Andrew J. Iden

In the 7^th grade, I was obsessed with baseball. Like all the other 7th grade boys that have ever existed in the world, I was less interested in my math homework and more concerned with the batting average of Juan Gonzalez.  (.310 in 1993 with 46 home runs-the guy could RAKE it.)  I was a Baltimore Orioles fan, and there wasn’t anything that looked more regal to me than the Orioles uniforms. White jerseys, with Orioles written in script across the front, they were stop-traffic awesome to me. And specifically, #8.  Cal. Ripken. Junior. There were posters on my wall, Wheaties boxes on my dresser, and to that point, I’d managed to get every Cal Ripken baseball card that existed. There were hundreds of them. I woke up in the morning wondering what he had done the night before, since I was usually in bed by the time the games ended. In my house, he was just Cal.

There was no way I’d get control of the main television in the house, so I holed up in my parents room watching games on a small television, with my baseball glove on. This was my existence. Some time around the winter of 1993, I managed to get an address for Cal Ripken’s home after a trip to the library. And as soon as I realized the wonders of the US postal system, I put a 1991 Topps Cal Ripken baseball card in an envelope, sent it off with an autograph request, convinced it would return in a week.  My parents tried hiding their skepticism, but I knew. They were encouraging, telling me that of course Cal will sign the card, and that of course it will come back in a week. But they knew. They didn’t say it, but I knew. Good luck with that, son.  My plan was foolproof though, because after all, it was the offseason. What else did Cal Ripken have to do but sit around and field autograph requests from 7^th graders all over the country? My timing was everything.  I’ll show them.

Weeks passed. Winter turned to spring. Spring training began and I checked the mail every day finding only coupons, flyers, and mail not addressed to me. With each passing day, my hope began to diminish, but it never disappeared. And every night I watched those same Orioles, and I watched Cal, wondering if he’d gotten my card, with his address scrawled on the front in pencil. And whenever I began to give up hope, he’d hit a home run or go 3 for 4 with two RBI’s, I’d forget about it, and all would be right with my 7^th grade world.

One afternoon in the middle of the school year, I came home, and before I started my homework, my mom pointed to an envelope on the table. I never got mail. 7^th graders don’t get mail. But this afternoon, it was different. It was simply addressed “Andrew Iden” with my address written out on the front. And as I opened the envelope, there was a feeling of euphoria that I hadn’t experienced before. There in the envelope was the baseball card I’d sent away months ago. And in blue marker, splashed across the front of the card, was the name. The signature. Oh, the signature. Cal. Ripken. Junior.  It was otherworldly.  There was no note, no accompanying letter, nothing. There was a certain beauty in that, because the signature said everything.  I’m not sure what happened the rest of the evening, but the card never left my sight. My parents didn’t say it, but I think they were as shocked as I was.  Good luck with that, son. 

The next morning, I woke up and looked to make sure the card hadn’t been taken overnight. And as I packed for school, I faced a moment that would haunt me for years. Of course I had to take the card to school. Of course the entire 7^th grade class needed to know what I possessed. I was IT. I put the card in the front pocket of my backpack, headed off to school with what was and would still be, my most prized possession. You’ll notice the past tense.  This is one of those stories.

Billy Harper wasn’t a good kid.  A daily discipline problem, he spent most of his time in detention, and looking back now, he almost certainly had a tough time at home. It explains why he lacked any moral compass and in one swift act, pulled the card from my backpack when my back was turned, slid it into his pocket, and took off with it during recess. As I turned around, and caught him in mid-act, I knew what he’d done. I knew what he’d stolen, and in a split second, overcome with confusion, heartbreak and anger, I did what any 12-year-old would do. I told the teacher. Clearly annoyed, Mr. Thompson asked Billy if he took the card, Billy denied it, and that was the end of it.  Billy was a rough kid, and I certainly wasn’t going to take things into my own hands. The scales of justice were certainly not tipped in my favor. In fact, there were no scales of justice here at all. I stood on the playground dumbfounded and confused. And there, in big bright shiny lights, was my first indication that life is in fact, not fair.  As I walked to my mother’s office after school, heartbroken and in an unconscionable state of despair, I began to cry. I’d held it together throughout the day, but the weight had become to great.  For a fleeting moment, I owned the holiest of grails in my 12-year-old world. And like that, it was gone. Poof. Billy Harper had ripped me of happiness, stripped me of pride, and most importantly, made me feel like a fool.

