Onward…

Family photo taken during a family gathering in 2013

On the evening of October 6, 2025, my father took his last breath. His 95-year life had come to an end. My eight siblings and I gathered at his apartment and shared memories together. We had a toast to our parents and talked about the journey we had shared with Dad following our Mom’s passing in April 2018.

Among the grief, there was also a deep feeling of gratitude.  We understood that each one of us had stepped up and helped Dad navigate life after losing his wife of 63 years.

Along the way we helped Dad live his life to the fullest. All of us, along with our spouses and children, unselfishly shared time, care, and companionship with Dad. By filling those seven years with simple drop-in visits, jaunts to grandkid’s sporting events, and taking Dad fishing, everyone showed their love and support.

Our crew kept him active and engaged. We offered assurance and were with him during medical struggles. At times, we took turns staying with him if he needed 24-hour help. To our amazement, his determination and courage pulled him through time and time again. He would recover to the point where he would finally tell us, “I don’t need anyone here babysitting me!”

During this period, my siblings and I used a group text to keep updated on Dad’s status. Many of the texts ended with a single word of encouragement: Onward.

That word was also a reminder of the reality we were living in. Life was moving onward. Dad’s life, and our lives too.

Onward became the theme of the journey. It inspired us over the bumps in the road and reminded us that our time with Dad was approaching an end. Those years gave each of us an opportunity to repay Dad for the lifetime of love and care that he and Mom gave us. All of us felt blessed to share time with him, and it gave us a clear understanding of the faith, determination, and courage that were foundations of our Dad’s life over the past 95 years.

I am forever grateful for all my magnificent brothers and sisters, and for everything they did while caring for both of my parents. With help from the nine of us, Dad was able to live independently until June of this year.

Onward.

With Dad’s passing, my siblings and I now move on. We were blessed with wonderful parents, and their love was unconditional. Although they have passed, their memories and examples will continue to guide our lives.

It is time to slow down, take a breath, and just feel. We pause, look behind us, then continue forward. Along the way, we try to remember the words of another familiar voice from the special childhood we shared together:

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”  - Dr. Seuss

Onward.

A Salute to Nonviolent Football Fans

Dennis, Nate, and Joe at ESPN Gameday show on UW campus in Seattle, 2023

Get ready America--football season is coming. As fall approaches, a tribal mentality will sweep across the land. Crazed fans of every age will dress in team colors, then begin a zombie-like pilgrimage to stadiums, casinos, and large-screen TVs. They come to watch, cheer, scream, and gamble on football. The frenzy peaks as the season starts, then quickly morphs into frustration as our favorite teams start losing games.

I am certain that football evolved directly from the days of the Roman Empire. A modern football game is remarkably similar to those bloody events held in Rome’s Coliseum in the days when the Lions took on the Christians, and the Gladiators fought each other. Basically, the only difference is that football players make more money than Gladiators did, and obviously, overweight football players on the Lions team don’t get that big by eating Christians.

Which brings us to the Nonviolent Football Fan. Everyone knows one. They are the pacifists who hate football, those peace-loving folks who, for whatever reason, will join us at a game or on our couch to watch football. They struggle to ignore the violence. They are appalled to see players ravage each other. Yet, like it or not, these Nonviolent Football Fans are just like us. They are creatures hooked by the mysterious allure of a game that, on the professional level alone, generates over $19 billion of revenue every year.

“I can’t watch,” a woman mumbles after a quarterback sack. “It’s horrible. They’re trying to kill each other.”

“They are all animals,” the man beside her whispers. “What the hell is wrong with these dudes? Why do they want to play football?”

Just then, player #13 gets smacked from behind. As #13 is hauled off the field on a stretcher, the man pulls out his phone. He frantically checks for updates on his fantasy football team…

My favorite Nonviolent Football Fan holds a special place in my heart. She is Jean, mother of Nate, the kid who became Joe’s “Little Brother” at age 7. As a single mother, Jean worked tirelessly to raise Nate to be a caring, nonviolent, non-cussing kid. She worked nonstop to get Nate to appreciate culture.

“Be gentle, Nate,” she would tell Nate each time he and Joe left for their outings.

