MONDAY DIARY: DOGGONE NEWS

So about a year ago, I take Sebastian the dog, then almost 12, to the vet and received some news:

It seemed logical, then, to get another dog.  Sebastian could help train the new rectory employee and perhaps the new dog could give Sebastian some re-invigorated life and companionship in his twilight years.

A kind parishioner helped me to find Chester, named after G. K. Chesterton.  The two dogs got along gangbusters.  Chester adores Sebastian and Sebastian has really taken Chester under his wing so to speak.  It was a good move.  Having two dogs is much trickier than I imagined it would be but things have been working out well under the circumstances.

THEN:

Skip ahead a year.  Sebastian is almost 13.  We go to the vet:

And that's how I ended up with two dogs.

FRIDAY POTPOURRI: HISTORY OF THE RECTORY; THE END OF THE CHAPTER

It was while drying dishes that I noticed that the dog was acting oddly and was off his food.  On the one hand he seemed to need lots of attention – cried for it - but when given, he did not seem very interested, whining and turning in circles.  But I was exhausted and it was more than I was interested in handling at that late hour.

Then that somebody remembered there were more dishes in the living room.  Going in to clear the dishes, though stuffed to the brim, the glutenous side of me had the intention of tasting just a little bit more of the spicy, meaty treats.  Looking at the platter I was shocked to see that we had finished off more of it than I had realized and that the choicest, spiciest selections  disappeared completely.  But the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that we had not, in fact, consumed that much food.  It would have been almost physically impossible.  Then the truth of it hit.  Sebastian!  The dog had helped himself to hot and spicy sausages and cheeses.  And that was also his emergency.  He was desperate to get outside and pass the burning mess inside him onto the grass.  I understood then he had been doing the dog version of a human with bulging eyes and crossing his legs doing his darndest not to let an accident happen.

“Come on boy, let’s go outside.”  The relief on his doggy face was palpable.  The door was opened and he shot out like a bullet, came to a screeching halt a few feet from the door and relieved the terrible, burning pressure.

I’ve never trusted him around such accessible and delicious food again. 

FRIDAY POTPOURRI: HISTORY OF THE RECTORY: THE LOGGIA CONTINUED

One day, knowing that I did not have a cook, a pastor (who had once employed me as a painter when I was a seminarian) and his cook who always wowed me with her culinary expertise offered to come to St. Sebastian and throw a dinner for the three of us.  Late in the afternoon a car pulled up and bags of groceries, enough to feed small village, were loaded into the house.  Organized pandemonium ensued.  Pots clanged, flour filled the air, and arguments worthy of a Nero Wolf novel concerning the correct amount of some herb or spice filled the house along with the smells of cooking.  The dog and I were sequestered to a corner of the kitchen where we were allowed to watch and ask questions.  My main job was to keep uncorking wine bottles to keep the cooks fueled and watch the unraveling drama. 

A couple of hours into the process there was a sudden silence.  Dinner needed some time by itself to finish up.  But in the meantime, there were hors d’ oeuvres in the living room that required our immediate attention.  

The low table in my office/living room was loaded down with spicy meats, cheeses and wonderfully breaded and deep fried things.  Dinner could become superfluous if we were not very careful.  This alone was a feast set for a king – a most gracious house warming gift.

The cook for the evening having slipped away to finish up things in the dinning room returned to announce that it was now time to eat.  We prayed and headed to the table.  Our hostess for the evening inquired about the prudence of leaving the unguarded food on the low table with Sebastian around.  “He has never so much as made a request of people food,” I proudly informed her, “I think we need not worry,” so, in great confidence, we descended upon the dining room table.

After dinner we took coffee out on the newly dubbed loggia.  It was looking quite sporting by now.  The security light had been removed and replaced with a simple candle chandelier that had been purchased at the end of the camping season for a song along with a “last one” floor model garden fountain.  Both of my friends who were serious hobbyists, antiquarians, and infinitely curious after expressing their delight in the room asked the question, “But what is under the Astroturf?” 

