Doing the "Walk"

Birdie, our Border Collie Corgi mix, and I, have been on a roll lately with our daily walks.  In the past week, since retiring, I have determined that I cannot spend my retirement lounging in my recliner.  Though comforting, my mid-section is rebelling and making a move to be the predominant feature of my physique.  It is prepping me to be a department store Santa come Christmas and I won’t need a pillow to round out the costume.  With some hesitation and reluctance, some optimism, and a whole lot of prompting from the dog and wife . . . we transitioned to walking . . . lots of walking.  I figured out if I was going to walk I should go all in . . . both feet, literally.

It's not like walking hasn’t been a part of my life’s regime.  Until my wife retired a year ahead of me, it was my task to walk the dogs.  Four to five evenings–weather permitting, I walked the dogs.  Yep, that’s right–dogs, Birdie and Quinn (a tiny miniature Dachshund).  Such a combination is an adventure.  Quinn’s idea of a walk is from any room into the kitchen.  But she put up with it because she wanted to be where her sister was.  It was half walk, half drag . . . constant encouragement . . . and at times, pick up and carry.  At all times being stared down with a look of “what the hell!”  The point is that I walked the dogs.

Once my wife retired she finagled walking the dogs from me.  She convinced me to relax and rest after a hard day at work.  She’d walk the dogs, besides she needed exercise.  Who was I to argue? For over a year she became the primary dog walker.  The dogs didn’t complain . . . especially Quinn who recognized a downgrade when she saw one.  Less distance, less effort, and less time from napping.  It worked well . . . 

. . . until I retired.

Walking the dog duties have been split since I have retired.  Birdie walks with me.  Quinn protests with the wife as they attempt to walk.  Birdie gets longer and more vigorous walks with me.  Quinn, when she is not protesting, gets shorter and more pedestrian walks.  Birdie loves walks.  Quinn, at best, tolerates walks.  Remember she is a miniature Dachshund.  That means everything has to be just “right” for a walk.  There can be no wind.  No moisture of any type–no snow, no rain.  No weather.  It has to be perfect.  If forced to walk when she doesn’t want to, there are two results . . . she plops her butt down, spreads her front legs and dares to be pulled to walk.  We live on a dirt road and proof of resistance is well documented in the trial she leaves down the road.  This typically leads to the second result . . . she gets picked up and carried.  Which she enjoys and loves.  Either way the wife gets more exercise than she bargained for.  The bottom line is that the dogs get walked in some shape or form.

As I stated earlier, Birdie and I have been on a roll since starting.  We have walked all over the community and so far have not repeated a single route.  That is the nice thing about living in a small rural community in Montana . . . there are lots of places to go strolling.  Lots of variety in the landscape.  Lots of doggie and wildlife scents . . . lots of pee mail.  Birdie is on scent overload and I am combatting elderly tummy spread.  We are both happy.

At the same time, I worry.  I worry that I might kill my pup.  I stand at 5’10” in height.  Birdie stands 15 inches at her shoulders.  She is a small dog–that is her Corgi side.  My strides are much longer than hers.  Like every exercise optimist I use a Fitbit to monitor my physical activity.  It tells me how many steps I walk each day.  On our daily walks, Birdie and I are averaging 7,500 steps.  Well, that is what I average.  I imagine that Birdie averages two to three times more steps since she is so short.  In my estimation–in doggie steps, she is walking between 15,000 and 22,500 steps.  For the two of us that equates to about 3.7 miles.  We’ve been cooking it and we both sleep well at night.

Still, I worry.

Luckily her breeding makes her smart.  Probably smarter than me.  She does know her limits and is not afraid to let me know.  She either intensifies the pee mail reading, constantly stopping, and attempting to get every word of what she is sniffing.  Or she slows down to a crawl or Quinn pace/  Thus far our walks have not been a problem for her.  It’s tough to wipe the smile off her face at the end of our walks.

I’m not sure if Birdie and I will continue at our torrid pace.  The competitor in me says that we are just beginning.  That we are setting the baseline for walks . . . that the sky is the limit.  There is much of our area we have not explored . . . adventures not taken.  We have many walks ahead of us.  It is important.  Each afternoon, Birdie comes and sits at my feet and stares . . . watching for that moment, that moment that I move towards the door and utter those two words, “Let’s go!” It makes her day.  Together we are happy and filled with joy.  At this rate I won’t be playing Santa at Christmas.

