One of my favorite stories from History is that of Joan of Arc. Part of the reason I like it so much, is that everyone claims some level of ownership to it. The Feminists love the story, because she was a strong woman. The straight males love it because of the Amazon Mythology. To the French, she’s a hero because she was French, but the British claim the story as a relevant part of their History, as well. The Catholics, who betrayed her, see her as a saint and a martyr. The LBGT crowd lights upon her for her androgyny.

It is not my desire to attempt to compare Wolfie Blackheart to Jehanne la Poucelle d’ Loraine. There are, however, commonalities, perhaps even more so than meet the eye. Primarily, is the point that everyone seems to want a piece of this story, as well.

On January 28^th, CBS reported that San Antonio, Texas police were investigating possible animal cruelty charges against, a 23-year-old woman named Sarah Rodriguez. San Antonio Express News gives her age as 18.

Rodriguez, as her nom de guerre – Wolfie Blackheart, claims to be a “werewolf,” and freely admits to beheading a missing dog, and posting photos on the Internet. Ms. Blackheart claims that the dog was owned by, and brought to her by, a friend. A car allegedly, had hit the dog, whose name was Shadow.

A neighbor, Kathy Silva, claims, however, that the dog was hers, answering to the name of Rigsby, and apparently, 5 days missing. Blackheart is relying on the defense, that, in Texas at least, it is not an offense to mutilate animals, postmortem. According to Silva, however, the dog was alive, and Blackheart killed it. If that were true, Ms. Blackheart would be guilty of a felony under Texas law. By that yardstick, a conviction may result in jail time ranging from 180 days to 2 years and a fine up to $10,000. Further, Ms. Blackheart would be liable to civil action, by the Silva family, for loss of property, and could be held responsible for the “replacement cost,” of the dog.

In interviews, Blackheart has stated that the dog was already dead, and has gone on to state, “I’d never kill a canine – I am a canine.” She owns a wolf hybrid, named Winrey, and is seen on video demonstrating how well trained and cared for, the dog is. She has also stated that she would never harm a Human being. She cites as her reason for the incident, an interest in taxidermy. She goes on to explain in detail, how one goes about removing the head of an animal, draining it, and removing the skin.

As macabre as this story may be, the above telling sounds mundane and trivial. Nevertheless, the Internet has all but exploded over it. I did a search on YouTube for the name Wolfie Blackheart, and came up with no less than a dozen videos, ranging from hate filled screeds to longwinded defenses, and even a few protestations of undying love.

The story first came to my attention about a week ago, on FaceBook. An animal rights group to which I belong, had posted it. The article included a face shot of Ms. Blackheart, her mouth smeared with blood. Immediately the comments flew, calling for her dismemberment and death. “She should be beheaded, the twisted bitch,” one of them read, for example.

Myself, I couldn’t see anything other than her gaze, staring back at me from my computer screen. In those eyes, I saw no remorse, no concept that anything was at all wrong. I’ve seen that look before. Many psychologists and psychiatrists will tell you that body language and facial expressions can help in diagnosing certain mental disorders. I have read volumes of work, on serial killers and other types of pathological mass murderers. I’ve studied hundreds, if not thousands of photographs, in my life, of these people, their victims and their living environments.

In almost all of them, that look – that vacant, dead stare can be plainly seen. Ted Bundy, Gacy, Ed Gein, all of them, staring out at the camera with a look both placid and yet menacing. I responded to the original post from this point of view. I stated that her behavior should be viewed as a warning sign, that she could – and would – eventually begin the escalation phase of her “life cycle,” and that humans would soon follow.

When I went to YouTube, and saw her interview on the local CBS affiliate, I became convinced. Her level of calm, her ability to rationalize and deny the allegations with aplomb, set my teeth on edge.

Every indication existed, in my mind, that Wolfie Blackheart was a serial killer in waiting. She (perhaps) killed animals, working up from small wildlife to larger domesticated animals. She engaged in mutilation of the corpses – a behavior first seen in Gein’s case, but found to be consistent with the serial killer pathology, in general.

She collected weapons. This is commonly a benchmark behavior for killers of the “spree” type, such as Harris and Klebold of Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. There has, however, been precedent for it within the framework of the more sociopathic dominant form of APD, consistent with serials.

She appears nonplussed, something the jurors and witnesses all commented on in Ted Bundy’s trials.

