We very quickly found out why Woody toppled over so much: his front left leg was considerably shorter than the rest, the toes of his paw fused together. "Looks like Michigan," David noted when I showed him Woody's "mitten."
Not that his "handicap" stopped him from making virtually anything - toes, subscription cards from magazines, fallen wrappers, pantyhose - a toy.
A toy to be shaken like shark chum and transported at lightning speeds around the apartment.
So, packing was fun.
Except for, uh... certain things one might want to remain, er...unshaken.
"Man, I know I had a little baggie of weed around here somewhere," David said, searching the living room on that last day.
"Well, " I called from the bedroom,"you'd better find it before Lady Aubrey's piggie little porker does. Then again, maybe it will find it and get the munchies so bad it'll eat itself to-"
Just then I heard it, a sound much like a salt shaker being shaken, its "shimmy-shimmy" sound echoing through the empty apartment.
"Uh-ohhhh," I muttered and ran into the living room.
A tiny white blur raced past me, the "Shimmy" sound louder and louder.
"Nnnnooooooooo!" David dashed past in a bent-at-the-waist position, his hands in a permanent scoop.
"Yyyowwww! Don't let him eat that! He could die! He could die!" I screamed, running after them.
"C'mere, buddy boy, let Daddy have it, c'mon...." David coaxed.
So the three of us were there racing around the apartment, Woody and the weed in the lead.
In a flash of insight I grabbed the feather duster and continued the mad dash as I called, "Oh, Woooody! Whatever you do, don't get this feather duster!"
I zoomed in the opposite direction and he leaped for the hot pink feathers just as the baggie left his tiny jaws.
David dove for it.
I shook the duster crazily.
"Pick it up! Pick it up!" I whispered savagely as I shook the feathers wildly at Woody who, thank God, was now going after the duster.
"Damn," David said, holding the baggie. "It's still in tact. Good Boy!" Woody left me and the duster and trotted over to David. "Good boy! Good boy! Man, I could use this on this road trip...."
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
San Diego: EVICTED
We left San Diego for 3 reasons:
(1) David wanted to buy a house so he could put his carpentry skills to profitable use and buy, fix up and sell it - an impossible dream in Southern California on a carpenter's and sometime temp/baker/artist's salaries....
(2) I had just seen Doc Hollywood, in which Michael J. Fox plays a Hollywood doctor who moves to and finds true love and a darling home in a quaint Midwestern town that looked sooooo cute! (Hey, I was, like, 23 and like many 23 year olds, not exactly dealing with a full 6-pack when it came to smart Life decisions, if you know what I mean)....
Oh, yes, and...
(3) We were evicted.
Somehow our landlady, a wealthy Manhattan widow with a Madonna-style British accent I'll call Lady Aubrey, found out that we had a dog. So, for a one and one-half pound puppy we named Woody (after the long surfboards and Woody Harrelson's character on "Cheers" - not what you're thinking, oh nasty one) we were homeless.
We decided to head to Michigan, David's home state, since his brother was a realtor there with some dirt cheap properties we could buy. Yay.
Two days before we were ready to leave, Lady Aubrey showed up on our deck step with her morbidly obese Shitzu, Mish Mash.
"I've come to rent the flat out myself," she said cheerily. It was hard not to slap her, standing there all happy and phony with her dog. "The agency simply cannot be trusted," she chirped, referring to the rental agent we signed our lease with.
I stood in the doorway, holding Woody, barely a palm full of pooch, and stared at the blubber-fur she apparently didn't call "a dog." It sneezed at me.
"But...you have... a dog," was all I could say.
"Oh, no, this is Mish Mash! And who's that little thing?"
Thing?
"Woody."
"WOODY!!" she shrieked. "My ex-husband's name was Woody!"
"Good thing we're leaving," I muttered.
"Mish Mash and I will move into your flat straight away," she said. Cut the phony accent, even Woody knows you're probably from New Jersey, I am thinking.
"After we leave, you mean," I said.
"Naturally! Mish Mash doesn't care for other dogs."
I looked down at Mish-Mashed-In-Face just as he lifted his leg and peed, right there on the porch. Urine drizzled down with split-splotch sounds onto the first floor residents' patio.
"Good boy, Mish Mash!" She applauded.
I still can't believe this.
"But you're evicting us for having a dog," I said.
"Well, I don't allow them," she said simply.