 

Silent Genocide

Can’t say that I would argue with singer Billie Elish’s statement made when she accepted her 2026 Grammy Award for Song of the Year.  She stated, “No one is illegal on stolen land.”  This is in reference to the war being waged on immigrants by the Trump administration.  The land our nation claims is land stolen—not bought and paid for—from the original people who inhabited it.  History clearly documents the “land grab”.  In this way, we are all immigrants.  outside of Native Americans, all of us originated from somewhere else . . .came from somewhere else . . . immigrated here. 

 

I can’t argue with that because it is true.  Ms. Eilish caught some flack over the statement because it seems that her home—a multi-million-dollar mansion—sits on “stolen land”.  That land originally belonged to the Tongva Tribal Nation.  The tribe acknowledged this fact but stated that the singer has never contacted them about the land.  They appreciate the acknowledgement of the land as “indigenous” but question her sincerity.  They kind of see it as a “prayer and thoughts” sort of statement. 

 

No one wants to be called a hypocrite.  A day or two after the Grammy Awards, Ms. Eilish put out a statement about a recent ancestry test she took.  The test revealed that she had a small percentage of Native American heritage in her family background.  A DNA test. The test confirmed that she was 1/164th Native American.  Though she doesn’t agree, the implication is that “technically” she has a right to the land that her mansion sits on.  She acknowledges that being “native” is more than a number from a DNA test.  That just shows the person where he or she comes from.  Real proof comes in honoring the land, history, culture, and living communities. 

 

Though Ms. Eilish understands this, there are a lot of people who see her 1/164th score as validation of her indigenous heritage and place in a tribe.  Lots of people believe this.  They believe it because that is the great American myth and most are ignorant of history and reality. 

From the beginning, the goal of the people who settled here and formed our nation was the land.  To own the land, they need to remove the inhabitants already occupying it. They used concepts like the “Doctrine of Discovery” and “Manifest Destiny” to justify their actions.  Our nation was built upon these ideologies.  Colonialization—plain and simple. But to work the inhabitants either had to be removed, assimilated, or eliminated . . . they had to disappear.  

 

History paints the story if we want to delve deeper than the white-washed garbage the present administration wants to sell us.  From the beginning of our nation, the original inhabitants were to be removed—even extinguished.  Pushed westward from their lands, found, massacred, poisoned with disease, starved as their food sources were annihilated, rounded up, placed on reservations, made to assimilate, boarding schools . . . all designed to rid the land of these people.  To get rid of them.  Genocide.  History shows this movement of genocide.  

 

General Philip Sheridan in 1869 declared, “The only good Indian I ever saw is a dead Indian.”  This became “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”  Richard Pratt, founder of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania (model for all boarding schools), in 1879, had this to say, “Kill the Indian, save the man.”  Both were staunch in their goals of getting rid of the “Indian problem” . . . both had their methods of genocide.  The goal was removal and the mans was genocide.  Look it up. Plenty has been written and is being written about it.  It is the wiping out of people and their cultures. 

 

Thank goodness our nation no longer practices genocide . . . right?  I suppose, considering the present administration’s immigration policies and activities, that statement is debatable.  It sure feels like genocide no matter how much this administration wraps it up in “red, white, and blue”.  If you ask the Native American tribes, they will tell you that genocide is alive and well.  Instead of blatant it is more subtle . . . almost silent, but it is still there.  Which brings me back to Ms. Eilish and this idea of DNA or blood as the definitive solution to who us a Native American. 

 

Blood quantum—a controversial, colonial-era policy measuring the amount of “Indian blood” a person possesses to determine Native American identity and tribal enrollment. 

 

The goal of blood quantum is not to quantify “Indianness” but to bring “Indianness” or “Indians” to the state of extinction.  To make them disappear.  This is not a scientific-based method—there is no science that grounds it.  The only “science” might be the fact that if this practice continues there will be no Indians/Native Americans remaining—no tribes—they will be eliminated through simple math.  Blood quantum is not real.  It is made up.  Created to extinguish Native Americans.  Silent genocide.  

 

Tailyr Irvine is a photojournalist whose work has been published in National Geographic, the New York Times, the Smithsonian, the Washington Post, and Wall Street Journal. She has hosted shows across the country.  She has been on the national Public Broadcasting System’s programs.  She is a registered member of the Salish and Kootenai Tribal Nation on the Flathead Reservation in Montana.  She shares the stories of life and culture from the Native side.  One story that intrigued and bothered her was about blood quantum.  The result was a documentary story, Reservation Mathematics: Navigating Love in Native America.  Ms. Irvine states that this “not real” issue “focuses on how the government-imposed system of blood quantum affects who Natives marry, who they have kids with, who they spend their life with and how this number dictates one of the intimate choices that we have.”  The end result is extinction.  Take a moment to watch her as she explains this silent genocide.  There is a short version at this link, or a longer version that explains it in greater deal at this link.  She tells the story well. 

