When I divorced my children's father, I took the kids, the barest of furnishings, and my dog. I left much behind, including assets. It's the kind of decision most people never understand having to make until they themselves must do it. I was criticized by people close to me for leaving the house, the 401K, the wedding china. I was even asked by the movers if I was sure what I was taking was all I was taking as they loaded up about half the space of a small truck. I was okay, I said. I had my kids and my dog, I said. Friends moved us into my sister's rental home, and we settled in for a new life, my kids and my dog, and we were as okay as we could be, but Buster missed Dakota, as he had spent about a decade with her in our former life.
I culled through the belongings I had and sold many of them on Craigslist or at a garage sale to help pay bills. I watched shards of that former life go away and pondered both the grief and adventure of it all. I put my daughter in therapy to coach her through shock and change, and braced myself for the rebellion of my youngest, who was too young for therapy. I did not miss the big house nor the man in it. I did not miss the many belongings (except for a pasta bowl set, which I had really liked). And it was ok, because I had my kids... and my dog-- yet he was growing more and more depressed.
Worried Buster would not survive without his mate, I eventually returned him to my children's father. I had volunteered to take Dakota too and care for them both, but it was an all or nothing choice when he refused to let go of her, a choice I could understand. My dog was so suddenly like the baby brought to the court of King Solomon. You know the story-- the mother, out of love and the desire to preserve life, would rather give her child to another than divide and therefore kill. My dog, whom I had adored for all his quirks--who had an obsession for peeing on my ex's belongings, would sleep perched on the pitch of a dog house roof, wore an extremely comedic expression on his wrinkled face, killed a beaver in our backyard and bore the scars, hated snow, and loved to steal my daughter's rag doll-- was no longer mine. Yet unlike the baby that was eventually restored with his birth mother in that old tale, Buster would never be able to come home with me. And I was fine, I said, because I had my kids and I did the right thing for the dog. It gave me comfort to know he was happy with his mate. But two or three years later, Dakota having grown older and passed, Buster died too, and I grieved as though he had been with me all along. By then I had remarried, was caring for my husband's old husky, and had relocated hundreds of miles away. I had never regretted returning Buster to his former home, but his absence loomed larger than ever. While I would swear to my husband that we weren't getting another dog when our husky would pass (her hair, her random shitting about the house), I found myself shopping online in my spare time. I would visit the adoption center on Saturdays. And this Christmas, I found a litter of puppies up for adoption, told the kids I would think about it, and then a month later, after wringing my hands over the impracticality of bringing home a new dog to train, I learned a puppy in that precious litter was still available, and adopted him. It was a hard decision. It was also the right one.
Toby is my dog, a dog that lies in resigned hopelessness when I leave for work in the morning. He functions as a therapy dog for my son, company for my daughter after school, and a sentry to my home. He has been easy to train, sweet, forgiving, and devoted. And he has been excellent company on mornings like this one, when my husband is occupied elsewhere, my kids are gone with their dad for the summer, and I am feeling the absence of my husband's husky, Sydni.
Nearly two weeks ago, we called a mobile veterinarian to help Syd pass from suffering and old age into the great beyond. My husband wrote his ex-wife and his daughters with the news of his decision. In veritable prose, he described Sydni as going to a place where she could again climb fences, chase rabbits, and snatch salmon from wild streams. Like saying goodbye to Buster that first time, I knew then and still know this was the right decision, one that provided relief. But this morning, I thought about her stable, fuzzy presence, the charm of her contented smile when she napped, and her ceaseless giving of her "fur babies," which my kids and I would roll between our fingers when we plucked loose her shedding coat. When I was struggling to adjust to life in a new city in a new family arrangement, I would stroke her and tell her everything I wasn't telling others, and she would silently take it all in, letting me tickle her ears and play with her tail. I can say now though, that I am ok-- that our old husky lived to make sure we would all be okay, and having seen that, and the entry of a new puppy to our home, she was ready to go.
I am a practical person, one for whom there is always, as a college girlfriend once said to me, a means to my madness. I do nothing without a solid reason for doing so. I make careful, well-deliberated decisions. But I am a fool for dogs.
