Josey asked me to post an intro to something he recently wrote.  I drafted the post and sent it to him with the message, “I have on my big girl pants so if you do not like it let me know.”  Josey removed every sentence where I referred to him as a healer and he offered clarification where I typed the acronym “PTSD”.  Josey said, “I’m not a healer, simply an odd non-typical guide in the woods of life.  A friend in book three described me as a Yoda.  I took that as a compliment.  We all need someone to show us the way out of the fog, the tunnel, the hole, the valley, and the muck of life.  As for PTSD, it is real. But so are pimples.  When we hear the phrase PTSD, to most it is the death sentence on our emotional and stabilized foundations.  As I age and the years seem to find their way back to my thoughts, I’m fairly sure I have stood at the lunch line of PTSD.  I am sure there were days I received a double rations portion of PTSD and the person next to me seemed to have received not even a crumb.  As I attempt to explain to my teenage boys the somewhat mythical reason they have pimples and some of their friends do not, it reminds me of PTSD.

There are obvious reasons that cause PTSD, just like pimples.  There also seems to be a mystical side to it all.  To me, a lot of the degrees of PTSD means living a life full of color.  Its true I could have done without pimples but its part of the process.  It is also true there are days I wish I would have not stood in the lunch line of PTSD. It does not work that way though.  What I will never accept is PTSD is the end all.  Our bodies were designed to function and survive with traumatic injuries. I am confident our minds and souls were also designed to function and survive with the trauma we see.  The key to me is not to hide the pimple with makeup. It is to understand what caused the pimple, to and navigate an acceptable pathway so the “pimple” does not leave a scar.” 

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  Last December Josey and his family decided he should retire from his long and productive career in law enforcement. He enjoyed the work he did but felt he was being called to help others along the pathway of life.  The decision was based on multiple factors impacting their lives. He and his family made specific plans for his and their new path and the future that held it

As so many others have learned, the year 2020 was not going to be cooperative with anyone’s plan. The Covid 19 pandemic created a difficult situation for all of us. It changed our world. The plans Josey made to continue writing, and to expand his ability to reach those suffering from emotional trauma and PTSD were set aside. Due to a paperwork error, his retirement paycheck was half of what was projected until the issue could be resolved.  His focus now became supplementing the family’s income until the retirement pay issue could be resolved.   As of this post it is still not resolved. In a few weeks he will have been retired a year. 

Josey took on a position that has kept him exceptionally busy. Thankfully, the position also has kept him in the outdoors where he has sought peace in the past. His plans to write and guide others was now a path through a different kind of woods. Time moved quickly and the chaos created a wall between Josey and his writing.  There were times I could see a glimmer of his writings in emails and text messages, but for the most part the writer in him was gone.

One day Josey told me he had a story in his head but has not had time to write it.  I saw that as a good sign.  On a Saturday he texted me that while sitting with his family in a restaurant he broke down.  No details just that he broke down.   Though I was concerned I knew not to push.

A few weeks after he broke down in the restaurant Josey and his family were dealt a heart-rending blow. Their dear friend and companion was taken out of their lives quite unexpectedly. Josey’s “Magic Man”, his solace and source of quiet understanding died. Joker was an 11-year-old German Shepherd Dog who grew up as their family grew. He was a joyful presence in difficult times, a protector of the family, and he was gone. The family was left devastated.

Although very reluctant to open their hearts to another dog, Joker’s passing left an enormous hole in the family. Josey and Sara knew some of the agony felt by their sons could be eased by the love and joy of a new life in their lives. After searching through a myriad of people and places, they found a glimmer of hope.

A woman whose understanding of her dogs, and what the family was needing, had the perfect solution. An early fall weekend welcomed a little girl full of fire into the Visnovske’s lives. As active and tenacious as the rest of the family, she was a perfect addition. Not to fill the break made by Joker’s passing, but to soften the sting with her mischievous exuberant abandon.

Up until the events befalling his retirement, Josey would ease his soul’s burdens by taking to the woods and writing stories. This personal therapy has sustained him through great stress, grief, anxiety, and even depression. Sitting quietly in a stand of tall pines on his childhood farm, he felt compelled to put words into action.