The truth was that I wondered myself.  Why would anybody put down that green plastic atrocity if it were not for a very good reason?  I surmised that it was probably just a cement floor and this may have been an improvement.

“Are you sure?” asked the cook setting down her coffee cup.

“Well . . . no.”

The priest set down his coffee cup and leaned forward.  “Haven’t you checked my boy?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing special.  If it was it wouldn’t be covered then would it?”

They looked conspiratorially at each other.  This night was not going to end well.

“If I were you and this was my house,” said the cook in a tone unmistakably underscored with a challenge of an adult speaking to a child, “nothing would keep me, at this very moment, from taking up at least a corner to see what was under there.”

“Yeah, but who knows what mess we might get ourselves into?”

“But my dear boy,” said the priest, “think of what great discovery there might be!”

I opened my mouth to say something but realized it would only postpone the inevitable and it was already getting a bit late.  We got up and went to a corner and I prayed that we would find nothing but cement under the floor covering.  I bent down and started prying up a corner.  The two conspirators loomed over me.  An initial lifting revealed two, grey, unimpressive sandstone blocks.  “Doesn’t look like much,” I said.

“Keep going.  Just a bit further,” they encouraged.

Another couple of inches revealed square tiles in burnt hues of yellow, red, and orange.  It was the worst possible news.  I heard a gasp over my shoulder.  “Look,” I said trying for one last dodge, “Surely there is a huge crack or a space they had to patch with cement in order for them to have covered nice tile in Astroturf.  I think we should stop until we are better prepared to deal with the mess we are making.”

But they were undaunted.  “I’ll clear the plates and keep the coffee heated in the kitchen,” cried the first, “And I will help the boy clear the porch of all this furniture!” cried the other.

An hour later (and into the dark part of the evening) there was a lawn full of furniture, yards and yards of plastic grass to haul to the dumpster, the coffee had grown tepid, but we stood on a wonderful discovery: a floor of five squares of tiles the color of late fall surrounded by blocks of sandstone.  The floor was in almost perfect condition under squiggly lines of black glue.

That the daring project turned out so well made the odious task of reassembling the loggia less of a burden.  Unfortunately almost everything used for the dinner was not dishwasher safe and we had a long time to recount the adventure over washing a drying more plates than any three people should use in one sitting.  

FRIDAY POTPOURRI: HISTORY OF THE RECTORY: IT'S A DOG'S LIFE (END OF CHAPTER 3)

The next cause for concern was (the dog's) name.  Upon hearing the name “Roomie” people’s first reaction was always first, “Oh . . .” followed by as polite an, “Eww,” as they could muster.  First impressions of the name always turned to rheumatoid arthritis or rheumy eyes.   Explaining the name helped.  The dog was thought to be a companion for a person who was somewhat bedridden and he had named him Roomie as in, “This is my roommate – Roomie.”  But explaining this became old quickly and it did not mitigate the problem that still nobody liked the name.  But what name did fit him?  Days were spent thinking about it.  This led me to believe that I would not make a fit dad.  My child would be 15 before I came up with a name; the quick finding of names of things not coming naturally to me.

Our mother parish, St. Vincent, right next door and the oldest parish in the city, came to the rescue.  The pastor there had a dog, who regularly “wrote” an article in the parish bulletin.  He was named Vinnie after the patron saint of the parish.  With the precedent set, Roomie, the dog of the newest parish within the city limits, would now be named Sebastian.

I will be the first to admit that Sebastian is an awfully pretentious name for a dog and a nickname was eagerly sought.  One day, shortly after his christening with his new name, a delivery man came to the door and took obvious delight in the dog.  “What is his name?”  he asked petting him on the head.  Upon being informed that it was Sebastian he exclaimed, “Why that was me Pa’s name!”  Quite intrigued we eagerly asked if his father was ever given any kind of nickname.  “Sure he was,” said the delivery man.  Excited to find out what Sebastian’s new nickname might be he was asked what his father was called.  “Busty!” was the proud answer.

