THE PILGRIMAGE OF JERRY SHORTER
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
A violent rape, vicious, intentional, and deeply scarring to my mother conceived me. For a good portion of my early years, I admit dreading that such an injustice could doom fifty percent of my DNA. Did I possess the same character traits? Could I also perpetrate such an act? Is evil something that can pass through a bloodline? Who helps you understand such a question.
It was a multiple birth. We all suffered, but perhaps mother most of all. Had she a home, perhaps it could have been avoided, but the homeless seldom have a say. San Francisco has its landmarks, the water, the fog, but it also, like most large cities, has the dark corners and back alleys where trouble lurks. We moved several times, and like most homeless, food, warmth, and nurturing are in short supply. Separated early, I can only wonder and hope for the others.
Is it unfair to use the term “Picked up” when referring to a person who takes you in? Also, how do you measure acceptance if you are an added fixture among others already in place? I recently heard of two girls, sisters, ages 7 and 11, no longer picked up, returned, but this time settled once for all. Walking out to their first backyard was a trampoline that had long been a dream of what a home could be. Their screams of joy and exuberant jumping would warm any heart. Did luck play a part in their staying together, or was it a higher power that intervened?
You learn along the way when you are being “Looked over” to show some energy and make eye contact. Chances for placement are hard enough, no one wants a moper or a sourpuss. One time, my foster care lasted twenty-four hours. I always maintained my innocence. I’m not perfect, but it was more natural curiosity and not really bothering another, but again my opinion.
The system is also far from perfect, but having the experience of being “Out on the street,” inside is surely better. Food is fine, especially when you have so little comparison. I can say the same for even modest healthcare, but any system has its limits, so again, don’t test the rules, and accept that time and age are outside your control.
If one placement was less than a day, several were notable for the wrong intention of those involved. Hard to believe folks would file the papers necessary when money, not love is the motivating factor.
A level of education, or perhaps training, is the better word for potential acceptance. No one wants a dullard. Look sharp, and act like there is something upstairs ticking in your brain that knows up from down. As you get older, learning can sometimes overwhelm, but try is the operative word.
You enter a greater risk of being passed over with aging as folks want the younger ones. I see that first hand on visitation days. Sure, the little ones are cute, cuddly is another word I often hear. Perhaps there is the illusion you were part of the family from the beginning. If I had the ability, forming a union to represent us older ones would be great. We definitely need better representation. To be honest, there are a few who run the institution that take a special interest in the senior citizens, and believe we need a home as much as our younger brethren. To them, I am eternally grateful.
It was a Saturday when I awoke to find a large yellow helium balloon taped to the glass entry door. I could tell from the hustle and bustle that I was being honored. Was it my birthday, or was something else in the wind? I glimpsed the boy when he first entered the long hallway. He stopped and knelt down at several doors, but immediately popped up and moved further my way. From past practice, I was ready to put on a show, but my heart leapt when looking my way I heard him shout, “Here he is Dad, I can tell from the black spots.”
Does everyone remember the first time they meet their best friend? He was tugging at the locked door while I was jumping paws first against the glass. It would be hard to guess who was most excited, but I instantly felt life would never be the same. It was also at that moment I heard my new forever name, “Jerry Shorter. Dad, his name is Jerry Shorter.”
Filling out the release papers, Mr. Shorter asked Billy if he was ready to pay for my adoption. I was to learn that Billy had earned the eighty dollars from cutting lawns in the neighborhood for the past year. It delighted Ms. James when Billy showed her his worn booklet on how to care for older dogs.
You enter Fort Mason at the north end of Franklin Street. The National Park Service manages the rental housing, and our unit looks across the bay to Alcatraz. On some mornings, we can see the famous or infamous prison nestled in a pillow of fog floating above the water. Billy and his parents have explored the island, but they do not permit animals, so I can only look from a distance.
Several other dogs are our neighbors, and often Billy will invite them to join us on our adventures. Mr. Shorter insists we have a leash snapped to our collar or harness, but once out of sight, we are often free to rip around on our own while chasing a seagull or more often each other. I may be up in my years, but this newfound exercise has me feeling like a pup.
When Billy turned twelve, his parents gave him greater latitude to venture further from home. Angel Island was a favorite adventure. We would take the ferry and roam the various trails, some out in the open with magnificent views, and others through dense foliage so narrow we would need to walk in a single file. Disaster struck one late afternoon.
