Moving on up...

This is our last night at Little Norway (housesitting gig). Tomorrow we move the last of our stuff to our friend's mansion...yes, 6000 square feet of mansion. I shall get lost in the house, I know, but for 3 more weeks, I must live under someone else's roof and not my own.

And I may be sans computer for awhile, which will provide me with lots and lots of reading by the time I hook up ours at home. Happy blogging, my dears.

But I am thankful we are moving back, sort of, to our side of the tracks. Living in the "north end" of Seattle is like an episode of the Twilight Zone. The traffic is amazingly awful (it took us an hour to get from here to our house today...it normally takes 15 minutes), the people are amazingly rude, and the money spent at the grocery stores and local mall is amazingly horrific. I am happy to be moving back to the grocery store that has two whole aisles devoted to Mexican items, another aisle for Asian items, and a special row in the meat section for parts of the animal I never knew were edible. I'm happy to be back in the 'hood where people say hello, every corner has a church where the congregants actually sing and faint and wear Sunday hats the size of bird baths, and the skin color is not all one hue, nor the pocketbooks all filled with enough money to gag on.

Little Norway has been a perfect respite and a perfect "nursing" home for Chester's final days, but I'm ready for a neighborhood that's a bit more real and less Stepfordish than this one.

So, we're moving on up to the mansion tomorrow (hot tub, pool, leather couches, six bathrooms) and then by the middle of May, into our own humble abode.

There is no place like home.

No place.

My biggest concern is how I'll feel moving back home without Chester. I will most certainly cry, just as I did today when a large lab licked my chin with his velvet tongue, his eyes half closed and his tail wagging.

And then the vet called and told us that Chester's remains were ready to pick up. I cried just hearing the message.

I shall cry again and again and again when I pick up the box with his remains and then figure out where to store them until we decide where to spread them. We plan on making a garden stone with some of the ashes, but then there are many hikes we've taken where Chester deserves to be laid at rest.

So soon we shall head to the mountains and I shall cry again.

Last night I dreamt that Chester was chasing a greyhound through a large field.

I woke up crying and smiling. He always did love the tall ones!

Thinking of all of you over the next few weeks and will attempt to get back in touch soon.


Signing off for now...
na

A skeptical lot

I spent today in a workshop with my co-workers learning about the current brain research as it connects to teaching and learning.

Now my brain hurts.

It was a fascinating day, but I was also intrigued watching and listening to our faculty's skepticism about what they were hearing. We are a snobby group, intellectually speaking, and I find tonight I am in a bit of a funk about it all. Even though today was eye-opening for me, I also realized how arrogant teachers can be.

Luckily, our presenter, Nicole, saw through the bullshit in a second. I talked with her at lunch and she asked me, "So, how well do you think your faculty works together?"

Me: "Not very."

Nicole: "Ahhhhh..."

Me: "But they have good intentions, they're just resistent to change."

Nicole: "Yes, they find comfort in their intelligence and then hide behind it, intellectualizing their way out of moving forward."

I fell in love with this very heavy African American woman who commanded our attention just like my own 6th grade, six-foot tall teacher who commanded my attention almost 40 years ago. Erma Miller. There was a woman who knew how to claim space. Nicole did as well.

After lunch, with the precision of a brain surgeon, she cut apart the resistence of our faculty with thoughtful, insightful, and honest questions until, I think...I hope...she overcame the resistance and helped us move forward. It was brilliant to watch. Inspiring, but I think my neurons are now firing at half speed because of all the information she pumped into us.

Meanwhile, I keep thinking about how my teaching partner and I need to have that talk with our students about claiming space and about the difference between claiming negative space and claiming positive space.

Lately, it's been a lot of negative claiming. And if I have to have one more discussion about friendships I think I'll puke up my liver. You should see me...on the outside I'm all teacher-as-therapist talking about boundaries and respect and using language like "What I hear you saying is..." and "When she says that to you, how does that make you feel?"

On the inside I'm screaming to myself, "Jesus fucking Christ! Just get over it!"

But my head keeps nodding as I listen to girls tell me that so and so did this or so and so said that and the tears start flowing and the hormones start erupting. Peyton Place meets 5th grade. Oy.

I suppose it's not a good mix...me, pre-menopausal (I turned quite the shade of crimson this afternoon during a mini-hot flash) and my students (all girls, as I teach at an all girls school) pre-menstrual. New blood meets old blood.

Not a pretty mix.

And today I learned that when the brain sees read, neurons fire like it's the Fourth of July, overstimulating the brain so that it downshifts and does not work at full capacity. A whole new perspective. Color theory in the classroom!

But tomorrow is Friday and we are off to the beach to look at nudibranchs and moonsnails, enjoying the sun and warmth the forecasters have assuredly predicted. Please may it be so. Nothing that a little sun and sand and invertebrate anatomy can't do to overcome friendship drama.

Not a bad gig, this here teaching. Even if days like today make my brain hurt.

Listening?

I'm listening to Ann on the phone with her mother:

Ann: um, uh, um-um, yes, why?

Mother: long silence (I can't hear the other end of the so-called conversation)

Ann: umm, uh, um, yes, yes, oh?

Mother: Long silence

20 minutes later

Ann: He's a convict, mom. You don't really know him.

Mother: Long silence, though it's not really silence because I can hear her lilting accent even from here (I'm in the study, Ann's in the kitchen)

Ann: Um, I...oh, um-um...

Mother: Long silence, though I think she's still talking about her Mexican boyfriend who was released from prison last month

Ann: Mom...are you there? Shit...she cut out...Gretchen? (She calls to me...)

Me: Yes?

