The Hidden Unwed Mother of an Oscar-Winning Film

Tonight I got to watch an old movie, a favorite I haven’t seen since I was a child: Lionel Bart’s “Oliver!,” which won the Academy Award for Best Picture of 1968. Sir Carol Reed directed; the stars are Ron Moody, Shani Wallis, Oliver Reed, Mark Lester and Jack Wild. It’s a musical, loosely based on the Dickens novel Oliver Twist. Onna White did the choreography; the film won six Oscars and was nominated for 11. Moody and Wild are both brilliant, and Lester is a gorgeous innocent boy in the title role. I remember him as much blonder in the original print, but I was very glad to see the show via Netflix. The movie figures in a minor way in my first novel, Murder at Willow Slough. The hero of that story is also blond and innocent, and the one Gay-ish attribute I gave his macho cop/love interest is a bigtime fixation on the film and the title character. So you can imagine my delight in seeing the movie again 40 years later. Still, there are several disturbing ideas in the picture, which cause me to write about it as follows.

Dickens is essentially sanitized out of his own musical; the novel is really rather dark. The author’s art lay in his ability to combine immensely popular melodrama, a rags-to-riches tale, with searing social criticism of the English class system and the Industrial Revolution. In a Dickens novel the poor are oppressed in every way; they don’t even own their own labor, but are forced into serving the moneyed classes. The musical casts all this in a much lighter tone, with Fagin the “evil Jew” remade into a benevolent, if greedy (and slightly pedophilic) master of a ring of juvenile pickpockets. Many of Bart’s songs were hits in their day and continue to arouse emotion. And yet, even in this Disneyfied version, a little of Dickens’ wrath seeps through, and those are the parts of the film that stayed with me, more than the pretty little put-upon boy.

The movie opens in a workhouse, where barefoot orphans tread a giant wheel that mills grain, living only for “Food, Glorious Food,” though their only meal is gruel. Meanwhile the workhouse governors feast on every imaginable delicacy. The system is overseen by an Anglican beadle, played by Harry Secombe. From Wikipedia:

In England, the word (beadle) came to refer to a parish constable of the Anglican Church, one often charged with duties of charity. A famous fictional constabulary beadle is Mr. Bumble from Charles Dickens’ classic Oliver Twist, who oversees the parish workhouse and orphanage.

Even in the sweetened-up movie, it’s plain that Dickens is indicting the Church of England.

Uh, that’s my church, Mr. Dickens. Yikes.

By the end of the story, Oliver the orphan is restored to his wealthy uncle in London, who lives in a fabulous townhouse on a fashionable square; Dickens and Bart get their happy ending by popular demand. (My books also have happy endings, for what that’s worth.) The movie takes half a minute to connect the boy, his mother and his uncle—and there lies another of Dickens’ accusations, the one most relevant to this post.

The uncle’s niece, Oliver’s mother, eloped with a man, or tried to; he promised marriage but didn’t show up, and meanwhile she was pregnant. (This same scenario figures prominently in Jane Austen’s novels, by which we know that this was a common complaint of the time: the wealthy cad, the fallen and gullible woman who was thereby ruined because she had sex before marriage.) Thrown out of society by unforgivable scandal, she was reduced to a distant parish workhouse, where she gave birth and promptly died, thus bringing Oliver into the worst possible world.

And meanwhile the vestry feasts.

Here’s what I think about: the immorality not of the woman but of the cad; and of the code that dictated that an unwed mother be reduced to penury and even death for her sexual sin.

This is Anglicanism? This is Christianity?

No, this is hypocrisy. Jesus famously encountered prostitutes, healed their ills out of love for their common humanity, and told them to sin no more, as if any mortal were capable of that.

WELL. we’re past all that now, unwed mothers are a dime a dozen these days, and this really is a better understanding than during Austen’s and Dickens’ time. Right?

No woman should be reduced to penury in the workhouse just because she was human and had sex. Besides, we’ve got birth control now. Popular morality has replaced the ancient taboos of respectable Christianity, which punished the woman and let the man off scot-free.

Sometimes popular morality makes more sense and corrects old injustices. The same thing is happening with Gay rights.

BUT the other day I received a comment on my prayer site that brought these old issues into focus in a current way. The commenter was a former monk, an openly-Gay guy, who left his order under pressure from his closeted Gay brothers, who turned on him to deflect suspicion from themselves.

He’d still like to be a monk, but not under those terms. I don’t blame him.

I’m not sure this kind of oppression by the closeted against the open still happens much in the Episcopal Church—we have a Gay bishop, for heaven’s sake—but my friend Jonathan of Madpriest fame (Of Course I Could Be Wrong) indicates it still happens all the time in the Church of England. He claims that closeted Gay priests took down Jeffrey Johns, a Gay priest nominated for bishop by Archbishop Rowan Williams, then thrown under the bus, and that these same closeted queers, a significant bloc in the Anglo-Catholic party, are the main opponents of women priests.

We’ve all heard of this kind of situation, but I’ve never actually seen it. Then again, I’m openly Gay and no one’s nominated me for street sweeper.

What is it that causes such hypocrisy? Why would Gay men shoot down another Gay man nominated for bishop?

Carol Reed’s “Oliver!”, no matter how lightened up, still supplies an answer in images: ragamuffins eating gruel, Governors feasting.

Greed isn’t just one of the Seven Deadly Sins, it is funded by the watery oatmeal of children.

And sex is the justification.

If Fr. Jonathan is right, nothing has changed since Dickens’ day. Hypocrites still climb the backs of innocents to attain power and wealth, and the truth doesn’t matter.

Would you want your child confirmed by a closeted and sexist Gay bishop?

No matter how much Lionel Bart sugared up the story, it still exposes hypocrisy, and not just in 1840 surrounded by pretty songs. The moral actor in Carol Reed’s film, Oliver’s uncle, delivers brief but stunning denunciations.

I’m glad Oliver got to grow up in a nice townhouse. But the essential question remains in Bart’s song, “Where Is Love?”++

Luke Learns a Word, I Learn a Technique

You want me to sit? Why didn't you just say so?

I’m starting to think there are no stupid dogs, only stupid dog owners. And I’ve been one.

I have a new dog, a 3-year-old rat terrier mix named Luke, whom I adopted from the Humane Society of Indianapolis. I grew up with fox terriers, but have never had a dog of my own. The Humane Society marked me down as experienced, but in fact I’ve discovered I’m not.

He’s a fine, healthy little boy with an uncertain background. He’s well-socialized in some ways, seldom barks or gets aggressive when he shouldn’t and has a wonderful instinctive disposition to be a most happy fella. But at other times he’s absolutely clueless; for instance, he doesn’t know how to play. He has no interest in squeaky toys or chasing after a ball; I thought all dogs knew how to do that. He won’t play tug-of-war with a sock. He loves to interact with me but his repertoire is limited to jumping up or lying on his back for a belly rub. I suspect he mostly grew up on the streets.

