life according to me
Somehow, during the not so dog days of August this year, I thought it was time to get a dog. I know how that sounds, but please know the two are not connected. Or perhaps they are, the humidity this summer as opposed to the dry heat we’re used to saturating my perspective on daily life.
When I’m home, Precious (aka Fresh-ness or The Yack Star) is now rarely far from either myself or the RTR. And if neither of us is available, the doggo seems to do. She’s not howling as much as she was a month ago, but still does, and will respond when one of us howls back at her.
We have entire conversations with her and have no idea what we’re talking about, so at some point, she becomes disgusted with us, turns her head away, and saunters in the direction of her food bowl.
Usually, she’s got something to say about having just come in from the patio, or to remind us about food time.
Food time has expanded from once a day to once in the morning, and then again 12 hours later. But she wants more so she can drown her sorrows over her lost companion of ten years.
I understand. I’d probably want to do the same thing.
I’ve thought a little of getting a kitten, but don’t have the energy to make a decision like that right now. Kittens are like babies. They need so much attention, it’s not fair to not be able to provide it, and right now, I can’t provide it.
Besides, I don’t think the oldsters would appreciate the intrusion in their lives.
But maybe soon…
It could help that hitch in the doggo’s giddy-up and mend The Yack Star’s broken heart.
I need the sky to be grey and angry looking. I want the wind to blow and rain to fall. But it’s blue as far as I can see.
I don’t want to hear the kids at the end of the block playing in the cul-de-sac. But they’re laughing and screaming at one another, having fun.
I want the trees to be bare like they’re supposed to be in the winter, and not green with signs of spring already.
I’m not in the right frame of mind for blooming and regrowth. Sprouting and budding.
I thought it might be good to bury my head in the pillows until about noon, but knew that was never going to happen. And once I’m awake, the last thing I want to do is lay there and think. Not today. Especially today.
I headed for the bathroom acknowledging my numb around the edges self, knowing that I wouldn’t see Blackitty, and wondering whether my ugly, red, puffy eyes could actually squeeze out more tears. They felt like they wanted to. And right when I could feel the wave of grief begin to wash over me, the door nudged forward and my dog’s big golden head and soft brown eyes pushed into the space, tentatively, seeking permission. Her cold wet nose bumped against my knee and I could hear the thump of her tail against the vanity as I scratched her head to say thank you for continuing Blackitty’s routine. 
So amazing.
As Far As Today Has Gone…
What was annoying?
Getting up the second the alarm went off, getting ready for my first official day as a person who actually goes to work after a year (only part time) and is ten minutes late because of traffic. Three miles in twenty minutes is a problem. I am not someone who is ever late. Ever.
But what’s good about it?
Not getting pissed off about it. I got to work. All was well. And tomorrow, I’m taking another route.
What’s gross?
Realizing that the dark smudge and related four-foot streak across one of the only clean places left on the carpet this morning was caused by the dog who couldn’t take an extra minute to poop outside, so came upstairs, summarily parked her butt hole on the carpet, then proceeded to skooch forward using all four paws, removing whatever offending turdlett was hanging on for dear life. It worked. What a genius.
Where’s the proverbial silver lining?
Obviously not on the carpet. But the image of the dog dragging her butt hole is completely, side-splittingly HILARIOUS even though the spot remover didn’t quite remove the stain. The bottle lied. I’m an expert at lying carpet stain bottles. And in knowing that she doesn’t have worms or clogged anal glands.
What makes me want to rip my hair out?
After pulling off a B+ so close to an A in Algebra II during the first grading period this year, the RT has systematically worked to destroy his grade (okay, so it’s a B-) by not doing most of his homework because he doesn’t feel like it. He’s knows it’s more than strange that he’s engaged in this rather highly developed form of academic suicide, but hey! He’s good at just not thinking about it.
Why do I grit my teeth, grinning to bear the agony of this revelation instead of ripping his lovely brown eyes out of his skull?
He’s in more agony about it than I could ever be. Daily, he procrastinates, then doesn’t do the work and the routine begins again the next day. He must love the torture. Plus, he must love my rather lengthy and antagonizingly argumentative discussions about life and work and responsibility. And the concept of beginning to look for a job now that requires no degree and a cheap place to live while employed in said fashion. In San Diego, that would be a cardboard box.
And the bright side of this debacle is?
