Love Story

What Davis said about me on Wednesday is correct and it’s something I’ve learned to accept about myself: I am very brave. Some of you don’t know this about me, as it’s not something I like to talk about. I get it: I did some things that the Bangladeshi news media and Senator Hatch deemed “heroic,” but those refugee children needed my help, and killing a tiger with a pen and a turban is easier than you might think. So let’s move on and take the advice of the axiom I created and live my life by:

The past has PASSED, the future is NEAR, so view today as a PRESENT (as in Christmas present), and the present will be CLEAR.

Kind of like footprints in the sand.

But there was someone who was braver even than I. Her name was Glory. And before Reba came into my life, Glory was my soul mate and companion. She was beautifully built, with big moist eyes that even the most hardened man could get lost in. Glory B. Bell was the best dog to ever roam the wild foothills of Farmington, Utah.

I have always loved animals, and I always wanted a dog. During my toddler years my family owned a tiny, fluffy mutt named Cuddles (you’re seeing a pattern in great dog names here aren’t you), but the Folks sent Cuddles away while my oldest brother—Cuddles main proprietor—was away on a week-long scout camp. True story.

“I’m home from that awful scout camp you made me go on. Great to be back. Where’s my best friend in whole wide world, Cuddles?”

“Cuddles? I have no idea who you’re talking about. No one named Cuddles lives here presently. Welcome home. Now go weed your 7 acre section.”

I was probably 4 when Cuddles was basically snuck out of the house with a bag over his head in the middle of the night. And for the next 7 years I begged my mom to let me have a dog. She hated dogs. They ruined everything and smelled bad, and she knew she would end up being the caretaker. But I never gave up. I begged and whined and petitioned and promised. She gave in. So one day a lesbian couple came to the house to show us a dog they had saved from the pound but didn’t have enough room to keep long term. The dog’s name was Casey. She was gorgeous. A brindle Boxer. You might reasonably have qualms with their utilitarian faces, but if Michealangelo was commissioned to dream up a dog’s ideal form and put it to marble, I think it would resemble the Boxer’s, with that strikingly powerful neck and chest tapering into one of the most graceful hindquarters found in the natural world.

It was love at first sight between Casey and I. We re-named her Athena (which I’m sure came from the young nerd, Ryan), but she wasn’t smart enough to remember that. So someone suggested Glory and that stuck. Glory and I were virtually inseparable. She slept on my bed, we peed together every morning and night in her usual “potty” spot outside our house, and we spent a lot of time at the river and in the mountains.

A few months after adopting Glory, my mom was fed up with her slow potty training, and told us that the next accident would get her sent back to her last owners. During this anxious time, one night we returned from grandparents visits in Ogden. Davis and I went downstairs and saw a big dump waiting for us on the carpet. Panic. We were hurriedly discussing what to do when we heard my mom’s footsteps upstairs. She was coming our way.

Davis: “There’s no time, just grab it and follow me!”

Me: “Grab it?!?”

Davis: “Just do it!”

Davis grabbed half the pile with his naked hand, and I retrieved the second half. The ultimate test of pure love. We ran it to the toilet and Mother was none the wiser. She probably smelled something but the proof was halfway to the sewage treatment plant in Roy.

But inevitably, Glory did it again and was caught. It was the last straw. Glory was being shipped off the next morning. Tears, rage, confusion. Again, Davis showed brilliant tactical facility by organizing a spiritual fast. He, Eliza, and I would fast that Mother’s heart would be softened and Glory would be spared. Guess what happened when the woman who had taught us the power of fasting all those years got wind of our fast? Glory stayed.

Glory was friend to all humanity, but scourge to all beasts. She was endlessly patient with babies crawling on and poking her, but she judged every nonhuman moving thing to be her mortal enemy, so I was always vigilant about her unleashed proximity to other animals. Once, my siblings and I found a small, hairless, dying bird chick that had fallen out of its nest in our tree. Someone fetched a water dropper and attempted to nourish it with sugar water, to no avail. We knew it was close to Bird Paradise, but until that happened we needed to keep Glory away to avoid her chomping and shaking it to death. But Glory was curious what we were all kneeling around, so we had to take turns keeping her at bay. After a few hours of this all the protectors ended up taking breaks at the same time. I came out of the house and saw Glory lying in the area the bird had been in and my stomach turned at the what must have happened. I raced up the hill and was shocked and relieved to see the dog protectively lying around the unharmed bird, gently nuzzling and licking it. She stayed in that same position until the bird died hours later. Good dog.

