Andy

I have been re-reading Scott Elledge’s great biography of the even-greater E.B. “Andy” White.  White, as I’m sure you know, wrote for “The New Yorker” and “Harper’s” magazines.  He was also a dedicated farmer and livestock keeper, an avid sailor, keen and rueful observer of human nature, the author of Stuart Little and The Trumpet of the Swan.

He updated the famous Will Strunk book The Elements of Style (my final arbiter in all questions grammarian) and, IMHO, he was an essayist unparalleled by any other.

Bring on Montaigne, Emerson and Thoreau.  (White’s touchstone, btw.) I’ll match “Andy” White up agin ’em any day.

And he wrote Charlotte’s Web.

If he had done nothing else, never wrote “Second Tree from the Corner,” or “This is New York,” or “Farewell, my Lovely!” or “Death of a Pig,” he would still be the guy to whom I owe everything.

Not being the writer that White was, I have to cop out and say I’m not able to match his felicity with a phrase.  He had a touching use of the exact right word served up for the most profound effect.

He’s just…perfect.  Every word is the one you (or I) would have chosen- if only we had his genius.

This could get annoying but White saves us from his perfection with his wit and his humanity.  Ever laughed with tears in your eyes?  Ever had a sob catch in your throat as you read about an old, grouchy dachshund named Fred?

Ever watch a raccoon climb a tree and carry her kittens to safety?  Thanks to Andy White, I have.  And I’m a much better person (if not a better columnist) for it.

So it is under his influence today that:

1.  I went out into the park and played in the snow.

2.  I wrote about another Andy.

My Scottish terrier.

A gent, a scholar, a dog about town.  He was the first of three Scotties- Murdoch and Gillis being the rest of the gang- that we adopted during our Colorado tenancy.

It’s going to take courage to write about him because, first, I have to summon up the awful circumstances that led to his arrival into Nick and my lives.

It was November of 1996 and we were both in throes of the maelstrom of a sudden and terrible divorce.   With no premeditation or plan, Nick- then just sixteen- and I- well over twenty-one- had fled Chicago.

We left behind friends, family, money, mail (I had filled out the change of address card in the name of “Ellen Ross” and my ex refused to forward on any mail that came addressed to Mrs. William D. Ross) peace of mind, a new girlfriend- in Nick’s case- and the familiarity of the twenty-year role of wife and mother- in mine.

I also left behind a good portion of my sanity.  The rupture had seriously unhinged me. (Or maybe I had been already undone by the fact that my marriage was a sham and I couldn’t go through the loveless motions any more.)

All I know is that I was seriously nuts.  And Nick was seriously trying to help me restore some balance and sanity into my life- and his.

But he didn’t know it at the time.  All he knew is that he wanted a dog.

“C’mon, Dude,” his eyes were shining eagerly at the thought.  “C’mon.  Let’s get a dog.”

“No,” I said wearily.  I knew from vast experience that all the burden of crate-training, feeding, vet-going, grooming, obedience-training and general baby-sitting would fall on me.  “No dog.  I can’t handle it right now.  No.”

“Please, Dude, please,”  he begged.  “It will be great.  We need a dog around here.  You love dogs.”

“No.”

“I’ll do all the work.  I promise.  Please.”

“NO!”

“We could get a Scottie?…”

“Okay.”

I caved in a minute.

Nick was savvy enough to know that owning a Scottish Terrier was a lifelong dream of mine.  When he was a little boy he had a stuffed one named Angus that was his totem object.  He had loved that little guy without limits.

(I remember the tragic day when Angus was accidentally left in a plane seat-back pocket as we jetted to Palm Springs. All frantic letters and phone calls to the airlines were to no avail.  Angus was never returned and we finally had to tell Nicky- then aged three- that Angus was now a member of the Frequent Flier Club.

Nicky accepted this fib was equanimity- coupled with the life-saving stroke of good luck in finding an exact “Angus” replica in a Palm Springs toy store.

Angus II stayed with him- with the exception of the one night he spent in the Four Seasons laundry facility- the rest of his childhood.)

I had one caveat.

I didn’t want a puppy.

I just wasn’t up to the stain-mopping and the round-the-clock attention to training detail that I knew that a puppy would entail.  (No pun intended.)

I wanted a fully-grown, blue-blooded, trained champion Scottie. And I was willing to pay out vast amounts of hard currency to make this happen.

As it turned out, people in possession of these dogs had NO interest in selling them at any price.  And then I got a call.  From Don Gilman at Scottie Rescue in Denver.  Don had heard of my quest and he had a suggestion- and a dog.

“Have you ever adopted a “rescue?” he asked.

I hadn’t- and he proceeded to tell me why it might be a fine idea.

I was amenable, forms were filled out, calls went back and forth from Denver to Snowmass, and then one day around Thanksgiving, Don called with the news that he had made a match.

“I had another dog picked out for you guys,” he confided. “But then I did a little research about you.  We just got him in.  He’s in very good shape.  Must have been stolen or just wandered off.  He’s not neglected in any way.  But he’s the dog I think you should have. He’s a “diplomat’s dog.”  I hear you have a lot of friends there and I think you three will get along great.”

I was excited.  But first came a home visit.

“Tell you what,” Don continued.  “Ill drive him down to you.  And if he’s comfortable and I like the look of things, you can have him.”

On the designated day, Nick and I anxiously awaited their arrival.  And then about four in the wintry afternoon, the doorbell rang.

In came Don with a crate.

Nick and I were frozen on the couch.  We were so afraid that we might upset the new arrival’s equilibrium that we didn’t dare breathe.   We knew that sometimes dogs were overwhelmed by travel or a new environment and/or strangers and we didn’t want to scare him.  So we just sat on the couch stock still in anticipation.

Don opened the crate…

And Andy sauntered out, jumped on the couch next to Nick, nestled in and he was home.

That was it.

We three humans all looked at each other and a new family was created right then and there.

“No need to worry about this little guy any more,” said Don contentedly.  “I can see he feels right at home.”

Which he did for the rest of his life.

Andy wasn’t a “diplomat’s dog.”  He was a diplomat. He never met a person he didn’t like.

In fact, he loved to make new acquaintances all the time.

Once, when he disappeared for a while, I found him casually hanging with some workers in their construction trailer. They were happy to have him oversee their lunch break.

Another time he suddenly vanished on our golf course.  Mike and I frantically combed it for hours, until at last we got a call from the clubhouse.  Andy had been riding around in the “drinks cart” all day.  He had had a swell thirty-six holes greeting all the golfers.

He was love incarnate.  With a Scottish swagger and just enough ego to stop on a dime and pose whenever he heard someone say “What a cute Scottie!”

He was highly educated, too.  When Mike and I went to Tahiti for ten days, Nick and Gina G. put him up in Boulder.  Every day Andy would go to school at the university.  Gina took him to so many classes that I always teased that Andy had more college credits than Nick.

Because he was a “rescue,” we never knew exactly how old Andy was.  We had had him for eight years when, as suddenly as he came into our lives, he left.

Quietly, and with a very little warning.

“It was his heart,” my vet said sadly.  “It just gave out on him.”

But his heart never gave out on us.  And Nick and I forever knew what a great “rescue” dog he was.

Andy rescued us.

(Was that okay for you, Mr. White?)