Sixties Chick

According to a male friend of mine, loving a man is just like loving a dog…I think I might be able to do it.

In a recent discussion with a male friend I was given the secret to loving a man. My friend avowed that loving a man is just like loving a dog. It’s all so simple.

A dog, a most straightforward and down-to-earth kind of creature (as any dog lover will tell you) asks so little, and seems to be actually content getting it. A scrap from the kitchen table. An occasional pat on the head. Not even throwing a stick to go fetch is mandatory. A dog wants food, a couple of walks, a floor to curl up on, a belly scratch from time to time and to be left alone so he can lick his private parts in peace. And the good ones will even let you be the boss, if you need to.

Years of complex, unclear and unanswerable data about men in the files of my brain become immediately irrelevant. What’s he want? What’s going on in that brain of his? What does he really mean by that? What’s his agenda? Delete. Delete. Delete.

Okay. I know how to love a dog. I can do that. It’s not complicated; it’s not taxing.  There are no convoluted concealed mysteries to unearth. No torturous trials to surmount. It’s so easy. So much fun.  Just being. Hell, I could love a man.

I am a middle aged white woman – and a Jew but when I die I want my funeral at a black Baptist church, in fact, make that the Second Baptist Church on Mill Street in Moorestown, New Jersey. They certainly know how to give a good send-off. They sure gave a great one on a beautiful Saturday in June.

Yes, on June 28th, I went to pay my last respects to Leslie H. Robinson III or as he was known to the scores of friends and family who packed the church that day, simply Butch. Butch had died the week before, at 58, only a couple of weeks after having been diagnosed with liver cancer.

I didn’t really know him. I mean I didn’t know the facts of his life – what he did for a living, how far he had taken his education, if he had married, if he had kids. He lived behind me. That was all. From time to time, I would meet him on the street as I took my dog Rio for a walk. Butch liked Rio and Rio, always a good judge of character, was drawn to Butch.

What I did know about Butch besides his skill with barbecued ribs and poker – something I gleaned from the many friends so often on his deck indulging in both, was that he was someone hell-bent on being happy. He was easy, his energy light – with a brightness of being that was contagious. No question about it, Butch was here to love life, and he was intent on spreading that feeling around. He’d smile and tell me how much I looked like my 20-year-old daughter. “Can’t tell you two apart,” he’d say. I’d laugh and roll my eyes and go along with the sweet ruse. I loved him for it. He was fun. He wanted me to feel good. He brought joy.

And with abounding joy the congregation at the Second Baptist Church sent him home. With songs that stirred the soul and words that rang of nothing but love, they sent Butch to his rest. There were tears, of course, because those of us still walking dogs down the path will be missing Butch and his easy laughter.

The résumé, the credentials, the successes, the failures, the things he owned or didn’t own – they made no difference. Never do. Butch made a difference. To Rio, to me. And to all the others who filled that beautiful church to capacity on that glorious June day.