It was early December when approaching darkness can catch you off guard. We took the last ferry to the island, and Billy was mindful we had one hour for a quick hike before the last departure. Racing up our favorite trail, we called “Blind Man’s Bluff,” a thick fog rolled in, seemingly out of nowhere. No other person had crossed our path, and suddenly we found a world without sight or sound. At first Billy hooted and hollered with joyful abandon, and I barked my fool head off. I always took the lead, and smelling the damp soil of the path, we continued the ascent to the ridge. Billy walked with his arms stretched wide to feel for any obstruction. For me, with nose to the ground, the sharp turn to the left was a natural change of direction, but it caught Billy off guard and he tumbled down the hillside until I heard a thump, no scream or cry, just a thump.
The head ranger was filling out the accident report when Mr. and Mrs. Shorter entered the office, followed by the Coast Guard crew. Billy was lying on the couch with his forehead wrapped tightly with gauze and covered with a heavy wool blanket to keep him warm. I laid at his feet and loved all the attention we soon received by everyone.
Overwhelm is the best word to describe the following morning. Reporters, cameramen, and seemingly every neighbor in Fort Mason stood outside the house wanting to take pictures and hear the story retold. The Chronicle headline read “Shelter Dog Saves Boy.” The ranger spoke of a mixed white terrier with black spots who appeared at his door during the blanketing fog, barking furiously, acting frenzied, running off, running back, only to run off again.
Ms. James from the SFSPCA paid us a visit. It was special to meet her again. I had learned she was the one who spoke to the Shorter’s about my being a good match for their son. She asked permission to take a picture with me and Billy for their official website that would exclaim, “One of our own.” I heard Mr. and Mrs. Shorter give an enthusiastic thumbs up, voicing their approval for drawing attention to noble companions waiting to find homes. I like the term trusting over noble. Perhaps it’s my limited vocabulary.
The older I get, the sounder I sleep. Billy will wake me occasionally with a “Jerry, cut the snoring for heaven’s sake.” Perhaps all the attention caused a deeper slumber, but I slept through the large yellow helium balloon being tied to my wicker basket bed. “Wake up, sleepyhead” was my alarm clock the next morning. Forget a biscuit, even a good scratch behind the ears. I knew the meaning of the balloon and the specific color. It was Billy’s way of reminding me of our first day together, and the incredible bond we have formed.
How grateful to admit the distress and uneasiness of mind from those early years is now one of acceptance and love. As the saying goes, I am one lucky dog.
Best, Jerry Shorter.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
A violent rape, vicious, intentional, and deeply scarring to my mother conceived me. For a good portion of my early years, I admit dreading that such an injustice could doom fifty percent of my DNA. Did I possess the same character traits? Could I also perpetrate such an act? Is evil something that can pass through a bloodline? Who helps you understand such a question.
It was a multiple birth. We all suffered, but perhaps mother most of all. Had she a home, perhaps it could have been avoided, but the homeless seldom have a say. San Francisco has its landmarks, the water, the fog, but it also, like most large cities, has the dark corners and back alleys where trouble lurks. We moved several times, and like most homeless, food, warmth, and nurturing are in short supply. Separated early, I can only wonder and hope for the others.
Is it unfair to use the term “Picked up” when referring to a person who takes you in? Also, how do you measure acceptance if you are an added fixture among others already in place? I recently heard of two girls, sisters, ages 7 and 11, no longer picked up, returned, but this time settled once for all. Walking out to their first backyard was a trampoline that had long been a dream of what a home could be. Their screams of joy and exuberant jumping would warm any heart. Did luck play a part in their staying together, or was it a higher power that intervened?
You learn along the way when you are being “Looked over” to show some energy and make eye contact. Chances for placement are hard enough, no one wants a moper or a sourpuss. One time, my foster care lasted twenty-four hours. I always maintained my innocence. I’m not perfect, but it was more natural curiosity and not really bothering another, but again my opinion.
The system is also far from perfect, but having the experience of being “Out on the street,” inside is surely better. Food is fine, especially when you have so little comparison. I can say the same for even modest healthcare, but any system has its limits, so again, don’t test the rules, and accept that time and age are outside your control.
If one placement was less than a day, several were notable for the wrong intention of those involved. Hard to believe folks would file the papers necessary when money, not love is the motivating factor.
A level of education, or perhaps training, is the better word for potential acceptance. No one wants a dullard. Look sharp, and act like there is something upstairs ticking in your brain that knows up from down. As you get older, learning can sometimes overwhelm, but try is the operative word.
You enter a greater risk of being passed over with aging as folks want the younger ones. I see that first hand on visitation days. Sure, the little ones are cute, cuddly is another word I often hear. Perhaps there is the illusion you were part of the family from the beginning. If I had the ability, forming a union to represent us older ones would be great. We definitely need better representation. To be honest, there are a few who run the institution that take a special interest in the senior citizens, and believe we need a home as much as our younger brethren. To them, I am eternally grateful.