But he’s also been around people, probably from spending the last few months at the animal shelter; he has no problem accepting a leash and sleeping in a crate. He has a good appetite, is the ideal weight for his size and breed (10 pounds) and walks away from his dish when he’s full, leaving a few pellets behind—so I don’t need to worry about giving him too much food. The shelter feeds their dogs once a day so that food dishes are never empty, while I feed Luke twice a day. He generally cleans his plate but not always, so I’m able to adjust his amounts for what he needs.

But toilet training has been an issue, and I’ve been clueless until the last few days. But now we’re getting there, and each day is better and better. He can’t learn if I don’t know how to condition him; it’s Psychology 101. Perform the desired behavior, get a reward. The onus for performing the desired behavior is on me, not on him. He’s a dog, he no speaka ze Inglish.

I can’t “make him do what I want.” But I can and must help him learn behaviors that put us both at ease. How awful it must have been for him the last two weeks to figure out what I want when I no speaka ze Dog. Why is this crazy person upset with me?

But he hasn’t given up or lost any affection for me, he just keeps trying until he gets it right—meaning I do. And yesterday he learned a word: Sit.

He already knew how to sit, but he didn’t know how to Sit. But now Sit = Treat! Luke likes his treats. Oh, is that what you meant? Why didn’t you say so?

It’s been two days now since he pooped on the rug. And two days since I learned always to have treats in my pocket.

I get treats for pooping? Hmm, this ain’t a bad gig. No, boy, it’s where you poop that counts.

More little lessons await us. “Sit” ≠ “before we go outside.” Sit = sit wherever we are, before something good happens, no matter where we are. I’m the one in charge of his mental associations. He can’t associate unrelated concepts unless I teach them to him, and the way to teach a dog is with rewards.

I’ve changed more than he has since I got him October 22. He’s always been affectionate and reasonably smart, but now he’s starting to have a competent human to be with. Yay for our side!

One of my biggest lessons has been to stop thinking that restrictions are bad. His crate helps him stay out of trouble, and besides he likes it; it’s Luke-sized, with a very nice stadium blanket (Indiana University, fit for a dog here in Purdue Land), great for sleeping. That it also keeps him from eliminating when I’m asleep or not watching means he doesn’t get in trouble and there’s no friction in the house. We’re both happy fellas.

IU football has gone to the dogs. Again.

Yesterday we tried another new thing: another restriction (to my former way of thinking) that in fact increases his freedom. We went to Wally World and bought a stake-out kit, so he could be outdoors with me while I rake leaves. The idea of being outdoors without going for a walk was new to him; he lasted about 20 minutes before I decided he was getting overstimulated and took him back in the house. It was mid-afternoon, kids were getting out of school, other dogs were going on walks, the guy next door was also working outside, and it got to be too much. But now Luke knows he can be outdoors in the sunshine and I’m right over there, while he has more independence and can look at stuff. He’s got a 30-foot radius but that’s a 60-foot diameter, outdoors in fresh air. We’re going to try it again this afternoon, because I’ve got a lot of leaves to bag up.

Before I met Luke I would never have chained up a dog outside. But in fact it makes us closer emotionally, and gives him a better idea of what’s our yard and what’s not. That is crucial, because I don’t have a fence, and of course I don’t want him running off and getting lost or being hurt.

That’s really been my #1 concern, helping him adjust to a new home and a new human relationship.

Home is a place with walls—that is, restrictions AND safety. The outside world can’t come in, this is our house.

This is our yard, from here to here. Dogs of course have a territorial instinct, but Luke’s got to know where his territory is and is not. It takes time to figure out. (I’m so glad for that new stake and chain.)

This is our neighborhood. If he does someday find himself on his own, I want him to be able to find his way back to my crate, where his supper dish is, where his pal lives.

Once he knows everything he needs to know, we can try even more freedom. But it’s all got to have a structure; Sit = sit. First you sit, then supper comes. First you sit, then we go outside. First you sit, then you get what you want. It’s not just “do as you’re told,” it’s “follow the rules so you’ll be safe.”

And it’s my job, not his, to know the rules and provide the structure until the rules are his own habits. Go ahead and run, baby, but when I call, you come back. I’ve got treats.

There are no dumb dogs, just dumb owners.++

Healthcare Bill Would Remove Gay Tax Inequity

So, the House has passed the long-awaited healthcare reform bill, and Speaker Nancy Pelosi is basking in congratulations. Good for her, and good for the country. It may even be good for partnered Lesbians and Gay men.

The New York Times points out today that the House bill contains a provision to remove a little-known injustice in the tax code that penalizes Gay domestic partners, where one gets health insurance through the other’s employer:

As a high-priority bill for Congressional leaders and President Obama, the legislation has become a vehicle for many other initiatives large and small.

Supporters of gay rights have long been trying to change the tax treatment of health benefits provided by employers to the domestic partners of their employees. In effect, such benefits are now treated as taxable income for the employee, and the employer may owe payroll taxes on their fair-market value.

Under the bill, such benefits would be tax-free, just like health benefits provided to the family of an employee married to a person of the opposite sex.

Representative Jim McDermott, Democrat of Washington, who proposed the change, said it would “correct a longstanding injustice, end a blatant inequity in the tax code and help make health care coverage more affordable for more Americans.”

Joseph R. Solmonese, president of the Human Rights Campaign, a gay rights advocacy group, said federal tax law had not kept up with changes in the workplace.

“I meet people all the time who are gratified they work for companies that offer domestic partner benefits,” he said. “But they pass on the benefits because they cannot afford the taxes that go with the benefits.”

M. V. Lee Badgett, a labor economist at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, said employees with domestic partner benefits paid $1,100 a year more in taxes, on average, than married employees with the same coverage.

This is just one of over a thousand tax breaks written into the IRS code favoring people who are legally married. I have no problem with those subsidies—but they should be applied equally.

Consider why the marriage privileges were inserted into the tax code in the first place: not just because of religion or because “the family is the building block of society,” a grandiose and untested claim treated as if it was common knowledge, but because, all other things being equal, committed relationships are more stable than ones without measurable commitment. Tons of research show that marriage leads to favorable social outcomes; married people live longer, and that’s only the start of the benefits.

That means we should want as many people married as possible, including the Gay ones. Yet Congress provides financial incentives for Straight ones only, while the Gay people have to pay.

Thus the state-by-state strategy on Gay marriage has a built-in flaw. Though marriage laws are administered by each state, it’s the Federal benefits for married people that cost big Gay money.

As helpful as it is that last Tuesday Oregon voters agreed to eliminate all state inequities for domestic partners, state taxes are not the biggest bite in Gay paychecks. The IRS and Social Security eat big chunks. Those are Federal programs. And the Feds have a “Defense of Marriage” Act that writes discrimination into law.

All 50 states could do what Oregon has done—”Gay marriage without calling it that”—and it wouldn’t make much of a financial difference. Most tax money goes to the national government.