Ann: What do I say to her? She's in panic mode. She hasn't heard from him in over a week and she's worried that he might have been hurt. God, she's freaking out over some guy she thinks she knows but she doesn't know him!!!

Me: She'll hear nothing you say, so what can you do?

Ann calls again. The conversation continues like this for another 20 minutes. Then the phone cuts out again.

Now I can hear Ann doing the dishes, organizing them in the basin and slamming the doors to the cupboards.

Oh, and the phone rings. Mom again.

Ann: This is the phone number of the place where we're housesitting. We're moving out this weekend and staying with Steven and Doris. (God, she actually asked about Ann's life...it won't last long)

Mom: Short silence.

Ann: I'm not going to hold my breath. You don't know this guy. You don't know if he's the real thing or not. Already, this silence from him. Jeez, mom, I've heard it before with all the other men where they don't call you, they use you...

Mom: Interrupting...

Ann: I know, but...

Mom: Interrupting again...

Ann: Mom this is a whole other game. He's a convict. A drug runner. He just needs your money. You need to take care of yourself. Take it slow, mom. If he's going to be there for you, he'll be there for you in a year or two years. Why do you have to rush into all of this?

Mom: Quick response...

Ann: Well, that's your gut talking to you and you need to listen...

This goes on and on...and Ann is clearly upset, as she should be. Knowing her mom, I'm certain she's justifying every action she's taken so far with this man.

Meanwhile, Ann talks to her mother like she "gets it", but she doesn't get it...how many times has Ann had this conversation with her mother?

I can't listen anymore. I'm going to go watch Mariska Hargitay in yet another rerun of Law and Order SVU!

Chai, it's not just a drink...

We painted today. We painted the kitchen. Well, some of it. The cabinets go in soon, so we needed to put the "accent" color on the walls before the cabinets and before the tile backsplash. The bamboo floors are in and the house is completely different...completely.

We were a bit leary of the accent paint color, though. At least when we opened the can and saw it. Ann said, "It looks like those Espresso Milkshakes you like to drink in the summer" and it did, but the color was "Chai" as in the tea, as in the new trendy drink served at Starbuck's and not espresso at all.

But once it was on the walls it was perfect -- warm and colorful, not too overwhelming or unpredictable.

Who knew? Chai...

In between the painting of the first coat and the second, we came back to "Little Norway" (the housesitting gig) and took a nap. Then we both woke up and cried, missing our little man. It's been a week since he died and most days are okay, but the mornings and evenings suck because 1)they are so quiet and 2)no one is happy to see us when we wake up or get home.

And now, it seems, weekends will be hard too as we aren't bound to any canine schedule. We wander a lot or drive the car around wondering what we should do next since it doesn't involve walking the dog, feeding the dog, letting the dog in, letting the dog out or taking the dog somewhere.

Our tears today were sadness that our "new" house shall not be Chester's house anymore and though we are excited to move back in, it will be bittersweet as there will be no dog bed at the foot of our bed, no dog food dishes in the kitchen, and no wagging tail chasing squirrels in the backyard.

Perhaps the next dog will be named Chai?

I think not. I think not.

Spelling and Sympathy

We've received many wonderful cards and emails from family, friends, and even our students and their families. My favorte is a loving message from a very sweet young girl in my class who gave me a card that reads (on the front): "Going through a rough time? Look on the bright side. Remember every cloud has a silver lining, put on a happy face, and if that doesn't work...

(inside of card)
1. Carefully cut out the smiley face below
2. Rip it into a thousand tiny pieces
3. Flush it down the toilet!

There! Don't you feel a little better now?"

This is only topped by her hand-written message. "I am so sorry Chester pasted away."

Yes, pasted...I like the image of Chester pasted somewhere in the spirit world!

Onward!

Dogs

And what if they lived forever
What then?
Would your heart be so hollow,
Your hand empty?
Would you get tired of them,
The morning walks,
The evening walks,
Carrying the 50 pounds of dog food
Out of the car and up the stairs?
Would you wish for quiet
And no more snoring
Late at night when your dreams
Are really worries
And the night is filled with echoes?
Would you wish for cats
Who purr and never bark
Who only need a patch of sun
On a wool couch
Or a touch of cream with their tuna?
Would there be no more room in your
Bed for the twitching leg
Or the scruffy whiskers against your
Chafed and sallow elbow?
Would you wish to paint their noses
Some other color than black
Or hide their squeaky toys in a
Tall closet just beyond their reach?
Would your mind eventually focus
On the waiting taxes or the dirty dishes
Or the mismatched socks stuffed
In the back of your dresser drawer?
Would you tire of the tangled leashes
Or the holey bags stacked in an
Overflowing basket just as you
Walk out the door?
Would the fluffs of fur gathered in the
Corner of the kitchen and the den
And the bedroom be forgotten, piling
Higher, growing larger until they became
Pieces of soft and cushy furniture?
Would the smell of their ears or
The sound of their paws
Or the huff of their breath
Become a burden of odor and repetition?
Would you forget about love,
Say goodbye to sweetness,
Dangle your toes in the icy ocean
And be unimpressed?
Would the richness of a crisp morning
Taste as bitter as cold coffee
Or the rain on a spring morning
Fall like fire on your skin?
Could you truly know happiness
Or silliness
Or weariness
Or sadness
Or frailness
Or folly
Or gloom
Or anticipation
Or impatience
Or worry
Or exhilaration
Or irritation
Or persistence
Or integrity
If they lived for ever?

They do not.
So you will never know
And that
is just one more mystery floating
on the ripple of air
Formed by the wave
Of a once proud tail.

Thank you...

First, both Ann and I want to thank all of you bloggers in bloggersville for such warm and loving thoughts about our sweet, sweet Mr. Pajama Pants (aka, Chester).

