His name is Conrad, a shelter dog, abandoned by his owners in Texas when they moved away and left him behind, to end up being sent to P.A.W.S. and a new life here at Sleepy Hollow. Part a little bit of everything – border collie, retriever, lab – he has soft, long fur, brown/black/white, a plumy, swishy tail and I swear, a big smile.

“Such a good dog” are the words that come to mind when anyone meets him. Bouncy and happy, begging you to throw the ball for him, downhearted when his family leaves and beyond excited when they return, Conrad is everything you can want in a dog.

When I came home yesterday to the news that Conrad had just been hit in the road and had run off into the woods, all I could think of was Beej.

I could call this piece from 1994 Such a Good Cat, but its actual title was

Beej

We lost our cat yesterday, hit on the road in front of our house. Though she was six years old, Beej was enjoying her first summer as an outdoor cat. Until this spring she’d only been able to sit in screened windows or try to slip out the opening door with a departing guest. Always we’d chase her down and bring her back; we’ve lost too many well-loved cats over the years to the unforgiving road. But this spring we had a change of heart, and began letting her out for occasional rolls in the grass, under supervision of course. Before long we were telling each other that “Beej never seems to go near the road,“ and “she always stays around the house or in the garden.” We decided it was time to give her the outdoors. We were all in agreement over this – my husband, three sons, and I. 

Beej was originally Bill’s cat; our oldest son has had four successive Siamese cats since he was a baby. Beej arrived when he was a high school junior at a time when it might seem he was beyond becoming attached to another cat. But before long she could be found curled up at the bottom of his bed in the morning, and often went upstairs in his arms at night.  

When he went away to college four years ago Beej began bed-hopping; she tried out Eddie’s bed, then Andy’s. Finally, she settled on our bed, riding the covers over our shifting bodies throughout the night. When we got up, she’d move in with Andy or Eddie, whoever was sleeping late that morning. No one could walk by her without bending down to stroke her, or nuzzle into her fur as she slept on top of the aquarium. She became the most talked to and talked about pet in our household. 

This isn’t really about Beej, though. You who still make the rounds of your children’s rooms at night, counting noses, can’t imagine yet how you’ll react to their growing up. I couldn’t. When my boys were no longer down the hall in toy-strewn rooms or creeping up the stairs past curfew, I learned to count their noses mentally. “Let’s see,” I’d think, “Bill‘s at a bike race, did he say at Cornell this week-end? Andy’s sleeping over at Leon’s in the Center, and Eddie said he’d be staying on campus.” I close my eyes and see little lights on the map of New England, blinking wherever I imagine my boys are at that moment.

When Andy looked out the window yesterday morning and yelled “Beej’s been hit by a car!” the map clicked on in my head. I could feel how my family would reel at the news. We were the only ones home, Andy and I. Eddie was at work down at the Beach; Andy hopped on his bike to tell him. Five minutes later the phone rang. It was Eddie, not wanting to believe – “Beej? Is she really dead?” Minutes later Bill and his father came back from golf, and then we all knew. 

Eddie got a half-hour break from work, and we buried her in a hole Bill and his father dug. We covered her with daisies and mallow, then planted the yellow rose bush I’d bought last weekend at the WERU fair right on top. Everyone cried, me included, but with my mother-eyes I was watching my boys. Somehow, in this time of tragedy, a small tragedy to be sure, we had managed to all be within reach of each other. As we buried Beej in the sunlight on that miserable summer morning, I saw how my boys still need each other, still need us. One tiny Siamese cat (did I tell you how small she was?) was all it took.

From The Camden Herald, July 14, 1994

We walked up and down the road, Jack and I, peering into the weeds, Jack telling me Conrad was fine, a little bit hurt maybe, but fine, while I’m looking for brown/black/white fur in the ditch. Ed drove around and around the block, imagining a hurt and panicky dog might have run that far, while Maggie and Tracee searched the garden and woods. It was Andy who called out (next generation, this Andy had better news) “Conrad’s back!!!”

And sure enough, there he was, standing at the front door, panting and scared, but intact. Alive. His fur was wet, his muzzle appeared to have a puncture injury and he definitely favored one hind leg. “He ran to the brook,” Jack said, “I knew he’d do that.” There were tears all around, but these were tears of relief. Our Conrad had survived.

