Made For Anyone

When my first Labrador died over a year ago, a friend was there for me. She was there 9 years later when I had to let the second one go, too.

If you don’t think animals can be part of the family, you should stop reading now.

She had to let her own dog go last week, an ancient and amazing Weimaraner who’d run and played with both of my older dogs, as well as the young one sleeping at my feet now. Uncertain timing and living states apart kept me from being there for her, but I know she was surrounded by the right people when the time came.

A few days later I was shown a small woolen rug, buried in the basement of a local furniture store in our mountain town. The three woven Labs sitting in a canoe seemed kind of campy (no pun intended), but I took the rug home anyway.

I’d just laid it on the floor in front of the kitchen sink when I noticed the ordered color of the dogs… black in front, chocolate in the middle, yellow at the end.

My first Lab was black, second chocolate, third yellow.

The universe didn’t weave this rug for me. I didn’t commission anyone to latch-hook my dogs in the hued sequence they came into my life, as masters of majestic canine destiny perched in a canoe.

But how many other rugs, paintings, books, songs, haikus, whatever, are out there, waiting to be discovered, made for anyone, yet still only for me?

I took a quick trip to California a couple of days ago, where I dropped off a card for the friend who’d lost her dog, about how the crack in her heart is the same crack that will someday let the light in.

Before I left, she showed me three different spreads of her recently passed Weimaraner, featured in a published coffee table book filled with beautiful photographs of canine companions.

Made for anyone, yet still only for her.

Assuming

My lab and I were headed to the river yesterday when an old Dodge truck sputtered out of the animal shelter parking lot, struggling to accelerate in front of us.

Old, as in my age. Ancient.

The pickup’s tailgate was rusting over the missing bumper, and I assumed that the driver and woman perched next to him on the bench seat had to give up their dog, for whatever reason. Money, behavior, moving.

There’s always a reason.

And I was witness to their solemn departure.

That animal shelter, one of Idaho’s no-kill facilities, is just down the street from the ranch. Our husky-dachshund mix ended up there after an impromptu solo field trip last year, and by the time we realized he was missing, he already had a profile on their website. And by the time I got there, he already had a deposit on him for adoption.

So, this couple’s former dog was going to be fine.

A head popped up next to the woman. Now it made sense why she was shoved against the driver. They had a kid.

The kid licked the woman, which I thought was kind of weird. But whatever. We’re in Idaho.

And the kid needed a haircut and a shave. Again, Idaho.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. Not as many rules, societal or otherwise.

And then the kid hung its floppy ears and two front paws out the passenger window.

A few hours later they randomly pulled up next to me by the river, miles away from the animal shelter: a young couple, very much in love, with an adolescent shepherd mix in the passenger seat.

I almost said something to them, and thought about introducing Emma to their dog, but I assumed they didn’t want a couple of foreign objects entering their beautiful orbit.

I probably should have, though.

They’d already taken me to school on the assuming thing.

The Next One Is Here

‘When’s the next one?’

The audience was filing out of the historic La Paloma theater when Jack Tempchin, a living legend of a songwriter, asked that question from the stage, to no one in particular.

I didn’t know. I felt like I’d been holding a bird in my hand, this little dove, and I’d finally let her take flight into the early winter night.But I didn’t know where this For The Sender benefit project of songs about stories would land.

I didn’t know when, or if, we’d perform at La Paloma again. I didn’t even know that ‘La Paloma’ translates to ‘The Dove,’ which would have made the bird metaphor a better story back then.

I didn’t know that someone in the audience that night would serve as a catalyst to an established publisher, who’d commit resources to an entire series of books and songs about letters, helping me to make a real difference in the lives of the letter senders, the causes they chose to support, and myself.

I didn’t know that my first book would inspire a master’s last book. I didn’t know I’d go on the road with him, write a song for him, find a friend in him.

I didn’t know, because that night at the La Paloma was just the beginning.

We’re not at the end, not yet. Almost 8 years have passed since that winter night, and it’s time to bring For The Sender home for the holidays.

So, For The Sender is returning to where it all began: the historic La Paloma Theater, on Saturday, December 14th, at 7:30pm, for our annual Holiday Show.

This place has only 325 seats and is open to all ages. We played two sold-out concerts here the night For The Sender was born, but that won’t happen this year.  Just one show, with all proceeds going to the Team RWB surf camp for veterans.

We’ll announce the lineup as the weeks unfold, but you can count on familiar For The Sender faces (and voices).

Including Jack Tempchin, who will be there again, onstage at La Paloma, in answer to his own question.

‘The next one’ is here.