My father-in-law Don Dickinson got Jake, a beautiful sheltie, for companionship after his wife, Colleen, died. Don was independent until he fell this year, struck his head and slid into infirmity. My wife, Ellen, and her five sisters, the steel magnolias of East Tucson, swarmed on his home and became his caregivers. When Don became bedridden they took turns walking Jake. Over a period of weeks the melancholy canine watched his sweet-natured 89-year old master become as helpless as an infant.
The sisters’ mantra was,“He cared for us as babies, now it’s our turn.”
A few weeks ago Ellen and I escaped the caregiving grind. She was attending a two-day conference in Denver and I was the tagalong spouse, out joyriding in the rental car. At least until I got the frantic call from Ellen. “Jean called. Come back to the hotel and take us to the airport. We have to go home. ”
I drove to Denver International like we were racing death itself. Ellen’s cellphone rang. Ellen relayed the bulletins. He’s on morphine. The hospice nurse is there. His pastor is there.
As I wove in and out of traffic, her sisters, at Don’s bedside in Tucson, put Ellen on speakerphone. I could hear him gasping through his oxygen mask. Don no longer resembled the vigorous, literate man who started a school and raised six accomplished women. No doubt, perplexed Jake was nearby, watching this drama unfold.
She could hear him breathing! “Put the phone up to his ear.Hello, dad? It’s Ellen.”
“He recognizes your voice!” said one sister. Another said, “He raised his eyebrows! “He groaned a faint groan of recognition. Across the miles the connection was made.
“I love you, daddy. You mean so much to me.”
Another faint sound. After a hushed conversation among the sisters, I heard the pastor lead the family in prayer. My wife joined in and prayed aloud into her phone. As she tearfully whispered, “Amen,” I prayed for two seats to be available on the earliest flight to Tucson.
As the car rental drop-off came into view, Ellen said farewell to her father. “I’ll miss you,” she said, acknowledging aloud that this might be her final goodbye to the man who read bedtime stories to her and taught her kindness and pingpong and took her camping and filled their home with Gershwin.
When our plane landed we raced to Don’s bedside, where he was surrounded by his steel magnolias. He had stopped drinking and eating. The world grew whisper-quiet. By morning he stopped breathing. Jake’s worried brown eyes were fixed on his master as the heart that started beating in 1927 came to rest.
The next day I posted the news:
“Surrounded by the love of his six beautiful daughters, Don Dickinson, founder of the University of Arizona School of Library Science, bibliographer of the poet Langston Hughes, and the kindest and gentlest intellectual giant I ever met, passed peacefully from us.”
During the memorial preparations I wondered if Jake understood what had happened. Where would Jake go? Would one of Don’s daughters take Jake?
My brother-in-law, Jay Dickinson, a librarian, spoke at Don’s memorial service. Don loved fine books, the printing arts and even had his own printing press. Jay is married to Jean, sister number two and the third librarian in the family.
Jay said, “Jean and I saw this movie called ‘Helvetica’. I liked it! I told Don about it because I thought he would love it, too.”
Don declined. “No, thanks. Helvetica has never really been my favorite typeface.”
Jay guessed that Don was holding out for a future documentary about Times Roman.
I loved that frail towering man. And his Ian Fleming paperback collection. And his Harlem renaissance collection. And Jake.
Jake was adopted by sister number five, Katie, and her kindhearted husband, Steve. It was reported that old Jake loved to run and play with their two lovable mutts in the backyard. We all knew Jake was going to thrive in his new loving home.
Days later, we’re watching TV and Ellen’s cellphone chimes. She reads the text and I see tears. “He just stopped drinking and eating. Jake’s gone. I can’t believe it.”
I texted Katie a quick sketch of her father, a proud member of the Cloud Watching Society, standing on his own billowing cloud, joyfully greeting his beloved Jake with open arms, saying, “Where have you been, Jake?” It’s naive but I find comfort in the fantasy of Professor Dickinson strolling the heavens with Jake in tow, tail wagging, listening attentively as his beloved master muses on the poetry of Langston Hughes and the shortcomings of Helvetica.
