carbonated joy

2003 and 2004 were very rough years for us. They were full of the bitter sting of failure and rejection. it was a brutal season of setbacks and sucker punches.

The bright spots came in the form of relationships. A few really good friends who stuck with us. Family who rallied to our side and a crazy little beagle puppy.

Never underestimate the power of puppy breath as an anecdote for a bad day…or a bad 2 year stretch.

Daizie came prancing into our lives on July 11, 2004. It was the day after we had totaled our Honda on a sketchy street in Florida (another sucker punch to the throat…POP!). It was also the day after Diana’s birthday…happy birthday baby.
Delanie was 10 years old at the time and was about to navigate some very hard, transitional years. Daizie became her faithful fuzzy companion through the unparalleled craziness of adolescence. She brought no judgement, no criticism, just unconditional love and joy. That’s the great thing about a good dog.

She was a “pocket beagle”. A fun sized version, so she fit right in with our family. But, the only thing small about her was her body. She was LOUD! She had a machine gun bark and she snored like a linebacker. She had a BIG attitude. Daizie loved big and loud. If She hadn’t seen you, even if you had just been gone for a minute, when you were reunited she would go crazy. She would run around in circles barking and yelping with unbridled happiness. The neighbors usually didn’t really enjoy this. Daizie didn’t care what the neighbors thought because she loved her people. She also didn’t really care for other dogs, she didn’t play well with others. She was, after all…in her mind… “people”. She was the runt of the litter, that’s okay, so am I. She had little freckles all over her tummy. We were told that the freckles made her less “desirable” as a pure bred show dog. That’s okay, they made her more interesting as a family member.

She was a little (okay, a lot) neurotic. She had weird little habits like bobbing her head 3 times before getting a piece of dog food. She had to have at least 3 pillows and 2 blankets when she sat on the couch, I know we spoiled her. That’s okay, We really didn’t care what the neighbors thought. For the last 5 years Diana has worked from a home office, Daizie has been her “cubicle buddy”, everyday they have gone to work together…Daizie’s job was moral support and snoring loudly during conference calls. she was very good at her job.

Dogs come into our lives and leave their mark. Chewed up shoes, ruined carpet, annoying moments, early morning snuggles, that “look” that says I get you, laughter, moments of pure, beautiful joy. Along with scratch marks on our door, Daizie left stretch marks on our hearts. That’s the good thing about a great dog.

Daizie never really quit being a puppy. She was 10 years old (that’s 70 to me and you), her face was marked with grey. But something deep in her eyes said “I’m as young as I ever was”. She had the same enthusiasm ( and some of the annoying habits) as the 2 month old puppy we picked up in Garland, Texas a decade ago. She was so stinking cute!

Cancer is one of the biggest bullies ever. I hate it. Cancer is a despicable thief. It steals people…and puppies…that we love.

It was a sudden thing that we didn’t it see coming…a sucker punch. Very often hurt sneaks up on you. A phone call can change everything. After a couple of weeks when it seemed that she just wasn’t herself, some trips to the vet (she was not a fan) and tests, we got a phone call saying Daizie has lymphoma cancer. We watched her aggressively deteriorate the last few days.

On October 27, 2014 we said goodbye to our little friend. It hurt bad. But, honestly, it was a beautiful goodbye.

We are left with tears but so many good stories.

It always amazes me how your heart can be so full and so broken at the same time.

Grandpa was a barber in the Air Force. For the first few years of my life he was my barber. He was also my hero, he taught me wrestling holds, horse back riding and the joy of cheese. He gave me my first tattoo (with a bic pen, it was a horse drawn on my back).

My brother, Mark, and I would go over to his house every few weeks for a hair cut. He would break out his clippers (the same ones he used on his dogs). Grandpa knew one hair style…the buzz cut. We were okay with that. At the time, it served our fashion purposes. He would wrap a natty old towel around our necks to collect the trimmings and go to work. His clippers sounded like a small engine plane. It would only take a few minutes. We would eat Grandma’s amazing chocolate chip cookies while we were getting buzzed and then we would run off to dig for treasure in his back yard.

 It worked well until it didn’t…

one fateful Saturday morning when I was seven. There was something different that day, grandpa was louder, stumbling around a bit, not speaking real clearly.

Grandpa was drunk.

My brother, who has always been a little smarter than me, assessed the situation and graciously volunteered me to go first.What happened next can only really be described as a massacre. Grandpa cut my hair in a drunken haze that he would later deny. It was a frenzy of sweaty hair trimmings and the smell of stale coors.

And in the aftermath, a brief awkward silence…

Mom recoiled and then lovingly hugged me and spoke the reassuring words “it will grow back”. My brother snickered and slowly backed out of the room. I ran to the bathroom mirror and saw a ugly combination of bald spots and mangled cow licks.

I ended up with the worlds first punk haircut.

for several weeks I was not without a stocking hat.

It was the last time Grandpa ever cut my hair.

I know it was just a haircut, a silly, free haircut, but it cost me something.

It cost me a bit of my innocence.

For the very first time I saw my grandfather as flawed.

He was a good man who was broken by his own choices.

I didn’t realize that before that day.

it’s a lot for a seven year old to handle.

 I learned a valuable life lesson that day…sometimes free isn’t worth it. Sometimes it exposes you to relationship realities that you can’t handle.

Too often when we try to get something for free it ends up biting us. That happens in every area of life, it’s especially apparent when we take shortcuts in relationships.

Friendship should cost us something. Sacrifice…time…resource…a denial of our self. We should live generously in our dealings with other humans.

 Give until you can’t…live love…live honest…be vulnerable…invest in the people around you.

 And…as the bald father of a hairstylist…don’t be afraid to pay for a good haircut, it’s worth it.

I’m bald…

Whether bald by choice or by chance,

I choose to celebrate my follicly uncomplicated life.

What the Creator loves He uncovers…

I will shine for Him…literally.

The glare on my head will reflect His glory.

In an increasingly hairy world I will glow!

I have nothing to prove, I cast off the comb over.

Bald IS my favorite color.

I’m bald to the bone.

I will baldly go where no scalp has gone before.

I say it loud…

I’m bald and I’m proud.