I look down at Mish Mash, noisily cleaning his privates with a freakishly long tongue.
"Well, then," was all I could say.
"Tally ho!" she waved and hefted up Blubber Boy.
We were gone by nightfall.
(1) David wanted to buy a house so he could put his carpentry skills to profitable use and buy, fix up and sell it - an impossible dream in Southern California on a carpenter's and sometime temp/baker/artist's salaries....
(2) I had just seen Doc Hollywood, in which Michael J. Fox plays a Hollywood doctor who moves to and finds true love and a darling home in a quaint Midwestern town that looked sooooo cute! (Hey, I was, like, 23 and like many 23 year olds, not exactly dealing with a full 6-pack when it came to smart Life decisions, if you know what I mean)....
Oh, yes, and...
(3) We were evicted.
Somehow our landlady, a wealthy Manhattan widow with a Madonna-style British accent I'll call Lady Aubrey, found out that we had a dog. So, for a one and one-half pound puppy we named Woody (after the long surfboards and Woody Harrelson's character on "Cheers" - not what you're thinking, oh nasty one) we were homeless.
We decided to head to Michigan, David's home state, since his brother was a realtor there with some dirt cheap properties we could buy. Yay.
Two days before we were ready to leave, Lady Aubrey showed up on our deck step with her morbidly obese Shitzu, Mish Mash.
"I've come to rent the flat out myself," she said cheerily. It was hard not to slap her, standing there all happy and phony with her dog. "The agency simply cannot be trusted," she chirped, referring to the rental agent we signed our lease with.
I stood in the doorway, holding Woody, barely a palm full of pooch, and stared at the blubber-fur she apparently didn't call "a dog." It sneezed at me.
"But...you have... a dog," was all I could say.
"Oh, no, this is Mish Mash! And who's that little thing?"
Thing?
"Woody."
"WOODY!!" she shrieked. "My ex-husband's name was Woody!"
"Good thing we're leaving," I muttered.
"Mish Mash and I will move into your flat straight away," she said. Cut the phony accent, even Woody knows you're probably from New Jersey, I am thinking.
"After we leave, you mean," I said.
"Naturally! Mish Mash doesn't care for other dogs."
I looked down at Mish-Mashed-In-Face just as he lifted his leg and peed, right there on the porch. Urine drizzled down with split-splotch sounds onto the first floor residents' patio.
"Good boy, Mish Mash!" She applauded.
I still can't believe this.
"But you're evicting us for having a dog," I said.
"Well, I don't allow them," she said simply.
I look down at Mish Mash, noisily cleaning his privates with a freakishly long tongue.
"Well, then," was all I could say.
"Tally ho!" she waved and hefted up Blubber Boy.
We were gone by nightfall.
********
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Back to the Beach : First Day
San Diego, CA
14 years ago
"What is THAT?!"
I greet David at the door, holding my poof-o-joy.
I gently set the puppy down on the plush carpet. He wags a cottontail and looks waaaaaay up at David ... and rolls over.
"Hey, hey, buddy," David says, crouching down. The little pup covers his big, calloused hand on kisses and pats his arm with thumb-sized paws.
"I thought we weren't going to get a dog yet?" David asks, smiling. The puppy scampers away and looks back at David. Wags. Rolls over and back up. Play.
14 years ago
"What is THAT?!"
I greet David at the door, holding my poof-o-joy.
I gently set the puppy down on the plush carpet. He wags a cottontail and looks waaaaaay up at David ... and rolls over.
"Hey, hey, buddy," David says, crouching down. The little pup covers his big, calloused hand on kisses and pats his arm with thumb-sized paws.
"I thought we weren't going to get a dog yet?" David asks, smiling. The puppy scampers away and looks back at David. Wags. Rolls over and back up. Play.
"Isn't he the cutest dog, ever?" I gush.
"God, he's small," he says, still smiling.
"Bob's friend says he's the runt of the litter - part Maltese, part Toy Poodle, and part something else. Maybe. I don't know. And I don't care!"
And now we are both sprawled out on the rug giggling like little kids as the puppy pats David on the nose with the tiniest dog paws I have ever seen.
***
Welcome to the Sunshine State
Delray Beach, Florida
Present Day
"We're moving to Florida!"
My sister, Jen, is on the phone, telling me this. I am sitting in the living room, next to Woody, who has just upchucked his breakfast for the third time. Congestive heart failure does weird things to the swallowing mechanism... at least that is what the vet here tells me.
