My three year old daughter holds my face between her two hands. Studying it; memorizing it. Or so I tell myself. My heart fills, remembering all the times that I have done the same to her. Looking for shadows of myself in her big gray eyes and tracing the curves of her smile. She turns my head right and left. Brings her nose up to mine, our eyes crossing as we try to focus. Will she remember my face like this when I am old?
"Mom, what's that red bump on your nose?"
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Thin Ice
Last night as I was lying next to Lucas in his bed reading him a story, he rubbed my belly and looked at me expectantly, saying, "why is your tummy getting bigger?" I assume he wanted me to tell him that I was going to have a baby.
How do you explain premenstrual bloating to a five year old, while impressing upon him the importance of the extreme delicacy with which he should approach this subject in the future?
How do you explain premenstrual bloating to a five year old, while impressing upon him the importance of the extreme delicacy with which he should approach this subject in the future?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Goodbye
Lincoln is gone. He made it till spring, just short of his 10th birthday.
Ten years was not enough time.
Monday, April 5, 2010
A Wild Pack of Family Dogs
Our most recent milestone: Eric's dog, Cassie (for whom I have decided that Cassandra Louise is a better fitting name) spent the weekend with us.
This is momentous only because there was a time when my two bratty dogs would have tried to eat her. But, since they are now ancient, arthritic and/or sickly, all Lydia could muster was a half-hearted attempt to munch on her big poofy neck when first meeting her. I think she may have just been thrown off by all that hair. In fact, my once fearless, dominant, tenacious pit bulls only really noticed that there was a big hairy collie in the house when she plunked herself down for a nap in their path. Lydia woke me up crying in the middle of the night because Cassie had decided to sleep right at the top of the bedroom stairs and she couldn't figure out how to get through.
Still, as calm and well-behaved as they all were it was like being knee-deep in a pack of dogs all weekend.
This is momentous only because there was a time when my two bratty dogs would have tried to eat her. But, since they are now ancient, arthritic and/or sickly, all Lydia could muster was a half-hearted attempt to munch on her big poofy neck when first meeting her. I think she may have just been thrown off by all that hair. In fact, my once fearless, dominant, tenacious pit bulls only really noticed that there was a big hairy collie in the house when she plunked herself down for a nap in their path. Lydia woke me up crying in the middle of the night because Cassie had decided to sleep right at the top of the bedroom stairs and she couldn't figure out how to get through.
Still, as calm and well-behaved as they all were it was like being knee-deep in a pack of dogs all weekend.
Friday, March 12, 2010
On parenting while sick, but with good hair.
It is the eve of our all-kids-all-the-time weekend, and instead of trying to plan something fun and stimulating for all of them to do, we’re trying to think of something really subdued. Dull even. You see, Eric, who usually takes on the lion’s share of child wrangling, being a veteran of all-boy sleep overs and ninja war games, is sick. He’s oh-god-I’m-so-sick-I’m-not-being-dramatic-I-HAVE-to-moan-like-this-just-to-stay-alive sick. And I’m just now getting over the same thing.
So tonight will be a test of sorts. Less about fun playing house more about the ugly truth of having four kids bouncing off the walls when all you want to do is knock yourself out with Nyquil and sleep for days.
Eric suggested lining the basement with mattresses, throwing a pizza down the stairs and hiding behind the couch. I don’t think that’s responsible parenting.
I think we should at least put a movie in for them.
Like The Diary of Anne Frank. Or Old Yeller.
............................................................................................................................
We’re having an unusually warm March here in Minneapolis. It’s been raining all week and is supposed to rain all weekend too. Which is tough, cause it will make me feel real bad about kicking the kids out into the backyard all day on Saturday - into the miasma of melting snow, mud and dog poo. But on the other hand, it’s making me so hopeful for spring. Itching to get out there and clean up the yard, reclaim the patio, breathe fresh air.
In truth, these late winter months are always torture for me. I feel like everything is stagnant and soggy and dead. Just waiting for sunshine and warm air, waiting for the rebirth of… of everything. I get so antsy for the season to change that I become aggravated with every little thing that I have been looking at all winter. I hate the dirty windows, the color of the walls, my entire wardrobe, my face in the mirror.
