3 entries from the year: March 2019

A writing prompt: You’re a dog or cat. Describe your interaction with a human.

March 10th


There are things we are not meant to understand. I tell Gracie this, but she continues to wonder, to bother me for answers, yipping in my ears late at night.

For one, I do not know why after we leave that terrible place, the one where they mop at our ears and use the zoom-zoom on our backs, that we can once again see. It’s a semi-annual miracle. I also do not understand why each day, my sight becomes a bit more clouded, my eyes a bit stickier, until the day arrives when I cannot see at all. I must use my nose to get around the house, otherwise I run head first into things.

It is about this time when I find comfort in rubbing my face on the couch. It makes my itchy eyes feel better and for a second: the darkness parts and I get a glimpse of the light and can see! I try not to rub on the couch when Big Lady is home. It makes her angry. She yells about how much she loves the couch and how dirty we are. When she picks me up to tell me not to do that again, I give her the eyes. Then she smiles and laughs and gives me a tiny kiss on the nose.

Sucker. Works every time.

She doesn’t pick up Gracie. My sister’s fat, and she was dropped on her head as a baby, making her both dumb as a rock and hesitant to be lifted. I, however, as the alpha female of the house, am lithe like… Not a cat, exactly. I’d never lower my standards to suggest I’m anything like one of those arrogant, in-the-house-pooping bastards. I mean, how can you feign such royalty and also be trained to shit in a box?

No, I’m lithe like a ballerina. I dance around the house, hopping from cushion to cushion when Big Lady isn’t looking. I jump, sailing through the air, to catch birds in the backyard. I bend gracefully, spreading myself across the warm bricks on the patio to catch a few rays during my afternoon naps.

What? I like cookies.

Gracie? She snores on her back inside on the “dog bed,” moving her little legs like she’s running some sort of race. Trust me, that bitch has never run a race. The only time that one likes to move is to scoop up carrots or “cookies” and pats from the Big Lady.

Can we talk about the cookies for a second? I wish someone would tell Big Lady just to call them what they are: dehydrated apples. We know cookies. We know how to lurk in the corners of the kitchen when actual cookies are being created, how to be on the ready for any morsel that falls to the floor. When our brother Nelson lived here, he used to be able to push the tray of cookies off the counter when Big Lady wasn’t looking, knocking a few on the floor. If we moved fast, we feasted on real, delicious cookies before she got them away from us.

I don’t know where he lives now, but I hope there’s a lot of cookies. And walks. That dummy loved to be led around by his neck through the neighborhood. Me? Not a chance. I’ll pee on the fire hydrant in the yard as any self-respecting alpha does. This is my house, my hydrant, my Big Lady—you canine hayseeds. Pee in my yard all you want. I will cover your scent with my preeminence.

Our wolf ancestors would never be cajoled inside a house, and yet somehow the humans have forgotten we have killer blood. There Big Lady stands, holding open the door, bribing us to come inside with the promise of cookies. Gracie falls for it every time, running as fast as her butt will allow toward yet another dead apple.

I take my time. It’s always nice to remind Big Lady of my reign.

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What We Leave Behind

February 26th

When I was born, my British grandmother, fondly known as Gramma J, was just 45. She was a young mother, as was my mother. By 50, she’d have three grandchildren and one on the way.

Gramma J is still alive in body, but her spirit has long since left this world. She suffered a stroke many years ago and has acute dementia. She lived independently, with the help of an aide, until recently. Gramma J has smoked since she was a teen, and Arizona’s recent record-breaking winter drove her smoking habits indoors. This was problematic for many reasons, namely that as someone with both dementia and a nicotine habit, she could easily burn the house down.

Grandma J turns 72

Her children decided it was time to find her a place in a memory care center where she’d be cared for. Gramma J and her late husband lived in their home for more than 20 years. It was a place where my brother and I loved to spend weekends. We’d play in our Grandfather Leonard’s workshop, chase the neighbor’s farm animals, and raid the pantry for full-size chocolate bars and whatever the Schwan’s man delivered recently.

Their house was decorated when my Gram was at the peak of her accounting career in the early 90s. The off-white leather couch, hutch full of cut crystal figurines, and cocktail carts spoke to their lives as adults with grown children. When we visited, my mom used to warn us not to touch anything. We didn’t want to be inside anyway.