But not unscathed. The bump that had sent him flying across the road (the motorist who hit him had stopped and explained that she’d felt the impact and then seen him run off) must have hit his left hip. Whether he made it to Frohock Brook or not, he must have run through the woods, which would explain the puncture wound from a stick and possibly the wet fur.

Tracee and Maggie made a late-night trip to the Brewer emergency veterinarian (the Warren one was closed due to Covid cases that night) and sent a regular stream of texts, updating the vet’s findings, to Ed, the boys, and I waiting at home. Nothing seen broken on the x-rays, but an injury to his left hip that ought to/might heal on its own.

Conrad was a subdued pup the next day, looking a little crazed – either from the pain meds or from his inability to hop up and chase a ball. Still, he managed to wander off and climb onto Fritz’s favorite chair in my living room, and later still he found his way up the stairs and over the gate at the top, looking for Tracee no doubt.

You know how some dogs bond with certain people? Tracee is that person for Conrad. Although he’s proven he’s perfectly capable of climbing up and down stairs, if she’s nearby he gives her the sad puppy dog eyes until she picks him up (all 60 pounds) and carries him. He’s playing her like a fiddle, and she knows it.

There’s not much more to say. Except the obvious. Our beloved animals can’t be trusted to stay out of the road.

Fireworks: love ‘em or hate ‘em

Saturday night the community was invited, via Facebook and word of mouth, to help Ruth Nickerson Felton’s family celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Nickerson farm on Beach Road. There was music and food, a demonstration of the Fire Department’s new truck, and plenty of parking in the field. A huge fireworks display was promised for 8:30. Donnie Heald, well known for his amazing pyrotechnic shows, did not disappoint. Set up way back in the field, the dazzling fireworks were only rivaled by the enormous booms that accompanied each one. Booms that were heard miles away according to some LBB posts this morning.

As my son wrote,

“It was an amazing fireworks display, and even more wonderful seeing so many community members gathered together. Happy centennial, Nickerson farm! I know fireworks are not enjoyed by everyone, or by many of our critters, but it was one night. In these times, it is more important than ever to find ways to connect.  Last night, at the Nickerson Farm I felt that.”

I thought of how our friend, Ruth, who passed away nearly three years ago at the age of 92, loved the farm where she was born and grew up, returning to live there in her retirement. And of how her granddaughter Amy and husband, Steve Hand, have been lovingly restoring and updating the place. It’s always a pleasure to drive by and see the latest improvement.

And I remember too how Wally, driving to his job at LCS, saw Ruth’s father, Joe Nickerson who must have been well into his 80s, working in his garden early every morning. I interviewed Joe and Elsie for the Camden Herald, and much later after they’d died, Ruth.  She took photographer and book-writing partner, Peggy Bochkay and I on a tour of the barn, pointing out her dad’s fur room with its traps and pelt stretchers, the cow tie-ups, the chicken coop, and the hay rake Joe had single-handedly hauled to the top of the barn. After Ruth offered it to the Lincolnville Historical Society, it took eleven of us to get it down and out to the Jackie Watts Open Air Museum. Read about the Nickerson farm in Staying Put.

Beach Schoolhouse Update

As summer winds down, the Historical Society coffers are steadily filling up. Thanks to Jane Hardy’s one-woman membership drive we’ve seen the number of members increase by leaps and bounds, along with many $200 lifetime memberships.

The other piece has been Brian and Lee Cronin’s Capital Campaign to raise the $325,000 to restore and maintain the 1851 schoolhouse. With over a third of that already in the bank, thanks to donations from community members, supporters of the LHS, and a generous donation from the WaterWheel Foundation, we’ve begun work on the old building.

Andy Young and crew have installed temporary posts to support the second floor until this winter when they’ll replace those with steel beams and concrete pads. A new roof over the kitchen/office area, and a rehabbed west wall and fire escape will also be dealt with in what we’re calling Phase One. Grant writer Cyrene Slegona has targeted a new bathroom, exterior doors and ramps, water purification and mold remediation in a recent grant.

Your donation is greatly appreciated!  Go to the LHS website https://sites.google.com/view/lincolnvillehistory/home and click on the Donate button. Or you can send a check to LHS, P.O. Box 204, Lincolnville, ME 04849. And stayed tuned as, thanks to your support, the old building comes alive again.