 He began by writing a small snippet to the woman who trusted them with the feisty puppy whose nature began to chase away some of the shadows resting on his heart. The following is an excerpt of that short message:

• 

• 

For Jessica

                “If you ever get time to read the books you will learn my time in woods has little to do with hunting.  Maybe it’s about hunting the answers that I never find. What I do find is peace in a world that to me is very conflicted. 

Looking over a creek this morning that I played in as a child, with my first dog who is buried on the hill behind me, it makes me feel the need to say thank you.

I get you are a breeder of the four-legged friend. Even though you can smell when the cycle of life is ready, to some of us out here you are a provider of completeness in those of us that continually struggle for balance and a sense there is peace on earth.  A sense that people do care, like the four-legged creature we call our companion.   A sense that no matter how hard I try to get it right, the world will not greet me with the same joy my four-legged friend does.

I am not a believer in fairy tales, but I do feel paths intersect, stop, branch off and grow for a reason. I mourn the loss of my last dog every day.  As I reflect on the creek below, I relive the memories from my first dog over 40 years ago. 

So yes, you are a dog breeder. But honestly to me, a simple man, you are a provider in the cycle of life.  A cycle that allows a simple man like me to know there is peace on earth. No matter how hard I try to balance the conflict, there will always be a four-legged friend who tells me I got it right.

Thank you”

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The small crack in the wall of chaos preventing Josey from writing was a start. Several days later he felt compelled to write again. An urge he has been too busy and worn down to satisfy.

As life continues to be a challenge for so many, Josey has found hope. The need to put his thoughts into stories is bound to his servant’s heart. The connection between his writing and putting others on the path to understanding their pain is intertwined. It is my hope his journey will find him back on the path he is truly called to be on.

In the world today, many who choose to serve others are bearing witness to unimaginable grief. The fatigue and stress of serving can quickly form a destructive cycle. What Josey refers to as the “hamster wheel”. More than ever, we need a guide for the mind and spirit.

Perhaps the crack in the wall that allowed Josey to begin writing again, will put him in an intersection with those he is so gifted at guiding.

I will post the next piece Josey wrote from the same perch a few days later and I am sure a story about the last year is in the works.  Josey had many reasons for why he retired. The main one was, he felt his hands were tied in his current position.  His hands were tied in his ability to guide and help others.  Unfortunately, the pandemic has tied his hands even more from helping others.  I ask something of each of you. If you could please share this post with as many people as you can, so my friend who is struggling will feel like he is helping someone. 

As a special tribute to the Josey’s “Magic Man”, my friend Joker, I would like to share a story from one of Josey’s books.

Chapter 8 – Sister Mary

            As though my father was taking us to the promised land, we rode down the gravel road listening to him talk about this place where he wanted to build our house. We already had a nice house that sat on a hill and my mother’s father owned all the land around us. There were days though when my grandfather struggled with the demons inside him. Dad said our new home would be surrounded by tall pines and we would be away from grandpa.

Dad stopped our pickup truck and the dust poured into the cab. As the dust settled dad pointed to his left and said, “The land is up there.” All I could see was trees, but we all got out of the truck and followed dad down into the woods. We walked down a hill and crossed a creek and walked up another very steep hill. At the top of the hill were the tall pines my dad had spoken of and behind the pines was a field of uncut hay. It was a hot day, and the smell of pine tree sap was strong. My dad talked of the road we would build, the two-story log home we would build, and the pond we would have. It was hard for me to imagine that because I had never built a house or a road, but my dad could see it all, but to me it was just a patch of woods.

I walked down the hill and up the hill and waited for the school bus. I could hear the bus coming before I could see it and the lights blinded me as it came around the curve. I stepped back and the driver stopped, and the dust covered me. I was scared. No one likes the first day of school and especially when it’s a new school. My old school was a larger public school but this one was a small catholic school. My teacher’s name was Sister Mary. She wore all black and her head was wrapped up with even more black with some white cloth.