Two weeks ago, my mom came to Arizona to both see my grandmother, and to empty her home of its belongings. We went through closets of clothing she hadn’t worn in decades. There were polyester suits, silk scarves, and heels, a stark contrast to the comfortable cotton sweatpants and slippers she lives in today. Leonard’s workshop sat dusty and empty, with a stack of wood still piled in the corner. Every inch and tchotchke reminded me of her, down to the Union Jack magnet on the fridge.

There is so much to say about going through her home and having to decide what to keep, sell, donate, or give away to neighbors. My mother wanted items she’d made for her mother — calico quilts faded from heavy use, and oil paintings she’d done in high school that still hung on the walls.

Eventually an estate company and a dumpster company were called to manage the minutiae that we didn’t know what to do with. Would someone want her towels? Surprisingly, yes. And the pantry full of old Corningware–dishes she’d used to serve us English peas, her favorite, for years? They’d sell too.

I knew what I wanted. It was the same thing I wanted when my Grandmother Maxine similarly developed Alzheimer’s and went into a care facility. Stubbornly, foolishly, and with all my heart, I wanted my grandmother back.

With Gramma J, I want to be 8 years old again, driving around in her pink 1976 Thunderbird to Tower Plaza before she married Leonard. We’d spend these weekends like two single gals out on the town. She’d let me stay up and watch whatever I wanted on TV while we ate pizza. For being a woman who never weighed more than 100 pounds, she always had the best ice cream in her freezer.

I want to go to Target with her on my birthday, when she’d let me load the cart with new school clothes and always sign our cards, “xoxo, Gramma.”  I want her to take us swimming at one of the apartments she lived in before marrying Leonard. She’d sit on the deck, her capris pulled up to dip her toes, and we’d splash and scream until our eyes burned from the chlorine and her cigarette smoke.

While I’ll remember her for happy memories, when Gramma J was fully here, she was a complicated, stubborn, and generous woman. What she was incapable of giving to her children, she tried to make up for with my brother and me. It often left my mom scratching her head to see her emotionally constipated mum telling us how much she loved us.

Gramma’s mom abandoned her three children and husband when my grandmother was in elementary school. Her father, my great-grandfather, struggled. This single act profoundly influenced my grandmother’s life. I think Gramma lived worried that unexpectedly she’d wake up one morning and her children would be gone, just like her mother. Why she was able to put this worry aside when it came to loving her grandchildren decades later, I’ll never know. These are the things you don’t see as a kid, but come into ugly focus when you look back with adult understanding.

When we pulled away from her house for the last time, the car was loaded with the quilts and paintings. My mom cried quietly in the passenger seat. I took a spoon from Gramma’s collection, a bottle of tequila from the cocktail cart, and the Union Jack magnet.

What I am actually taking away from my grandmother’s life is this: our decisions influence generations. Our selfishness, kindness, or generosity may change the lives of those we’ll never meet.

Hold your children’s hands and tell them how much you really love them.

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The Balance

January 3rd

Driving into work this morning, I thought about how the happiness and satisfaction of relationships depends on balance. Imaging each person on a seesaw, the best relationships work when the emotion desired in the center is actually centered.

He doesn’t love you more than you love him, for example. When the love sits in the center, balanced, you are both working to put the other person first. No one is selfish. No one is a martyr.

For other relationships, this center point is time. I have several where I want more time than the other person is willing to give. I want more attention. I’m on my end of the seesaw, flailing, waving my arms, asking for more. The other person is swinging along through life busy with their own thoughts and obligations.

The contrary is also true. Everyone has had the relationship (be it family or friend) where the person wants more than you can give. It may be time or attention or even pity.

The dramatic friend. The friend who always thinks the world is ending. The friend who needs you to babysit her kids so she can go to a party you aren’t invited to. No thanks.

The best friendships are those where you both go through life on your end of things and when do you have time for each other, everything slides into place naturally. There is no grief or guilt for not having spoken sooner. You’re too happy to be together now.

This year, I’m interested in two points of personal growth: being more disciplined and present. I am guilty of not listening to my husband when he is telling me about his day. I’ve spent all day waiting to get back to him, and yet too often I find myself playing on my phone when he is finally standing in front of me, waving his hands for attention. (Metaphorically, of course. My husband is the least needy person I’ve ever met.)

To 2019 and finding better balance.

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