We spent a nice weekend with our friends, Jeanne and Lisa, at their river cabin up over the mountains. It snowed. So fitting. Ann said Chester was shaking the clouds, eeking out the last bit of snow for us. We picked out river stones for our garden that reminded us of Chester. We'll make a garden stone for him when his cremation ashes come home and place it right next to Abbie's.

Ann just said, "Having the rocks in the car reminded me of the weight of him in the back seat on our way home. It didn't make the car feel so empty."

Yes, empty. We feel it deeply, his loss, his absence, his clicking toe nails on the floor.

But we also know there is relief that he will not have to walk down the road of suffering he was headed for with such certainty. The vet, a sweet man, very gentle and soft-spoken, told us he was touched by how much we did for Chester these past 10 months since the diagnosis of a brain tumor. "You did more than most would," he said, "And that shows such love you and your family have for each other."

We sobbed.

We sobbed for a long, long time.

But Chester had an amazingly good last day. Friday morning we rose early and fed him a hard-boiled egg and half a bagel. He smiled. Then we walked at Ravenna Park, one of his favorite new walks since our house-sitting stint, and the sun warmed us all despite the wintery temperatures. Next stop, our house to let him pee on his old haunts, followed by dinner of half a bagel, another hard boiled egg, and roasted chicken, huge hunks of it! He smiled again.

Finally, we ended the day with a walk at Seward Park, truly his favorite spot on earth. With his illness and medication, he was never able to walk more than 30 minutes before exhaustion set in. This was essentially his third walk for the day and to make the trek through the park takes, on a good day, about 40 minutes. Chester took over an hour this time, but stayed right in his pack spot, behind me and in front of Ann, the whole way. He wagged his black tail with the four white hairs at the tip the entire time and smiled, smiled, smiled like he hasn't done for months.

By the time we got to the vet, we knew he'd had one of the best days of his life.

He died at 6 pm on Good Friday. Peacefully, calmly, and with dignity. We surrounded him with our arms and with our love -- his faithful pack.

This morning, Easter morning, we toasted the day with toasted bagels together with Jeanne and Lisa, and both Ann and I waited to see if Chester, like Jesus, would rise again.

On the way home, we stopped along the highway at a beautiful bend in the river and said one last goodbye to him. It was hard to come home, even though it's not our home, but our housesitting home. We still fell apart wondering why he wasn't at the door to be let in, why he wasn't at his bowl waiting for dinner, why he wasn't there to monitor the unloading of bags, the setting up of laundry. More than once I have tried to fill his dog bowl with water only to catch myself and cry some more.

This is hard, this letting go, but we know he had a good life, a very good life, and was surrounded by love every minute of every day. Yes, he is with Dakota, his earth twin, and he is also with my former dog, Abbie (his soul twin sister) and with my dad's dog, Sasha, and Ann's former dog, Cocoa. He is not alone.

And we aren't either. We know there are many more tears to come...like tomorrow when we must tell our students (we bought our classes bagels for the same goodbye ritual and salute)...but the tears our, I guess, a further celebration of a beautiful, wonderful dog who shared our lives with his wagging tail, his happy smile, and his ever-loyal and faithful loving stare.

Thank you again, everyone...truly.

In Memory of Chester
1993-2006

In celebration of Chester’s life we would like to remember all the reasons we loved him, and love his memory still:

His tail signaled great things…grandmother’s cooking, hidden treats in a raincoat, four-legged visitors, promises of walks in the park, the discovery of chicken bones dropped by crows, contentment with his quiet position on the bed wedged between us, and the anticipation of a trip in the car. He wagged his tail from side to side and up and down and in a special move, around in a circle like a helicopter. We trimmed his tail at the Dog Wash and played with it despite his growling protestations. On the end of his black tail, four white hairs beckoned us on the trail. It was his flag and our comfort.

His sounds sent messages…the impatient moan for his morning walk; a gentle “woof”, just once, to be let in; the excited high-pitched squeal at the discovery of a raccoon in the cherry tree; the slurping lap of water; the jingle of his collar against an ice cream bowl; the stomping of his back legs when begging for a bagel or some toast; the extended yowl when dinner was prepared and delivered; the ha-rumph when he laid down; the huff of air as he cleared his nostrils to better smell the fresh air, his head stretched out the back of the car window; the gratification-pant of a day well-spent with his family; his yips and hoots while he dreamt; the occasional snap and snarl when irritated; and the smacking of his lips as he fell asleep. Our silence will echo with the memory of his dogged-determination to get and keep our attention.

His prance that set the pace of our lives…the way his paws and body lifted when he greeted friend or foe; the silly gallop that greeted us when we got home; the hobby horse, bucking bronco when we pulled out the leash; the way he sat, still and ready, in his assistant chef position, anticipating the clean up; the shuffle of his toes against the hardwood; the “chase-of-the-crows run”, head down and surreptitious; the running paws as he dreamed of chasing squirrels; the lean against the leash when he wanted to smell for chicken bones or hamburger buns; his stubborn walk as we circled back home begging us for just another mile, just another sniff; the slurpy walk through marshes, padding wet paws occasionally lifted like a pointer or a great hunting dog; and the wading up to his chest in the lake or the river or the ocean, feet firmly planted on the earth. May your tired legs run with new energy in the blue sky of all dogs.

And his friends…past and present…Moses and Ruckus and Mario and Tomas and Buster and Sandy and Chloe and Dakota and Monty and Franklin and Josie and Frankie and Sasha and Sasha (yes, two), and Hope and Ringo and Keenan and Shelby and Ben and Brio and Lulu…yes, especially Lulu.

