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| Happy Birthday, Geordie. Joan hasn't forgotten you. |
This is Wee Geordie, but everyone called him Geordie. He was born on December 29, 1968 in a New York City loft. Papa was a Malamute and Mamma was a black Labrador.
When Joan first saw him, he was hiding in a corner, afraid to come out, afraid of the puppies, afraid of light, afraid to be touched. Joan picked him for all those reasons, but also because he had a softness about him that wouldn’t turn into a hard shell or a bite of fear.
He lived for twelve years and saw all sorts of changes in his world, including the arrival of Joan's four babies who never became rivals. He just accepted the babies and watched them grow. And when the babies got big enough to go beyond the yard, they adopted an abandoned puppy that had been dumped in a neighbor’s yard. Geordie didn't get jealous; instead, he got younger and let the puppy—named Scotty—jump all over his head and climb on his back. He tried to play, but he wasn’t sure how. So, he would stand up and bow, stand up and bow, over and over.
When he died, there was great sadness in a small part of the world because, well, it’s always that way when someone gentle is no more. Their leaving ruins the earth's balance between kindness and cruelty; and it’s a sadness indeed that cruelty so often gets the upper hand.
Best wishes, Juno
PS: Charles Scott made the portrait.