Above all, however, was the element of transition. Serial killers go through a life cycle: Ideation – emergence – escalation – fully active – dormant. The key to all these phases is an element of transition. In general, serial killers are individuals who want to become something they’re not. They want to change, to metamorphose.  They see the killings as a means to that end. I could easily see this young woman, who wears a leash and a tail, wanting so desperately to transition into a wolf – a real wolf, as to emerge as a danger to Human life.

Had I written this piece last night, as was my intent, I would have stopped there. I would have said that there are always warning signs, and that those signs are acted upon too late, if at all. After Harris and Klebold, on that fateful Tuesday, April 20^th 1999, massacred 12 students and one teacher, we all heard, within the outcry, “There were signs. There were so many signs. Why didn’t anyone notice the signs?”

That was it. My belief was that the State of Texas should have stepped in with the full power of its mental health system, and locked this girl up, before she could do some real harm. That’s if I had written this piece last night.

Today, the story was re-posted on FaceBook, this time by another user. I made my case, as I had twice before, and got this reply: [Excerpted]

Besides the fact that our justice system thankfully doesn’t operate on your opinion about her guilt from reading on the Internet, I take major issue with this even if it is true that she killed the dog. People often talk about the killing [of] animals as a gateway to killing humans. A high percentage of serial killers do have in common that they began killing animals at a young [age]. But it would be fallacious without further research to conclue [sic] that abuse towards animals alone is indicative that a child will grow up to be a serial murderer, rapist, or abuser. This is because you might be getting the cause and effect wrong. It’s as explanatory a theory to say that murderers who have been shown to have killed animals in their youth did so *because they are murders* not because killing animals led them to kill humans. You [sic] theory ignores a massive amount of evidence that people (though not all of course) do tend to place animals on a lower moral rung. Frankly, your certainty is more frightening than she is.

I think your reaction might be a hatred of things that are too different and a view of what is proper in the way someone deals with death that is very privileged and culturally whitewashed.

It seems plausible to me that she might recognize her capacity as a wolf-in-a-human-body to have some of the perquisites of humanity, like language for one and perhaps moral empathy too.

Since first posting my responses to this story, I’ve been buffeted and lauded, praised and abused, defended and schooled. Everybody has put in his or her opinion, and I’ve tried to learn, weigh and decide.

I find myself swimming in paradox, lost in hypocrisy. We are all supposed to be anti-death penalty, yet we want Sarah Rodriguez hanged, beheaded, tortured to death. We are all supposed to be tolerant of different life choices and ideologies, yet none of us will allow this young woman to express herself as the wolf, she believes herself to be, with of course, the obvious stipulation that she doesn’t actually kill anybody!

She collects weapons. I do too. In fact, maybe just a little bit, I envy her, her beautiful sword collection. Maybe, I’m wrong about the picture. Maybe I’m wrong about the interview. Perhaps she’s just a sensitive and obviously intelligent young person, trying to find herself in a broken world.

Maybe I’m right. Fact is, we’ll either never know, or we’ll know too late.

In the end, I have absolutely no say in the outcome of this case. Nor do you my readers, or for that matter, the entire din of voices on the Internet. Only a Texas judge can be held as the arbiter of Wolfie Blackheart’s fate.

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=341271890637&id=1341830380&ref=mf

http://www.cbsnews.com/blogs/2010/01/27/crimesider/entry6146989.shtml

http://www.mysanantonio.com/news/Self-described_wolf_woman_severed_lost_dogs_head.html

http://www.animallaw.info/articles/ovustxcruelty.htm

In 1982, several members of the Boston Police, gang raped and murdered a 16-year-old honor student at a private bar called The Silver Shield Athletic Association, in Roxbury.

The resulting investigation uncovered the largest Police corruption case in the city’s history, one of the three largest cases in the nation.

A common practice, was for members of District D to pick up prostitutes on Haviland Street, Hemenway St. and Symphony Road in Boston’s seedy, East-Fens area. They would offer the girls a choice. Go in for booking – or take a ride to the Silver Shield, and throw a freebie. If the girls chose the latter, which was what they usually did, they’d be back on their corners in about an hour or so. If not, they’d lose a night’s work, and probably take a beating, for causing their pimps to go their bail.

Essentially, the girls had no choice, and saw all this as part of the cost of doing business. The cops saw it as an unwritten perquisite in their benefits package.