I love dogs. Loved them before I was even allowed or able to have one. I love the furry bodies, wagging tails, and insistent noses. I love that dogs have facial expressions with eyebrows that raise, furrow, relax. I love that dogs are so forgiving and so friendly. I love ears that perk and flop and puppy cankles and toe feathers and drippy jowls. Much to be said for dogs. My husband and I are both aware of the power of a dog, especially dogs that survive the end of your previous relationship, sit with you when you are sick, and help you in your tasks (chewing on your socks while you are trying to put them on). We love the heavy sigh the puppy gives when he settles down to sleep, the manner in which he drops his rope toy into our laps for play, or the way he obligingly lets us put his gentle leader on his nose for walks. Oh, much to be said for dogs.
It has been the year of the dog for us, seeing one die peacefully at home, her fuzzy head cradled by my husband, my hand feeling her side rise and fall for that final breath; and for bringing home one mellow, sprawling puppy who thinks playtime is 3:40 in the morning, and who, as he rests at my feet even now, provides a restful, comforting presence, and one of hope. We are going to be okay. We are okay.
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
At least he's quiet...
Bill Cosby once spoke of a dinner out with his wife and very young son. At one point, the child was lying on the floor between tables of diners. Bill and his wife deliberated over whether or not to tell the child to get up, and then suddenly Bill's wife said, "At least he's quiet."
There is much to be said for quiet. At the office the other day, as I spoke to one of my colleagues, her child, whom I hadn't known was there, darted out from her cube into the open and proceeded to practice karate moves in the common area. My friend heaved a sigh. "At least he's quiet," I said.
My mom used to say over and over again that children should be seen and not heard. I used to despise that line of old school thought, but much can be said about not having to listen to whining, banging, or any of the other chaotic noises that accompany children. Seeing the squirt bounce about and having to listen to him tearing apart the house are two different concepts.
I never quote my mother's adage, but my children have still picked up my craving for peace and project it onto their own situations. This morning, our floppy-eared puppy bounded into bed between my son and me. He rolled around for a snuggle and waltzed about the bed squishing us in the process.
"Ugh!" I cried, shoving the dog off the bed.
"At least he's quiet," said Tiny.
There is much to be said for quiet. At the office the other day, as I spoke to one of my colleagues, her child, whom I hadn't known was there, darted out from her cube into the open and proceeded to practice karate moves in the common area. My friend heaved a sigh. "At least he's quiet," I said.
My mom used to say over and over again that children should be seen and not heard. I used to despise that line of old school thought, but much can be said about not having to listen to whining, banging, or any of the other chaotic noises that accompany children. Seeing the squirt bounce about and having to listen to him tearing apart the house are two different concepts.
I never quote my mother's adage, but my children have still picked up my craving for peace and project it onto their own situations. This morning, our floppy-eared puppy bounded into bed between my son and me. He rolled around for a snuggle and waltzed about the bed squishing us in the process.
"Ugh!" I cried, shoving the dog off the bed.
"At least he's quiet," said Tiny.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Good-Bye, Buster.
My children's father and I had two dogs together, both of whom I had to reluctantly leave behind when the marriage ended; the dogs, of the "his and her" variety, could not be separated. His old girl had to be put to sleep last year, and this weekend, my dog crossed the rainbow bridge to be with her. The sweetest and saddest moment was my ex's description of how Buster was found--with the family's two-year-old Malamute curled up around him. The two buddies had chosen the shade of a tree we had long ago planted as the place of final rest. As my ex and his family were out of town, the dog sitter lovingly buried my pup where he was found. My ex's words were that the hardship of the dog's passing was its representation of the past--the shared past. I find this kind and sweet, but I buried that notion with the first dog. With this one, I was simply sad that I hadn't been there, that during a recent visit to my former home, I hadn't walked the extra twenty feet to call my old dog one last time.
