Once upon a time, I was tough. I had the proverbial "backbone." I didn't back down to people, and generally didn't mind confrontation. I remember a day, back in Savannah real estate, when I said to my then-business-partner Kim, "well this'll be a fun one," as we were dealing with an impossible, rude, demanding couple buying their first home. They antagonized me with late-night phone calls, daily complaints, and wish-lists for things that I should pay for on their behalf, since, of course, they chose me as their Realtor in a sea of other real estate professionals. I took it with a grain of salt. I didn't mind. I may have even enjoyed the challenge. I'd give assertive answers, I'd get the job done, and I'd show up to the lawyer's office for closing, in my black Ann Taylor suit, my favorite Coach heels and and my Louis Vuitton briefcase that begged for the commission check. (Insert materialistic sigh).
Today, friends, I avoid phone calls. I hate to talk on the phone, except for the "regulars" I talk to every week. I love caller ID. If I don't recognize the number, I don't pick up. I don't check my voicemail, either. I generally don't want to know who is calling, because I probably won't call them back anyway. Now, if the call is confrontational, i.e., if there is a problem that I am to somehow solve or otherwise remedy, I really don't want to hear about it. Perhaps I feel, subconsciously, that I did my time. I handled my share of conflict in life. I've been on the receiving end of some horrible calls, with horrible news, and I'm, well, done.
However, it's 1:43 a.m. here, and I awakened from my sleep with one thought: when did I become a sissy?
Maybe you think "sissy" is a bit much, considering I've only mentioned that I avoid phone calls. But I think I avoid more than that. For instance, I don't like dealing with people in person, either, anymore. I find the older I get, the more annoyed I get. Am I a crotchety old woman, at the ripe old age of 29?
I found myself in the check out line of the grocery store, in the deceiving "20 items or less" lane the other day. Everybody always has at least 21 things. Maybe a few more, but, I figured it would be my best bet to at least try to get out of there quickly. Friends, I loathe the supermarket. I love food; I hate buying it. Let's not start me on that tangent. Anyway, I'm behind Little-Miss "I can fit all my needs in one of those little baskets and carry it home in my one little earth-friendly recycled fabric bag." I have never been able to fit all of my stuff in one of those baskets. In the few times I've attempted it, I've nearly killed myself trying to lug it around, obviously full beyond capacity, and left serious track-marks on my forearms from trying to distribute its weight. I regress. Did I mention it's like 1:45 a.m.? My point is, this gal ended up arguing with the cashier over a box of too-expensive teeth whitening strips. She had a coupon. The cashier wouldn't take it. I was immediately annoyed. I would have backed out of the lane, chose another one, and cut my losses. But I'd already used the little separator thing, and put my groceries on the belt. Reloading my cart was not an option. I stood patiently for about a minute. This is a personal record. I tried to soothe my antsy children. I felt an edge in my voice as I told my son "NO" for the one-hundred-ninetieth time he asked for a Ring Pop. They're sticky messes, I'm telling you, Ring Pops. They make for sticky, messy little boys. I shushed my daughter and felt my hands growing sweaty on the handle of the cart; my forehead prickling with sweat as well. It wasn't hot. I was becoming that irritated. Something happens to me that never did before. I get anxious. I get this bewildered sense of...I don't know...craziness. It's a short trip from patience to losing it. The final straw was when the cashier put her flashing light on, for assistance. Little-Miss platinum highlights in front of me was insistent upon using her coupon. It had expired, I overheard. My inner-sissy was telling me to calm down...it'll pass...mellow out and avoid conflict. Then it hit me. Suddenly I was not wearing Adidas track pants, running shoes and a hooded tie-dye sweatshirt. I was in heels, a pencil skirt and pantyhose, and gol-darn-it, when I'm in pantyhose, I mean business. I heard a voice say "Excuse me, dear. I would guess that you have better things to do than stand here and wait for another Meijer employee to come and verify that it is not acceptable to take an expired coupon, and frankly, your teeth appear white enough already. I,in fact, also have better things to do. I'm not exactly sure what those things are, because my life consists of doing things like laundry and changing diapers, but it wasn't always like this, I used to be a little like you. You know, before...this," as I swept my arm over the cart containing my children and groceries. "If you look into my eyes and see the crazy woman behind them, at her breaking point, I am certain that you will end this ridiculous rant and be on your way." Did I just say that? I think I did. Okay, I didn't say the last part, about the eyes and the crazy woman, because, really, they might have called the cops, and I'd be typing from a rubber room right now.
Friends, here's the long and short of it. I always like it when people say "the long and short of it," even though I don't get it. At all.
I have, somewhere along the line, mellowed into some passive-aggressive wanna be of the old me. I'm not confrontational anymore, at least, not right away. I'm now the type who becomes sick, physically, at the thought of having to address "an issue" with someone. I hold on to bad associations way too long simply so I do not have to face them. I am overwhelmed with motherhood, housewifehood, groceryshoppinghood and all of the 'hoods in between, leaving me no time to be the power suit-donning fireball I once was. Maybe, just maybe, a piece of her is still in me, though...and maybe that's enough to someday spark up my "old ways."