On the night the cops picked up Lucia Roberts, they thought she was a prostitute, and offered her the deal. She said she had no idea what they were talking about. The cops assumed she was trying to get over on them and made the decision for her. They took her to the Silver shield.

Somewhere along the line, as they took turns on her, they realized their mistake. When she threatened to bring them up on charges, they knew they had a problem.

They took her body to Morton Street and Blue Hill Avenue in Mattapan, to a place known as Lanes Bar. In the official report, they claimed that she was trying to buy drugs at the known gang hangout.

The only people to not believe that report were Ms. Roberts’ parents. They took the case all the way up the ladder, to the Federal Attorney.

When all was said and done, allegations ran up the chain of command, all the way to the Commissioner. Although the Lucia Roberts incident was only the tip of the iceberg, it served as the trigger that caused their entire house of cards to fall. The cops were exposed selling drugs, laundering money and carrying out gangland executions.

The Boston Globe released a report, over a thousand pages, listing names, dates and contacts. Many of the names in that report, including that of Whitey Bulger, are now household words. Months after the investigation concluded, people were still being transferred, demoted and reprimanded. A handful of the conspirators were actually fired. No one, however, served any time.

The term “Silver Shield,” became at once, a synonym for Police corruption, abuse of power and criminal activity.

About three years later, a friend and I were hanging out, back of a local pizza shop, smoking a joint. A cruiser pulled up along side of us, and the cop got out. We tried feebly to hide the pot, but the jig was obviously, up.

The standing game, in those days, was that the cops would search us, and confiscate any marijuana they might find. They’d make a big show of telling us that they were going to do us a favor and not run us in. They’d get free reefer, we’d get to stay on the streets – fair deal all around. These were the rules, and we all knew how the game was played.

“No. I want to be arrested, and tomorrow morning, at the arraignment, I’d better see exactly, that amount of pot, in evidence,” my friend, defiantly stated.

“Don’t worry about him, officer, he forgot to take his medication,” I squealed, feeling the noose already tightening around my neck. “I’ll take him home,”

Again, my friend protested, throwing in the usual blather about Rights and the Constitution. Again, I managed to keep the cop from blowing his lid.

All of a sudden, this Wunderkind blurted out, “I remember the Silver Shield.”

A silence fell over us all, like Fenway Park, in the 9^th inning of Derek Lowe’s No Hitter.

The cop took out his Tonfa baton, grabbed me, put the nightstick up against my throat, and told me, “I’ll take you out in the fucking woods, shoot you – and claim you were trying to escape.” I could see the rage in his eyes.

I learned a lot that day. I learned just how far the Constitution goes, out in our alley jury world. I learned that stupid friends can get you killed. I learned that Justice rarely lands on the truly deserving – but above all, I learned, don’t piss off cops.

Critical thought depends on the concept of shared common language, and on an agreed upon set of terms and definitions. If two people are engaged in the building of a table, say, and one asks for a hammer, the success of the project depends on the other handing him a hammer.  In the deeply polarized climate of modern American politics, the use of certain terms has reached a frenzied pitch. These terms are thrown about with abandon, but they do have actual meanings – predefined and agreed upon definitions. In other words, when we ask certain individuals, now, for a hammer, we get a wrench.

Let’s clear some stuff up.

Socialism refers to the common ownership, operation and distribution of industrial production and resources. It is characterized by equal access to goods and services for all individuals, with a method of compensation based on the amount of labor expended. It derives from the late 18^th century, and is an outgrowth of the Enlightenment. Socialists were a driving force in the French Revolution. It is an economic structure, and although it tends to eschew religious belief, it does not seek to abolish religion amongst the masses.

Communism is a social structure. All classes are abolished and all property ownership is assumed by the Totalitarian State. Karl Marx, a sociologist – philosopher, and the founder of the ideology, believed that Communism would eventually replace Capitalism as the logical, scientific conclusion to society. This would be accomplished through a global, proletarian revolution. Further, he felt that this would only be possible after a three-step process. First, Capitalists would have to build the world’s infrastructure and methods of production. Then Socialists would take over, driving the industrial machine to a state of overproduction, providing a glut of goods and services. Finally, the Totalitarian State would emerge to eliminate classes and divide all goods and services amongst the masses. Marx lived from 1818 – 1883. Socialism predated him by the better part of a century. Communists are vehemently anti-religion and believe that it interferes with the requisite fealty towards the Totalitarian State.