To Buster, the best "bad dog" there ever was, know that I loved you. I loved you for the way you balanced on the pitch of the dog house roof and slept up there like Snoopy. I loved you for the way you peed on only my ex-husband's things (his car tires, his golf bag, his shirts). I loved you for how you sniffed and snarfed and comically blinked at me, all while wagging your tail and challenging me to a game of chase. You let me play with the wrinkles on your Sharpei face and toy with the slight curl in your tail. I will never forget how when you were a puppy, you would clamp your teeth around Dakota's fluffy tail and drag her backwards around the yard. In my head, I still hold a picture of you gleefully relishing my daughter's old doll, the expression of "what's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine" in your precious button eyes. Leaving you once was hard enough, but deep in my heart, I know you'll never be gone forever.
To Buster, the best "bad dog" there ever was, know that I loved you. I loved you for the way you balanced on the pitch of the dog house roof and slept up there like Snoopy. I loved you for the way you peed on only my ex-husband's things (his car tires, his golf bag, his shirts). I loved you for how you sniffed and snarfed and comically blinked at me, all while wagging your tail and challenging me to a game of chase. You let me play with the wrinkles on your Sharpei face and toy with the slight curl in your tail. I will never forget how when you were a puppy, you would clamp your teeth around Dakota's fluffy tail and drag her backwards around the yard. In my head, I still hold a picture of you gleefully relishing my daughter's old doll, the expression of "what's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine" in your precious button eyes. Leaving you once was hard enough, but deep in my heart, I know you'll never be gone forever.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
In the Order of Importance
Last night, my four-year-old son called from his vacation with step-family in Puerto Rico and asked immediately to speak to the dog. When he learned that she was unavailable (outside taking care of important dog business), he then asked for his step-father.
"Did you hear that?" I asked Jujubee. "Where am I on that list?"
"Well," she said, "notice he didn't ask for Chester."
Nice to know I share the bottom rung with the family rabbit.
"Did you hear that?" I asked Jujubee. "Where am I on that list?"
"Well," she said, "notice he didn't ask for Chester."
Nice to know I share the bottom rung with the family rabbit.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Top Ten Signs of Blogworthiness
I know I've written a good blog when I reread it hours after the last set of proofs and tinkers, and I find myself laughing again. And one good blog triggers another. I have begun to feel very chicken-and-egg about blogging--does the event trigger the blog or does the blogging make the event noteworthy? Nevertheless, here are some of the signs I have learned that show me when an event is blogworthy or when a blog is going to entertain:
1. When my husband does something and says about it later: It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wonder if he'll be saying that about the motorcycle he bought a year ago that he will finally be bringing home from storage this summer. Frankly, I see myself with a hard cast up to the hip after my first-ever motorcycle ride saying the same thing. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
2. Anything my son does involving what a girlfriend of mine calls "Shit-iroshima". You can draw a conclusion about what this might mean based on the fact that we now call Friday night's 3 AM vomiting session "Puke-asaki". I have yet to write about it, but then I have written before about the mass eruption that is children's barfing. Do we really need to go there again? Yes. Yes, we do.
3. When an event is a metaphor for something else, the event is now blogworthy. For example, the day my dog died, the dog I once shared with my ex-husband. Enough said.
4. When a lesson is learned. For example, why I should never shop with my children. And this week I learned another new lesson: I should have ignored my son when he asked me if using the middle finger was bad. I said yes, and today he willfully and knowingly shot his sister the bird. He's not even five. I have so much to learn.
5. When I eat something so incredible I immediately transcend time and space, my five senses become electrified, and I swear I'm having a foodgasm. I wish I had taken the time to describe every breakfast I ate at Cafe Pasqual's in Santa Fe, New Mexico this year. I love food. I think food is amazing. It's multi-sensory, sexual, comforting, basic, extreme, and a mastery of chemical reaction both in creation and consumption--all at once.
6. When I experience something that I know will directly relate to a reader, a common topic, and put a twist on it you didn't see coming. Or maybe, I put something out there that I never could have said at the kitchen table growing up, like my friend Jay's line in this post: http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/12/facebook-vs-blogger.html. It's a super short post. You'll know the line when you see it.
7. And when I experience something inspiring or life-changing. The posts about New Mexico are particularly examples of that.
