Thank You Norris

Three weeks shy of the one-year anniversary of my return to the ranch I can observe now, with far more clarity, just how incredibly horribly living in Shitville fucked me up. I can also observe, with relief and joy, that I have finally pulled myself mostly out of that black hole. One clue that appeared just last night was the painting that poured out of my brush and onto the canvas. Though not as huge as many of the works I painted living in Shitville, it does feature the big, bold, invented flowers I had once been so fond of painting, back when I was trying to trick myself into believing I could adjust to living under the perpetual threats rained down upon me daily by a bunch of Trump psychos. 

Upon my return to the ranch, I continued to paint. I moved away from happy flowers and went deep beneath the surface, into the dirt and mud. I painted a series as a tribute to the PTSD that has shaped my life for more than fifty years. I painted a series featuring many of the individuals who joined forces to drive me out of town. Eventually I got those things out of my system and, most recently, inspired by a class I took at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center, I have been working on small botanical watercolors. 

That I paint at all is a secular miracle. When I was told, as a fourth grader, that I was doing art wrong, my mind was already damaged. The art teacher who tossed out this ill-advised comment might have thought he was being helpful. Insead, his declaration prompted me to give up on art. And while I remained creative and crafty, something shut down in my head. I became the person who said, over and over, “I can’t draw” and “I could never paint.”

I understand now that if I’d had a lick of confidence—and I know confident ten year-olds—I might have reacted differently. Perhaps I would have looked at him with my bright kid eyes and laughed. Maybe I would have said, “You can’t do art wrong you bonehead.”

I was not a confident ten year-old. I’d already spent a decade being informed on the daily what a worthless piece of shit I was at home by my “father.” I was putty in the art teacher’s hands then, my mind ripe to accept his offhand remark as gospel. 

When I decided to try painting at the age of 56, I was astonished. Not at how “good” I am. I doubt I’d win any juried contest. In fact, I’m sure I would never be accepted into a juried competition. This is but one thing I love about my painting. I know I’m doing it right for me because I truly, genuinely, do not give a rat’s ass what other people think about my work. 

All I know is that painting, like that Wild Thing in the song, makes my heart sing. I paint nearly every day, if only a quick sketch in my journal. The process—the colors, the strokes—calms and focuses me perhaps even more than writing. And I find it is often far easier for me to find a color than a word or phrase that pleases me.

The reason I was painting last night, a reason that did not at first occur to me as I sat at my easel, was more about proximity to Norris than it was about creating. Norris, a violent Great Pyrenees I adopted in January of 2016, is actively dying as I write these words. Like my last Great Pyrenees, he is insisting on dying outside, though he is more than welcome to come die in my bed. He refuses to cross the threshold and come inside. It’s like he is going to guard this house and its occupants until he breathes his last. This loyalty is astonishing and I cannot contemplate it without openly weeping. 

My easel is very close to the door at which Norris lies. Though it was cold last night, I swung the door open so he could watch me paint and I could watch him die. I cranked up some John Denver, squirted bright colors on my palette, and off I went. 

I cried a lot while I worked. Mostly I was grateful that Norris had made it through the previous day, which I did not think would happen. I left him to go to my elder job at the museum. I decided not to call in sick because in my experience with animals, including humans, often if you stand vigil the dying will keep living. Bob did this. He waited until his daughter and I were on the briefest break from our otherwise round-the-clock bedside duties to slip off to the next place. As if he couldn’t bear to let go while we were there because he just wanted to protect us. 

This is true of Norris. I mentioned his violence, which appeared not long after I got him home. Before I knew about this streak, I introduced him to others. Once I figured it out, I was more mindful. Ultimately there were maybe five other humans he could be around without the fear he would go apeshit and sink his teeth into a perceived enemy. 

Sometimes he got mixed up and went after me. Not often, unless you consider that once is too often. A few times I thought I couldn’t handle him anymore. I wondered what happened to him as a puppy to cause such reactivity. I wondered if his increasingly bad attitude meant he was close to death. I went so far as to discuss this with a vet and to ask how best he might be put down. The answer did not please me. I had hoped for some concoction I could feed him, knowing a vet could never get close enough to inject him. The vet explained in cases like this a blow dart is the way to go. 