Sister Mary was old, and she had had something wrong with her and her head shook a lot. I heard the kids in class call her Goose when she could not hear them. Sister Mary could see I was scared and felt all alone in this new place. She did her best to make me feel welcomed and I needed that. The kids in my class did not waste any time picking on me and my funny last name. As I rode home that day on the bus I cried inside. I wanted to go back to my old school and see my friends. I walked the ¼ mile down our gravel road and never told my parents how bad I hated that school.

A few weeks after that, mom and dad surprised me with a puppy. She was a Blue Mountain Shepherd and they bought her from a man down the road. Since my mother was part Cherokee, we named her Waya Gila, which meant “wolf dog” in the Cherokee language. My dad used some spare lumber from our house and built Waya a doghouse. The doghouse sat near the front of our house and like our home was surrounded by pines. The roof was slanted so Waya would lie on top of the roof sometimes like she was a mountain goat.  

The days at school were long and soon the kids were not content with calling me names, so they decided to punch and kick me, but never where anyone could see the bruises. All I could think about was coming home and seeing Waya. I would get off the school bus and run the ¼ mile and meet Waya on her doghouse roof. I would sit on the roof with her and she would lick the tears from my face. Waya soon became my best friend and I confided in her about how bad I hated my new school. I used to run and hide in the wheat field behind the house and wait for Waya to find me. Waya would blast through the tall green wheat and when she would find me, she would chew on my shoes. I never believed in magic but to me Waya was magic. No matter how bad it hurt from the name-calling, the bruises, or just trying to find out where my place would be in this new place, one lick from Waya seemed to heal the deepest wounds.

Eventually the kids in my new school accepted me just like the chickens we raised. They were always hard on the new chickens we would add to the flock. I guess because I did not start with them in kindergarten and I had a funny last name it was just easier to pick on me than to accept me. I never blamed them or hated them, but I did blame their parents for not teaching them better. At the end of that school year Sister Mary kept me after class. She handed me a wooden crucifix and said, “This belonged to my mother and she kissed it every night before she went to bed.” She said, “I want you to have it and remember, you will be fine.” I was not sure why she gave me the crucifix because her wooden pointing stick found its way to my hands more than once and not in a good way. I took the crucifix and hung it on the wall in our home.

I loaded up the last of my belongings and said goodbye to mom and dad. I squatted down and petted Waya and got one last lick for the road. As I drove down the pine thicket she stood in the road and watched me leave. My new job was hard just like that first day of school, but those mean kids taught me a lot about how strong I could be. It’s not easy to pretend to be something you are not and that was my job 24/7. I pretended to be a bad guy in hopes of getting a bad guy to sell me illegal drugs. Problem was there was not a Waya here and no wheat fields to hide in. I spent many a day and night crying on the inside. I would make trips home and stop at Waya’s doghouse and sit on her roof with her and get a lick or two.

Waya was getting old and started having trouble getting on the roof so I would pick her up and put her on the roof. One Sunday I took Waya for a walk in the woods around our home. My long hair and beard did not bother Waya, but it bothered me. The woods grounded me to the person I was, not the person I pretended to be. Waya took several breaks and she struggled to make the walk back home.

A few days later my dad sent me a coded message on my pager. As I pulled the pager from my belt, I knew that message meant to call home. I called my dad and there was no need to tell me I already knew. Dad said, “She crawled in her doghouse and died.” Dad said, “I knew something was wrong because her butt was sticking out and not her head.” I told my dad to leave her and I would drive home and bury her.

The drive was three hours and so far in my life I had never lost anything close to me. As I drove those three hours, the hair on my face consumed my tears. I took a shovel and dug a hole across from her doghouse and gently placed her in it. I took off her old worn leather collar. I smelled her one last time and rubbed the top of her nose. As I shoveled the dirt on top of her, I wished this was a dream. I wished for magic, but magic never came. I took an axe and cut into the cedar tree. The smell of cedar filled my nose. I carried two cedar pieces to where I buried Waya and made a cross over her grave. I said goodbye to mom and dad and this time as I drove down the pine thicket all I saw was Waya’s wooden cross.

