Okay, readers and bloggers, before we continue jacknifing * around the country with little Woody in tow (or, more precisely, under the driver seat on David's sweatshirt, alternately in my happily cramping arms) ...
What do think?
I'd love to hear from you- dog lovers, cat lovers, bird lovers, horse lovers; married, straight, single, gay - whoever you are! Share it here, before we really bin it*, rentaheffa*, and Walk With Woody everywhere we go....
*See: A Mover's Glossary
Friday, July 24, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
TRAVELS WITH WOODY: A Mover's Glossary
A Mover’s Dictionary of Terms
Arizona Groovin’ -1. the ongoing intestinal coup that results from curiously inexpensive produce of unknown origin that one stupidly gives a quick rinse and consumes with the gusto of a “smart” shopper. [In the U.S., the FDA would require a “Fecal Matter Included” sticker]; 2. the limp/trot/twist one must perform on the way to the john in order to avoid the unthinkable (See Public Staining)
Beach Brains - impression that surfers and other frequent beachgoers on the West Coast give to the East of the Mississippi native, that they are either ever-so-slightly brain damaged, severely drunk, or impossibly high.
“Bin it” – to store all of one’s belongings in large Tupperware so as to make sudden moves cross-country easier and more spontaneous. Also referred to as a Tupperware party.
Bungee – Sell a house. Fast.
Cary [NC] – Concentrated Area of Relocated Yankees
Cesspool – 1. Home with a mortgage so high it induces persistent diarrhea; 2. Home with a mortgage so high it drowns you in debt.
In order to avoid sudden death or divorce, one must roto-root it (see Below).
Cramp – 1.Unintentionally staying in a Stopover State longer than desired due to purchase of a fixer upper from Hell that must be completely gutted when both time and money are available simultaneously, i.e., when Hell freezes over and after the capital gains tax won’t devour any and all profits 2. At least two years.
“Dar” – NOT my name, as one of my small town co-workers thought for, like, ever.
“EAT ‘M” – East of the Mississippi
Fudgie – Tourist in any given city who thinks things that bore the locals to tears are “Grrreat!”…Exciting!”…”Yummy…!” , e.g., Visitors to Traverse City, Michigan (Cherry Capital and Home of the Annual Cherry Festival) actually buy - and eat and enjoy – something called “cherry sausage”, which looks and tastes like something a North Carolinian would classify as “jest ain’t right.”
Housewife – NOT me, or any other woman who decides to stay home and help her self-employed husband run his business while simultaneously pursuing her dream of writing a book. SO GET THAT STRAIGHT.
“Jackknifing” – To relocate in a geographically rotating scissor fashion across the continental U.S. of A., at times living again in cities lived in before. Also known as, ‘Wet’M and Eat ‘M’
Mapholder – god-like sage; one who knows how far to the next home state, destination, or rest stop. syn. the dog.
Mover’s High – Ignoramus state of mind induced by overdose of Places Rated Almanac and Money magazine’s Annual Livable City Issue, in which one actually believes a new place to live can cause Happiness.
syn. 1.See“Beach Brains” 2. ant. See “Three Month Slump”
Nirvana – as in the spiritual sense, the state never arrived at; the unattainable State.
In the movaholic mind, it is suspected to be somehow “just missed” while jackknifing across the country.
Ol’ Randy – atlas; road map. A name affectionately coined by spending waaaay too many hours looking through a Rand Mc Nally.
Public Staining- soiling oneself in public due to lack of Arizona Groovin’.
Q-Tips- White-haired Florida drivers, normally spotted swerving in and out of lanes at a minimum of ten miles per hour under the speed limit, oblivious of the pile-up behind them. The term “Q-Tip” refers to the only visible sign of a driver: the tuft of white hair visible over the steering wheel.
Rattle and Roll – Fix up and sell.
“renta heffa” – rent a U-Haul. A BIG one.
“Rise and Shine” – Move. Again.
