It isn’t so much the quantity, but the manner in which we eat, that is the greatest problem for our souls. A smaller person will obviously need less food than does a larger person, so if the larger person eats a greater quantity of food this doesn’t make him a greater glutton. It is very possible the larger person, while eating a copious quantity of food, could do so in a manner, and with a spirit more focused on God, in virtue, than the smaller man does in eating his biscuit or loaf of bread.

Let us always keep God foremost in our minds, with thankfulness, as we eat our daily bread. And not eat mindlessly, simply shoveling it in without thought or gratitude, being mindful of how much is enough for us, stopping before we are filled to our limit. For even with a good mental outlook, a full belly can still be an impediment to our peaceful communion with God, instead, leading to scattered thoughts and a scattered way of living.


Chapter 4: A Different Point of View

Chapter 4—A Different Point of View

Up until now I’ve told you Fritz and Rocco’s story essentially from my perspective, merely that sliver of life which I can see and understand.  But in truth, there is so much more to their story, so much more beyond what I can tell you on my own, things such as what it is they say to one another in their doggie language, or what is the content of their dreams, and what adventures do they get up to when we’re not around?

These things are true and real, and just because I am unable to express them to you myself doesn’t mean they don’t exist. And since they do exist, and are part of their story, I think they are things that you should know.

So I will introduce to you another story-teller, a second narrator to share their tale, and together he and I, with your help too, we’ll explore deeper into this interesting and funny world of Fritz and Rocco. This new narrator is Imagination, mine and yours, but not simply make-believe, no, it is imagination more like empathy—that ability we all have to put ourselves in another’s place, to walk in their shoes for a while, so to speak. Or in this case we shall be walking in another’s paw-steps for a little while:

The first night in their new home, it was clear to both Fritz and Rocco that their owners intended to have them sleep at night in a pen, in a remote downstairs room—far, far away from their own bedroom. But this would not do, and Rocco decided to make some noise to voice his displeasure to the two upstairs:

“Leaving us alone!?!

Shih-tzus never sleep downstairs!

Shih-tzus sleep on beds!!!”

At first this didn’t get any action, so he repeated his complaint several more times until one of the people, the bigger one, came into the room and made a swishy sound with his lips.

Rocco looked at Fritz and they both looked at the person. Fritz nudged Rocco and said, “Open your eyes really big, let your ears droop, and look really sad. And wag your tail!” They tried this together and it worked! The person picked them up, one in each arm, and carried them upstairs and put them on the bed. Fritz found a wonderful warm place between the people, up tight against the smaller one that smelled better and Rocco cuddled into the covers at the foot of the bed, near the feet of the bigger one that had carried them upstairs.

As Fritz drifted off to sleep he whispered to Rocco, “Isn’t this the best…I can’t wait for snacks in the morning!”

Rocco agreed, snacks would be a good thing to look forward to, and as he drifted off to sleep himself, he mused about the naivete of the new people they now lived with, and how little they understood about living with magnificent creatures like Shih-tzus. He would have to teach them so many things about proper respect and deference but he also could tell they were willing to learn and had good hearts so he felt certain he would be able to train them well, given the proper amount of time. Sleep overcame him as he sang this little rhyme to himself:

“They wanted us to sleep on rugs,

They must have mistaken us for Pugs,

Not a pest, nor a jest,

We’re simply the best,

‘Cause bed dogs are better than bed bugs.”






Chapter 3: The Super Great Outdoors

Chapter 3—The Super Great Outdoors

Now, speaking of neighborhood dogs, cats and errant squirrels, our little buddies began meeting a host of friends and some foes; although, with their good natures, they had very few foes. What foes they had, could, with a little persuasion, be turned into friends, given time.

Gizmo was the first friend they met in the neighborhood. He was a tall Australian Shepherd-Boarder Collie mix and, as you might expect, he had a love for chasing balls and things. This is a very exciting quality for a little dog like Fritz, who also loves to run and chase things, so they became fast friends.

Rocco, on the other hand, made friends a little more slowly and from a distance, perhaps because he is small and easily stepped on, but also he is less guided by utter trust and unbridled acceptance, as is Fritz. From a hundred yards off, Fritz will see you, and know for certain in his little heart that you will be his best friend and you will love him, and he will run straight at you across those hundred yards, staring directly into your eyes the whole way, while smiling his sweet, wide little canine smile, his puffy brown tail trailing out furiously behind him, until he reaches you and he stares up at you, wildly hoping to be lifted up to kiss your face, or at least that you will bend down and pet his chest, and let him sniff your breath.

