Candy Mae Sutor

On March 22 The Sutor's lost their family member and companion, Candy.  By all accounts she had a nice long life and passed away from old age.  I don't know what it is about old guys and their dogs, about what their passing says to us.  A philosopher might say that it whispers "there is an end".  A theologian may regard it all as the cyclical nature of God's universe.  But for us old guys, it mostly means being alone without our best friends.  Lots of people don't get it.  For some all they see is vacuuming the hair,  taking walks at inopportune times, tedious cleaning of accidents, and a couch that won't be the same.  If there is such a thing as loving bonds between man and animal, it started with a dog.   I met Candy a couple of times and she was friendly, loved to be petted and like most dogs past their prime, was just as content laying down and taking a nap.  She naps still in Sutor Woods.


I have run across  a couple of things that have comforted me and others who have lost their dogs through the years.  I have shared it with them and I will now share it with the Sutors.


 The below tribute appeared in an Ann Landers’ Column in the mid-1990’s. It was written by Charles B. Wells, Jr., Palmyra, NY

DOGS DON'T HAVE SOULS, DO THEY?

I remember bringing you home. You were so small and cuddly with your tiny paws and soft fur. You bounced around the room with eyes flashing and ears flopping. Once in a while, you'd let out a little yelp just to let me know this was your territory.

Making a mess of the house and chewing on everything in sight became a passion and when I scolded you, you just put your head down and looked up at me with those innocent eyes as if to say: "I'm sorry, but I'll do it again as soon as you're not watching."

As you got older, you protected me by looking out the window and barking at everyone who walked by. When I had a tough day at work, you would be waiting for me with your tail wagging just to say, "Welcome home. I missed you." You never had a bad day and I could always count on you to be there for me.

When I sat down to read the paper and watch TV, you would hop on my lap looking for attention. You never asked for anything more than to have me pat your head so you could go to sleep with your head over my leg.

As you got older, you moved around more slowly. Then one day, old age finally took its toll, and you couldn't stand on those wobbly legs anymore. I knelt down and patted you lying there, trying to make you young again. You just looked up at me as if to say you were old and tired and that after all these years of not asking for anything, you had to ask me to do one last favor.

With tears in my eyes, I drove you one last time to the vet. One last time you were lying next to me. For some strange reason you were able to stand up in the animal hospital - perhaps it was your sense of pride.

As the vet led you away, you stopped for an instant, turned your head and looked at me as if to say: "Thank you for taking care of me."

I thought, "No - thank YOU for taking care of ME."

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF SILVERDENE

I, SILVERDENE EMBLEM O'NEILL (familiarly known to my family, friends, and acquaintances as Blemie), because the burden of my years and infirmities is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my last will and testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there until after I am dead. Then, remembering me in his loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste their days hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying about how to keep the objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my faith. These I leave to all those who have loved me, to my Master and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most, to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie and Naomi and -- But if I should list all those who have loved me, it would force my Master to write a book. Perhaps it is vain of me to boast when I am so near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I have always been an extremely lovable dog.
 of my fellow Dalmatians who are devout Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise where one is always young and full-bladdered; where all the day one dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris, beautifully spotted; where jack rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning, and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth, and the love of one's Master and Mistress.

One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, "When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one." Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again. What I would like to feel is that, having once had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have permitted to share the living room rug during the evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit, and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others. Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best. So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well bred or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the Place Vendôme, or later along Park Avenue, all eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume, come closer to jack rabbits than I have been able to in recent years. And for all his faults, I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my old home.
One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: "Here lies one who loved us and whom we loved." No matter how deep mysleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail.




Eugene O'Neill
Tao House, December 17th, 1940