RoadSpeak – the abbreviated code language one adopts as a result of stress caused by jackknifing across the country, i.e., this glossary.
“Roto-root it” – see “the Three R’s”
“shat on” – hurricane damage. For e.g., “The roof ripped off. We were shat on.”
“Sleepover State” – state or city lived in for three months or less. In this case, that would be Arizona, Colorado, New York (for David only since I am from there), and California – the second time.
SomberTown – 1. a new hometown that, while visited, is sunny. While LIVED in, the sun actually hides itself, even while shining brightly one half hour away. 2. any locale where Wal-Mart is King and neither Barnes &Noble nor Starbuck’s will touch.
“Stopover State” - state or city lived in for two excruciating years or less
Swan Dive – Moving to a new city, state, or hemisphere sight unseen and/or stupidly; the feeling one is left with when grieving the loss of a loved one.
Arizona Groovin’ -1. the ongoing intestinal coup that results from curiously inexpensive produce of unknown origin that one stupidly gives a quick rinse and consumes with the gusto of a “smart” shopper. [In the U.S., the FDA would require a “Fecal Matter Included” sticker]; 2. the limp/trot/twist one must perform on the way to the john in order to avoid the unthinkable (See Public Staining)
Beach Brains - impression that surfers and other frequent beachgoers on the West Coast give to the East of the Mississippi native, that they are either ever-so-slightly brain damaged, severely drunk, or impossibly high.
“Bin it” – to store all of one’s belongings in large Tupperware so as to make sudden moves cross-country easier and more spontaneous. Also referred to as a Tupperware party.
Bungee – Sell a house. Fast.
Cary [NC] – Concentrated Area of Relocated Yankees
Cesspool – 1. Home with a mortgage so high it induces persistent diarrhea; 2. Home with a mortgage so high it drowns you in debt.
In order to avoid sudden death or divorce, one must roto-root it (see Below).
Cramp – 1.Unintentionally staying in a Stopover State longer than desired due to purchase of a fixer upper from Hell that must be completely gutted when both time and money are available simultaneously, i.e., when Hell freezes over and after the capital gains tax won’t devour any and all profits 2. At least two years.
“Dar” – NOT my name, as one of my small town co-workers thought for, like, ever.
“EAT ‘M” – East of the Mississippi
Fudgie – Tourist in any given city who thinks things that bore the locals to tears are “Grrreat!”…Exciting!”…”Yummy…!” , e.g., Visitors to Traverse City, Michigan (Cherry Capital and Home of the Annual Cherry Festival) actually buy - and eat and enjoy – something called “cherry sausage”, which looks and tastes like something a North Carolinian would classify as “jest ain’t right.”
Housewife – NOT me, or any other woman who decides to stay home and help her self-employed husband run his business while simultaneously pursuing her dream of writing a book. SO GET THAT STRAIGHT.
“Jackknifing” – To relocate in a geographically rotating scissor fashion across the continental U.S. of A., at times living again in cities lived in before. Also known as, ‘Wet’M and Eat ‘M’
Mapholder – god-like sage; one who knows how far to the next home state, destination, or rest stop. syn. the dog.
Mover’s High – Ignoramus state of mind induced by overdose of Places Rated Almanac and Money magazine’s Annual Livable City Issue, in which one actually believes a new place to live can cause Happiness.
syn. 1.See“Beach Brains” 2. ant. See “Three Month Slump”
Nirvana – as in the spiritual sense, the state never arrived at; the unattainable State.
In the movaholic mind, it is suspected to be somehow “just missed” while jackknifing across the country.
Ol’ Randy – atlas; road map. A name affectionately coined by spending waaaay too many hours looking through a Rand Mc Nally.
Public Staining- soiling oneself in public due to lack of Arizona Groovin’.