Sniff your breath?!?  I know, I know, it sounds a little strange, but Fritz is a connoisseur of smells. If you will let him, this is his favorite way to say hello. And if you’ll open your mouth, he will take a long, deep sniff, assessing and analyzing and discovering untold mysterious things about you, things that you likely don’t know about yourself, but don’t worry, he won’t tell anyone, except maybe, just his brother.

Rocco takes just as much delight in this kind of greeting as Fritz does, and possibly the two will discuss their findings among themselves, after you’ve gone, of course, so as not to embarrass you, because they are polite little dogs after all.

The next neighborhood friend they made was Pookey, the cat that lives next door along with Gizmo. Pookey ran from Fritz and Rocco and this was absolutely wonderful, and by far the very best thing she could possibly do, to make them love her.

There were few things in their puppy lives that were as joyful as chasing Pookey, and she didn’t have the same nasty and somewhat dangerous habit of turning on them with pointy claws, as did their cat companion Aslan, who lived with us all in our own home. No, Pookey didn’t fight back, she just ran, and on one occasion Fritz was even able to catch her and pin her for a moment, before she squirmed away and fled frantically into her house.

It was the only time either Fritz or Rocco had ever actually caught Pookey, and the moment was swift and fleeting, but it had made an indelible impression on their young minds, and the possibility of a recurring opportunity filled them with hope and desire. Ever since then there hasn’t been a time we’ve passed Pookey’s home, that they haven’t run straight to her door and waited expectantly for another chance to catch her.

Even better than that though, was the time they found a somewhat injured squirrel in the groundcover.  I promise, the squirrel wasn’t badly hurt, he probably only stubbed his toe on a rock as he was hiding a nut under the leaves, but he was caught off-guard when Rocco and Fritz discovered him hiding in the plants. I believe at first they only intended to say hello, and inquire if they could offer assistance, but well, when the squirrel fled in a crazed and haphazard way, it really was too much to ask the puppies not to give chase. And when it was apparent that the squirrel’s stubbed toe slowed him down quite a lot, Fritz saw the opportunity only typically offered to him in really good dreams, so he intensified his pursuit.

The squirrel zigged, and then zagged, and ran circles around the driveway with Fritz in hot pursuit. The squirrel spun, and Fritz spun. The squirrel leaped and Fritz leaped. And Fritz caught him! Again, for only an instant, but long enough to fill his little soul with such satisfaction and elation, and fill his mind with memories never to be forgotten, and it gave him a story that would be the envy of many dogs, even those much bigger, older and stronger than he.






How to catch a demon with his pants down.

Catching a demon with his Pants Down

I was walking to my truck today and as I passed another man on the sidewalk, we said hello to one another and continued on our way. He looked me in the eyes and in a subtle flash of a moment I noticed that something inside me averted my eyes, and didn’t want to be seen. His gaze, like headlights—my lies and deceits, like a deer—stood frozen for a quick moment, exposed and afraid under his momentary gaze, until this something inside me convinced me to look away.

Who was that, what was that within me? There was no specific shame, no specific thought or image that ran for shelter inside me, but a general fright caused this little panic, and caught my interest. As I continued walking, I decided not to let this little shifty creep off the hook, I decided to pursue this poltergeist within me to see of what it is made, from where it came, and to where it fled.

And here’s how to catch a demon with its pants down. They first and foremost don’t want to be seen, as they do their dirty work. So if you catch them, don’t let them hide. Keep them under the bright light of scrutiny until they melt away. To do this I considered, ‘what was it that caused me to look away just now’ and coupled with that consideration, I used imagination to consider, ‘what would have to be different inside me in order to not feel the impulse to look away’, and by this method I triangulated the tiny monster and exposed him briefly in my mind’s eye—he was Judgement I have against other people, not against this man I met on the sidewalk in particular, but general judgement I hold towards life, as if to say, “I could do the world better”.

And this realization then exposed Judgement’s comrade, Pride, which then showed me Complaint and Selfishness as well. They were all there, like a haze covering my vision, or like scales over my eyes. They hated to be seen; and I saw how they pulled the strings behind the scenes, distorted my vision of life, and caused me intuitively to feel ashamed due to the knowledge that my vision is distorted because of them, and I’m not as I should be so long as they act with impunity in the shadows within me.

Then I envisioned what I would be if I was without them, and extrapolated that out to imagine what would the world be without them? And this led to a prayer, a request and desire, written as a poem, for just this type of me, and this type of world:

An Economy of Purity


I don’t want to be a purveyor of judgement;

a vendor of complaints.


Nor do I wish to do business in arguments;

making transactions in rights and wrongs—


Or assessing the value of others,

based on their utility for me.




I wish to see into your eyes,

and have you look into mine;

trading in trust and purity,

exchanging understandings—


Making our livings

by love.


And by this method, and similar ones, we can catch the demons with their pants down, and make the world a better place within us.