My soon-to-be wife and I squatted down, and puppies soon surrounded us. I loved the smell of them and even enjoyed their razor-sharp claws. We picked one out. A friend of ours trained police dogs and he owned the father of the litter. A few weeks later we picked up our new German Shepherd puppy and we named her after an ancestor that was on her pedigree. Her name was Pascha.

I was still pretending to be something I was not, and the days were no longer long, it was the years that were long. It had been a few years since Waya died but the pain was still there. My soon-to-be wife was trying to raise Pascha and when I could, I would come and stay for a few days and once again I was getting those licks to comfort me.

I soon found my way to a barbershop and the long days and years became a memory. All those years of pretending to be something I was not changed me, not in a bad way, but the love of a good woman and a dog was about all I needed to make me happy. We had to move several more times and Pascha got to see the ocean and learned not to drink salt water. After many moves, we finally bought a house and Pascha had a yard bigger than a football field. I took her deer hunting with me and she would wait patiently for me to return to the Jeep. I could hear her tail wagging against the crate door and the licks would come. I would sit with her on the ground and I was right back in my childhood pine thicket.

We came home from the hospital and several folks had warned us that Pascha would not accept our new son. I squatted down and held our son in my arms and Pascha smelled him from head to toe and licked his newborn face. We always had a crate in the house for Pascha to sleep in but left the door open. Most nights Pascha would sleep in her crate and sometimes next to my side of the bed. But on some nights, Pascha could be found lying on the floor next to our son’s crib. One bright sunny day we placed a blanket in the back yard and put our son on it. As he played on the blanket Pascha lay down next to him and no matter what was going on, she never moved.

I took Pascha out to relieve herself one more time and she struggled to get up the steps into the house. Pascha has aged and during the last few months she had several trips to the vet. I told my wife that I thought Pascha was dying and that I was going to pray she died in her sleep. I seldom pray to God and ask for anything. I figure God has a lot going on and why add to the pile. At 11 pm I crawled in bed and at 2 am I made the long walk down our hallway and I could see her butt sticking out of her crate. I dropped to my knees and cried. I crawled over to her and put my hands on her, and she was dead. I guess my mind knew where to put the pain, but it was too much like last time. It was as though Waya’s death was two days ago. I wrapped Pascha in a blanket and in the dark of night carried her to the corner of our yard. My wife held a flashlight as I dug a hole for her. I removed her collar and placed her in the hole with the blanket. I placed her favorite bone next to her. I took the wind-up clock that we used to calm her when she was a puppy and would it up and placed it next to her. As I shoveled the dirt on her once again there was no magic. Just the faint disappearing sound of the clock ticking.

A few days later we placed a concrete statue of a German Shepherd over her gravesite. Our son was young enough that he asked where Pascha was. For him, she faded away, but for me I longed for the licks from her. This time it was different. This time I had one life and not two.

When Waya died only my real life knew of her. When I returned to the world of pretending, I could temporarily escape the pain. Now I only had 1 life and everyone around me knew of Pascha and even though I had been down this pine thicket road before it was as thought this was a new road. I could not speak of her, but she was always on my mind and when friends would speak of her, I cried inside. The first time I walked up to the Jeep on the first deer hunt of the year there was no thumping of her tail in the crate. I sat on the ground in the dark and cried.

My wife, my two boys and I were surrounded by hyper German Shepherd puppies as we picked our new puppy from the litter. We did not have a name picked out, but we decided to use his kennel name, it seemed to fit him well. If raising two young boys was not enough, I felt the need to add a puppy to the mix.

I sat on my computer and our new dog rested his head on my right foot. Our new dog is now seven years old. I received a text message from a friend that he had to put his dog to sleep. His name was Max. A few days after Max died, I received this email form my friend.

