PART TWO / CHAPTER SEVEN
Stoic father; troublesome child
I got a little too big for my boots. Literally.
Overconfident. Puffed up head. A mite bit cocky. I was living above the law. Ironic, as I was playing the deputy in our church’s Christmas play. Not your granny’s ho-hum Christmas pageant, tho. I was starring in the real deal. The big show. As close to Broadway that a gangly grade 7 from a medium-sized evangelical church in a small town in southern Ontario could get.
Our church was known for its extravagant and exceptional Christmas plays. Folks would come from all around to sit, watch, and be amazed. Script and score were written by local talent. Staffed with local congregants. The plays were funny. Engaging. Eventually evolving into historical accurate retellings of Christmases long past. The sets were complex and intricately designed. Life-sized trains, flowing rivers, and one year there was even a to-scale replica the Wright brothers’ 1903 Wright Flyer. Incredibly, the entire cast was completely made up of kids. Every single character, singer, and soloist was a child. Nary an adult on the stage! That’s what made these plays special. They were child led.
Year after year the school board bused thousands of kids from the community to our church to watch us kids on stage. Students, teachers, principals. They’d take time from school, hear the Christmas story, complete with baby Jesus in a manger. And all of it happened on the taxpayer’s dime. Three shows a day for two days consecutive. Two more shows on the weekend. (And a whole lotta time off school!)
Win - win - win.
The year was 1997. The play was a western, “Christmas Comes to Cactus Creek”. A comedy with a simple plot set in the late 1800’s somewhere in the mid-west. A gang of ruffians had come to town lookin’ to steal the Christmas gold. Instead they found Jesus and became born-again Christians. Hallelujah! And I was the comedic relief. The goofy-dimwitted deputy who couldn’t get nothin’ right. And Jesse was the strait-laced steady-eddy sheriff. Andy and Barney reincarnated.
Jesse and I had grown up together. Spent many-a-years side by side in many-a-Christmas plays with many-more-years stealing pens and sugar packets during (or after) service. He lived in the country. His dad had a real airplane. He shot bow and arrows. And owned a SEGA Genesis which I thought was wicked-cool. Jesse was a really nice kid. A year older than me and about a foot-and-a-half taller. Equally fun. Just as immature.
It was an ensemble cast but let’s honest: Jesse and I were the show. We were funny. Poised. Veterans of the stage. Been there done that since grade 4 thank you very much. We were entrusted to carry the story. Keep the pace. Set the mood. We had pages of lines, stage cues, and directional prompts. And while choir was mandatory for the rabble - Jesse and I were exempt.
We were stars!
By the final dress rehearsal I was feeling pretty sly. I knew my lines. Knew my cues. Consistently spoke in my Don Knotts high-pitched deputized voice. I don’t want to brag but I was pretty funny. Crushing my comedic timing. Landing joke after joke after joke. I deserved to slack. If I wanted to lean back on my cowboy rocker and chat with my ol’ pal Jesse between scenes “I’ll do it!”. I earned it! So what if I’m too loud (?!). So what if I’m distracting all the other actors and choir and tech crew. Turn down my mic for Pete’s sake! I’m the deputy of this here town and I’ll do what I -
“AMOS SHELLEY! STOP TALKING. RIGHT NOW!”
I knew that voice. I knew that walk. That frame of a man whose shadow was clawing from the darkness like a beast from the deep. Feet pounding. Shoulders boxed ready to pounce. He was the most intimidating person I knew. Especially when he wanted to be. He was also the writer, main set designer, and director of the play. The man looked at me. Eyes burning. Chin protruding. “Stop. Talking.”
Warm embarrassment washed from face-to-toe. Blush-red-cheeks. Lumpy throat. I locked eyes with the man and nodded.
“Sorry dad.”
My father expected more from me. He had raised me to be considerate. Aware. Unselfish. Goofing off with Jesse wasn’t the problem. But I was goofing off at the expense of 70 other people. On their time. With their emotions. Wasting their energy and effort. I was old enough to to know the difference. More importantly, my dad has raised me to do the right thing. Even when it hurt. Even when others weren’t. Doing the right thing was more important than doing what you felt like. Life wasn’t an alley for me to bowl thru. Or dominate. Knocking down pins cause I felt like it. Life is more than the pursuit of desire. It’s a gift-of-a-chance to live fully alongside others. To be one part of a larger whole. Participants in something bigger. More expansive.
“Kingdom work,” my dad would say.
The joy comes when you put others first. Share when you can. Help where you should. Do right, especially when it’s hard. Be kind. Respectful. Playful. Be your best and live to your potential. Happiness is fleeting; yet goodness remains. Chase down goodness. And that’s the kind of dog I wanted: a good dog.
I wanted Bhaer to be a good dog.