I rehashed the story to my mom through a foggy haze of heartbreak, tears, and snot.  As she looked at me with equal parts sorrow and sternness, she explained to me that my decision to take the card to school was a choice rife with consequence. And now, I’d have to live with that consequence. She was against me, I was sure of it. I stood sobbing, and as far as I was concerned, my mom had failed to see the true tragedy here. She was of course, right. As she always is.

11 years later, I still wasn’t over The Theft.  I know, I know.  Get over it, Andrew.  I was a grown man, and the thought of what happened that day still would give me an uneasy feeling when it crossed my mind. Through circumstances of my job, I was blessed with the opportunity to meet Cal Ripken.  I thought a lot about that day in 7^th grade, and whether meeting Cal Ripken would be the antidote that would allow me to shut the door on Billy Harper. As I stood there shaking Cal’s hand, I realized that indeed life is fair.  Because somewhere, Billy Harper was probably struggling. I’m not sure how, or where, but Billy was likely having a rough go of it in his adult life.  The playground injustice had gnawed at me for over a decade, and I’d found closure.  I told Cal what he had meant to me as a kid, and he looked me right in the eye and simply said “Thanks Andrew.” Was it his standard, canned answer to the thousands of 30-year-old men who have said the same thing? Probably. But it seemed genuine to me.  11 years later, I’d gotten the note that he hadn’t written in that envelope. This moment was mine. And it wasn’t Billy Harper’s.

I’m not really sure when it was, sometime in the mid to late 1990’s I suppose.  The Redskins were playing the Steelers in Pittsburgh, and sitting in my family room with my dad, we were watching yet another meaningless game, at the end of a meaningless season, with any number of meaningless players.  Players I don’t even remember, because frankly, no one remembers them.  The details of the game, I don’t recall, other than the Redskins lost.  What did stand out to me that afternoon was one particular play-the only thing I remember from the game-that encapsulated just how bad things were for the Redskins over the last 14 years.  Quarterback Brad Johnson dropped back to pass, and in a moment of confusion, threw the ball towards tight end Stephen Alexander, where the ball promptly hit Alexander in the butt, and fell to the turf.

That play, at the time, was the worst I’d seen from this team in their years of futility which unbeknownst to me, would last another 11 years. The quarterback was confused, the receiver had no idea what the play was, the offensive line had collapsed, and for 12 years after, that one play would be the symbol to me of what it’s like being a fan of this team.  Last weekend, that all changed.

When the Redskins made the trade for the chance to draft Robert Griffin III, I was ecstatic, but hesitant, even though I wouldn’t admit it. When he was drafted, I was again ecstatic, and again hesitant.  Still afraid to admit it.  I’d been down this road before.  When he and the rest of the team took out the Saints in week one of the 2012 season, I was all but convinced the past was over.  Then, last Sunday night happened.  I stood on the top deck of FedEx Field with my wife, dad and brother, and looked down at the field as Robert Griffin III ran onto the field for warmups.  As he he trotted out, the crowd’s chant grew to a crescendo, and as the noise grew, so did my willingness to let the years of frustration go.  No more “same old Redskins” refrains, no more typical 4^th quarter fumbles leading to a loss, no more assumptions that they would find a way to lose.  This crowd and this fan base was eady to run towards optimism, not away from it. We were cleansing ourselves of the negativity that shrouded our Sundays for the last 13 years.  Watching the Redskins that night allowed me to shake the names of Sanders, Haynesworth, Stubblefield, Carrier and Spurrier.  I forgave quarterbacks like Shuler, Frerotte, Banks, Matthews, George, Campbell and Grossman.

With a home playoff game this weekend, the Redskins have-and I almost hold my breath when I say this-turned the corner.  This is a team that matters.  This is a team that people will consider in August, when they jot down the predictions that every football outlet in the world feels compelled to do.  This is a team that will be in the A-block segments of NFL Live, ESPN Sunday Countdown, and all the other NFL shows. This is a team where coaching assistants are considered for head jobs around the league, a place where free agents will consider because there’s something going on here.

Alot has changed since that play in Pittsburgh.  12 years, hundreds of games, a handful of head coaches, and the roster has turned over at least 6 times.   There was one thing that had to change: the culture.  And even though it’s taken a while, and the road was long to get here, I looked around at the crowd last Sunday standing for hours in frigid winds, and realized that yes, it has.  Is this team championship caliber? Possibly.  Are Redskins fans afraid to embrace that? Nope.  We’ve grown up.