“It is a place where I wanted grass to grow. It is a place where I hope grass never grows again. It is a special place. It is dirt surrounded by lush green grass. It was also at one time itself lush and green. It is now a patch of dirt. As people pass by, do they wonder how or why grass won’t grow here? I can see him killing the grass. He had no concern for my desire to have grass grow there. He chose this place and killed the grass. Now it is a patch of dirt. He killed it. I hope grass never again grows in this place. He was majestic and strong. Brave and considerate. He was mischief and courage and loyalty. He killed my grass. He watched me water and fertilize. He killed my grass. That one spot he claimed for himself. He killed the grass and I never want it to grow again. If I stand there and see him there, in my mind’s eye, my tears are so many that it will guarantee that grass will never grow there as they fade into that patch of dirt. That patch of dirt where grass wont grow is a precious place for me now. It has only been a few days and I caught a piece of grass trying to grow there. I killed it. I love that patch of dirt. Max killed the grass. He did it on purpose and he loved to lie there. On post. Waiting, watching, sleeping; just being a dog. He killed my grass, but he grew my heart. That patch of dirt is now sacred to me. I knelt down and looked closely. I saw his fur in the dirt. He killed my grass and I miss him. I wouldn’t trade one last run with him for the best lawn in the world. It was from this patch of dirt; where he killed my grass, where he would slowly get up and greet every passerby and walk a few steps with him or her and see them on their way. He listened to them all and kept their secrets. He protected them as they passed his patch of dirt where he killed the grass. He saw the kids off to school from that patch of dirt and saw them home. I miss him. There is a place in my heart that is now a patch of dirt – a place where grass won’t grow. Every time I see it, I am overwhelmed with the most beautiful memory filled with sadness and joy and friendship that a patch of dirt could ever muster. I’m glad Max killed my grass. I loved him. I love him still. I cherish that patch of dirt. He killed my grass.”

As I read the words from my friend I cried. I cried for his pain and my pain that seems to linger. The pine thicket and wooden cross are miles from here, but I can still smell the cedar as I swung that ax into the tree. I can smell the fresh earth and see my wife holding the light as I dug the grave for Pascha. I can hear the crackle of the baby monitor as I dug the hole. My new dog looks up at me and senses the pain. He gets up on his feet and licks the tears from my shaven face. As if her were Waya or Pascha. The pain seems to disappear with each lick. I run my fingers through his coat and the softness and his smell seem to calm and ground me.

A few folks have told me that if they had not met me, they are not sure where they would be in life. I often wonder if I would not have had those moments on Waya’s doghouse roof if I would have had the strength to survive the first year at my new school. I often wonder if that year at the new school is what gave me the strength to endure the years of being someone other than me. I often wonder as I traveled the many roads from the pine thicket in search of my niche in the world if I could have left my wife and son behind without the comfort of knowing Pascha was their protector. I can’t help but wonder as I have sat here with his head on my right foot, typing this story to you will the pain be any less when it is his time. Will I be spared the long trip to the vet? Will he die in his sleep?

Sister Mary believed in me. Years later I returned to Sister Mary with my long hair and beard. I told her my story and about my job. I held her hand and thanked her. I told her that her mom’s crucifix still hangs in my parent’s home. I never saw Sister Mary again, but whenever I’m scared or down, I think of her simple words, “You will be fine.” I recall that when Pascha died a friend sent me a quote from and unknown author, “Until one has loved an animal, part of their soul remains unawaken.” Our love of pets cannot be described in my words or anyone else’s words. A pet accepts us for who we are. They love of when we fall short of what we think we can do. They are the first to greet us when the house is dark, and everyone is asleep. The single strand of hair we curse that never seems to go away but comforts us when we are miles from home, and it’s stuck to our jacket. They guide those who can no longer see They search for threats that can hurt us. Some are heroes and some are just a small patch of fur that makes a bed on our lap. No matter what their role is in our life they intertwine with us in their own special way.

As I type these words, hanging on the wall next to me is Waya’s collar and Pascha’s collar. As he rests his head on my foot, I feel selfish that with the love of a good woman and two fine young boys I need him in my life. I am not sure if I need him or the memory that he brings me of those before him. I can still feel the pain from the loss of Waya and Pascha, but with that pain are so many good memories. To be honest I’m willing to pay the price. As for magic, it does exist. Maybe not in the way we want it but in the way we need it. If you ask me, magic is the lick from someone who believes in you when sometimes you struggle to believe in yourself.

WL Visnovske