Annie Conley: 2012-2020

  “Nobody can fully understand the meaning of love unless he’s owned a dog. A dog can show you more honest affection with a flick of his tail than a man can gather through a lifetime of handshakes.” – Gene Hill

I last wrote about my life with dogs eight years ago.  It was shortly after the passing of our beloved beagle, Kramer, who was the third dog in our married life (at that time nearly 35 years).  As I wrote then, we had been for some time a two-dog family, an older and a younger.  So, after Kramer, we still had Nellie, then a six-year-old lab mix.  I said at the time it was a tribute to the others that I continued to search for a dog number two to supplement Nellie.

That was before Annie, and I return to the subject for the first time in eight years.  Annie, another beagle, descended on us a few months after my last piece, like a hurricane in October.  She was one of triplets from a pet rescue, and upon her arrival the peace we had, nearly empty nesters with one mature dog, was lost forever.  She darted this way and that, at first menacing Nellie, and then, discovering Nellie was somewhat aggressive to other animals, to stay out of her way.

In due course she and Nellie became fast friends, even sleeping (in our bed of course) cheek to cheek, and one inviting the other, in the way dogs do, to a seeming canine version of rope-a-dope.

Annie, for her part, became part of our regular brigade — helping to cook (although really looking for something to drop), helping to grill outdoors — it was impossible to tend the grill without one or both dogs following (I called them the assistants), acting as sentries to warn us of any passing stranger (waking their dogs in particular, taking a leisurely stroll, or similar threatening activity).  And of course, if we dared to leave the house for a period as long as 10 minutes or more, she was the first to greet us — having seen a familiar car coming down the street or hearing the garage door open.

Maybe because she came to us after our kids were mostly grown and mostly out of the house, maybe because she was a small beagle, maybe because she never lost the energy of a puppy, she became the baby of the house. And in the process, stole our hearts.

We expected Nellie, at age 14, to be the next in line to pass the mantle of senior dog to Annie. A medium size lab mix begins to push things at that age, and Nellie has had her share of minor medical problems (after an initial serious bout of pneumonia in her first month).  And Annie, it seemed, at eight years old, was in a relative peak of health, with no chronic medical conditions, no regular medicines, and for a beagle (as a breed they eat about anything) not too overweight.

So, it was particularly hard when, a few weeks ago, we noticed unusually labored and rapid breathing – more noticeable when she was at rest.  Although we thought it was a benign condition, after a course of medication with little relief and worsened conditions, we came to accept she probably was experience heart failure.  After a particularly difficult evening of rapid heartbeat, difficulty breathing, and trying without success to get comfortable, she passed away in her sleep in the middle of the night. In the end, she gave us too much of her heart, and there was too little left for herself.

I have lost two parents and two brothers at relatively young ages, and now four dogs. Annie seems almost the hardest to accept. She was my companion when I worked at home, laying at my feet, stealing paper from the trash can, and more lately snoring or barking during a business phone call. And if not that, helping Carol, my wife, sew and quilt.

Like all beagles, apparently, she was stubborn and independent, but like the others, extremely loving and loyal. I struggle now trying to remember all the joy she brought us and not the last couple of days or the way she died.  Remembering her is painful, but I want to remember her.

A school friend told me many years ago that, in a less than sober condition, he told his dog he was truth and beauty.  So that helps.  Annie was truth and beauty, and unconditional love. We loved her back, and now, perhaps because of that, we miss her terribly.

— Joe Conley

 

 

Thomas D. Conley: 1963-2019

 Only the good die young.

–Billy Joel, 1977

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Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!

— Hunter Thompson, date unknown

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We lost our little brother, Tom, last week.  I didn’t know he read Hunter Thompson, father of “Gonzo Journalism,” but he must have, or assimilated his philosophy along the way, because Tom did not leave much of it on the field.

He was a comedian, a prankster, and a raconteur.  And in the end, friend to dozens — high school friends, adult friends, co-workers, and others.  By last count, no fewer that 70 or so paid their respect on social media. Most names I had never heard. Many remembered him similarly — a wonderful guy, terrific friend, buddy, positive impact on everyone, the kindest soul.

To the two of us who remain from Tom’s nuclear family of six, our sister Pat and me, he was simply our little brother. In fact part brother and, because he was nearly a half generation younger, part son. It seems we helped raise him for parents worn out from three before him and, after our parents’ early death, looking after him in his adulthood.

