Lesson From An Old Dog Named Blackstone
FNDH
3/9/07 10:16pm
Posted with the permission from the author.
Lesson From An Old Dog Named Blackstone
By Jim Slinsky
Outdoor Talk Network
http://www.outdoortalknetwork.com
He was old and I was young. He was actually my father’s dog long before I was born. A jet-black body with a gray face, legs and tail, he was affectionately named Blackstone. His big, black nose glistened like a piece of anthracite coal fresh from the ground. He and I were great buddies, but I was barely old enough to understand our relationship.
When he passed through my life he was greatly hindered by arthritis. He couldn’t run. He could barely walk. I would come home from school and he would light up with enthusiasm. My mother kept drawing my attention to how much Blackstone enjoyed my company. I was about six years old and confined to the yard after school. I cherish the twenty or so pictures I have of Blackstone and me playing together. Frankly, it seems every picture I have of my early youth Blackstone is somewhere in the picture. A peculiarity is that in none of the pictures did Blackstone look at the camera. His face was always turned away.
One afternoon in the chill of a late October day, Blackstone and I were together in the backyard and everything seemed quite normal. For some unknown reason, he left the yard and starting walking slowly, but purposefully toward the railroad tracks across the street from our house. I watched as he crossed the road and field, slowly climbed the embankment and disappeared somewhere near the tracks. I ran inside to tell my mother. She suggested we wait until my father comes home and he will bring Blackstone home.
A few hours later my father came home and we told him the story. He asked that we hold supper until he comes back. I was sitting at the dinner table with an empty plate in my face when my father returned. Tears were coming from his eyes and he spoke softly. “Blackstone died. I found him lying beside the tracks curled up in his sleeping position.” At that point the kitchen erupted into pandemonium. My parents cried uncontrollably and I could do nothing but cry as well. After a few minutes of chaos my father announced he would bury Blackstone now, before it got dark.
I followed my father across the street to the spot where Blackstone laid curled up in peace. Dad used a grub axe to cut away the sod as my mother and I watched. He never stopped crying. It was the first time in my life I saw him cry. The second time was the day we buried my mother. As he dug the hole he started to speak to Blackstone in Hungarian. I can only guess he was saying what he needed to say.
My mother dragged me away and in the fading light we watched from the front porch. It was totally dark and my father was still out there. Mom and I went inside and sat at the table, waiting. Eventually, my father did return and my mother served the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and creamed corn. I remember the position of the food on my plate. Things were real quiet. Dad shaded his eyes with his hand, but the tears didn’t stop.
Why, Daddy, why? Why did Blackstone go to the railroad tracks to die?” I cried out. “Because he loved you, son. He wanted to spare you the pain of seeing him in his final moments. His love for you was unconditional, son. No matter how you treated him, he always did and always will, love you. You were family to him and in his heart family requires unconditional love.”
Forty years later on a chilly day near the end of October my phone rang. It was my father. He asked that I stop everything and come to his house. I knew he didn’t feel well and was having some tests done. When I got to his house I sat at the same table and in the same chair where I sat forty years earlier when we mourned Blackstone.
My father dropped the bomb and explained cancer was throughout his body and he had three weeks to live. It was the third and final time I saw him cry. He asked for my forgiveness for anything he had ever done to me that I felt was wrong or unfair. He apologized for being human and imperfect. He explained that all he wanted to achieve in life was to be a good father.
It is hunting season and I miss him. I often think of him, wishing I could tell him there was no need in his final moments to ask for my unconditional love.
A long time ago I learned that lesson from an old dog named Blackstone.
Lesson From An Old Dog Named Blackstone
By Jim Slinsky
Outdoor Talk Network
He was old and I was young. He was actually my father’s dog long before I was born. A jet-black body with a gray face, legs and tail, he was affectionately named Blackstone. His big, black nose glistened like a piece of anthracite coal fresh from the ground. He and I were great buddies, but I was barely old enough to understand our relationship.
When he passed through my life he was greatly hindered by arthritis. He couldn’t run. He could barely walk. I would come home from school and he would light up with enthusiasm. My mother kept drawing my attention to how much Blackstone enjoyed my company. I was about six years old and confined to the yard after school. I cherish the twenty or so pictures I have of Blackstone and me playing together. Frankly, it seems every picture I have of my early youth Blackstone is somewhere in the picture. A peculiarity is that in none of the pictures did Blackstone look at the camera. His face was always turned away.
One afternoon in the chill of a late October day, Blackstone and I were together in the backyard and everything seemed quite normal. For some unknown reason, he left the yard and starting walking slowly, but purposefully toward the railroad tracks across the street from our house. I watched as he crossed the road and field, slowly climbed the embankment and disappeared somewhere near the tracks. I ran inside to tell my mother. She suggested we wait until my father comes home and he will bring Blackstone home.
A few hours later my father came home and we told him the story. He asked that we hold supper until he comes back. I was sitting at the dinner table with an empty plate in my face when my father returned. Tears were coming from his eyes and he spoke softly. “Blackstone died. I found him lying beside the tracks curled up in his sleeping position.” At that point the kitchen erupted into pandemonium. My parents cried uncontrollably and I could do nothing but cry as well. After a few minutes of chaos my father announced he would bury Blackstone now, before it got dark.
I followed my father across the street to the spot where Blackstone laid curled up in peace. Dad used a grub axe to cut away the sod as my mother and I watched. He never stopped crying. It was the first time in my life I saw him cry. The second time was the day we buried my mother. As he dug the hole he started to speak to Blackstone in Hungarian. I can only guess he was saying what he needed to say.
My mother dragged me away and in the fading light we watched from the front porch. It was totally dark and my father was still out there. Mom and I went inside and sat at the table, waiting. Eventually, my father did return and my mother served the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and creamed corn. I remember the position of the food on my plate. Things were real quiet. Dad shaded his eyes with his hand, but the tears didn’t stop.
Why, Daddy, why? Why did Blackstone go to the railroad tracks to die?” I cried out. “Because he loved you, son. He wanted to spare you the pain of seeing him in his final moments. His love for you was unconditional, son. No matter how you treated him, he always did and always will, love you. You were family to him and in his heart family requires unconditional love.”
Forty years later on a chilly day near the end of October my phone rang. It was my father. He asked that I stop everything and come to his house. I knew he didn’t feel well and was having some tests done. When I got to his house I sat at the same table and in the same chair where I sat forty years earlier when we mourned Blackstone.
My father dropped the bomb and explained cancer was throughout his body and he had three weeks to live. It was the third and final time I saw him cry. He asked for my forgiveness for anything he had ever done to me that I felt was wrong or unfair. He apologized for being human and imperfect. He explained that all he wanted to achieve in life was to be a good father.
It is hunting season and I miss him. I often think of him, wishing I could tell him there was no need in his final moments to ask for my unconditional love.
A long time ago I learned that lesson from an old dog named Blackstone.
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Thanks for sharing it with us all.