by sheila morris
I’m thinking of a number
Which makes me start to wonder
What is the magic number
Written in the sky?
The number that is time
Surrendered by the prime
To centuries of decline
Marked by colors in the sky.
We cannot know our number
Which causes us to ponder
Where our minds may wander
While we contemplate the sky.
my friend Dawne and me at Lake Bowen yesterday –
were we thinking of a number?
Carl’s definitely thinking of his number these days
The exam room was smaller than most, no frills, stark white like every other doctor’s office I’d ever been in – the chair was a classic stackable with no arms. I imagined a long uncomfortable wait as the friendly masked doctor’s assistant waltzed cheerily out of the room after taking my vital signs, leaving me with the sunny parting words: the doctor will be right in. I was dubious, of course, but my first visit to this gastroenterology practice deserved an open mind.
To my surprise the door opened almost as soon as she closed it, and a young masked doctor entered pushing a computer sitting on a tall desktop that rolled. He squeezed his equipment into the tiny room, rolled to a stop in front of me and closed the door.
He had the same positive energy his assistant had as we began to discuss my health concerns which were, in my mind at least, unremarkable. He tapped computer keys as we talked for a few minutes. During a lull in the conversation I asked him how long he had been a practicing physician.
“Twenty years,” he replied.
“Gosh,” I said. “You look very young in that mask. Plus you’re so cheerful while we’re talking about bowel movements which I assume must be the topic of most of your patient interviews. I admire your attitude.”
He seemed pleased about the compliment, murmuring a thank you. Then he motioned to an exam table opposite my chair and asked me if I thought I could get on it. I assured him I could. I was, however, grateful for the two steps at the bottom of the table and began my climb which must have taken longer than I imagined because he chose those moments to ask me if I was retired, what I had done, what I was doing now. I answered in halting sentences that didn’t sound like me at all, I thought, but I was focused on the ascent to the exam table which I finally accomplished.
As I was settling in a prone position, the young doctor said, “Well, you’ve had a good ride. Yes,” he continued as he checked my heart and lungs, “I hope when I’m 74 I can say the same thing. Well, I’ve had a good ride.”
I concentrated on breathing in and out…
Pretty was waiting for me when I joined her in the car. When I told her what the doctor said about my “good ride,” she rolled her eyes. That’s Pretty for you – she never tries to rain on a parade. I believe her comment was “whatever.”
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I published this piece four years ago and still laugh when I think about the gastroenterologist behind the mask. Years later I heard our son Drew echo the same sentiments about someone’s passing. Well, he said, they had a good ride. When I think about it as I enter the final year of my seventies this month, I have had quite the ride, and I’ve learned a few truths along the way.
“No matter where I rode to, that’s where I was. The ride isn’t over for me, but it’s slowing down. Choices. Trade-offs. Chance. Timing. Priorities. Obsession. Conviction. Change. Challenges. Love. Sex. Ambition. Death. Loss. Grief. Joy. Pride. Exhilaration. The ride took me to all of these places in no apparent order and, often, more than one at the same time. What I found was that I was always there. Where am I now that I need me? I’m here, just as you are. Don’t wait for the ride – don’t hope for the ride. Saddle up now, and embrace the journey. Celebrate yourself for who you are this day. Along the way, remember to try an outrageous act or two. You may find that your world is not quite the same.”
(Not Quite the Same Epilogue)
We are their angels on earth who love them and help them when it’s time to cross the Rainbow Bridge. We are all on our own little trek passing through and lucky to find helpers as we go.
My cousin Nita in Texas read about Spike’s passing last week and sent me these words of comfort and hope: we are all on our own little trek passing through and lucky to find helpers as we go.
Pretty and I thank everyone for your love and support of our family in our sorrow. Our wish for you tonight is that you have been lucky enough to find helpers for your journey when sadness, disappointments, unspeakable losses make this little trek seem impossible to endure.
We’re in this life together; thank you for reaching out to us.
On Thursday, March 27th., Pretty and I lost our beloved Texas dog Spike – not totally unexpectedly because he was old for a big dog, yet somewhat of a surprise because he had been in a slow decline for a long while before suddenly finding movement almost impossible Thursday morning. He told me and Pretty he was ready to go with his soulful big brown eyes. That afternoon an angel of mercy came to our home to help ease his passing. Our family has lost a cornerstone that cannot be replaced.
In January, 2022, I published the “Spike Story.”
When my cousin Martin saw Spike for the first time he said, “Sheila, that ain’t nothing but a cur dog. Plain as day.”
That was in the spring of 2012, the year my two mothers died within two weeks of each other. I was a motherless child by any definition at the end of April, the month Spike appeared on Worsham Street in Texas as a motherless cur dog which according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary definition, and my cousin Martin, meant he was a mongrel or inferior dog – surly or cowardly.
When that cur dog showed up on Worsham Street in front of our house, Pretty and I had four other dogs: Annie, Red, Chelsea and Ollie. I tried to convince my neighbors across the street to keep him, but both of them had cats as well as dogs plus jobs that required their daily presence. I was a stay at home writer. My neighbor Lisa and I tried to find his owner for several days but finally realized someone had dumped him in our neighborhood so he belonged to Worsham Street. I called Pretty to talk to her about him – she was working and living most of the time in South Carolina while I had been in Texas to take care of my mother – and since we split the four dogs into two separate households – what was one more?