The Feds’ biggest wallop in your wallet is the inheritance tax. Being a legal “spouse,” or not, makes all the difference in the world. Being Lesbian or Gay can cost you millions.

And the IRS couldn’t care less that you were together for 50 years, that you worked to put your lover through law school, or that you provided tender loving care all the time that s/he was sick, only to be kicked out of the hospital room by some unknown aunt from New Jersey. All the IRS wants to know is “spouse or not.”

This may not matter to you when you’re 25, penniless and in love, but it will matter a great deal when you’re 75, with a lifetime of assets you worked for, and widowed.

LGBT leaders need to do a lot better job of illustrating the built-in inequity of DOMA as applied to the tax code. We did it earlier with the “kicked out of the hospital room” scenario, which has resonated with fair-minded people. Now let’s defend Uncle Harold, forced to sell the condo at 75 to pay the taxman.

Let’s accept that, as in Maine and California, the #1 weapon of anti-Gay marriage politicians is “protect our children from queers in school.” Since the whole wingnut conspiracy machine is geared to stoke heterosexual fears (and always has been since the days of the Briggs Initiative and Anita Bryant, as depicted in the film “Milk”), we need to do more than get sarcastic when opponents suggest that teachers will take 6-year-olds on a field trip to a Lesbian wedding. Of course the claim is ludicrous, but we know that will be the battleground, so let’s pre-empt it. The Lesbians at the wedding are not zoo animals to be petted, and Mrs. Palmer’s first grade class ain’t invited.

Write a schools exclusion into the Gay marriage bill.

If homosexuality was catching, the entire country would have it by now.

It can’t be infectious, because there’s nothing you can do once a teenage boy discovers girls. Heterosexuality cannot be cured.

It’s not like preachers and whacked-out shrinks haven’t tried; imagine the Straight women who would give anything for a little purple pill that turned down the testosterone level at home and in the office. Straight men are incurable!

But their spouses shouldn’t have tax benefits no one else gets; that’s unfair.

Congress and the IRS should not make Uncle Harold sell the condo.

Kudos to Rep. Jim McDermott for chipping away at heterosexual subsidies enforced by the IRS. The man isn’t famous but he just helped a lot of people.

From here the action shifts to the Senate. A lot can still go wrong, but Pelosi corraled the Democrats for President Obama, and healthcare reform now has the momentum.++

Order out of Chaos; Reformation

Fr. Coughlin, the anti-Semitic “radio priest” of the 1930s.

What strange times we’re living in. The world seems out of control. Institutions are collapsing (Bear Stearns, Merrill Lynch), new institutions are arising (Glenn Beck, Twitter), and no one’s in charge. After 10 months in office, Barack Obama seems particularly clueless.

We’re living in chaos and anarchy. So last night a Muslim psychiatrist shot up Fort Hood.

One of the wounded lives an hour from my house. I ask your prayers for Nathan A. Hewitt, an Army marksman from Lafayette, Indiana. His uncles are quoted in the local paper saying he’s going to be okay. [UPDATE: The Journal and Courier now reports that Cpl. Hewitt is out of the hospital.]

So we’ll get through this, no time to panic. It’s an ugly world out there, you never know what’s going to happen. But it makes sense to try and understand what’s causing all these seismic shifts. We have to step back from immediate events to look at the world as a whole. After all, the Army knows how to secure the scene of a gunfight.

Prayers too for the civilian policewoman who dropped the shooter, and I suppose even for the gunman, Nidal Hasan, who allegedly cried out “God is good!” while killing people.

I must admit my first reaction to this was, “No more Muslims.” And I’m one who argued against anti-Muslim prejudice after 9/11. The shooter is responsible for his actions, not a whole religion. Even if we’re getting really, really tired of violent Muslims.

But step back; step back. What the hell’s going on?

What do you see in the world right now? Take a deep breath, look and think.

Be careful what you say and do. Don’t add fuel to the fire. Be kind and generous. Stay aware of your limitations. Make sure your friends and family are safe. Make a cup of tea, pet the dog. I can make you a sandwich or we can get pizza.

Be quiet, hold the ones you love, then start to make sense of this world.

—–

The first thing I see is economic dislocation. You see that too. Globalization has changed everything.

It’s good that India, China and other countries are getting richer. God wants everyone to have enough to eat.

It’s hard on American workers that their own companies have shipped all the manufacturing jobs overseas. The unemployment rate in Elkhart County, Indiana is over 20%. But an RV maker is recalling 400 workers. They say the recession is officially over, but jobs will remain scarce.

By the skin of our teeth we’ve avoided a rerun of the Great Depression.

Conditions remain volatile. I’m surprised there haven’t been riots. I’m glad I don’t work on Wall Street, where Goldman Sachs and the remaining big banks want to resume business as usual, trying to reassert control over the world economy. I’m not sure it’s going to work anymore. We wouldn’t want another bombing at J.P. Morgan.

Osama bin Laden targeted the World Trade Center.

Instead of localized riots and violence, we’ve got sporadic outbreaks and near-riots, such as the anti-health care reform “town hall meetings” that flared up nationwide over the summer, orchestrated by radical Father Coughlins on Fox News.

In Arizona some guy packed heat in front of President Obama—and no one said anything, a clear signal that Obama’s getting terrible advice from his handlers. These are the same people who loaded the Treasury and Federal Reserve with more Wall Streeters.

Gov. Jon Corzine went down in New Jersey Tuesday night. Used to be the co-chair of Goldman Sachs, but his “financial expertise” didn’t amount to anything. Jerseyites voted for a snake-oil salesman instead.

The Republican Party is breaking down. In NY-23, the GOP nominee quit three days before the election after constant attacks by Sarah Palin and the Club for Growth (what a club!), so she did the smart thing and endorsed the Democrat.

Mainers voted for the Catholic Church and anti-Gay marriage, but narrowly, 53-47.

Kalamazoo banned anti-Gay discrimination, and Washington state gave domestic partners more rights while continuing to tax them differently than Straight people.

What exactly is Glenn Beck’s talent? He isn’t goodlooking or well-spoken; he just “says stuff” and cries on cue. But he’s bull’s-eyed the zeitgeist, the right person at the right time. A year ago it was Sarah Palin, but she’s so last year. Is Levi Johnston hung?

Is this the end of capitalism? Is that what’s got people so upset?

Is that why Rahm Emmanuel told Obama, “We’re going to load you up with capitalists, that’s how to save the country”?

Why are we in Iraq and Afghanistan in the midst of an economic meltdown? Why did Nathan Hewitt get shot by an American Muslim at Fort Hood?

Obama is no Roosevelt, nor is he Harry Truman or LBJ. He’s too reliant on bad advisers who consistently make mistakes. The man’s in over his head—and I worked my ass off to get him elected. (We won Indiana for the first time since 1964, the LBJ year.)