Q-Tips- White-haired Florida drivers, normally spotted swerving in and out of lanes at a minimum of ten miles per hour under the speed limit, oblivious of the pile-up behind them. The term “Q-Tip” refers to the only visible sign of a driver: the tuft of white hair visible over the steering wheel.
Rattle and Roll – Fix up and sell.
“renta heffa” – rent a U-Haul. A BIG one.
“Rise and Shine” – Move. Again.
RoadSpeak – the abbreviated code language one adopts as a result of stress caused by jackknifing across the country, i.e., this glossary.
“Roto-root it” – see “the Three R’s”
“shat on” – hurricane damage. For e.g., “The roof ripped off. We were shat on.”
“Sleepover State” – state or city lived in for three months or less. In this case, that would be Arizona, Colorado, New York (for David only since I am from there), and California – the second time.
SomberTown – 1. a new hometown that, while visited, is sunny. While LIVED in, the sun actually hides itself, even while shining brightly one half hour away. 2. any locale where Wal-Mart is King and neither Barnes &Noble nor Starbuck’s will touch.
“Stopover State” - state or city lived in for two excruciating years or less
Swan Dive – Moving to a new city, state, or hemisphere sight unseen and/or stupidly; the feeling one is left with when grieving the loss of a loved one.
THE LONG SEARCH
1985
Marist College
Poughkeepsie, NY
“Describe Hell.”
My five college roommates and I are lounging around one evening in our tiny apartment living room, in various stages of undress – Flash dance socks inside big, mangy bunny slippers, sweatpants with camisoles, and other weird collegiate loungewear. Our good friend, John, is asking us this question for a Philosophy assignment.
One by one my roomies answered:
“Burning hot.” Kelly.
“Everyone hates you in Hell!” Lea.
“You hate them!” Tammy.
“It is u-g-l-y.” Lynn.
“Country music blasting 24/7!” Courtney.
“Dara, how ‘bout you?” John asked.
“Hell…is a beautiful place,” I decided.
“Yeah?” he asked, pen poised. I saw Tammy roll her eyes and heard Kelly sigh, and Lea disappeared into the bathroom. I went on:
“Hell fools you. It has gorgeous scenery and people and there are buffets everywhere. But…Hell is a cruel place. You are truly damned if you do, or don’t. People are smiling and pleasant but they hate you; the flowers stink; the food gives you the runs.”
“Yeah!” yelled Lea from the bathroom.
“And?” John asked, scribbling.
“Cramps are even worse in Hell,” said Lynn thoughtfully.
“And men are even moodier,” added Kelly.
“And nothing you do in Hell pays or means a thing. It is, like, totally postal,” said Courtney.
“Even worse,” I added, “no matter how many degrees you have you will always be referred to as a ‘housewife.’
“No!”
“And… everyone calls you Ma’am in Hell!” Lynn, really on a roll now.
“Not only is Hell hot, but it is humid and sticky and filled with bugs you can’t see. But they bite – hard.” I went on:
“No matter how hard you try to fit in, in Hell, you don’t. Your fellow Hellions hate you. It is no use. Even worse, in Hell you get everything you ever wished for but realize it sucks.”
“Oo, this is good. Go on,” John ordered.
“In fact you realize in Hell that everything you ever believed to be true is wrong. Lying is King in Hell and Love is taken away.”
“She went to one of those Catholic schools,” Lynn whispered to Tammy, who nodded knowingly.
“Hell is NOISY. You are driven to distraction, no matter what you try to do. And, while it may look Rockwellian in Hell, everything is loaded with mouse dung.”
“Ew!” Collective disgust from the gallery.
“Anything else?” John asked.
“Hellions hate puppies.”
“Oh!” Group gasp.
There was a bit of a pregnant pause here. Finally, with wobbly pencil and saucer-like eyes, John asked,” What’s your vision of Heaven, then?”
“Heaven?” I asked.
Everyone nodded.
“Ask me if I get there.”
*
The following semester I took the b.s. – I mean, elective - course John had been doing this assignment for. It was aptly called The Long Search.
