In Memoriam/What’s Amtrak’s Problem with Dogs?

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Authors note: It’s been over two months now. The last part of my therapy is to go “public” with my emotions. Enjoy.

Months ago, we were loading up into a river taxi in the Carribean city of Livingston, in Guatemala. Joining us in our adventure were a group of geriatric women. They were delighted when they saw our travel companion, Norm. “Bitsy wouldn’t be able to stand being on a boat, otherwise I’d love to bring her!” one of them would say. Norm dutifully sat in our arms as we loaded our bags into the rickety boat

This was a common interaction when we were abroad. People would lament the inability to bring their own four-legged companions and were warmed when they saw Norm.

It was the same story in Charlotte, North Carolina, as we sat downtown during some kind of Elk lodge convention. A woman who would’ve normally ignored three young people sitting in an outdoor cafe made a straight line for us. She probably had kids, grandkids–maybe even great grandkids–but as she coaxed Norm to her arms, all she could discuss was her own furry little one that she had left behind.

Not many of you got to see the Norm whose passing brings us so much grief. At 7 lbs. (give or take), Norm’s spirit occupied more space than a Great Dane. Defensive, but never aggressive, Norm was an incredibly brave dog.

He explored the everglades in Florida. He scaled Tallulah Gorge in Georgia. He walked the streets of Manhattan, delighting everyone he passed by riding atop my backpack. He sniffed out the pungent French Quarter in New Orleans. He slept in tents, crates, cars, hostel bunks and hotels (despite certain policies) from Key West to Quebec. He walked the streets of Savannah during St. Patrick’s day, the largest such celebration in the world. He fought with ghost crabs and chased white-tail deer (“what the hell was he going to do when he caught them?” I always asked). He inexplicably growled at a pack of Emu’s. In short, Norm did more in his two-and-a-half years of life than most people could hope to accomplish in their whole lives.

I was not a stranger to the thought of Norm’s death. Were it to come quickly, I envisioned a fierce battle between himself and a pitbull as he selflessly defended our daughter, Lily. Were he to live to his life expentacy, I envisioned him dragging a tumor as large as himself for months before finally succombing–simply out of pure annoyance. What’s most hard is that such a consequential dog died through such seemingly inconsequential circumstances.

It is with a noted air of irony that, for all his adventures, he died when we had to leave him at home. I wish I could’ve plead the case to Amtrak that he was a “service” dog–our adventure were nothings without him.

The Russians (a people who have proven themselves particularly adept at surviving depressing scenarios) have an old saying: “You don’t know a man until you have eaten a pood of salt with him” (a ‘pood’ is equal to roughly 33 pounds). I’ve eaten more ‘salt’ with Norm than with some people I’ve known my whole life.

And so, as we stand facing a future without his physical presence, I can’t help but feel a dearth of courage. Norm was sheer bravery, unwavering strength, and boundless love. He was never helpless–if he couldn’t fight it/intimidate it, he could damn well outrun it (he became more aerodynamic when he folded his ears down). I once thought that Norm’s need for us, his constant backward glances as we walked strange lands, was a one-way street of emotional dependence. In his abscence I realize this not to be true–and it hurts.

All he ever needed was a rock in his mouth and the knowledge that we were behind him, somewhere.

Don’t worry, buddy, we still are…feel free to go on ahead.

Norm “Peaski”, a.k.a. “the Norminator”

February 27th, 2006 – August 18th, 2008