"Oh, good." I stroke Woody's side. He is spent, but he always comes around again. We play together every night as we've always done and then we watch TV together or he sits next to me while I draw pictures. Lately the TV time and the drawing time have increased while the playtime gets shorter and shorter. He gets too tired and starts to cough.
"-just an hour north of Tampa. Are you listening?" She's still talking.
"Oh, yeah, an hour south of Tampa."
Tampa's on the west coast of Florida; we live in Delray Beach, on the Atlantic ocean side of the state -a move we jokingly made 'so that Woody can retire to a sunny climate.'Oh, yeah, and a little thing called Work.
"An hour NORTH of Tampa."
"Oh. Yeah," I say.
"And the house is great. Like my dream house with a pool and the kitchen is OK but eventually we'll redo it, so when are you coming to visit?"
"Um. I don't know. Why don't you move into the house first?" I ask, watching Woody's little chest rise and fall.
"About a month, give or take, we have a moving company and we should be there sometime next week and -"
"Hey, Jen? Can I-?" My eyes are suddenly filling with tears and I feel like I'm choking. Woody raises his head slightly and looks at me, concerned.
"What's the matter?!"
"It's...Woody...he's not...doing so well."
"Oh." There is a pause, and then she says, "And here I am going on and on about my stupid dream house."
My sister knows all about this. When our family dog, a tiny Yorkie named Tammi, was dying, Jen held her, rocking and crying, for three days.
"It's...not...stupid. I'm...happy for you!" I say, and start bawling.
"Hey. Have a good cry. Spend time with your boy. Call me later if you want."
"'kay. Bye," I croak.
Click.
Present Day
"We're moving to Florida!"
My sister, Jen, is on the phone, telling me this. I am sitting in the living room, next to Woody, who has just upchucked his breakfast for the third time. Congestive heart failure does weird things to the swallowing mechanism... at least that is what the vet here tells me.
"Oh, good." I stroke Woody's side. He is spent, but he always comes around again. We play together every night as we've always done and then we watch TV together or he sits next to me while I draw pictures. Lately the TV time and the drawing time have increased while the playtime gets shorter and shorter. He gets too tired and starts to cough.
"-just an hour north of Tampa. Are you listening?" She's still talking.
"Oh, yeah, an hour south of Tampa."
Tampa's on the west coast of Florida; we live in Delray Beach, on the Atlantic ocean side of the state -a move we jokingly made 'so that Woody can retire to a sunny climate.'Oh, yeah, and a little thing called Work.
"An hour NORTH of Tampa."
"Oh. Yeah," I say.
"And the house is great. Like my dream house with a pool and the kitchen is OK but eventually we'll redo it, so when are you coming to visit?"
"Um. I don't know. Why don't you move into the house first?" I ask, watching Woody's little chest rise and fall.
"About a month, give or take, we have a moving company and we should be there sometime next week and -"
"Hey, Jen? Can I-?" My eyes are suddenly filling with tears and I feel like I'm choking. Woody raises his head slightly and looks at me, concerned.
"What's the matter?!"
"It's...Woody...he's not...doing so well."
"Oh." There is a pause, and then she says, "And here I am going on and on about my stupid dream house."
My sister knows all about this. When our family dog, a tiny Yorkie named Tammi, was dying, Jen held her, rocking and crying, for three days.
"It's...not...stupid. I'm...happy for you!" I say, and start bawling.
"Hey. Have a good cry. Spend time with your boy. Call me later if you want."
"'kay. Bye," I croak.
Click.
***
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
FIRST DAY
San Diego, CA
14 Years Ago
"Oh, he's cute."
I am standing next to my friend, Bob, in the parking lot at work. As is usual in San Diego, it is an extraordinarily beautiful day, so the sun is reflecting off the windshield of Bob's friend's car, the one that holds the puppy he needs to find a home for. White, long-legged, about a foot tall, the dog I see peeking out the window looks more like a lamb than a dog.
"No, that's his aunt. That's the puppy," he says.
He points.
I squint.
And then I see: the white kitten I begged for as a child; the baby white seal I always wanted to protect; every stuffed animal I ever loved. Only this one was real, all rolled up into a white puppy the size of a pomegranate.
"Oh! Oh!" I cry, rushing over to the car like an idiot. "I'll take him! I'll take him!"
