A Boy and His Dog!

My baby brother was always four years younger than me. Somehow I'd always felt he should drop further behind as I forged ahead in age and wisdom. It didn't turn out that way for years. When our parents died Al moved out here to play the patriarch to me and my three daughters.

Playing the patriarch was not a role he fit well. For years he'd led a reckless, irresponsible life, fraught with adventure, danger, and close encounters of the drug-induced kind. Still, he was my brother, and the last relative I had that I hadn't produced myself. I was willing to accord him some status, since he'd apparently cleaned up his act considerably.

To my daughters, who were 14, 12 and 5, he was an outlandish interloper who had some (to them) bizarre ideas - like "Don't smoke!" "Don't drink!" "Don't use drugs!", and for the older two "Don't let boys get fresh!" - oh, yeah, and "Obey your elders!" Hah! They wouldn't listen to me, who provided food, allowance and a human footstool on which to rest the heel of their dominion. And they wouldn't listen to him, either. What did he know? He smoked and drank, and did weed, and his housekeeping habits were filthy. Worse than mine.

Al began to paint. He moved into his own home, and I eventually (and almost too late) took control of my life, and theirs. They grew up to be pretty decent human beings, and produced, married into or adopted a flock of exceptional grandkids for me, grandnieces and nephews for him.

Al continued to be "Our Weird Uncle". He lived alone, worked at the art museum as a custodian, painted, sculpted, smoked, drank, and acquired a dog. The dog was Penny, a rescued Staffordshire Bull Terrier. She looked like a pitbull, but after a misspent night chewing up the inside of Al's car while he was at work she never bit anything inappropriate again.

When he finally started leaving her home while he worked (shortly after the eating-the-car incident), she'd go catatonic until he came back. There was no sign that she'd moved in all those hours. No warm spot on the bed or chair. No food OR furniture consumed. No sign of any other deeds around the house. She co-opted the couch for her own, and left it only when he was home.

In return, Al took her everywhere - work, shopping, vacations, camping. He was always invited to come for holidays. He'd promise - then seldom show up. When he did, he'd bring Penny. Some of the nieces and nephews had never seen him - that they recalled, anyway. They remembered Penny because she'd nudge them for pats.

And then he got sick. The call came on my birthday. "I'm having horrible pains in my stomach - horrible! What should I do?" I got him to call 911. What he was describing, between bouts of panting and sobbing, sounded horrible. I met him at the hospital and we sat for hours.

I stayed for hours. We talked for hours. About kids we remembered. Rotten things we'd done to one another. Mom. Dad. God. They gave him something for the pain after a while, and decided to keep him for some tests. Penny was alone so I brought her back with me.

They punched, probed, visualized, pierced, and sent him home with the knowledge that there were masses in his liver that didn't belong there. And there were things that needed to be settled about his insurance and treatment. Penny returned home, and sometimes Al could get up and walk her. He'd alternately cuss and croon, depending on how much pain there was that day.

I came when I could. So did the girls. After a while the nieces and nephews come too. To walk the dog. To clean the kitchen. To fix food. To listen to him rant about his politics and the state of the world. And the children and their parents, and I, grew to understand that whatever differences we had, we were family.

The pain was at bay long enough for a short trip with an old friend involving oxygen tanks, injections and the possibility of a hemorrhage clouding the good times. Penny went along, as always. She seldom moved unless he did. Looked at him for hours while he slept.

Then it was back to the hospital. Now we heard "cancer" and "masses" and "metastasize". The pain got worse, and the drugs got better. One night the daughters brought Penny in to the hospital room.

They put her up on the bed carefully. She was almost bigger than he was now. She cuddled up close to his "good" side - the one that didn't hurt as bad - and didn't move. When they tried to ease her off the bed to take her home, she cried. Not loud, just puppy whines, but she dug her paws into the sheets and mattress, and made her weight as much as possible when they lifted her down. He cried too.

The children all came in shifts - even the babies. The daughters and I came at last and sat. We talked and hugged him, and patted his hand. He breathed, and squeezed our hands a little now and then. It took a long time. One of the girls asked if they should pray. An atheist, I still remembered the Lord's Prayer. He mouthed "Amen.", and died.

We had him cremated, wrangled over the belongings, as those who are left almost always do, stored the paintings, sold the house, and Penny went to live with one of the girls.

I arranged to take Al back home to rest. The one space left in the family plot was perfect. It took a year to wrap things up in order to be able to go. My youngest daughter was ready to come with me. Penny would be fine with one of the other girls for a few days.

A year exactly from the day Al died, Penny started having seizures. They came one after another, ceaselessly. My daughter cried and took her to the vet. They'd stabilize her and another one would come, over and over. She'd howl a weird breathy howl and her legs would flop horribly. Finally there was nothing more they could do, and there was another death, and another cremation.