How they got “Busty” out of “Sebastian” is beyond me.  In any event, Sebastian was not going to be called “Busty.”  It seems inappropriate for a rectory dog of expected high morals.  So for the most part he remains Sebastian though there are a few other nicknames to which he will readily answer: Poops, Sea Bass (my least favorite), Bosco (I don’t know why) Seraphim (long story) and a host of other names – but mostly he is just Sebastian.

Now after everyone went home at night there was something living in the house that could tell me if I should be concerned about a noise, that would alert me if I should miss the doorbell, and could divine which of the doors it was that needed answering without me running to the four corners of the house.  It was a joy having a house mate.

I needn’t have worried about being alone however.  A little patience would have revealed that the rectory was destined to be full of residents.  And they were all welcome.  As long as they liked dogs.

FRIDAY POTPOURRI: HISTORY OF THE RECTORY: THE FIRST BOARDER CONTINUED

The dog came for his interview the following Monday morning.  He looked like a black lab save that he was a little larger, hairier, and with a longer snout.  And had a heart the size of a full moon.  On one hand this was very endearing.  On the other it made him go into an anxiety fit when it was apparent his owners were leaving without him.  He threw himself against the door with the fervor of a man who was wrongly accused of a crime being thrown into solitary confinement for the rest of his life.  The old curtains on the door windows were shredded.  It was time to replace them anyway.

It took the better part of a day to coax the dog out of a deep depression.  Not even food tempted him and at dinner I had to hold morsels of dog food up to his snout for him to mindlessly eat as he stared out the backdoor.  At some point however something clicked and he simply decided to make the best of a stressful situation.  I tried not to form a bond with the dog.  What if the staff would say that it was too difficult to have a dog in the house?  But he was extremely affectionate and turned on the charm full steam and within hours I was in love.

So we move into his first night at the rectory.  Some dog book warned against ever letting a dog sleep in your bed.  “You will come home one day and all your bedding will be chewed up!” it warned with great foreboding.  When I went to bed, the dog came rested his chin on the edge of the mattress and looked at me with his big, black, watery eyes.  I was strong however.  If we were going to do this we were going to do it right.  Besides, I had never slept with any living being in my bed and was not sure that I could start sharing it now.

The dog decided to settle for sleeping under my bed which was not a good move since he was a large dog.  As he crawled under or tried to turn over it was like being in a commercial airplane with a little kid kicking the back of my seat.  A couple of days later he settling on sleeping in the very back of the closet where there was a little private hideaway formed by my hanging cassocks.  

Over the week, the dog, whose name was Roomie, and I became inseparable.  He was a constantly glued to my side whether I was going into the office, my room, down in the basement, or anywhere for that matter.  I soon discovered that walking him with a leash was rather redundant.  Save for the occasional squirrel, he was not going anywhere without me, though I drew the line at the bathroom.

He did not come with any toys and so I dug around in one of my trunks and found old blue racquetball balls.  After dinner when the staff had gone home, we would go to one of the long hallways in the house and I would chuck the ball with the dog in hot pursuit.  Being that the ball had a lot of spring in it, it would bounce in any number of unpredictable directions and Roomie would do his best to try to subdue the thing before bringing it back for another go.  It was quickly apparent that the dog had no athletic prowess at all (and would never develop it.)  But he did have a lot of gumption and so kept at it.

The week passed quickly and the owners of the dog returned to take the dog home for the weekend and wait for a decision.  Everyone had the intervening couple of days of the weekend to decide if a dog, let alone this dog, would be a good fit for the parish.

By Tuesday morning the dog was permanently installed in the house, the staff later informing me that they knew the dog was going to be a resident fifteen minutes after his arrival.  They saw the bond fixed and made permanent that first day.

FRIDAY POTPOURRI: THE RECTORY: CHAPTER III

“What are you going to do with these empty rooms now?” asked the business manager about the vacated bedrooms on the top floor.

“I want to make them into nice suites and lure priests to come to St. Sebastian.”  Being alone at the parish I hoped we might find a couple of retired priests that would like to take up residence.  Or maybe one of the priests from the seminary would like to become a weekend associate and help with Masses and confessions and stay on for dinner and conversation.  Maybe a foreign priest studying at the University would need a place to stay.  In any event, if that was to happen, we would first need fitting quarters and so plans were set in motion to start creating desirable living spaces out of what had served as offices.