Fascism is an Authoritarian political and military ideology that combines radical nationalism with a Capitalist oligarchic economic system. The word itself was first used in Italy as early as 1920. The Italian fascio means, “bundle.” The symbol in Italy for fascism was a bundle of wheat. The idea being, that a single straw is easy to break, but an entire bundle, at once, is near to impossible. This is a defensive and militaristic posture, not a social or economic structure. Fascism is a dangerous, nationalistic and ethnically intolerant political system. It tends to be extremely religious, but always in such a way as to maintain primacy of the Authoritarian State.

I saved this one for last, because this is my primary reason for writing tonight’s piece.

The word Nazism comes from the Anglicization of an acronym for the German Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. This was the deeply Authoritarian, Nationalist, Militarist Police-State, ideology developed by Adolf Hitler. Most political scientists and sociologists consider Nazism, to be a form of hysterical fascism. It derives from the farthest Right wing end of the political spectrum.

Suffering greatly at the loss and perceived betrayal of Germany after WWI, Hitler posited his 25-point ideology to the German public in 1920. These 25 points included a national policy of Pan-German-ism, vehement anti-Semitism, anti-immigration-ism, racism, social Darwinism, eugenics, anti-Communism, Authoritarianism and ruthless opposition to economic, and political Liberalism.

By 1932, his party held the majority of seats in the Reichstag, and by ‘33, He was Fuhrer of all Germany.

Nazi belief in religion was varied, some being devout Christians, others Nordic and Germanic pagans, and still others absolutely secularist. Similar to Fascism, Hitler saw religion as a sub-set of Nazi thought, where the people’s primary loyalty should be to the state, but where religion could serve to help bind that loyalty.

It is important to state here – to remember here, that Nazis marched across Europe in the 1940s, like the Black Plague did in the 14^th century. As they did, they tortured, raped, enslaved and killed some 14 million Human beings. In pursuit of their “Lebensraum,” they crushed the bones of children, forced elderly women to stand, naked, in the snow for hours on end, and then hosed them down with ice water, to see if they would die. The Nazis performed horrific surgeries on innocent people, without even so much as anesthesia. They burned people with blowtorches, shocked them with electrodes, baked them alive, and gassed them – and all this, before arriving at their master concept, their “Final Solution,” Operation Reinhardt. During the year and a half, that program was in effect – the Nazis were murdering upwards of 20 thousand people per day, seven days a week. “Sonderbehandlung,” it was called – special treatment.

According to Glen Beck, Ann Coulter, Sean Hannity and Sarah Palin – according to these people, I’m one. According to these people, I’m a Nazi. My political affiliation is not one of the ones I chose to define in tonight’s piece. My political affiliation is Progressive Liberal. We’ve been around since about the turn of the century, too. We believe in equal rights for all people. We believe in a fair and safe workplace, where hard work is justly compensated. We believe in the humane treatment of animals, in ethnic diversity and in fair and open immigration policies. In good stewardship of our mother-planet, and we believe in an end to war and famine, not just in the U.S.A., but also throughout the world.

It hurts me when I hear myself, or my President, referred to as a Nazi, because I know whom the Nazis were. It hurts me when I see skin-headed teenagers wearing SA uniforms and carrying swastikas, because I know whom the Nazis were. It hurts me when I hear revisionist Historians and religious zealots claim the Holocaust never happened, because I know whom the Nazis were.

I challenge Beck, Palin and the entire “tea-bagger” crowd to show me, based upon the above definitions, where Obama, actually, is any of those things. What policies of the current administration are you referring to when you call him a Socialist, a Communist or – above all, a Nazi? Moreover, for the love of God, what did I ever do to you, for you to call me one?

My birthday wish is somewhat complicated, and I’m still in the process of working out the details, but it goes something like this.

At the following link, one can find the USMC Physical Fitness Test. The test is broken down into 3 levels, A, B, and C, and apportioned according to age group. My goal is to take the test, and pass it as high as level C, for my age group. If I can do better, great, but I will be happy if I can make that minimum.

Marine Corps Physical Fitness Test

So go take the damn thing. That’s probably what you’re saying just about now. Well, that’s where the birthday wish part comes in. I want to tie the successful outcome of the test, to my birthday, in the following way.

Those of you who know me, know that my dog, Jack, was saved from the jaws of death, and delivered into my and my wife’s loving arms, by an organization called “Old Fella Animal Rescue.” They have, at my behest created a “causes” page, and I would like to donate my birthday to their cause.