He gets this flat look about the eyes, like I have the calm audacity to suggest he will have to fend for himself in this world, and that he may not get it right. It lets me know I’ve gotten through. And then I get to tell him that he’d better figure it out because he only has about six years of math left to take in his life if he isn’t planning on the minimum wage job route. It doesn’t matter that he most likely will NEVER use any of the math he’s required to take, but you can all rest assured that at least with my kid, the good ol’ U S of A will have a chance to compete. You know. Mathematically. In the world.
Could someone tell Edwards for me please? He was sweating bricks over it during the minute or two I listened to the debate today on NPR.
Oh, and the RT completed his math while I wrote this, so clearly it’s not challenging.
Like I said. Torture.
Day eight-thousand three-hundred ninety two of NaBloPoMo. Or something like that. At this point, I’m wondering if I’ll ever see Tara again.
November 7, 2007
My dear Doggo,
You gave us quite a quiet fright last night.
It took a while for us to realize that you hadn’t engaged in your usual routine of staring us down while we ate until someone (me) relented and allowed you to lick the dinner remnants from our plates. That you didn’t get off the couch when I did place my plate on the floor as I normally do (because you do such a great job of getting the stuff off the plates the dishwasher would have to work a bit harder to remove), was unsettling.
And when I finally realized you were just laying there on your spot on the couch (which is really a giant dog bed and we should have realized that’s all it was when we bought it) the RT coaxed you down to the floor where you sat uncomfortably, shaking a bit. Your paws were cold, too. Aren’t dogs’ paws always warm?
Not too long ago the MoH said that he could hear your hip clicking as you walked around the block with him in the quiet of the evening. We’ve known that you have some trouble with your hip because you’re a bit of a plus sized girl, and not quite genetically put together well; your legs are just too short for the bulk of your body. So that’s why we’ve cut back on the distance you walk each day, and have made sure that you get just the right amount of food.
I’m sure the RT won’t mind that you’re snuggling with his old blan-key. It’s pretty stinky, so I know you like it.
I encouraged you to lay on your side, and you complied, but seemed afraid and panted a bit. You wouldn’t even eat one of your favorite Milk Bone dog biscuits and it sat just beyond your nose until you nudged it and tried to eat it, giving up after a few seconds. But concern showed in your eyes whenever anyone touched it or moved it, so we knew you were interested in your bone.
I felt so badly for you (because you are always so perky when we’re all home together in the evening) that I went upstairs to get your bed, pushed you gently (which is no mean feat) to lay on it, and then covered you with the rug, watching your eyes close as you gave in to sleep. Watching the rise and fall of your body as you breathed.
I began to wonder how we’d get you in the car if we had to take you to the vet. I know we could, but I can imagine that you’d be quite embarrassed with the idea of it, not being able to do it yourself. I asked the MoH how old you were again, thinking that eight or nine isn’t that old — even in dog years, is it? I probably just don’t want to admit it.
Later in the evening after we’d all gone to bed and I had successfully gotten you to climb the stairs, I watched you sleep in your regular place next to my side of the bed. As I read, I kept watch for the sign of your breathing, just like I used to do with my babies.
This morning you were fine. Not stiff, tail wagging, and ready to eat that bone we gave you last night.
I’m glad you’re feeling better, Biggedy. It was unseasonally chilly last night, and I think that chill, coupled with your joint problems, just got the best of you. But I’m still unsettled about your health. I think we’re all getting to the point where we are feeling uncomfortable about the fact that our animals just won’t live as long as we will, and that as time goes on, the idea of starting all over again with someone else, is just more than we can bear to think about.
We love you Biggedy (Ann Jones the Third — as the MoH would coo in a falsetto),
Your Doting Family
p.s. I’ll go to the pet store today to look for some glucosamine. Maybe that way, your joints won’t be so sore. Oh, and I’m so glad we replaced the RT’s sheets and comforter. Goodness knows, I wouldn’t want you to have to take your naps on your dog bed while I’m writing. Heavens no.
I think the first trip my husband and I took together was to Las Vegas. Neither of us had ever been, and I’m not sure what prompted it, but off we went to end up at a fairly seedy hotel and casino somewhere off The Strip and that no longer exists. We drove across the hot desert with not much on our minds but the glimmer of a possibility of hitting a jackpot — on a roll of nickels per day.
