Here I sit, on the cusp of Father’s Day, feeling both with and without Father — while the earth has a fever and pirates run amuck. — I remember my father crying. I’m not sure when or at what age, though I could venture a guess — I was (perhaps) six. It was over our beagle. In my fifty-one years, I’ve witnessed men cry over dogs more than anything else. Men’s tears can be elusive, poignant, and…