To that end, last weekend, I got a haircut. That might not seem like such a big deal, but it kind of is. For the past twenty years I have been living with basically the same haircut. It’s straight and, usually, long. I get it trimmed a couple times a year. Then every five years or so, I cut it all short, and then grow it out again. But now, for the first time in what seems like forever, it’s a style. Like, not just cut in a straight line right where my bra strap hits the middle of my back. It’s all layery and kind of curlyish and cute. And at first I was a little freaked – cause you know what you have to do with a hairstyle? You have to style it. You have to use stuff on your hair other than shampoo and your fingers.
But I had a sweet little flashback moment this morning. Sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor in front of the full length mirror, listening to the radio and curling my hair with a curling iron. Just like in sixth grade. All that was missing was the lavender shag carpet of my childhood bedroom.
My new hair is so fabulous, in fact, that Eric thought he should take a picture of it last night. Remember how we just bought a new camera? And neither one of us really knows how to use it yet? By his third attempt at snapping a picture of me, I had tears streaming down my face from the blinding red light that would flash in my eyes before the shutter clicked. And we couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. So, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I have a hairstyle.
So tonight will be a test of sorts. Less about fun playing house more about the ugly truth of having four kids bouncing off the walls when all you want to do is knock yourself out with Nyquil and sleep for days.
Eric suggested lining the basement with mattresses, throwing a pizza down the stairs and hiding behind the couch. I don’t think that’s responsible parenting.
I think we should at least put a movie in for them.
Like The Diary of Anne Frank. Or Old Yeller.
............................................................................................................................
We’re having an unusually warm March here in Minneapolis. It’s been raining all week and is supposed to rain all weekend too. Which is tough, cause it will make me feel real bad about kicking the kids out into the backyard all day on Saturday - into the miasma of melting snow, mud and dog poo. But on the other hand, it’s making me so hopeful for spring. Itching to get out there and clean up the yard, reclaim the patio, breathe fresh air.
In truth, these late winter months are always torture for me. I feel like everything is stagnant and soggy and dead. Just waiting for sunshine and warm air, waiting for the rebirth of… of everything. I get so antsy for the season to change that I become aggravated with every little thing that I have been looking at all winter. I hate the dirty windows, the color of the walls, my entire wardrobe, my face in the mirror.
To that end, last weekend, I got a haircut. That might not seem like such a big deal, but it kind of is. For the past twenty years I have been living with basically the same haircut. It’s straight and, usually, long. I get it trimmed a couple times a year. Then every five years or so, I cut it all short, and then grow it out again. But now, for the first time in what seems like forever, it’s a style. Like, not just cut in a straight line right where my bra strap hits the middle of my back. It’s all layery and kind of curlyish and cute. And at first I was a little freaked – cause you know what you have to do with a hairstyle? You have to style it. You have to use stuff on your hair other than shampoo and your fingers.
But I had a sweet little flashback moment this morning. Sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor in front of the full length mirror, listening to the radio and curling my hair with a curling iron. Just like in sixth grade. All that was missing was the lavender shag carpet of my childhood bedroom.
My new hair is so fabulous, in fact, that Eric thought he should take a picture of it last night. Remember how we just bought a new camera? And neither one of us really knows how to use it yet? By his third attempt at snapping a picture of me, I had tears streaming down my face from the blinding red light that would flash in my eyes before the shutter clicked. And we couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. So, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I have a hairstyle.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Backstory
The woman who owned my home before me was an ambitious gardener. But not always.
The way I understand the story, from what she told me at our closing and the gossip I’ve gotten from my neighbors, goes like this:
Once upon a time she had lots of time for gardening and making art. There was a kiln in the garage and a hundred varieties of iris in the many gardens; antique roses, native wildflowers, handmade paving stones, hollow faux boulders, and a reclaimed brick patio. It must have been lovely at one time.
But then, apparently, she had a brain aneurysm. I guess the recovery was tough, and during that time, her husband left her with two young boys and no money. She eventually found herself a job in a very distant suburb. Such a long commute that she went ahead and enrolled her sons in the school of said suburb, so that they could at least be together in the car during the day. Needless to say, spending that much time driving back and forth and being a single mother left her little time to tend to her many gardens. Weeds were not pulled, perennials were not divided, dead branches were left to rot. Also, somewhere in there, she started working with a greyhound rescue, and had three of them in her home. A temporary wire fence cut her beautiful gardens right down the middle.