While “Be Gentle” might have work well at home, Be Gentle didn’t have season tickets to Washington Husky football games. But Big Brother Joe did. So Nate and Joe spent autumn Saturdays in UW’s Husky Stadium, surrounded by screaming, fired-up fans.

These loud, obnoxious men and women spewed F-bombs and foul language in every direction. It was tucked among that crowd that Nate finally discovered a ‘culture’ that he really appreciated.

Joe, Nate, and I also took Jean to several Husky games over the years. She loved the color, the music, and atmosphere in the stadium. Just before kickoff, Jean would pull out a book or newspaper she brought with her. Having little use for the violent game of football, she sat there and read during the entire game.

Then one day, we were treated to a true football miracle. As an opposing player was bolting down the field with several Huskies in hot pursuit, Jean looked up from her book. She saw the guy heading toward the end zone, running for his life. Suddenly Jean threw down the book, jumped up, and screamed at the top of her lungs:

“CREAM HIM!!! CREAM HIM!!!”

Nate, Joe and I didn’t see the end of the play. We looked over at Jean. Her face was flush; her eyes were locked on the field.

“JEAN,” Joe hollered. “Hey! You better settle down over there, lady!”

“Be gentle, Jean,” Nate piped in.

That moment, that scream, the look on Jean’s face -- for us it’s forever frozen in time. Our favorite Nonviolent Football Fan had erupted, and she had shown her true colors. There in Husky Stadium, we learned that deep down, Jean had it inside her to become a true fan of the game. “CREAM HIM!”

Today, during any game we attend or watch on TV, Nate, Joe, or I will jump up during a random play and scream CREAM HIM! We do it in Jean’s honor, to celebrate that day when the game’s biggest surprise happened right beside us.

No matter if you are a Nonviolent Football Fan like Jean, or one of the rabid maniacs who pack America’s stadiums each weekend, I hope you enjoy football season. Share some fun with your tribe. Savor the excitement. Then blurt out a ferocious “CREAM HIM” in honor of Jean. Nonviolent Football Fans everywhere will appreciate your salute.

Have fun, and Go Dawgs!

A Montana Ghost Story

Based on a true story.

A hush settles around the campfire. Clouds drift in front of the moon, and an eerie shadow grows. The conversation quiets, and young nieces and nephews begin to drift down from their sugar-induced high. The last of the bag of marshmallows is cremated in the campfire, and the children's eyes grow wide. Finally, one of them works up the courage to ask.

"Uncle Dennis, will you tell us the Holland Lake story."

Holland Lake. Two words that send a chill down the spine of every member of our family. For us, it is the camping ghost story to end all ghost stories. The Night at Holland Lake.

Ghost stories are what camping is all about. No sights seen during any vacation are as vivid as the ones pictured in your mind while listening to ghost stories around the campfire. As you hear the words, that two-headed, one-armed crazy man with an ax comes to life. The campfire snaps, and your body tingles. You think you hear something sneaking behind you.

Children love ghost stories, especially ghost stories with kids in them. Come up with a creative combination of kids, dogs and a boogeyman or two, and they’ll be afraid to sleep for weeks. In fact, many horrifying ghost stories are the result of camping with kids. What better way is there to thank Little Johnny for being a pest during the trip? Build a campfire, then tell Johnny how Aunt Emma was kidnapped by creatures from outer space when she was jumping on her parent's bed. Odds are good Johnny will never again practice his double somersault on the beds of your moving motorhome.

Holland Lake. The true story of the most terrifying night we ever had while camping. It's a ghost story packed with kids. My parents were convinced that the creatures who landed in our camp and robbed our large family that night were, in fact, Aliens from outer space.

“Who else could it be?” my Dad has asked since that night. “No human in their right mind would dare camp anywhere near a family with nine kids”.

It was the first time we camped at Holland Lake, a picturesque little spot in Montana's Swan Valley. Montana in those days was the same laid-back place it is today, a state where adventure was everywhere and crime wasn’t a huge issue. In fact, the week before our camping trip two Montana mountain men had kidnapped a female jogger. In true Montana style, the story was carried in the sports sections of newspapers all over the state.

