Times like these

When I was a young man, well, kind of that strange period between boy and man, our family was given a dog. A pure bred boxer. Her name was Lady. She was all muscle, a light brown, no tail and when she was excited her entire rear quarters would wiggle.

Quickly we became great friends. We slept together, went on walks, chased birds and if I threw a ball she would run like the wind and go and get it. Sometimes she would bring it back and allow me to throw it again, depending on her mood.

We would battle. I could stand in the front yard and she would get on her hind legs and try to bite my hands. It was a game we played. I would try to slap her face, she would try and bite my hand. I did not really slap her and she never bit me so hard as to make me bleed, it was a game and we both understood the rules.

Until a fat lazy gay cat with breathing problems entered my life many years later, Lady was far and above the most important pet I have ever known. There was no pretense to her, although my sense was that inside, she knew she was a much better specimen than the family she was living with. It was an attitude that she could flash, a look, sideways glance. She would let me know, a little faster, a little better groomed and in much better shape.

We would race. Both standing still and then an imaginary gun would go off and we would both run as fast as possible, maybe 50 yards. It was never close, but when I stopped, she would come paddling up, happy and joyous.

One day she was gone. I found her body in the woods behind our house, she had found a small cave, laid down and stopped breathing. She looked peaceful. I admired the fact that she did not do some dramatic dance, weaker by the day, slowing letting us know her days were numbered. Such was her dignity, she just found a quiet place to be at peace and she drifted off. When I go, if I could mimic her, I would die happy.

I am a medical experiment for 76 more days. I spent the day alone today, running errands and forgetting how to measure a door.

I have a friend, for the sake of his dignity and privacy and to not ruin his standing in his career, I will call him Becky. I called Becky tonight, he answered and we talked. If memory serves me, and it rarely does these days, we met when we were both in grade school. I was short and fat and people told me I was ugly. He was tall and blond and handsome and girls found him attractive.

We have always been friends. I think it's safe to say that we will always be friends. I was not making a friend, touch base call tonight. I had something important to ask him and it took a while, because at the basics of our relationship, we are friends, we love one another as only brothers can. So we had to catch up.

A few years ago Becky was standing next to me as a prescription medication I had taken for the first time began to kick in. As I stood in a coffee shop in Seattle and I looked out the window, the seasons kept changing, in the matter of seconds. It was strange and unsettling. Becky asked me if I was OK and I said I thought I might throw up. Apparently I was ghostly white. We made it into the women's room and I began to toss.

A long time later, Becky was driving my car, taking me home.

Tonight, after catching up, I said I needed a favor. Becky listened and then he said, done.

I may be trying to define what friends really are. We do not see one another often, on average, once every 3-5 years. We hardly ever talk on the phone. We email maybe once a year. Then there is tonight. We could have been at the playground, boys coming up with ways to disrupt 6th grade english. Can I borrow a quarter for lunch? He would hand me a quarter. Tonight, as if we were those same boys, I asked a favor and he did not hesitate.

At some point I asked Becky if he remembered Lady. "That Boxer? She was something."

If memory serves me, that boxer and I sat in the green grass one night, staring at the moon as two Americans walked on it for the first time in history. That was a long time ago.