Look, I understand this blog has been dormant for a good couple of months.  Mostly because I come up with fantastic ideas to write when I’m sitting in traffic, waiting in line at Target, or standing outside the auto shop getting an oil change.  I can’t help it, my muse is fickle. I also dont write things down when they come to me, and before I know it, three months has elapsed between posts. Or four.  But who’s counting. Coupled with writer’s block, well, i’m a terrible blogger.

What this blog is or will become, that’s still something yet to be determined. It may get some direction, it may never have any at all.  I suppose that’s what is great about it.  Sometimes I’m raving about the ridiculousness of everyday life, like the time a three legged cat almost caused me to rear end a school bus.  (No, really, that happened.) Sometimes I’ll rant about sports, most of the time I’ll have something to say that in the grand scheme of things, isn’t that important.  It will largely go unnoticed, but the fact I’m putting it down on paper (or, well, a computer screen for the sake of this exercise) is really the important part.

I began writing as a kid. My mother got a job as a newspaper reporter, and in an attempt to get me to shut-up while she worked on deadline, she threw me a pen and a reporters notebook.  A few days later, I’d filled the notebook with The Fire Of Doom-my first foray into the written word.  I know…I’m still trying to find time for the second book in the series, The Flames Of Ruin. My mother, god love her, still threatens to pull that gem from the attic when i least expect it.   This wasn’t long before I entered a school Christmas writing contest, where a story about Santa Claus and a jet powered sleigh garnered me a second place ribbon.  I’ll never forget hearing my name over the loudspeaker, as they announced the winners.  Take that Tommy Baldwin.  (Hated that guy.  Dude won everything.  And clearly, his name has been changed….for the sake of this exercise.)

Writing started for me early.  It continued in high school and college when I cut my teeth as a reporter, serving as the primary sports reporter (and by primary, I mean one and only) at the local newspaper. Suddenly, what I said was in print, people read it, and sometimes, wrote me mail.  Once I even ruffled some feathers when I blamed the lack of athletic success at the local high school on talent and desire, instead of a lack of funding and facilities, which was the popular scapegoat for being the league doormat.

Clearly I’ve wandered off the beaten path a bit, but all this is to say that I’m writing things down now.  I’m being a better blogger, in hopes that I can become a better writer.  After all, the world needs the written word, and even more so, they need The Fire Of Doom.  We all do. Don’t we?

I told myself I wouldn’t do it this year.  I told myself that unlike the 26 or so other opening days since I began rooting for the Baltimore Orioles, I wouldn’t get caught up in the optimism of spring.  I refused to let the fresh start and hope-filled dreams of a new season take over my normally tempered expectations of what the Orioles could do in 2012.  And you know why? Because I did it last year.  And the year before that.  And the year before that, too.  In fact, going back to say, 1987, to the infancy of my Orioles allegiance, I was plagued with eternal optimism for this club.  I really, really don’t want to expect anything out of this gang of kids, who manager Buck Showalter has convinced me could somehow compete with the likes of the Boston Red Sox and New Yankees in the afternoons of late August and early September.  Dammit Buck, you’ve done it. You’ve got me hoping.

Save for a three-year run in the late 90’s, being a fan of the Orioles hasn’t necessarily been filled with memorable moments.  They’ve cycled through managers at a blinding rate of 12 in the last 26 years.  They’ve shuffled general managers almost as frequently and during this off-season turned to a man who had been out of the league for 9 years to right the ship.  But every year that begins, with it begins a hope that finally they will stand up and let the rest of the league notice there’s someone else at the party aside from the Yankees and Red Sox. But still, no one else is listening.  This is, after all, the team that lost to a community college team yesterday, no matter how you spin it.

I woke up today as I did every year previously.  I knew it was the start of a new season, a very long season in fact-yet somehow had convinced myself that they could win it all on opening day.  Things will change. Foul balls down the line will bounce the other way and become triples in the corner.  Young starting pitchers are all Cy Young Award candidates on a day like this, and will go seven innings instead of four.  And what was once a fly ball caught at the warning track will find just a little more it to get over the left field wall.