Where from here? A few simple steps, Mr. President.

• Fire the economic team, except for Paul Volcker and the woman at the FDIC. If capitalism is collapsing, it does not help to have Goldman Sachs at the helm. Dump ‘em and say, “We were wrong, these are not the right people. Business should make profits but not at the expense of human lives. We’re bringing in a new team.” Continue health care reform. Demonize the insurance companies if you have to. Acne at 16 is not a justification for cutting off coverage for cancer at 45.

• Send Rahm back to Chicago. He was great at campaigning and he’s suitably ruthless, but he can’t govern a city block, much less a nation.

• Invite Jon Stewart and the “Daily Show” team to dinner. Have a serious discussion.

• Target the enemies, Michelle Bachmann, Virginia Foxx, Evan Bayh and the Blue Dog Democrats. The country is polarized, so go polar.

• Stroke that guy from Florida, Rep. Alan Grayson. He understands the polarization and fights back, the Glenn Beck of the Left with a lot more talent.

• Shut down Gitmo, pull all troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. Declare victory in one and withdrawal from the other. We tried to do good but we can’t afford two wars. So we’re done. We never wanted war in Afghanistan, we wanted bin Laden. So get him.

• Put Wall Street in jail. That will settle the country.

• Tell GM it either makes a profit or faces a firing squad. This includes the UAW and its Cadillac insurance plan.

• Concentrate on your family. Take Michelle on the sweetest, hottest date imaginable. Kiss your girls. Visit their school like a parent. Scratch Bo’s belly. Ask Laura Bush’s advice.

• And realize you’ve taken office, an incredible superstar, after The Worst Damn President Ever. So don’t be afraid of the seismic shifts, just keep your balance, then lead.

We all know the world is changing faster than anyone can keep up with. Reassure people; the only thing to fear is fear itself. It’s ridiculous that Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin are media stars, much less a hockey puck like Levi Johnston.

• In short, dominate. For good. Stop giving all these punks the time of day. Give us health care, and peace, and reformed capitalism. Be like Martin Luther and nail your theses to the wall.

Reassure people. This is hard but we’ll get through it.

After all we like you, even though we don’t quite understand you. You’re a big change all by yourself.

But you have to supply substance, and results we can see. Put people back to work. Ignore the naysayers. Twist Evan Bayh’s arm off till he votes for you. Dominate, like we know you can.

Why else did Michelle fall in love with you, but because you know how to be a man?++

Luke Passes a Test

My dog Luke and I have had our ups and downs lately, primarily over pooping in the living room, but today he passed a test: being outdoors without a leash and not running away.

I’m very pleased, because the boy needs to be able to run at his own pace, which is faster than my walk.

You should see him when he comes tearing into the kitchen from the living room at full gallop; he slides across the floor, screeching to a halt just like a cartoon character. He makes me laugh.

He’s a terrier; he’s got to run. But like any new doggie-dad, I’ve been cautious about letting him loose. Does he know where home is? Will he come back? What will I do if he just runs off?

I mean, he likes his suppertime but still, you never know what an animal’s going to do.

I want him to be able to stay in our yard when I’m outside. This is important for the whole Side Porch Experience when it’s warm out, because that’s where I entertain. It’s also important for his peace of mind, I think, because he doesn’t have enough to occupy him so far.

I took him out the porch door this afternoon; that’s unusual. We usually walk out the back door, but I’ve been trying to get him accustomed to the side door and the porch, too. So we left that way, went down the steps for our walk, then back up the steps when we were finished; and there I took off his leash while I straightened up a few furnishings that had blown over in the wind. Ten days ago, when I first got him, he wasn’t very good with steps; he’s only about a foot high and he wasn’t used to stairs. But today once I let him loose, he scrambled down the stairs, ran a circuit around the house, returned to the backyard, sat to look at me—and came when I called him. “Good boy!”

He loves being outside. And I want to be able to take him there without having to watch him every minute. The good news is that he does understand where home is; this is his territory.

One other incident: early this morning we encountered That Cat; she lives next door. She’d parked herself by my garage (considering my house as part of her territory, which it isn’t; she’s destructive), and I don’t think she saw Luke or he saw her until they met a few feet apart. She wasn’t moving and he didn’t know what to make of her. He didn’t bark or growl, he was just curious; while she was perched like Judge Judy, “And who might you be?” He took a step closer; she hissed. He pondered a moment, then approached again; she hissed again. From there he started to wander away.

That Cat likes to dig in my flowers and has destroyed several plants the past few years. I use a non-toxic garlic spray to keep her out of my flowerboxes and off my porch furniture. So I wouldn’t have minded at all, since Luke was on a leash, if he’d chased her away forever. Instead she got the upper hand. I had to chase her away instead.

Some watchdog, little man.

But I like that he’s so gentle instead of being hostile. Cats and dogs get along together in millions of homes; how was he to know I don’t like That One?

All in all we’re doing okay; he does like suppertime. Won’t chase a ball if you paid him. Seldom barks. Only chases squirrels he can’t catch. Comes when I call.

Shits in the living room. In other words, he’s about as perfect as I am—not very.

But he knows where home is, and we’re pals.++

Uganda: Citizens Required to Inform on Gay Neighbors

What Gay Uganda looks like, when he's being himself.

A bill introduced last month in the Ugandan parliament would require citizens to turn in the names of suspected LGBT people so the government can put them to death. I kid you not.

Having Gay sex in Uganda is already a capital crime. I kid you not—the death penalty.

Ugandan LGBT activists have asked supporters in the international community to protest at Ugandan diplomatic missions around the world a week from today, Nov. 9.

I’ve been contacted about this by an activist-friend in Chicago. There are no definite plans at this time, nor any word on actions at the Ugandan embassy in Washington.

I have suggested to my friend the response I consider most appropriate. It’s in the pulled quote below.

Meanwhile I’m watching in amazed disbelief the reaction of The Episcopal Church to this news. They want Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to ride to the rescue of Ugandan Gay people.

Not a snowball’s chance in hell—no one would believe Rowan if he tried—but he’s not going to try.

Yet here are Episcopalians thinking he’s s’posedta Do Something.

How foolish can you get? How naive?

Uganda is one of the most Christian countries on earth (officially anyway). Some 40% of Ugandans are Catholic, 35% Anglican, 5% Muslim, and most of the rest follow native religions.

Considering that the pope is the world’s leading Gay-basher, and the Roman Catholic Diocese of Portland, Maine has bankrolled that state’s referendum tomorrow for a “people’s veto” of the new Gay marriage law—a diocesan staffer is Yes on 1’s campaign manager, and parishes have actually passed the plate at Mass for donations to save Maine from queers—what do you suppose is the position of Ugandan Catholics on the bill to require every citizen of the country to turn informer?

The Anglicans are with them every step of the way to Stamp Out Homos Once and For All. (That’s where the Archbishop of Canterbury’s supposed to come in, to tell them not to—the same Archbishop who convened a thousand Anglican bishops last year for a theological tea party, except for the Gay bishop of New Hampshire, who wasn’t invited.)

