Tuesday, September 09, 2003

As part of a college editorial writing course I am teaching this fall, I have been reading a collection of newspaper opinion masterpieces that have transcended their humble fish-wrapper origins.

Inexplicably, none of my own work has been included in the textbook "Great Editorials" (by Wm. David Sloan, Cheryl S. Wray and C. Joanne Sloan). Despite this startling omission, many memorable editorials are offered, including "Is There a Santa Claus?" by Francis P. Church of the New York Sun in 1897.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and there is also despair in the human heart, at least for those of us who toil in the editorial vineyards in the sure knowledge that everything we write will one day be forgotten but a guy who wrote about Santa Claus will remain an immortal. Not that I am bitter.

Another editorial that teaches humility to editorial scribblers is "Where to Bury a Dog," which was written by Ben Hur Lampman (now, there's a byline!) for The Oregonian on Sept. 11, 1925. (Note the now startling date -- it was an era still innocent enough that the passing of pets was a prime subject on such a day).

This editorial is still much-beloved by dog lovers, who are a good group for a writer to have on his side. People who keep pets often take on their attributes, and so dog lovers tend to be a faithful bunch, although without the wet noses. They see a good piece in the paper, they howl. They would wag their tails if they had any.

Lampman, apparently wishing to spread the good cheer and give equal time to the cat community, also wrote an editorial titled "The Cat Can't Come Back," about what it is like to live in a house when the cat has gone off to scratch the great curtains in the sky. Whether this set the cat fanciers to purring, I don't know, but my guess is that this editorial was received with more fickleness than the dog editorial.

Like many editorial writers today, I have no claim on greatness because obviously my subject matter is too boring. In my case, away from the weekly holiday that is this column, my skills are employed in writing serious and somber pieces about medical malpractice insurance, municipal controversies and the like -- in short, all proven room-emptiers.

So today, inspired by the example of Ben Hur Lampman, and in a late bid for immortality, I wish to tell you about dearly departed Lex.

Lex was a good dog, part Labrador and all goodness. Yes, yes, I know people are forever saying, "Rover, you're a good dog!" because they can't think of anything else to say to dogs, who, after all, don't know anything about the international situation or the latest trends in the art world.

But Lex was a good dog, even by the reckoning of people not short of ideas for canine conversation.

To know Lex, one must know his owner, Beth, who likes to joke that her children and friends are "perfect in every way" when we all know that she is the perfect one. She is the sort of person who cheers you up just to see her. She is kind-hearted and loyal. She is a good mother and a Steelers fan. In short, she fits all the major criteria for perfection.

Lex absorbed these lessons well, because a good person cannot have a bad dog. For 15 years, Lex was a faithful hound, a mentor to the younger pups that came into the house. But in the spring there came a sad day when Lex, now ancient in dog years, had to make a last trip to the vet's office, with tearful Beth beside him. And so to the question: Where do you bury a dog?

Late in July, my wife and I went up to Maine to stay the weekend with Beth and her husband in their cottage beside a river. The first morning Beth said, "Will you come down to the water's edge so we can deposit Lex's ashes?"

I had never been to a dog's funeral and did not know the protocol. An absurd moment occurred: Not wishing to offend, and wishing to do something, anything, I spontaneously took off my baseball cap as a mark of respect.

Fortunately, Beth appreciated the gesture, because, being perfect in every way, she appreciates sincerity even when it is totally goofy.

So we watched Lex's few ashes disappear on the tide out to sea where the dogfish play, and I thought then of what Ben Hur Lampman had so wisely written: "The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of its master."

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