On the flip side, though, since I traded pantyhose for track pants, I don't have to shave my legs as often.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
A Tribute
It started the way I would think a blind date might start. I had, after all, picked a safer option. In fact, he was already on the way with me to my car, ready to go back to my cottage. Jessica, a girl who worked there, ran out to me as I climbed into the driver’s seat and said “Sara, wait…there’s another one I really want you to look at. He’s really timid, won’t open up to anyone.” I gave her a look of dread and said “but I already have Gump here…” as I peeked into the backseat at the happy Border Collie who would surely be a smart companion. “This guy is different, though,” she explained, “he’s badly abused and doesn’t trust anyone. You have time…you could turn him around.” I remember trying to protest again when she said “Okay, girl, I wasn’t gonna say it, but his card is up for tomorrow.” I knew what that meant. This “timid” guy she was talking about would be euthanized when the vet came around in the morning. Usually that was reserved for sick ones, or the ones who were the least likely to be adopted due to the ugly nature of their previous lives. In this case, abuse had hardened this six-month old Shepherd mix, making him wary and ill-tempered. At those words, I let Gump out of the backseat and headed back towards the shelter.
Volunteering there off and on, I knew my way around, and I knew several of the employees. Jessica took Gump inside and pointed down the row of barkers toward the last run on the right. At first, I didn’t even see the dog. He was crouched in the corner, eyeing me nervously. A kennel-hand passed by. “I wouldn’t mess with him,” he said, “he snapped my hand when I tried to water him.” I rolled my eyes. I could have been home by now. I read the card on the door of the run. Sure enough. Scheduled for tomorrow. Found tied to a tree….six months old….male…called Sarge. The scarred over lacerations on his back told me enough about the first six months of his life. I tried to speak to him. He tried to blend in with the wall. I did my best baby-talk voice for him, hoping he’d ease up a bit, and it only made him retreat further. I thought of Gump, inside, who had been promised a home, and thought I’d better move on. I looked toward the building and saw Gump in the play yard with Jessica, and her full grown Shepherd, Sheba. I looked back at Sarge, and, against my better judgment, opened the kennel door. His eyes widened as I took a seat on the concrete just inside. He curled up a corner of his lip, to let me know I’d better stay put. I did. Determined not to let him intimidate me, I rested my head on the block wall behind me, looking up to the sky. “You know,” I told him, “I came here today to adopt a dog. Someone broke into my cottage, and my husband is overseas. I’m by myself in this God-awful state. Alone. I hate being alone.” I peeked over at him. He was laying down, his muzzle on his front paws, as if he was listening. “You’re alone, too,” I continued, “You don’t trust anybody either, I get that.” I sighed, thinking again that I better go. But I stayed. A little longer. I continued to lean my head back, more focused on the clouds than my conversation with this dog. I don’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly I felt something tickle my toes in my sandals. I jerked my head down, startled to see Sarge, sniffing my feet with his wet nose. Not wanting to alarm him, I stayed still. Moments later, he was sitting next to me…not touching me, but sitting there. “Do you want to walk?” I asked. I cautiously slid the mandatory rope-leash around his neck and took him out of the run. I couldn’t see Jessica or Gump anymore, but I figured taking him out was alright, if he was leashed. We walked along the fence line, me chatting like an insane woman, trying to reassure him as we went. He stopped at the edge of the fence, looking out over the lawn, sniffing in deep breaths of the January air. A woman and her daughter walked nearby, looking at the dogs. She said to me, “What a good dog you have there,” as she looked at Sarge, sitting like a nobleman at my side. I began to protest, “he’s not actually my dog.” She looked puzzled, and then softened, “Looks like he is, now.”
From that moment forward, he was. I needed him as much as he needed me. Gump, by the way, still got a home that day, too. My landlord fell in love with the description of him, and headed right there to adopt him. We were two loners, Sarge and I, learning each other and more importantly, learning that we could depend on each other. Even when my husband returned, and although Sarge accepted him and grew to like his company, he was still very much my boy. He actually loved everyone he met. He made friends quickly with my friends, neighbors, and even their kids.
When I began selling real estate, I had a bit of an altercation while showing a house. A man had pinned me to the wall of a house in the “bad part of town”…a house I had no business entering in the first place. I was lucky enough to get out unharmed, but from that day on, I decided my sidekick would come to work with me, too. It didn’t bother him any, in fact, he loved waking up with me and getting ready for “work.” He especially loved eating lunch at the Sonic next door to the car wash when we’d have the car done.
Speaking of favorites, Sarge developed a few of his own: a yellow stuffed man from the local pet store became Harvey, his favorite toy. He never shredded it or mangled it; he instead carried it around like a child might carry a doll. A couple times, Harvey was left in the yard after a long afternoon of playing, and when bedtime would come, Sarge would go to the back door, whining. We’d have to let him out to go fetch his Harvey.