Yet my church, the most progressive of American mainlines, actually thinks that writing e-mails to England is going to save Lesbos and queerboys in Uganda.

The blog Episcopal Café posted an item today about the proposed law, “The challenge Uganda is presenting to the (Anglican) Communion,” which has prompted 10 comments so far, all from opponents of the bill. A few people, some of the church’s better minds, are teeth-gnashing a bit over this extreme example of unchristian Christianity. But their proposed action, e-mails to Lambeth Palace in London, is like asking a slave-trader to weigh his conscience before proceeding. Slave-traders weighed their boats and totted up the profits.

It’s a pathetic display of gutless liberalism. Propose an action, as I did to my friend Brent in Chicago, that would actually get the attention of the Ugandan government, and the Episcopal conversation ceases.

No wonder we’re still apologizing for our complicity in slavery 150 years later. We didn’t lift a finger for the slaves way back when, and we’re not lifting a finger for black-skinned queers today.

Don’t take my word for it; go to the Gay Uganda blog. See for yourself.

Here’s what I wrote on Episcopal Café. It went over like a lead balloon.

Sexual Minorities Uganda, a GLBT activist group, has issued a call for international protests at Ugandan diplomatic missions a week from today, Nov. 9.

In response, some interest is stirring in Chicago, but Uganda doesn’t have a working consulate there. I don’t know if there is action planned in DC.

I think it’s foolish to expect anything out of Rowan. He lost his moral authority years ago. The last thing he’s going to do is to stir the Gay pot.

Ditto with TEC. A hundred bishops went to Lambeth, but the Gay one had cooties. This is a job for the laypeople.

+++

My suggestion: go to Starbucks or Whole Foods and dump Ugandan coffee for the cameras. THAT will get attention in Kampala like nothing else.

(Pay for what you dump, of course.)

Dumping Ugandan coffee would be, well, impolite. Un-Episcopalian. Civilly disobedient perhaps. Attention-getting. A bit gauche, actually. We like the nice people at Starbucks, you see, and Whole Foods too.

But boycott Ugandan coffee and the president will hear about it; that’s why I suggested that method.

Uganda is so poor economically (rich in other ways, and please bear that in mind) that the Kampala government is trying its damnedest to open the country to development, open up to tourism, and recover from Idi Ah-Mean. Uganda wants to sell product—if only so the profits can line the military’s pockets. Threaten their coffee crop and they’ll be on it like flies on poop.

Amidst a massive national paranoia about the dangers of queerdom (which, of course, diverts attention from what’s actually wrong with Uganda), the only way to hit these people is with dollars.

That’s what they expect wicked Americans to do, yet it’s never occured to them we might go after their coffee crop. It’s one of the few ways they make money.

But Episkies think that’s, like, rude or somethin’. Not the Middle Ground we think we’re famous for. (No one else thinks we’re famous for anything.) We must work through channels, you see; so let’s give Rowan what-for, as if he has any influence whatsoever on Uganda, and as if he would exercise it even if he did.

The esteemed Archbishop is under strict orders from the Crown: “Do not allow the Anglican Communion to break up while we are alive.”

I don’t blame the Queen at all for that. But I do blame Rowan. He is the Neville Chamberlain of church politics, an appeaser constantly outflanked by ruthless men.

Never, ever, ever appoint a theologian as Archbishop of Canterbury. Appoint a church politician who’s ready for the slings and arrows; get a professional. Rowan Williams is an amateur, cowardly, intimidated.

My message to Episcopalians: Never put your hopes in this guy, who’s stabbed you in the back repeatedly.

If the dialogue on Episcopal Café is any indication, “the most progressive mainline church” can’t even dump a cup of Ugandan coffee in protest.

What would it cost, two bucks?++

The Dark Aims of Schism; or Capitalist War

Robert Duncan, Archbishop of Something or Other, needs his eyebrows trimmed.

There are a lot of fine bloggers in the Episcopal Church, so let me begin by naming some of them. Then I’m going to accuse them all mildly of screwing up.

Fr. Jake Stops the World is the most important progressive blog in TEC, though it’s been through some ups and downs lately, primarily because “Fr. Jake,” who’s really a priest named Terry Martin, shut it down a year ago when he became the church’s Evangelism Officer, only to be laid off a couple of months ago when General Convention cut the budget drastically, thanks to the cost of schismatic lawsuits. “Jake” has earned a very wide following due to intellectual rigor, unmistakable faith and a compassionate heart. He’s done more to educate Episcopalians about the schismatic coup attempt we’re facing than anyone else. He knows where the bodies are buried and does a better job of summarizing the ongoing drama than any other writer. (You can see why he’d be offered the evangelism job, only to be treated so shabbily.)

Jim Naughton at Episcopal Café has assembled a very fine team of writers (Ann Fontaine, Nick Knisley and half a dozen more) who keep us informed several times a day on developments in the church. Naughton, lay canon for communication in the Diocese of Washington, contributed the single most important piece of investigative journalism in this whole sorry mess, a series called “Following the Money.” Jim’s a professional journalist who previously wrote for several metropolitan newspapers, and his reporting was the first to connect the dots between the schismatic bishops, the right-wing neocon Institute for Religion and Democracy, its California moneybags Howard Ahmanson and the extremist theocrat R.J. Rushdoony, a certified lunatic if ever there was one.

He thinks you should stone your children to death if they mouth off to you, ’cause the Old Testament said so.

Lionel Deimel does a great job of chronicling events in the Episcopal Diocese of Pittsburgh, not to be confused with the Anglican Diocese of Pittsburgh and its new/old bishop/archbishop, a guy named Duncan. Deimel is a moderate and a loyalist, an active fighter of schism in western Pennsylvania, and his detailed posts from the belly of the beast show what ecclesiastical war is like “on the ground,” in the trenches. I admire the man, who has taken on his former bishop in a historic battle.

And yet, it’s Deimel’s shortcoming as a writer and thinker that he never quite describes the big picture. He’s so involved in Pittsburgh, fighting so courageously, that he can’t portray the larger conflict.

I hope to do so here, or at least to make a helpful stab at it. My thesis is below.

Mark Harris is widely respected; my rector turned me on to his analyses, but he’s way too involved in minutiae. He can’t help it, he’s a member of Executive Council.

Women Episcopalians have been heroic throughout all this; Deimel’s been ably joined by the historian Dr. Joan Gundersen, president of Progressive Episcopalians of Pittsburgh, the main opposition force to Bishop/Archbishop Duncan. (Schismatics really love titles, and as the new head of the “Anglican Church in North America,” Duncan now styles himself equivalent to the Archbishop of Canterbury.)

