I first read John Grogan’s book in the winter of 2007. Although the book had been on the best sellers list more than two years ago, I had heard so many good things about it and so I picked it up as a good “beach read” for our annual trip to Jamaica. I typically go to half-priced books before our trip to purchase 4-5 good “light reading” paperback books for our trip. Yes I can read that many books in one week.
After pursuing a master’s degree in English, I pride myself on reading the “classics” in my field of Medieval and Renaissance Literature—Shakespeare, Milton, Dante—or anything else from the “cannon.” (And, I am quite fond of revisiting my old friends in Hemingway, Faulkner, and Poe). However, I allow myself one week a year—when we travel to the Caribbean to indulge my secret passion of reading books that I don’t’ have to think about, analyze, or study plot, character development or narrative style. In my mind, the Harry Potter books I purchase and read voraciously on the day of their release, don’t count as they will find their rightful place in the cannon and my weekly reads of People, US Weekly and InStyle, don’t count either because they are just magazine. Actually, the truth is I just like to read! It’s a skill I picked up at a very early age—age 3 in fact. Okay, you’re saying to yourself—age three? You’re thinking, no one learns to read at age three, but it is true.
I was born to an unwed mother with an 8th grade education in 1969—not common or acceptable in those days. In my early years, I lived with my grandparents, two depression era kids, who bore thirteen children. Typical of their generation, my grandmother stayed home and reared the children while my grandfather work long hours as a Pipefitter in Cleveland, Ohio. Surprisingly, with one income and that many kids, we were not poor. We were lower middle-class. We lived in a beautiful home—built by my great-grandfather—attended the same private catholic school my grandparents met at and always had a home cooked meal on the table.
My grandfather had his first stoke at the age of 50—the year I turned one. The stroke left him without the ability to speak, read or reason. Skills he needed to learn all over again to return to the workforce and support his family. He spent grueling hours of physical and speech to learn his ABCs, to read and communicate with the world again. A proud man, the only person who didn’t judge him for his stutters, his inability to comprehend or even speak simple sentences was me. I was learning it all for the first time, too. And, as a result my grandfather would spend countless hours speaking and reading to me. And, so by the time I was three-years-old, I could read and speak at a level far beyond anyone’s expectations. It fully credit my passion and gift for reading, writing and learning to my grandfather who would have his second, and fatal stoke, seven years later. My grandmother, who I truly believed died of a broken heart, passed just one short year later, also at the age of 57. Leaving me in the care of my mother, who to this day at age of 62, is still not capable of taking care of herself, let alone a young, gifted, precocious child.
When I picked up Marley and Me, I was immediately drawn to the book. First, I love dogs. Who can’t relate to the unconditional love of or for an animal? Especially a dog. And, after being “abandoned” by the two loves of my life—my grandparents—I clung to my dogs’ affections. And, I’ve had a lot of them. Being raised by a single mom with emotional and substance abuse problems, we move a lot. And, our dogs always seemed to be a casualty of the move. But we always had one. There was Buster, Saddie, Shultz, Sonny, Mogul, and Crockett. And, they were always some kind of Lab or Lab mix. Sonny (Ray’s and eventually Marty’s dog) and Crockett were the dogs I had the longest—both yellow Labs—and both of the highly intelligent kind. Both chewers and destructors in their puppy stages but my memories of them are of the “best dogs” in the world. Since I was a child when I had these dogs, I didn’t fully comprehend or appreciate the training, feeding, or sheer responsibility that comes with owning a dog. It’s just the family dog. And all I knew was that I unconditionally loved these creatures and they unconditionally loved me. No matter what the dog, I was devastated when I had to say goodbye to them for whatever reason.
Then there was Bailey. Bailey was the first dog I truly ever owned and was the pet I had when I pick-up up a copy of Marley and Me. Bailey came into my life to ease my daughter’s pain of losing her father to divorce. Bailey, a black lab, was a rescue dog who had been abuse as a puppy (they home clipped his tail!). The adoption process was intense. As I read the tale of the “world worst dog”on the beaches of Jamaica, I couldn’t imagine having a dog who was headstrong, disobedient, and a menace. Bailey was sheepish, afraid of his own shadow but loved us, Marc especially, unconditionally. He was a daily joy in our life. Meggie even had her senior pictures taken with the gentle Bailey. Little did I know that in a few short days after we returned home from Jamaica, we would be forced to say good-bye to Bailey forever. It was awful for all of us.
Just three days after Bailey’s death, I arrived home for the first time to an empty house. Meg was at diving practice, Marc at work and no Bailey to greet me at the door. I had just sat down, and cried and then doorbell rang. I assumed that Marc had either misplaced his keys between the car and the front door (Men do that), had an armful of groceries or something else, or wanted to enter through the garage (we didn’t have a garage door opener). Instead I was greeted to a 6-week-old Black Lab puppy. Marc said: “meet Marley.” I immediately embraced him, held him close to my heart, and the heartache I felt lessened.
Read future blogs about how my Marley, while he certainly hasn't earned the title of the worlds worst dog, he is quite a challenge.