As life progressed, my bond only strengthened with my Sarge. He seemed to know my habits better than I did; he knew my timing, my routines, and my emotions. He diligently waited to dispose of any scraps I might have while cooking at the stove. If I was sick, he knew it. He was like Velcro on my side, not even allowing me a private trip to the toilet. He ascertained that no squirrel would linger too long in our yard, no mailman would deliver mail unannounced. When I had Isaac, my first born, he got up with me in the night to feed him, grumbling with me as we padded down the hall to retrieve the screaming baby. When we decided to move back north, he rode up front, for 22 hours, keeping me company on our travels. I am known to be an animal lover, and Sarge wasn’t an “only child” for long. Besides the two cats I also had, I introduced Maddie, a black lab mix, and years later, Yukon, a fluffy white sled dog. Sarge may have had to quarrel with the others to protect his status as “pack leader”, but he never lost his place with me. He knew, above all, he was mine and I was his. Anyone close to me would have confirmed for you that Sarge and I were bonded by something that doesn’t happen with every pet-person relationship. We had weathered many storms together, and we had become the very best of friends. Amazingly, the other animals in the house revered Sarge like a wise man. He became gentle and easy in his older years, and much like my grandfather, he would sit patiently and watch the world go by. He always kept me in the corner of his eye, and if I barely whispered his name, he would be at my hip in seconds.
When Sarge turned nine, I knew age was taking its toll. His muzzle was becoming more and more gray, and he would grumble when laying down or getting up. Those things were expected. I didn’t, however, expect for his mind to be compromised. Just like an older person might develop dementia, apparently, dogs can develop mental disorders too. Now, it was never actually diagnosed, but I think he had some major anxiety issues, and maybe even some doggie dementia. After being the neighborhood socialite for years, he suddenly decided to fear people. It became increasingly common for us to put him “away” when guests would come, as he would growl and bark, raise his shackles and show his teeth. He remained friendly to a few, though…my mother, father, sister, and my (now) ex-husband. He would go through periods of time, mostly at night, when he no longer knew who people were or where he was. He’d panic, and look for me. When he’d find me (usually asleep, in bed) he’d jump on me, burying my head with his body. This not only became a nuisance, but a hazard, as well. A 55 lb. dog making a surprise attack on your head in the night is unpleasant, to say the least. We tried various things: closing him in the bedroom with us at night, giving him his own room to feel safe in, leaving lights and a TV on all night for him…nothing worked, and he progressively got worse. After moving into our current home, he discovered that he could open doors. From then on, he would open the doors at night and drag out the kids’ hampers and stuffed animals, in a crazed panic. He’d wake the children, and create quite a bit of chaos. All throughout, however, I could never bring myself to be upset with him. I knew this wasn’t really him. He didn’t want to do these things. He wanted to be a good dog. That’s all he ever really wanted to be in the first place.
Yesterday will go down in history as one of the worst days in my life. It wasn’t supposed to be; I wasn’t prepared. I opened the doors to my van at 8:30 in the morning, allowing Sarge and Maddie to jump in for our trip to the vet. It was supposed to be a quick visit; a couple booster shots. I knew I’d talk to our vet about Sarge’s behavior, as we’d been keeping tabs on it with different behavioral modifications and anti-anxiety prescriptions for a couple years. I knew she’d ask, and I’d have to tell her, it was all getting worse. Just Monday, Sarge had been left alone in the house for 10 minutes, and he panicked so much that he jumped onto the kitchen island, breaking a glass and annihilating a Valentine candy dish, tearing up a newspaper and pushing the laptop computer onto the hard kitchen floor. I know this stuff is serious, but I also know that I have shrugged it off for years, and chuckled along with people when I recalled the stories of his “senile antics.” In the back of my mind, however, I felt like screaming…this isn’t normal…my baby is getting worse…it isn’t funny. Anyway, when we arrived at the vet, we did the usual weigh-in. I usually hold my breath a little, because Sarge has had a few notorious extra pounds for the past few years. Admittedly, this is because I indulge him in a few table scraps now and again. I figure he deserves it after all these years. I darted my eyes at the vet-tech when she said he was only forty-some pounds. I eased into a smile, “That can’t be right…” She agreed, easily, and said we’d check again. Scale must be off. To my horror, the scale, again, read just over forty pounds. He had lost nearly 15 lbs since the fall…great for someone like me, who’d be elated at that sort of news, but an alarming sign of something wrong in a dog. Especially in a dog who had been eating regularly and still having his “extras” at dinnertime. The vet tech, a very sweet girl, reassured me that we’d check into it. We’d do blood work. We’ll talk to the vet. I felt ill. I went along with the motions of the rest of the appointment, chatting easily and lightheartedly coddling my dogs as they had their nails trimmed and their vaccinations administered. I waited for Dr. Lori to come in and give me her advice…surely she knew why he was losing weight. Surely there was a prescription we could give, and he’d be back to his old self in no time.