On that fateful night at Holland Lake, our camp was guarded by Casey and Maggie, two of the dumbest Irish Setters ever to walk the face of the earth. Maggie had a physical problem which made her turn slightly each time she took a step. Tormented by nine kids, Maggie spent her entire life trying to run away from home. The best she could manage was to continually circle the house in a clockwise direction. My sister Mazie swears it was Maggie's nonstop circling of camp that caught the Aliens' attention that night.

Casey, however, had no desire to leave home. She discovered early that lots of food was dropped under the table of a big family. Casey lived under the table, waiting for scraps. The night the Aliens raided our cooler at Holland Lake, Casey didn't bark or chase them. She simply ran under the picnic table and waited for food.

Due to sleeping arrangements, the story of Holland Lake was told from many viewpoints. Our family had outgrown our camping trailer. Sleeping arrangements on camping trips were determined using a bizarre formula that combined age, weight, how many siblings you had fought with during the day, and the estimated number of times you would have to use the toilet each night. As a result, kids were scattered on the ground in sleeping bags from the lake shore to the campground road.

With sleeping kids strewn through camp, we didn't notice the Aliens arrive. Nobody gave a second thought when they saw moonlit figures creeping about looking for food. When Dad marched out of the trailer to tell everyone to get to sleep, he discovered that we already WERE sleeping. So the search was on!

Nothing gets the blood pumping like searching for camp robbers at midnight in the thick brush of the Montana wilderness. It wasn't long before we found them--long-haired creatures on the moonlit beach, crawling on their hands and knees, sifting sand with their fingers. Who were they? Where did they come from? What were they looking for at the edge of the water?

My sister and I followed Dad and my uncle as they moved in to investigate. As they approached the beach, Peggy and I stepped back into the cover of the underbrush.

A branch snapped and the bushes rustled. There was a shout. A blood-curdling scream pierced the night. Then suddenly it was silent.

What happened that night in the mysterious darkness of Holland Lake? Who bonked the Alien on the head with the flashlight? How many more were hiding in the campground's thick underbrush? When Peggy and I peeked at the beach, we saw the Alien lying there, bleeding on the ground. How did it then manage to jump up and swim away? Did it make it to the other shore? And would it be long before they came back to get us all?

Terror spread like wildfire among the campground. Awakened by the screams, RVer's stumbled out of their rigs carrying the largest assortment of guns Holland Lake had ever seen. The Aliens had been caught red-handed stealing food, beer, and baby formula out of a camper's cooler. Now other campers had come to life, excited for a chance to run through the darkness hunting the Aliens. Frontier justice was alive and well in the Montana forest. The bushes were crawling with gun-toting campers ready to shoot at whatever moved.

Peggy and I waited in the Vista Cruiser with eyes wide open, ears perked, and doors locked. But as hours passed and nothing happened, we started to relax. Even Maggie stopped circling the camp. We slowly drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Suddenly a thunderous series of moans from the bushes jolted us awake. The Aliens had returned!!!

“They’re back! Over here, help! They are back!” My sister honked the Vista Cruser’s horn to alert the searchers, and we screamed for help. From every direction, would-be-heroes ran to our aid.

“They’ve found them,” the voices shouted in the darkness. “They got ‘em!"

The furious moans continued as the armed campers surrounded the sound. More moans and guns were aimed. The campers were ready to blast the Alien.

Suddenly, the only camper to bring a flashlight instead of a gun appeared in the darkness. Her spotlight found the moaning Alien. Another groan, and the guns slowly lowered. There was a snicker, followed by a roar of laughter. In the spotlight, a kid in his underwear who was sick from nerves was hunched over vomiting while surrounded by a posse of gun-toting Alien hunters.

They didn't shoot him. They just laughed and everyone went to bed.

The morning arrived without anyone finding the Aliens. We never found who owned the hat floating near the beach the next morning. What did we find? We found another campground, far away from Holland Lake.

Those in our family who slept through Holland Lake never knew what really happened that night. It was up to those who survived the terror to make the Holland Lake campout a family legend. The story of that scariest of nights has grown to become one of our favorites.

Because every time the sky grows dark and the campfire glows, our nieces and nephews listen. They listen to the breeze rustling through the trees. They hear spooky sounds in the darkness behind them. They feel the spirit of Maggie begin to circle the camp. As night falls, their imaginations come to life, and visions of Aliens and boogeymen fill their heads.