Basically, the Long Search is the frustrated attempt of all humanity to find nirvana: the ultimate self-peace. The professor who taught it must have found it because he kicked the almighty podium shortly after I finished the course.
In many ways the search for our Most Livable City was just that - a search for nirvana – with low property taxes and a nice front lawn. David and I were convinced on some level that Nirvana was actually a place, somewhere between San Diego and Weeki Wachee.
We just kept missing it, is all.
And Woody was always, always along for the ride.**
“The journey home is never a direct route; it is, in fact, always circuitous, and somewhere along the way, we discover that the journey is more significant than the destination, and that the people we meet along the way will be traveling companions of our memories forever.”
-NELSON DE MILLE
Up Country
Marist College
Poughkeepsie, NY
“Describe Hell.”
My five college roommates and I are lounging around one evening in our tiny apartment living room, in various stages of undress – Flash dance socks inside big, mangy bunny slippers, sweatpants with camisoles, and other weird collegiate loungewear. Our good friend, John, is asking us this question for a Philosophy assignment.
One by one my roomies answered:
“Burning hot.” Kelly.
“Everyone hates you in Hell!” Lea.
“You hate them!” Tammy.
“It is u-g-l-y.” Lynn.
“Country music blasting 24/7!” Courtney.
“Dara, how ‘bout you?” John asked.
“Hell…is a beautiful place,” I decided.
“Yeah?” he asked, pen poised. I saw Tammy roll her eyes and heard Kelly sigh, and Lea disappeared into the bathroom. I went on:
“Hell fools you. It has gorgeous scenery and people and there are buffets everywhere. But…Hell is a cruel place. You are truly damned if you do, or don’t. People are smiling and pleasant but they hate you; the flowers stink; the food gives you the runs.”
“Yeah!” yelled Lea from the bathroom.
“And?” John asked, scribbling.
“Cramps are even worse in Hell,” said Lynn thoughtfully.
“And men are even moodier,” added Kelly.
“And nothing you do in Hell pays or means a thing. It is, like, totally postal,” said Courtney.
“Even worse,” I added, “no matter how many degrees you have you will always be referred to as a ‘housewife.’
“No!”
“And… everyone calls you Ma’am in Hell!” Lynn, really on a roll now.
“Not only is Hell hot, but it is humid and sticky and filled with bugs you can’t see. But they bite – hard.” I went on:
“No matter how hard you try to fit in, in Hell, you don’t. Your fellow Hellions hate you. It is no use. Even worse, in Hell you get everything you ever wished for but realize it sucks.”
“Oo, this is good. Go on,” John ordered.
“In fact you realize in Hell that everything you ever believed to be true is wrong. Lying is King in Hell and Love is taken away.”
“She went to one of those Catholic schools,” Lynn whispered to Tammy, who nodded knowingly.
“Hell is NOISY. You are driven to distraction, no matter what you try to do. And, while it may look Rockwellian in Hell, everything is loaded with mouse dung.”
“Ew!” Collective disgust from the gallery.
“Anything else?” John asked.
“Hellions hate puppies.”
“Oh!” Group gasp.
There was a bit of a pregnant pause here. Finally, with wobbly pencil and saucer-like eyes, John asked,” What’s your vision of Heaven, then?”
“Heaven?” I asked.
Everyone nodded.
“Ask me if I get there.”
*
The following semester I took the b.s. – I mean, elective - course John had been doing this assignment for. It was aptly called The Long Search.
Basically, the Long Search is the frustrated attempt of all humanity to find nirvana: the ultimate self-peace. The professor who taught it must have found it because he kicked the almighty podium shortly after I finished the course.
In many ways the search for our Most Livable City was just that - a search for nirvana – with low property taxes and a nice front lawn. David and I were convinced on some level that Nirvana was actually a place, somewhere between San Diego and Weeki Wachee.
We just kept missing it, is all.
