A Personal Post: meditation on pets, writing, and the literate life

This morning I awoke, as is my pattern, to the sound of my iPhone alarm, and then I checked my email in the dark, which I'm loathe to admit is is also my pattern, finding there an early morning missive from my father entitled simply "Frankie."  I knew, before I even moved my fingers across the touch screen to open the note, what would be within.  Frankie, our beloved family bulldog, had already outlived even the most wildly optimistic projections of his veterinarian and had been visibly ailing in recent months.

My suspicions were confirmed when I opened the email -- Frankie had indeed passed last night -- but what followed in my father's note was unanticipated and brought with it some small consolation and even a moment of delight: my father had woken early this morning to write his boon companion a formal obituary, a loving and tender and wistful tribute to Frankie's life.

Later today, when I had the clarity of mind to reflect upon this, I realized how significant it was that my father was able to express his grief in the written form, even going so far as to riff upon a standard genre (there are those, but certainly not those who have ever loved a pet, who would question the choice of obituary for a dog!).  Because he wrote, he was able to share his feelings widely with friends and loved ones; because he wrote, he was able to sharpen his insights and reflect more deeply on the nature of Frankie's life; because wrote, he was able to assemble for posterity his favorite recollections of Frankie, creating permanence out of what would otherwise be fleeting; because he wrote, we will all have this record of our great family love for this special dog.

We often speak at Everett of our literacy goals: some of them are concrete and short term (students will gain two grade levels in reading as measured by Fountas and Pinell), while many more of them are amorphous, intangible, and so long-term as to defy quantitative analysis (students will be passionate, critical, lifelong readers.)  To the latter set of goals, I now add this one: I hope that all of our students are able to write well enough to express their feelings and capture their most sacred reminiscences on paper.  And furthermore, I hope that they, like my father, turn to writing for consolation in moments of need.  Perhaps there should be a new essential question for our Balanced Literacy work together as a staff: how will the lesson I've designed today increase the likelihood that my students will turn to writing to make meaning of their joy or grief? (This is not as touchy feely as it sounds, either -- when you read the obit, you'll see the training and technical skill required to pull it off.)  I've copied the obituary after the jump.

Frances Winslow Robertson,  4/2/01 -- 3/11/13

Frances Winslow Robertson, beloved adopted son of Rob and Martha Ann Robertson, went to his maker peacefully at about  10:30 p.m. on Tuesday, March 11, 2013.  He was almost 12 years of age.

Frances, known universally to his innumerable friends and admirers as "Frankie", was frequently said to have been named for Frank Sinatra, one of his musical heroes, and sometimes claimed to be a distant relation. In truth, Frankie was named for the bulldog in the Disney cartoon musical "Oliver", the title character of which provided a name for Frankie's brother, Ollie (a orange tabby cat who did not share a family resemblance).

Frankie was born in Aiken, South Carolina on April 2, 2001, and moved to Charleston at an early age as a Mother's Day gift to Martha Ann, a plan devised by Rob and daughter Kendall, who although technically Frankie's older sister, was Frankie's surrogate Mother until she went away to college, when Martha Ann assumed that role for the remainder of Frankie's life.  Kendall remained intensely close to Frankie, even after she married and moved to Charlotte and then San Francisco, and the maternal bond was renewed at every reunion.  Frankie memorably visited Kendall at Duke on  two occasions, on both  of which he was the toast of the University.

Frankie came to be the inseparable companion of his Dad, and for the last 10 years of his life shared virtually everyday with Rob. They were of one mind as their world increasingly focused on the family property at Wadmalaw Island, South Carolina.  Frankie made himself at home in a series of Toyota trucks in which they essentially lived, traveling almost everyday to one or another undertaking in the country, invariably stopping for sustenance at their favorite haunts. Frankie became particularly well known at the Waffle House near the round Holiday Inn, where Sharifa lovingly set aside leftovers for him--although Frankie's diet, and girth, were not in accord with his doctor's recommendations, his undeniable happiness and joie de vivre were the envy of his peers.  

Like all children, Frankie was not without his challenges.  He hated mail and UPS or FedEx deliverymen, and horse carriages that would pass in front of his house, with an unmitigated rage.  He was suspicious of anyone wearing white running shoes, and was somewhat unpredictable around strangers and kids ... but once assured that a visitor was welcome, Frankie was  agreeable to a fault.  He spent virtually every waking hour, which became fewer and fewer over the years, either hanging out with Rob or watching and waiting for his return. He was a creature of habit, playing the same ritual games with Rob every night before going to his bed at 11 Montagu Street, or sharing Rob and Martha Ann's bed in the country, a luxury he claimed for himself in his later years.

Although an indifferent student, Frankie was an excellent trainer.  He had numerous vocal commands which Rob obeyed unquestioningly, always rewarding Frankie with a treat even though he was the one giving the orders.  He did respond affirmatively and without exception, however, to his favorite phrases:  "Wanna go for a ride?" and "Time for Night-Night".  In his old age Frankie became  profoundly deaf, but he was a master interpreter of sign language, and he continued to function at a high level.  His poor hearing did nothing to impair his enthusiasm for watching television with his parents, especially sports, happily dozing, like Rob, on the couch by  a winter fire.

Frankie did not mind long sojourns in Rob's truck, and travelled frequently to Beaufort, Columbia, Georgetown and Myrtle Beach, and on an epic several-day road trip to Charlottesville, Virginia.  He was so loved by his parents that time away from home without him was limited, and when they were apart, Rob insisted that his caretakers report often, with assurances of his comfort.  When Rob and Martha Ann would go out of town to visit their other children, Frankie would assuage his loneliness by making cupcakes and other goodies with his doting stewards, Elizabeth and Abby, who were always anxious for the opportunity to spend time with him.  

Frankie led a long and happy life, giving love and affection in the same generous measure that it was lavished on him.  His patient good humor, expressive countenance, and appreciation of his good fortune, constantly reminded his family of the many blessings with which they have been favored, and that in the End, the Love you take ... is equal to the Love you make.

Frankie's ashes will join those of his late feline brother Biscuit at the family plot overlooking Leadenwah Creek, where he will forever young.

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant".