I knew him one hour.
Enough time to fall in love,
And to feel his loss.
R.I.P. my dog.
I knew him one hour.
Enough time to fall in love,
And to feel his loss.
R.I.P. my dog.
Yesterday, I had a dog for an hour or so. I must admit that there was a wonderful feeling of contentment when my dog came up to me and followed me into my back yard. I have never “owned” a dog before, but now I see the attraction. Here’s the story.
I drove home after picking up books at the library to take to storage for our library book sale and was organizing said books into various boxes (fiction, nonfiction, kid books, etc) when I looked up and saw this beautiful dog staring at me from my neighbor’s yard. These neighbors are also cat people and I had never seen this dog before. He was a very large dog, and to a non-dog person looked like a giant husky. Black face and white body with other markings. He and I looked at each other and I swear the dog smiled. He moved slowly toward me and I saw that his hips and legs were not completely under his control. I thought immediately that he had been hit by a car. I looked up and down my street as he came forward and there was no owner in sight. So I said “hi, babe” (even though for whatever reason, I call him he”) and smiled right back at him. He picked up a little speed and before I knew it, he and I were best friends forever. I rubbed his brow and he rubbed my leg. Still no owner, but this was clearly an old dog and very infirm. Up close, his legs did not show evidence of a recent accident, but were more like advanced arthritis that had caused the legs to turn inward. Anyway, we smiled at each other and rubbed, and I started walking around the side of my house toward the gate to my back yard, and this most marvelous creature followed me closely all the way back and through the gate into the yard. I went in and got him a big dish of water and he drank a bit as I watched. But, now what?
I belong to Nextdoor, a computer thing that allows messages to be sent to surrounding neighborhoods, so I posted a message that I had found a dog, and included his picture. No responses came in, so I called SCRAPS, our local animal protection group, and explained that I had found this dog (actually, he found me) but that I could not keep him and could they help him? Yes, they could. A super lady came within an hour and she and the dog walked happily off to the truck (after she was able to get him back on his feet–he had decided to lay down for a nice nap and could not get up). And just like that, my dog was gone. I called later and was told that SCRAPS was taking my dog to the vet to see about fixing up his rear legs. Perhaps his owners will think to call them. The super lady had said that he might have been frightened by a severe thunderstorm we had the night before and worked loose. If that is not the case, then it is my hope that the dog will find a new home where the people will take really good care of this marvelous creature.
So, now I know a little bit about life with dog. I simply cannot forget that peaceful feeling of having dog keep me company on that short walk.
Here is Dog.
Yesterday, I had a conversation at my eye doctor’s in which I mentioned that I am getting old. The nurse said that, well yes, everyone is getting older. Sparks went off in my aging brain (admittedly, it took a little while for each spark to spark, but they did). I cannot recall ever thinking, while I was young, that I was actually getting older every single day. Yes, of course on birthdays, I knew I was a whole year older than I had been the year before. But even that knowledge, if it was indeed really knowledge, did not bring to mind the idea that every single day since I had been born, I had actually been getting older. Really getting older. Young people, if I am or was an example of young people, simply do not realize that they are aging minute by minute.
At one of the jobs I worked at over the years, my boss was a forty-something sort of hunk who had an eye for younger ladies (and who was virtually knocked over onto his ass when my very good-looking gentleman friend [yes, just a friend, that’s all] came to pick me up for lunch one day). So, upon my announcement that I had just “celebrated” my own fortieth birthday, said boss noted that I was certainly now on the downward slide. Sexist pig, I thought (to myself, since I liked my job), why are women sliding down when you aren’t? I am not sure why I brought this up, but it sort of relates. He was not aging, but I was? Except that I wasn’t even aware, even as he said that and even as I had just had a birthday that should have reminded me that I was one whole year older, that I might be “getting older”. Aging does not happen to the young.
So, when does aging happen? Is there really a point in life when we look around and note that we have gotten older and can say to ourselves that we are in fact getting older all the time? Was the sexist pig actually on to something? I seriously hope not, but yes, maybe. When did I look in the mirror and see an old(er) lady? Is it when I started feeling old because my old body has begun to betray me? I know it was not when the hair turned silver, because I figured that was due to fright when I tried to hit the golf ball and it hit me back. (Don’t ask.) Yes, I have told you about the sagging and etc., but even that didn’t bring on the actual real belief that I AM getting older, have in fact gotten old(er).
I wonder now if the lack of realization in the young that they are aging is not set into our DNA, helping us to avoid thinking or worrying about the fact that from day one we are falling apart. I mean, who would do anything at all if that were the known case? Is that what brings about that group of people who live only to party, like my boss? Why not, if the downward slide actually begins at birth?
Ah well. So much for thinking about aging. It doesn’t stop it from happening, and can bring misery. Let the fun begin. Finally, I shall wear purple.
Do you remember?
Of course you don’t, but I do,
Smiling through my tears.
A rain-free morning, so I thought I should get those Arbor Day dogwood trees into the ground. I do love dogwoods, and while I have gotten some sprouts from Arbor Day in the past, none have taken hold. But I do keep trying. So, into my gardening outfit and out I went into the almost sunshine. First, I discovered that I had hostas planted where I had chosen to put the trees. So I had to move the hostas, but there were lots of weeds where I wanted to move the hostas, so I had to do a bunch of weeding. Weeding just takes me from one weed to the next and eventually I discovered that I am getting slightly damp. So back to the hostas and get them into the ground. I discover that it is not simply rain that is dampening me, but hail. Speed counts now, as I run to finish the hostas. So then I needed food and a warm cat, and in I go. Later I remembered that I had forgotten to plant the trees. Spring will still be here tomorrow.
I fought the nap and the nap won.
So the other day, I walked into my local and was greeted with a song. An extremely awful song. A song I had hoped never to have to hear again, ever. I almost turned around and walked out, but I needed my morning cuppa, so I asked never to have to hear them singing that song again. They stopped, I sipped, life went on. Except.
The hateful song took me WAY back, to my almost forgotten early teen years. I so very badly wanted to have a boyfriend. All the other girls had boyfriends, I was certain. Every girl except me had a boyfriend. Life was simply not fair. I thought about the situation almost constantly and finally came to a conclusion about why I did not have that boyfriend. It had to be because there was no beautiful song about a girl with my name. All the other girl’s names were in lovely songs, romantic songs, songs that would make any boy want to be those girls’ boyfriends. But no song with my name. I longed for such a song, dreamed about how fine life would be when my song had been written and was on the radio for all the boys to hear.
Well. Some wishes should just never come true. A song was written about a girl with my name. It was awful. Horrible. The most terrible song ever sung. I cringed when I heard it and wanted to change my name.
How could any boy dream about me after hearing “my” song? It went: Oh Sandy, woe woe woe woe, Saaaaaandy. Come on. All the boys ran away from me, and I could not blame them. I could not lift my head up.
So now you know why I never had a boyfriend. I told the folks at my local if I ever heard them sing that song again, I would never ever return. So far so good. No woe.