No, I’m not seriously requesting money. Let’s get that out of the way.
Rather, I’m sharing with you the listing for a property in Buffalo, NY that really ought not be on the market in a secular sense. Perhaps someone out there has the ear of a finance guy within a trad community who’d be interested in purchasing this place.
My view of the monastery property the last time I visited.
This property is the former home of the Discalced Carmelite nuns of Buffalo who now reside in Florida. They left the property within the past two years, if memory serves. Owing to a friend who previously belonged to the community, I spent many hours at this place – at Mass in the beautiful chapel, walking the grounds, even staying overnight in the guest quarters with my wife and children on one occasion.
I suspect I know what will happen. This will be snatched up by someone with no regard for the sacred nature of the place. Ultimately, it might become another “Vibiana” for those who know what I’m talking about. I foresee a future episode of whatever passes for a home renovation show featuring the old monastery and chapel.
Or, the same old nonsense we’ve come to expect. Take your pick.
The Pontifical Academy for Life tried to be clever by posting an Italian peace flag (in “pride” month) to make an obvious pro-sodomy statement that they could claim cover as the peace flag. Except they posted the actual sodomite flag, got caught, then reposted the peace flag. 🤦♂️ pic.twitter.com/eHeMzsed5z
— The Catholic Esquire (@EsquireCatholic) June 29, 2025
“Deus, qui hodiérnam diem Apostolórum tuórum Petri et Pauli martýrio consecrásti: da Ecclésiæ tuæ, eórum in ómnibus sequi præcéptum; per quos religiónis sumpsit exórdium. Per Dominum nostrum Iesum Christum, Filium tuum: qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum.”
“O God, Who made this day holy by the martyrdom of Your Apostle Peter and Paul, grant Your Church to follow in all things the teaching of those from whom she first received the faith.”
-collect of the Mass for the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul
Of all the fun things that happened over the past month on my early summer road trip, perhaps one of the most bizarre and eye-opening was a discovery that I will now attempt to describe to you.
Regular readers will note that I am a proud dog owner. So now is the part where I back up and give a little history. I’ve always been a dog guy. There’s just something about these furry little creatures with their loyalty and cuddliness that speaks to me and, I dare say, most men. They don’t call them “man’s best friend” for nothing. I remember as a lad of 13 telling my mom that I wanted a dog. In fact, I told her I wanted a yellow Labrador retriever because they had become a popular breed and I loved the look of the dog. I didn’t think anything would come of my request until one August New Jersey morning when Mom handed me the classified section of the Star Ledger with a circled ad. The whole preceding sentence makes me feel ancient. The ad began: “Free to a loving home…” and by the end of the day, yours truly had acquired a beautiful 2 year-old yellow Labrador retriever, fully trained and incredibly lovable. She really was a wonderful bitch and the teenage boy that I was never ceased to laugh at that joke.
And then she died. Hey, life is hard. Let’s just rip the band-aid off and get it over with. After four years and right as I was getting ready to head to college, Molly developed a bone cancer and we had to put her down. Although I was sad, I also felt a bit of relief. I had no idea who was going to take her on walks when I was away at school. I got over it soon but also I didn’t. I vowed that I would never own a dog again. If someone else owned a dog and wanted to let me play fetch with it all day long? That was fine. But as for me? I had determined not to be a dog owner ever again.
That’s why it came as a shock to me many years later when I inherited a dog from a women who is very much alive.
Flash forward to December of 2012. My father-in-law had died a few months earlier and my dear mother-in-law had decided to get a dog from the shelter. She wanted a small dog as a companion and for all of her grandkids (two of whom are mine) to have a doggy to play with when they were visiting. She went to the shelter and saw a dog that caught her eye – a little Jack Russell Terrier. She went home and prayed a full-on novena to St. Francis and returned to find that little guy still awaiting adoption. So she brought him home on Christmas Eve. My kids had been watching the movie Elf and named him Buddy. By the way, I discovered recently that the most popular names for dogs in America are Molly for girl dogs and Buddy for boys. Real original, huh?
All was well with Buddy for a year until Granny came down with a little case of cancer. Oh she’s golden now but there were a few days right before Christmas 2013 where she was hospitalized with the flu. I had been going over to her house to feed the dog and let him out. After about three such visits, I brought the dog to my house to make it easier on myself.
