A few days before my dad’s 92nd birthday, I had a phone message from someone connected with Dad’s A400 Group. An A400 is a high-end Model A Ford, most of them built in 1931. My dad collected and restored Model A Fords of all sorts in his later years and he had a particular passion for A400’s, even winning the prestigious Henry award in 2009 for his meticulous restoration of one of these cars (shown below). He was very proud of this car and kept it in pristine condition. In the process of his interest, he reactivated a defunct club for people keenly interested in the A400s. My dad became an expert of sorts, heading the club, contributing much technical data and research to the group, and growing its membership.
I had first met the caller, a kind man named Joop, in the early days after Dad’s death as I was struggling my way through Dad’s emails and contacts trying to find out what needed to be done to settle his affairs. I had found Joop’s email among Dad’s contacts and he had helped me by informing his A400 friends that Dad had passed. Joop was calling now, nearly five years later, because the group’s website had suddenly gone dark. Years of collected articles, information, their roster, and data, much of it contributed by my dad, were suddenly unavailable. Worse yet, Dad’s friends were heading to a regional meeting where they planned to share the website, now unavailable, with people. Apparently, Dad had set himself up as the owner of the web domain including payment, but now that payment had expired and the site was dark. Joop and another A400 member had emailed with the web domain administrator and needed information they didn’t have. Did I perhaps have the PIN and username?
I had the task of resolving Dad’s complex estate, a task I had thankfully completed about a year prior. This included closing all his bank accounts, deactivating credit cards, and repurposing his computer, phone, and iPad. I had been through everything of his that I had, so no, I told them, I didn’t think I had the password, username, or PIN. I would, however, check to see what I did have and see if there was anything I could do. As estate trustee, it was possible I might be able to unlock and transfer the account. Joop connected me with another fellow in their group who had spoken with technology support who walked me through how to access the web domain recovery site.
And so ensued a couple of days of emails back and forth with a web administrator (who might not have been a person). I went to my basement and pulled out the estate document storage containers. On the domain recovery site, I entered various sorts of my data and credentials, Dad’s death certificate, trust documents showing I was in fact trustee. Each step required an email and then I’d receive a reply in about 24 hr. with a request for yet another document. Repeat x 3. It was kind of a typical modern-day-data-snafu-bureaucracy process. So why am I sharing this seemingly mundane thing?
While this was going on, Dad’s dog, Little Fella was worsening. A year before he died, Dad flew out to Kalispell, where I live, bringing Little Fella with him. We could hear his big beagle bark well before the baggage cart brought him to the baggage retrieval area. He was pretty darn excited to get out of his crate, all wagging tail, beagle bay, and big beagle eyes as he told Dad what he thought of the plane ride.
I had tried to talk my way out of taking the dog. We already had a dog, several cats and challenging kids. And I knew Little Fella snored like crazy and of course, bayed like a beagle. My husband was not pleased. Not a bit. In the end, Dad had no other alternative for Fella. None of my brothers could take him and Dad would not consider giving him to any of his friends or acquaintances. No, he wanted me to have Little Fella. I didn’t have the heart to say an absolute no. Dad knew that about me, so out to Montana he and Little Fella came.
Dad and Little Fella arrived just before election day 2016. On November 9th, Dad, my husband, and I all sat in my living room and watched TV together with mounting horror as it became apparent Donald Trump was going to be our next president. I was anxious about having Dad there for election return night, because of our life-long differing political views, and I had successfully avoided having political conversations with him prior to this. I was particularly hopeful and excited about this election at the prospect of watching the first woman (Hillary Clinton) elected as president of the United States, something I’ve waited my whole life to see. I believed we were right on the verge of experiencing a major breakthrough for women. Alas, no.
My dad had been a businessman, an entrepreneur and usually voted Republican as far as I knew. However, he said hadn’t voted for Trump, in fact he hadn’t voted at all because of some issue with getting an absentee ballot in Wisconsin. I doubt he liked Hillary Clinton, but he kept his views to himself which was kind of unusual. As the election outcome became startlingly apparent, we said our good nights and retired to our rooms, stunned, to begin to process what we had just seen. We didn’t discuss it further and Dad left for his home the next day. And so, we were together when our country changed radically, perhaps permanently, and I ended up with Little Fella, a loudly snoring, always hungry, often baying beagle.
Don’t get me wrong, Fella was a pretty nice dog, reasonably well behaved. He was, however, never very interested in people except to get food. My parents had trained him to food: a treat when he came in from outside, a treat if they left the house, a treat for this, a treat for that. Often, they took him with them in their pickup (a Ford), when they ate out, which they did for most of their meals. Little Fella always got a “morsel bag” when they came back to the truck. My mom carried a plastic sandwich bag in her purse and after Mom died, Dad would carry the bag in his vest pocket. At the beginning of any restaurant meal, they would put some food into the bag and Mom would put it back in her purse (or Dad into his vest pocket). When they got back to the truck, Mom gave the bag to Dad and Dad would hold the bag for Fella while the dog devoured the contents. (If you have ever seen a beagle eat, you will know that “devour” is the correct word for what happens when beagle encounters food.) When left at home, Little Fella would run to greet them with his food expectation and they did not disappoint. “I can’t show my face with out the morsel bag,” Mom would say. “Li’l Fella has to have his morsel bag.” Life was about treats and the next meal and then, the next opportunity for treats.
