Jo-Ann Mapson

"Prayer is not an old woman's idle amusement. Properly understood and applied, it is the most potent instrument of action."
Mohandas K. Gandhi, "Non-Violence in Peace and War," 1948

Dog Breath Beats Applause

On New Year's Eve I stood at a podium in the Vermont College chapel, reading to MFA students from Along Came Mary, book two in the Bad Girl Creek series. It had been ten years since I'd been there, finishing up my degree. Behind me stood a huge pipe organ, surrounded by polished wood paneling, figured marble, and the history of thousands of boys from a time when the school was a military academy. In front of me sat my old teachers, writers for whom I have so much respect that I felt like a fraud among them. In the students, I could feel stories, begging to be told. Being asked back to campus to read was an honor I never expected. I've always had a stone in my shoe regarding "honors." I'd somehow based my worth on "winning" one, and then when it never happened, considered myself nothing special. But with my knees knocking as I stood there trying to read, and feel worthy of taking up their time, I began to see things differently.

The rules for student readings at the college are the same as they were ten years ago: you may read for five minutes, fiction or poetry. It had always seemed so short a time-how could I possibly cut a piece of my fabulous fiction down to that length of time and have it make any sort of impact? Uncertain of where my power lay, I felt sure I needed every word to be convincing. Well, in ten years, I've learned that if you can manage five minutes with impact, you're styling. The real trouble begins when someone asks you to read for an hour. Then the trick becomes how best to keep the audience awake.

So I read chapter one-Mary's story-as she stands in an empty rodeo arena and begins the long, slow process of mourning for her sister Margaret, killed five years ago in the Oklahoma City bombing. It was the first time I'd read it aloud to anyone besides my dogs, and they love everything I read, because I have hands, and I can open cans, fetch dogs biscuits, and take them for walks. Mary explained how a girl cannot yet be thirty and feel older than a great-grandmother. She tried to be patient with some misguided animal activists, but lost her famous temper. Then she made up her mind to stop shirking her grief and descend into it, because she knew that was the only way to heal her broken heart-by taking the journey-her heroine's quest. Mary did the work-all I did was read her story for her. Students clapped, and my teachers gave me hugs, and told me how proud they were of me. In three hours, it would be 2002, and I thought to myself as I walked across the snowy campus, this is a good way to ring in the New Year.

Then I attended the student readings. Filled with amazing new voices, being there as a visitor, I was able to observe the faculty, and note how their enthusiasm for their students was of the highest order. There is something sacred about teaching writing. A teacher hopes to ignite passion for the act, to share what she knows and in the process learn more, to encourage the uncertain writer, to embolden the shy one, and to stay out of the way of the talented ones because what they really need is permission. Sometimes I find myself having ambitions for them. It's then I know I'm on that edge, and it's time to look at my own work, and to reassess whether or not I'm challenging myself, or maybe hiding just a little.

But what I meant to say is that after my great reading, in the glow of that applause, and in the rich atmosphere of hearing the talented students read, something unexpected happened that readjusted my axis. And this is what it was:

One of the hardest things about attending the residencies then-and now-was being apart from my family during New Year's and Fourth of July. I called Stewart, who was already in Alaska, to wish him Happy New Year. When he answered the phone, I could tell something was wrong. "When I got home, the dogs all ran down the stairs to greet me except for Echo Louise," he said. "She was on the landing, unable to stand, groaning. I think she might be dying."

These dogs. We invited them into our lives one by one, and with each passing day they dug a little deeper into our hearts. Max has "christened" just about every piece of furniture in the house. Echo once ate a couch, actually, two couches. Singlepawedly, Verbena has racked up the costliest vet bills. And Cricket, well, I just don't know where to begin with Cricket. Mutilated tennis balls she leaves on the stairs so I nearly break my neck? Incessant barking at thousand-pound moose? Or for a really great memory, how about the time she pooped into my hands in a motel in Monterey, California? Yet I love them each so deeply I can't bear to think of life without a single one of them. The only tragic thing about growing old is learning that I will not live long enough to have all the dogs I want in my life.

"Rush her to the vet," I said. "Call me later. And tell her I love her." And then I cried.

Bret Lott, director of Vermont's Program, came by to say goodnight, and found me on my knees praying. We sat together and prayed for my dog. I forgot the ending to the Our Father. Bret's a Baptist from South Carolina. I'm a fumbling, reluctant Catholic. When I pray, it's mostly through Mary, who I feel is my best conduit. Bret's prayers are like easy conversations. He talks, God listens. We held hands and I cried some more and Bret assured me that animals do go to heaven, that there's a place for them there, absolutely. His words gave me peace. I knew that if Echo had to die that night, she'd go straight to heaven, because her goodness has far outweighed a few couches. With doggie licks and unwavering acceptance, she helped my troubled teenaged son understand that he was worth loving. Bounding through the tall grass on walks, she reminded me that life was not only worth living, but that pleasures were simple and always within reach, and that with not too much effort, you could imagine yourself a gazelle in Africa, leaping gracefully through the veldt. And now that she was old, she stuck close to Stewart while he worked in his studio, sleeping hard, his constant model striking poses he couldn't resist painting.

The emergency vets know us well-Cricket's famed raisin overdose, for one thing. Verbena's ability to swallow a pork chop bone that was about half as long as she is. We are the nuts from California who aren't put off by veterinary cost. When we board them (hardly ever), we don't care if it costs five dollars extra per day per dog if it means they get laptime, or a game of fetch, or simply a few extra strokes. We send our vet presents. And the emergency vets are one rank higher in my book. To keep night hours in the name of loving animals-these people deserve a holiday named after them.

By the time Stewart and Echo arrived, she was acting her old self again, and he was thoroughly flummoxed. After Echo was examined, the vet surmised that the other dogs had probably crashed into her and knocked the wind out of her. The gasping and inability to right herself was likely normal for a deaf 14-year-old dog with heart valve problems, who takes seizure medication, who eats three small meals a day so as not to tax her pancreas, which has nearly done her in on occasion.

"Lazarus Louise," Stewart told me, as I called him from my dorm room, lying in the dark unable to sleep. I had a taxi ordered for 5:00 a.m. to get me to the airport an hour away.

"Don't leave her alone until I get home," I begged him. "Promise you won't even pick me up at the airport; I'll take a cab."

Who knows if I slept. I did catch my taxi, and listen to the woman driver's rambling narrative-her life near the Canadian border could not have been more different than mine. In the Burlington airport I had my boots searched. In Chicago, I was taken out of line to be bodily searched, and to experience the humiliation of having my sewing kit confiscated, but somehow allowed to keep the 8" long steel nail file. There were first class upgrades, and mixed nuts, and there were also seats in the rear of the plane next to the man who thought my left breast really needed an elbow in it for five hours straight in order to complete the flying experience.

Then outside the plane window, at last, Anchorage. Dirty snow, funky airport, no one to greet me at the gate. I didn't care. I claimed my luggage, and caught a taxi with a driver who spoke with a thick Russian accent. "These streets with the tree names," he said, fed up with trying to find mine. "Main Tree, Round Tree, the only one missing is Christmas Tree."

Then we were in my driveway and I was tipping him hugely. I dragged my suitcases up the icy steps and opened the front door. "Doggies?" I called, even though I know Echo can't hear me. Soon they were all over me, yelping, barking with their horrible breath, fighting for Mama's lap. Oh, I thought as I braved their kisses and petted them with my hands, elbows, chin and legs, this is the only reward I care about winning. This moment, right now, thank you, God, is heaven.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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