Genuinely good. One that was obedient. Considerate. Lived to his potential. Was aware of others and knew his role in our ensemble cast. I wanted Bhaer to be non-anxious, non-pulling, non-biting. Non-yapping. Definitely non-jumping. With limited obnoxiousness. I wanted Bhaer to come when I called. Stay clear from the table during meals. Walk beside me with or without a leash. Be unaffected by other dogs on the street or stimulus on the trail.
High ideals with practical purpose.
Male Bernese Mountain Dogs can grow to be 100lbs! Stand 27 inches to the shoulder. They’re bred to be lean-cut cart-pulling mini-horse workers. And I knew that if I didn’t train Bhaer right he could become be too powerful - too strong - too dominating. He would literally bowl us over. Dominate us. Eat off our counter. Destroy our furniture. Crush our kids. Be un-walkable. Snap at strangers and wreak havoc with other dogs. And there was a ticking clock. I had only a few short months to “get it right” before Bhaer was too big to do anything with. He was packing on muscle like a roided gym-rat. Chasin’ gainz and totally yolked. Something we were reminded of on-the-daily. “Look at the size of those paws!” people would say. “You know that means he’s going to be a really really big dog!”
Thank you kind stranger. I know.
It was a lot of pressure.
Those first few months with Bhaer were a blackout blur. He was cute. Adorably cute. But he was also a menace as all puppies are certain to be. Bounding and jumping and peeing and chewing my favourite childhood toys. And Bhaer had a penchant for garbage. Over the open top or through the plastic-black-bag. It mattered not how he got inside: garbage was his delight. Bhaer’s surprise bag of treats!
Neither of us knew it at the time but a war had begun. Bhaer vs. Amos locked in a ten-year-long battle for the soul the kitchen. One that cost the lives of many-a-plastic bags and garbage bins. A war that Bhaer inevitably won. Despite my strategic placements, logistical manoeuvrings, and redesigned kitchen - Bhaer always found a way to best me. He always did. In every way.
That sneaky pup.
Bhaer was 1 year-old when we took possession of our church house. No longer the fluffy-stuffy, he was a full grown Berner. Over 80 pounds of lean muscle and speed. My “fun idea” to play chase-around-the-house proved most costly. Obviously, I could never catch him. But worse, whenever he was outside he always thought it was game. Even when it wasn’t. And after that first winter if Bhaer got I could never retrieve him. Faith and the kids - no problem. “Bhaer!” they’d call and he’d come. Like a good dog. Amos? Heck no. Bhaer would just stare me down taunting me to chase. “Here I am! Come get me…” So I built a fence to keep Bhaer on our property and Bhaer found the holes where he could escape. I still don’t know how. It was like watching a giant mouse squeeze through a crack.
That infuriating dog.
Equalled to his growing size and age was the pressure I felt to make Bhaer better. I implemented a regimented leash training protocol. Complete with walking etiquette. I had strict table manners and food distribution methods: “Mine” and “Yours”. He was never allowed on the couch or any of our beds. I even initiated a post-wrestling ritual after our tumbles. I’d bow and he’d shake his paw. “Now we’re done,” I’d tell him. And he knew that our jostling was over. Most importantly, Bhaer needed to know where he stood in the pack. Which was last. Dead last. I was Alpha and he was beta. A reality I made sure to reinforce with each new baby.
That tiresome dog.
Trouble was, everybody loved Bhaer. Friends, family, strangers. And with reason. Bhaer was loveable! Affectionate. Well-mannered and stunningly handsome. His gaze could melt the iciest heart. The definition of “puppy-dog-eyes”. He was good with kids. Our especially. He gave love to almost everyone he met. Faith most of all. It’s no wonder. She’d let him get away with things I never would. There were times that I felt that I was the only one carrying the burden of training. The only one who really cared. Felt the pressure of getting it right.
Because I was.
Bhaer wasn’t progressing as fast or in the ways I expected and I was clutching too tight. Holding too fast. Drifting farther and farther from my original intent of raising a good dog, I’d become preoccupied with outcomes and behaviour. Obedience over goodness. I didn’t just want a good dog, I wanted the perfect dog. By his mid-life I had more frustrating days with Bhaer than not. The work outweighing the fun. And I began to feel, even express, my regrets in having a dog at all.
“I’m not sure I am a dog person,” I once told Faith. “Maybe a 51/49 in favour. But that’s it.”
It didn’t happen at first. Or all at once. More of a slow erosion of purpose. But in time Bhaer and I stopped wrestling and spooning by the fire. We had fewer and fewer walks. Or strokes of his hairy fur. I washed him when I had to. Fed him when no one else would. I was becoming the version of a dog-owner that I loathed.
I had become Bhaer’s stoic father. Distant and aloof. Losing sight of the fun of love - for love’s sake.
Yet, even in the darkest days Bhaer figured a way to best me. Find the crack in my heart and squirm his way in. Despite my frustrations, annoyance, and emotional distancing - Bhaer never stopped pursuing me. Never stopped believing in me. Never stopped loving me.
That exceptional dog.