It was a Saturday when I awoke to find a large yellow helium balloon taped to the glass entry door. I could tell from the hustle and bustle that I was being honored. Was it my birthday, or was something else in the wind? I glimpsed the boy when he first entered the long hallway. He stopped and knelt down at several doors, but immediately popped up and moved further my way. From past practice, I was ready to put on a show, but my heart leapt when looking my way I heard him shout, “Here he is Dad, I can tell from the black spots.”
Does everyone remember the first time they meet their best friend? He was tugging at the locked door while I was jumping paws first against the glass. It would be hard to guess who was most excited, but I instantly felt life would never be the same. It was also at that moment I heard my new forever name, “Jerry Shorter. Dad, his name is Jerry Shorter.”
Filling out the release papers, Mr. Shorter asked Billy if he was ready to pay for my adoption. I was to learn that Billy had earned the eighty dollars from cutting lawns in the neighborhood for the past year. It delighted Ms. James when Billy showed her his worn booklet on how to care for older dogs.
You enter Fort Mason at the north end of Franklin Street. The National Park Service manages the rental housing, and our unit looks across the bay to Alcatraz. On some mornings, we can see the famous or infamous prison nestled in a pillow of fog floating above the water. Billy and his parents have explored the island, but they do not permit animals, so I can only look from a distance.
Several other dogs are our neighbors, and often Billy will invite them to join us on our adventures. Mr. Shorter insists we have a leash snapped to our collar or harness, but once out of sight, we are often free to rip around on our own while chasing a seagull or more often each other. I may be up in my years, but this newfound exercise has me feeling like a pup.
When Billy turned twelve, his parents gave him greater latitude to venture further from home. Angel Island was a favorite adventure. We would take the ferry and roam the various trails, some out in the open with magnificent views, and others through dense foliage so narrow we would need to walk in a single file. Disaster struck one late afternoon.
It was early December when approaching darkness can catch you off guard. We took the last ferry to the island, and Billy was mindful we had one hour for a quick hike before the last departure. Racing up our favorite trail, we called “Blind Man’s Bluff,” a thick fog rolled in, seemingly out of nowhere. No other person had crossed our path, and suddenly we found a world without sight or sound. At first Billy hooted and hollered with joyful abandon, and I barked my fool head off. I always took the lead, and smelling the damp soil of the path, we continued the ascent to the ridge. Billy walked with his arms stretched wide to feel for any obstruction. For me, with nose to the ground, the sharp turn to the left was a natural change of direction, but it caught Billy off guard and he tumbled down the hillside until I heard a thump, no scream or cry, just a thump.
The head ranger was filling out the accident report when Mr. and Mrs. Shorter entered the office, followed by the Coast Guard crew. Billy was lying on the couch with his forehead wrapped tightly with gauze and covered with a heavy wool blanket to keep him warm. I laid at his feet and loved all the attention we soon received by everyone.
Overwhelm is the best word to describe the following morning. Reporters, cameramen, and seemingly every neighbor in Fort Mason stood outside the house wanting to take pictures and hear the story retold. The Chronicle headline read “Shelter Dog Saves Boy.” The ranger spoke of a mixed white terrier with black spots who appeared at his door during the blanketing fog, barking furiously, acting frenzied, running off, running back, only to run off again.
Ms. James from the SFSPCA paid us a visit. It was special to meet her again. I had learned she was the one who spoke to the Shorter’s about my being a good match for their son. She asked permission to take a picture with me and Billy for their official website that would exclaim, “One of our own.” I heard Mr. and Mrs. Shorter give an enthusiastic thumbs up, voicing their approval for drawing attention to noble companions waiting to find homes. I like the term trusting over noble. Perhaps it’s my limited vocabulary.
The older I get, the sounder I sleep. Billy will wake me occasionally with a “Jerry, cut the snoring for heaven’s sake.” Perhaps all the attention caused a deeper slumber, but I slept through the large yellow helium balloon being tied to my wicker basket bed. “Wake up, sleepyhead” was my alarm clock the next morning. Forget a biscuit, even a good scratch behind the ears. I knew the meaning of the balloon and the specific color. It was Billy’s way of reminding me of our first day together, and the incredible bond we have formed.
How grateful to admit the distress and uneasiness of mind from those early years is now one of acceptance and love. As the saying goes, I am one lucky dog.
Best, Jerry Shorter.
RICHARD SWAIN