I stand corrected and in costume

On Sunday morning my dad was welcomed in his capacity as CEO of the plastic insulation project that my captain and I were stapling to my old screen porch. 

My dad is very good at many things, including it would seem, catching my misuse of the English language when he read last week’s column.

“It’s not a gander of geese, it’s a gaggle,” he said, standing there.

My captain piped up in concurrence, “a gander is a male goose as in—what’s good for the goose, is good for the gander,” officially outnumbering my bid to protest. 

And then, while working a pair of pliers, while standing on a ladder and pulling out all the staples I’d left in the wood last spring after I ripped off the plastic, my captain spilled out of most of the ‘Goosey Goosey Gander” nursery rhyme.

Surprised by this recitation and raising my eyebrow to meet that of Dr. Spock I thought to myself,  “Hmmm, my captain is wise in sweet form AND a man of mystery.” Not to mention that he’s all for finishing the project at hand.

‘Check,’ went the pencil to the list in my head.

So later that day when my captain departed for his neck of the woods and his own household projects earmarked for completion, I swallowed back the urge to ask the big question.

But then, just as he drove out of the driveway, I waved my arms and shouted, “Wait! Could you come back? I have spiders in the basement!”

Alas, I was too late as my voice fell unheard and wayside in the distance.

I pouted for five minutes and then channeled “Yosemite Sam,” ate some chocolate, grew some nerve, put on my big girl pants, and got suited up for the dreaded trip downstairs to clean and to face my archenemy. 

With a fear of spiders dropping by the handfuls from the basement ceiling, I figured a solid unit of headgear wouldn’t hurt. I rummaged in the tea towel drawer and found an old triangle of cloth, wrapped it around my head, and tucked in my ear lobes. 

I donned my leather work gloves, a pair of safety goggles, stuck my feet in some old gum rubbers, and unscrewed the broom handle to use as a weapon—good for whacking inanimate objects from a distance that may be home to unwanted horribles.

As I descended the staircase to the basement, I chanted about all the really good things that I was going to do to de-stress when this chore was all over—hot shower, more chocolate and Frank Sinatra music.

Through sweat and toil I tackled dust bunnies and spiders including the biggest and meanest-looking ones that jumped out of their webbed traps when I doused them with the “evil spray can of death.” They could be heard hitting the basement floor—and for the ones that tried to make a run for it, escape was futile. The broom handle came in handy.

“Millie” the cat was stretched out snoozing at the top of the stairs when I clamored up from the basement, sweaty and out of breath.

She took one look at me, and with bulging eyes of terror, jumped straight to the ceiling and around the top of the wall before escaping like a shot through a crack in the porch door.  

Then I glanced in the mirror.

Lord have mercy. It was a stroke of luck that my captain didn’t return to my doorstep that day to retrieve his coffee cup.

I looked like I stepped out of an apocalyptic horror movie, not to mention the cloth on my head—having been part of a sieving device for making tomato sauce was stained and made me look as if I was bleeding to death.

Guess what I’m wearing for Halloween?

Who I am is yet unknown

Who knew a gander of geese could put out so much sausage-like material. My neck of the woods suddenly is teeming with great green gobs of goose poop. It is a virtual war zone out there laden with log bombs that make every step a hazard and the bottom of every shoe I own a yucky grossly caked disaster.

The geese must swoop in when I’m at work or perhaps waddle in from the creek when the way is clear of human presence. Whichever method they are using, I reluctantly give the big birds credit for the stealth necessary to complete such a large emissions project.

My optimistic side is hoping all that fertilizer will make for greener pastures around here come next spring, although I suspect the manure will be sucked up by the dandelion roots and repopulate an ongoing and booming crop of the little yellow devils in every 12 hour period between April and September. 

Hence another reason I miss my old dog. She would have made the feathers fly when the geese stepped foot on her roving grounds. As it stands, the deer knew she was gone and took no time at all to trespass on parts of the lawn that haven’t seen hoof marks and little deer turds in the six years that I’ve lived here.

It’s been a tender soulful week and much more so than I expected. I’ve had to remind myself several times as I’ve made the trek home after work that there is no “one” here to come home to each day. 

And although my mind knows the dog days are done, my heart still hears the tinkle of her dog tag against the water bowl and I’ve even strained an ear to the air once or twice thinking I heard her barking outside.

Old habits die hard. Familiarity dies harder.

And I’ve realized that even though I thought I’d worked my loss recovery program to my very core, all it took was for my dog to die for a few unstitched scars to pull loose and ooze.

I know this because I decided to bury my dog on my country property and when I drove that shovel into the ground, it didn’t take but two minutes for the unattainable past to engulf me and become the only hospitable yet wretched place to be.

I promptly found myself in a pit of “why me” syndrome and I took it all out on a deep hole in the ground that I dug for my dog. I drove that shovel with sorrow and self-pity and cried and yelled to the Universe about why my house never gets off the “be swept clean” list.

It had nothing to do with the dog gone nor the choices made by a husband I loved who decided never to come back, nor the choices of a man I loved on a cold afternoon in January. 

It had everything to do with my seemingly unfinished business with loss and coming to grips with the parts of life I cannot control.

Mark Nepo wrote, “The current of life requires us to stand up, again and again, and we are not defeated when we are worn down, just exposed anew at a deeper level.”  This I believe.

I dug a grave for my dog and it made me kneel. And then I stood up—worn bare yet again—and so thankful I am still here, moving forward, still getting to know who I really am and grateful for your company, my friend.