And his face – those eyes, those ears, that broad forehead – they way he could stare us down with such burning amber love; the professorial pondering late at night; the happy smile; the concerned worry; the ancient knowledge of scent and sound; the way one eyebrow lifted at the sound of his name; the droopy eyes as he fought sleep; the willingness to tend the pack even in his dreams; the tilt of the head; the muzzle laid softly against our thigh or curled up like a deer bedded down in a tall field of grass; the Rin-Tin-Tin look when scouting out the valley of some great hike; the look of anxious concern as he turned to make certain we were following; the hanging head when he gave into weariness; the curl of his lip when it stuck on his canine tooth; and the gentle kiss when we asked for it. May we never forget that face. May we never forget those eyes. May we never forget those soft, buttery ears.

It’s hard to say goodbye to such a friend. There is no way, in fact, and so we we’ll let our tears sing our farewells, remembering the softness of a spirit who still lives with us in so many ways. It’s hard to say goodbye and so we won’t. Three cheers to Chester and a toast of roasted chicken!

It's easier to be mad than sad...

She doesn't even know me
Doesn't know
I sleep with a pillow
between my legs
to level out my back
And she doesn't know
how I hate the sound nail-
biters make when chewing
the fleshy skin around the cuticle
the little nibbles that soon turn
red and bloody
She doesn't know the
inside of me or
even the outside, how I
break out in a rash
in the spring, then again in
fall because of Alders,
the weedy tree that blooms
after they've clear cut a lot
for a row of townhouses
or a new Walmart
She doesn't know that
peppers, no matter what
color,
give me gas
or that I can't stand
spicy foods
because they make
my stomach hurt
late into the night
or that I prefer dark
chocolate to light
or blueberries when
they're fresh and
never as jam
that I drink skim milk
with cocoa
or that I dunk my
whole grain seeded
bread
into my soup
just long enough
to make the bread limp
and drippy
She has no idea
that at night
when I can't sleep, I count
backwards and then
again by fives and then
by threes
just to bore myself
back into my dreams where
a soundtrack plays loudly and
wakes me humming a song each
morning...usually Sondheim,
"a weekend in the country
how exciting,
how terribly fun"
...or this morning, a classic,
"When you're a Jet,
you're a Jet all the way..."
She doesn't know I'm
47
no longer 12
no longer 8
no longer 4
She doesn't know I'm
really older than
she is
in so many ways
though the numbers
don't add up
the years are all wrong.
She doesn't know
how each morning,
I count my steps
into the kitchen
then count the seconds
as the steamer heats the milk
then count the seconds
as the coffee swirls into the foam
then count one
two
three
four
five,
it must always be five,
turns of the spoon,
then count my steps
back to the bedroom
where I wake my lover with
one kiss on the forehead,
and the thud of the
mug on the nightstand,
then walk back to the kitchen,
counting my steps
and the dog's steps as well
to pour cereal, then milk
one, two, three, four, five
She doesn't know how seconds
pass in my life
how seconds skip right
into hours
how I am content
and sometimes sad
and a little tired of
the weather, and the gray,
and the rain
but overall,
I am content, at peace,
and working on my
humility
and
forgiveness
She doesn't know me, has
never tried, is so wrapped up
in sarcasm and spite
she doesn't have time to feel
jealous
just bitter
with that smile
of hers
and the giggle
that always follows
the curve
of her mouth
she spits her bitterness
my
direction
always
with the wind at her
back and tells me
to RELAX,
in capital letters
as if
as if
as if
she knows me

and now I cannot
RE-LAX
because I'm wiping
spit off my face
and off my new glasses that
she
doesn't
even
know
I
picked
up
just
to-
day

No,
I cannot make sense
of what she doesn't
know.

That was then, this is now...

The house originally (well, circa 1950's style though the house was originally built in 1900) and the house as it stands today (circa 2006, with all new siding and a hunky addition on the back).

And Chester, trying to convince us that he still can chase ducks if given half the chance.

We went shopping with our designer to look for lights yesterday. What a trip. I've never seen so many lights. Thousands. And very few of them we actually liked. But Denise, our designer, said that's how it would be, that we'd only see a few that appealed to us.

And when I say designer, don't get the wrong idea. She's really a normal woman with good taste...something we're not and don't necessarily have. When she was working with the store rep, Ann and I sat at a table under some heavy wrought-ironed fixtures and discussed our options and preferences. It struck me then that there were thousands of different lights in the store and out in the world you could find someone who could find something to like in the store. In other words, every light would have a home. Hard to believe when looking at some of the over done, shiny and jeweled fixtures, but they must sell stuff like that otherwise why would they have it in the store?

Later that evening, we had dinner with our best of friends, Jeanne and Lisa at a nice Mexican restuarant. We sat under the same light fixtures we saw in the store that morning, the ugly ones though they worked in the restaurant.

Last year at this time, the four of us were in Mexico, soaking up the sun and salt water, eating fish tacos and watching Alma, the house caretaker, make us chicken mole, chile rellanos and flan. Last night's meal was good, but it couldn't compare to Alma's meal.

Still it was wonderful to hang out with our friends and talk about house remodels and the Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan. Lisa, the most non-religious or spiritual person I know, is not a fan of dogs, but loves Cesar even though he talks about ENERGY being the way all animals (including humans) communicate. Until we talked about energy in scientific terms, Lisa was not ready to accept energy as anything else but spiritual. She's very good natured about it, but it was interesting to watch her squirm a bit during the discussion.

When we got home, we watched bad TV (another rerun of Law and Order) while Chester slept beside us on the bed. He got up, turned to the right, shuttered a bit, and we knew...time for a seizure.