And so, this not being an ideal situation, she set about preparing to relocate for her job. The house needed a lot of work, and money was tight, so her father and her brother helped her to make some changes that they thought would up the value of the property. I believe many of the materials were recycled, reclaimed, purchased at garage sales, who knows. The front door still has the handwritten price, $3, scrawled on the edge. Every room in the house has a different kind of flooring. None of the light fixtures match, edges aren’t square, trim is missing.
And yet, when I saw the house for the first time, it just felt right to me. Maybe I sensed some kind of kinship with this woman and her story. Mine fell along similar lines. I didn’t even want to buy a house. I didn’t want to move, I didn’t want to start my life over. But I think that I felt that the house would be a forgiving house. It wasn’t perfect, in fact it was kind of a mess. And I felt like I fit perfectly in it.
And so, since it has been mine, I have slowly been regaining my confidence, finding my new identity, and it has been dragged along with me. That first winter, as I was getting used to being alone for the first time in my life, I kept my mind occupied and my hands busy by painting all the rooms on the first floor, filling the rooms with things that made me think of the future, or remember only the good times of the past. I painted my bedroom pink. And then, immediately hating it, repainted it my go-to creamy beige, and didn’t apologize to anyone for the inconvenience. I bought a white couch, because I had always wanted a white couch, and now I didn’t have to answer to anyone when it was covered in muddy dog footprints and spilled coffee.
And that spring I ventured out into the overwhelming jungle that the large corner lot had become. Those greyhounds were diggers. And runners. The yard was a mix of mud and creeping charlie, scattered with dog toys, plastic greenhouse pots, and garbage. The mulberry tree had spread its seeds throughout the yard and sprouted stubborn weed trees in the hedges and cracks of the patio. The gardens were choked with weeds and overgrown daylilies. So I set about raking garbage and leaves and hacking back mulberry bushes. I dug out all the salvageable perennials from four of the gardens, transferred them into the remaining three, then filled all the dog holes with the dirt from the raised beds. I had the mulberry tree and an ash tree that had been struck by lightning cut down. I broke my back hauling dirt, moving rocks and bricks. I called it un-gardening.
I planted grass seed and learned the trick to starting a stubborn lawn mower. And I learned to watch carefully as you mow, no matter how many bricks you’ve already dug out of the yard. I learned not to try to adjust the blade depth by grabbing the thing by its motor when it’s still hot.
I spent all my free weekends outside from morning till night and fell into bed exhausted at the end of the day.
And then I met Eric, and in the flush and fun of a new relationship, I put all these projects on hold. I lost touch with my strong, independent, impulsive Amazon self. Eric, being all male and strong, insisted on mowing my lawn for me, and I let him. I spent my weekends gazing into his beautiful mirror green eyes and pushing the kids on the swings. I replaced appliances when they broke, but otherwise did nothing to the inside of the house. The house has grown stagnant, and the yard is a mess again.
A year has gone by like this. And here we are, moving in together, trying to make this house that I had started to make mine, into ours. I can’t really get away with deciding to paint the family room at nine o’clock then staying up all night rearranging the furniture anymore. Now paint colors must be discussed and time set aside. Other tastes must be considered. Room must be made for collections, for art, for books, for feelings, for personal space. There’s someone else who cares now.
And caring is good. Right?
The way I understand the story, from what she told me at our closing and the gossip I’ve gotten from my neighbors, goes like this:
Once upon a time she had lots of time for gardening and making art. There was a kiln in the garage and a hundred varieties of iris in the many gardens; antique roses, native wildflowers, handmade paving stones, hollow faux boulders, and a reclaimed brick patio. It must have been lovely at one time.
But then, apparently, she had a brain aneurysm. I guess the recovery was tough, and during that time, her husband left her with two young boys and no money. She eventually found herself a job in a very distant suburb. Such a long commute that she went ahead and enrolled her sons in the school of said suburb, so that they could at least be together in the car during the day. Needless to say, spending that much time driving back and forth and being a single mother left her little time to tend to her many gardens. Weeds were not pulled, perennials were not divided, dead branches were left to rot. Also, somewhere in there, she started working with a greyhound rescue, and had three of them in her home. A temporary wire fence cut her beautiful gardens right down the middle.