And he never left.
That’s it. She was happy to be rid of the responsibility and I was, begrudgingly, happy to have a furry friend once more. Also, he seemed to take to me really well. I must say, I never really liked small dogs. They don’t suit my personality or my own size. A man should have a man’s dog. Remember that Labrador? Yeah, great dog for a teenage boy. Now I’m kind of at the Irish Wolfhound stage of the game. But little Buddy, at all of 12 lbs. soaking wet? Well, he was something different. In fact, he really doesn’t check any of the boxes that I always associate with dogs. He won’t sit on your lap. He doesn’t lick your face. He lacks any energy unless he’s got the zoomies. Also, we discovered early on that he’s extraordinarily temperamental. As in, if you touch his leg the wrong way, he’ll bite your face off. Literally, people have had to get stitches. In fairness, they were warned. Also, he has killed at least two cats that we know of.
Yes, in fact, this tiny powerhouse quickly ingratiated himself with me. He sleeps on my bed. I’ve taught him scores of tricks. He goes ape for baby carrots. Nothing about this dog makes any sense but at the age of 15 we figured he’s earned the right to stick around for a while longer.
And then I found out his dirty little secret.
While visiting with a friend who’s finishing her veterinary training, I showed her a picture of my little guy. I have about 4,000 of them on my phone. He’s certainly photogenic. She took one look and said, “You know he’s half chihuahua, right?”
Slander!
I was so taken aback at the thought the one dog I swore I would never own might have somehow been hiding in plain sight in my house all this time.
But she was right as rain. I Googled it. Turns out he’s a breed called a Jack-chi. This lead to some obvious questions.
Was I going to have to call ICE on him? And more importantly, what cretin decided, “Hey! Let’s take the schizophrenia of a Jack Russell and cross it with the demon spawn from hell of a chihuahua?” Good Lord, this explains so much. That sensitive spot we always told guests not to touch? No, he’s just an asshole. So many questions and also so many answers… I grew up in a heavily Puerto Rican neighborhood. I suppose it was only natural that one of these overgrown rats would find his way into my heart. How could I have been so blind? I mean, I still kind of like the dog but this changes everything.
A chihuahua?!
Was the British Navy ever docked in Tijuana?
I imagine his sire probably drank too much tequila and maybe swallowed the worm.
How will I ever face reality again?
Then I came home.
He must have gotten word that I knew his secret. He came right up to me, looking and acting more Jack than Chi. I stooped down to pat him on the head. And staring right at me, my good boy gave me a lick on the face.
We will carry on together as if nothing has changed.
Hell, he’s probably only got a few more decades of life in him anyway.
Now that I know it, I can see more clearly. This was the boy after he solved his first Rubik’s Cube. Be easy on him, they’re color blind.
Friends, I have finally returned home and now, as Jessica Hahn once infamously said in a commercial for her 900-number phone scam, ” I can reveal the secrets I have heeeeeld for so long.”
You’ll be shocked and amazed about what I have to say about Harvey’s month-long early summer road trip. Because of course I’ll be doing this all again in about four weeks. Of course.
Let’s start with my favorite thing in the world, the daily sacrifice of the Mass. You all know of my great devotion to daily Mass. My dad instilled this in me at a young age. Side note: fathers, make the effort. You will not regret it. For the past several years, I have been blessed to have a priest-friend join our families at the Outer Banks beach house we rent each summer. Father says a TLM for us every morning. It is truly edifying. I have been his server at each of those Masses. My part is truly non-edifying. Unfortunately, this year, Father called me to say, last minute, that he had come down with some kind of bug and would not be able to join us. This was, to say the least, a bummer. But we pressed on and turned to prayer.
I asked Blessed Mother to assist us in finding a priest who would offer the venerable and august sacrifice in the ancient Roman rite.
What she gave me, instead, was a chance to reflect on the absence of Her Son and a fair amount of comic gold to boot. Let me explain.
