Jesus Is a Newfoundland dog owner

The sense of "uprootedness" sometimes is overwhelming. For some reason, I'm willing to leave my Bradley Lake home and friends whom I love so much in Alaska for job in higher education in the Lower 48. Since UAA closed my program (with Tom Besh as my colleague) in Health, Outdoor and Physical Education, I’ve tried to balance retaining my home in Palmer and developing my career as a professor in the Lower 48.

I take my skills as a teacher (UAA university-wide and college-wide faculty reviews said my teaching was "exemplary") and apply them elsewhere (i.e. Ball State, Muncie, Ind., and, now, headed to State University of New York – College at Brockport).

During a recent chilly, foggy day I enjoyed some misty eyes thinking of leaving my home to keep my career alive for future generations of Maguire’s to relish in…with pride.. Skiing my lakes (Kepler-Bradley) and biking my Valley (Outer Springer Loop and Old Glenn bike paths) are cherished experiences.

Began writing a "goodbye" piece for the Frontiersman using Hemmingway's “A Farewell to Arms” theme(s). But, thoughts of my Newfoundland (Newf) dogs keep roaming through my head.

So, I'm at home writing. Aging and the Newf, especially. How their hair turns white on the chin. Newf owners I've met since 1989…stories of an owner carrying her Newf everywhere as he'd lost leg function; propping older Newf up in pickup, so he could see; my 2003 goodbye to Bentley at 14 years of age (last "being" I knew in Alaska to have been around my mom at her death in 1993), etc. Was thinking of my white goatee’d Newfs Moby (from Tasmania) at 8 years and Bailey at 7 years (North Pole kennel) and the brevity of their lives, as I contemplated recent e-mails about picking up my new Newf on the way in New York state — Boomer. (Named after mom’s Newf and in honor of her memory.)

Drove to store still circulating random Newf thoughts. At Fred Meyers Market am walking down the aisles and re-visiting my "Bentley goodbye" — hugging him as he laid proudly next to his grave with Karen the Harpist from Providence playing in background while the vet euthanized him…my attention suddenly startled in the tuna fish aisle by a guy in a tight T-shirt, bulging gut, and muscles with a handle-bar mustache and who, holding a can of tuna, looks me directly in the eye and says, "My Newf’s gonna love this! He's getting old and I have to treat him. I carry him. I'm a sensitive guy. Once a Newf owner, you don't want any other animal. I hate saying goodbye to them. They don't live long you know, maybe 8-9 years." He then massaged his mustache and said, "They’re chins turn white like this, too, you know!"

I was aghast, but recovered and engaged him with affirming comments. He was gone in an instant.

While conversing with him there was that weird moment where you think someone is crazy because they're talking out-of-the-blue to you like they've known you forever, but, at 55 years and open, I quickly recover knowing that in this universe — all things are possible — and it's all OK. Besides, imagine me judging him. Talk about the "pot calling the kettle black."

Driving home I thought, “Maybe that was Jesus I just met?” I had said the Rosary that morning.

Paul Maguire of Palmer is off on another adventure.