I originally got this idea from Scott Ross. A couple of weeks before his birthday, he announced that he wanted to donate his birthday to (Elayne Boosler’s) Tails of Joy. He set a goal amount, and we each chipped in a little something. As far as I know, he successfully achieved that goal.

My goal is to raise $1000,00 for Old Fella Rescue. Kind of a give back, my way of saying thank you. Now, I’m not looking for a free lunch, however. I pledge to take and pass this test, before any of you who do contribute, will be asked to pay.

In essence, you would be pledging to sponsor me. I don’t pass – you don’t pay.

The pledge wouldn’t have to be an insane amount of money. I realize that a thousand bucks sounds like I’m off my meds again, but at this point, and it’s still only February, if each of my friends were to donate only $10, we’d have 1600 bucks to give to this organization. This is a group of volunteers, who on their own time and with their own gas, save the lives of dogs and cats.

So there you have it. Like I say, it’s complicated. Now, as far as I can tell, Causes will contact me, two weeks before my birthday, to set this all up. I want to try to get them to do something earlier, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet. I will keep working on that aspect of things. Again, it’s only February, and we have some time, but I felt it was important to let people know, as far ahead of time as possible, that this is what I wanted to do.

All of you will be kept posted, and I’ll be putting up information as I get it, on both FB and
Flying Dutchman, that thrill a minute blog site you all know and love so well.

In keeping with my seemingly lifelong need to rebel, and engage in political protest, I used to wear a lot of military clothing. I’d find the stuff in junk shops, second hand and curio places, and Army surplus stores.

At one point, I had found a fatigue shirt that apparently belonged to an Army Master Sergeant – what they would nowadays call, an E-9. I liked the thing because it was covered in stripes and badges. It even had some “medals” actually sewn onto the shirt, itself. I didn’t know they did that. I always thought the medals had to be pinned on, but this shirt definitely had medals sewn onto it.

In short, the thing looked like the military version of a Christmas tree. I paid the two-fifty or 5 bucks, or whatever it was, and bought the shirt.

One day, I was bopping down a neighborhood street, togged out in hair down to my ass, and this career soldier’s shirt. Some guy I didn’t know walked up to me and said, “Hey, where were you with the pathfinders?”

“What?”

“The Pathfinders? Where did you do your tour?”

“Man – I haven’t got a clue, what the hell you’re talking about.”

He pointed to one of the badges on my shirt, and said, “That badge – that’s 8^th Pathfinders. I was in that outfit.”

“Oh, the shirt! I don’t know, I just found the shirt.”

“Listen, Kid. Do me a favor, will you? Take off the badges. I don’t care if you wear the shirt. You can even keep the stripes. I don’t know why you’d want to disrespect a guy who must have served 20 years in the Army, to get those stripes – but you can keep ‘em if you want. Just take off the badges. You didn’t earn ‘em. I got friends that were in the pathfinders, in ‘Nam. They didn’t make it back, and wearing those badges, is disrespecting them.”

“Wow, I never thought about it. Sure, sure, I’ll go home and take them off. I never meant to offend anybody. I just have a thing for Army clothes. I just thought this shirt looked really cool.”

“Well, no harm no foul, I guess. Just go take them off.”

He started to continue on his way to where ever he was going, as did I, when I had a thought. I turned and called out to him.

“Hey! Tell me what some of this stuff means.”

“Well, the stripes – 3 up and 3 down is Master Sergeant – E-8 or E-9, but that star in the middle means He was a Sergeant Major. That’s as high as you can get, for an enlisted man.” He walked up again, a little closer, and examined my shirt for a few seconds. “Damn, he was an engineer, air assault, and rifleman. There’s a parachute badge.”

He stood for a moment – just looking at my shirt. I could see the respect he had in his eyes – respect for someone whom I would never know. “Wow, kid. This guy was one hell of a soldier. Like I say, I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what you do, but you better pray he never sees you bumming around in this shirt – badges or no.”

Ok, You dudes check this out. My Human went completely lazy and nose-dived the sofa. Being the dog in a literary family, it falls upon me to pick up his slack and write tonight’s story.

Bacon Raid: A Jack Greenberg Joint – starring Jack Greenberg.

He was a tough as nails Chow warrior – black as night – his chiseled face, hard worn from countless missions. The vestigial fragment of an old ham bone hung from his powerful jaw and his tail curled defiantly, over his back. This was going to be the day. Today he was going to make his stand.