They don’t blog, but I ought to mention two other women who are central here: the President of the House of Deputies, Dr. Bonnie Anderson, and the Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori. Ms. Anderson, a laywoman from Michigan, is the more effective leader, in my opinion, but Bishop Katharine, the first female “primate” in the history of Anglicanism, continues to embody (that is, em-body) American resistance to Anglo-African sexism and homophobia.

Dr. Bonnie Anderson, President of the House of Deputies

The Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori, who is not known as Her Holiness anywhere on the planet. She's glad about that.

As Episcopalians we are proud to be formally led by a woman in cope and mitre. But as Dr. Anderson is wont to remind us, General Convention consists of two houses, a lower one and an upper one; and the Deputies of laypeople and priests are the Upper House.

We elect bishops (and priests, for that matter). The pope does not appoint them. We are Americans and we govern ourselves.

But the democracy practiced in the church, like that in the country at large, is messy, unwieldy and prone to gaps in coverage. (Why else would health care reform be hotly debated in Washington, when 65% of Americans want it?)

We spend our time putting out fires—the Diocese of San Joaquin is seceding here, the Diocese of Quincy there—rather than understanding the arsonists’ motives.

They want to replace the Episcopal Church as the official American member of the Anglican Communion; that’s why Duncan’s now the “archbishop” of the “Anglican Church in North America.” (He hopes to lure Canadian dissidents too.)

The fundamentalist theo-cons, a numerical minority in The Episcopal Church, have realized they can’t win at General Convention, so they’re trying to replace it.

Some people left us over race in the ’60s; then it was the ordination of women. In 1979 we revised the Book of Common Prayer and made Holy Communion the centerpiece of Christian worship—just as it should be, but an incredible achievement for a Protestant (protesting) church. We chucked the “thee’s and thou’s” and updated the language in a good conservative way. In 2003 we consented to a new Bishop of New Hampshire who’s a Gay guy.

Oh, the turmoil unleashed! But the schismatics were after us long before, and only used the election of Gene Robinson as an excuse for schism. Homophobia still makes money among certain people, as a few vicious websites can attest.

For most Episcopalians these manufactured controversies are non-issues. We’re much more interested in keeping a roof overhead, paying the heat bill, serving the public and growing in faith (the biggest challenge of all) than the so-called culture wars. Okay, we’ve got some Gay people; so what? How does that affect the fact that my parish has seven inefficient furnaces to cover 10,000 square feet of space?

Here’s the bottom line that ties all the controversies together: Oliver North got really pissed off that the Episcopal Church dared to criticize his nasty, subversive little war in Nicaragua under Ronald Reagan.

That’s it in a nutshell. Of course there are many elaborations, but that’s the bottom line. The people who gave you every nasty little war (4000 Americans killed in Iraq and Afghanistan) do not brook dissent.

The United States has a foreign policy; it’s backed up by the military. The basic thrust of the policy, whether a Republican or Democratic president, is to open foreign markets to capitalism, so Wall Street, Bill Kristol and Howard Ahmanson can make money.

But American churches, both the mainlines and the Catholics, have criticized these war policies, called them immoral.

I don’t want to demonize Oliver North, a sometime Episcopalian; he’s not important anymore, so I simply use him as a figurehead to represent the demons at work destroying my church.

This is all about rich people hating with pure white fury the audacity of mainline progressives to criticize their dirty little wars on behalf of the Prince of Peace.

Women priests? Only fanatics really care, but the switchboard lights up with hot buttons. A Gay bishop? The servers crash.

“Oliver North” doesn’t really care if there are women in chasubles. He cares about market share, profit, his piece of the GDP.

The Episcopal Church—the most progressive of the mainlines, by far the most influential—stands in Col. North’s way.

Here we’ve been thinking ourselves massively ineffectual, with less than a tithe of the influence we once had—but in fact we matter hugely to the people in power.

(This must come as a shock to our D.C. lobbyists, but don’t ever underestimate the power of Jesus’s moral critiques. He wasn’t kidding, y’all. A hundred thousand Iraqis are dead thanks to George W. Bush and his nasty little war.)

It’s time we faced a few facts that have eluded us. We knew exactly what we were doing when we elected Bishop Katharine.

So too with Bishop Gene. We were striking blows to religion-based discrimination against women and Gay people.

That’s why we picked them, so let’s own up to it—in order to understand who our opponents are and what motivates them.

The schism may be new, but this crap’s been going on for 30 years. And in that time the millionaires, their think-tank operatives and ordained lackeys have learned a few things, they’ve organized, they’ve set strategy.

Destroy the Episcopal Church. Replace it as a “province” of the Anglican Communion. Try to impose a “covenant” to punish Canadians and Americans. Enlist African priests and bishops, nearly all from the “evangelical” tradition, by their natural resentment of colonialism and the present-day Brits and Americans, to raid our churches for Calvinism, or glossalalia, or the Virgin Mary, or whatever else works.

Push those hot buttons and the money rolls in. Women priests are bad enough, but queers? Abomination!

Meanwhile in Kenya and Uganda and Nigeria, indigenous bishops are doing all they can to criminalize homosexuals—and anyone who associates with us.

“Oliver North’s” corporate handlers can’t wait to exploit Africa. It’s a whole new market, and even though most people are dirt poor, even starving, the local oligarchs—Anglicans all—are very, very rich, and they control a continent’s worth of natural resources: oil, diamonds, Halliburton, De Beers.

Rushdoony’s fantasies, where Christianity takes over the world, men control governments and their wives, and children get stoned to death for mouthing off to their parents, are too extreme for most people; he’s just a whackjob. So what is his appeal to Howard Ahmanson, the Anglican fundamentalists’ moneybags?

(Ahmanson too is just a figurehead here; he doesn’t have enough money to fund all this, or he’s not willing to part with it. He’s just a type for the people behind him.)

Get yourself an Ollie North, an Ahmanson, a Clarence Thomas, and soon the gates open up to Pat Robertson, Focus on the Family and various NFL quarterbacks. It starts to look like a vast right-wing conspiracy, but they’re simply entrepreneurs.

Mr. Robertson is a billionaire if you haven’t noticed; no wonder every megachurch star wants to be like him.

Back to those bloggers: I suspect there’s a reason no one has put the entire puzzle together. Episcopalians cannot fathom evil. To our great shame, we haven’t spent enough time meditating on the Holy Cross.

Just 50-odd years past the Holocaust, we retreat to denial on the war against our church. Thus Dr. Deimel examines the trivia of Pittsburgh, Fr. Jake gets laid off, and Canon Naughton gets caught up in the Gay Stuff—though he’s absolutely right that homosexuality is the slavery issue of our day.

God bless him for what he does understand, not for what he doesn’t.

The schismatics were thrilled at the election of Katharine Jefferts Schori. They were ecstatic when New Hampshire elected Gene Robinson. The coffers filled up as the Dittoheads contributed.

But this isn’t about queers, it’s about Nicaragua, Iraq and Afghanistan, the “public option,” insurance companies, Goldman Sachs. It’s about what kind of country we will be, and whether Jesus is still “sovereign” if you can’t make money off him.