But Tom was his own free spirit — single to the end and without kids. His gift in life,  I suppose, is that that freed him to give himself to a wider audience.  Friends from every corner.  He seemed to live life to be with them, worked jobs to be with them, pursued hobbies to be with them.

He no doubt was wounded by the early death of our mother — a few days before Tom’s 21st birthday, and a couple of years later, by the early death of our father (who had become Tom’s best friend in their shared bachelorhood). But he found comfort, it seemed, in a wide swath of friendships.  And, while Tom made time for family events, he was always anxious to take his leave and end the day at wherever the real party was.

Along the way though, he managed to be a great son and brother, a doting uncle to seven nieces and nephews, and godfather to a half dozens or so canine nieces and nephews.  Dogs have a way of seeing the good in us, and his latest charges — Nellie and Annie (he was our go-to dog sitter) — loved Tom.

Tom left all of us too soon — at age 56.  But if he had been given the choice of lasting longer, but at a tamer speed, I think I know how he would have chosen. He went out with a smile on his face, living large and enjoying it all. Along the way, he touched us all, and made life a little bit kinder, a little bit friendlier, and a little bit  more enjoyable for all of us.

— Joe Conley, brother and friend.

My Most Memorable Character — E.J. Walbourn

1975 was a glorious year. Captain and Tennille topped the charts, Jaws dominated the theaters, the war in Vietnam finally ended, and I was the latest recruit to a den of iniquity in Lexington, Ky., sometimes known as the apartment of E.J. Walbourn.

Our Irresponsible Years

E.J. was my classmate at the University of Kentucky Law School. We had just survived our first year and both remained in Lexington for the Summer,working part-time in different capacities at the Law School. A bad combination – idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

He became my roommate for two years, my friend for the next 40, and a roommate again in mid-life (more of that later). He was, undoubtedly, anyone’s best candidate for Reader’s Digest’s “Most Memorable Character.” He passed away last week after years of heath problems – two failed kidneys, heart problems, vascular problems, back surgery, and others.

I first met E.J. In the Fall of 1974, our first semester, in a Criminal Law class – a primordial twang from near the back of the room. I assumed it was how all Kansans spoke. I learned later that was not the case. That the only other human that spoke with such an accent was his son Jacob, who never lived in Kansas. The apple and the tree … you know.

I actually met E.J. through his other first year roommate, Gene Smallwood, whom I shared a small class with. Although E.J., Gene, and, later, I, shared rent equally, it was clearly E.J.’s apartment. It became the center of Law School social life in those years, with a party, it seemed, every weekend – not just law students but other residents of the complex. Like E.J., none seemed normal people.

In our first Summer – 1975 – E.J. recruited (more like kidnapped) me to join him in his semi-annual pilgrimage to his hometown, El Dorado, Kansas. To a city boy, it seemed like Mayberry – a Summer band concert, performed by a community band (of which E.J. surprisingly was once a member). Side trips were sponsored by E.J.’s father, Ed Walbourn, an enigma in his own right – college professor, community college president, and later education lobbyist. Ed could party any 23 or 24 year-olds under the table – and we gave him opportunities to do so. Ed was an Eisenhower Republican from upstate New York. E.J. was a yellow dog Democrat. He took after his mother Fran on that, I guess.

Of course, on the trip to Kansas, which started it midnight for some reason, we had to stop in St. Louis for E.J.’s personally conducted tour of the Budweiser brewery. Problem was, we arrived in St. Louis at about 6 a.m. The brewery opened at 7. We slept under the arch for an hour, before trying freshly brewed beer for breakfast. The highlight of the return trip was bootlegging 24 cases of Coors from Kansas (it was not available east of the Mississippi then). I hope the statute of limitations has expired on that one.

The following Summer I had a clerkship in California and E.J. reciprocated by accompanying me on that drive, with our Law School friend Jack Collins. But, of course, E.J. took charge of the itinerary – a side trip to the Coors brewery in Golden, Colo. (strangely like the Bud brewery) and another one to Las Vegas, where we arrived not so safely at 4 a.m. after a night-time trip through the Utah mountains.

[More after pics]

E.J. and friends – Peach Bowl 1976

E.J. with my girlfriend (now wife of 40 years) Carol at 1976 Peach Bowl

My mother – Erma (l.) and Fran Walbourn (r.), E.J.’s mother, with his beloved Milwaukee (c.) (the dog, not the human  — my sister); Law School graduation, 1977.