Cal Ripken, Roberto Alomar, Mike Mussina and the mid 90′s are all long gone. Brady Anderson is back, but this time as an assistant coach.  What used to be a hope for a 100 win season is now the hope of avoiding a 100 loss season.  The Orioles used to be the hottest ticket in town, they were the penthouse apartment with a skyline view.  Now, the tickets are virtually free, and they’re a burned out house across the tracks.  Except today.  They’ll likely spend the next 161 games toiling in mediocrity at best, futility at worst.  But for today, at least, they are contenders.

I know, this isn’t a blog about working out.  It just so happens that i’ve been pretty focused on that area of things for the last few months, and what can I say, it makes for good copy.  I’ve never been a runner.  In fact, my lack of exercise for the first 30 years of my life is well documented, and truthfully, the running thing was never something that appealed to me.  Exercise, sure, I’d give the gym a go here and there.  But running? Ummm…..no.  No thanks. That’s not really what I “do.”  My wife, prior to our meeting, had always been a runner and had run 5/10K’s, half marathons, and even a finished a triathlon.  She’ll swear it wasn’t a real triathlon and downplay it but i say if you do anything with running, swimming and biking in the same day, you’ve earned your badass card.  And for that, I’m envious of her.  She is a card-wielding badass.

Once we jumped back into the daily exercise regimen, for whatever reason, I began to supplement our morning exercise with runs with her in the evening.  And when it was I decided that yes, I would in fact run, I’m not sure. Call it a whim, or maybe the momentum of our morning workouts, but the idea of pounding the pavement 30 minutes at a time suddenly wasn’t so bad.  And then I started running.  And the moment i put one foot in front of the other, i realized this wasn’t a great idea. The difference between a needing to stop and catch my breath and an oncoming heart attack was blurred. I was clearly not a runner, but a walker who decided to trot every now and then. This. Sucked.

That was two months ago. Since then, with the help of my wife, my sister who also runs, and two dogs who pull incessantly and make running more of a chase than anything, I’ve reached a bit of a milestone. Jessica and I set out on a run on Monday, a modest two mile loop that we’ve done a number of times in the past, but still involves a stop along the way for me to catch my breath and ward off the potential complete shutdown of my respiratory system.  It was also a day i which the pollen count hit over 8,000 so running outside felt akin to jogging while smoking a cigarette.  I’m not sure if that’s actually ever been done, but if so, it has to feel like yesterday.

Halfway through our run my mind was drifting to weird places-wondering what exactly concrete is made of, if the people grilling on their porch were REALLY going to call 911, their faces were drenched with a look of concern.  No, no, I got this, I waved. As I turned the corner to the last half mile stretch of the run, I  thought about all the times I’d heard runners talk about “runners high”, or breaking through the “wall” and finding a place on the run where you aren’t necessarily thinking about the act of running.  Cute, I thought.  That’s not something I’m going to reach, that’s reserved for the folks who put in 8-10 miles a day.  As I kept going things got a little easier with each step, and i realized that I in fact, was there.  I wasn’t thinking about the run.  I wasn’t worried about trying to make it to the next landmark.  It was almost as if I took my hands of the steering wheel, and the car was still going straight.  This was what they were talking about.  This is why people run. This I can sign up for.

I crested the hill that marks the final push of our route and as I hit the finish line, my wife was just a few steps behind me, equal parts happy for the run, and mad at me for pushing past her a mile back.  Having a badass card usually means a competitive card, and she’s got one of those, too.

It’s entirely possible-actually, likely-the next run will be completely devoid of any kind of runner’s high.  I’ve been given a taste of it, and now I’ll expect it every time.  But it’s alright.  Just once was enough, and for now, i’ll keep trying for it.  I’m laced up.  I’m just hoping that at some point, stopping to catch my breath isn’t an actual heart attack.

Yup.  Tim Tebow. Because that’s what the world needs.  Another blog writing another entry about another take on the man who can do no wrong.  He hasn’t grabbed the nation’s attention per se, I’d  say he’s walked up, kicked it in the crotch, wrapped his hands round it’s neck, and screamed YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME.  In the nicest, most wholesome way possible, of course.  And as someone who for the last four years has been a bit worn out with the Tebow love, i’m ready to admit it: I’ve converted.  And I’d like to apologize for even using the religious metaphor, It seems anything anyone writes about #15 is compelled to litter their words with church and religion based hyperbole, But in this case, it’s the only thing that fits. I grew tired of him not because of Tebow himself but the insistence from every blue and orange laden Gator freak who insisted he was the second coming. Dammit, I did it again.