At first Spike was skittish around Red, Annie and me. He preferred to stay in the yard, but one night the rains came; I saw him sitting on the back porch looking at Red and me on the bed through the sliding glass door which I got up to open for him. He came inside that rainy night – never to be an outside dog again.
Spike sound asleep with his buddy Red on our sofa in Texas
(spring, 2012)
Red was quick to be surly – Spike not so much
Spike seemed to understand that he was the low dog in the pack. Red was the alpha male because that’s how terriers roll. Smallest in size – but Red was the recognized “star.” Annie was a big dog like Spike but much older. She allowed Red to lead as long as she approved of his leadership, but don’t ever cross her. Spike learned to avoid her, but he loved Red. Red adored Annie. Typical love triangle similar to humans. Am I right?
The math Pretty and I had originally calculated worked well when we were in different homes but changed dramatically when we were together in South Carolina. Then we knew we had five dogs. Looking back to those years I’m not sure how we managed but we loved them all.
Spike, Red and black lab Chelsea in back yard on Canterbury Road
Spike fell in love with Chelsea on his first trip to South Carolina in 2012; it was a feeling that stayed with him as long as she lived – a feeling that remained with him forever after she died in March, 2016. To this day he whined or barked when he saw a big black dog walking by on our street from his perch on the couch in our living room on Cardinal Drive.
Spike at home on our patio at Casa de Canterbury in July, 2012
Spike and Chelsea on my grandparents’ bed in September, 2014
my grandparents would be horrified if they knew
One by one Spike’s pack succumbed to illness and old age, and he became the sole survivor in the spring of 2016. Pretty and I promised each other we would shower him with affection, treats, walks, to give him the attention he hadn’t experienced as the interloper of the original four. We tried for months to lavish him with our love – perhaps partially to assuage our own grief. What happened surprised both of us. Spike’s grieving was as real as ours, and he didn’t like being an “only” dog. He missed his pack.
Enter Charly in the summer of 2016. Charly was twice rescued: once by Pawmetto Lifeline and then by Pretty, Spike and me.
Spike and Charly in our living room – 2019
when you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with
Now we have another little old man about the same size as Red, but Carl and Spike aren’t buddies, though – neither is Carport Kitty who definitely dislikes our three dogs. That’s okay. Charly runs interference between Spike and Carl who has learned the importance of pretending CK doesn’t exist. Spike has a pack again. Pretty and I love them all.
Spike on his walk – January 11, 2022
By the way, cur dogs are really a wonderful breed of “hard-working treeing hounds” with traits that include being devoted to their people, protective of their environment and fabulous additions to families.
So to my cousin Martin I say thank goodness Spike ain’t nothing but a cur dog. Pretty and I wouldn’t have him be anything else.
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Spike – March 27, 2025
Rest in peace, Buddy. You were simply the best.
Some day the silver cord will break,
And I no more as now shall sing;
But oh, the joy when I shall wake
Within the palace of the King!
(Refrain) And I shall see Him face to face,
And tell the story—-Saved by grace;
And I shall see Him face to face,
And tell the story—-Saved by grace.
The lyricist who wrote these words to what became one of the most recognized sacred songs ever, Fanny J. Crosby, was a leading writer of gospel hymn texts from the mid-19th. century through the early 20th. century. In addition to the thousands of hymns that she has written (about eight thousand poems in all), many of which have not been set to music, she has published four volumes of verses. (Hymnology Archive) Saved by Grace was never intended to be published as a song by Crosby.
Fanny Crosby’s Life Story, by Herself (1903)
“It eventually came to public notice by accident. It was during a conference that Fanny attended at Northfield, Massachusetts. During the meeting, the great evangelist, Dwight Moody, asked if Fanny would give a personal testimony to the audience. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she almost declined, but finally got up to speak. Mrs. Crosby shared, ‘There is one hymn I have written which has never been published. I call it my soul’s poem. Sometimes when I am troubled, I repeat it to myself, for it brings comfort to my heart.’ She then closed her remarks by reciting the words which had never been heard before in public, ‘Saved By Grace’.” (Hymn History: Saved by Grace, May 18, 2022; Micah Hendry)
Did I mention Fanny Crosby was blind from birth? I thought not, but many times throughout her life she said her lack of sight brought her joy and contributed to her ability to write poems, lyrics, two autobiographies. “If perfect earthly sight were offered me tomorrow I would not accept it. I might not have sung hymns to the praise of God if I had been distracted by the beautiful and interesting things about me.” (Wikipedia)
When I selected songs from The Baptist Hymnal for worship services in the two churches I served when I came to South Carolina in the early 1970s, many of the songs I chose were written by Fanny J. Crosby. I remember wondering about this woman whose words I sang every Sunday, but those were the times pre-Google and endless rabbit holes. Curiosity didn’t kill this cat who was too lazy to follow up with my own research.
My sacred music memories have dimmed in the fifty years since I served as a minister of music in those two Southern Baptist congregations. Church music was my silver cord that connected me to that spark of divinity within myself, but that cord was shattered by the mendacity of church leaders whose voices drowned out our shared humanity.
Today I salute a woman whose words offered hope for a better hereafter while encouraging help for the here and now through her rescue mission actions, a woman whose life reflected overcoming overwhelming obstacles from the time she was born until her death at age 94.
And I shall see Him face to face,
And tell the story—-Saved by grace.
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Fun fact from a rabbit hole: Bing Crosby was one of her relatives that shared her musical talents. Who knew?
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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