By the time Little Fella came to me, he was grossly overweight and walked on three legs because of a truck accident my dad and the dog were in a year prior. I took him to the vet and got his knee surgically repaired and put him on a weight loss plan. I think life with me was terribly disappointing, especially initially. But, in time he adjusted to our routine. He never lost his enthusiasm for those treats, even on his last day. Over the next six years, I would continue to give him those meals he so anticipated, those treats he so desired, although in much reduced form and content. His weight normalized nicely.
I live in the country, so he could follow his nose as he wished (looking for possible treats) while being outside. My husband and I let him in and out, and in and out. We had the other knee repaired after he injured it enthusiastically searching for treasure in the snow. I cared for the inevitable issues of decline. He became deaf after about the first year with us, so I communicated with hand signals. He learned them. Oh, and did he snore! We always knew exactly where he was. The snoring really annoyed my husband. Headphones helped a bit. In time Fella got confused and started peeing on the carpet every night. We got a dog gate to keep him off the carpet. Instead, he’d pee in the kitchen every night. We let him in and out a lot, restricted his water in the evening, tried some different meds, made many different adjustments to keep him going and keep the mess down. Often, I would look down at those milky brown eyes imploring me for one more delicious treat and feel a mixture of emotions. Certainly, I had the annoyance of the moment, the burden of the inconveniences of caring for an old dog. But I also had the heartwarming feeling of love, of being able to do something for my dad. I could still express my love for Dad by caring for his dog.
By the time I got the phone call from Joop, we were in that final period of time with Little Fella. Every morning I wondered if I’d find him still alive. He developed something wrong in his throat that caused him to lose his bark and to hack and gag a lot, but he was too old and frail for the vet to investigate it. He rallied for a while after a course of antibiotics. Now, every morning it took him longer and longer before he could get everything working well enough so he could eat his food. On that last morning, he managed to eat his food and made his way slowly through the day. Then suddenly he had a seizure. He rallied and then had another, then was staggering around, disoriented, barely able to stay upright. It was time. I decided he had gone through enough and took him to the vet that final time. He was excited for the car ride and perked up. We waited in the car for a while due to Covid precautions, then were ushered into a “comfort room” where in time, the veterinarian came and administered the medicines. When Fella got the sedative, he relaxed for the first time in many weeks, and I felt the weight of his struggle lifting. Then came the euthanasia injection. Little Fella passed peacefully in a few seconds. I found myself wondering why we humans in my country are so willing to bring our animal companions to a peaceful ending but deny the same for ourselves and our loved ones. And why, when this is so well understood for animals, is lethal injection for people who have been condemned to death (the morality of which is another debate) so often horrific and prolonged…thoughts to contemplate further another time.
A young woman on staff at the vet clinic came in and gently wrapped Little Fella’s body in a blanket and carried him out to the car for me. I felt tears running down onto my facemask and found that it’s hard to blow one’s nose with a mask on. Once by myself back in the car, I removed my mask, tended my nose, and allowed the tears. As I blew my nose and prepared to drive home, I looked over at an SUV parked to my right where an older couple was waiting for their dog to be brought back to them. The woman smiled at me and mouthed the words “I’m sorry”. My snap assessment of the couple earlier had been that it would be best to avoid political discussions with them, but now, here we were, bonded in our love of our dogs and our understanding of our shared humanity in grief. I was grateful.
We buried Little Fella on the farm beside our other dear pets near where I hope to be buried myself one day. I felt sad to have him gone. I also felt relief to have the sometimes tedious and messy day-to-day work of caring for him done. Caring for Fella was a demonstration of my love for Dad and a significant responsibility he tasked to me with little recourse to decline. Now that job was complete, and I did it well. Little Fella was 15 years old, very old for a beagle and he spent nearly six of those years with me.
Two days after burying Little Fella, I was able to get Dad’s A400 Group website up and running. That morning, voila! I received an email giving me log in instructions! After some fussing around, I was able to log in, and then pay. After that, I was able to reset email, password, etc. It worked! The website was back and just in time for the Model A fellows to have for their meeting. It was a weird little thing, but a thing that truly only I could do, because only I had all the information, the authorization, and responsibility for that information.
As far as I know, that completed all the tasks and responsibilities that Dad left for me. I think I’ve done well, and I’ve done enough. I found myself thinking that it’s funny the kinds of things life brings to us, that only we can do. Tasks like these might be easy to miss or discount as they flow by in amidst the noise of daily living. But in discounting the acts, we also discount our own value and worth. I chose to believe these things matter. In doing so, I acknowledge my value and worth as well as yours.
What if doing the thing that only we can do, regardless of its size or complexity, or whether anyone else knows - what if that is the reason we are here? Life may bring us countless little assignments like this. I, for one, am going to pay closer attention and celebrate them.
In my case, these things happened synchronistically just before Dad’s 92nd birthday, giving me one last opportunity to give him a little gift and say, “Happy Birthday, Dad!”
Resources for anyone interested in Model A Fords.
The Model A Ford Group as discussed in this article.
The Gilmore Car Museum in Hickory Corners, MI. Dad’s cars were donated to the Ford exhibit of this museum.
Model A Restorers Club. Dad and Mom were members for years.
Galena Mining and Historical Museum. One of Dad’s cars is on loan for display here. Dad volunteered for the museum identifying old tools among other things.