It's amazing how calmly we respond now, having been through the ordeal too many times to count. Ann held his head, I ran to the bathroom to get the valium, and then we lifted his tail so I could inject the amber liquid into his rectum. The shuttering stopped, followed by the usual heavy sighs and twitching paws. His heart beat wildly and we inspected his belly where the sore is slowly healing. The second I tried to put on some ointment, he popped up looking at me as if to say, "No way, lady. You ain't touching my sore. Not on your life."

Usually, after a seizure, he's extremely disoriented and it takes a couple of hours for him to settle down and relax. Last night, he did his usual routine of going outside about 5 times to pee, but then laid right down on his bed and fell asleep. He got up a couple of times during the night and this morning he is wobbly and drugged (we upped his meds again), but as far as seizures go, this was an easy one.

I'm not particularly spiritual or religious myself, though I do believe in nature as a force that lives within us all and all around us. Energy, as a way of communication, makes perfect sense and there are times when I am blown away by energy's circumstance.

For instance, we have this silly dog calendar where every day is a different picture of a dog and an explanation of either a dog's behavior or physical feature. As part of my morning ritual, I make coffee and turn yesterday's dog calendar page to the current day's dog. This morning, the picture for Thursday, April 13, struck me hard. It was an exact image, close up, of my former beloved dog, Abbie. Spitting image. I cried.

"She's here," I thought and with Chester's current decline, I knew it was a message of some sort. I could analyze the implications, the message of the "energy", but there's no need. She was a wonderful dog -- loyal, silly, and so happy to be on the trail of my life. Fossilguy is right...her death was painful and difficult for me, the first step down in my spiraling, deepening depression, but now, the dull ache I feel when seeing a picture that looks like her but is not her is pleasantly sweet and comforting.

Chester must have sensed my energy while I was looking at Abbie's non-picture because he nuzzled my leg while we stood in the kitchen as if to say, "Yes, I know, but really, it is time to make coffee and get on with life."

And so I shall.

Til death do us part...

There's something remarkable about
the way they love you
Dogs,
that is,
or any animal, I suppose, but
this morning,
with white flowers blooming and
blue china plates painted across
the sky
it is a dog's love on my mind.

This dog's love.

He rests right now,
as a matter of fact,
on the little rug just outside
the office door and
sighs, licking his lips
ever so slightly, adjusting
his black fur and back legs
with a kick and a turn.

He wants a walk.
I know this as I do every
morning
because his impatience clicks
on hard wooden floors
from the water dish
to the hallway rug
wearing a path in the
steadfastness of his love.

Even his lapping of water,
a quiet slurp that wakes me in the
blackest of nights
is a comfort,
a thirst more powerful
than dream.

He knows, as he drinks, I'll rise up within
the hour
and smell the burst of morning air
as I swing open the back door,
watch him pad down the walk,
circle three times in the yard
then lift his head along with his leg
in relief.

He knows.

But now he knows to wait.
He knows when my desk chair
groans under the weight of my rising
he must rise, too.

That is his promise.
That is his vow.

But when he's quiet,
like now,
when he's finally surrendered to
the idea that perhaps he will
not walk today
or at least not right now today
I still know he is
there, always there
waiting,
wagging behind closed eyelids
his muzzle slightly flared
with each puff out
followed by each breath in.

It is all so simple
Can you see it?
To paint such a picture of
a dog is
to paint something remarkable

Even now as he shuffles his sleepy self
into the office and lays his heavy head against
my thigh
he attempts, one more time,
to remind me of my promise, my vow
Food.
Water.
Tenderness.
Rubs behind the ears
and one above the tail,
And a walk
or two
daily.

Til death do us part.

Vet's day = Good Day

Contrary to our often somber mood about Chester, he's still kickin' and kickin' in a lively fashion.

He's developed a sore under his belly, right next to his penis. A gaping hole, actually, so we took him in to see our friendly neighborhood vet, Dr. Jones, a lovely gay man with a gravelly voice.

In order for Chester to see the vet he must be muzzled lest he take off sweet Dr. Jones' face or hand or nose or elbow. Then, just how I used to hold a sheep when the vet came for a checkup, I brace Chester against my body, his muzzle in the palm of my strong right hand, my left arm wrapped around his chest.

At first, the old guy submits, leans right into me and relaxes, calm and submissive like the Dog Whisperer encourages. Then, as the vet pokes around a bit, the growling starts, then the jerking to get his muzzled teeth around the doctor's ear or chin. But I hold on, not as firmly as you might think, but firm enough to let Chester know he will not get loose.

The doc shaved Chester's underbelly, pulling at mats that have developed because of his nightly diaper (for his incontinence) and his bulging fatty tumor that sits just to the right of his penis and, in fact, makes his penis point sideways. (On a windy day, Chester can spray a mighty mile!)

We talked with the vet about Chester's progress and this is what he said:
1. He's amazingly still alive.
2. There is some neurological damage to his back legs (he bent up his feet and they stayed like that until eventually, they straightened out).
3. His heart murmur is a bit worse, but doesn't seem to be doing anything other than making him tired if he walks too long.
4. In generally, he's in good shape for a dog with a brain tumor and a gaping infected hole under his belly.

Bad news? Just a bit...the gaping hole could be an infection or it could be cancer. We'll know in about a week or two if he responds to the antibiotics.

When we are alone with Chester, we worry that perhaps we are keeping him alive because it is too hard to imagine our lives without him. Today, in fact, I realized that I haven't cried much because I know how much energy that kind of crying is going to require and frankly, I don't want to require it of myself until I really have to. Also I know that the last time I cried like that I was immersed deep in a heavy state of depression. I always want to keep the depression at bay, but I have yet to learn how to cry meaninfully and not let the sadness overcome my saneness.

