I was just seven years old when I bore witness to death the first time. A reckless driver at high speed ended my dog's life right before my eyes…negligence without intent. I carried my dog to our door, and we rushed to the animal hospital in vain, as much for my mental health as the dog's physical well being. An hour later I said goodbye through crocodile tears.
Life has a way of making good from bad. My parents and siblings, desperate to console me, acquired me a new companion...a replacement pet. The canine, a scruffy little wire hair terrier that was the spitting image of the movie dog "Benji", was re-gifted to me, having already been rejected by her intended master. Worse still, this mutt came named "Lady", after the Disney character, although she resembled "Tramp". So there I was, still hurting from my loss, saddled with a miserable little creature with a questionable name, especially for a boy's dog. Lady was irrepressibly loving, a transformational force on eight-inch legs. She would not allow me to deny her my attention or affection.
Life was different then...before we bubble wrapped, electronically tagged, and hyper-scheduled our young. Species on the brink of extinction are not nearly as coddled as children today. Ironically, at a time when the world was statistically far more dangerous in every way for kids, they were altogether freer. With a good bicycle, a child could roam, undeterred, untethered, and unsupervised for miles. The rules of engagement were simple then--don't get into trouble, get out of it if you do, and be home by dinner. This was true for weekends and even truer in summer. We survived lawn darts, scorching metal play structures built high above unmitigated black top or concrete, second-hand smoke, cars with unused seat belts, bikes without helmets, and a complete lack of cellular service.
Lady and I became constant companions in this world without bumpers. For more than a decade, she would muster all her energy to keep up with me, first trailing my bicycle, and later my car. She was playmate and sentinel. If I looked over my shoulder, there she was, running as fast as she could to keep up. We played in the woods and ponds of my youth. We chased all manner of furry and slimy and feathered creature. We both tracked mud into the house. Together we ruined my new school clothes every fall. When I lacked playmates, I still had Lady.
I learned a lot about the world through our play: how trees fight back against the wind, how weather patterns grow and shift, how immense the sky truly is, how much even the smallest living creature has to teach. In our play I learned about myself, what I could do, and what I couldn't. Obstacles became puzzles to be resolved, re-conceived, and negotiated, rather than end points. Lady was my research partner, the world our laboratory.
A bi-product of our adventures was that I learned to be a problem solver, to be independent, to be resilient. When you wipe out on your bike a mile from home on a country road, you have no other choice than to get up, to dust off your skinned knees and elbows, and to limp back home. Nobody came to rescue me, but then again, I learned I didn't need to be rescued. I didn't need to be entertained. I didn't need other people to fix things for me. These are lessons I leverage every day.
We added other dogs along the way, but none of them ever compared with Lady. In all that time, Lady and I never shared words, but then we didn't need to. She loved me and I loved her, an unspoken truth that resonated. In her twenty-four years of life she never failed me, never forgot me, even when I went away, never hesitated to teach me new lessons. I was blessed, a boy and his dog. The freedoms we shared made me the man that I am. I thank my parents for Lady, and the freedom they gave me to roam and grow.
See you around campus.