8. Anytime I have to explain sex to my daughter. Remember this one? http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/05/joy-of-sex-education.html And just recently, we had a whole separate discussion when someone let my daughter watch an inappropriate film. And I quote: "Mom, I thought the guy's thingie went into the girl's thingie like this." She made a gesture. I said yes, that that was true. "Ok, but I just saw this movie where this girl was in love with two guys and one of them got her from behind." You can imagine the phone calls I had to place after THAT.
9. When the small moments are really big moments. I went to a children's talent show at my daughter's school this weekend. Those awkward displays of burgeoning (or failing) talent were beautiful. I have never seen so many brave young people. I watched one little girl sing "Yesterday" by the Beatles. She fought her nerves the entire time--stopping to fight tears, dropping words, and still managing to finish. I haven't even seen that many grown ups present themselves so vulnerably and courageously.
10. Love. Joy. Any moment that makes those things blossom in my heart and any moment that marks loss or transition relating to those things. My blog posts have run the gamut from self-indulgent to self-deprecating, but what I want to share the most is love. Like I said to someone this week, life is hard, but I would rather live celebrating its good moments. I hope that comes through on this blog. My life mission is to connect with others, make their living a better experience than it might have been otherwise. I hope that all the joys and trials of life that I have chosen to so neatly pen here in this blog are an element of that desire to love, share love, and be loved.
Happy reading! And as ever, thanks for coming back here again and again.
1. When my husband does something and says about it later: It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wonder if he'll be saying that about the motorcycle he bought a year ago that he will finally be bringing home from storage this summer. Frankly, I see myself with a hard cast up to the hip after my first-ever motorcycle ride saying the same thing. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
2. Anything my son does involving what a girlfriend of mine calls "Shit-iroshima". You can draw a conclusion about what this might mean based on the fact that we now call Friday night's 3 AM vomiting session "Puke-asaki". I have yet to write about it, but then I have written before about the mass eruption that is children's barfing. Do we really need to go there again? Yes. Yes, we do.
3. When an event is a metaphor for something else, the event is now blogworthy. For example, the day my dog died, the dog I once shared with my ex-husband. Enough said.
4. When a lesson is learned. For example, why I should never shop with my children. And this week I learned another new lesson: I should have ignored my son when he asked me if using the middle finger was bad. I said yes, and today he willfully and knowingly shot his sister the bird. He's not even five. I have so much to learn.
5. When I eat something so incredible I immediately transcend time and space, my five senses become electrified, and I swear I'm having a foodgasm. I wish I had taken the time to describe every breakfast I ate at Cafe Pasqual's in Santa Fe, New Mexico this year. I love food. I think food is amazing. It's multi-sensory, sexual, comforting, basic, extreme, and a mastery of chemical reaction both in creation and consumption--all at once.
6. When I experience something that I know will directly relate to a reader, a common topic, and put a twist on it you didn't see coming. Or maybe, I put something out there that I never could have said at the kitchen table growing up, like my friend Jay's line in this post: http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/12/facebook-vs-blogger.html. It's a super short post. You'll know the line when you see it.
7. And when I experience something inspiring or life-changing. The posts about New Mexico are particularly examples of that.
8. Anytime I have to explain sex to my daughter. Remember this one? http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/05/joy-of-sex-education.html And just recently, we had a whole separate discussion when someone let my daughter watch an inappropriate film. And I quote: "Mom, I thought the guy's thingie went into the girl's thingie like this." She made a gesture. I said yes, that that was true. "Ok, but I just saw this movie where this girl was in love with two guys and one of them got her from behind." You can imagine the phone calls I had to place after THAT.
9. When the small moments are really big moments. I went to a children's talent show at my daughter's school this weekend. Those awkward displays of burgeoning (or failing) talent were beautiful. I have never seen so many brave young people. I watched one little girl sing "Yesterday" by the Beatles. She fought her nerves the entire time--stopping to fight tears, dropping words, and still managing to finish. I haven't even seen that many grown ups present themselves so vulnerably and courageously.
10. Love. Joy. Any moment that makes those things blossom in my heart and any moment that marks loss or transition relating to those things. My blog posts have run the gamut from self-indulgent to self-deprecating, but what I want to share the most is love. Like I said to someone this week, life is hard, but I would rather live celebrating its good moments. I hope that comes through on this blog. My life mission is to connect with others, make their living a better experience than it might have been otherwise. I hope that all the joys and trials of life that I have chosen to so neatly pen here in this blog are an element of that desire to love, share love, and be loved.