When he was was drafted, I assumed his train had come to it’s final stop, and he would fall into line with the rest of the rookies who wind up stringing together a few average years, make a boatload of cash, and then retire and wind up starting a business, or on Tebow’s case, continuing his ministry.  Fair enough.  Thanks for your time Timmy, it was a pleasure having you.

Then he became the starter in Denver.  And again, like most, I assumed he would be quickly weeded out, show that he in fact can’t play at the pro level and return to the bottom of the depth chart, allowing the Broncos to get him out of their system.  Ho hum.

Then he started winning.  And like most, I figured it was a combination of good luck, matchups, and a whole bunch of mojo that enabled him to lead the Broncos on their mid-season surge that landed them in the postseason.  He kept winning, the drumbeat was getting louder and louder, until the Tebow-mania was consuming our daily lives.  And I was choking on it.  I needed air.

Watching the Broncos beat the Steelers last week turned the tide.  Sometime Saturday night, somewhere in the first half, I learned to love Tim Tebow.  It was the storied Pittsburgh Steelers, against the Broncos, who weren’t even supposed to be there, with a guy who wasn’t even supposed to be starting.  I put my chips down, pushed them to the middle of the green-I was going all in on the Tebow poker table. When he hit Demariyus Thomas for the game winning touchdown in overtime, my conversion was complete. I’d accepted Tebow into my sports life. And dammit, it felt good.

Are the constant references to his faith a little off-putting? Perhaps.  Will he have to, at some pojnt, explain that something other than his faIth was instrumental in throwing 3 touchdown passes? Probably.  But for now, I’ll take it.  Because he, and the rest of the Broncos, are writing a script that we’re all watching, whether we like it or not.  So you might as well embrace it.  It’s just easier in the long run. Oh, and for the sake of clarification, let’s get real on another issue.  God doesn’t care about football games.

I hate Halloween. There, I said it.  And I won’t apologize for it.  I’ve accepted it, I’m prepared for the ridicule, and you won’t change my mind.  I have heard all of the “but it’s so fun” and “you can be anything you want” and “dogs dressed as cats are cute” excuses I can take.  Because frankly, it’s not fun for everyone, I can be anything I want anytime I want, and my dog has no desire to be dressed as a cat.  It’s why he is a dog.  And after years of asking myself why it is I’ve become a Halloween hater, I think it’s time for me to admit to myself why.  When I was 12 years old, in a fit of Hallow’s Eve desperation, I dressed as a girl for a Halloween party.

I’ve always been a bit of a procrastinator. And this particular year, I had put exactly zero thought into what I’d be for the neighborhood Halloween party.  The day arrived, time was becoming a factor, and I was trying to scrounge something up for the candy fueled sugar-rager. My parents were helping me out, but nothing we had in the house was able to cross that costume threshold, the one you need to strike a balance between comfort and looking like you made an effort.

As I scrambled throughout the house, somewhere in the other room my older brother said in a snarky tone-the only language 14-year-old boys speak-that I should dress up as a girl.  Truthfully, I can’t confirm if it was my brother or not, but looking back it he’s the most likely culprit.

What happened next was a bit of a blur, but having a sister two years older meant that the pieces needed for the costume were more readily available.  And with that, before I even had time to object, there was an eyeliner pencil in my face, and somehow mascara and lipstick became part of the equation.  Being the youngest of three also lends itself to being told what to do without the ability to object, and this was no exception.  In my head I was wallowing in anxiety but I was powerless. I was being transformed from Andrew to Andrea and it was too late.

Being 12 years old is the pinnacle of the awkward pre-teen years.  Being a 12-year-old boy dressed as a girl for Halloween brings with it a whole new level of awkwardness.  Walking into the party, I was brimming with anxiety, but as I looked around the room, it became clear to me that no one really recognized me.  Whether that was a compliment or not, I wasn’t sure.  But as the night went on, I was just some kid dressed as a girl. There was still a lingering fear as I saw kids I knew from school that I’d be called out.  The jig would be up.  But as the party wrapped up, I was in the clear. My parents were on the way to pick me up, and I’d managed to navigate the absurd bobbing for apples, the ridiculous cake walk, and all the other games and activities in complete anonymity.  Until I saw Kenny.  Kenny lived down the street from me and as we walked out to wait for our rides, he looked at me, completely confused.

