For Love of Dog

So there I am the other night, watching the season three finale of AMC's brilliant series, Breaking Bad. I'm absolutely riveted to the murky screen of my 16-year old RCA, holding my breath while waiting to see if Jesse kills Gale (I'm one season behind because I watch it through Netflix, so don't tell me what happens!).

Suddenly, I sense I'm being watched.

I turn to my right and there's my greyhound Elvis, lying on his La-Z-Dog Recliner next to the sofa, just as focused on me as I am on the TV. He's watching me with such intent adoration, I can practically see little hearts shooting from his eyes. This pup deserves a kiss.

So I stop the TV, lay on the pillow next to him and hold him tight, peppering his needle nose with kisses. It occurs to me that if I could get a man to look at me the way my dog does, I'd be the luckiest woman on earth.

Then Elvis tucks his knobby little head under my chin, leans against me, and heaves a sigh of contentment. And I realize, I already am.

Saying Goodbye

I was dreading this day.

Oh, I knew it was coming, but really thought there would be a change of heart and at the last minute my dear friend, Deb, would tell me that she and her husband weren't moving to North Carolina after all. "We've decided to stay in California!" she'd announce. And we'd crack open a bottle of our favorite Chardonnay, Wente Riva Ranch, and celebrate the good news.

No such luck.

And so, on Friday, I said goodbye to the woman I call my "there-there" friend. So named because of her amazing ability to make me laugh and believe that, "There, there, things are going to be all right."

Over dinner at a quaint little outdoor bistro, we each brought the other a farewell gift. Ironically, both hearts. I gave Deb a necklace with two small silver hearts to represent the heart of friendship and she gave me a beautiful glass paperweight. Perhaps to symbolize our heavy hearts over the miles that would soon separate us.

Oh sure, there's Skype. Email. Postings on Facebook and specials on JetBlue. But it won't be the same. Nothing is the same as sitting on the porch alongside that special friend on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Sharing deep thoughts, light banter and a giggle or two over a glass of wine.

And for the moment, really believing that, "There, there, things are going to be all right."

Making Peace

There she was. My nemesis. My arch enemy. The bitc...er, woman I had the shouting match with that I wrote about in my July 10th post. I'd concluded that post with the hope that I'd see her again one day so I could apologize for my behavior. 

Now, apologizing might sound like a really gracious thing, except deep down I'm not an especially gracious person. Wish I were, but nope. And while I might have liked to apologize in theory, the reality is that I never thought I'd see this woman again and damn, here she was, walking up the hill right towards me.
Gulp. Countdown to graciousness.
I did it. Stopped her and apologized. Explained that I had just learned that my other dog, the little white greyhound I was walking that morning, had a terminal illness and I was raw, upset and emotional. She asked how my dog was doing and I teared up when I told her that Lucy had died just days later. Her sympathy appeared sincere and profound.
Then she apologized too, explaining the reason behind her rude behavior. Just a couple years ago she and her dog were attacked by a stray. It was a vicious, bloody attack, she said, landing her in the hospital and her dog in emergency, both with multiple bites and required stitches. Now, when she hears a dog barking, she panics and freaks out.
Can't say I blame her. As I'd known for myself and suspected with her, driving forces had been behind our behavior during that first encounter. Sort of a Perfect Storm, if you will.
Her name is Ruth and I told her mine. We chatted a bit more, apologized again and then parted ways with a friendly, "See you 'round."
And I meant it. I think she did, too.

The Baffling Case of the Dog's Limp

-Treatments, pain pills and therapies: $2,000
-Specialists, X-rays, ultrasounds and MRIs: $2,500
-Removal of a corn wedged in his pad: Priceless

All My Children

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us."

~Helen Keller

Missing Lucy

In August 2009 my beloved mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer. And I remember coming home from that horrible appointment with that horrible doctor (Alrighty then! We have Cancer! How are we feeling today!) and going into some type of manic-cleaning rampage.

I swept, mopped and dusted. Took out the trash, polished figurines, rearranged knick-knacks, changed the linen, pulled weeds. Only later, after reading books about grief, did I learn that this type of reaction is typical. It's the subconscious desire to restore order in a life that has suddenly been turned upside down.

After euthanizing my sweet Lucy on Tuesday, I found myself again going through similar motions. Only this time I realized what I was doing. Throughout my home there were too many painful reminders of the dog that was no longer there, so I started cleaning. And cleaning.

I washed and stored Lucy's ceramic food and water bowls with the cute blue paw-print decorations. I took off the Fosters & Smith sofa-saver cover and the multiple blankets I'd added underneath as extra protection. I removed the Fosters & Smith bed scarf that she would lie on while resting her head on my chest as we slept, and put away the spare doggie-pillow that she used on nights when she didn't hog my bed. I collected her squeaky toys, the ones that Elvis doesn't like, to give to a neighbor's dog. I swept and vacuumed, white dog hair flying everywhere.

In the backyard, I removed several pots and artifacts that had been strategically placed to keep my naughty girl from digging holes. I took a bucket of bleach-water and scoured the yard, removing all traces of the toxic diarrhea that her disease-ridden body had spewed during her final hours. I scrubbed, hosed and sanitized.

Hours later, I was done. The house smelled like lavender, floors shone and tabletops sparkled. Rooms were now airy and spacious without the second set of beds, bowls, blankets and toys. There was no evidence of the many accommodations I had made when Lucy joined me and Elvis in my tiny townhouse after my mother died. The house was immaculate, order restored.

And I cried. Missing the chaos, missing the dog hair, missing the mess. Missing my little girl.

RIP Sweet Lucy

"Don't be sad because it's over. Smile because it happened."
~Author unknown

And Lucy made me smile more times than I can ever begin to count. Read about my little girl in the July 2011 issue of Northside Magazine.

My heart breaks for this sudden loss.