Health Care for Rainbows

*
Woody is hiding from me, and I can’t find him anywhere. I’ve looked in closets, even in shoeboxes and pocketbooks on shelves he couldn’t possibly reach, let alone curl up into.
Someone – Jen? David? A stranger? – leads me outside into the far corner of the backyard and points to a small mound of dirt.
“He died,” this person says.
I turn around and go back inside, calling him, telling him to stop playing now because really, really, this game has gone on long enough.
And then I wake up.
*
What am I doing? I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve to be here.
I am standing in the little chapel at Emmanuel Catholic Church here in Delray Beach, staring, dumb with sadness, at the patient eyes of a statue of Jesus with outstretched arms.
I am a twice a year Catholic, and that’s in a good year. I was raised Catholic, my parents paid a pretty penny to send me to Catholic school, and here I am, standing in a Church I don’t know my way around, doubting that there’s a Heaven. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. You should’ve saved your money.
I lower myself feebly to the kneeler in front of the Jesus statue. I feel like I’m ninety.
I should say a prayer – I’m in Church, after all. But I’m too tired. And mad.
I glare at Jesus and think, “I won’t lie to you. I… guess I can’t, anyway. You’re Jesus. You’ll know: I’m mad at you.
All the no-goodniks in the Bible were humans, not dogs. I don’t know one lying, doubting, cheating, stealing, adulterous dog. Do you, Jesus?”

*
At the end he was so bony that, in the moonlight, a deep indentation near his shoulder blade looked like a bloody ravine in his back. By then the rumble-churn of his congested heart was nearly silent. Was he peaceful or just so weak that he seemed not to care if there was any air at the end of the occasional labored breath?
I glance over at the crucifix over the altar. Streams of blood are painted from the nail holes in Jesus’ hands. All this suffering. Why?

Helpless. That’s all I am.
I tried to blow air gently up his nose but he flinched so I stopped. I stroked his belly gently and whispered, “This place you are going to? Oh, you’ll be able to breathe better than you have in years. And you can run, and eat Pupperonis whole, if you want, no choking. Don’t be afraid….”
Most of the men in my life have not been good communicators. Maybe a woman will answer my question.
I turn to the Blessed Mother, the face of the Pieta, the famous sculpture of Mary holding a dead Jesus, just off the cross. It’s just a dog. But her face is how I feel.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” It was all I could say to him, over and over again, my sunglasses fogged over from tears and snot. Woody hated the vet. And now I’ve brought him here to die.

I read the inscription, and it went something like this:
‘Her face shows all the anguish, anxiety, and resignation she felt when she was handed the limp body of her only son.’
The vet wrapped up Woody’s little body in his favorite green blanket – wait! Don’t cover his face he can’t breathe! – and handed him to me. “I’m sorry,” he said.
‘But her faith in God sustained her.’
I whispered to him all night long. This was no time to get into my doubts about Heaven and so I told him, “ I’ll find you there, too, someday. There are a bunch of angels there waiting for you: Great Grandma from San Diego, remember her? And Josie, your buddy from Michigan? She’s wagging as she did at the sliding glass door for you every morning, waiting for you. Go ahead, Sweetie. Go to Josie….”
‘She knew God had bigger and better plans for him, that His life was not over because his eternal life had only just begun.’
I feel like Mary Magdalene gone wrong. Gee, God, I’d have a little more Faith – capital F - if only I could get this ICE PICK out of my chest ….
“Show me proof. Show me Heaven and M’boy happy there and then, then I’ll have Faith that indeed, he is in ‘a better place.’ ”
Even now I am hit with the irony of what I am saying. Because the more time you spend wondering about Heaven’s existence, the less likely you are to find it.

Perhaps it takes a week or two for a soul to get settled. Surely by then I’ll be more settled with the idea, that Woody held onto his sick body at the expense of his own comfort, loyal to the end. ‘Can’t leave’em like this,’ he may have thought but finally we just had to let him go. We had to help him go.
M’boy.
****

Rebecca was a little malnourished cat that adopted us back when we lived in North Carolina. She knows all about grief: when the two little boys – Mitch and Clint - in our neighborhood found her, she had a litter of kittens. They didn’t make it. We adopted her because neither of the boys’ parents wanted a cat and, in the beginning, neither did Woody. He ran her out of the house so she lived quite happily and healthily on our shady porch and in our gardens, tackling and pawing unwelcome pests that unwittingly came too close to our home.
For nearly three weeks Rebecca doesn’t make a sound. Every day she prowls the house, looking for Woody. I can’t help myself – sometimes I find myself doing the same thing.
She stops and searches my eyes in complete silence. I have no answers, and she seems to know that. She settles down next to my feet to lick a paw, pat my toes, or maybe, just to be with me. And you know what? It helps.


*
The next day I am sitting at the teak dining table on the lanai, half-writing and half-wondering where the hell you really go after you die. Death would be so much easier for the Living if the Living One had an ounce of faith. After all those years in Catholic school I, apparently, am quite the Doubting Thomas.
I look up at the sky and mutter, “Where did you go?” to Woody.
When I look back down at the table I find a tiny piece of Woody’s fine white hair, stuck and waving, in the wood.
*

Who Is Lying Now?

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 Lynn from the bathroom.
“And?” John asked, scribbling.
“Cramps are even worse in Hell,” said Lea 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,” Lea 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.”

To All Dog Lovers on Facebook...

Hey, all!
Check out my blog if you've ever loved a pet or a person a LOT.
Let me know what you think!
In a couple of months I have another book coming out for the whole family entitled, "WOODY'S GARDEN". I wrote and illustrated it to help pet lovers of all ages deal with the confusion and grief of losing a pet by planting a special garden. Kids and adults may like the pictures, too!
Will be available on www.xlibris.com and it is considered a Children's Book. Will keep you posted....