Perhaps this is yet another lesson Chester is offering me.

So we worry and wonder exactly when is when and will we know when the when is the right when.

But then we go to the vet, bracing ourselves for bad news and Chester prances in because he knows he's going to get treats from the receptionist, treats from the vet tech, treats from lovely Dr. Jones (despite all the poking, prodding, shaving, and examining), and we realize how very alive Chester really is.

I need to spend more time enjoying that.

Of course...we must now put on an "Elizabethan Collar" or lampshade (as I call it) on his head tonight so he doesn't lick the sore spot under his belly.

We tried to put it on at the vet. Not a good idea. He snapped and snarled and looked like a fighting bull, crouching his body back against the wall ready to strike if we pressed any harder.

We'll see if we have better luck tonight.

So, as always, we wait...will he respond to the meds or won't he? Will he have another series of seizures or won't he (it's been 6 weeks since the last ones)?

But every day he is our lesson in the NOW...in pleasure and patience, in whimsy and in rest.

He is still a joy and still ready to be here with us now...we must and can only do the same.

Ann's mother

Ann's mother is French.
Ann's mother is also a woman without boundaries.
It is true that she tutored a prisoner when she lived back East and he was imprisoned for some sort of "smuggling" charge... that's the most we can get out of her. "You know how it is," she says, "He was picking berries for his family and someone asked him to carry something across the border."

Yes, well.

She tutored him in English while he was in prison. 25 years her younger, he then wrote her "wildly romantic" love letters, though when Ann read them she said they were like love notes from a 10 year old and very uninspired.

Ann's mother moved to Arizona and lo and behold, he was transferred to a prison in Texas. She never saw him there, but continued to get love letters that she'd fawn over every time Ann talked with her on the phone. Soon, the conversation of "Jose" became something Ann refused to listen to, though the dream of "being with the love of my life" was all good old mom wanted to talk about.

Remember, he's in prison and she is not. Not one single conjugal visit.

Not even a kiss.

Just letters.

She counted down the days until his release and at the end of March, he was released and deported back to Mexico.

They met there, on a balcony of some hotel that we're certain Ann's mother paid for.

She also paid for the removal of his gold "grills" from his teeth, all meals, and god knows what else.

She sent Ann an email, long and involved and written completely in French. I think this is because she did not want me to read it, but I also think she is planning on writing a book about her life and writing in French is not only more natural for her, she thinks it is more romantic.

The email begins, "The first chapter..." and ends, "Stay tuned for the second chapter..."

She's written two other books. Trust me, you won't find them on any bookshelf (other than the shelves of relatives), but they are as fantastical as her email about Mexico and her convict Romeo.

Ann just throws up her hands. "What can I do?" she exclaims, "She's 68 years old."

This is not an uncommon affair for Ann's mother. Yes, she left Wisconsin in a cab and ended up being a call girl in DC. Yes, she lived with a man who said he was Japanese (more prestige) who turned out to be Korean and a swindling masseuse. Yes, she "married" an African man (who lives in Africa) who happened to be married to another woman and then got married to a third shortly after Ann's mom "married" him. He still owes her a significant amount of money, but since he is unfaithful to her, she decided to find "another man" because, as she told me on a visit, "it's important for a woman my age to have sex, no?"

Now there are phone calls between Ann and her sister (who lives nearby their mother). They share their mother stories and worry over the telephone lines about sexually transmitted diseases, whether or not their mother will try to smuggle him back into the US, and yes, they worry about their inheritance, though Ann is pretty much resolved to the fact that they'll be no money from that side of the family. In fact, she sends HER mother money for birthdays and holidays and has paid for a TV, a DVD/VCR, and countless other accessories.

Ann's mother is eccentric. There is no two ways about it, but she is also kind and savvy. She lives simply (buys her clothes at Goodwill) and works hard (childcare, mostly, but also cleaning jobs and work with the elderly).

Still, we can't help thinking that she is mentally ill. She is like one of those Enquirer stories of the women who fall for men they can't have. She gets attached, works herself into a lustful lather, lives on this high for a few months, even a year or two, then crashes -- the men leave her, lie to her, take her money, run off with someone else -- and she goes into a funk, calling Ann up on the phone to tell her how sad she is, how angry she is, how none of it is her fault and really, they were good men, but hey, they were men who have strong sexual appetites.

Chapter two should be interesting. Sad, but interesting.

A work of fiction...

On our second date we talked about our families. At first it seemed like the natural next step, to exchange details of hometowns and siblings while eating at the trendiest Thai restaurant in the city. Soon, though, it became apparent that what we shared in common was not just a love of dogs and long hikes in the mountains, but mental illness.

"My father," she began, "had affairs."

"I suppose most men do," I laughed my reply thinking of the money Dr. Phil and Oprah make on such assumptions.

"We were a secretive family," she continued, "and that is why I was so fascinated by my father's story once I decided to find out the truth behind the secrets."

"Is there such a thing," I asked. "Truth, I mean." I held my tea cup like a hand warmer, close to my face, my ring tapping quietly against the white curve.

"I suppose not, but I was interested in that too, in how memories create truths and that if you could gather up enough memories, somehow a truth might emerge. Or so I hoped."

"And what truth did you find?"

She smiled at me and I think it was in that moment I realized I would fall in love with her. "I interviewed one of my father's mistresses."

"Oh." There was no other response. I sipped my tea. "How did you know who to interview if it was all a secret?"

She went on to tell me the stories, the woven texture of her childhood and the family friends who held pieces of the mystery. She'd found out the name, had even suspected this was the name, and then pursued her, thoughtfully, mindfully, and patiently.