There is an area in every dog’s home, which the Humans call “the kitchen.” It is a place of awe and wonder, where a dog can get into serious trouble. Buried deep in its heart is a giant white thing. It groans, whirrs, and makes the devil’s own noise. Inside, however is a treasure beyond the dreams of avarice. Bacon! You heard me right. Bacon!

He had labored over his plan for days, now, working out every detail. The mission would go flawlessly. It was simply a matter of standing his ground.

“This morning I’m not gonna let him get over on me with that… that… dog food.”

Jack knew that the Human would try to offer him the usual dry and flavorless dog food, and then go get the delicious bacon, eggs and bread, and make a wonderful, tasty breakfast for himself. “What about me? Do you think I’ll get any bacon? Well, actually…since you put it like that… yes.”

You see. The Human always shared his bacon with Jack, but never enough. Here’s the Human, munching down delicious bacon, rasher after rasher, and what does poor Jack get? The occasional measly nibble, that’s what.

It was all set. Everything was in place. Jack would simply refuse to eat his dog food, and demand his just deserts in delicious bacon. It just wasn’t fair, after all. “Don’t I work hard enough, around here to rate bacon? Who would chew the furniture, or throw toys all over the room? Who would bark incessantly when strange dogs show up in our yard, or that Mailman guy comes to kill you in your bed? Face it, you wouldn’t last a day… not a single day, I tell you, with out me around.”

Soon it would be time. He knew what he needed to do. He couldn’t let the Human trick him with the usual ploy. “Don’t let him get the best of you this time. It’s a contest of wills, and may the best dog win! Stand your ground buddy. This one’s for all the marbles.”

The Human came into the kitchen, and went over to the dog food bag. He took out a big, heaping scoop. The stuff actually smelled OK, for a change. It had to be a psy-op. Part of that thing they do, you know, tricking a dog. It’s what they do.

If a dog wants bacon, he has to be ready to make the big sacrifices. He’s got to be able to do what has to be done. There’s no room for weakness now.

“Blah blah hungry? Blah blah Jack?”

“Yeah, yeah! I’m starving! Feed me up, huh? I’m dying I tell ya!

The dog food hit the bowl like hail stones in early April – and Jack hit the dog food like he was chasing a rope toy.

“Mmmmm. Mmmmmm! This is wonderful. I love Breakfast! Hey. Wait a minute!”

“You done already, Jack? Oh well, let’s you and me have some bacon.”

You know something? I love my Humans.

David Carradine saved my life. At the very least, he prevented my burgeoning prison career. The show, “Kung fu,” served as an example for me of the way I wanted to live, the person I wanted to be. Now, I realize that it was just a show and that the characters and the plot were both highly idealized and contrived. But for me, the idea of a moralist warrior, a pacifist who could fight, seemed a logical alternative to my life of unbridled rage and violence.

That simple television show led me to embark on an avocation of martial arts and eastern philosophy.

I was driving my 70-year-old blind friend, an ironically unfortunate victim of a disease known as Retinitis Pigmentosa, to Spooky World, where we were to meet David Carradine. I use the word ironically, in describing my wretched friend to you, because this individual, like myself, has carried on a life-long romance with the cinema.

As we drove from the North Shore community of Winthrop, all the way down to Foxborough, we talked of nothing but our memories of that show. I bared my soul to this aging, sightless man. I told of my misspent youth, of the debt of gratitude owed the middling actor, and the part he stole from the great Bruce Lee.

In my mind’s eye, I anticipated an emotional reaction from the screen star. I imagined myself telling Carradine about the profound impact he had on a lost teenager, growing up in the violent and tumultuous 1970s. I could almost see his face as it looked then, perhaps some 20 years prior. I imagined his eyes clouding over. I saw in my mind, his gentle and understanding smile.

Eventually, we arrived at the huge parking and ticket area outside the architecturally wanton Gillette Stadium. We stood in line awaiting the opportunity to purchase our admittances. Upon completion of that, we were led through a large maze similar to, albeit much longer than, the velvet rope mazes used in banks to stanch the flow of foot traffic. We were made to wait in cue for about an hour. It was late in October, and late in the evening. We were, of course, underdressed. Only the buoyancy of our collective mood, served to heat our cold bodies.

Finally, we were brought into the tent where the celebrity guests were waiting to sign autographs – for the mere pittance of 10 dollars each.