And so, this not being an ideal situation, she set about preparing to relocate for her job. The house needed a lot of work, and money was tight, so her father and her brother helped her to make some changes that they thought would up the value of the property. I believe many of the materials were recycled, reclaimed, purchased at garage sales, who knows. The front door still has the handwritten price, $3, scrawled on the edge. Every room in the house has a different kind of flooring. None of the light fixtures match, edges aren’t square, trim is missing.
And yet, when I saw the house for the first time, it just felt right to me. Maybe I sensed some kind of kinship with this woman and her story. Mine fell along similar lines. I didn’t even want to buy a house. I didn’t want to move, I didn’t want to start my life over. But I think that I felt that the house would be a forgiving house. It wasn’t perfect, in fact it was kind of a mess. And I felt like I fit perfectly in it.
And so, since it has been mine, I have slowly been regaining my confidence, finding my new identity, and it has been dragged along with me. That first winter, as I was getting used to being alone for the first time in my life, I kept my mind occupied and my hands busy by painting all the rooms on the first floor, filling the rooms with things that made me think of the future, or remember only the good times of the past. I painted my bedroom pink. And then, immediately hating it, repainted it my go-to creamy beige, and didn’t apologize to anyone for the inconvenience. I bought a white couch, because I had always wanted a white couch, and now I didn’t have to answer to anyone when it was covered in muddy dog footprints and spilled coffee.
And that spring I ventured out into the overwhelming jungle that the large corner lot had become. Those greyhounds were diggers. And runners. The yard was a mix of mud and creeping charlie, scattered with dog toys, plastic greenhouse pots, and garbage. The mulberry tree had spread its seeds throughout the yard and sprouted stubborn weed trees in the hedges and cracks of the patio. The gardens were choked with weeds and overgrown daylilies. So I set about raking garbage and leaves and hacking back mulberry bushes. I dug out all the salvageable perennials from four of the gardens, transferred them into the remaining three, then filled all the dog holes with the dirt from the raised beds. I had the mulberry tree and an ash tree that had been struck by lightning cut down. I broke my back hauling dirt, moving rocks and bricks. I called it un-gardening.
I planted grass seed and learned the trick to starting a stubborn lawn mower. And I learned to watch carefully as you mow, no matter how many bricks you’ve already dug out of the yard. I learned not to try to adjust the blade depth by grabbing the thing by its motor when it’s still hot.
I spent all my free weekends outside from morning till night and fell into bed exhausted at the end of the day.
And then I met Eric, and in the flush and fun of a new relationship, I put all these projects on hold. I lost touch with my strong, independent, impulsive Amazon self. Eric, being all male and strong, insisted on mowing my lawn for me, and I let him. I spent my weekends gazing into his beautiful mirror green eyes and pushing the kids on the swings. I replaced appliances when they broke, but otherwise did nothing to the inside of the house. The house has grown stagnant, and the yard is a mess again.
A year has gone by like this. And here we are, moving in together, trying to make this house that I had started to make mine, into ours. I can’t really get away with deciding to paint the family room at nine o’clock then staying up all night rearranging the furniture anymore. Now paint colors must be discussed and time set aside. Other tastes must be considered. Room must be made for collections, for art, for books, for feelings, for personal space. There’s someone else who cares now.
And caring is good. Right?
Monday, March 1, 2010
Georgia
I just changed the font of the text of my blog. Know why? Because I remembered that I absolutely love the shape of a lower case old-fashioned typewriter g.
see that?
g
Isn't it beautiful? All curvy and seductive. With the little serif sticking up off the top, like a jaunty hat, or a playful salute?
anyway.
Happy Monday. And I have a whole lot of other things I want to talk about this week. But right now I need to finish up work, haul home my giant box of Girl Scout Cookies ( I swear I bought enough to last all year) then run out again to grab a gift for my friend Aleks and meet her for her birthday dinner at Cafe Maude. Happy Birthday Aleks!
Oh, and speaking of Aleks. I'll give you a little preview of one of the things I want to talk about soon. I've mentioned that I do flowers for weddings, right? Aleks and Derek got married this summer and I did their flowers.
see that?
g
Isn't it beautiful? All curvy and seductive. With the little serif sticking up off the top, like a jaunty hat, or a playful salute?
anyway.
Happy Monday. And I have a whole lot of other things I want to talk about this week. But right now I need to finish up work, haul home my giant box of Girl Scout Cookies ( I swear I bought enough to last all year) then run out again to grab a gift for my friend Aleks and meet her for her birthday dinner at Cafe Maude. Happy Birthday Aleks!