 

Ms. Eilish’s statement pulled back the curtain hiding the long-held secret of genocide against Native Americans who were the original inhabitants of our nation.  It still exists.  It is still practiced.  Amazingly the Native Americans are a resilient people who have survived this continuing onslaught of purposeful extinction.  And, yes, it will continue.  As the Trump administration has demonstrated since Day One, there is an on-going cleansing of America hidden behind ridding our country of illegal immigrants.  It is “cleansing”.  It is an act of aggression.  An act of cruelty.  All aimed at ridding our nation of people of color. We witness it daily.  Because their skin and culture are not “white” . . . they must go. 

 

I have Native American friends who now carry tribal documents stating that they are American citizens.  Proof that they belong.  I am scared for them.  I am scared for my neighbor who is Hispanic.  He is a naturalized citizen of the United States.  A legal resident who has jumped through all the hoops, signed all the papers, and sworn allegiance to the country.  But I watch daily to see if unmarked vehicles will come, a knock upon his door, and him being escorted away.  Not only him, but others.  Not only people of color, but people of gender.  A couple, gay, live on the corner of the street.  The vile rhetoric and treatment against the LGBTQ+ have made me fear for them.  They are not wanted by the present administration.  Actions speak louder than words and demonstrate this fact.  No one is safe who is contrary to the present administration’s desires and whims . . . no one.  

These are scary times.  We are witnessing the act of genocide cloaked in patriotism . . . draped in “red, white, and blue”.  We cannot turn away.  We must ally ourselves with those who are being attacked.  If not . . . well, remember the words of Pastor Martim Niemoller: 

First they came for the Communists 

And I did not speak out 

Because I was not a Communist 

Then they came for the Socialists 

And I did not speak out 

Because I was not a Socialist 

Then they came for the trade unionists 

And I did not speak out 

Because I was not a trade unionist 

Then they came for the Jews 

And I did not speak out 

Because I was not a Jew 

Then they came for me 

And there was no one left 

To speak out for me 

 

A Five-year Old’s Dilemma: Jesus

Got to admit . . . the kid was thinking. 

My wife shared a story about a friend’s grandson.  Her friend explained that her grandson attends a Catholic preschool.  When the boy got in the car he was greeted by his mother’s usual questions-and-answers talk.

 

“What did you learn in school today?” quizzed the mother.  The child proceeded to tell his mother all about the day’s lesson on Jesus.  When he got to the end, he said, “And the teacher said she had Jesus in her heart.”

 

Then there was a moment of silence before the boy—wide-eyed—asked, “Mom, what is Jesus doing in her heart?”

 

We adults probably do not take the time to filter our responses when speaking to the preschool generation . . . especially when it comes to theological and religious topics.  We forget how literal and concrete five-year-olds can be in their thinking.  Jesus in her heart . . . seems a little crowded to a five-year-old and quite logical to want to know what he is doing in there.  Probably no wonder little children are apprehensive about things like theology and religion . . . why so much of it does not make sense to their little minds and common sense.

 

If I was a five-year-old I sure the heck would want to know how some adult, let alone Jesus, got into someone’s heart.  I’d like to know what he was doing there.  Granted, five-year-olds are more knowledgeable and sophisticated than previous generations thanks to television, movies, and videos on You Tube.  Jesus probably found some shrinking ray machine, shrank, and climbed down the teacher’s throat while she was sleeping into her heart, and set-up camp.  Still . . . why?

 

Think about it . . . think about it like a five-year-old.

 

Try this snappy pronouncement that gets thrown around by the adult faithful: Jesus is the answer.  Answer to what?  That is what every preschooler who hears that phrase wants to know—answer to what?  The quick answer is—everything.  Jesus is the answer.  This could be dangerous in the hands of a five-year-old.

 

Parents ask questions and expect answers.  “Junior, who hit your sister?”  Jesus.

 

Teachers expect answers to their questions.  “Amelia, what is four plus four?”  Jesus.

 

Who can blame a kid?  If Jesus is the answer . . . then Jesus is the answer to all questions.  It is that simple.  That is what they are told.

 

One little boy went into the store, grabbed a candy bar, and started eating it.  Shocked, the kid’s mother asked what he was doing . . . “Eating a candy bar.”

 

“Who paid for the candy bar?” demanded the mother.

 

“Jesus!”

 

What?

 

“Jesus paid for it all!”