When she came into the room, she appeared different to me. She was still pleasant, but I felt (and it could just be me, and my pre-determined apprehension) that she was biting back the advice that she knew I didn’t want to hear. “He could have whipworms,” she said, “Maddie had them before, we could test him. I mean, with his age…” and I heard the words “cancer” and “quick-spreading” and all of those words associated with senior dogs that no one likes to hear. We spoke about his doggie-anxiety. She began looking up the generic prescription for a canine Prozac. We continued talking and finally, I looked at her and said “What would you do?” I waited. I needed her to confirm. Yes or no. Keep going or don’t. She looked at me and said, in a shaky voice, “I don’t know. I can’t say,” and went on “You have gone above and beyond what most people would do for their dogs. You have put up with a lot. Most people wouldn’t tolerate being kept awake all night, or having the threat of destruction in their homes. He could be in pain. He could be suffering, but we know this isn’t him.” And it became clear to me. I was keeping Sarge here, for me. In turn, he was staying, for me. Suddenly, in that room, I was transported back in time to that kennel run, 11 years ago. It was Sarge and I, alone. Staring into each other’s eyes. Asking, silently, what the next move would be. Only this time, it wasn’t Sarge with the apprehension. It wasn’t Sarge who was wary and ill-at-ease. It was me. He was the calm one. He looked at me as if to say, “It’s alright Mom. I’m in, whatever you decide.” He had come to trust me with everything, down to his very last breath. We stared at each other, my hands running frantically through the fur that surrounded his face, suddenly knowing it would be the last time. I began blubbering, through tears, about how handsome he is, and what a great dog he had been. I repeated, over and over, how much I loved him. He leaned his bony head into my shoulder, giving one last infamous “Sarge-hug.” His “sister,” Maddie began licking his face. I kissed his gray muzzle and Dr. Lori said “You’ve really given him a great life.” I broke into full sobs and corrected the statement with certainty: “Oh, no…he has given me a great life.”
Sarge sat patiently, his tail swishing on the cold tile. He looked as stunning as ever, his distinguished graying brows against the black and tan of his coat. The vet-tech offered to let me go, and she’d take him “to the back” after I had gone. I couldn’t stand the horror of him watching me go. I never, ever, left without him. I asked that she take him from me, so he wouldn’t know I was leaving. Watching him leave that room, for the last time, was the absolute worst feeling I’ve ever endured. Tail wagging, looking over his shoulder at me one last time. He didn’t look at me with fear, but with the reassurance we often get from a parent or an older, wiser person. It’ll be okay, Mom.
I don’t remember the walk to the van, how I got Maddie back inside, or any part of the drive home. I don’t know how I saw the road through the constant wash of tears. I know that I kept looking at the clock, wondering if he was still “here,” or if they’d given him the injection, yet. I couldn’t have stayed. I couldn’t have seen his body, lifeless, on the table. I had to remember the tail wagging, ears perked, and warm chocolate eyes that were always glued to mine.
Ironically, I find myself at a loss for words, even after all of these recollections. I find that I cannot convey appropriately the impact this dog had on my life. It’s rare to find someone in life who will truly love unconditionally, one who will be loyal, no matter how often you screw things up, no matter how often you move or change, or forget to show how much you care. A third of my life was spent with Sarge, and he never faltered from his position as my true companion. He never threw in the towel or said “enough’s enough.” He’d wag that tail and take it all in stride, making it clear that as long as we were together, we’d be alright. He was right. It’s a new beginning for me, now. Essentially, I have to retrain myself. I don’t really know how to go about life without him, as silly as that sounds. He was my protector, my faithful friend. We got to a point in life when words didn’t even need to be spoken; a simple glance spoke volumes. I felt safe and comforted by that dog, and now, I have to learn to go about my every day life without that feeling. I have the other two dogs, yes. I love them dearly. They will never, however, be like Sarge. They are completely different; while still loveable, heartwarming, and happy assets to our family, they will just never be like Sarge. No dog will, again, I think.
I lost both of my grandparents. They were wonderful people in my life. My grandpa always really liked Sarge to visit him; he’d quietly pet his smooth head and Sarge would respond by sitting nobly next to him, allowing his gentle old hands to caress his fur. I don’t believe that animals, our beloved pets, just die. I believe we’ll see them again. I have to believe it. For now, though, I genuinely hope my grandparents were waiting for Sarge, ready to welcome him into a much better place. I hope Grandma will fry up a pan of liver n’ onions for him, and Grandpa will sit with him in some sunny backyard, stroking his head and watching the birds.
Volunteering there off and on, I knew my way around, and I knew several of the employees. Jessica took Gump inside and pointed down the row of barkers toward the last run on the right. At first, I didn’t even see the dog. He was crouched in the corner, eyeing me nervously. A kennel-hand passed by. “I wouldn’t mess with him,” he said, “he snapped my hand when I tried to water him.” I rolled my eyes. I could have been home by now. I read the card on the door of the run. Sure enough. Scheduled for tomorrow. Found tied to a tree….six months old….male…called Sarge. The scarred over lacerations on his back told me enough about the first six months of his life. I tried to speak to him. He tried to blend in with the wall. I did my best baby-talk voice for him, hoping he’d ease up a bit, and it only made him retreat further. I thought of Gump, inside, who had been promised a home, and thought I’d better move on. I looked toward the building and saw Gump in the play yard with Jessica, and her full grown Shepherd, Sheba. I looked back at Sarge, and, against my better judgment, opened the kennel door. His eyes widened as I took a seat on the concrete just inside. He curled up a corner of his lip, to let me know I’d better stay put. I did. Determined not to let him intimidate me, I rested my head on the block wall behind me, looking up to the sky. “You know,” I told him, “I came here today to adopt a dog. Someone broke into my cottage, and my husband is overseas. I’m by myself in this God-awful state. Alone. I hate being alone.” I peeked over at him. He was laying down, his muzzle on his front paws, as if he was listening. “You’re alone, too,” I continued, “You don’t trust anybody either, I get that.” I sighed, thinking again that I better go. But I stayed. A little longer. I continued to lean my head back, more focused on the clouds than my conversation with this dog. I don’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly I felt something tickle my toes in my sandals. I jerked my head down, startled to see Sarge, sniffing my feet with his wet nose. Not wanting to alarm him, I stayed still. Moments later, he was sitting next to me…not touching me, but sitting there. “Do you want to walk?” I asked. I cautiously slid the mandatory rope-leash around his neck and took him out of the run. I couldn’t see Jessica or Gump anymore, but I figured taking him out was alright, if he was leashed. We walked along the fence line, me chatting like an insane woman, trying to reassure him as we went. He stopped at the edge of the fence, looking out over the lawn, sniffing in deep breaths of the January air. A woman and her daughter walked nearby, looking at the dogs. She said to me, “What a good dog you have there,” as she looked at Sarge, sitting like a nobleman at my side. I began to protest, “he’s not actually my dog.” She looked puzzled, and then softened, “Looks like he is, now.”
From that moment forward, he was. I needed him as much as he needed me. Gump, by the way, still got a home that day, too. My landlord fell in love with the description of him, and headed right there to adopt him. We were two loners, Sarge and I, learning each other and more importantly, learning that we could depend on each other. Even when my husband returned, and although Sarge accepted him and grew to like his company, he was still very much my boy. He actually loved everyone he met. He made friends quickly with my friends, neighbors, and even their kids.
When I began selling real estate, I had a bit of an altercation while showing a house. A man had pinned me to the wall of a house in the “bad part of town”…a house I had no business entering in the first place. I was lucky enough to get out unharmed, but from that day on, I decided my sidekick would come to work with me, too. It didn’t bother him any, in fact, he loved waking up with me and getting ready for “work.” He especially loved eating lunch at the Sonic next door to the car wash when we’d have the car done.
Speaking of favorites, Sarge developed a few of his own: a yellow stuffed man from the local pet store became Harvey, his favorite toy. He never shredded it or mangled it; he instead carried it around like a child might carry a doll. A couple times, Harvey was left in the yard after a long afternoon of playing, and when bedtime would come, Sarge would go to the back door, whining. We’d have to let him out to go fetch his Harvey.
As life progressed, my bond only strengthened with my Sarge. He seemed to know my habits better than I did; he knew my timing, my routines, and my emotions. He diligently waited to dispose of any scraps I might have while cooking at the stove. If I was sick, he knew it. He was like Velcro on my side, not even allowing me a private trip to the toilet. He ascertained that no squirrel would linger too long in our yard, no mailman would deliver mail unannounced. When I had Isaac, my first born, he got up with me in the night to feed him, grumbling with me as we padded down the hall to retrieve the screaming baby. When we decided to move back north, he rode up front, for 22 hours, keeping me company on our travels. I am known to be an animal lover, and Sarge wasn’t an “only child” for long. Besides the two cats I also had, I introduced Maddie, a black lab mix, and years later, Yukon, a fluffy white sled dog. Sarge may have had to quarrel with the others to protect his status as “pack leader”, but he never lost his place with me. He knew, above all, he was mine and I was his. Anyone close to me would have confirmed for you that Sarge and I were bonded by something that doesn’t happen with every pet-person relationship. We had weathered many storms together, and we had become the very best of friends. Amazingly, the other animals in the house revered Sarge like a wise man. He became gentle and easy in his older years, and much like my grandfather, he would sit patiently and watch the world go by. He always kept me in the corner of his eye, and if I barely whispered his name, he would be at my hip in seconds.
When Sarge turned nine, I knew age was taking its toll. His muzzle was becoming more and more gray, and he would grumble when laying down or getting up. Those things were expected. I didn’t, however, expect for his mind to be compromised. Just like an older person might develop dementia, apparently, dogs can develop mental disorders too. Now, it was never actually diagnosed, but I think he had some major anxiety issues, and maybe even some doggie dementia. After being the neighborhood socialite for years, he suddenly decided to fear people. It became increasingly common for us to put him “away” when guests would come, as he would growl and bark, raise his shackles and show his teeth. He remained friendly to a few, though…my mother, father, sister, and my (now) ex-husband. He would go through periods of time, mostly at night, when he no longer knew who people were or where he was. He’d panic, and look for me. When he’d find me (usually asleep, in bed) he’d jump on me, burying my head with his body. This not only became a nuisance, but a hazard, as well. A 55 lb. dog making a surprise attack on your head in the night is unpleasant, to say the least. We tried various things: closing him in the bedroom with us at night, giving him his own room to feel safe in, leaving lights and a TV on all night for him…nothing worked, and he progressively got worse. After moving into our current home, he discovered that he could open doors. From then on, he would open the doors at night and drag out the kids’ hampers and stuffed animals, in a crazed panic. He’d wake the children, and create quite a bit of chaos. All throughout, however, I could never bring myself to be upset with him. I knew this wasn’t really him. He didn’t want to do these things. He wanted to be a good dog. That’s all he ever really wanted to be in the first place.
Yesterday will go down in history as one of the worst days in my life. It wasn’t supposed to be; I wasn’t prepared. I opened the doors to my van at 8:30 in the morning, allowing Sarge and Maddie to jump in for our trip to the vet. It was supposed to be a quick visit; a couple booster shots. I knew I’d talk to our vet about Sarge’s behavior, as we’d been keeping tabs on it with different behavioral modifications and anti-anxiety prescriptions for a couple years. I knew she’d ask, and I’d have to tell her, it was all getting worse. Just Monday, Sarge had been left alone in the house for 10 minutes, and he panicked so much that he jumped onto the kitchen island, breaking a glass and annihilating a Valentine candy dish, tearing up a newspaper and pushing the laptop computer onto the hard kitchen floor. I know this stuff is serious, but I also know that I have shrugged it off for years, and chuckled along with people when I recalled the stories of his “senile antics.” In the back of my mind, however, I felt like screaming…this isn’t normal…my baby is getting worse…it isn’t funny. Anyway, when we arrived at the vet, we did the usual weigh-in. I usually hold my breath a little, because Sarge has had a few notorious extra pounds for the past few years. Admittedly, this is because I indulge him in a few table scraps now and again. I figure he deserves it after all these years. I darted my eyes at the vet-tech when she said he was only forty-some pounds. I eased into a smile, “That can’t be right…” She agreed, easily, and said we’d check again. Scale must be off. To my horror, the scale, again, read just over forty pounds. He had lost nearly 15 lbs since the fall…great for someone like me, who’d be elated at that sort of news, but an alarming sign of something wrong in a dog. Especially in a dog who had been eating regularly and still having his “extras” at dinnertime. The vet tech, a very sweet girl, reassured me that we’d check into it. We’d do blood work. We’ll talk to the vet. I felt ill. I went along with the motions of the rest of the appointment, chatting easily and lightheartedly coddling my dogs as they had their nails trimmed and their vaccinations administered. I waited for Dr. Lori to come in and give me her advice…surely she knew why he was losing weight. Surely there was a prescription we could give, and he’d be back to his old self in no time.
When she came into the room, she appeared different to me. She was still pleasant, but I felt (and it could just be me, and my pre-determined apprehension) that she was biting back the advice that she knew I didn’t want to hear. “He could have whipworms,” she said, “Maddie had them before, we could test him. I mean, with his age…” and I heard the words “cancer” and “quick-spreading” and all of those words associated with senior dogs that no one likes to hear. We spoke about his doggie-anxiety. She began looking up the generic prescription for a canine Prozac. We continued talking and finally, I looked at her and said “What would you do?” I waited. I needed her to confirm. Yes or no. Keep going or don’t. She looked at me and said, in a shaky voice, “I don’t know. I can’t say,” and went on “You have gone above and beyond what most people would do for their dogs. You have put up with a lot. Most people wouldn’t tolerate being kept awake all night, or having the threat of destruction in their homes. He could be in pain. He could be suffering, but we know this isn’t him.” And it became clear to me. I was keeping Sarge here, for me. In turn, he was staying, for me. Suddenly, in that room, I was transported back in time to that kennel run, 11 years ago. It was Sarge and I, alone. Staring into each other’s eyes. Asking, silently, what the next move would be. Only this time, it wasn’t Sarge with the apprehension. It wasn’t Sarge who was wary and ill-at-ease. It was me. He was the calm one. He looked at me as if to say, “It’s alright Mom. I’m in, whatever you decide.” He had come to trust me with everything, down to his very last breath. We stared at each other, my hands running frantically through the fur that surrounded his face, suddenly knowing it would be the last time. I began blubbering, through tears, about how handsome he is, and what a great dog he had been. I repeated, over and over, how much I loved him. He leaned his bony head into my shoulder, giving one last infamous “Sarge-hug.” His “sister,” Maddie began licking his face. I kissed his gray muzzle and Dr. Lori said “You’ve really given him a great life.” I broke into full sobs and corrected the statement with certainty: “Oh, no…he has given me a great life.”