Although I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to have visited and lived in a variety of places (due to a somewhat nomadic early childhood and the military) my husband had not. So, we’ve made an effort to take time off and get away as much as we could over the years. Rarely has our travel been exotic, as the cost alone was something challenging for us to afford. Sometimes we took my two older boys, leaving the youngest, a toddler, at home, and others we’d take all three boys and throw in my mom for good measure. Often, we’d leave everyone behind, escaping by ourselves. We like each other. And although it’s lovely being together as a family when we’re traveling, the kids don’t always need to go, nor is it always fun for them. No, I’m not rationalizing. Yes, I’m picturing that faded blue VW bug my family had chugging through Spain with either a perpetual ruckus in the back or a stony silence in the front. *memmm-reeezzz… like the corrr-nerzzz of my mind… misty water colored mehhhh… mreeezzz… of the way…we were…*
We’ve been lucky when we’ve traveled because there has always been someone willing to keep an eye on things around the house. At first, it was my mom. We all shared a home for a time, and so it was easy to take advantage of depend on her. Then as my two older boys grew, we were terrified felt comfortable leaving them to the responsibility of the old homestead. Unfortunately, that came to a screeching halt when the oldest had one of those notorious parties where people never seen or heard of before show up looking for free booze and someone else’s bed to copulate on. And barf all over. Have you ever smelled clove cigarettes? And tried to scrape damp leaves off the floor? I’ll save you the rest of the gory details. Suffice it to say we weren’t so anxious to leave home again.
When we moved closer to the ocean, it became a bit easier because my husband’s parents willingly, graciously, thankfully came to stay while we went on our little excursions. Although they are fairly close, being residents of North County, they used to take the opportunity to treat their stay here as a mini vacation of sorts. We were at ease knowing all was well with our home and animals, and could count on our stellar neighbors to take an unfriendly swipe or two at them over inane things in anonymously written cards left on windshields. Ahhh…the perks of living in Paradise.
That’s all more difficult now. This last vacation, I had to ask my middle son if he could keep an eye on things. He works fairly close to our house, so the possibility of saving some gas money, and an offer to pay him for his time sealed the deal. The money will come in handy for his school books this next semester. Well, since I usually give him some money anyway, that would be rationalization. There was just one glitch. He had plans to visit Magic Mountain with his friends for an entire day. Hmmm… the dog would be a huge problem, bless her barking, pooping, howling self. I thought about taking her with us on our road trip for about a second and a half. She loves riding in the car and sticking her head out the window, but the thought of all the 409 I’d have to spray on the back seat every time we went around a curve…well, you understand, right?
So I began to wonder about my older son, a lovely mix of creative wonderment, and perpetual curiosity. I should have purchased a shirt for him long ago that read “Makes Sudden Turns” because he can be on the straight and narrow path, then vanish. For days. Like he was a figment of our collective imagination right when we thought he’d be there. Where he was supposed to be. Doing something he said he’d do.
As I was mulling over these thoughts, my middle son asked whether he could put a towel down or something. You know, in case the dog peed. Uh…no. The condition of the carpet by the garage door already effectively leads one to believe a race horse enjoys a stall in our home. So, there would be no towel.
All was worked out, because upon our return, the floors were vacuumed, the pet dishes clean, the floor swept, trash emptied, patio free of dog poop, and plants watered. Dishes were done, counters were wiped and windows strategically open so air could come in, but the barking dog wouldn’t inspire our not so lovely neighbors to send us their notes.
And the refrigerator was clean. Totally. Shelves wiped — even the shelves in the door. Even the one that had a variety of jars and bottles stuck in the petrified fudge sauce I’d been meaning to clean for about three years or so. No moldy cheese. No pickle jars sporting a lonely slice and pickling spices. No out of code marinade, or radioactive peach barbeque sauce I forgot to throw out before we left. Spotless. Imagine!
We were also left a note:
I left at 2PMish Friday. Ms. B went pee & poo 2x this morning. She likes to bark at her/your neighbors on her walks!!! (She so doesn’t do this when we walk her…) Blackitty and Precious are fine and have lots of fleas. (Oh, really? And does a chicken have lips?) (My kitties don’t have fleas and they are poor [East County Hood] kitties not rich [Paradise] ones. (We’re middle class posers) Check out Petmeds dot com for some flippin’ sweet deals. (Uh…I did apply one of those little vials of poison to the back of each of their necks on the very morning we left. I think the fleas like the way it tastes.) Thanks for the food. (Frozen pizza, taquitos, burritos, and the like. Oh, and ice cream. And root beer.) I cleaned up every day and [older brother] cleaned out the fridge on Saturday. He said [the RT’s] bed smells funny (You couldn’t pay me to sleep in that bed either, but the bedding was freshly washed and what would someone who frequently sleeps amongst the dirty laundry in his car know, anyway?) so he slept on the floor with Ms. B and 2 fighting, hissing kitties on the living room floor. (So maybe we’re even for the wild party all those years ago?) See you all tomorrow afternoon, RC >=B–<
And then he left this present for the RT who watched about 80 hours of Family Guy in the back seat of the car on our vacation.