And Woody was always, always along for the ride.**
“The journey home is never a direct route; it is, in fact, always circuitous, and somewhere along the way, we discover that the journey is more significant than the destination, and that the people we meet along the way will be traveling companions of our memories forever.”
-NELSON DE MILLE
Up Country
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
OKLAHOMA!
“Damn! He saw me!”
I caught a glimpse of the Oklahoma State Trooper turning off the highway median, in our direction.
“Damn!” David repeated, slapping the steering wheel and eyeing the rearview mirror.
A flash of lights.
“Uh-ohhh.” That would be me.
We pulled over.
“Well, at least we don’t have any drugs in the car.” I said brightly.
When David glared at me I nearly shat my pants.
“What do you mean?!” I yelped through jaw lock.
He jerked his head toward the back of our pickup just as a man in khaki F-Troop wear approached the driver’s side window.
I crossed my legs.
***
“What’s the matter, Son? Road getting’ away from ya?”
F-Troop asked. A challenge, not a question.
My bowels were pond scum. I smiled weakly.
“Licenseandregistration,” he barked.
David shrugged and, hanging his head, handed him his license and said, “Well, Officer, there never really is an excuse to speed, is there?”
“I’ll need your registration, too,” F-Troop said, eyeing him curiously.
With poorly disguised, shaky hands, I turned the knob to the glove box and immediately shoved both hands in. Dear God I promise to do volunteer work every weekend for the rest of my life and do pro bono work for MADD and Partnership for a Drug-Free America if only You please-oh-please don’t let there be weed in this glove box, I prayed.
My prayers were answered.
I found the registration and threw it at David as I slammed the glove box shut.
F-Troop went back to his vee-hickle and, as if he had X-ray hearing, I savagely whispered, “How fast were you going?”
“Eighty five,” said David with a shrug.
“In a what, a sixty five?”
“Yep.”
“Oooo. We’re going’ DOWNTOWN,” I said.
“Maybe,” he said, and shrugged again.
****
When he returned, F-Troop looked David in the eye, gave him a quick nod, and handed him his “documents.”
And let us go.
“Slow it down, Son. And drive careful, now.”
David checked his rearview mirror, waved to F-Troop who, I kid you not, saluted him back.
“You lucky shit,” I sneered, waving and smiling stupidly. David let him pass us and then pulled our vee-hickle out, trailer in tow. He grinned at me and said, “I know.”
I smacked him on the arm, which made him grin even wider. So I smacked him again. He started to chuckle. I ignored him and so he said, “You know what’s really great, though?”
“What?”
“That the Trooper dude didn’t ask to see your license.”
I have a clean record, so I asked, “Why is that?”
“Because it’s in your purse and -”
Just then Woody began to scratch on it. The dawn.
“ –I put that bag of weed that Woody found in there.”
“What if he looked in there?!”
“He didn’t, though. So what are you worried about?”
I caught a glimpse of the Oklahoma State Trooper turning off the highway median, in our direction.
“Damn!” David repeated, slapping the steering wheel and eyeing the rearview mirror.
A flash of lights.
“Uh-ohhh.” That would be me.
We pulled over.
“Well, at least we don’t have any drugs in the car.” I said brightly.
When David glared at me I nearly shat my pants.
“What do you mean?!” I yelped through jaw lock.
He jerked his head toward the back of our pickup just as a man in khaki F-Troop wear approached the driver’s side window.
I crossed my legs.
***
“What’s the matter, Son? Road getting’ away from ya?”
F-Troop asked. A challenge, not a question.
My bowels were pond scum. I smiled weakly.
“Licenseandregistration,” he barked.
David shrugged and, hanging his head, handed him his license and said, “Well, Officer, there never really is an excuse to speed, is there?”
“I’ll need your registration, too,” F-Troop said, eyeing him curiously.