Before getting into the minivan that would take me to the MTC and North Carolina for two years, I gave Glory a big hug and said goodbye. She could sense something was up and ran after me and jumped into the van, which she had never done before. Six months after I left, Glory became testy with kids, snapping at a couple. She was old, after all. They had to put her down, and I wept when I read the letter telling me she was gone.

My daughter loves dogs, and when the time is right I want to get one. After that, I hope to have an unbroken sequence of dogs around me until I die. But the dog of a boy’s youth is always the one he remembers most.

This post is dedicated to Glory B. Bell.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

10 Responses to Love Story

  1. Serene says:

    Wow, picking up poop with your bare hands is definitely a sign of pure love.

    I would know. I am a mother after all.

  2. Jeff says:

    Quality post Kook. ” But the dog of a boy’s youth is always the one he’ll remember most.” That line is so true. No dog will replace Snoopy for me. Glory really was a cool dog and I always remember seeing you two together. The fasting and bare hands clean up was great humor.

  3. Braden says:

    Oh Kook, oh Kook, oh Kook. My kids think I’m nuts because I’m laughing so hard. Wow. Go weed your 7 acre section. Perfect. I will one tiny correction. Cuddles, was a she. The infamy of mom’s cold-hearted act remains one of the great tragedies of the last centuries and is a blot on our family escutcheon that shall not easily be removed. Had I been home, I might have been able to mount a tactical fast. But since I was enduring hell among the quaking aspens of Maple Dell Boy Scout Camp, mom took that round. Game. Set. Match.
    It does lead one to ask whether my pregnant hamster really escaped by accident, or if it was a clever nuclear retaliatory strike on my part to avenge poor Cuddles.

  4. Eliza says:

    oh man you two were such a cute little pair. You really were inseparable. Josh was just asking the other day why on earth my mom kept Glory around when she hated dogs so much and you just perfectly described how and why she got by mom all those years, how could she separate you two? you who never fasted more than a few hours in your life and gagged and dry heaved at grandma throwing up would willingly fast all day and pick up poop with your bare hands, that is true love.
    Btw, I am responsible for her awesome name.

    fabulous post.

  5. Elizabeth says:

    I loved this post. Seriously, so funny and so touching. We just got a puppy this summer and I can already see that amazing bond between our dog and my kids. When my daughter was having a rough day, the only “person” who really understood her was our dog. Thanks for validating everything I already knew about dogs and kids.

    Great post.

  6. jo says:

    Beautifully written and touching, Chris. Made me cry.

    Not sure though, it was quite clear in this rendition of the story, why your mom didn’t get rid of the dog. She actually had no idea that you and Davis were fasting. She only knew that she’d given you ample warnings to fix this awful problem (that was making her house reek and her carpets ruined), or return the dog to the previous owners. She was sorry you’d be disappointed, but felt it necessary and totally justified.

    As she started to make the phone call though, she couldn’t. It wasn’t because she felt she shouldn’t– she simply couldn’t. Something was preventing her, though she wanted to BADLY.

    She felt frustrated and confused, until you and Davis returned home from school that afternoon and told her you’d been fasting all day so that Glory could stay. She was amazed, as you two young guys were, at the time, less than devoted fasters. It was now clear to her why she’d been unable to complete the deed she’d been so bent on.

    In the ensuing years, she came to see clearly why it mattered so much that you kept this dog, and has been very thankful that because of divine intervention, you did.

  7. Layne says:

    Touching sharkman. Any kid that willingly grabs dog poop with a bare hand is dog’s best friend.

  8. Elisa says:

    I had totally forgotten that the Bell’s had a boxer. I LOVE my boxer, and will never, ever own any other kind of Dog. My baby crawls all over her, painting her with water colors, putting entire boxes of Dora Band-aids on her and she lays there patient as ever.

    She also likes to use baby rabbits as squeaky toys. Trust me when I say this: Baby Rabbits make grody squeaky toys.

    We have a Boxer because the dog of Jefe’s youth was Nessy, a pointy ear boxer.

    Your Mom’s comment made me teary.

  9. Seriously? Seriously. SUCH a great post! Literally died laughing.

    “I’m home from that scout camp you made me go on. Great to be back. Where’s my best friend in whole wide world, Cuddles?”

    Oh my gosh, the funniest slash saddest thing ever. What a heartwarming post.

  10. Dan Hill says:

    I grew up with a Dog named Bunker Hill. So, in the same spirit, when you get another dog I’m nominating Liberty Bell for the name.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s