We have two dogs at our house. Dobby is a rough and tumble little brown mongrel. Diane found her on Interstate 10 about fifteen years ago, running across the freeway with a pack of other dogs. (She was just a puppy with a head too big for her body.) Diane chased her down and brought her home where we spent the rest of the evening washing the fleas and ticks out of her fur. ‘Dobby’ had found a home. Her body eventually grew into her head and we’ve had a great time ever since. Dobby is my kind of canine. Fun dog.
We also have a white dog – a miniature Maltese that used to belong to Diane’s mother. ‘Hannah’ is a pure bred – no doubt spawned in a puppy mill. Like a lot of pedigree dogs, she has genealogy of finely defined defects. At about fifteen years of age she can’t hear, she can’t see, and she can hardly walk. She has thyroid problems and perhaps two teeth left. That means she has a specialized diet and needs to be on daily medication. Almost any handling causes her to yelp in pain. She is also incontinent – or so senile that she has lost any concept of what it used to mean to be housebroken. Hanna cannot do what other dogs do. In fact, she excels at only two things – sleeping and serving as a source of veterinary bills. Plus, she is a little, white, curly-haired ‘froofy’ dog – who is losing her curly hair. She is not an appropriate dog for a manly fellow like me. She is a dog for sissies and little old ladies. When we take the dogs for a walk, we need to carry Hanna in a baby carriage. (Get the idea. Very embarrassing!) She is not my kind of canine. Very boring.
We also have a third dog. A miniature boxer/bull dog mix with a huge personality and a larger underbite. ‘Clover’ belongs to Brooke and we’re caring for her while our youngest daughter is on tour with Lindsey. But since this dog is merely a temporary houseguest we won’t say much about her – for now.
I want to talk about the little white dog. Like I said, Hanna is not my kind of dog. She just doesn’t do much. She can’t. Now Dobby! There’s a dog that will run and jump and play – even at age fifteen. However, as I’ve contemplated the meager capabilities of that crippled little white dog, (and as I have been reminded by my good-hearted wife), Hanna does have one dazzling, glorious virtue. She is the sweetest, most forgiving and good natured dog I have ever known. Her life has not been easy and she lives in constant pain. And yet, she always greets anyone – even me – with a hop in her tottering step and a wagging tail.
Hanna was Jean Jensen Leigh’s dog. And up until the time that this little woman was confined to bed a few years ago, Hanna was the joy of her life. The little white dog gave an elderly lady a soul to care for, a companion to visit with, and a reason to live. Jean Jensen Leigh was my wife’s mother, and a good woman. Her life was filled with discouragement, trial, failure and pain. She struggled and suffered and endured.
She brought three children into this world, each of them great people who have had children of their own. (Her progeny includes attorneys, teachers, artists, a world-class trumpt player, a horse whisperer, and a dancing violinist.)
She married the love of her life, and then in the prime of their youth sent him to the Second World War and then to Korea. Like so many of the greatest generation, the price they both paid was inestimable. War took it’s toll. Life took it’s toll. The pressures of time, family, and companionship – all took their toll and eventually cost them their marriage. And yet, that old soldier, her life’s companion, continued to pay her a visit every week in her confinement until he died in his ninetieth year a few years ago. (Such is the mystery and miracle of love.)
Over her lifetime she became well acquainted with sorrow, with discouragement, and with loneliness – with physical pain, with anxiety, and with heartache. But in spite of it all she was one of the sweetest individuals I have ever known. She had great reason to be bitter, to be angry, and to be just plain mean. We have known elderly people, who in response to tragedy of life, surrender to a brooding acrimony that contaminates everyone around them. Jean Jensen Leigh made a decision not to go there. And she fought that battle valiantly. My personal visits to her in her nursing home, particularly over the past few months were filled with joking, teasing, and laughter. We had a good time. She could no longer lift herself from bed, she couldn’t see very well, and I had to speak loudly and distinctly to be heard. But we still had a good time.
Jean Jensen Leigh waged the war we all must fight. And she fought it with courage, an open heart and a smile. And this morning, a month short of her 95th birthday, she emerged victorious, peacefully taking her last breath as she etched her final mortal expressions in the book of life, surrounded by her loved ones. She was a good woman who made a quiet, lasting contribution to lives of others. And she left behind a tiny memorial of who she was in the personality and attitude of a little white dog, who continues to hobble excitedly at meal time and wag her tail at total strangers. In spite the pain, the struggles of life, and the dimness of vision, there is always a hopeful sparkle in her eye.
That is Hannah’s gift to all of us — a gift that Jean Jensen Leigh left us as a reminder that life sometimes hurts, but there is still something worth living for.
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