My Life As
A Parent
Father
Michael F.
Steltenkamp,
S.J.
I was in
doctoral
studies at
Michigan
State when
I received
a phone
call from
my
veterinarian-friend.
Without
much of a
greeting,
he blurted
out:
"How'd you
like to
have a
boxer
puppy?"
Delighted
a the
thought
(because
my family
had one
when I was
a child),
but aware
that my
life as a
Catholic
priest
would pose
many
obstacles
to owning
one, I
responded:
"Oh, Alex,
I could
never take
care of a
dog with
my
lifestyle
being what
it is. Why
do you
ask?"
He told me
that one
of his
clients
had
brought in
the
sickliest
puppy of a
large
litter,
and had
requested
that it be
euthanized.
Prior to
administering
the
injection,
he
hesitated,
and
thought
the little
fellow
really
didn't
deserve
such a
fate.
After all,
it might
survive if
it was
with
someone
willing to
devote the
time to
its care.
That's
when he
called me.
Hearing my
response,
he said,
'Okay,
just
thought
I'd ask."
His
earlier,
enthusiastic
tone of
voice had
turned
coldly
professional.
Before he
could hang
up, I
said:
"Does this
mean
you're
going to
put him to
sleep?" He
answered
in a dead
monotone:
"yes." Not
wanting to
hang up, I
asked:
"What's he
doing
right now,
Alex, and
what does
he look
like?"
I heard my
friend
move from
the phone
as if
turning
away. Back
at the
receiver,
he said:
"Well, a
boxer
puppy who
weighs
about
seven
pounds is
sitting on
a table
about ten
feet from
me. In
fact, he's
looking at
me with
that
furrowed
brow all
boxers
have. They
have such
a
serious-looking
face you'd
think he
knew what
we were
talking
about."
Throwing
caution to
the wind,
I
volunteered
to try and
get the
dog
healthy
until a
proper
home could
be found
for it.
Two hours
later, the
carrying-cage
arrived. I
opened the
swinging
door, and
out
tripped a
little
boxer
puppy
whose
quivering
legs and
forlorn
look
prompted
me simply
to say:
"You
pathetic
little
thing!"
As if to
understand
what I
said, and
perhaps
resentful
of my
judgment,
he
immediately
emptied
his
bladder on
my new
carpet.
What had I
done? My
only
previous
experience
of caring
for
creatures
was
limited to
goldfish
and
turtles. l
had a
dissertation
to write,
church
services
to
conduct,
and
appointments
that
required
time and
travel!
How could
I possibly
attend to
the needs
of this
emaciated
puppy?
After
sniffing
every nook
and cranny
of my
quarters
(while I
simply
watched
and
wondered
why I ever
agreed to
taking
him), this
orphan pup
returned
in front
of me,
scratched
himself,
and sat
down to
look up at
my
bewildered
expression.
Although
silent, he
seemed to
be asking
with his
peculiarly
serious
face:
"well,
what are
we going
to do
now?"
"Okay,
little
dog, you
need a
name you
can grow
into, a
name that
will give
you a
better
self-image
than the
one you
probably
have. You
seem to do
a lot of
sniffing
around, so
maybe you
should be
Mr. Sniff
sniff. On
the other
I and,
when you
trip over
your paws,
it seems
your name
should be
Wimpy.' I
think you
need a
name that
sounds
more
boxer-ish,
or a name
that will
give you
self-confidence.
Okay, I'll
name you
'Spike'."
As time
passed, my
little
friend
ended up
sporting
several
names.
Because I
thought he
needed ego
boosting,
I started
calling
him "Mr.
Best," and
after his
ego
eventually
surpassed
that of
most
humans, he
barked as
if to tell
me this
name was
his
favorite.
In
low-sounding
utterances,
he seemed
to echo my
call: "Moofta
. . .
Booft."
Eventually,
I called
him a
variety of
names--"Good
One," "Mr.
So Good,"
"Mr.
Excitement,"
or "Mr.
Wiggly-waggly."
He also
responded
with great
interest
to my
saying the
"do you
want a
cookie?"
(this
reference
was to an
edible
treat of
some
kind). It
was a
powerful
word--able
to bring
him to me
in
lightening
speed, and
sit in
front of
me--attentive,
and
tensely
alert. His
expression
seemed to
say: "I am
the best
dog in the
world, and
I very
much
deserve
that
cookie you
hold.
P-le-a-s-e,
may I have
it?"
The ritual
was always
the same,
and it's
probably
one that
all dog
owners
know well.
I'd hand
him the
treat. and
it would
disappear
behind
crunching
sounds
that
emanated
from a
face that
was lost
in a
dreamland
of taste.
After
finding
every
crumb that
might have
fallen
from his
mouth,
he'd
obediently
sit and
silently
plead with
me for
another
one.
It was
quite a
sight to
see those
first
months. I
walked
across
campus
every day,
accompanied
by the
most
patetic-looking,
"wimpiest"
boxer that
one could
imagine. A
string was
leash
enough for
this
little
creature
of God's
who, I
gradually
learned,
had more
"spunk"
than his
appearance
first
suggested.
Mr.
Sniff-sniff
relished
every day.
