Merle B. Smith: A Requiem

 My friend Smitty died on June 12th.  I think it was the 12th. Not sure, these things screw with your sense of time. Not important. Anyhow, a fall into a mindless spiky bush visited more trauma than, eventually, his 93-year old body could endure. He was an exemplary, self-reliant man and, in my opinion, the indignities of the prodding and personal invasions from his well-intentioned medical team were just more than he could put up with. Besides, his beloved black lab Vito Muso had departed not that long ago. So Smitty just said “No!” when they wanted to pound on his chest and stick more tubes down his throat. And he closed his eyes and went off to look for his puppy.

I choose to believe he found not one, but two lively labs - Vito and his predecessor, Safransky. Safransky was admittedly more reserved, and definitely larger, than the lovable Vito. But they still made a good pair to show Smitty around. Is it foolish to flesh out this fantasy about my departed buddy and his canines? I think not. You see, if there is anything comforting about the death of our loved ones, it is that no one has ever demonstrably come back to either confirm or deny our personal narratives regarding an afterlife. 

Now before you start quoting faith and belief, remember those are, in the final analysis, rather evidence-free narratives. They are beliefs about an afterlife that folks choose. And that is fine. I just happen choose a quantum-mechanics-many-worlds afterlife narrative that, among other neat, compassionate, and forgiving things, allows for Smitty throwing balls for Vito and Safransky on a pleasant beach, while Smitty and Vito sip martinis. You see, I never actually saw Safransky drink a martini, but Vito?  I have the video.

After Christine and I moved in with Smitty in Burr Ridge, he and I soon became fast friends.  Alright, so he was a couple decades older than I. And we shared the unique characteristic of having, again decades apart, both married Christine. A little strange, but we both saw it as confirmation of our excellent taste. Nonetheless, he and I developed a nice kind of comfortable rapport. We were both fond of music and luckily between my mother’s renditions of songs from the 30s and 40s, my brother Jim’s great collection of records from the 50s and 60s and my own involvement with popular music, show tunes and the media thereafter, we had music pretty well covered, and spent many delightful hours playing our own version of “name that tune.”

He also had those Labradors that I fell in love with. First, there was Safransky  who I met when he was living with Christine. Safransky was sometimes mistaken for a pony. Big dog, rather aloof, hogged the bed, but eventually tolerated me rather well. But then there was Vito Muso - undoubtedly the best dog who ever lived. Understood everything you said to him, with the unfortunate exceptions of “come back here,” “stay,” “sit,” and other words some canine owners consider important. But “park,” “ball,” and “martini?” Those were right there in his wheelhouse. And most importantly he loved us every bit as much as we loved him. 

After Vito passed on, some of the light went out of Smitty. Often out of the blue he would say, “I really miss Vito!” So said we all, Smitty, so said we all. And strangely, or perhaps not, when he would talk to Vito about dying - OK, I’d eavesdrop, it was an unusual conversation. “We’re going out together, buddy!” he’d say, rubbing Vito’s ears, “Going out together.” And then he’d give Vito the rest of the martini.

So, to continue my narrative, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, and opt to spend some time in the men’s club portion of my conception of heaven - if my lifelong best friend Dan hasn’t shuffled more quickly and arrived before me up there - I’ll find Smitty hanging out peacefully by himself, feet up in front of the fire, two black labs snoozing alongside. He’ll look up and say, “Took you long enough! I told you it was martini time!”

Here’s looking at you, brother.