With poorly disguised, shaky hands, I turned the knob to the glove box and immediately shoved both hands in. Dear God I promise to do volunteer work every weekend for the rest of my life and do pro bono work for MADD and Partnership for a Drug-Free America if only You please-oh-please don’t let there be weed in this glove box, I prayed.
My prayers were answered.
I found the registration and threw it at David as I slammed the glove box shut.
F-Troop went back to his vee-hickle and, as if he had X-ray hearing, I savagely whispered, “How fast were you going?”
“Eighty five,” said David with a shrug.
“In a what, a sixty five?”
“Yep.”
“Oooo. We’re going’ DOWNTOWN,” I said.
“Maybe,” he said, and shrugged again.
****
When he returned, F-Troop looked David in the eye, gave him a quick nod, and handed him his “documents.”
And let us go.
“Slow it down, Son. And drive careful, now.”
David checked his rearview mirror, waved to F-Troop who, I kid you not, saluted him back.
“You lucky shit,” I sneered, waving and smiling stupidly. David let him pass us and then pulled our vee-hickle out, trailer in tow. He grinned at me and said, “I know.”
I smacked him on the arm, which made him grin even wider. So I smacked him again. He started to chuckle. I ignored him and so he said, “You know what’s really great, though?”
“What?”
“That the Trooper dude didn’t ask to see your license.”
I have a clean record, so I asked, “Why is that?”
“Because it’s in your purse and -”
Just then Woody began to scratch on it. The dawn.
“ –I put that bag of weed that Woody found in there.”
“What if he looked in there?!”
“He didn’t, though. So what are you worried about?”
LAST NIGHT: PRESENT DAY
*****
Death smells like mushrooms.
I lean over and kiss Woody’s furry little face for the umpteenth time. This thought is like a cloud in front of sharp, shooting, all-at-once pain that I have never known before. My Baby is dying and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so … I will never eat shitake mushrooms again.
I look him right in the eyes and ask, “Are you ready to go now? Because I’ll – gulp – help you.” He gives me a panicky look that, to me, screams, “Hell, no!”
I vowed years ago never to keep Woody alive because I am the one with separation issues. My job, it seems suddenly so clear to me, is to help him make the journey to Dog Heaven, or wherever it is that’s next. But I also know this is the hardest walk I will ever take with m’boy.
He looks up at me with the same searching brown eyes I fell in love with nearly fourteen years ago. We lived in San Diego then – clear across the country and a lifetime ago, literally. As I sit here in our South Florida living room I suddenly hate it and all it represents: the last house we lived in together, my best buddy and me.
Death smells like mushrooms.
I lean over and kiss Woody’s furry little face for the umpteenth time. This thought is like a cloud in front of sharp, shooting, all-at-once pain that I have never known before. My Baby is dying and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, so … I will never eat shitake mushrooms again.
I look him right in the eyes and ask, “Are you ready to go now? Because I’ll – gulp – help you.” He gives me a panicky look that, to me, screams, “Hell, no!”
I vowed years ago never to keep Woody alive because I am the one with separation issues. My job, it seems suddenly so clear to me, is to help him make the journey to Dog Heaven, or wherever it is that’s next. But I also know this is the hardest walk I will ever take with m’boy.
He looks up at me with the same searching brown eyes I fell in love with nearly fourteen years ago. We lived in San Diego then – clear across the country and a lifetime ago, literally. As I sit here in our South Florida living room I suddenly hate it and all it represents: the last house we lived in together, my best buddy and me.
SECOND NIGHT: SAN DIEGO
14 Years Ago – San Diego CA
SECOND NIGHT
We are in the living room watching an old re-run of Cheers when David yells out, “Woody!”
The puppy is racing around the couch at lightning speed. He has a subscription card from a magazine in his teeth, but he’s so small that he keeps stepping on the card. He is doing this all so fast that it sounds like a playing card stuck in a fan.
“Woody. Yes! What a perfect name! Like the original surfboards! Like Woody Harrelson! Like-“
“Wood!” David says.