It’s an unfortunate fact of the mystery of God that clergy and laypeople want to argue theology. They busy themselves over covenants, resolutions, Bible verses, patristics, hermaneutics, translations, polity, politics. They can’t see the forest for the trees.

We all just want to muddle along; and of course our personal concerns outweigh everything else. I have a new dog, or I’m unemployed, or I lost my retirement money when Wall Street ripped us off. These concerns indeed are God’s, and who has time for Anglican Wars?

But I tell you this: the purpose of schism is to destroy the Episcopal Church’s very mission: our civil rights work, our feeding the hungry not named Ahmanson, our pressing the last Developed Country to adopt universal health care, our malaria nets, our tsunami relief, the houses we build in New Orleans, our small feeble outreach to sexual pariahs and most of all our desire to end these nasty little wars.

Our opponents pay us a compliment actually, ascribing power to us we no longer possess, at least in the secular sense.

Our moral power has grown stronger and stronger. That’s what they most fear.

That’s why they’re trying to destroy our church. But they will not succeed. The Episcopal Church I got to meet two years ago in my national tour is vibrant, strong, faithful, orthodox, catholic and evangelical in the best way.

This is not a fight about women submitting to their husbands, or Gay abominations, or the authority of Scripture, or resolutions, covenants or debates. The issue is much simpler: slavery or no?

Peace or war? Capitalized health care (if you’ve got the capital, you get the health care) or “socialized medicine”? Dead soldiers or living ones?

For pity’s sake, the Rushdoony/Ahmanson/Robertson axis says evolution isn’t Biblical; so the Lower House elected a marine biologist, the Upper House concurred, and now we’re led by a Katharine.

My parish is going to replace those seven furnaces. It’s time to spring for some solar panels. It was God who made the sun to warm us, and warm we shall be in his grace.++

Luke, the Squirrel Terrier

You’ve heard of a fox terrier; he goes after guys who look like the red fox below.

Fox terriers don’t chase after them, like in the movies; those are foxhounds. Fox terriers root out the hunted fox who’s gone to his underground lair. That’s his specialty, to expose the fox who’s hiding, thus ending the hunt for the hounds and riders.

You’ve heard of rat terriers; they go after guys like this.

In the last century rat terriers were useful on grain farms, because the rats are no dummies; they like to go where the grain is, typically living in a barn so they could always grab a meal. Rat terriers killed the rats, sometimes hundreds an hour, so those little dogs were a farmer’s best friend. (Today they make great companions.)

Today on our walk, I found out that my dog Luke, officially a rat terrier mix, is really a squirrel dog. He’s never tugged so hard on his leash before—and we saw half a dozen of them in our four-block walk this afternoon. This is a busy time of year for squirrels, they’re storing food for the winter. Autumn is harvest time for squirrels—and today was almost harvest time for Luke.

If I’d let him chase a squirrel, would he have killed it? Or would the squirrel have outrun him and jumped up a tree?

I don’t know, and I didn’t want to find out. Not today anyway. Someday I might let him go after one just to see what happens.

Now don’t worry your Old Yeller head about poor Mr. Squirrel; he’s nothing but a rat with a fancy tail. Rats and squirrels are both rodents, mammals with incisors that never stop growing, so they have to gnaw on things. Acorns aren’t just dinner, they’re like a trip to the squirrel dentist. And yes, squirrels are “cute” when you see them in Central Park, but here in smalltown Indiana they’re pests as often as not; there’s a whole industry of squirrel-defying bird feeders, because one squirrel will eat an entire stash of birdseed before the cardinals and jays and chickadees even know where to look.

Some hunters I know, the human kind, like to kill squirrels and eat ‘em. The rest of us Hoosiers co-exist with squirrels; we don’t harm them and they don’t harm us. Meanwhile, hang your birdfeeder on a string so the squirrels don’t think they’ve just found a 24-hour Denny’s.

I don’t know whether squirrels carry rabies, but Luke got his shot this week. Took it like a man, too, and didn’t whimper.

Once I know he’s protected, I don’t care if he wants to go after a tree-dwelling rat. I’m curious whether he wants to chase or kill or eat. Whatever you do, buddy, don’t drag him over to lay him at my feet. I don’t do squirrel stew.

Hunting is a respected part of the culture here. Though I don’t care to participate in it, I don’t have a problem with killing Bambi. There are hundreds of thousands of white-tailed deer in Indiana and they cause a lot of destruction, including fatal car accidents. I’ve encountered several deer while driving in northern Indiana; the general rule is to brake if you can do it safely, but don’t swerve. If you’re going to hunt, then eat what you kill, don’t just kill for the “sport” of it.

What does squirrel-chasing mean to Luke? I’m curious to find out, but not while he’s on a leash. And I don’t trust him enough yet to take him off it.

We went to the park yesterday; I was tempted to let him run, but I didn’t. There were no fences and I’m still learning his habits. He’s excellent about coming when I call him in the house, but I haven’t tested him out on open land, much less when he’s got squirrel on the brain. I have to be patient with this mutual learning process we’re going through. I won’t even let him loose in my yard, though I do think he’s figured out where home is. I’m trying to slowly enlarge his world, so that on our walks, sometimes we go east and circle back, sometimes another direction. Home is always at the center, the beginning and the end of our walk. It’s fascinating to watch him learn. I have to remind myself not to expect him to graduate from high school in a week.

He knows we always go in and out by the back door. He knows the sound of his leash because the chain rattles. He knows that no matter how excited he is as we start to go out, he has to settle down enough for me to attach the leash; he knows when we get back not to go very far until I get him unhooked. He knows when we go out that we always head for the basketball pole, whether he has to “go” or not; I think he’s learning to lift his leg there, for show if no other reason, otherwise we never set out. Once we’re walking he lifts his leg two dozen times whether he needs to or not, but I don’t care as long as he does his business somewhere. If he defecates too he knows he gets elaborate praise.

When it’s rainy out, as it has been the past few days, he knows to wait in the kitchen, because I’ll towel him off. He rather likes that, I think. Then he shakes himself, runs around like a crazy person for a minute, and comes back to lick my hand.

If I want him to take a drink of water, I put an ice cube in his dish; he noses at it, walks around for five seconds, then gets a good drink.

He’s figured out what the refrigerator is for, that occasionally he gets food out of there, but mostly I do. He doesn’t act disappointed if it’s not his time.

He’s not manipulative; a lot of dogs are, but not this guy. If food’s around he’s interested, but he doesn’t beg or whine or act obnoxious.

When I give him a treat he runs into the other room so no one else will get it; the Humane Society told me he was “jealous of his food.” Here he doesn’t have any competition so I feel no need to correct him.

I’m unsure of the best treats to buy, and solicit your recommendations. The ones he’s got now are chewy and made to look like meat.