There around the campfire, the legend comes to life as the story is told. And in the darkness, a new generation of children will share in the terror of the Night at Holland Lake.

---

A Man and His Friends

Photo of my father Jim Quinn and Ralph the Jeep out hunting. Circa 1970

      They say you can tell a lot about a man by his friends. Those he hangs around with are a reflection of him, a sign of what makes him tick. A man’s friends reflect his values, and give the world a better understanding of the qualities that form the foundation of his character.

      So what does it say to a kid when a he grows up with a Dad whose constant companion was Ralph the Jeep?

      Sure, Ed Kralichek was Dad’s best friend and fish’n buddy. But when it came to choosing the friend that would accompany him on the daily journey of life, my father chose Ralph the Jeep.

      A 1956 Willys Jeep boasting a unique primer-grey unpainted paint job, Ralph the Jeep was not just an extra vehicle hanging around waiting to go hunting. No way--Ralph was Dad’s set of wheels. Not the Lexus or Caddy that today one might expect a professional of Dad’s stature to drive. Nope. Ralph was simply a rattling chunk of gray metal on wheels, complete with a pink interior and a top speed of 35 miles per hour.

Brothers Kelly (L) and Tim (R) with Dad and Ralph the Jeep after a hunting trip.

      It was obvious from his reserved parking spot under the clothesline on Leslie Street that Ralph the Jeep wasn’t the flashiest vehicle in the fleet. But when it came to durability, dependability and adventurous fun, none of the Vista Cruisers that lived in the garage ever came close to Ralph.

      Aside from a nasty habit of taking an unscheduled vacation each winter when the temperature dropped below zero, Ralph was more than happy to go everywhere with Dad. Each morning, they made a connection when Dad’s foot pushed the starter button on the floor. Ralph roared to life, Peggy and I climbed in, and we headed off toward Bishop Gilmore School. Dad would drop us off, and then Ralph made a right turn. Together they chugged a few more blocks where Ralph made sure Dad arrived at his downtown office, rushing in shortly before the second appointment of the day was scheduled to start.

      Long before turning lanes were invented in Montana, Ralph understood the concept. Each morning, Ralph would swerve to the right into what was then the shoulder of the road. To the sound of cheering kids and rattling teeth, Ralph chugged up Benton Avenue past a long line of cars waiting for their chance to turn left onto Euclid. Ralph wasn’t just pulling an illegal fast one on the morning rush hour crowd. He was, in fact, teaching us a lesson. He was demonstrating how common sense, a little adventure and plenty of hustle was much better than sitting around waiting for life to happen. Ralph didn’t take risks, but he loved to take on a challenge.

      The fact that Ralph the Jeep was exactly like my father is why I loved that Jeep. Just like my Dad, Ralph was solid, unpretentious and reliable. There was no flash, no glamour, and no nonsense. Ralph’s only accessory was a heater. It was a small white knob below the dashboard that lit up when turned clockwise. A fan would blow frigid air on the passenger’s ankles, but the only apparent heat came from the tiny light bulb. So what if the contraption only created windchill inside the Jeep? Dad never complained. Both he and Ralph just happily chugged along.

      Neither Dad nor Ralph needed speed. They were happy to travel along the road of life without racing past the people and places that made life interesting. They were both easy-going, dependable and always good for a laugh. And they both loved having others share the journey with them.

      Dad and Ralph the Jeep taught me that if you slowed down and enjoyed the ride, persistence and making the correct turns eventually got you where you needed to go. Ralph didn’t care how steep or bumpy the road was. That Jeep knew that with Dad’s careful guidance, they would make it safely to wherever they were headed.

      Yes, you can tell a lot about a man by his friends. You see what makes him tick. You learn about his values. You come to understand the unique qualities of the man who God gave you as your Father.

      And deep in your heart, you come to know that those countless miles you’ve been lucky enough to travel with him truly are the very best part of your own life’s journey.

---

The Menu Tonight is HOT!

The Menu Tonight is HOT!

 It never occurred to me that perhaps our family celebrated holidays more than the rest of the world did. In our lives, as soon as one holiday wrapped up, another one was just around the corner.