“Andrew?”

I froze.  I wasn’t sure if I should own up to it or not.  And in a split second, I panicked, and blew the top off the whole thing.

“Hey Kenny,” I said.  He looked at me perplexed again, and the confusion shifted to hysterical laughter.  Here. It. Comes.  They are all gonna laugh at me.  But it never came. I was saved by my mother, who for the first time ever, was right on time to pick me up. (That’s a whole different blog, trust me.) I’d made it through a night as a 12-year-old drag queen intact. (That’s a sentence I never imagined I would write.)  And the next day at school, not a word was spoken.  Kenny was in a different class, so I managed to side step his inevitable cruelty.  And all the other kids had been to hyped up on sugar to even notice.

Halloween hasn’t been the same since.  That was pretty much the last year I ever dressed in a costume, save for the occasional college Halloween party where I had costumes that were 90 percent convenience and 10 percent creativity.  And it isn’t just the year i dressed as a girl that forever poisoned Halloween for me.  It’s the ungrateful kids who ask for more candy, or when the kid who has a mask and a grocery bag and is clearly too old to be trick or treating.  Or my absolute favorite, the parent who says his kid is in the car and she’s getting his candy for him. So you can take Halloween,  I’ll eat myself stupid on Thanksgiving.  Comfortably. In my own clothes.

Duke wasn’t my dog.  He wasn’t my mom’s dog.  Duke was my dad’s dog.  And everyone in the house, despite the fact I and my siblings had long since moved away, knew it. When we walked through the door to visit our parents he’d be the first one to greet us.  And he was large.   So large, in fact, he was the real life version of the cowardly lion.   And the only thing larger than his golden mane and aging body was the love he had for my dad.

He was part of a two-fer deal my parents fell into when they went to a Golden Retriever Rescue a few years back.  Maxx and Duke were a pair.  No two ways about it. My parents have always loved dogs, especially those just entering their golden years.  They always had a soft spot for the older guys.  And Maxx and Duke, two golden retrievers who were joined at the hip, were no exception.

Maxx had a number of his own issues-my brother swore the dog had hallucinogenic episodes-passed away a few years back, leaving Duke as the lone four legged member of the household.  And once he got over losing his brother, Duke promptly grew even more attached to my dad. They were the men of the house.

They had their routine in the morning, which, because of his age, often took longer than it probably should have.  He’d walk the grounds of the property. He’d hold court on the back deck when the family was together, and he’d sit and watch Redskins games with dad in the fall.  Having long since moved away, Duke was taking my place as my dad’s game day buddy.

Whenever I came home to visit, my parents loved to catch us up on everything that was going on, and tops on the list was always Duke, and his funny habits.  He’d sit in the middle of the kitchen, oblivious to the flurry of activity and around him, content to be in everyone’s way. We cleared many a tables and stepped over Duke taking dishes into the kitchen.  He’d get excited, and unleash a half attempt at barking that wasn’t the result of anything internal, but more so because he just didn’t feel the need to fully commit to barking.  He’d made his feeling known, and that was all.

As Duke continued getting older, I’ll never forget the image of standing with my dad outside Pet Smart, and Duke seated comfortably in the backseat of the truck, refusing to get out.  Despite the ramp my dad had bought to get his best pal out of the truck, Duke just couldn’t really be bothered.  He’d rather sit in the truck.  15 minutes later, in the freezing cold, he finally got out.

I call my parents often, and more often than not, the conversation involves the latest Duke tale.  There was his fear of thunderstorms, his wallowing in the grass, or confusion at everyone suddenly being on his floor with the new grandbaby.  He loved attention and would walk the aisles of the local Lowe’s with my dad on weekend mornings.  Whether Lowe’s allowed dogs in their stores I’m still not sure.  The rules were a little different for Duke.

A few days ago, I talked to my dad on the phone on my way home from work, as I always do.  He said that things were getting worse for Duke, whose aging body was moving slower and slower every time I saw him.  Duke wasn’t eating, which was the real indicator that something wasn’t right.

Duke passed away yesterday, and for the first time in my life, when I called my dad to speak to him, I had nothing to say.  Not because I couldn’t talk to him, but because he’d lost his best buddy.  And often times, when that happens, there is nothing you can say.  This was one of those times.

