Good grief! How I love that dirty beagle

By Rebecca Morris
Special to The Seattle Times
He was famous, and I was in awe of him. When we finally met in 1979, we found we had a lot in common. We were born the same year; we were both writers and had spent many dark and stormy nights hunched over our typewriters; we had experienced the rejection of fussy editors. We were daydreamers, extroverts, and loved adventure. Although we couldn't marry, for reasons that became obvious, ours is the longest relationship in my adult life.
Some might find this embarrassing, but I don't, so I'll just come right out and say it. I bought him. OK? I bought him. Probably at a Hallmark store, I don't remember. And we were part of a trio for a while
I acquired Snoopy to keep my husband company. Frank was sick, and the doctors didn't know why. Finally, after dismissing their earlier diagnoses of flu and job stress, they found he had a brain tumor and was going to die. As a boy, Frank had a black-and-white mutt he named Snoopy. On my desk is a carving he made of the dog; I think Frank earned a Boy Scout badge for his wood carvings. Frank and I were both sentimental about Charles Schulz' Snoopy. I think we felt he was funny, wise and independent.
I have no idea what the nurses at Swedish Medical Center thought when I brought Snoopy to Frank's room the night before his surgery. We didn't care. In the year and a half that followed, Snoopy always went with Frank to the hospital. Snoopy had clothes in those days. We bought him a Santa Claus suit, the familiar black pants, red jacket with a black belt and stocking cap. He also had clothes to hike in. Most of the outfits have been lost. Occasionally, when I'm digging through Christmas ornaments, I'll find just the Santa jacket. If I dress him in it, it seems to accentuate his, well, nakedness.
Frank died at Christmas. I was going to bury Snoopy with him. They would nestle in the pine box I chose, under the oak tree heavy with mistletoe. It was my mother who told me, "You know, you might need Snoopy." So Snoopy stayed with me, although sometimes we both wanted to be with Frank in the pine box.
In the following years, Snoopy was always close by. When I dated, he would spend time on a shelf or in a drawer. He saw me through other loves and other untimely deaths. And we traveled. He has been to the cities and countryside of France, England and Scotland, and skiing in Vermont. During a sometimes vagabond life in journalism we've lived in Providence, Cape Cod and twice in Seattle and Portland.
He's driven with me across the United States (twice). We were in New York City for 13 years; in our first sublet, the bathtub was in the kitchen and the toilet was in a closet. Over the years we have lived in walk-ups and nice homes, but more often in walk-ups. After Sept. 11, our apartment in what was still called Spanish Harlem smelled of smoke for weeks, and every day the sky was a fiery orange.
He's turned gray with age, and I have had to glue the tip of his nose back on. I have a few gray hairs, too (but mine mysteriously become blond every few weeks). Once, I rescued him from the hands of my mother, who was certain a spin in the washing machine would clean him up a bit. My brother thought maybe a foam carpet cleaner would help. But all I could imagine was Snoopy becoming tufts of fabric, no longer whole. We are aging baby boomers; neither of us breaks out in spontaneous dance the way we used to.
We've been together for more than 28 years. There's never been a cross word between us. Occasionally in the morning I'll find him flung off the bed, but he always forgives me. He is perpetually smiling and even-tempered. He's a terrific listener. We read the "Peanuts" comic strip every day, and we never miss the TV specials, including "A Charlie Brown Christmas." We plan to read the just-published biography of his creator.
Snoopy knows my dreams. They are simple: to love again, to live in a small house on a lake and row a boat every day, and to maybe have a "live" dog. He is OK with all of it. He wants me to be happy.
At a stage in life when many of my family and friends who knew Frank are gone, Snoopy is at my side. He knew me when. He still does.
Rebecca Morris has been a broadcast and print journalist for 34 years. She teaches journalism at Bellevue Community College.