I Can't Stop Lovin' You!

Tonight the dream may come, but then again it may not.  And, to tell the truth, I am not sure which I would prefer. It is a simple dream, a dream that fills my heart with joy and then bursts it as that last tiny sliver of joy forces its way in to pop it like a needle pops a balloon, the fragments drifting, floating, through my brain until the dream comes again.

The dream didn’t start on March 11, 2005, but its birth, its conception, happened on that day for that was the day that Dalglish, my companion, my soul-mate, left this world. 

Dalglish, a beagle/spitz mix, was approximately 8 weeks old when my wife, Val, and I were led to him. And for fourteen years he made us laugh, he made us complete, he made us a family. Dalglish was a joker, a dog that when he was about 3 months old jumped from an eight-foot deck onto a six-foot fence and then down to the street to chase a squirrel, and then on catching up to it grinned at us and let it scamper away.  Dalglish was a peace-maker who hated when Val and I argued and would manipulate everything around him, including nudging our hands towards each other until we were holding hands, laughing, and talking again. Dalglish was a dog who would warn us of anyone coming to the door, barking incessantly until we checked it out . . . unless it was the pizza delivery man, any pizza delivery man, in which case he would sit silently at the door, smiling stupidly—a good trick because he was anything but stupid!  Here was a dog that loved everything about life.

But he had been failing for a while. The signs were there. We thought we had lost him in 2003 when he sustained a serious back injury, an injury that the vet informed us beagles were susceptible to, and he lost the use of his back legs.  There was one chance, just one, and if that didn’t work we may have to put him to sleep.  But this was Dalglish!  The high dose steroids worked slowly and his iron will pulled him back to health and back to his jovial self.  So even though he had now been failing this just another thing that we were certain Dalglish would bounce back from.

Which brings us back to March 11, 2005.  For a few days Dalglish had been lethargic, not wanting to move, not wanting to eat, not wanting to do anything. On the morning of March 11, he appeared to be having trouble with his back legs again, and this is why I found myself racing down I-95, not watching and not caring about the speed limit, and admittedly spending more time using the rear view mirror to look at Dalglish lying quietly in the back seat than looking at where I was going.  This was a race, a race to the vet’s clinic, a race that a small insistent voice inside my head kept telling me I was losing.

The car had hardly come to a complete stop in the vet clinic’s car park when I was out and snatching Dalglish from the back seat, heading for the clinic’s door. As I struggled to hold him in one arm and pull the door open with the other, I felt him slump.  It was as though what little strength he had left chose that time to desert him.  He was still breathing but this was not Dalglish, the clown, Dalglish the athlete, Dalglish the dog who would go through a brick wall to get at something that he wanted, in my arms. This was now my baby, my reason for living, that was dying in my arms.
I will never forget the vet assistants rushing out to grab Dalglish from my arms, to sprint with him back into the heart of the clinic.  Every breath of his was an effort.  As a nurse I have witnessed the rapid shallow breathing of the dying, the Cheyne-Stokes pattern of slow deep breaths gradually accelerating to rapid shallow breaths and then the sudden stop when everyone else in the room will subconsciously hold their own breath until the slow deep breaths resume and the pattern repeats itself.  But as a person every inch of my soul was screaming at me that I was not seeing what my eyes were taking in.  I saw the shaking of heads, I saw the tears in eyes, and I heard from somewhere in the distance a voice telling me that if Val wanted to say goodbye she had to get here . . .now!
There was a quick phone call to Val—I’m still not sure what I said—and I sat in the room with Dalglish, my hand on his head, while we waited a million years for Val to get there, but she didn’t make it in time.  The breathing pattern reached that rapid shallow crescendo, and then the pause . . .and I knew that the pattern was never to be repeated, that the pause in the breathing was to be eternal. It was over.

The dream started a few days later. As I say, it is a simple dream.  I am sitting in the car in the car park of a railway station.  The rain streams down the windshield.  And all I can hear is the song, I Can’t Stop Loving You, not the Phil Collins version but the earlier version by Leo Sayer. “So you’re leaving in the morning on the earlytrain.”  I slowly get out of the car and head for the platform and there is Dalglish, a small suitcase by his side, and a train on the rails obviously preparing to leave.  It cannot be anything other than a dream because of the small incongruities that such things often have: the train station is in my hometown of Dumfries, Scotland, a country that Dalglish was never in; the car I was driving was also the car I owned in Scotland, not the U.S.; the dog sitting on the platform is not the older Dalglish, rather it is Dalglish at about 5 or 6 years old.  The scene could be lovers breaking up, but it could just as easily be a beloved son heading off to college or to a new job.  In my head I am screaming for him to stay but the words don’t come out because I know this is something in which he has no choice . . . he has to leave.  He is smiling and his head is tilted to the left as if to say everything will be fine. But I know it won’t be.

The dream doesn’t come every night, sometimes it doesn’t even come every week, but I know that it will keep coming.  And I don’t know if I want it to stop because just seeing him again brings a smile to my face and lifts my heart, but it also reminds me that we will never physically be together again.  I will never again feel him snuggling in behind my knees as I lie in bed. I will never again trip over as I try to rise from a chair because he is parked at my feet.  But somehow, as I see him smile, I know that he was right . . . everything will be okay, and my life is so much better because he stayed for a while.

Animal Rescue and Heavy Metal Music: Strange or Perfect Bedfellows?