Our First Ride

Twenty-five years ago, perhaps a little longer, I did my last long bicycle ride. Today, I still ride a bit, and commute by bike, but I pretty much figured my significant riding was behind me.  However, recently my wife got a new bike and encouraged me to join her on longer rides. I resisted at first, remembering the saddle-sore associated with rides of several hours or more, and rather preferring long-sitting on the couch reading, to long rides on a hard seat.

But I could see how much she wanted a biking partner, and it did seem like a good way to spend time together, so I rode a few times with her, just for a half-hour or so on some shorter local rides around town. Eventually I bought a new bike of my own, in hopes of giving myself a fighting chance of keeping up with her, and the bicycling bug bit me again—the wind in the hair, the smell of the grass and trees, the closeness to the rhythms and harmonies of the earth. I was hooked.

A few days ago we did our first longer bike ride together. We rode the Centennial Trail north of Seattle, which is 60 miles roundtrip: beginning at the southern trailhead in downtown Snohomish, WA, traveling north through Arlington and on to the northern trailhead at the Nakashima Heritage Barn near the Skagit County line, and then back again.

It was a beautiful, clear and crisp fall day. And it was exciting. Our first real bicycling adventure together and what a perfect trail to initiate ourselves. The trail is generally flat and meanders through small towns, across pastures, over old trestle-bridges spanning several rivers and creeks, and alongside forested areas; it overlooks wide agricultural valleys, and shoulders up against small lakes as it winds its way northward.

Under canopies of big-leaf maples the trail is strewn with fallen leaves the color of gold and pumpkin, which crackle and crunch under our tires. We pass small farms, smell the sweet scent of freshly cut grass, hear the sounds of life as we ride by, and encounter new surprises again and again as we make our way along the trail.

Everyone knows that smells can unlock old memories. Taking up old activities again can also awaken long-forgotten feelings. This bicycle ride was reviving in me an exhilarating freedom, a return to youth. As we coasted under the trees, I felt a strong and vivid remembrance of a younger me—one with a future of endless possibilities, living in a world of simple pleasures, and enjoying the moment, without concern for tomorrow. With very little effort I imagined myself back there again, in that time, in my youth, riding as I had over 25 years before.

We felt so alive, my wife and I, as we pedaled our way along the trail. Which is so great, because as the ride wore on, most of my extremities began to give out, and felt as though they were slowly dying. We were pounding the pedals fairly hard, at least from my perspective, because, glancing over at my wife it didn’t appear that she was working nearly as hard as me; and for most of the ride my left foot had gone numb. I don’t have great circulation so I’m guessing this was the problem.

At some point along the way my right foot also started to tingle, and eventually it also stopped sending signals back to my brain. But I wanted to keep up with her, so as long as I could still pedal I was all for it; besides it was just such a beautiful day, I didn’t want to complain. Although I did. I complained and whined quite a bit and shook my right foot, and then my left foot every so often to prove that I was telling the truth.

In the meantime my right hand also went numb. It seemed every extremity of mine was slowly shutting down, in protest to all the activity. I still had feeling in my left hand and unfortunately in my behind. That seemed to be the one area where all my feeling was concentrated. As we continued to ride, it felt hotter and hotter back there. It was as if a ring of fire had encircled, and was now devouring my rear end.

But what a beautiful day. And the trail is one of the most beautiful you could hope for, with such varied and picturesque scenery. Traveling this way, by bicycle, one gets to experience the sights, the sounds, the smells, all of the senses in a full and complete way, uninsulated from one’s surroundings, with nothing to come between you and your environment. And the pace of travel by bicycle is delightful and relaxing, offering opportunities for enriching experiences with other bicyclists, walkers on the trail, dogs and other creatures, children and townsfolk.

There is something about bicycling that breaks down walls, piques interest, and makes people happy. Some cyclists take things very seriously and look extremely determined but I suspect even those, if you could catch them and talk with them for a moment, you’d find a fun-loving kid underneath all that riding gear and equipment.

Getting outside and experiencing life in this way is a genuine breath of fresh air and is as easy as riding a bike.







Chapter 2—New Beginnings

Chapter 2—New Beginnings

Spring is a time of new beginnings. We have all felt the excitement and joy of anticipation for warmer weather and longer days coming soon. For Fritz and Rocco it was also a time of growth and discovery.

Rocco had found his voice much earlier than Fritz. In fact, for months, perhaps longer, Fritz never made a sound. He watched his brother with interest when Rocco would bark at some unexpected noise, or growl at the neighbor’s dog, Lucy, who came uninvited into their yard to smell the shrubs, and ‘water’ the lawn. Rocco’s growl was like a little lion’s—a very little, little lion.