They met at a local hometown restaurant and in the end, clarity followed. There was no bitterness. There was no understanding. There was just this mistress sharing her side of the story with a woman, once a girl, who lived on the edges of it.

"That's quite a story," I sighed. The food had arrived and we divided the small portions of basil noodles and swimming angel next too the sticky rice on our plates. "But I can top it."

She looked up then, her left eyebrow raised and said, "Sounds interesting."

"My mother had an affair with the neighbor. A cab driver, she ran away with him when I was 17. Just jumped in the cab and headed to D.C."

We stopped eating.

"He left her there...no money, no car, no way to get home."

"What did she do?" I could tell she sympathized with my mother. Just wait, I thought, just wait.

"She became a call-girl, a high-priced prostitute working for a so-called dating service."

"Your mother," she stammered, "Oh my."

"It gets better," I laughed, the kind of laugh that comes out more like a huff than a giggle. "After a series of husbands, she just recently ran away with the boyfriend she met while tutoring him in jail."

"Wait, wait," she put her hand up and her fork down. "She was tutoring him because he was in jail or she was?"

"He was in jail, and he recently got out. He's been deported back to Mexico and she is meeting him there, actually has met him there and they are probably doing it as we speak."

Her cheeks turn red, something I would grow to love later on. "How old is your mother?" she asks.

"68. Her prison lover is in his 40's. He could be my brother."

"But..." and it trails off because I can tell she can't quite think of any question to ask. Nothing has prepared her to ask a question for a situation like this.

"She's French," I say, as if that explains the choices. "She waited over two years for him to be released from prison. She has always fallen for unavailable men."

"I should say," is all she can manage.

"She writes to me about it in French and I read my emails a bit sickened and sad that she doesn't see the pattern, she doesn't see that he is simply using her for sex, for money, for god knows what else."

"This has happened before?"

I look up. I realized I've been staring at water chestnuts floating in an oily browness. "Oh, something like it happens every time she meets a man who she thinks is her Romeo, her Casanova, her ticket to the good life. And then they swindle her or dump her or impregnate someone else and she finds another man, equally inaccessible and equally as parasitic. It's a vicious cycle."

"I should say."

We are silent for a long while, longer than what is comfortable for a second date.

"You win," she says.

I look at her confused, quizzical.

"That's a much better story than mine."

Breathing wishes

It's a habit now, to check his breathing, to watch for the rise and fall of his barrel chest.

There are times -- early in the morning or groggy with just an hour's sleep -- I want the breathing to be gone, unobservable followed by my own sigh signifying that this is as it should be, the way we've all wanted it to be.

Peaceful.

Quiet.

There are other times when the lift of his rib cage makes me smile. The twitch of his paws, the way his nose sniffs the air even in his sleep. He is still here and filled with the responsibility of watching over us.

I am torn between my wishes for breath and unbreath.

How much easier it would be for him to make the decision. How much easier it would be for him to choose.

"Now," he'd say, and the breathing would stop, one full, long sigh pushing out the holding on.

In the end, it may happen this way.

Or it may not.

We may have to choose for him.

And it will be his breathing that I watch, first relaxed and calm as the sedative sets in.

Then the next injection when we will sigh goodbye and whisper encouragement and wishes for a gentle journey and watch, holding him and holding each other as his breath quivers and rattles and he lets go as we let go, soft fur between our fingers.

But now he breathes, asleep on his kitchen rug, his eyebrows flickering, his right paw curled as if to ask a question.

When doing my research for my master's thesis, I read Andrew Solomon's magnificent work, "Noonday Demon". His study of the research on depression discussed how more people who follow through on suicide do so not in the dark of winter, but in the blossom of spring. The thinking is that if you are depressed during the winter -- those dark and dreary months -- you justify your melancholy to the time of year, holding on until spring arrives. But if you stay depressed during the spring months, then your chances of committing suicide dramatically increase. In other words, if the warmer weather, the longer days, and the sheer brightness of the world cannot lift you out of your depression, nothing will.

He went on to talk about how the most dangerous time for him during his depression wasn't when he couldn't get out of bed, but when he was slightly (ever so) motivated to face his depression and get help. Just as he was making the upward turn from his life on the bottom, he found himself more likely to think about killing himself, now that he was more motivated by the drugs and by the therapy.

I thought about this yesterday on my ride home from work. It was 62 degrees (warm for this time of year), the sun was burning a hole in the blue sky, and the smell of spring made my eyes water and my nostrils swell.

I am not depressed, I thought to myself, glad that spring had lifted my spirits, fueled my legs with enough energy to tackle the bigger hill home.

During the winter months I worry that my depression from a few years back will continue. I take a daily inventory...is this depression or is this
A) exhaustion?
B) a lack of daylight?
C) a struggle though manageable?
D) the lack of exercise?
E) all of the above?

Once you've experienced depression, I don't think it ever leaves you fully. It hangs around.
For me, it floats above my right shoulder.
It hums continuously.
It smiles and smirks.
It taps its fingers and checks its watch.
A demon, as Solomon named it.

And the stuggle, the mighty struggle is daily, hourly to
A) ignore it
B) smile back at it
C) turn up my MP3 player
D) sleep with my back to it
E) all of the above

But the true test for me is when March rolls around, the month I dread more than others because it's long and wet and not quite warm enough, not quite sweet enough and full of taunts and teases... the true test is can I make it through to really be surprised and pleased about the arrival of April?

If, by chance, April were to roll around and I found myself feeling dismal and dark, weighted and pasty, I'd know that the depression usually floating on my right shoulder was now inside of me, humming, smirking, tapping the seconds against my brittle bones.

But yesterday, I sighed knowing I'd won...at least for this spring.