Sometimes events collide that kick the strange workings of my brain into overdrive. Connections that I would never previously see suddenly start lining up.  This happened recently when a local “metal” band, All ThingsDone, in Jacksonville, Fl. offered to hold a benefit concert for Pet RescueNorth.  As a music fan with extremely eclectic tastes—my music collection literally ranges from Beethoven to Black Sabbath—I was over the moon about this event. However, the more I thought about this collaboration between an animal rescue organization and a metal band with all the negative stereotypes that they carry—stereotypes of preoccupations with death and suicide, images of animal cruelty associated with Satan worship and memories of Ozzy Osbourne biting the heads off live animals—the more I realized how some would question this partnership. And the more I thought of how people would question the partnership, the more I came to one conclusion: Heavy Metal Music and Animal Rescue could not be a more natural fit!

Metal music is, arguably, the most misunderstood  and, in some quarters, reviled form of music on the planet. Sociological theories on the attractions of such music and the subconscious needs and motivations of its fans are everywhere.  And, for various reasons, many of the theories remain rooted in stereotypes.  This discussion, for reasons of space, will itself address stereotypes and remain relatively simplistic. I have neither the time nor the inclination to write any sort of academic thesis here. However, one fact must remain at the front of our minds: what attracts people to any specific form of music, including metal, and the individual personality-types is way too complex to allow for everyone to be lumped into one pigeon-hole!

So, why do I think this partnership is a natural fit? Let’s start with one of the predominant theories about why people are attracted to metal music.  It has been widely touted that metal music attracts those with a sense of alienation, of isolation. A need for those who don’t quite fit in with the rest of society is being met by metal’s themes of fear and despair, themes that reflect the dark side of humanity.  Musical expressions of violence and anarchy reflect a feeling of hopelessness, a feeling that the world around the individual is spinning out of their control and that a refusal to comply with social norms constitutes a refusal to participate in the social behaviors that are working to subdue and submerse those who are a little different.

The musical expression of such beliefs does not mean that the fans will physically act out on those ideas.  It can be regarded as a “what if”, no different to the basis of every novel ever written, but how many people act out the contents of a novel? So why are metal fans regarded as any different in that respect?

Okay, so we have a bunch of people who feel isolated and alienated in some way and are looking for some way to fit in. How do you fit in?  Simple . . . you look for those with the same feelings of isolation and alienation.  You look for those that you regard as your peer group!  And who are more alienated and isolated than animals who rely on humans for their care, yet who have been abused, neglected, and abandoned to fend for themselves or to die trying.

In the animal welfare world breed-specific-legislation, the banning and indiscriminate killing of a specific group, for example, is an extreme form of control over those that are seen as somehow different and dangerous.  Is it any surprise, therefore, that metal fans feel a need to align themselves with those breeds of animal?  It can be argued that to take up the fight against BSL, or to rescue any abandoned animals, is to act in defense of kindred spirits.

Similarly, the stereotype of Satan-worship, the use of satanic themes and symbolism in the music is merely an artistic tool.  While some may actually become interested in satanic rites, it does not reflect the actual beliefs or values of the majority of metal fans.  In fact, from my personal experience, it may surprise many people just how many of those sitting around you in your Christian church on a Sunday are then going home and turning on their Black Sabbath or Judas Priest or Pantera CDs.  The music is often a reflection of how the metal fan views the world around them rather than how they view themselves.  The music frequently is not describing the metal fan, it is describing you, the non-metal fan, the moral majority, the bureaucracy and government, and the effects that you are having on the world.

Again, in my experience, if metal fans are attracted to non-conventional religions they tend to be attracted to belief systems such as Wicca, a nature-based belief system, or the theologies of Native Americans or other aboriginal groups—again, nature–based belief systems that emphasize a concern for the natural environment and animals that surround us. So, where is the surprise that animal rescue becomes a physical expression of those belief systems?

And what of Ozzy biting the heads off bats and pigeons?  Well, that is like asking if you want your peer group to be judged by the actions of one or two people. Look at any sociological grouping of people and you will find the mentally ill, or the somehow deviant, acting in ways that the majority of the group will find incomprehensible and that are often contradictory to the beliefs of the rest of the group.  An individual, possibly mentally ill but definitely drug-driven, compounded by a showbiz persona created to maximize shock value does something that he knows will sicken the masses: not exactly representative of most sociological groups, including most metal fans.

So, on June 22^nd 2013, a metal concert starring All Things Done and Nocturnal State of Mind, along with guest stars will be held at the Landshark Café, Jacksonville Beach, Fl.  Some people might still think “how strange?” but I for one am stoked about this event.  If you don’t like metal music you don’t have to go—I would never ask a non-metal fan to subject themselves to that—because there are so many other ways in which you can support Pet Rescue North.  But please don’t knock it; it will be great to see all those “metalheads” who are also animal lovers together in one place!

As previously mentioned, this is not meant to be an exhaustive examination of all things metal, just an overview of why metal fans seeking to help rescue animals is the most natural thing in the world. It is also not meant to be an indictment of those who are not metal fans.  Just file it under “never judge a book by its cover”. The next time you in your smart business suit are standing next to someone in black leather and studs or ripped jeans and long hair, just remember: they may have more in common with you that you think!

I Guess I've Been Away for a While

Yep, I'm back.  It has been a while and I have no excuses . . . reasons, but not excuses.  There is another writing project that I'm supposed to be working on and, in some ways, the content conflicts with the content that would be necessary here.  And, of course, this conflict has led to a massive case of writer's block. Of course, I am not writing off the possibility that I am simply a lazy bugger.

Anyway, thanks for staying with me throughout the extremely sporadic posting of content.  Look for more in the near future.  But let's start off with this next piece . . .