On our very first day at the beach, I laid out in the sun, the peaceful sound of the gently crashing waves of the North Atlantic providing so much white noise. I pondered two things. The first was how I allowed myself to get so fat. Seriously, I was pretty jacked just a year ago. The second was how I was going to find a trad priest. On the first count, I realized that processed foods, a busy life preventing me from lifting as much as I used to, and general apathy contributed greatly. The second was an answer that evaded me. Until…
One of our friends came up to me and said, “Hey fatty, I think I just saw a priest.” My reply? “OK, you didn’t have to say that hurtful nonsense, you drunk, and two? I think you meant a puddy tat, not a pweest priest.”
We “conversated” as the mentally inept kids say and I discovered that he was being totally earnest. He had, out of the corner of his eye, seen a man in full cassock walking in the neighborhood. Since he probably saw two of these priests due to his alcoholism, I assumed that at least one of them must exist.
I hatched a plan quickly. I grabbed one of my nieces and we went on a priest hunt!
First stop: the house next door. Those people had seemed friendly when they approached us earlier on the sand asking to borrow a bottle opener. I picked up a bottle opener from inside the house and we went over and rang the bell. Well, they were indeed friendly. Turns out they’re from New Jersey because again, of course they are. They just thought it was the most amazing act of generosity that we stopped by to gift them something that wasn’t ours in the first place.
Then I dropped the bomb.
“By any chance, do you have a Catholic priest staying in this house with you?”
To my surprise, they didn’t bat an eye.
“Not us, but I think the house next to us does. We thought we saw a monk or something going in there earlier.”
A monk? This was getting stranger by the minute.
We said our good bye’s and took off for the house next door. This involved walking about three-quarters of a mile since there was a large dune in between the houses. When we knocked on the door, no one answered. But on the way back down the driveway something caught my eye. There was a car with a Virginia license plate, the bracket of which said, “CHAPLAIN”. Peeking into the rear window of the car I saw a garment bag with what appeared to be vestments hanging from a hook. We were getting close!
My niece and I ran back to our house and, taking out paper and pen and using my best Catholic school nun penmanship, I wrote the following or similar:
“Dear Father, We are a group of four families comprising about 50 people total who are staying two houses down from you. We usually have a priest with us but he couldn’t make it this year. Could you find it in your heart to come and offer Mass for us this week? There is a generous stipend attached. Sincerely in Christ, Harvey”
Granted, there were some other details about him not mocking me for looking like a beached orca but you get the idea.
I folded the note up and handed it to my niece and asked her to run it back and pin it under his windshield wiper.
Did I mention that I may or may not have also taken a picture of the license plate and that I may or may not but probably don’t because I’m not about to get anyone in any legal trouble, have submitted that photo to a friend in law enforcement to find out who owned the car? I didn’t mention that? Sorry. It’s kind of important if it actually happened.
And just as I was sipping on another splendidly refreshing Dutch Courage*, the cop I may have sent the picture to texted back.
“Vehicle is registered to St. Such and Such Russian Orthodox Monastery”.
I did a Danny Thomas spit take and I really do not like to waste gin.
As quickly as I had penned the letter, I jumped on the phone and called the niece.
“Hello?” she said as people do.
“ABORT ABORT ABORT!” I shouted as maniacs do. “He’s not one of us! He’s, he’s, he’s… valid but we can’t use him! Run back and get the letter but don’t let him see you!”
Boy, she loved me in that moment.
The next morning, we drove two hours to the nearest trad parish, laughing the whole way about our predicament the evening prior.
What am I to make of this? Well, as I mentioned, I believe the Blessed Mother may have been trying to teach me something about mourning the absence of Christ as she did on the first Holy Saturday. During the upcoming week, I was only able to make a weekday Mass once. But I did come to rely more heavily on the Rosary and to reflect on those dark times prophesied by Daniel about the Sacrifice disappearing for a while. How will we be ready? WILL we be ready?
I do not know the answers. Jessica Hahn did not know the answers. The Russian monk did not know the answers.
Folks, I got off all that social media nonsense a while ago. Sorry but I'm not on Twitbook, Facepalm, YouHu, WingWang or any of the others. Maybe an event will happen to make me change my mind like Peter and Paul coming down with flaming swords and commanding it be so. Until then, read the blog and if you feel a comment is in order or you feel like sharing a tip or suggestion for a topic, email me at harvey@harveymillican.com.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 