Some holidays were ‘kid-driven’, festive events like Christmas, Halloween, and our birthdays. These were events when the excitement swirling in all us kids was so intense that the event guaranteed to be celebrated full-force.

Then there were the ‘Mom-driven’ holidays. These were holidays much of the rest of the world ignored. Yet as a direct result of Mom’s inspiration, we Quinn kids learned to celebrate them. Yes, without our mom, those ‘minor’ holidays would have slipped by unnoticed. Thanks to her, our family and many friends have all been imprinted with some very unique holiday memories.

Such was the day when my friend Bonnie gave me a ride home from high school. I met Bonnie in seventh grade when my Catholic school closed and I was integrated into the public school system. We were both in band, and became good friends. It turned out that Bonnie was a dental patient of my Dad, and she had known him for several years.

During high school, I shared a carpool with several friends. We rotated between Sharon driving a big green tank of a car that only a nun could love; Scott piloted a rocket ship disguised as a Ford Bronco; me behind the wheel of Ralph the Jeep; and Bonnie occasionally at the controls of the red and white Volkswagen van known as the Bettymobile. The carpool rule was that you had to be ready, because the vehicles barely stopped when kids loaded up or were dropped off.

One particular afternoon, I had a book that Bonnie needed. I was the last one to be dropped off, so when the Bettymobile pulled up to our house, I invited Bonnie to come inside.

A single step inside the front door threw us into the usual whirl of activity caused by everyone going about their daily routine. When Bonnie and I rounded a corner by the built-in telephone desk, we found my very modest, extremely conservative Mom busy cooking.

“Well hi! You must be Bonnie. It’s so nice to meet you!” Mom was her ever-pleasant self.

“Uh, hi.” Bonnie was never the least bit shy, but could only muster a primitive grunt. Bonnie had never met my Mom until that very moment.

Maybe it was the blond wig. It could have been the white Go-Go boots that were far below the hemline of the tight mini skirt Mom was wearing. Neither Bonnie nor I could tell what was cooking, but one thing was clear — the main dish looked pretty hot!  

My Mother, in her ever-classy style, extended her hand to shake Bonnie's. Mom’s freshly painted red fingernails sparkled. The huge collection of rings, bracelets, and necklaces she was wearing rustled seductively when she moved. Whenever Mom smiled, a thick layer of bright red lipstick framed her teeth. As I moved closer, I had a flashback from my Montana history class. The thick mascara and layers of makeup Mom was wearing was exactly what General George Custer must have seen when Sitting Bull and his Braves charged in wearing their best war paint.

Since the day we met in junior high school, Bonnie had never been at a loss for words. However, on this afternoon she was speechless. I ran downstairs, grabbed Bonnie’s book, then hustled upstairs to usher her outside. I wanted her gone before the ‘homebound hussy’ who was cooking in our kitchen could engage her in more conversation.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Bonnie,” I choked out once we got outside. “Are you driving tomorrow? Or is Sharon?”

Bonnie stared. She didn’t answer my questions. It was clear that meeting my mother on that April Fools’ Day afternoon had made an impression. It has also answered some of Bonnie’s own questions.

When she reached to open the VW van, Bonnie’s eyes were wide open.

“Well,” she said as she opened the Bettymobile, “NOW I finally understand why your family has nine kids!”

Springtime in the Age of Tariffs

Spring is in the air, and confusion abounds. Just turn on the news, and it’s impossible to know what is up and what is down. Everyone is looking for some solid plan to keep them sane. To help ease your worries amid the craziness, I offer some free suggestions from my own experience of relaxing way to enjoy spring.

********

TRY SOME FISHING

GET YOUR BAIT:
Fishing is the perfect way to get in touch with nature. You will need bait, so I suggest you skip the pricy bait shops and catch your own worms like my father did. You’ll need a long electrical cord with a plug on one end, several foot-long metal rods, and some insulating material. My dad (a dentist) used denture acrylic, but I suggest you find something safer. Cut the cord in several spots, wrap a hot wire at the top of each rod, then insulate the connection.

On a wet lawn (water it first if rain is in short supply), shove the unwired ends of each rod into the grass in a line. Plug in the cord, and presto! Shocked worms zoom to the surface, and kids watching who have their hand on the ground get a jolt. Gather the worms and get ready to fish!

