Jackie Brown is still alive. He had an appointment with death on Friday that we just didn't make. It is clear he is not ready to go anywhere despite the doomsday message from our neighbor about his suffering. Sorry, this dog still gets excited about the prospect of a pizza crust, he is not suffering. I put a sock over his bandaged paw because his daily activity started to focus around chewing it off and dragging it around the house, (did I mention this is all disgusting? I'm not sure how I am stomaching it.) I will spare a description of his paw; think about it for a second, that's what it looks like, enough said.
Now, he looks a bit like Barbaro, post-op. By days end though, my handy taping job inevitably comes loose. The white gym sock with blue painter's tape just flops this way and that as he pads around the dinning table then, he trips on it which makes me feel bad because well, like he needs one more thing to deal with. He doesn't complain. I take him outside in the evening and like a horse in the paddock, he just hoofs around the front lawn, former-Kentucky Derby-champion-like then settles down in the soft grass. He and I spend a few minutes just sitting together taking in the summer night air. As I pat his soft brown head I tell him everything I want him to know about how we love him, how loyal he has been since his days as a pup, and we have a few laughs recounting some of the zany misadventures we've had together....Ah fuck it, I don't really do that...perhaps in my mind I do just a little.
The truth is, John Grogan wrote the story of our lives...well at least the part about the dog...and the three kids...and how life has a way of becoming something you could never have guessed.
I'm sure somewhere inside my eternally insecure and unstable soul, I am grateful for it all. But despite the grounding that being married with a family provides, I still feel like that balloon, floating down the hallway half full, the morning after a grown up paid a dollar for it at the Chatham Band concert. Whenever a door opens or closes, or someone walks past it, the balloon swishes and bobs along with the moving air, without direction, without the strength of helium to draw it up to the sky.
I am never not fascinated (one could say I am always fascinated), by people who have the ability to live their lives well. Who are not preoccupied with self loathing and shame, and move about the world with a natural inclination towards deservedness. Some of this I have overcome, but not without a fair amount of work, (some would say with a fair amount of work). I admire those who have built a life for themselves, however seemingly simple to them. It is an achievement to have a family, to be obligated to the lives of others and through that obligation, support them with love.
Okay, time to end the emotional ramble. Point is, the dog is fine even if just for right now. Yes, his condition has made me a bit reflective on the journey we've been on together since he entered into our lives 12 years ago. Yes Joseph and I went through our ups and downs before we even realized we wanted to marry. But we married, and JB was there, with a not-too-silly silk bow tie, he was there on our big day. He was there each day our three children arrived home from the hospital by the river. He was there for every celebration, for every row, every night I spent alone and needed a watch dog, he did his best 10 foot dog impression. He ran away, jumping into neighbor's pools, he ate everything off the counter he could reach from hot steak fresh off the grill to two dozen chocolate cupcakes....then he puked up everything from his stomach and then some. He drove us fucking crazy every one of those 12 and a half years. But...but......a fuck it, I am either just too tired, or just too damn incapable of any worthy bit of wisdom at this point. Besides, Grogan already said it in a whole damn book. Which they made into a movie with some big time actors. You can see it on cable.
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