In general, it seems to me a good thing for parishes that can to have more than one priest to serve them.  It is certainly no secret that one size does not fit all in this world and the same holds true when it comes to priests.  Having more priests around at St. Sebastian would up the odds that someone not finding me their cup of tea would have a better matched spiritual guide and companion.  

Then there is the selfish reason of having another priest to talk to in the evenings.  My previous parishes always had at least three priests to discuss the day’s events with.  And to be quite honest, there are some things that one should only speak about with other priests.  It is also nice just to have something else alive in the house besides a fern with which to watch the game on T.V. or with whom to go to parish functions.  But after five o’clock, everybody left and the rectory, and that, which felt cramped and loud during the day, seemed expansive and lonely at night.

The first resident would show up a few weeks into my assignment.  The business manager came into my office and asked, “Father, what do you think about a dog?”  I tried to hide my eagerness and cautiously asked, “Why do you ask?”

“Well, my sister has a several dogs and cats and they are moving.  They have a new dog, a golden retriever and black lab mix that they can no longer care for.  Father, it’s a great dog and if I can’t find a home for it, they are going to take it to the pound.”

After a bit of feigned hemming and hawing I agreed to an interview.  The dog would visit for one week and then would go back home.  Then there would be a staff meeting to see how everybody felt about the dog, and if everybody was Okay with it, St. Sebastian rectory would be its new home.

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: THE DANCE OF LIFE

 This is what it feels like to walk two active dogs.

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: IF YOU ARE GROSSED OUT EASILY YOU MAY WANT TO STOP NOW

People bring Sebastian bones all of the time - mostly those rawhide bones and he does not eat or chew them.  He stores them away (somewhere) in the house and then when it is time to go for a w-a-l-k it is suddenly in his mouth.

The scenario is always the same.  He looks for THE best place to bury the bone.  This can take FOREVER.  He tries digging, decides that the soil conditions are not quite right, moves on, almost buries the bone, changes his mind and digs it back up, moves to a different spot and then finally buries it.

Weeks, and sometimes even months later - after the fermentation process has set in just so - he goes right back to the spot and digs the bone up.  At this point, the rawhide has turned to a soft, pliable, wet, dirt encrusted substance that makes him happy as all get out.

There is nothing to be done once it is in his jaws.  And INVARIABLY when he gets it in the house he drops it on the floor (usually on an oriental rug) and a TON of dirt and gross wet stuff are spilled all over and the vacuum needs to be brought out (did I mention that this part only happens at night?) just when you thought you were gong to bed.

So after a few years of this I learned the trick of catching the darn thing as he dropped it, taking it to the kitchen sink, washing it off with super hot water, and giving back to him.

This turned out to be a rather satisfactory solution to a rather nasty problem that was not going to change.  Sebastian now waits for me to catch it and then sits next to the sink waiting and wagging his tail for his gourmet grossness.

So this past week, the day Fr. Simone was on his day away, I took the dogs on their last airing out of the night and Sebastian came trotting up with the typical limp thing in his mouth.  A former bone I figured but it was dark.

We came into the dark house and I placed my hand under his chin and he dropped it.  We went over to the sink and I started running the hot water over it.

I reached over and turned on the light.

It was a rabbit.

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: I ALMOST NAMED HIM DIOCLETIAN

There is a new face in the St. Sebastian rectory.  His name is Archer.  (Get it?)  He is a black lab mix rescue just like Sebastian.  He is on a two week interview to see if he will work out.  Sebastian is going to be 11 this year and it seemed time to have a trainee come in and learn the ropes.

So far he gets along with dogs, children and adults.  He doesn't bark much.  He respects the house rules.  He and Sebastian are getting along.  The staff seems to love him.  The only thing so far is - he's a sneak pooper.