 

Law School graduation, May, 1977. with Jack and Peg Collins

E.J. (second from right) in my wedding party

The Middle Years

During our time together, in addition to our Jack Kerouac experiences, we joined with each other for the Carter-Ford election results, the Academy Awards in 1977 (E.J. entertaining everyone with a new hairdo during every commercial break), News Years Eves, Derby Days, Super Bowls, and the Christian Leitner shot heard round the world, sinking U.K. in the 1992 Regional Finals.

E.J. took to Criminal Law in Law School. It is all he ever wanted to do. He fell into a job upon graduation as a Federal Public Defender, allowing him to start trying cases the day after he took the oath of office, admitting him to the bar. Although I always thought his heart was on the defense side, in 1990 he was hired as a federal prosecutor – an Assistant U.S. Attorney. That job was fortuitous for several reason – mostly for him – but a little bit for me.

For him, it provided a job with gold plate benefits when his health started failing in the early 2000s. I’m not sure he could have survived the last decade without that support. More important, it led to his long term association with Federal Magistrate Judge Greg Wehrman. When other potential donors (including his wife Jan) didn’t match, Judge Wehrman donated a kidney to E.J. They became great friends, the best E.J. had in that last years of his life, and a tag team – speaking to transplant survivors and advising potential transplant donors and patients. Judge Wehrman spent time with E.J. In his final weeks and visited him the night before he died. When he called me to report E.J.’s death, he expressed genuine remorse for the loss of his friend, but having witnessed a decade of suffering, admitted that for E.J., “it was time.” If there is a heaven, Judge Wehrman no doubt will be there – no small feat for a federal judge.

For me, E.J.’s new job – requiring a move to my home town – allowed us to reconnect after many years of living in different cities, and seeing each other only infrequently. In fact, as I hinted above, we became roommates again. E.J.’s move came near the end of his wife Jan’s pregnancy with their second child – Joe. Jan stayed behind in Ashland for her final pre-natal care and E.J. needed a place to stay before they found a new place. We had two kids double up and E.J. became a boarder for about a month. One of our neighbor’s kids told the neighborhood that the Conleys had a homeless man living with them.

In fact, E.J. was not homeless – but there was a problem. E.J. dressed and had coffee with us every morning. We had a very large labrador who took to E.J. and, after taking a big slurp of water, firmly planted her snout in the crotch of E.J.’s newly laundered and pressed prosecutor’s suit every morning. Although it was very funny, the biggest laugh came from E.J.

The Later Years

Although our proximity in later life did not lead to as much contact as it should have, a matter I will regret forever, we continued to see each other periodically.

E.J. was a member of the Inns of Court (for the uninitiated, a social-professional group of Judges, lawyers, and law students, who meet monthly for dinner, collegiality and education programs). He invited me to join and I did so, mostly to have a regular dinner date with my friend.

I was also one of his invitees to attend Cincinnati Reds games (he shared season tickets with some colleagues). His emails inviting me usually demonstrated some of his self-deprecating humor:

• 4/15/13: “I have an extra ticket for tonight’s Reds game. Come and go with me. We can swap lies.”

• 4/17/13: “How about the Reds tomorrow? You never answered. Great seats and a parking pass. We could discuss issues of grave constitutional significance.”

I am sure we did the former but not the latter. There are many more of these, but I have to protect the innocent (and myself).

With E.J. at my 60th birthday party

 

In our sojourns, when E.J. redeposited me to my car at his office, we sat – and talked about life, careers, kids, mid-life crises, medical problems, and, yes, death. He knew what was coming. After suffering through dialysis in his early health crisis, and anticipating the prospects of being again tethered to a dialysis machine, he wanted none of it. He said he had a good run and had no regrets.

At the end, if he were asked to “make a ledger of his life, to provide an account of what he had been, and done, and meant to the world,” E.J. had plenty of ammunition. He fought the good fight, he finished the race, in the words of St. Paul.

I am not sad that E.J.’s pain is done. I am sad for myself, his family, his many friends, and his colleagues. We will miss him and think of him often. When we do, we will think of the many memories he made with us and that he left us with. We will smile. We will laugh. And we will remember how he lived — fully, with gusto, and with no regrets.