We brought them both back east. The cemetery said she couldn't be buried with him. It wasn't sanitary. And the black plastic box we'd brought him back in wouldn't do. They needed a special large cement vault for his remains. We put his ashes in, quietly, reverently, and with a few tears. Penny's too - VERY quietly, and with more tears for her.

We arranged the service, and a hall, and his friends came to remember and say "goodbye". There was a slide show, and memories shared, and they all snorted and giggled quietly when we told them our guity little secret.

"A Boy and His Dog." It was one of his favorite movies.

It's All About Love ... and Cats

How can you possibly love someone who sneaks into your room in the middle of the night? Someone who is carrot red of hair, amber-eyed, and has the damndest fingernail and toenail problem you've ever seen? Someone who not only sneaks into you bedroom, but climbs up onto the bed, right between you and your husband's feet - while you're sound asleep in groggiest dreamland - and pees!

He was so little at first. And faithful as a besotted beau to his new, clean litterbox. Faithful too to one brand of reasonably priced kitty food. It didn't matter that he loved my husband more. It didn't matter that he refused to sit in laps. After all, he WOULD fetch, and even come to his name some of the time - when it was my husband calling - and if he'd heard the cupboard open.

And now, two years later comes the betrayal. It started when we left him. In his OWN house. With one of his favorite people as a pet sitter. For only two weeks. And we called and talked to him twice - from Hawaii!

The very hour we came home, he peed on our bed. You could almost hear him mutter "That'll show 'em!". Of course we checked out all the obvious problems - to the tune of a healthy sum - to make sure he hadn't done it due to illness. Nada!

The next time was when I put his harness on for a day to get him used to it. We were taking him along this time. After I took it off, Bingo! there he went again. All my laundering, sanitizing, de-scenting gone for naught.

We kept the bedroom shut after that. His cries of anguish and frantic efforts to claw down the bedroom door made us relent, once. More laundry and more de-scenting.

Then he discovered the spare bedroom couch. I didn't discover his discovery for a day or two. When I came to clean the litter box I found plenty of little gift logs, but no clumps. No clumps? He's been drinking the waterbowl dry at least once a day! Uh-oh!

And now he seems to have developed some rather disturbing habits. Is no one safe? We are experimenting with counter-conditioning (leaving his food dish at the scene of his favorite piddle spot), brainwashing, and drugs. Yes, you heard me friends. I'm speaking of catnip and hairball remedy. If we give him enough other things to think about, maybe he'll forget this latest obsession and Santa can plan his arrival in safety after all.

"Still Crazy, After All These Years ...."

I have a strong wish to be seen as devil-may-care and unconventional, but what am I, really?

Since I have an unwillingness to have Helen, my youngest daughter living at loose ends as I did for so many years, I suspect I'm a great deal more conventional than I thought.

I believe it is only I, myself, who have the right to be outrageous. What a self-centered old windbag I can be at times!

However, I do think I am one of the true originals still left on the planet. I am still ready to dare, to sample, to explore. I have a real terror of having my childen and grandchildren cross over into danger, but what is it that makes me willing to move outside the commonplace? The willingness to move into the danger zone myself - to go against what "everybody knows".

After all, how many atheist, nudist 62-year-old grandmothers who love to crochet and explore the Canadian arctic can there be?

Especially when you consider that I am a tax preparer and public relations person. Hmmm.

"And on the second day ...."

There is a deep unrest in me. Thank goodness I live in a place where the very view from my window and smell of the air is calming. But I want to travel, too! What on earth does one do when home is so very lovely, but elsewhere is compelling?

It's true that I travel in books, and by audio and email and magazines. But my physical body wants to be somewhere else also.

The sky up in the Canadian Arctic is a totally different blue. The same can be said for Hawaii and Florida. In Ohio it isn't a different blue so much as cloudscapes that reach heights that Issaquah clouds never dreamed of. Sunsets are "other".

I wonder about Europe. So many places, so little time and money. Portugal, Italy, St Petersburg, Greece. India! Darjeeling, Calcutta, Bombay. The Yangtze River Valley. Okinawa, Hokaido, New Zealand. If I want it, I can do it. Do I want to be absent from this place that long?

I'm lousy at priorities. Fixing that is a priority all its own, and comes first, I believe.

Peace and Rest Await All

Wow! How did you all get out there?

I just arrived, and here you all are, already! How did it happen? I was alone last time I looked. Then a-sudden, the world is full. People. Other people. And all those thoughts! How can you think them all? I can scarcely keep track of my own. Has it always been this way?

And how come, at 62 years, I all of a sudden have all these questions? Really. Does everyone inspect minute patches of their skin looking for patterns? And eyes! All the scintillating little lines and dots of a thousand colors. And with life in them, too.

I watched three grandchildren this weekend. They're different people already! The middle one said to the youngest, in the heat of arguement, "Bite me!" So the little one did. Hard. Some day he won't do that, but I'll bet he'll still think it.