Not so Sebastian.  Everybody can tell when Sebastian is about to do his duty.  He has tell tale signs that go on forever as though he wants the world to know the creation he is about to unveil to the world.

First he takes a funny turn away from the direction we are walking.  Zig zags a couple of times.  And when he finds a tuft of grass (it's aways the same type of landscape - so much so that if you miss him creating, you'll find it by looking at the topography) Then he walks a little more - his hind legs spreading further apart with each step and then, finally, he slooooowly squats like a dainty elephant trying to sit on a small stool and remains that way long enough to read half a page of comics.

Not so Archer!  Most of the time there is no warning.  As he is trotting along it might just squirt out with no warning.  You might miss it but I guarantee you the passing car won't.  From time to time he likes to display his creations on pedestals.  If I didn't see it I wouldn't have believed it.  The other day he backed up against the base of one of the light poles and left a perfect specimen sitting on the elevated cement platform on to which the pole is bolted.  I'm glad I saw it happen because if I hadn't and saw it later I would have though someone was playing a not so funny prank on us.

What in his background before he was found brought about this behavior???  Oh well.  

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: DOG GONE IT!

Before I get to the reason for my letter I would like to thank you very much for your product.  My dog has been happier and healthier because of it and as a result I am happier.

BUT

My dog Sebastian hates your product.  He doesn't perform many tricks but there is one he has perfected.  I can hide his pills in treats, wrap them in meat, plunge them into peanut butter, put them inside slices of cheese, and he will sort the whole thing in his mouth, swallow the food, and spit out his pills.

Consider this:  Sebastian had a hot spot a couple of years ago that he wouldn't stop licking.  So I bought this disgusting stuff that you are to spray on it that tastes SO HORRIBLY that you dog will no longer bother the spot.  After about three applications, he grew to like the stuff and would wag his tail in anticipation when I got the bottle out.

So I think of your wonderful pills that my dog will have nothing to do with and what he will eat.  Which is really just about anything.

 Anywhere.

 Including the cat's litter box at my sister's house.

And I do realize this is a first world problem but really.  It seems as though just a little more effort would make such a difference.  I mean - really - cat poop is winning out over you.

Thank you for your kind consideration,

Rev. John A. Valencheck

owner of Sebastian

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: DOBER DAN DOG

FIRST:  An important reminder from the Bacon Society of St. Sebastian.  Today is Baconmas Day!  Today is the day we have the reading at Mass were God tells St. Peter that ALL of God's creatures are  both good and good for eating and what He has declared clean we are not to call profane.  I'm all about being a good son of my Father and so got right on it.

Thank you Rocco and Terry for providing the repasts necessary for the proper celebration of this day!

IN OTHER NEWS:  When I was growing up, if my parents didn't want me to understand what they were talking about they would converse in Slovenian.  This was annoying on two counts.  One: I wanted to know what they were talking about and Two:  I desperately wanted to learn Slovenian and would BEG them only to speak to me in that language, which they would attempt for about 5 minutes and then grow tired of the effort.  To the dog, however, they spoke Slovenian and so HE knew Slovenian far better than I did.

I get why parents want a secret way of communicating in front of their kids.  Once something slips out it can be difficult to undo the damage.  It is the same with your beloved dog.  To say something out loud like, "Walk," can set the dog an a determined task to get you to go outside and there is no taking it back.  And like parents, sometimes even when you are away from your kids, you forget to stop speaking in code.

Fr. B and Fr. Otticus went out for breakfast this past week sans dogs.  But it was difficult to get out of the mindset.

This can be annoying to others.

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORES: WARNING - LOW BATTERIES

It was a long week.  And Friday was a long day in a long week.  There were all kinds of appointments that day, Stations of the Cross, two sessions of confessions, and then to top it off there was confirmation.  Everything about confirmation was great.  We have fantastic kids, Bishop Gries OSB was the celebrant (everybody loves Bishop Gries) we had a fabulous dinner beforehand thanks to Marcy and her crew (and I didn't even so much as smell the fish being served!) and the reception after was great.  And the kids made me SO PROUD when they responded "I DO!" so emphatically during the reaffirmation of their baptismal vows that the bishop jumped backward! 