In fact,
two years
after
giving him
to me, my
vet friend
watched
Spike take
his
afternoon
spin
around a
large,
campus
meadow and
remarked:
"He sure
turned out
to be a
marvelous
specimen.
I'm sorry
I neutered
him."
I had
taken good
care of
him, yes,
but it was
Spike who
made of me
a doting
parent. I
was a
priest
whose only
family was
this young
dog-"child."
My home
was his,
and the
pitter-patter
of little
paws was a
nightly
serenade I
valued
deep in my
heart.
Wherever I
went,
Spike was
with me.
He would
sit
vigilant
behind the
steering-wheel
when I
stopped at
a store.
He would
remain
patiently
in the car
if
whomever I
visited
did not
appreciate
his
presence
inside
their
house. His
expression
(so
characteristic
of boxer
faces) was
always
that of
being
attentively
concerned
about
whatever I
"discussed"
with him
in
private.
I lived in
a
one-story
building
which
served as
a day care
center for
children
between
the ages
of three
and
six--all
of whom
received
their fair
share of
"kisses"
from their
boxer-friend
whose
play-space
was next
to theirs
in the
field
outside.
On
numerous
occasions,
one of the
little
people at
the
daycare
center
would
notice me
walking
through
their
playroom
and
announce
to
everyone:
"there's
the daddy
of the
doggie!"
Just as
their
fathers
would do,
so would I
(at the
end of a
day), come
to get
Spike and
bring him
inside.
Unfortunately,
some
parents
would make
the
mistake of
cutting
across the
field to
join their
child at
the
playground.
They would
be stopped
by the
children's
self-appointed
protector,
the ever
gentle,
but now
fiercely
defensive,
alert and
intimidating
Spike. He
would
strain on
his
chain--ready
to bolt at
whoever
tried to
violate
the
playground
of his
little
companions.
The
scenario
would
always be
the same.
A day care
worker
would rush
to get me,
and
anxiously
explain
that
"Spike has
stopped
another
parent and
won't let
them get
their
child." I
would
hurry
outside to
see a mom
or dad
"frozen"
in the
field, a
few feet
away from
their
child's
playground,
with Spike
blocking
their
passage.
As
irritated
as the
parents
were with
my pup's
paralyzing
appearance
from out
of
nowhere, I
would like
to think
that upon
reflection,
they were
consoled
to know
the
children
would
never have
to contend
with an
unwanted
intruder.
By the
grace of a
God whose
heaven I
know
includes
dogs, my
assignment
after
studies
was to
serve as
counselor
at a high
school. My
apartment
was right
in the
school,
and few
objected
to "the
priest's
dog"
thrown
into the
bargain.
As a
result,
Spike was
(for five
years) a
fixture in
the
hallways
and
classrooms.
The fears
of new
students
were
allayed by
"veterans"
who would
drag them
to the
now-imposing
boxer. The
older
student
would say:
"Don't be
scared.
This is
Spike. He
won't hurt
you. He
just wants
to sniff
you, and
he'll
protect
you." A
hand would
slowly
move
toward my
pup, and
receive
his black,
wet,
sniffing
nose,
along with
kisses
from a
pink
tongue.
His
fast-wagging
stub of a
tail
signaled
boxer
happiness.
Eventually,
a high
school
student's
voice
would be
heard
saying: "I
think he
likes me
and wants
to play
with me."
How often
I wished I
could
communicate
such
instant
friendliness
to people.
Indeed, it
was
curious
that Spike
inevitably
stopped
anyone in
the
hallway
who was
not a
"regular"
in the
school. He
would
frequently
walk with
500
students
during
exchange
of
classes,
but any
visitor he
would
detect and
halt--dead
in their
tracks!
Sometimes,
of course,
this made
moments a
bit
tense--like
the
evening in
darkened
corridor
he ripped
the
pant-leg
of a
substitute
security
guard.
Thankfully,
the man
dismissed
the
incident
saying: "I
raise dogs
myself and
should
have known
better. He
did what
he was
supposed
to do."
When I
first
acquired
Spike, my
vet
friend's
dad (also
a vet)
said:
"He'll
have a lot
of energy
for about
eight
years and
then he'll
go
downhill
real
quickly."
His words
rang ever
so true
when only
two months
after his
eighth
birthday,
my little
friend
faded. I
needn't
recount
the
progression
of his
illness,
but the
memory of
my last
"nose-to-nose"
with him
before he
died (in
his sleep)
is etched
in my
heart. I
did not
want to
let him
go, but
his eyes
told me it
was time.
My vet
friend
arranged
for
Spike's
committal
under a
spruce
tree (one
I know he
would have
liked),
and the
two of us
stood
there at
the grave
as I
tearfully
choked out
a prayer:
"Bye,
puppy. Be
there to
greet me
when God
calls me I
know I'll
be in
heaven if
you're
there
ready to
play, and
run, and
give me a
welcome
lick."
My little
pup, and
constant
companion
of eight
years, had
made me a
better
person,
and better
priest,
than I was
before
that day
my friend
asked:
"How'd you
like to
have a
boxer
puppy?"
Read other thoughtful articles by Father Michael F. Steltenkamp, S.J. |