HEAD OUT FISHING:
Fishing is best done by sneaking out of the house and going alone, but if necessary, it can be done with kids. If you do take them, be prepared for anything. My ‘Little Brother’ Mike once caught a fish, then completely descaled the poor creature while pulling it out of the water and dragging it along the shore as he ran to get away from it.

Having a kid practice casting at home before going fishing might help. My younger brother, Patrick, once tried that trick. He cast his hook out of the yard and across the street. Unfortunately, he snagged a neighbor who was walking by. Despite hours of practice, hooking the Reverend was a catch greater than any Patrick ever made while fishing in water.

WALK ON THE BEACH:
There is no better free and fun adventure to occupy your kids than a walk on the beach. They can get muddy, find stinky things to poke, and collect washed up junk they want to take home. Eventually every walk on a beach will involve throwing rocks into the water.

As rocks are not (yet) subject to tariffs, rock throwing at the beach is much less expensive than playing Little League baseball. It is also more competitive at any age. “How far, how fast, how big, how much it splashed” — every toss is a competition. Eventually the fun will shift to skipping rocks along the surface, as the competitors try to outdo each other with their finesse of tossing flat rocks.

The final throws of the day are what make rock throwing at the beach a lasting family memory. It is the event that fires up the crowd the most. It kicks off when your kids start tossing rocks at each other. Back and forth, yelling and screaming, threatening each other.

This competition runs nonstop until one of three goals is reached:
A) The youngest kid gets smacked with a rock and cries;
B) A rock hits an older kid, who then relentlessly punches the younger sibling that threw it; or
C) The adult who craves a stress-free day at the beach chugs their beer, throws the can at the kids, then jumps in the car and drives away alone.

CELEBRATE EASTER:

The challenge of celebrating Easter in the Age of Tariffs is obvious. First, the price of eggs has been “reduced” to new record-high levels. Second, the word on the street is that the Easter Bunny got whacked from his job. The Silly Wabbit was told to name five constructive things he’d done at work in the last year. He just hopped around the question and didn’t bother to answer. And that was that.

So how can you share a meaningful Easter with your family? First, grab a first aid kit and a plastic bag. Go back to the beach to get your rock-tossing kids. Entice them into the car with snacks, then let them eat as you walk on the beach and fill the bag with rocks.

Then dump the kids at home and go buy some spray paint and candy. On the night before Easter, have an egg coloring party with your kids. As they sit at the table glued to their phones ogling over TicTok influencers, sneak into the garage. Paint the rocks, grab the candy, and hide the rocks and goodies on a small area of the lawn.

WAKE UP & REJOICE:

Early Easter morning, while the dew still covers earth, roll out of bed. Go outside and poke the worm shocker into the grass near the Easter ‘eggs’ and candy. Plug in the shocker and go make some coffee. Then, as the family rises from their beds and steps out into the yard, watch from the porch as they reach for candy in the wet grass. As the electricity passes through their fingers and up their arms, you will rejoice in knowing they are learning a valuable truth.

From that day forward, your kids will understand. They will know that when it is Springtime in the Age of Tariffs, each new day brings another unexpected shock.

Hang in there, laugh often, and stay safe!   DJQ 3-11-2025

Give Us Equal Time During the ‘Doggone’ Holidays

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Rescue dogs Lucy (left) and Mo waiting for McCoy, December 2004.

Merry Christmas

This month features a guest writer’s work from my archives. In December 2004, my shelter dog Lucy filled in as a guest columnist for my op-ed column in the Peninsula Gateway newspaper. She penned this jewel, which was her debut chapter for her yet-to-be-written, future best-selling, and likely-to-be-banned book, Bible Stories for Semi-Believers.

 ******

Talk about horrible timing. It was one of the biggest nights in history, and guess who got left out of the big story? The dog!

It was the first Christmas. Joseph and Mary had been turned away from the Inn and were camping in a stable In Bethlehem. Just as they were getting settled in their campsite, the festivities started. They were still trying to get comfortable when, low and behold, Jesus was born.

