Goodbye, my friend.

Dear Gillian:

When a dog gives you her love, it is without reservation. No matter that you are at times grumpy or a slob or simply oblivious to what she offers – her warm nose and wagging tail revive your heart.

And when she is gone, she leaves a hole in your soul.

Saffron, the beautiful white whippet that shared our lives for 15 years, died Sunday morning this Nov. 20, her head lovingly cradled by your brother. She could outrun the wind, turn on a rabbit’s footprint and jump like an Olympian. But she couldn’t beat the cancer that wore her away.

Saffron wasn’t my dog; she was very much the dog of my son Garrett. But she and I had a special relationship based on unspoken words. I’m a professional communicator, a journalist, a man of words. But I’m in awe how another species can tell me exactly what she wants, guide my footsteps or tell me I’m better than I think merely with a wag, a glittering eye or a warm nose laid in my lap.

We bought Saffron in Oregon as a present to a boy who had put up with the indignities of student housing while I worked on my degree. You had grown up with Maggie, that beautiful English springer spaniel. Garrett deserved his own chance to feel the love of a good dog.

At the kennel, Saffron was the little white puppy who left the litter to come cuddle him. There was never a doubt about their bond.

She owes her name not to a spice, but to Tom Cruise. Hot cars and “Days of Thunder” were the rage of junior high school boys at the time. “I’m just mad about Saffron,” was an ode to high speed.

And Lord was she fast. She delighted in running down a cottontail or squirrel. She would embarrass sweating joggers by flying past them at a gentle lope. She was once attacked by a mean cur at the dog park. She let it chase her, slowing to let him near her tail and then jetting ahead again. Eventually, the bully dropped to its belly panting and whimpering. His good ol’ boy owner ran over the help him, muttering “Damn, no one has ever done that to him before.” I swear that Saffron grinned.


When Garrett finished school and move to his new career, Saffron went with him. Greta, a pretty little brindle whippet, became the new warm spot on my lap. On her frequent visits, Saffron never let Greta forget who was the queen hound. The two were my fishing buddies at the creek behind our house. Greta tiptoed around the edges of the water or splashed across the shallows at high speed. But Saffron loved to swim. She would slip into a deep pool without a splash and glide around in long loops in her doggy version of water ballet. When she had enough, she would find a sunny spot to bask until her fine short hair dried.

That hair was so fine that you could see freckles on her skin through it. It was closer to fur than dog hair, so silky it would startle people who petted
her. And she love to be petted. A walk downtown with her was a parade – she posing for adoring fans and they clamoring to stroke her back. You were never short of company with Saffron on a leash.

As she grew older, she just watched the rabbits bound away and spent more time in a sunny spot near the window. Her eyes were still bright and still eloquent, but we all could see she was slipping away. When Garrett and Brittany moved to Knoxville, I watched her age, text-messaged photo by text-messaged photo.

Last week the vet said the time was near. But yesterday, she perked up as if to take one last tour of her world. She ate, she cuddled and even trotted a few feet on a walk of the neighborhood. Then she quietly said goodbye.

Pet your dog Nigella tonight, Gillian  Look into her eyes for those words that only a dog can say. Be loved.

Thank you, Saffron. You, too, were loved.

-- Dad

Father's Day thanks

Dear Gillian,

The Hallmark people got Fathers Day all wrong. Instead of getting gifts, I should be sending thank you cards to you and your brother.

Garrett, me and Dad

Women enjoy a physical and intractable bond with their children, something of which all men are secretly jealous. We instead must cultivate our connection with that squirming little bundle of life.

But you make it easy. I earned my “Dad” the first time you looked up and smiled as I held you in my arms. I’m forever blessed that neither you nor Garrett ever stopped smiling. Thanks to you, happy Fathers Day to me!

Biology being what it is, I’m not only a father but also a son. So I’ve puzzled through the Fathers Day gift from both sides. Mothers Day gifts were always easy – something pretty, something clutzy I made myself or just flowers. Hugs, kisses and joyful tears guaranteed.

But what to get Dad?

If flowers are the default for Mothers Day, tools are the norm for Fathers Day. But you’ve seen Dad’s shop. Buying another tool for him was something like buying another reindeer for Santa.

Not that he minded. An extra screwdriver or pair of pliers can always find home on the workbench. He was a Dad, after all. The real present was the smile and gleam in his children’s eye.

Some of the best presents you and Garrett gave me were the little trinkets you made yourself. And I actually love getting ties. My favorites are the two you made for me with handprints of your own children. Grandkid chic. Those ties also marked my graduation from mere “father” to “grandfather.”

Son-to-father-to-grandfather. Some men never make it or don’t appreciate it if they do. But I find it wondrous. My dad’s genes became my genes, then yours and Garrett’s genes, the Briton and Evie’s genes. Garrett is next in line to move up from sonhood.

Fathers Day reminds me that I have a responsibility to the future and a legacy no one can take away. I see my dad now only in photos and the Bentley nose. But I feel him in the things I do and the words I say. Sometimes it is the way I stand or the way I walk. The Father of All Fathers Day gifts is catching those same mannerism in you, Garrett or even Evie or Briton.

So thanks, Gillian. You made my (Fathers) Day.

--Dad