Happy reading! And as ever, thanks for coming back here again and again.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Apocalypse Not
Last night at 6 PM, my neighbors and I broke out wine, fired up the grill, and celebrated the un-apocalypse. Not that I ever for a second thought that Harold Camping was correct (and I am sure he will invent some kind of reason for his erroneous prediction), but at one point I did look over at my dog, who was enjoying the attention of the children in our company, and think that of all the goodness in the earth, should the Lord sweep down to this troubled place to save the good, the perfect, the gentle, and the pure, He would take my dog as one of those souls.
She's still here, so I suppose that the end of the world did not begin... unless of course, she chose to suffer with us. Syd lies behind me raising an eyebrow at me whenever I look away from my keyboard toward her. My Siberian princess with her snow toes, as I call them, and delightful canine smile, rests contentedly in this house full of love and children. Of all the indefinite choices that abound in a given day, the surety of existing in a place where the food bowl magically refills twice a day and where attentive hands tend her--maybe that is a nicer choicer for her.
Syd really doesn't deliberate the apocalypse, anyhow. The rabbit, however, does. I checked him in his house on the deck after supper, and he was still here and furious about it. He said he'd given all his novels away, forgave the dog for being allowed to live full time in the house, and donated his stash of Rabbit Party Snacks (there is such a thing) to the Malvern Rabbit Association--all in advent of the massive supposed-to-happen event. He's back there right now, moaning and counting his losses. I suppose he'll need some kind of therapy, some kind of reassurance. He did say at least the dog didn't make it into heaven either. He could live with that.
She's still here, so I suppose that the end of the world did not begin... unless of course, she chose to suffer with us. Syd lies behind me raising an eyebrow at me whenever I look away from my keyboard toward her. My Siberian princess with her snow toes, as I call them, and delightful canine smile, rests contentedly in this house full of love and children. Of all the indefinite choices that abound in a given day, the surety of existing in a place where the food bowl magically refills twice a day and where attentive hands tend her--maybe that is a nicer choicer for her.
Syd really doesn't deliberate the apocalypse, anyhow. The rabbit, however, does. I checked him in his house on the deck after supper, and he was still here and furious about it. He said he'd given all his novels away, forgave the dog for being allowed to live full time in the house, and donated his stash of Rabbit Party Snacks (there is such a thing) to the Malvern Rabbit Association--all in advent of the massive supposed-to-happen event. He's back there right now, moaning and counting his losses. I suppose he'll need some kind of therapy, some kind of reassurance. He did say at least the dog didn't make it into heaven either. He could live with that.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
He Ain't Ugly; He's My Dog
I had a drink with neighbors this weekend as they barbecued for company. They were still laughing about my complaint to them Friday when I came home to find about six screaming girls trampling my lawn, the chaos confusing not just me but an awful looking little dog who had come with them. I had walked next door and asked this simple question:
"Why are there two hundred girls on my lawn and one ugly-ass dog tied to my porch?"
It didn't take long to sort matters out, the girls having come to retrieve my daughter early for a slumber party she was attending a block away. I still don't understand, however, the puggle with the underbite.
We're spoiled enough here to have a gloriously beautiful dog, the kind of dog, my husband says, was a supermodel in her former life. And she is, appearance aside, an excellent dog. Of course, I have always claimed to love an ugly dog because I used to have a sharpei who looked through his wrinkles in perpetual concern for me. But there is unconventional beauty, and then there is ugly.
The puggle is not my preferred breed of ugly-cute, but she is an affectionate dog, and someone loves her. I recently came across a wonderful article in Oprah about a woman who falls in love with an ugly dog; the picture of it was fairly off-putting. I have seen the ugliest of dogs at barns for some reason (guess you wouldn't want the beasts in your house either), but I think the ugly-beats-all award should go to this particular Chinese Crested named Sam:
Just looking at the dog makes me need therapy.
"Why are there two hundred girls on my lawn and one ugly-ass dog tied to my porch?"