The air was rich with cut grass, the warmth of blossoms, and something unidentifiable but as comforting as cookies baking on a summer evening or the smell of a puppie's ears.

I walked Chester when I got home. He was bouncy, actually bouncy, hopping in that hobby horse way that he always used to do when excited to see me, excited to get dinner, excited to be leashed up, excited to leave his mark on every branch, every corner.

His demon stayed at bay, too.

Even when, halfway through our walk, it started to rain...big drops of spring and still 60 degrees...he smiled and lead the way up the hill, past the purple lilacs and flowering cherry trees.

Today, there is still sun, though the clouds are moving across a white sky. Chester is asleep on his rug in the kitchen. He is wobbly today, uncertain about why I am home, he is drowsy and drugged. His demon has returned, tapping at his shoulder.

I want to think it's a dance, but even that analogy seems inadequate. It's tidal, moving in and out, back and forth, pulled by something more familiar than a fat moon or the earth's rotation. As the time draw nears, Chester's and even mine, the hours between high and low tides grows shorter. There are days when he is as alive as the creatures happily floating in the highest waters, and then as weak and precarious as those same critters exposed by the waters drawn back by the spring moon.

And every moment we are changed, ever so slightly...water reshaping our shorelines.
Carved.
Formed.
Twisted smooth.
Reformed.
Carved again.
Pulled and tempted.
Resistant.
Surrendered.
Forgiven.

Unconditional

With Chester's illness I've been thinking a lot about unconditional love. I don't think it exists. Chester's love certainly isn't unconditional...it's loyal and forgiving, but it's also contigent on daily exercise, timely meals, and what Ann and I call "eye contact time"...moments of the day when we just look into his eyes and rub him gently on his head or back or butt (one of his favorite spots).

I think Ann is moving closer to deciding that Chester's quality of life is not the quality we'd like it to be. The meds just do him in. He walks in a sideways motion and has given up on lifting his leg to pee, lest he fall over, embarrassed and uncertain. From 7 in the morning until about 5 in the evening, he just wants to sleep and only occassionally goes out in the backyard to squat on his favorite spot or to get cooler water in his bowl on the back porch.

At 5, he wakes up a bit and would nudges us to take him for a walk or whines at his bowl if we're late on his feeding. He even knows when it's time for his meds, though this morning threw him with the springing forward.

He doesn't smile as much anymore though.

We went for a walk at the park this morning and though he was eager to try to keep moving forward, he was exhausted even by our extremely slow pace.

Ann cried.

I did not. I don't know why. I know I will cry when it's time. I know there are times in the day when tears well up, but this morning, when it was clear that the decision was drawing closer, I didn't cry.

Perhaps it is my way of supporting Ann, maintaining the strong position while she crumbled a bit in the sunshine reflecting off the lake.

Perhaps I haven't accepted it yet, that this little man who has been in my life for only 4 years (though in Ann's over 12), will no longer wake me up at the crack of dawn or escort me on long walks through the neighborhood in his happy cantor .

It's hard to say, but today I have no tears.

Chester doesn't either, which I guess is his daily lesson for me in living in the now.

A nap. That's in the now.
A good meal. That's in the now.
Eye contact time. That's in the now.
Sleeping next to Ann (which he is doing at this moment) that's the best now on earth.

See, there are many, many conditions when one lives in the now.

I don't mind them. It's still love to me. Pure love.

Dashboard

The dashboard Chester tried to eat through one night to get to the peanut butter dog biscuits stashed in the glove compartment.

Collecting Memories

As Chester's health declines, I find myself grabbing onto memories of him like I'm collecting rare coins.

Here's one:

In the morning, after he wakes me up at precisely 5:28 a.m. (yes, every damn morning on the dot), we make coffee together. Chester sits quietly by my side staring up at me with those eyes like amber gems, longing, mournful, and these days a bit glazed. While the coffee is brewing, I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because it's Friday and I'm too tired to make anything else and my class is taking a field trip to the beach so a PBJ sandwich fits nicely into my backpack. Ann gets the other one just because I'm feeling extra special generous.

Chester LOVES bread. (On our second date, Ann and I went for a hike with Chester. He broke into my lunch in the car and ate half my fresh bagel before I snatched it away from him.) He even enjoys peanut butter. It's only of late, with the medication's side effects, that he also likes jelly. (On our walks, he'll now even eat orange peels, which, back in his youth, he'd never even consider edible.)

So, he's sitting next to me like a good Su Chef, doing this funny little repetitive move he's developed where he sits, then gets up for a nano second then sits back down quickly and forcefully. The effect sounds like he's stamping his feet as if to say, "Hey, have you forgotten I'm down here?"

I lay out the bread, generously spread on the peanut butter and then step away to get the jelly. "Don't touch those sandwiches," I warn him and he looks at me like the most innocent creature who ever evolved.

Then, while I'm rummaging through the fridge trying to find one of those tiny jelly jars my mom got us for Christmas (perfect stocking stuffers she thought, but one jar covers only two sandwiches), Chester gets up from his stomping position, walks over to his dog dish, which still holds his breakfast kibble, picks up one piece of dog food in his mouth, walks back over to the sandwiches and pa-tooey's the kibble onto the floor.

I swear I hear him say, "Shit. You're feeding me shit."

I laugh.

I walk the minature jar of jelly back over to the bread and peanut butter and commence with the final layer of boysenberry.

Disgusted, Chester picks up the lonely kibble he just spat onto the floor and precedes to crunch it loudly...I am not making this up...he crunches it with his lips turned up to make the noise of the one dry kibble sound as stale as WWI tack bread.

I swear I hear him say, "Shit. I'm a dying dog and this is shit you expect me to eat."