The cycle of life

Shay & Sasha & baby Francis

With the death of two dear uncles earlier this year, it was a refreshing experience to be in the company of a newborn and his proud parents last night.

We visited my second cousin Shay, her husband Sasha and their baby boy Francis at their home in Southeast Portland. It was a perfect summer night, with a light breeze coming through the living room window and a quiet dinner on the deck overlooking their backyard.

Francis was born June 8, a day before Shay's birthday and two weeks before Sasha's. Throw in Father's Day and it made for a month of celebrations. Not that anyone's complaining, of course.

It's been oh-so-long since I changed a diaper, fetched a bottle or wrestled with a car seat, so it was nice to be a spectator and see the joy that Shay and Sasha exhibit as young parents, nurturing and nuzzling their little guy. Um, make that their not-so little guy. At 21 inches, his height registered in the 93rd percentile of newborns.

Bootleg, master of the house

Francis was snoozing when we arrived just before 6:30 pm. After he woke up, it took him a little while to find his comfort zone -- maybe a diaper change had something to do with it. But by the time we left, just before 9 pm, he had settled into an alert but calm phase, eyes wide open and snuggled in Sasha's arms as we conversed with everyone, including their roommate Aaron.

We brought Otto along and he left having made a new friend in Bootleg.

There's much to appreciate in the cycle of life. As our elders pass away, their places on this planet are taken by shiny, new little people like Francis. One can only hope we leave the Earth in good enough shape that his and future generations can partake of the same opportunities -- educational, economic and environmental -- that we've been privileged to have.

The fourth child

With a nod to Esquire's "What I've Learned" feature...

OTTO REDE | RAPSCALLION, 5 YEARS OLD, PORTLAND, OREGON |
Interviewed by George Rede | Photograph by George Rede

Yeah, I've got a pretty sweet life. Ever since the oldest Rede kid moved out of the house last fall, I've pretty much had George and Lori to myself here in the new condo.

Sure, Rudy and Mabel live here, too. But, face it, they're cats. Cats are wusses. I'm the one they take for walks. I'm the one they take on vacation with them. I'm the one they fawn over. Heck, Lori even takes me to Fetch, the doggie day-care, once a week. I can't complain.

Sleeping arrangements? Got it made. Dude, I've got four beds on three floors in the condo, including two on the main level on the second floor. I can curl up near the window looking out to the street and growl at anyone I wanna hassle or I can crash on the pillow in front of the fake fireplace. Really nice during the winter months.

Of course, you won't find me in any of the beds at night. Nooooooo. I start out at the foot of their bed each night. And somehow, some way during the middle of the night, I wind up under the covers. Just like magic. This morning, I'd scooted up on one of the pillows, nearly nudged the old man off his side of the bed.

I miss Max. He was my buddy for a long time. Big guy -- half Lab, half Great Dane -- and black as night. Had a baritone bark but he was a softie. Poor guy had bad hips, so I used to run circles around him -- literally -- until one day he had enough and bit me under the chin. Still have the scar.

Soon I'll be missing Quimby too. She's pretty chill ... for a Chug. She belongs to Simone and Kyndall and I'm used to seeing her pretty regularly, mostly at her crib. She's got a big backyard and we always burn off some energy, doing laps like Nascar drivers on meth. Crazy. They call me Uncle Otto but I don't really get how we're related. Anyway, Quimby will be moving with her owners to Pittsburgh in about three weeks. We'll see if she keeps in touch.

Why do dogs lick themselves? Oh, come on. Because we can.

That thing about short-man syndrome? Not true when it comes to dogs. Why do you ask?

They call me Sheriff Otto. Something about always being on guard and keeping other dogs in their place. Hey, as long as I get three squares and a warm bed, they can call me anything they like.

The best thing about living with the Redes? That they think I'm "such a good boy." A regular choir boy. Seriously, I can do no wrong. Everyone knows Jack Russells are smart and cute. All I gotta do is cock my head and flash the baby browns and I got it made.