He had lost his morning routine partner, his co-pilot on trips into town, and his shopping buddy, that would help him look for home improvement supplies.  Sundays this fall he’ll watch the Redskins, and it probably won’t be the same.  After Duke was buried my dad was gathering Duke’s things and would be taking them to the local shelter for another set of dogs, maybe older guys, who are looking for exciting times in the golden years just like Duke and his brother Maxx.  Fitting that my dad would be making the trip.  Duke wasn’t my mom’s dog.  Duke was my dad’s dog.

I’ve hesitated since I started this blog to write about my dog.  Everyone’s got dog stories, and why muddy the waters with more, i thought.  Besides, it’s a topic that writes itself, and doesn’t take a whole bunch of thought at the end of the day.  But then I realized that writing about ones dog might in fact be terribly difficult.  To be able to convey the love of your dog onto a blank page, THAT is tough.  At the end of the day, we’ll never do it justice.  Ever.  All we can do is write, and hope that the way we feel about our dogs comes out in the words.  So with that said, this is my shot.  This is my world with Dexter.

Like millions of Americans, I have a dog.  And like everyone one of those millions of dog owners, I’m absolutely convinced that my dog is special.  And like every one of those owners, I’m also convinced that no, really, I’m not just saying that-my dog is truly one of a kind.  Let me also just go ahead and say this now, that this entry doesn’t have a sad ending.  It seems all people want to do is write about how wonderful their dog is AFTER the fact.  No, no, I want to go on record now, while Dexter is still here and explain that he is really the best dog there ever was.  And not the best in a he-listens-to-my-every-command kind of way.  Just….the best.

Dexter is complicated.  He always has been.  Since the day I laid eyes on him at the Atlanta Lab Rescue day back in 2008, I knew he was the one I wanted.  I had always wanted a black lab and Dexter looked at me and nearly opened his mouth and said “please, take me. I won’t be the easiest dog to deal with in the world, but you’ll love me anyway.” Dammit Dexter, you couldn’t have been more right.

Black labs aren’t exactly mellow dogs, and The Dex is no exception.  Every knock at the door is a 4 alarm fire, every ring of the doorbell is a trip down panic lane, and sitting on the couch and watching tv, well, that was impossible for the first two years, as Dexter wasn’t taking a backseat to the evening news when it came to attention. He never sat, he never relaxed, and he never seemed to be able to just chill.

He’s got a small circle of doggie friends, not because he is anti-social, but because he’s convinced every other dog is out to get him.  Call it paranoia, call it fear, he’s always got a conspiracy on the mind about how the Yorkie down the street is plotting his demise.  And as a result, the Yorkie down the street hears from him every time they cross paths. Barking, lunging, whatever it takes.  We explored dog obedience class, which, aside from being able to hang with his great dane buddy Mikey, was pretty much a miserable experience for Dexter.  Much like the kid in the back of the class who refuses to shut up or sit still, Dexter had no interest in the lecture on learning to heel.  Or sitting.  Or staying.  Or focusing on one’s owner.  Somehow, his teacher, David, managed to give him a passing grade.  It was equal parts congrats-on-your-hard-work and oh-my-god-get-him-out-of-here.

Before getting a dog, I had visions of being a man about town with my dog, going to the park, going to street festivals, just me and Dexter, a dynamic duo of sorts.  Pilot and wingman, we’d be guys about town. The truth is though,  he has no interest in street festivals, as the crowds and noise are a bit overwhelming.  He really doesn’t have any real interest in the park, since the other dogs are all out to get him.  And while we’ve tried doggie daycare, well, he’d just rather be at home.  At least that’s what he apparently told the other dogs who so desperately wanted to play with him.

The first three years of our lives together has certainly had its share of bumps in the road.  I’ve stood at the top of the stairs, with my eyes shut, trying to channel some element of patience when I found my brand new shoes mangled and chewed.  It’s been hard to swallow when the alarm clock is set to go off at 6:30, but Dexter decides to start the day even earlier, which in turn, means we ALL start the day earlier.

As I write this, I’ve determined it’s not the last this blog will hear of Dexter.  He’s a great dog, and has made the last 3 years awesome…….and interesting.  I could write 15 more paragraphs about his exploits.  But I’ll hold off for now. I’ve got to pace myself.  And find a new pair of shoes.