Here's to you, my canine loves

I would much rather be writing a story about cornered skunks and wide-eyed squirrels and the flurry of cat fur that flies when ‘Cash’ and ‘Dot’ decide to play tag with unwilling members of the animal kingdom around here. 

But that won’t be happening today and it won’t be happening tomorrow.

When I began working a full time job on top of a part-time job six weeks ago, it didn’t take me long to discover that my six-year-old lab, was getting the short end of the stick. 

This simple-minded, happy-go-lucky, lovable, unconditional creature named ‘Cash’ had more energy than all my grandchildren and 16 “Energizer” bunnies. Keeping him kenneled up for 8-12 hours a day while I turned the daily grind was unfair to say the least and it bothered me to no end.

Dot on the other hand had earned some quiet time and I knew that at 84 years of age in “people years” she would do just fine snoozing away the day on her little memory foam bed in the hallway.

So, after much inner debate and consideration for what I thought best for my Cash I decided to find him a home that would allow him the freedom to be the canine masterpiece that he is, and where he wasn’t going to be stuck inside all day every day waiting for a chance to be someone’s dog.

I set out in the belief that I would know when the right home came along. I was not disappointed in my search.

A man named “Bob” came into Cash’s life. His story was poignant, his smile was genuine, his heart sincere, and most of all his gentle hand upon my dog and my dog’s response to this man’s touch was everything I could have hoped for.

And so I let Cash go.

It was hard and it hurt and yet it was the right thing to do. My captain, who is wise in sweet form, said that perhaps this man needed Cash more than I did. I believe this to be true. Very true.

But I needed Dot.

It would seem however that the Universe had other thoughts on that because early Friday morning as I comforted my gravely ill best doggie friend and stroked her graying fur and whispered into her ear how much I loved her as she drifted out of this world, I once again came face to face with the inevitable and heartbreaking truth that dogs don’t live forever and that sometimes no matter how much we love them we have to let them go.

There is nothing I can say that would convey I sorrowful I am that she is gone.

Dot was more than just a dog. She was a member of my family and she filled our hearts to the brim.

Dog days were old and perhaps in need of a rest. I sure wasn’t ready for that scenario.

I take comfort that the late Dr. Jon Fistler, who loved Dot as much as the rest of us did, will have welcomed her into the light with open arms and a long caress behind her ears.

So many of us who are pet owners share the crowd of sorrows that overwhelms us when the creatures we love die, and especially when they die unexpectedly.

They come into our lives with joy unbounded and teach us the meaning of true devotion.

They rest themselves against our souls and we become part of theirs.
And if someone out there believes a dog has no soul, they’ve never really loved a dog.

Dot, you done good. You done real good, old girl.

What I don't like and what I do

Maybe you’ll read this. Maybe you won’t.

If you do and you’re the one who ventured uninvited onto my country property with a cat in a pet carrier and dumped off the cat here—you are a loser. And no, you don’t get Brownie points for buying a brand new bag of cat food, ripping it open and leaving it for the cat you didn’t want. 

Yes, I live on an old farm. Yes, I have an old red barn. But I’m pretty sure there’s not a sign that you can see from the road—some 500ft away—that reads,  “If you don’t like your pet you can drop it off here and it’ll be looked after."

The fact that you had the gonads to step foot here without permission and to shed your responsibilities as a pet owner is deplorable. I guess that infrared-capable security camera I installed outside in the yard was a very good idea. See you around.

And by the way, your cat is nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s on a journey back to you, because I’m pretty sure it figured out right away that this wasn’t home. I sold the pet carrier and my own cats are enjoying the cat food very much. Thank you for buying the groceries.

And while I’m on the topic of responsibility I suppose I should stuff a bit of humor into this rant so that things stay balanced. Goodness knows I could go on and on about pet owners who wriggle out, shirk, and dodge accountability. 

Frankly I’ve had enough of that.

I just ate two big chunks of Nanaimo bar I bought at the grocery store and my poor little tummy is swollen and fighting with whatever artificial ingredients were in that thing. But oh my, it was good.

My favorite co-worker—the one who is an imp and can fit into size one jeans even after she eats for 10—will indeed have something to say about my dietary digression when she reads this. 

Those five bucks I inadvertently “owe” her for switching days off with me might have to be doubled in order to keep her criticism of my wolfing to a dull roar around the office.

Then again, maybe she won’t read this and I can go on to say that consuming more food in the fall season must be a genetic throwback to my caveman days because as soon as the temperature begins to dip, I have calorie-laden foods on my brain.

I walked into the grocery store at 5:30 this evening dragging my knuckles on the floor and salivating as wonderful smells overtook me from the bakery shelf, forcing me to go right past the desserts with one hand outstretched and scooping whatever I could get into my shopping basket.

Temporary rationale set in as I scooted by the meat department and picked out a healthy little pork chop and, again, when I cased the broccoli and threw a crown or two in, all the while careful not to crush the little heap of desserts that covered the bottom of the basket.

And it wasn’t like I needed to buy any sweets. My captain had hidden a half-bag of chocolate “Dove Promises” in my handbag a few nights ago and they would have provided me with all the satisfaction I could ask for, including some really great and wise quotes on the inside of each wrapper.

It says on the bag that I can eat seven of the little devils before I reach 220 calories. Hmmm. Perhaps I should pare it down a little and eat only three.

I unwrapped the first of the trio and read the quote.

“There’s a time for compromise. It’s called ‘later’.”

I reached in and grabbed four more. Seven it is.