A blow dart? No. 

Those other times were false alarms anyway. He kept on living and kept on flipping out at anyone or thing that appeared to want to get near me. Over-protection is an understatement. When our beloved dog sitter Annie, the only one Norris could stay with at length besides me, moved far away, I knew my travel options had shrunk exponentially. That her departure coincided with lockdown made this less unsavory. No one was going anywhere anyway. 

I literally spent every single day for nearly three years with Norris and the rest of the pack. Every day. My friends had a joke about how in their next lives they wish to return as one of my dogs. It’s true, I am that Crazy Dog Lady and I will do anything for my animals. 

I’m not sure if letting Norris go feels harder than past goodbyes because of this intense bonding we did. Or maybe, probably, I feel this way about every dog I usher out. In their dying moments each is THE ONE, the hardest to let go. 

I finished the happy flower painting, adjusted the quilt I’d placed across Norris’s back and the one beneath his head. I smooched his snoot and as with every animal who has ever died in my presence, I knelt down and stroked my man Norris and I whispered in his ear Thank You, over and over again. Then reluctantly I closed the door, imagining that might be our last moment together. As I drifted off to sleep, the narrative came to me. 

Like every animal I have ever lived with, Norris has been a teacher. His message to me, the lesson he delivered, I now see flashing like neon. PROTECT YOURSELF he’s telling me. I’m going now and you know Milo is a big pussy so you’re going to have to PROTECT YOURSELF. Take no shit from anyone. Bare your teeth. Bark like fuck. Make the bad ones go away. 

There’s an amazing documentary on PBS now about Buffy Sainte Marie. One line I will never forget is how she said she never learned how to spot predators. I have thought about this so much. The resonance is deep. I never figured that out either. But how could I have? Indoctrinated from birth to believe I was weaker thanks to gender, that I must obey and bow down to men—what chance did I have of unlearning something so deeply entrenched it felt like a birthright not a lie? How many times have I, in my lifetime, trusted and believed someone who turned out to be a danger?

Norris on the other hand perceived everyone as a threat. Maybe then, all those thousands of times I told him to stop barking, tried to teach him to differentiate real threats from false, I was also speaking to myself, learning at long last to spot true danger. 

Norris is done teaching me now and so he has decided it’s time to go. I release him then, not without reluctance, but knowing he is ready and believing he thinks I am ready to better handle things on my own. 

I was so broken when I got back to the ranch last January. So broken. Broken far more than I understood. Broken less by being personally attacked daily—for though that hurt deeply, it was no different than my days as a child. What broke me was witnessing and experiencing firsthand in more vivid shades than I, even with my very dramatic life, had ever experienced before. Observing chronologically “adult” citizens of the meanest town in America LITERALLY proclaiming I needed to die in order for them to be satisfied. It broke me that the police called me to tell me I was in danger and needed protection. It broke me to witness deliberate predatory acts of meanness doled out with joy. 

What the fuck is wrong with people?

A dozen months of full-on daily dog therapy moved me back into a much better headspace, a much better heart space. May I never be tested and tormented like that again, but should someone try, I shall summon the lessons of Norris and I will protect myself.

I have learned to protect myself. This is a wild feeling. 

Norris was still breathing when I woke up today. It won’t be long now. The undertaker has been alerted and is on call. Norris is staring long into space, patiently waiting. I am so sorry to see him go. I am so grateful he showed up. 

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NOTES: Y’all there are still a few tickets left to my birthday bash show at The Hyde Park Theatre on January 10th. Go to SconeCrone.com/scones to order yours. 

Also, the Tiny Chapel of Kindness now has many stories of kindness on the wall. I would love for you to contribute. Write down a story of kindness you have experienced and mail it to: 

Tiny Chapel of Kindness

3409 Caldwell Lane

Garfield, TX 78617

You are welcome to come visit the chapel. Currently that is by appointment. You can hit reply to this email to set up a time.

I’ll be back in the New Year. Thanks for partaking in this little substack experiment of mine. I’m really enjoying it. If you’re enjoying it, too, please consider subscribing for $7 per month (no pressure!) and please share with your friends. 

Thanks and Dogspeed to the new year!