It didn't take long to sort matters out, the girls having come to retrieve my daughter early for a slumber party she was attending a block away. I still don't understand, however, the puggle with the underbite.
We're spoiled enough here to have a gloriously beautiful dog, the kind of dog, my husband says, was a supermodel in her former life. And she is, appearance aside, an excellent dog. Of course, I have always claimed to love an ugly dog because I used to have a sharpei who looked through his wrinkles in perpetual concern for me. But there is unconventional beauty, and then there is ugly.
The puggle is not my preferred breed of ugly-cute, but she is an affectionate dog, and someone loves her. I recently came across a wonderful article in Oprah about a woman who falls in love with an ugly dog; the picture of it was fairly off-putting. I have seen the ugliest of dogs at barns for some reason (guess you wouldn't want the beasts in your house either), but I think the ugly-beats-all award should go to this particular Chinese Crested named Sam:
Just looking at the dog makes me need therapy.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Imagining Pants
The latest running joke in the house is that our dog wears pants. I am not sure why it started, and it may have been something suggested by the rabbit, but this is a definite topic of conversation lately. Today, I got a text from my husband that our dog preferred the laundry room to the outside. (I can no longer leave her in the house when no one is home. She gets lonely. She rebels. She poops under the baby grand piano in the living room.) I texted back to my husband that of course she prefers the laundry room, as that is where she washes her pants. Instantly, I could see her in all her full, fuzzy husky glory, slipping out of her red satin pajama bottoms and tossing them into the wash. I just wish she would wash her dog blanket as well.
This Sunday at dinner, my son asked why our dog poops under the piano. I quoted my husband, who was not here at the time.
“Because, it is a magic canopy and it makes her poop disappear,” I said.
“She thinks her poop is invisible,” added my daughter.
My son seemed satisfied with these answers and we moved onto non-fecal dinner conversation. In the meantime, the dog lay at our feet. She was thinking about her pants, I said to the children.
Last night at dinner, my daughter announced the dog’s newest outfit: a purple dress with matching hat. She said our old dog, a Sharpei that still lives out his existence in the home of my former life, once wore a tutu. I had forgotten about this, but he did. Such is the life in an imaginative household. We had even danced with him as he wore my daughter’s tutu.
Mid-morning today, I received a note from my youngest step-daughter. She said she had two pet mice, plastic ones. So I asked the most obvious question: Do they were pants?
And so it goes.
This Sunday at dinner, my son asked why our dog poops under the piano. I quoted my husband, who was not here at the time.
“Because, it is a magic canopy and it makes her poop disappear,” I said.
“She thinks her poop is invisible,” added my daughter.
My son seemed satisfied with these answers and we moved onto non-fecal dinner conversation. In the meantime, the dog lay at our feet. She was thinking about her pants, I said to the children.
Last night at dinner, my daughter announced the dog’s newest outfit: a purple dress with matching hat. She said our old dog, a Sharpei that still lives out his existence in the home of my former life, once wore a tutu. I had forgotten about this, but he did. Such is the life in an imaginative household. We had even danced with him as he wore my daughter’s tutu.
Mid-morning today, I received a note from my youngest step-daughter. She said she had two pet mice, plastic ones. So I asked the most obvious question: Do they were pants?
And so it goes.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Gas is a Blast
We have an old, flatulent dog. She glories in the slip of deadly methane from her bum. Considering her special diet, extremely limited treats, and hardly any table food, I don’t know how the horrid fumes originate. Yesterday, I was sitting on the floor reading with my little son when the dog walked by. I looked up in sudden shock and horror. This was not your usual gas blast.
“Son! Did you toot?”
“No.”
I did not believe him. I checked his pants to make sure he had not dropped a load of goods in there. Once he was deemed free and clear, I went to examine the dog. Had she rolled in a dead critter in the backyard? No, but trailing her lightly now was a sample of something the Nazis once would have bottled and used at war. I hoped this was a one time deal, but minutes later, my step-daughter cried out the dog’s name from the other room.