Sarge sat patiently, his tail swishing on the cold tile. He looked as stunning as ever, his distinguished graying brows against the black and tan of his coat. The vet-tech offered to let me go, and she’d take him “to the back” after I had gone. I couldn’t stand the horror of him watching me go. I never, ever, left without him. I asked that she take him from me, so he wouldn’t know I was leaving. Watching him leave that room, for the last time, was the absolute worst feeling I’ve ever endured. Tail wagging, looking over his shoulder at me one last time. He didn’t look at me with fear, but with the reassurance we often get from a parent or an older, wiser person. It’ll be okay, Mom.
I don’t remember the walk to the van, how I got Maddie back inside, or any part of the drive home. I don’t know how I saw the road through the constant wash of tears. I know that I kept looking at the clock, wondering if he was still “here,” or if they’d given him the injection, yet. I couldn’t have stayed. I couldn’t have seen his body, lifeless, on the table. I had to remember the tail wagging, ears perked, and warm chocolate eyes that were always glued to mine.
Ironically, I find myself at a loss for words, even after all of these recollections. I find that I cannot convey appropriately the impact this dog had on my life. It’s rare to find someone in life who will truly love unconditionally, one who will be loyal, no matter how often you screw things up, no matter how often you move or change, or forget to show how much you care. A third of my life was spent with Sarge, and he never faltered from his position as my true companion. He never threw in the towel or said “enough’s enough.” He’d wag that tail and take it all in stride, making it clear that as long as we were together, we’d be alright. He was right. It’s a new beginning for me, now. Essentially, I have to retrain myself. I don’t really know how to go about life without him, as silly as that sounds. He was my protector, my faithful friend. We got to a point in life when words didn’t even need to be spoken; a simple glance spoke volumes. I felt safe and comforted by that dog, and now, I have to learn to go about my every day life without that feeling. I have the other two dogs, yes. I love them dearly. They will never, however, be like Sarge. They are completely different; while still loveable, heartwarming, and happy assets to our family, they will just never be like Sarge. No dog will, again, I think.
I lost both of my grandparents. They were wonderful people in my life. My grandpa always really liked Sarge to visit him; he’d quietly pet his smooth head and Sarge would respond by sitting nobly next to him, allowing his gentle old hands to caress his fur. I don’t believe that animals, our beloved pets, just die. I believe we’ll see them again. I have to believe it. For now, though, I genuinely hope my grandparents were waiting for Sarge, ready to welcome him into a much better place. I hope Grandma will fry up a pan of liver n’ onions for him, and Grandpa will sit with him in some sunny backyard, stroking his head and watching the birds.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Sales Pitch
Okay, Moms. Those of you who are like me (we stay at home with our kids, even though we don't have super-rich husbands or a wild inheritance, but rather, we live paycheck to paycheck and remind ourselves of how blessed we are to be able to watch our babies grow up?)know what it's like. You know what it's like to get ahead a little bit, and then to receive a crazy-high gas bill. Maybe it's a medical bill, for that Urgent Care visit on a Sunday afternoon when your little girl had a high fever. Or simply the fact that the holidays just came and went, and wreaked their havoc on your already-laughable savings account. However it works, in your household, I have an inkling that you know how it is.
You also know how it is to have that annoying post-card show up in the mail, inviting you to some sort of party. Candles, jewelry, makeup...heck, I even got one for a "romance" party, and I laughed my tail off. Clearly the person who sent that one is a jokester. It really made my day.
So, when I got an annoying post-card in the mail advertising a lia sophia jewelry party a few months back, I rolled my eyes and thought, "Like I reaaally have the money to buy this stuff, on top of the fact that I'd have to pay a babysitter just to go, for my children who would inevitably break any jewelry I did buy." Yep, that's what I thought. I looked at the "hostess" name. A friend of mine. Shoot. She'd probably be hurt if I didn't come. She knows me. She knows I have nothing better to do. So, I decided to go, on the notion that she might have good snacks and perhaps I could score a free glass of wine. Plus, I could always try on someone else's jewelry and pretend, for a few minutes, that I could actually get away with it.
Flash forward: today.
This morning I sit and share this story with you for one reason: I am that annoying friend who is selling jewelry now. Except, I hope I'm not that annoying friend. I found out that this jewelry company is different. There are a lot of moms, just like me, who do this for a little income. Or a lot of income. And, amazingly, they know my kids. I mean, they must know them, because they put a lifetime guarantee on their jewelry - which means my kids can break things and lia sophia will simply send me replacements...for free. (Not that I actually let my kids break things, friends. But you know it's bound to happen). With my first few parties, I held my breath: I waited for the "catch." I waited for them to send a note that said, "well....sell this much more, and we'll pay you," or something like that. Instead, I woke up one morning, checked my bank account (a task that makes me wince on a daily basis) and I was shocked to see a few hundred dollars added to the balance. I didn't even really do that much work. I left my house with a bag of my jewelry and a briefcase full of order forms and - poof - suddenly I was getting paid.