Oh, and speaking of Aleks. I'll give you a little preview of one of the things I want to talk about soon. I've mentioned that I do flowers for weddings, right? Aleks and Derek got married this summer and I did their flowers.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Progress
Eric and I both share custody of our kids with our exes and we each have different kid schedules. So every week is a mixed up jumble of some of our kids, all of our kids, none of our kids. But every other weekend the planets align and we have an adult only weekend - a weekend in which we try to accomplish all things that are a pain in the ass to do with kids in tow. This past weekend was one of those weekends.
Things that were accomplished:
1. We bought a new (used) camera. This one will not, I repeat will not, suffer the same death as the last one: a horrible drowning in blue Gatorade at the bottom of a diaper bag. It's by far the nicest camera I've ever owned, too nice to even put in a diaper bag. It has its own case. Also, it is our first major purchase together. Looking forward to having some time to figure out how to work it. So far all I've managed is some shots of the kids on auto - but even those look great.
I'm remembering that I took a photography class in college where I learned all about F- stops and shutter speeds, I retained about as much of that as I did of 9th grade algebra.
2. We painted the Ikea bunk bed that we got for Eric's boys. A great orange that looks just right with the summer sky blue and fire engine red that we painted their room on our last adult weekend. It's exciting to be making progress on their room. And they love it.
3. Major Trader Joe's grocery shopping trip. So cute how Eric gets all psyched about things like having breakfast and lunch fixings for his kids at my house. It's the little things like this that help us feel like we're starting our life together, mashing our two families into one.
Things that were accomplished:
1. We bought a new (used) camera. This one will not, I repeat will not, suffer the same death as the last one: a horrible drowning in blue Gatorade at the bottom of a diaper bag. It's by far the nicest camera I've ever owned, too nice to even put in a diaper bag. It has its own case. Also, it is our first major purchase together. Looking forward to having some time to figure out how to work it. So far all I've managed is some shots of the kids on auto - but even those look great.
I'm remembering that I took a photography class in college where I learned all about F- stops and shutter speeds, I retained about as much of that as I did of 9th grade algebra.
2. We painted the Ikea bunk bed that we got for Eric's boys. A great orange that looks just right with the summer sky blue and fire engine red that we painted their room on our last adult weekend. It's exciting to be making progress on their room. And they love it.
3. Major Trader Joe's grocery shopping trip. So cute how Eric gets all psyched about things like having breakfast and lunch fixings for his kids at my house. It's the little things like this that help us feel like we're starting our life together, mashing our two families into one.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Lincoln Duncan is my name, and here's my song.
This is Lincoln. He's a complete pain in the ass, and I love him dearly.
He may go down in history as the only pit bull to make it out of St.Paul Animal Control alive. Probably due to the fact that as the malnourished runt that he was as a puppy, he looked more like a chihuahua than a pit bull.
It was the summer of 2000. We were helping out with an animal rescue organization at the time, fostering adorable pit bull puppies for a few days each until they were adopted, which is how we ended up with our first dog, Lydia a year earlier. A steady stream of cute passed in and out of the house, chewing on furniture, peeing on the floor, and breaking our hearts. Homeless pit bulls have a hard lot in life.
And then along came this mangy runt, with nubs for teeth, a nasty rash, bald patches, half starved. Named Maple of all things. And he stayed. Chris would take him, faithfully, to the pet stores each weekend, where rotten little Maple would curl up in a ball in the kennel and stubbornly refuse to be the goofy affectionate cheese ball we knew him to be. Weeks went by. A month. He weaseled his way into our hearts and our lives. And then it was Chris's birthday, and all he claimed to want was to keep the wacky, toothless little monster. I agreed with one caveat, that we change his name.
And so he became our Lincoln. And then my Lincoln.
Nearly ten years have passed. His hair grew back; his teeth did not. He has charmed me with his kool-aid smile, and his marching dance that he will faithfully perform for anyone who will scratch his rear end. He has annoyed me with his penchant for peeing on all vertical surfaces - indoor and out, his endless joy at barking through the fence, taunting Harley, the neighbor dog. He has milked sympathy from me with his fear of folding laundry, thunderstorms and the vet.