My middle son said some of the crew at work got wind of his house sitting gig and wanted to know where we lived so they could “hang out.” I’m sure they were referring to the windows. Or something. About 17 of them. Sheesh. What a close call. Maybe that’s why the house was so clean, now that I think of it.
Ahhh… I just love my boys. I think they’re swell.
I can hear the MoH in the bedroom cooing loving endearments softly to the Big, calling her his latest rendition of her moniker: Quatro Formaggio. Yes. Four Cheeses. I know it isn’t quite Italian, or Spanish, but still. You get the idea. Now why a man would call his dog Four Cheeses and have it come from his lips as a velvety verbal gift is beyond me. The MoH is hilarious. He never coos at me. He probably knows I’d slug him for being so gooey. But he makes me laugh and that’s lovely.
“Quattro Formaggio” is a bit more tolerable than the former derivative of her name; one which lasted for about two weeks and was never uttered as a pleasantry — “Jose Biggedy Jones the Quatro.” Or the all time favorite, “Biggedy Jones” which we think came from Indiana Jones or Harrison Ford, or something and came before the Quattro fixation the MoH has right now. And “Biggedy R.L. Jones the Third” was a good one for a while, but the RT and I could never get the MoH to tell us what the hell R.L. stood for. Go figure.
Or sometimes he just calls her “Jones Jones,” just in case one Jones isn’t enough. All the names — and I am leaving an amazing number out because I can’t remember what order they morphed in — are all delivered in a pure falsetto that the Big always responds to with a shift of her brows or a rhythmic tap of her tail. The thing about the Big though, is she always knows her name. Even if it’s just Big, which is the name I use. After all, she is my dog. Me — a cat person with a dog — one that really looks like a cross between a pig and a deer. Or a cow with a pointy nose. The RT decided I needed one for a birthday about eight years ago, so voila. Now, do I look like someone who needs a d-o-g? 
The Big doesn’t seem very smart most of the time, but understands a lot of language. I defensively remind the MoH of this fact when he’s telling her she’s not very smart. We even test her to see if the tone of our voice is the key to her understanding language, but it isn’t. It’s the vowels. You know — those a-e-i-o-u thingy-mo-bobs. She even understands the spelling of many sentences — not just words, so if we don’t want to get roped into doing whatever it is she’s listening for, we have to be very careful.
Hey Big! Do you want to go for a ride? This one makes her crazy. She hips and hops — very difficult for a plus size girl — and tries very hard to make her sad excuses for floppy ears perk up. She cocks her head, her tail freezes, and she waits for confirmation that she has correctly translated her favorite sentence into Dog Speak. The Dog Speak version goes something like this: /uwannagoferaride?/ Pretty cool, huh? She loves to go for a ride, but not when we drive over 40 mph. Because then she can’t poke her face out the window and assail her olfactory system with the billions of scents she picks up along the road, providing dream fodder for a week of dog naps.
Or: Do you want a bone? This was the first one she learned. Well, actually, she learned bone first, and the rest was added over time just to see if she could anticipate bone at the end of the sentence. Yep. She could.
And: Where’s your boy? That’s the RT in case you forgot. She understands the boy part and is somewhat glum when he goes to visit his cousin for a weekend or two. I think she’s really attached to his basic teenage stinkiness, so when he’s not here, she completely gets it. The only reason she’s laying next to me right now is because the RT is sleeping in — call that avoiding his Geometry homework that has to be done by noon each Sunday. As soon as the RT is up, she’ll go lay on his bed, inhaling that earthy locker room fragrance that can only be the RTs. Well, except he’s discovered Axel deoderant which adds an interesting spin to things. Kind of a pungent spicy mustiness. The girls should be lining up any time now.
I have to head downstairs to accompany the MoH on a walk to the farmer’s market again. He really liked that last weekend, and I’m on a quest to get in five walks this week. That’s about 15 miles tallied and the best I’ve done for about two or three weeks. Woo Hoo! I need it considering the time I’ll be on my butt getting this blob up and looking gorgeous. I’m reaching obsessiveness about it at this point, but decided to throw in the Me Shots just to keep you in line while you’re waiting. And thanks for waiting. 
Have a loverly Sunday!