"He don't have no papers or nuthin'," Bob's friend says, sauntering over.
"Oh! I don't care!"
I shove my endorsed paycheck at Bob and scoop the little wagging ball out of Bob's friend's hand.
"Uh....Sold?" Bob says to his friend with a shrug.
I rush the puppy back to our apartment a few blocks away. David's gonna kill me but I don't care, I think happily. (David is my live-in boyfriend of several years who does NOT think we need a dog, and certainly not a "wimp dog").
I dial my mother at work and set the puppy down on the rose-colored livingroom rug.
"Department of-"
"MOM?!"
The puppy wags and rolls over like a happy Weeble.
"WHAT'S WRONG?!" My mother shrieks. Because I am shrieking.
"I GOT A PUPPY AND OOOOOOO HE IS SOOOOO CUTE!"
I can't stop giggling. I sound like a lunatic. Or a little girl.
"Oh, Mother of God I thought someone died," my mother gasps.
"No! No! Wait 'til you see him! He's soooooo cuuuute! Oh, I just LOVE him!"
14 Years Ago
"Oh, he's cute."
I am standing next to my friend, Bob, in the parking lot at work. As is usual in San Diego, it is an extraordinarily beautiful day, so the sun is reflecting off the windshield of Bob's friend's car, the one that holds the puppy he needs to find a home for. White, long-legged, about a foot tall, the dog I see peeking out the window looks more like a lamb than a dog.
"No, that's his aunt. That's the puppy," he says.
He points.
I squint.
And then I see: the white kitten I begged for as a child; the baby white seal I always wanted to protect; every stuffed animal I ever loved. Only this one was real, all rolled up into a white puppy the size of a pomegranate.
"Oh! Oh!" I cry, rushing over to the car like an idiot. "I'll take him! I'll take him!"
"He don't have no papers or nuthin'," Bob's friend says, sauntering over.
"Oh! I don't care!"
I shove my endorsed paycheck at Bob and scoop the little wagging ball out of Bob's friend's hand.
"Uh....Sold?" Bob says to his friend with a shrug.
I rush the puppy back to our apartment a few blocks away. David's gonna kill me but I don't care, I think happily. (David is my live-in boyfriend of several years who does NOT think we need a dog, and certainly not a "wimp dog").
I dial my mother at work and set the puppy down on the rose-colored livingroom rug.
"Department of-"
"MOM?!"
The puppy wags and rolls over like a happy Weeble.
"WHAT'S WRONG?!" My mother shrieks. Because I am shrieking.
"I GOT A PUPPY AND OOOOOOO HE IS SOOOOO CUTE!"
I can't stop giggling. I sound like a lunatic. Or a little girl.
"Oh, Mother of God I thought someone died," my mother gasps.
"No! No! Wait 'til you see him! He's soooooo cuuuute! Oh, I just LOVE him!"
****
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Walks With Woody
I am in the backyard, weeding. The lady from the Post Office - the one who bought those "ugly LOVE stamps-" is saying, "C'mere. You'd better look at this."
I follow her to a small rectangular hole in the dirt near the plum tree that Woody loves to stand under to do his most aerobic activity lately: sniff the air. She points down and there in the hole I see Woody, lying on his side.
"Oh, Woody, silly boy," I say, bending down. "What are you doing in there? You're going to get all dirty."
The Post Office lady is suddenly my sister, Jen, and she is looking at me, troubled. I look at her and say, "He's just sleeping," and I scoop him up and carry him inside, back to his green blanket in the living room.
I follow her to a small rectangular hole in the dirt near the plum tree that Woody loves to stand under to do his most aerobic activity lately: sniff the air. She points down and there in the hole I see Woody, lying on his side.
"Oh, Woody, silly boy," I say, bending down. "What are you doing in there? You're going to get all dirty."
The Post Office lady is suddenly my sister, Jen, and she is looking at me, troubled. I look at her and say, "He's just sleeping," and I scoop him up and carry him inside, back to his green blanket in the living room.
*
You could say there are two types of people in the world:
(1) Those that say, "It's just a dog," and
(2) Those that look at you with sad, screaming eyes that say, "I understand."
But, really, there is only one kind of human: the kind that feels pain. The kind that realizes Grief is a form of insanity; that Loss actually feels like a stabbing through the breastbone; that abandonment is nothing short of an emotional mauling.
That, to love a life is never "just" anything:
It is everything.
This Blog is for you all.
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