And he took care of me, worrying about me throughout my pregnancy, sticking with me through the divorce, eager to lick away tears and sit patiently by the bathtub as I tried to soak away the pain. He has slept next to me in my bed, always under the blanket, stretched down my left side. Tolerated children who climb, and pull, and try to stick their fingers in his nose. Explored the diaper pail and chewed countless pacifiers. Dutifully cleaned up all stray cheerios from under the highchair and rinsed all plates before they were loaded into the dishwasher. He is a couch licker. A pillow humper. A hole digger.
He has jubilantly celebrated every spring with an insane, frantic rush through the muddy back yard, like he's tracing the path of a spirograph or a chain of DNA. Joyously chasing his tail to wish it a happy summer. Then collapsing onto the patio, seemingly lifeless, to absorb the early summer sun.
And now, it is nearly over. My little weasel has a tumor in his spleen. I am watching him wasting away and my heart is breaking for him, and for me. I agonized over the decision of whether or not to try surgery. But considering his age and his fragile psyche and his terror of the vet, I’ve decided to let him go peacefully. He still sleeps with me; he will still march for me, a little. But now, the tears that he licks away are for him.
I hold my breath every day when I come home from work, praying that he’s there to greet me. I am hoping against hope that he will hold on till the spring. I want him to lie on the patio soaking up the sun one last time. And when he’s gone, I want to bury him next to the fence, one last taunt for Harley, the neighbor dog.
He may go down in history as the only pit bull to make it out of St.Paul Animal Control alive. Probably due to the fact that as the malnourished runt that he was as a puppy, he looked more like a chihuahua than a pit bull.
It was the summer of 2000. We were helping out with an animal rescue organization at the time, fostering adorable pit bull puppies for a few days each until they were adopted, which is how we ended up with our first dog, Lydia a year earlier. A steady stream of cute passed in and out of the house, chewing on furniture, peeing on the floor, and breaking our hearts. Homeless pit bulls have a hard lot in life.
And then along came this mangy runt, with nubs for teeth, a nasty rash, bald patches, half starved. Named Maple of all things. And he stayed. Chris would take him, faithfully, to the pet stores each weekend, where rotten little Maple would curl up in a ball in the kennel and stubbornly refuse to be the goofy affectionate cheese ball we knew him to be. Weeks went by. A month. He weaseled his way into our hearts and our lives. And then it was Chris's birthday, and all he claimed to want was to keep the wacky, toothless little monster. I agreed with one caveat, that we change his name.
And so he became our Lincoln. And then my Lincoln.
Nearly ten years have passed. His hair grew back; his teeth did not. He has charmed me with his kool-aid smile, and his marching dance that he will faithfully perform for anyone who will scratch his rear end. He has annoyed me with his penchant for peeing on all vertical surfaces - indoor and out, his endless joy at barking through the fence, taunting Harley, the neighbor dog. He has milked sympathy from me with his fear of folding laundry, thunderstorms and the vet.
And he took care of me, worrying about me throughout my pregnancy, sticking with me through the divorce, eager to lick away tears and sit patiently by the bathtub as I tried to soak away the pain. He has slept next to me in my bed, always under the blanket, stretched down my left side. Tolerated children who climb, and pull, and try to stick their fingers in his nose. Explored the diaper pail and chewed countless pacifiers. Dutifully cleaned up all stray cheerios from under the highchair and rinsed all plates before they were loaded into the dishwasher. He is a couch licker. A pillow humper. A hole digger.
He has jubilantly celebrated every spring with an insane, frantic rush through the muddy back yard, like he's tracing the path of a spirograph or a chain of DNA. Joyously chasing his tail to wish it a happy summer. Then collapsing onto the patio, seemingly lifeless, to absorb the early summer sun.
And now, it is nearly over. My little weasel has a tumor in his spleen. I am watching him wasting away and my heart is breaking for him, and for me. I agonized over the decision of whether or not to try surgery. But considering his age and his fragile psyche and his terror of the vet, I’ve decided to let him go peacefully. He still sleeps with me; he will still march for me, a little. But now, the tears that he licks away are for him.
I hold my breath every day when I come home from work, praying that he’s there to greet me. I am hoping against hope that he will hold on till the spring. I want him to lie on the patio soaking up the sun one last time. And when he’s gone, I want to bury him next to the fence, one last taunt for Harley, the neighbor dog.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
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