Mary and Joseph were thrilled, but unfortunately things soon got a bit tense. A bunch of shepherds and angels started hanging around. They kept singing loudly and praying non-stop. Then some obnoxious kid with a drum walked up beside Jesus and started pounding out drum solos. The commotion tipped off the press and before long a reporter from the Bible showed up. The rest is history.

But there was something missing from that history. You see, the most practical member of Joseph's traveling pack that night was the family dog. Joseph had made the mistake of reserving a room at an Inn that didn't allow pets, so the family was forced to camp in the stable. It had been a long trip to Bethlehem. The family was tired and the dog was hungry. So 'Holy Rover' wandered off looking for food. As luck would have it, the dog missed the birth of the long-awaited Messiah.

When Jesus was born, Holy Rover was behind the stable rummaging through the garbage. It was bad enough that Man's Best Friend was out tipping trash cans when all the family Christmas photos were taken. But then Holy Rover trotted back into the stable gagging on a chicken bone, and the Bible reporter had seen enough. He was so disgusted he erased all mention of the dog in his story. Thus, Holy Rover was forever stricken from the Scriptures.

What are we dogs to do? For over two thousand years we've been trying to correct this omission, trying to get our fair recognition during the holidays. Yet we can't get a break. It’s not just the religious traditions – we dogs are ignored in every doggone holiday legend.

The Santa Claus legend is a good example. Have you ever heard about Santa's dog being in his sleigh? NO! Mention Santa and all the talk is about reindeer and elves. No one says a word about his dog. The truth is that Santa travels with a dog, a BIG dog! Because anyone who makes a living sneaking into other people's homes at night has a dog. Santa's dog is a pit bull from the shelter that wears thick chains. Think about it – if a homeowner finds Santa prowling around their living room in the middle of the night, what good is a reindeer?

Then there's Frosty the Snowman. No mention of us dogs in that tale either. As the story goes, someone puts a hat on Frosty and the next thing you know he's trespassing all over the neighborhood.

Every self-respecting hound knows it wasn't a warm day that ended Frosty's rampage. It was the neighborhood dogs. They were the heroes! They kept lifting their legs and ‘marking’ Frosty. We dogs ended the crazy snowman's romp by turning Frosty into a ball of yellow slush.

All of this is no coincidence. It's a doggone conspiracy! It’s because humans want to keep our K-9 simplicity out of your holiday celebrations. It is high time to shift your thinking.

Start celebrating the holiday season the way a dog does. First, get to know your neighbors. Walk into their yard and use it as a toilet. They'll be out greeting you in no time. Then take a nap. When you wake up, entertain yourself with simple holiday pleasures. Knock over the Christmas tree just for fun.

When it's time for the holiday feast, don't fret about the menu. Just jump around hysterically and be happy you get to eat. For a festive twist, knock the dish out of the server's hand and pretend the flying food is from a piñata. Most importantly, help a neighbor. Share your good fortune with someone who needs your attention.

Here's what my kennel-mate Mo and I plan to do this year. We'll sit outside waiting for our neighbor Bob McCoy to pass by on his daily walk. We'll listen once again to his non-stop insulting shelter dog jokes.

We know McCoy needs our attention, so we plan to share our own brand of holiday cheer with him. We'll bark, growl, and chase McCoy right back to his house on the other side of Raft Island! Thanks to us he will finally learn, as Santa did, the value of having a REAL dog to protect his backside!

Best of all, when we chase McCoy we will be re-enacting a dog’s forgotten role in the Christmas story. Mo and I will do exactly what Holy Rover did that night when he charged after the drummer boy and the singing shepherds. We'll remind you humans that Peace on Earth begins after the family dog goes wild and chases away your uninvited holiday guests!

From our pack to yours, best wishes for a festive holiday season. Enjoy your holidays!

Lucy the Shelter Dog, 2004

A Month of Gratitude

It’s November, a month that prides itself in being shifty. The short dark days drag by, yet yet by the end of the month we find ourselves waking to the start of the pre-holiday season.

When looking at it logically, it seems bizarre that we start the holidays with a day of giving thanks for all we have in our life. Then BINGO! The clock strikes midnight, the stores open, and the world shifts into a month-long frenzy of shopping, buying and exchanging more material stuff. Hopefully, this year we can all pause long enough during the chaos to relax a bit and appreciate our special friends and neighbors.

