretty good at it is knowing where we keep the treats.  Even after I’ve had to go out and get her because she wouldn’t come when I called, sometimes dragging her by the collar just to make clear she’s in trouble, she will still come into the kitchen and go right to the cabinet where we keep the treats.  I hate to say it, but she will even come in and sit right down in front of that cabinet, like she’s paying homage to her god, like she is a most obedient servant.  I will tell her, no, you don’t get a treat for doing what I made you do.  A few minutes later, I’ll wander back into the kitchen from wherever I went off to because I was trying to ignore her shameless plea.  Always, she will be sitting there, looking grand and at attention, staring up at the treat cabinet. 

The funny thing is, it’s been years since we kept any real treats in the house.  Ever since we had our kitchen remodeled, and ever since the veterinarian told us Quimby needed to lose about 15 pounds, the only treats have been carrots and the occasional apple slice.  Clearly, Quimby never got that message, or she just doesn’t care.  She’s holding out hope that, someday, her master will once again fill that cabinet with treats, the good kind…with bacon. 

Then, a couple days ago, fortune came through for her.  I was out in the yard chatting with my neighbor.  Quimby was rolling around in the grass, giving herself a back scratch, all four legs stretched to the sky.  “She’s the happiest dog around,” my neighbor said.  “Yeah, and we don’t even give her treats anymore,” I said wryly.  I proceeded to tell him about our failed training, the kitchen cabinet, and the 15 pounds. 

Later that evening, there was a knock on my door.  It was my neighbor, holding a bag of dog treats, the good kind…with bacon.  “Put these in the cabinet and give her one every so often, whether she deserves it or not.  Otherwise, what’s the point in hoping?”

This Thanksgiving, may we be filled with the kind of hope that perches itself in front of an empty kitchen cabinet.  May we remember the millions of creatures, and especially the children, who go to the kitchen cabinet every day to find them empty.  And may we all be the kind of neighbor who shows up at the door with treats, the good kind.  Because what is hope if not that thing which comes to us when we need it, and even when we don’t deserve it? 

My son plays basketball.  If you ask him what he loves about playing, he’ll tell you, being on the team and shooting.  He loves being with the other boys on the team.  He doesn’t even have to be on the court with them.  He loves just being on the bench with them, doing what teammates do—being in the huddle, cheering on a good play, cheering each other up after a bad play, sharing packs of bubble gum.  He loves the feeling of belonging that comes with putting on a uniform.  Whenever I see him wearing it, he always looks 10 feet taller. 

And he loves to shoot.  He’s pretty good at it, too.  He has a smooth jumper and he’s always one of the few out there who can consistently hit a 3-pointer.  But when it comes to playing defense or going under the basket, he shies away. 

We talk all the time about how in basketball you can’t just do one thing.  Your team also needs you to make some steals, block some shots, and drive for the hoop.  And the thing is, in his mind he knows he can do all these things.  He’s got quick eyes and good height.  And I know he can do all these things.  I’ve seen him do them a hundred times out in the driveway when playing against me, or when mixing it up with his own teammates. But out on the court, with 9 other 12-year-old boys all going for the ball, and 5 of them kids he’s never seen before, it’s a different story.  He doesn’t want to end up on the ground.  He doesn’t want to wrestle for the ball and wind up taking an elbow to the face at the same time.  Who can blame him? I try to tell him it’s no big deal.  So you take an elbow to the face, you get fouled, or even give a foul.  It’s all part of the game. 

If I had to guess, though, taking an elbow to the face is not really what he sees when he imagines himself driving for the hoop.  He sees blood, broken bones, and himself being carried out on a stretcher.  You understand, I’m exaggerating.  But you get the point. The mind is a powerful friend or foe.  It doesn’t matter, nor does it seem to help, that I give him pep talks.  You just need to tell yourself you’ll be alright.  Don’t think the worse.  Mind over matter.  You know the cliches, and so do I, because my parents gave them to me, and they didn’t help me, either.  In fact, most of the time they only made me dig in my heels, convinced me even more that, if I took their advice, things wouldn’t turn out alright.  I’m sure I even told myself in those moments that my parents didn’t care about me. 

Now, as an adult, I’d like to think I’ve gained some perspective, perspective that my own kids will have someday.  Part of that perspective comes in seeing, and admitting, that my parents did care about me.  That when they signed me up to be part of the local theater group, or picked me up to put me on the ski lift to the top of the mountain—“We didn’t pay all this money so you could conquer the bunny slope,” my dad said—they weren’t actually trying to kill me.  Yes, I still believe I would have been perfectly happy all my life on the bunny slope.  Not everything in life must be a lesson in how to overcome.  As a parent (and as a human being), I try to remember that my great adventure doesn’t have to be someone else’s great adventure.  For some, the most courageous thing we could do today was done the moment we chose to get out of bed.

And yet, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’ve also gained perspective in believing this: my son probably needs to take an elbow to the face.  We all do.  Not because I want to see him or anyone else get carried out on a stretcher, but because it may be the only way for us to have our minds changed about who or what has any real power over us. 

It may be that if he did take an elbow to the face in a game, he would hit the ground.  He might even bruise or bleed.  But I also believe two (three!) other things would happen.  One, he wouldn’t die.  Two, whoever elbows him to the face would be the first not only to help him up but also to ask if he’s alright.  And three, he would discover that what he has long feared is no longer to be feared.

Can you imagine how different the world could be right now if humanity agreed to play by these rules?  That if you hurt someone, purposefully or not, you have to personally bind up their wounds.  That if you shoot a gun to kill someone, you must dig your victim’s grave, lay their body in the ground, and comfort their loved ones.  That if you fire a rocket to destroy the homes of millions, displacing them to the streets, you have to rebuild their homes, and, meanwhile, take those millions into your own home. 

Can you imagine how different the world could be right now with a love like that?  Shamed by kindness, we would never go to war again.