The best part about the company is that they seem to be a breath of fresh air from the other pushy-naggy companies out there. They just want their "advisors" (that's me!) to have a good time. Sure, they give you goals, but only goals with clear rewards - and if you don't make your goals, so what? Nobody calls and berates you. Nobody gives you a funny look. Heck, it's really your business. You are your own boss. So, what I've learned is that I really can do this. I can sell pretty things, have a whole amazing collection of pretty things of my own, and they also pay me. Pretty well, in fact. It's exciting to feel like, after only going out and working a couple nights a month, I can actually have a little money in my pocket again.
So, here's my sales pitch. I'll only do it once, because I truly HATE sales pitches. My goal for 2011 is to grow my team. I want to work with real women...women like me. I want to piece together a team of ladies who'd like to make some money their way. It doesn't matter where you live, and I don't suggest this because I want to be at the top of the "pyramid," either. I haven't even really looked into it, but I think I'd need a pretty big team to actually make more money that way. I just want to help others, like me, and to work together with some great girls. No pressure or gimmicks. No weird catches. Just a paycheck, some really nice jewelry, and hopefully, new friends who are a lot like you.
So, in conclusion - (I feel like balloons should drop from the ceiling and confetti should shoot out of no where)if you think you'd like to give this a whirl, let's talk. Better yet, come by for coffee. Or I'll come to you. We can even have a test-party at your house. Invite your friends, and if they like it, I'll let you call it your first party, to get you started.
End sales pitch.
But really, what do you have to lose?
You also know how it is to have that annoying post-card show up in the mail, inviting you to some sort of party. Candles, jewelry, makeup...heck, I even got one for a "romance" party, and I laughed my tail off. Clearly the person who sent that one is a jokester. It really made my day.
So, when I got an annoying post-card in the mail advertising a lia sophia jewelry party a few months back, I rolled my eyes and thought, "Like I reaaally have the money to buy this stuff, on top of the fact that I'd have to pay a babysitter just to go, for my children who would inevitably break any jewelry I did buy." Yep, that's what I thought. I looked at the "hostess" name. A friend of mine. Shoot. She'd probably be hurt if I didn't come. She knows me. She knows I have nothing better to do. So, I decided to go, on the notion that she might have good snacks and perhaps I could score a free glass of wine. Plus, I could always try on someone else's jewelry and pretend, for a few minutes, that I could actually get away with it.
Flash forward: today.
This morning I sit and share this story with you for one reason: I am that annoying friend who is selling jewelry now. Except, I hope I'm not that annoying friend. I found out that this jewelry company is different. There are a lot of moms, just like me, who do this for a little income. Or a lot of income. And, amazingly, they know my kids. I mean, they must know them, because they put a lifetime guarantee on their jewelry - which means my kids can break things and lia sophia will simply send me replacements...for free. (Not that I actually let my kids break things, friends. But you know it's bound to happen). With my first few parties, I held my breath: I waited for the "catch." I waited for them to send a note that said, "well....sell this much more, and we'll pay you," or something like that. Instead, I woke up one morning, checked my bank account (a task that makes me wince on a daily basis) and I was shocked to see a few hundred dollars added to the balance. I didn't even really do that much work. I left my house with a bag of my jewelry and a briefcase full of order forms and - poof - suddenly I was getting paid.
The best part about the company is that they seem to be a breath of fresh air from the other pushy-naggy companies out there. They just want their "advisors" (that's me!) to have a good time. Sure, they give you goals, but only goals with clear rewards - and if you don't make your goals, so what? Nobody calls and berates you. Nobody gives you a funny look. Heck, it's really your business. You are your own boss. So, what I've learned is that I really can do this. I can sell pretty things, have a whole amazing collection of pretty things of my own, and they also pay me. Pretty well, in fact. It's exciting to feel like, after only going out and working a couple nights a month, I can actually have a little money in my pocket again.
So, here's my sales pitch. I'll only do it once, because I truly HATE sales pitches. My goal for 2011 is to grow my team. I want to work with real women...women like me. I want to piece together a team of ladies who'd like to make some money their way. It doesn't matter where you live, and I don't suggest this because I want to be at the top of the "pyramid," either. I haven't even really looked into it, but I think I'd need a pretty big team to actually make more money that way. I just want to help others, like me, and to work together with some great girls. No pressure or gimmicks. No weird catches. Just a paycheck, some really nice jewelry, and hopefully, new friends who are a lot like you.
So, in conclusion - (I feel like balloons should drop from the ceiling and confetti should shoot out of no where)if you think you'd like to give this a whirl, let's talk. Better yet, come by for coffee. Or I'll come to you. We can even have a test-party at your house. Invite your friends, and if they like it, I'll let you call it your first party, to get you started.
End sales pitch.
But really, what do you have to lose?
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