Oh, yes. Gas is a blast-- especially when the one to blame actually is the dog. She is asleep near my feet as I write, but every so often, a fetid breeze washes my way. I think my tear ducts are actually disintegrating.
“Son! Did you toot?”
“No.”
I did not believe him. I checked his pants to make sure he had not dropped a load of goods in there. Once he was deemed free and clear, I went to examine the dog. Had she rolled in a dead critter in the backyard? No, but trailing her lightly now was a sample of something the Nazis once would have bottled and used at war. I hoped this was a one time deal, but minutes later, my step-daughter cried out the dog’s name from the other room.
Oh, yes. Gas is a blast-- especially when the one to blame actually is the dog. She is asleep near my feet as I write, but every so often, a fetid breeze washes my way. I think my tear ducts are actually disintegrating.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Dakota: August 1995-July 2010
The relationship between former spouses is both strange and estranged. My children’s father and I are greatly wary of one another. This man, understandably reluctant to see his children move out of state, played dirty in a most unfortunate way. Instead of being honest, not that any of us expected him to develop that forever-elusive-to-him quality (hence divorce in the first place), he lied about his intentions and actions, dillydallied, sued me, and tried to have me arrested. Things ended fairly well for the children and I, all things considered, but we all bear the marks of the trauma by having a rather cautionary relationship with him. Still, I try to remember he is human. I try to remember that his obnoxiousness and manipulation is a reflection of deeply-rooted anger and insecurity that has never been my job to abate, even though when I lived with him, I thought it was.
This week, broken by new loss, he reached out rather humbly. The dog we raised together, one of two I had to leave behind when we ended our marriage, would have seen her fifteenth birthday this August. Two days ago, Dakota crossed the rainbow bridge in a difficult but loving decision by my ex-husband. We had discussed the symptoms of her impending death and vast discomfort. I had sent all the pictures of the old girl that I had. I then had reminded him that doing the right thing required courage—something I know very well, as the last year of my life required tremendous guts to persist, to fight, and to stand up against him.
I mused this week about the peculiar duality that exists within humans, the ability to hold two opposing sets of feelings, or to think one way and let one’s actions completely override that thought. This man is a difficult man, yet the grief of his losing his dog is a sudden sacred valley, and I was able to counsel him gently. Of course, this was once my dog, too.
I wish I could say that the moment of loss this week would start a new place of peace in our relationship. It will not, however. When the grief for our beloved creature wears to a comfortable memory, he will again find opportunities to express the hostility and desire for control that I experienced for the last several years. I will again have to make hard decisions about how to promote a relationship between him and the children, yet protect them at the same time. He will never see nor understand the effects his behavior has on others. I have accepted this.
In the meantime, our first dog is now gone forever. The night before last, I dreamed about her. We went for walk at the lake near my childhood home. At one point, I went to call Dakota home to me, but she was swimming in cold, extremely choppy, brown waves. I could not enter the water. I knew doing so would endanger me as well and we would both be lost. I stood afraid at the foot of the concrete-stepped wall that separated lake from city, and watched her try to clamor for safety upon a buoy.
Like the marriage I once left, I could not save her.
This week, broken by new loss, he reached out rather humbly. The dog we raised together, one of two I had to leave behind when we ended our marriage, would have seen her fifteenth birthday this August. Two days ago, Dakota crossed the rainbow bridge in a difficult but loving decision by my ex-husband. We had discussed the symptoms of her impending death and vast discomfort. I had sent all the pictures of the old girl that I had. I then had reminded him that doing the right thing required courage—something I know very well, as the last year of my life required tremendous guts to persist, to fight, and to stand up against him.
I mused this week about the peculiar duality that exists within humans, the ability to hold two opposing sets of feelings, or to think one way and let one’s actions completely override that thought. This man is a difficult man, yet the grief of his losing his dog is a sudden sacred valley, and I was able to counsel him gently. Of course, this was once my dog, too.
I wish I could say that the moment of loss this week would start a new place of peace in our relationship. It will not, however. When the grief for our beloved creature wears to a comfortable memory, he will again find opportunities to express the hostility and desire for control that I experienced for the last several years. I will again have to make hard decisions about how to promote a relationship between him and the children, yet protect them at the same time. He will never see nor understand the effects his behavior has on others. I have accepted this.