“Yeah.”
“ ‘Woody!’ Hello, Woody. Do you like your new name?”
*
SECOND NIGHT
We are in the living room watching an old re-run of Cheers when David yells out, “Woody!”
The puppy is racing around the couch at lightning speed. He has a subscription card from a magazine in his teeth, but he’s so small that he keeps stepping on the card. He is doing this all so fast that it sounds like a playing card stuck in a fan.
“Woody. Yes! What a perfect name! Like the original surfboards! Like Woody Harrelson! Like-“
“Wood!” David says.
“Yeah.”
“ ‘Woody!’ Hello, Woody. Do you like your new name?”
*
SAN DIEGO: FIRST NIGHT
San Diego, 14 years ago
FIRST NIGHT
“He’s a dog. Therefore he will sleep in his dog bed.”
I point to a folded towel on the floor.
David laughs as he dives onto the futon. “You call that a ‘bed’?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. It did look a little sad. I picked up the little pooch and just as I began to lower him onto his terry cloth mattress he nuzzled his nose into my chest.
David chuckled into his pillow. “Yeah, this is gonna last.”
“Now, now, little puppy,” I say. “Here’s your bed. Sweet dreams.” I set him down and crawled into bed.
“Eeeemeee-mew-eemeeee-“
I peer down and, in the moonlight, is the little guy, peering up at me.
“Meeemeeee, eeee, neeeee.”
To hell with it.
I scoop him up and he scampers all over us, mountains o’ blanket fun.
“Gee, that lasted long,” David says. “C’mere, buddy.”
“No, let him sleep near me!”
*
FIRST NIGHT
“He’s a dog. Therefore he will sleep in his dog bed.”
I point to a folded towel on the floor.
David laughs as he dives onto the futon. “You call that a ‘bed’?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. It did look a little sad. I picked up the little pooch and just as I began to lower him onto his terry cloth mattress he nuzzled his nose into my chest.
David chuckled into his pillow. “Yeah, this is gonna last.”
“Now, now, little puppy,” I say. “Here’s your bed. Sweet dreams.” I set him down and crawled into bed.
“Eeeemeee-mew-eemeeee-“
I peer down and, in the moonlight, is the little guy, peering up at me.
“Meeemeeee, eeee, neeeee.”
To hell with it.
I scoop him up and he scampers all over us, mountains o’ blanket fun.
“Gee, that lasted long,” David says. “C’mere, buddy.”
“No, let him sleep near me!”
*
PRESENT DAY
*
The thing about Love is, it starts out easy, and then the hard part begins.
Today’s the hard part.
I was chopping up the chicken from the Wendy’s sandwich I just brought home for Woody. He has not eaten in two days, and I am frantic. He hobbles into the kitchen, on a mission for the door. “Okay, Buddy, you’re ready to go out already? Okay.”
I open up the door for him and he steps out and pees all over himself and then like a wilted daisy his head dips down to the ground, and I choke, “Nooooooooo,” as I scoop him up and hold him to my heart.
“Can you come home?” I am on the phone with David, holding Woody who is floppy as a rag doll but still alert, in my arms. “I- think- Woody’s… dying.”
“I’ll be right there,” David croaks.
***
The thing about Love is, it starts out easy, and then the hard part begins.
Today’s the hard part.
I was chopping up the chicken from the Wendy’s sandwich I just brought home for Woody. He has not eaten in two days, and I am frantic. He hobbles into the kitchen, on a mission for the door. “Okay, Buddy, you’re ready to go out already? Okay.”
I open up the door for him and he steps out and pees all over himself and then like a wilted daisy his head dips down to the ground, and I choke, “Nooooooooo,” as I scoop him up and hold him to my heart.
“Can you come home?” I am on the phone with David, holding Woody who is floppy as a rag doll but still alert, in my arms. “I- think- Woody’s… dying.”
“I’ll be right there,” David croaks.
***
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