And his bark came in tiny bursts, short staccato outbursts, in groups of threes or fours. This was his song: it began with a low murmuring, barely audible, and grew into a full throated growl, and the growl terminated in a crescendo of stabbing barks. He was a maestro, with themes and variations on this pattern, but all of his utterings were signature Rocco. None lasted very long, mere movements, a phrase or a line, but never a symphony. If he were a poet he would utter limericks or haiku, never epics.

Fritz was the silent partner. But one afternoon he found his unexpected voice in a most surprising way. Fritz is a spinner. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a dog that can spin such tight circles, so swiftly as Fritz can, and if you have seen this, you’ve probably become very dizzy as you watched them. But when Fritz plays, he has to spin, he can’t help himself. He hears some kind of music in his head, and when the music plays, he just has to dance. But it isn’t just a dance, it is also a sport, like Judo, or Karate, or most especially like Capoeira, that rare and beautiful blending of martial arts, acrobatics and dance.

Fritz spins, stops, dodges left and quickly right, then spins in the opposite direction, and bounds across the room, leaps onto a chair, spins, turns and leaps off the chair, briefly touches the floor and propels himself up onto the couch, stops, looks left, looks right, and somersaults onto the floor, landing face to face with Rocco. Rocco looks bewildered. What just happened?! Before Rocco can collect his wits enough to begin to growl, Fritz spins again, round and round and round again, in quick succession, and then he stops and…he coos.

Yes, he makes that same fluttery cooing sound mostly associated with pigeons or with doves. Fritz looks around to see where the noise came from, Rocco looks also, then they look at each other for a moment, and Fritz coos again. Rocco steps back, unsure what to do next. Fritz understands now that he is responsible for this new and unfamiliar sound so he does it yet again. And then he spins and stops and coos one last time.

Over time Fritz learned to turn his cooing into more of a hollow howl, and then ultimately into a true dog bark. Even so, when he gets excited and begins his special dancing, he often includes his unique cooing as accompaniment, saving his barks for other things, such as neighborhood dogs, the cat next door, and errant squirrels.


Chapter 1: Introductions

Not long ago, into a world of warmth and love, two puppies were born. Theirs was a world of discovery and of peace. A place of wild, simple exuberance, and of long, cozy naps. Nestled into the blankets, with their brothers and their sisters all around, they slept, and they dreamt of things unknown to us.


Half-brothers, born four days apart, they shared all the hallmarks of their breed: little button noses, soft wavy hair, large wide-set eyes so dark and deep and sparkling, fluffy tails that curved upwards and over their backs when they walked, and proud little chests containing gentle, loving hearts within.


Fritz was the younger, with russet brown hair, hazel eyes, and had a love for comfortable pillows. Rocco, though older by just a little, was smaller than his brother. He was black and white, with dark brown eyes, and had a love of writing pens.


They began their lives, and happily passed the days, sleeping amongst the pile of warm hair and fluff that was their family and their tribe. Their siblings provided heat and security, while their parents were always nearby, ready to calm a fight, with a kick or a swipe of the paw, or ready with a warm, wet lick to soothe the hurt of a fall.


My wife and I first met them on a cold winter day in February. The leaves had long since fallen from the trees and the sky was a cloudy grayish-white. As we entered their home, the rooms were filled with the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking, and of coffee brewing. Of course the dogs weren’t responsible for either of these, they were still only puppies after all, and their minds were filled with other things.


Rocco had found a new black pen that someone had dropped on the floor, under the desk in the kitchen the night before, and this was occupying his attention. Not that any of his siblings were interested in his treasure, but nevertheless he protected it with determination and enthusiasm.


Barely larger than the pen himself, at a mere eight ounces, he could easily fit entirely into the palm of your hand. But what he lacked in size he made up for with ambition; and he fancied himself to be a ferocious tiger.


Fritz was dreaming, and by all appearances he seemed to be in a hurry to get someplace or to find someone. For as he slept, his little body twitched, and his little paws danced as they tapped the pillow, or stretched into the air as he rolled over onto his back. A big huge yawn revealed a little mouth beginning to fill with baby teeth, and a tiny pink tongue which curled up and out and touched his nose.




We came to bring them to a new home, a place of equal warmth and affection to the one they had grown accustomed to, a place that also smelled of chocolate chip cookies (which they would soon learn to desire, but couldn’t have) and of coffee (which they had no use for at all).


They left their parents and siblings behind, but this is the nature of things in the world of dogs, and they didn’t miss them, well, perhaps a little, but they had many new things to distract and occupy their attention and they usually forgot from where they had come. Neither did they know where they were going but this also was of no concern. They were comfortably consumed with the moment they were living, the treats they were eating, the squirrels they were chasing, or the adventures they were creating.