In the meantime, our first dog is now gone forever. The night before last, I dreamed about her. We went for walk at the lake near my childhood home. At one point, I went to call Dakota home to me, but she was swimming in cold, extremely choppy, brown waves. I could not enter the water. I knew doing so would endanger me as well and we would both be lost. I stood afraid at the foot of the concrete-stepped wall that separated lake from city, and watched her try to clamor for safety upon a buoy.
Like the marriage I once left, I could not save her.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Barks in Translation
The family dog prances up and down while we pour her food into the bowl each day. She scoots immediately to her dinner dishes, sniffs to make sure her meal is there, looks at us, and calmly walks away. The kibble still rests untouched in the bowl. Why? Why does she do this?
There are some things I cannot understand about the dog, such as why she insists on pooping under the piano at night, or why she pulls paper out of the garbage cans during the day. I have asked her why, but she does not give a reason.
She is our dog, one of our pack, so there are some things that I can translate having spent much time with her the last couple of years. If I come home and she is waiting, she will howl something that sounds much like this: Where have you been? Why were you gone so long? And why did you leave me? And then she will lie down suddenly grudgeless and content, her behind touching the chair of my desk. She can roll her eyes, just like my daughter can, in an expression that reads, “Can you please take the small boy off me?” She has learned to tattle on him, too. She barks at him and then runs to look at me with those large, perfectly blue eyes and says, “Hey, did you see that?” She’ll even sit in on the resulting discipline of my son and smile gently about it. My favorite thing she says is the clear and enthusiastic ROWF in the middle of the day when she says it’s time to play outside. Yes, this ROWF is why we have a dog. We love her and the way she talks to us.
These days, she is an old dog. She heaves her stiff legs and bulky body up the stairs at night and will glance back at whoever is chaperoning her ascent as if to say, “Dude. Why did you put the bed up here?” In her age, she has gained wisdom, and will lie close to us when we need comfort. She cannot tell us how to solve our problems nor can she bring medicine, but she knows her warmth and fuzziness somehow make it all better.
I love this dog, understanding or not. She was my husband’s before she was ours, and I love her for that, too. Considering our often hectic schedules, she is a constant presence, and a soothing one. I cannot imagine life in this house without her. My husband, knowing that we will be lucky to have even another year with this dog, is moved to silence when he strokes her, conveying through the pressure of his moving hand, all his love for her, something that is perfectly understood.
There are some things I cannot understand about the dog, such as why she insists on pooping under the piano at night, or why she pulls paper out of the garbage cans during the day. I have asked her why, but she does not give a reason.
She is our dog, one of our pack, so there are some things that I can translate having spent much time with her the last couple of years. If I come home and she is waiting, she will howl something that sounds much like this: Where have you been? Why were you gone so long? And why did you leave me? And then she will lie down suddenly grudgeless and content, her behind touching the chair of my desk. She can roll her eyes, just like my daughter can, in an expression that reads, “Can you please take the small boy off me?” She has learned to tattle on him, too. She barks at him and then runs to look at me with those large, perfectly blue eyes and says, “Hey, did you see that?” She’ll even sit in on the resulting discipline of my son and smile gently about it. My favorite thing she says is the clear and enthusiastic ROWF in the middle of the day when she says it’s time to play outside. Yes, this ROWF is why we have a dog. We love her and the way she talks to us.
These days, she is an old dog. She heaves her stiff legs and bulky body up the stairs at night and will glance back at whoever is chaperoning her ascent as if to say, “Dude. Why did you put the bed up here?” In her age, she has gained wisdom, and will lie close to us when we need comfort. She cannot tell us how to solve our problems nor can she bring medicine, but she knows her warmth and fuzziness somehow make it all better.
I love this dog, understanding or not. She was my husband’s before she was ours, and I love her for that, too. Considering our often hectic schedules, she is a constant presence, and a soothing one. I cannot imagine life in this house without her. My husband, knowing that we will be lucky to have even another year with this dog, is moved to silence when he strokes her, conveying through the pressure of his moving hand, all his love for her, something that is perfectly understood.
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