Even Kathy Griffin Can't Get Me to Laugh Now

*

This is sick, I am thinking.
I am holding my dead dog in his favorite blanket while my husband dickers with the vet receptionist over the $125 charge. This, after spending more than $500 yesterday on medicines that did not “make him more comfortable so he can die at home,” as the vet promised; diuretics that left him wired, awake, and aware of the fact that he was dying.
****

“Please. Please…”
David is stabbing the ground brutally with the business end of a shovel.
We wrapped him up in his green blanket with Vinnie the Pooh, his favorite teddy bear toy he tore one ear off of, years ago when we lived in Michigan. Together we gently laid him in a little box with palm trees and sail boats on it, inside another box, black leather like all the suitcases he was so used to seeing over the years. Now we are burying him in the back corner of the yard, near the plum tree he loved to sniff.
My eyes are nearly swollen shut. I don’t want to part with this box. No way.
David is crying. Hard.
A big wind kicked up and he held out his hand.
I handed him the box.
*

Not Ready for the Rainbow Bridge

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!”
*

“Love is patient and kind….”
Woody was all those things to me. But, I see it now: I could be those things with Woody, too. Amazing.
Most people think they are kind enough, but there’s fake kindness (giving when and what you want to give) and then there’s real kindness. That’s the really patient stuff: the gentle stream of encouragement you give when every part of you wants to plop down and throw a screaming tantrum. When all of you is screaming, “NNNOOOO!”
Someone once said, ‘When you look into the eyes of a child, you see the world.’ Well, when you look into the eyes of your dog, you see Love. And patience. And Kindness: the real stuff.
Woody taught me all that. He made me all that.
Doesn’t that make him an angel?

LAST NIGHT
Delray Beach, FL
Present Day
*
The moon is just about full tonight.
That last night with Woody, I laid on the cool tile floor of the living room next to him, and together we stared at the moon through the sliding glass doors, painfully clean. The view of the moon was crystal clear and huge like all the possibility of Death.
This is the same moon we looked at clear across the country in San Diego where we all started. I cannot believe that, after all these years, all these days and nights together, that it is this moon that will be the last one we look at together. I can’t stop thinking of that word all the celebs use when they win an award: surreal. Stupid word. With only a few minutes or hours left together – who knows? – every second counts. This is about as real as it gets.
I know this is selfish on my part. I want my little one; I want his doggy smell and baby fine fur; I want to walk past this room every day and see his little white head pop up in surprise. Today he cries if I try to leave the room to go to the bathroom, or take a shower. I will sleep here on the ceramic tile floor next to him, only a jute rug and his green blanket separating our bones from the hard, hard floor underneath. Every half hour or so I will feed him medicine and water through an eyedropper from the vet. At least as long as he can still swallow.
I whisper to Woody all night long through tears, about how great Heaven is going to be, about all the Pupperoni treats he’ll have there, about the people there we know that are waiting for him and will care for him ‘til the day we can live there together, again.
David is in the garage. He can’t speak without exploding into tears, the way men who never cry, do.

***

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?”

*
I finally dozed off as the sun came up and was shocked to find him still alive and breathing. When he tried to lift his head he choked and anyone could see how weak he was from the effort. The water from the eyedropper just dribbles from his thin black lips, and I began to cry.
****

What if Dean Koontz' Angel was a Cat?

For more than a week after Woody died, it rained. A few hours after we buried him the clouds swooped in like a big, heavy curtain and then the wind picked up and whipped around with a whoosh! and buckets of wet sky came crashing down.
I am big now.
*

4 p.m.
Woody’s Usual Walk Time

I walk along his favorite path around the yard, actually hoping to step in an old piece of his poo. There’s a little tree over his gravesite, and the bougainvillea hugs it. His grave marker arrives next week. I miss Woody so much the pain is real – like a dull ice pick pressing on the center of my chest, an orange blocking my windpipe. I speak softly to him, like a crazy person, then trudge back to the empty house.
Three and a half pounds – he was huge to me.
*

Back in the house, I shuffle through “To Do” lists, and find one from just last week: “Get SENIOR treats for Woody.” Our calico cat, Rebecca, rubs against my leg and walks over to the spot where Woody and I laid just hours before. It’s empty now, but she sniffs it delicately. Then she darts over to the magazine rack and starts smacking around a little piece of Styrofoam. She licks her shoulder and gazes at Woody ’s empty spot; looks out at the yard, the sky. She plops down and looks back at his new spot in the yard, her tail switching to the song of a bird outside. She makes a funny little sound in the back of her throat, gets up and looks in the corner of the closet where Woody used to go when the thunder was too loud. All the while, she has not meowed once.
*
Woody is hiding from me, and I can’t find him anywhere. I’ve looked in closets, even in shoeboxes and pocketbooks on shelves he couldn’t possibly reach, let alone curl up into.
Someone – Jen? David? A stranger? – leads me outside into the far corner of the backyard and points to a small mound of dirt.
“He died,” this person says.
I turn around and go back inside, calling him, telling him to stop playing now because really, really, this game has gone on long enough.And then I wake up.

Uh-oh....

“Are we there yet?!”

We are on our way through Illinois farmland, en route to Michigan, David’s home state, from California, where we met. Convinced that the man I love couldn’t be from a bad place, I am moving there, sight unseen. In Mover’s Terms* this is what is known as a perfect Swan Dive.
“About another day and a half,” David says.
“Waaa.”
After awhile I say, “If I see one more farm, I’m going to scream.”
David eyes me sideways and says, “Uh, Dara?”
“What.”
“There are a lot of farms in northern Michigan.”
Uh-oh.