Dogs have little sense of taste, which is why they eat so fast. Their enjoyment of food comes from how it smells.

When I make up human food for him, as opposed to the good pellets he’s used to, his dish tends to walk as he eats. What’s cute about Luke is he then walks it back to where it goes.

One last thing: besides all the squirrels today, we also encountered a little dog staked out in its front yard. The other dog barked a fair amount; Luke wanted to check it out, but he didn’t bark back and wasn’t hostile. With Harlee next door, the big Doberman puppy, Luke felt a need to test and be on his guard, while Harlee was big and dumb and gentle. Terriers are fearless, they don’t get intimidated by a bigger dog; my neighbor Debbie and I are hoping Luke and Harlee become friends soon.

I love my little guy; he’s almost perfect. Funny thing, though, he can’t play fetch to save his life. The stuffed one-eyed kitty is starting to get a little action, but the only toy Luke really likes is his chew-bone.++

Doggie-Sized Den

It is a fact undisputed by the parents of every small child: give the kid a big present and she’ll spend more time playing with the box than the toy inside it.

When I was little I was that way, and so were you. Little ones like kid-sized environments.

As an adult I’ve come to admire parents who buy their children kid-sized chairs—not just a highchair for din-din, but a kid-sized rocker and a kid-sized lawn chair. We didn’t have those when I was a kid. In my family children who were old enough moved from a crib to an adult-sized twin bed. I suppose it shows the affluence of today’s families that they can afford to buy furniture a child will only use for a little while. It also shows a sensitivity to the child’s needs and perspective. Who wouldn’t have fun in a modrocker?

Dogs and cats are the same way; they love places that fit them. My little terrier Luke slept under my bed the first few nights not only to hide from me and feel safe, but because the low “ceiling” felt proportional.

I am having to learn to look at things from Luke’s point of view. And today I reversed an earlier decision, went out and bought him his own little “den.”

He loves it. What I saw as a cage he sees as his own personal Playboy mansion. It’s got his Luke-sized blanket, his kitty toy (good for poking, chasing and chewing) and best of all, it’s too little for me to get into.

We drove to Watseka again to buy his crate. For the first time he jumped into the back seat; he approached it four times before giving it a try, but now it’s one more thing I don’t have to do for him. His legs aren’t very long, that’s all, and sometimes steps look too tall.

We found that the Big R store (sort of a country K-Mart) carries the Science Diet that we’re probably going to switch to when his current Eagle Pack food runs out. That’s what he was on at the Humane Society, and his vet Dr. Kay says it’s very good, but she sells Science Diet and recommends it, and now I can compare her prices here in town with a large retailer. It’s good to have more than one source.

But this post is mostly about “the cage.” I had the wrong attitude about it. It’s going to help us with housetraining, because at bedtime I’ll shut the gate and he won’t be pooping at 4 a.m. in the living room. We’ll get on a regular schedule now that he’s eating well. The crate is a tool to help us learn to live together without any stress. When I have to leave him for a little while to run errands, I won’t have to take him downstairs to the cold ugly basement; he’ll be ensconced in his own little pad in the dining room. When he’s sleepy in the middle of the day, he can take a snooze in his own special place whenever he wants.

What I saw as confinement (bad, freedom-limiting), he sees as his right-sized sleeping quarters. I have to learn that he’s a dog, not a human. Dogs are domesticated wolves and wolves sleep in dens. I didn’t even have to remodel the house and now he’s got his own den!

I’ve been pretty clear about other people’s mistakes in anthropomorphizing animals (he’s not my baby, I’m not his daddy, and I’ll be damned if he’s sleeping in my bed), but I’m having to learn to think like he does. I don’t want him jumping on other people, so that means I can’t let him jump on me either. I am the leader of this pack. Since he’s not buying the chow, I’m the one who decides things here.

When I get down on his level to play, we can roll around like terriers and have all kinds of fun. At other times, no can do.

I’ll never be Cesar Millan or Generalissimo Franco; Luke’s a little spirit of joy, affection and comfort, and I want to be those things to him too. But when he’s sick or hungry or needy, he needs a grownup who looks after him.

I gave him the best possible comforter, my late brother Steve’s stadium blanket with the name of That Other School on it. (He went to Indiana University while the rest of us are all Purdue people.) It’s totally appropriate that the IU logo be the covering for my mutt’s butt, especially since Purdue art covers the walls of the dining room. And since Luke couldn’t wait to have his own little house to live in, everybody’s happy.

No pooping in the house, buddy, though I suppose it would be okay to use the IU blanket in an absolute emergency.++

Progress in Doggieland

Luke and I are coming to the end of Sunday night, so we’ve known each other about 60 hours now; I guess our first date’s over. He’s definitely interested in seeing me again, but not quite ready to hand over his life savings.

We’ve made progress, including with the upstairs/downstairs drama; and we socialized a little bit with kids and dogs we met on the street. Two little girls have a new shih tzu mix, a tiny little furball; the older sister said, “I didn’t know you had a dog.” I’d never seen her before, but somehow she knew I live here. The good news is that Luke wasn’t aggressive toward the shih tzu at all, and I am learning that having a dog is a great way to meet people.

We waved to the neighbor lady across the street, sitting on her porch, who wanted to know if Luke is a Jack Russell terrier. He could be, Russells come in smooth as well as rough-coat varieties, but I told her he was more rat instead.

He needs more work on housetraining. Otherwise he’s as well-behaved as a guy can be.

We practiced going up and down the five steps on the side porch a couple of times today; in warm weather we’re going to be spending some good time on the porch and I want him to know that’s part of our territory. And he’s getting better on the steps indoors; he made it up four steps to the landing by himself today, and later he ran down all 14 from my bedroom to the kitchen by himself. I won’t have to baby him so much, but the best news is he has more freedom to roam by himself.

We had one other major development today: what happens when I have to leave him alone? I needed to buy some supplies and he has to get used to being by himself at times. I took his blanket and water dish down to the basement, then I carried him down. (Those steps are difficult and scary even for humans; ask my pal Peter.) I didn’t take him there for punishment, but to keep him out of trouble. I drove to Watseka (14 miles) to look at cages and carriers, toys and dog food. The dog food is all commercial junk, so I’m going to try putting together my own doggie delites, meat and rice, veggies and dairy. Will he like plain yogurt?

I’d rather not put him in a cage if he doesn’t need one, and Wal-Mart didn’t have his size anyway; he did okay in the basement, didn’t howl or cry or freak out. I also decided against a carrier, because we’re not planning on flying to Miami. Instead I bought him a sweater and a hairbrush, some treats and a chew-bone, which he took to right away.

Later we took a nap, and he curled up at the foot of my bed instead of hiding underneath it—a trivial-sounding detail perhaps, but it shows he’s getting more comfortable here.

So there is progress in Doggieland. I even saw him take a good drink of water for the first time. Tomorrow we go to see his new veterinarian; maybe she sells decent food or knows where to buy some.++