22 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM {sloane citron} and helpful. Not to mention that there are countless places to discover. Though I go there at least once a year, there’s always more to see and do. Of course, Shelley, Dan and I talk endlessly about current events, our families and our long history together. We remember the people we grew up with, our neighbors, and the family and friends we have lost. Often, we’ll crack open an old photo album and look at ourselves as children. That always gets a smile touched with feelings of loss. I love hearing their memories of our childhood, since much of it happened before I was really on the scene. Toward the end of our last visit, we talked about our family cat, Tiger. When I was just an infant, Dan found a cat in the alley that ran behind our home, a young tabby with a sweet meow and a friendly, affectionate nature. My brother brought him home and talked our parents into keeping him. My brother, sister and I discussed the small, quiet cat, and the recollections we each had of him. I thought about asking Shelley and Dan about Tamby, about the story that our father had told me, that after the biting incident he was taken to a large cattle ranch to join a wonderful family. But then, I thought better. I didn’t want to disturb the truth that I had held onto my entire life, of our dog out there on that ranch, happy and content. I wanted to forever imagine him running along the Texas plains, racing after a ranch truck, nipping at its tires and never giving up the chase. One of my favorite memories was of my family dog. I’ve written before about Tamby (the Lord of Timberline was his selfimportant AKC name), a mostly black, medium-sized German Shepherd with a fast gait and a never-ending desire to run and pursue. A loving, friendly dog, he was known for chasing cars down the street for several blocks, nipping at the tires until, finally, worn out, he would limp back home and lie down next to us, panting loudly, his long tongue hanging from his mouth. During the summers while I was growing up in Amarillo, I made the four-hour trip to Chandler, Oklahoma, where I was a regular at Chandler Baseball Camp. Under the dusty, blazing-hot sky, we played ball for eight hours a day. We focused on baseball and baseball only—hitting drills, bunting practices, running the bases. To a boy like me, crazy about baseball, it was heaven on earth. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, one of the best parts of camp was its complete divorce from the rest of my life. In the summer after sixth grade, my father drove me to camp as usual, and I entrusted Tamby to him, since there was no one else at home. A month later, after another wonderful summer playing ball, while on the last leg of our return trip home, my Dad said that he had something to tell me. The story he shared was that Tamby had bitten a neighbor child—on our front lawn where he had no business being—when the boy brought his dog over and the two dogs got into a fight. The boy’s family was going to sue us and to settle the situation, Tamby had been sent to live with a “wonderful family on a big ranch not far from Amarillo,” my Dad told me. I had tears in my eyes but didn’t say a word. I had become accustomed to loss. My brother and sister had gone away to prep school and college (I was the youngest by five years) and my mother had moved away to further her career as a concert violinist. The loss of Tamby was just one more slice of sadness in my young life. I never asked any questions of my father and never discussed the incident or Tamby’s well-being with anyone. I think I was afraid of learning something worse than the story I’d been told. Recently, I was in Chicago visiting with my sister Shelley and my brother Dan. We meet regularly just to be together, catch up and share some new adventures. My sister lives in the heart of the city in a beautiful condominium overlooking Lake Michigan. Chicago is my favorite big city. Despite all the negative press, it’s simply a wonderful place. The streets are immaculate; there are beautifully landscaped planters on every block; the people are friendly ruff, rough
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