But at the end of the day I was beat.  Beat, bat, beaten.

Then I received the most wonderful text from Marcy:

That was SO AWESOME!  That meant my day was truly over except for Night Prayer.  I got back to the rectory, kicked off my uncomfortable dress shoes and my "dress socks of strangulation," put on some "I'm not going anywhere or will be seen by anyone" pajama bottoms although I didn't take off my dress shirt - I was that exhausted to the point that the thought of unbuttoning it seemed too herculean of a project.

And then . . .

Marcy sent another text.  "Now that I think of it," she wrote, "Sebastian only went #1.  I bet he still needs to go #2."

*sigh*

I toyed with the idea for about two seconds of getting dressed again to walk the dog but that effort would have placed me in the nursing home.  So I slipped some dress shoes over my bare feet and headed out for the nightly airing out of the dog.

Now, I live IN THE CITY.  But I am always amazed that when we are on our night walk, we almost never run into anybody.  Many, many times, when a fellow priest or seminarian is over late and go on this final perambulation with me, I comment, "Can you believe that we are in the city, and all these houses are FULL of people, and these are main streets, and we run into NOBODY?  How is it possible that we are the ONLY ones out?"

Indeed, that is why I enjoy the night walk.  I think, finish prayers, or just unwind and it is quiet and peaceful save for the occasional skunk.  You can always count on it being quiet at night.

EXCEPT FOR LAST MOTHER-OF-PEARL FRIDAY NIGHT.  Everybody and their mother was out walking their dogs.  Cars drove around the parish as if they were moths and St. Sebastian was a giant light bulb.  It would have been ridiculous to the point of humor if it weren't so not-funny.

PICTURE THIS

It's been a busy couple of days and I've not had a lot of extra time to post.  But today is my (supposed) day away and I thought would spend a little bit with you sharing some of my favorite recent photos.

This is my absolute favorite.  Fr. Bearing Gearing at St. Adelbert has had the good fortune to be a mentor to Deacon Eric Garris who is slated to be ordained a priest for the Diocese of Cleveland later this year.  They teach you an awful lot in 9 years of seminary, but feeding yourself, doing your laundry, and mending your clothes are not among the topics taught.  So when the deacon's button popped off, the good father said, "Come here son.  Let me show you how to sew on a button."  This is what priestly fraternity is all about.

Lucky for him I wasn't the one tasked with showing my sewing skills.  The results would have been less than satisfying.  On the outside it looks Okay, the inside threading would look like vandalism.

The next picture is not new and has shown here before but I like it.  It is of seminarian David Stavarz at his home parish of St. Francis de Sales.  There is so much peace in the picture.  Everything outside of this frame may or may not have been flying apart, but here there is peace.

This picture appeared this past week on the St. Anthony Parma Facebook page.  It reminds me of the recent post that said, "It's good to have friends who don't have beards.  That way, when you go out, everyone will assume that you are their leader."  The "leader" here is Fr. Kovacina who was once at St. Sebastian.  This will confuse someone who one day will be going through the archives trying to place pictures in chronological order.

Finally I had my phone with me one day when Sebastian was making a snow angel.  Now that I look at it again, maybe it is more of a snow ameba.  

Two days ago, one of our secretaries came into my office and said, "Father, there is a priest with another gentleman walking around the church."  Not expecting anybody, I went over to see what was up and indeed there was a priest (on his day away) with a friend who stopped by St. Sebastian to visit.  They are close to St. Agatha in Upper Arlington (see HERE) which was also designed by Mr. Robert Krause.  Apparently St. Agatha was the precursor to St. Sebastian and they wanted to do some comparisons.  Here is the facade of St. Agatha.

Here is the facade of St. Sebastian with some interesting similarities.

Notice, in particular, the ceiling and the pews.  At the top is St. Agatha and the bottoms is St. Sebastian.

It is not easy to see, but the metal grillwork over the pipes here is exactly the same as the wooden grill work at St. Sebastian (not pictured.)