****

Last month, I shared a story about a Halloween stunt I pulled on my Little Brother Scott in 1980. This year, I also shared time with Scott on Halloween. This year, however, the time was much more somber. On Halloween I was at Scott's bedside in a hospital after he had a semi-truck accident at work.

The piece below is a tribute to the wonderful man and brother who was a gift in my life for the past 44 years.

May your holidays this year be filled with joy and gratitude. Thank you for your support.

Dennis "DJ" Quinn

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The Brothers ~ Scott & DJ, August 2003

Sixteen Thousand Three Hundred and Three Days

A Tribute

It was Halloween morning 2024, a dark morning with pouring rain that was forecasted to turn to snow by afternoon. Near the end of a hall in the Surgery Intensive Care Unit of Hennepin County Medical Center, I peeked into a room. He was still there, lying in the bed. His eyes moved erratically behind closed eyelids that had not opened since the semi-truck accident ten days earlier. As medical monitors flashed on either side of him, I looked for hope, searched for anything that might have changed overnight. There was none.

His chest rose and fell as a machine pushed and pulled air through tubes that disappeared into his body through his mouth. In, out, in, out. The rhythmic puffs of air were the only sounds in the room. I shook his shoulder, rubbed his arm, and told him I was there. I told him I loved him. Then I sat on the couch at his bedside. There was nothing else to say, nothing I could do.

Exactly 16,303 days before, I knocked on an apartment door in Burnsville, Minnesota. When his mother Jennifer answered the door, I walked inside and met Scott, my new Little Brother in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. On that evening we met years ago I was nervous, excited, and didn’t know what to expect.

On this cold morning in Minneapolis, 16,303 days after that first happy hello, I had come to say goodbye. The decision had been made to remove has life support systems later today. I was nervous, heartbroken, and once again, I didn’t know what to expect. The waves of grief that had been pounding me since I heard of his accident had eased a bit. It felt okay just to pause, to sit beside my Little Brother, and to reflect.

As I watched him breathe, a deep sense of gratitude arose inside me. I was aware of how lucky I was to have met Scott, and my mind filled with memories of times we had shared together. I closed my eyes, and saw flashes of sporting events we attended, of his little league games, and of us trying to reel in our kites as a severe storm roared toward us. I could hear the laughs we shared as I taught him how to drive, and once again felt the pride of standing beside him as his best man when he married Tammy. I remember the honor of being his son Michael’s godfather. I re-lived the adventures Scott and I shared traveling around Minnesota, and the vacations we took to Montana, Colorado, and Washington DC.

From our first outing for pizza in 1980 until our final time together in August 2024 when we spread his late wife Tammy’s ashes in Washington s Olympic Mountains, he had been my Brother and friend. He was a quiet, strong guy, who as a kid demonstrated determination and courage in living his life. Through our time as Big and Little Brothers, my commitment to him helped me find stability in my own life.

It was my great fortune to watch Scott grow to become a man who was a good son, husband, father, and grandfather. He showed enormous strength through Tammy’s cancer struggle, and gave unwavering support to his daughter Amanda during her health battles. Along with Tammy, Scott stepped up to provide a safe home and a firm foundation for his granddaughter Danielle. After Tammy’s passing, Scott’s own persistent effort pulled him through recovery from surgery that removed a brain tumor. He was the rock of his family, and he was an inspiration to me.

There have been a few times in my life when sudden events shook me to the core. Scott’s unexpected death was one of them. His passing knocked the wind out of me, and it rattled my spiritual foundation. It was one of those times when it did no good to ask WHY, because there was no answer.

The better question became WHAT. What did I learn? What did it all mean? What could I take from the time I shared with him?

Among my grief and my concern for what Scott s family will face on the road ahead, that Halloween morning at his bedside gave me time to appreciate what Scott had given me. He gave me the gift of friendship, hope, and joy. He was a Brother I was immensely proud of, and he was a great man. I will always treasure the laughter we shared together during our 44-year journey.

In saying goodbye and walking away from his bedside, the pain was immense. I walked away knowing deep in my heart that those 16,303 days we shared together were not nearly enough.

Rest in peace my Brother. I will miss you.