My dog Tuffy died yesterday in my arms as I sat in the vet's office waiting for him to come in.  How like Tuffy!  She always preferred doing things her own way.  Tuffy's life lasted 17 years -- most of them really happy and full of life.  Even after she became partially blind 4 years ago, Tuffy enjoyed life and showed a determination and spirit that one very seldom encounters.  Of course I am lonely without her, because all the little details of my life have been entwined with Tuffy's life and I came to know her very well indeed.  Her leather chair, where she sat in the evenings to keep me company, looks very big and empty now.

Tuffy came to live with us the summer of 1972 as a puppy of a few weeks - for a donation of $10 to the Humane Society.  Little did I know that Tuffy would, from that time on, live with me the longest.  She was a little ball of white fur with brown spots and floppy ears - part terrier, part poodle, and part dachshund.  Her sister had very short legs and was strange looking, but Tuffy was a happy combination of her odd heritage.  She gave a lot to the family in terms of doing funny things and loving us all without reservation.  Even Les, who was not a dog fancier, thought she was "really cute."

Tuffy asserted her personality at the time of Les' 50th birthday party.  As a yappy little puppy she was relegated to the basement so she would not "bother" the guests.  Tuffy showed her extreme displeasure by going to the bathroom in every conceivable place in her prison -- and nearly was banished from the family by an irate Les.  Fortunately Jean saved the day by cleaning up the place and the dog and pleading her case: Tuffy remained with us. 

I never put her off like that again when we had a party.  So there she was - yapping at the door, bouncing off the guests, sitting squarely under the Christmas table while we ate, eating up the Thanksgiving cheeseball single-handed, and demanding to be there with everyone else to enjoy the occasion.

Tuffy had a loud shrill bark and could leap into the air in her prime.  I took her to obedience school where she promptly became a drop out.  I didn't like those people much myself and I always thought that Tuffy was just too intelligent for them and would not be ordered about by dummies.  In the last year or two she stopped barking altogether, but she never stopped doing funny things and making me laugh.

In the summer of 1985, Tuffy's cataracts became apparent and she became very ill - kidneys, liver, perhaps a little stroke involved.  It was then that her indomitable little spirit became so obvious.  She never gave up.  If she fell over, she would rest a little and then struggle on.  If she banged into something because of her blindness, then she tried another avenue.  She did whatever she was able to do to the absolute best of her resources and she would not allow adversity to defeat her. This is what I remember the most about Tuffy and what I admire the most.

 A dog gives affection and loyalty generously without measuring them or calculating what she will get out of it.  I will remember that too.  She was a real friend and a good part of my life.  I just think that she must be in heaven now with her bark back and, perhaps, yapping at the feet of God.

Alice Callum, Tuffy's Friend

This is something I have been trying to discover for many many years.  Of course, I can look back and see who I was at various times in my life.  I was the youngest child in a family full of fun and love.  I was a competitive student always striving to be at the top of the class or as nearly as I could manage to achieve that goal.  I was the wife of a good and talented man, and the mother of a son and daughter. 

Then death came suddenly one night in October and I became the sole breadwinner and support of the family.  Then I was too busy to try to find out who I was or who I should be.  I became a lawyer and a college professor.  As the breadwinner, my time was spent earning an income, and nurturing the family.  Trying to give a good life to my children consumed my time and my mind.  Each day was filled with things to do just to survive.  When I think about what I was at that time, I would say I was a Survivor.

So that is the past and, as always, life changes.  We change from one identity to another and become a new and different person with each change.  Now I have the time to discover who I really am and what I want to be.  At Christmas I wrote to my friends saying I was occupied trying “to get a life.”

It seems important to me to try to do something with life no matter what the age or stage.   So what am I now?  I am a Searcher – trying to understand the meaning of life and leave something good behind.  I think that who we are is not only what we do, but must include our mind and soul – our very essence.         

I dread going through the pockets of my coat because I always find tons of bits and pieces and sometimes cannot even remember their significance.  I would much rather go through my daughter’s coat pockets, which are, like everything else she does, very orderly and clean.  In her coat there might be nothing but an immaculate pocket swept clean of everything, or there might be a single list with half or more of the items crossed off with one orderly stroke of the pen for each item.

But mine?  No such luck!  I pull out a number of scraps of paper which list a wide variety of things to do sometimes expressed in code or half words.  Words such as “fam. pa.” are included.  Now what does that mean and when did it occur?  I could spend several hours just trying to translate my pile of lists into understandable English.  But is it worth it?  Maybe it is just better to wait and see if something important turns up that I have forgotten. 

Aha!  Here is the button off my red jacket that I have been looking for this past week.  And here is a strange looking little brush that I think the dentist gave to me.  It is labeled a “proxy brush” and I know it had some special purpose or I wouldn’t have put it into my pocket in the first place, would I?  Here are several coins and two big silver pieces.  Now I am on firm ground since I know the big silver pieces come from the Big Y.

Sometime I find a cryptic one-word message, such as “Rubicon” to myself on a jagged little note. I search my memory for the significance of these notes, often with very little success.  Always at the bottom of my pockets I find wrinkled-up pieces of kleenex slightly shredded  -- at least I do not have to recall what they are for.

Among the clutter, the things I hate the most are pieces of paper with telephone numbers on them and no name by the number.  Was this a very important call I should have made?  Who is at the other end of this telephone number?  I never know whether to make the call or not.

Each time I search my pockets I make a vow to get organized, check my pockets each day and sweep them clean.  Then I will construct an orderly list called “Things to do” in understandable English.  This would save me a lot of time, be less of a worry, and keep my coat pockets from sagging so much that I think I need to buy a new coat.  On the other hand, I wouldn’t have the fun of searching through the pocket archives and wonder about the mentality of someone who would create such a mess.