More waiting.

At long last, there I was. Standing in front of the man whose most well known, albeit fictional character, served as my first remembered inspiration in life.

I spilled my guts, babbling like a teen-aged girl. I told him not only about the epiphany I underwent through his unbeknownst tutelage, but also how I had followed the careers of his entire family including his venerable father, John. I gushed with adoration as I heaped praises on him.

Carradine looked up at me. The face of course, that of a man now 20 plus years older – tired and jaded.

“’Sounds to me like you were a pretty fucked up kid, who needed to get a life.”

My lower jaw dropped in harmony with my spirit. My mind wanted to ask him how he could be so flip and dismissive, but my paralyzed mouth couldn’t find the words.

He gave me one last dismissive glance and said, “Next.”

Sadie was dead. Cancer. She was a brown, black and white haired mutant, who had hiked the Appalachian Trail and helped us find the wrecked WWII bomber, buried in snow and undergrowth, high in the Presidential Range. Sadie loved hiking almost as much as she loved people. My last picture has her lying in the ruts of a Jeep trail, tongue hanging out, tail beating the dry ground, her exhausted body baking in the late afternoon sun. Sadie had lived with me for ten years.

When my wife and I got married, it was decided that we would have my umpteenth, and her first, dog. It was in response to an ad in the paper that brought us up to the Northeast Animal Shelter in Salem, in pursuit of a Lab/Shep mix, that we later named, Tippy.

Tippy was nothing if not a lady. At just about a year old, someone had loved this dog. Someone had taken the time to housebreak her, and even train her to do a few basic commands. She knew “sit”,” stay” and “heel.” And you can bet she sure as hell knew, “go for a ride.”

She was almost pure black, with a white “star” on her chest. Medium sized, about 40 pounds, and when she’d lay down, she’d cross her front paws. She had enormous ears, black and Shepherd pointed. Big huge ears and a tongue that had to be six inches long. That dog loved giving tongue baths!

Tippy lived with us for fifteen years. A couple of years before the end, we started seeing the signs of the neuropathy for which Shepherds and Shepherd mixes are known. She’d fall down sometimes. eventually she started dragging her back legs. I took her to the vet, of course. But I already knew the prognosis. In a short time, Tippy was completely paralyzed in her hind legs.

Not long after, she went blind and grew incontinent. At the same time, while she had no bladder control at all, she had lost the strength in her sphincter muscles to pass her solid waste. I had to carry her outside to do her business – and lay her down, then I’d have to “help” her relieve herself. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it willingly and with tears in my eyes, because I loved her so much.

Every day, I would look into her foggy cataract-ed eyes and ask her. “Tippy, are you ready to end this? You tell me… when it’s time.” She’d look up at me, and behind the fog of those elderly eyes, I saw the spark. The flame that wasn’t yet ready to die.

When her time finally came – and I hoped, desperately that she would go naturally, in her sleep – when her time finally came, and I took her in to the vet, for that final visit, I knew that I was giving her the last gift I had to give. The responsibility of Humans to their dogs. I wanted Tippy to die as she had lived, with dignity and grace.

When Jack bounded into our lives, it wasn’t with any of  Tippy’s propriety or elegance. Nope. He was all feet and ears and tongue – and feet. Jack wasn’t loved by some unfortunate who had lost him or had to give him up for reasons we’ll never know. He was just plain unlucky enough to be born. Jack’s destiny was to die early, alone – still a puppy – dead of starvation and abandonment. Or perhaps, to be stabbed in the heart, with a huge needle filled with lye – gassed – or put in a vacuum chamber. Unwanted and alone.

I look at Jack, and that’s what I think. I think we’re so lucky, so fortunate, because somebody volunteered for an organization called Old Fella Rescue. We are blessed, because somebody took the time to crate Jack up, put him in a van, and on their own time, with their own gas, drive him up to Salem, where my wife and I could use him to try and plug the holes in our hearts.

And it’s working. Jack’s plugging those holes.

We’ll never forget Tippy – I haven’t forgotten one of the dozen or so friends who’ve given me their lives. Saber, Jezebel, Samson, Shannon, Leisha… I remember you all, and I’ll never stop loving any of you. But for now, I have a new dog to love. Jack. And that wouldn’t be possible, had Old Fella Rescue not been there for us – it wouldn’t have been possible had not, just this once, the system worked.