 

The faithful have said that . . . Jesus paid for it all.  Of course, as a faithful adult, we understand that to mean that Jesus—through his life. Death, and resurrection—paid for the sins of their lives.  Grace.  To a five-year-old it simply means that Jesus has an unlimited line of credit to pay for anything . . . even a candy bar.  That’s what the children are told.  Jesus paid for it all. You name it, Jesus paid.  I wonder how those I pay my bills to would handle it if I stuck a note in the payment envelope declaring, “Jesus paid it all.”

 

Jesus saves.  Probably why he can pay for it all.  As a five-year-old I’d want to know what he saves.  Does he save rocks? Baseball cards? Comic books? Money?  Butterflies?  Convenient store bags?  There is a joke about Satan and Jesus arguing about who had the best computer skills.  they had been arguing for days, and God was getting tired of it.  To settle the argument God would test them and their skills.  The test would run for two hours and at the end God would declare a winner.

 

God set up two computers.  Jesus and Satan sat at their respective computers.  Then it began . . . the two of them did everything imaginable with a computer.  Spreadsheets.  Reports.  Faxes.  Emails.  Attachments.  PowerPoints.  They downloaded and uploaded.  Anything and everything a computer could do, they did it.

 

Then, ten minutes before the contest was over, lightning flashed across the sky, thunder rolled, rain poured, and of course, the electricity went off.  The computers crashed . . . they were off.

 

Satan stared at the blank screen and screamed every curse word imaginable.  Jesus just sighed.  Finally, the electricity flickered on.  They restarted their computers.

 

Satan searched frantically, screaming, “It’s gone!  It’s all gone!  Everything lost when the power went off!”

 

Jesus quietly started printing everything he had done in the last two hours.  This made Satan mad.

 

“Wait!  He cheated; how did he do that?”

 

God shrugged and said, “Jesus saves.”

 

What does Jesus save?  Inquiring five-year-olds want to know.

 

What about, “Jesus is with me” and “Jesus shows the way”?  Kind of creepy if you are a five-year-old in this day and age of “stranger danger”.  True, children do have active imaginations, but what parent doesn’t get a little concern when their kids start having imaginary friends/companions?  Think about it.

 

Parent to child: “Who you talking to?”

 

“Jesus.”  Right!  Because he is the answer to all questions.

 

“Jesus?”

 

“Yeah . . . Jesus.  He’s with me.”

 

“Really, Jesus?”

 

“Yup.  He’s in my heart.”

 

“What’s he doing in your heart?”

 

“Well, he shows me the way.  Besides, he is paying for it all.”

 

Makes sense to me, but I am often accused ot acting like a five-year-old.  Some of the best and deepest theological conversations I have ever had were with children.  They see the world . . . and Jesus . . . differently than we adults.  They take it to heart and mind what we tell them—literally and concretely.  They keep it simple.

 

Jesus is in my heart—a little crowded, but there is room for one more person or thing that is loved.

 

Jesus is the answer—it works for all questions.  Give it a try.  It might not make sense, but it sure saves a lot of brain power.  Besides, who is going to disagree?  Come on, we’re talking Jesus here.  He is the answer.

 

Jesus paid it all—this is tougher to embrace, but wouldn’t it be great?  No care, no worries.  Like reaching into one’s pocket and always having enough money.  Jesus is the bank.

 

Jesus saves—that is why he can pay for it all.  That or he is some sort of IT savant.  Either way, he saves because I (or we) can’t.  Someone has to pay the bills.

 

Jesus is with me . . Jesus is the way.  Sure, I talk to myself.  Jesus is a good listener. Jesus is a good way to pass this strange habit off of . . . I’m talking to Jesus.  Since he is the answer to all questions, why not this one too?  Jesus is showing me the way.  Not sure what the way is, but he’s got the directions.  I’m just tagging along for the ride.

I like it.  I like how a preschooler thinks.  Simple.  literal.  Concrete.  In my older age I have been accused of regressing . . . of going back to a second childhood.  That may be true, but if you really listen to children when they talk about God and Jesus . . . well, we adults get a good laugh, but they make a lot of sense.  So, I smile, chuckle, and glean the wisdom.  Wisdom from a five-year-old.

 

When I ask children about God . . . about Jesus . . . about who or what they are, I’m always given a one-word answer.  No, not Jesus!  Love.  Love that comes in a bear hug . . . a sloppy kiss on the cheek . . . and holding hands.  Love that comes in shared laughter . . . shed tears . . . and acting goofy.  Love comes in the acknowledgement and excitement of one another’s presence.  If five-year-olds can get it, then so can I.

 

We ought to stop and listen to the children.  They may not understand, but they know.  Oh, do they know. It’s that simple.