Raiders of the Lost Bark - A Barkley Memory

We all come home to different environments.  For some, it's the sound of little kids squealing with delight that Mommy or Daddy are home.  It's the the clatter of footsteps like the thunder of small ponies down a trail, that is no trail, but is simply a hallway rug, worn by that repeated motion of sheer joy.

For some it's a simple "Hello Sweetie" a hug and a kiss.

And sometimes it's the blissful sound of silence after a really long day, when all you want to do is eat a hot meal and have a mug of hot tea while you lay out the thoughts of the day in your favorite spot to write or perhaps watch one of your favorite old adventure movies.

The night in question was the later kind but it was going to be one of those very nights where the tea was a glass of Malbec.

Mom, come quick!  Someone pooped on the rug!

Barkley usually greets me at the back door to the garage, alerted by the door going up, with that terrifying bark that to outsiders sounds ferocious. He sounds scary, but he'll let me take a bone right out of his mouth with my bare fingers.  I'm his protector and his protected and if I want it, it's mine.  But he'll defend to the death, that bone, from any creature of a lower, parallel plane, those that are neither protected or protector that would take what he loves.  So even with that quiet temperament that is his nature, I know he'd defend to the death, as well, my safety.

But he knows the sound of my truck and the bark takes on a different tone. I normally hear him before the door is even up, the sound, wild and faint, and incomprehensible but for it's meaning. Bark!  Bark!  "Mom's Home!"

It was later than normal and when I came in - silence.  He was comfy on the couch, Brinks Barkley, sleeping on the job.

I patted him, fed him, let him out to go potty, which he always does after he eats. I was glad his tummy was feeling OK, as the previous evening he had snarfed up a bit of greasy food wrapper that had hit the floor when emptying the trash, and I figured that might upset his tummy. But he seemed fine, just not as lively as usual.

So I poured the wine, put on some barley soup  on to heat for supper, and sat down to call Partner from the couch.

We  had just said hello when:

 "Oh, Crap! Barkley threw up in the corner earlier!  I have to go".

Barkley has an ultra sensitive stomach as far as rawhides and some people foods, even when he was youngster, unlike my last black lab who could eat a tank and then just gently burp.  So several times a year, Barkley snags some fatty food that's dropped (bacon!)  or a piece of sandwich left unattended or a paper napkin or such that is soaked with meat juice.  He then usually throws it up. He always upchucks in the same spot, if he can't alert me in time that he needs to go out, a corner of the front room between a sofa and chair. Since there's a nice rug there, I spread out a large clean towel in the spot, just in case.

Unfortunately, it wasn't barf. Other end. Poor thing,

I'm sure he tried to hold it, but couldn't.  He's never done that in the house since his first couple of weeks home as a puppy. Of course, this time, he carefully MOVED THE TOWEL OUT OF THE WAY FIRST before he tagged my floor with the latest of black lab gang signs (in poop!) But I can see the doggy thought process - "Mom gets upset if I grab her clean towels off the counter so I will protect her clean towel even in my indisposition - I'm a good dog!"

Mom, I was just FOLDING these clean towels I found on the counter.

He just looked at me from a distance, as if he expected a scolding, as I cleaned it up (pointing out the large area of tile in the entraceway  he could have selected instead of the carpeting, though he didn't appear to be taking notes). There is nothing quite like the look of a dog that's expecting harsh words, no different than a human that somehow knows you are angry, even if they aren't quite sure what exactly they did wrong; a sort of shocked and unbelieving sorrow.

You look at them, your heart beating strongly with the heat of the moment.  They look at you, their heart beating a hollow echo as though already retreating, as they wait for your reaction. You look at them again, weighing a hundred expedients, knowing what you need to do, and not necessarily what fatigue and emotion might prod you to do.

I went over and gently scratched his ear saying  "It's OK, you couldn't help it, you're a good dog", patted him one last time, and gave Partner a call back

"(sigh) It wasn't barf".

"Oh, so the "Oh Crap" was literal then?"  We laughed and proceeded to chat while Barkley laid down next to me for an ear scratch, feeling fine physically, but needing the reassurance that all was well.

When people get married they take a vow of "in sickness and in health". In a way, we also do that with our pets.  Owning a pet is not cheap, even for youthful preventive care.  Then, there are always the things you don't expect, especially as they age, things that result in someone wearing the cone of shame or the expenditure of hundreds of dollars.

But you help them get better, you adjust your schedule, make doctor appointments and you offer only warmth and support.  You don't  lay your hand upon them with forceful curse and belittlement. They look at you to be the strong one, the tender one.. They trust you to act from your heart and not from the infinite, internal voices of human fear and angst.

Then, on those nights when you come home really, really late from work, your soul weary, the house dark, they will quietly come up to you, leaning into you, drawn from their slumber to your side like steel and magnet. At that moment, there as both your hearts beat in the silence, you realize that every measure of sickness and health was worth it.

Lorelei's Rainbow Friends

 
I was so touched to see this banner that the women at Our Rainbow Friends did in a post in honor of Lorelei's passing.  They truly captured her spirit in the color and the art.  There's a banner for them on my sidebar - each month they honor some of the special pets here in the pet blogosphere who have left for the Bridge.

Thank you Linda (DeWeenies of Florida), Ann (Zoolatry) and Carol (A Shutterbug Explores) Your compassion and artistry brought a wistful smile in what is a difficult journey for u all. 

Date Night - When Your Date is Covered in Fur.

My husband had a business trip that has him gone a week so last night it was just Sunny and I - popcorn, maple butter popcorn seasoning, my favorite Doctor Who (Matt Smith looks like my husband, who also wears only bow ties) AND a Kong and treats for Sunny D.

A good time was had by all.  

Cicada-Free Kong Adventures

 

Finally, after a little over a month since they started crawling out of the ground and circling our house like a busy day at O'Hare, the Cicadas are dying off.  Yesterday was the first time in a month Sunny has been able to play in the yard without an anti-cicada eating muzzle (she thinks they're flying pork rinds, but though, not poisonous they can cause some serious tummy upset with their hard exoskeletons).

I think she enjoyed every minute.  I know we did.

Sunny Daze

I was teleworking and heard a clatter from the living room.  I walked out and there was Sunny's water bowl upended against a table and empty.  

There was a trail of water from their to the kitchen - where my husband stood behind the baby gate in bare feet because his socks were soaking wet.

Not sure what happened but the look on Sunny's face was "it was SO worth it!".

 

Field of Dreams

Why does it seem that when we set out to do something, the actuality of it seems forever away, and when we're finished, we look back wondering how we did it at all.

Everything we touch, hold, use, or love---was once just an idea. Had the person who first envisioned that thing thought too keenly as to his or her chance of success, it may have never happened at all. My writing started with blog postings, a way to unwind and work through things that were painful, it was a way to view my life and actions as a third party, which sometimes is painful in its revealing of the past and past actions that weren't good choices.

 People said "You need to write a book" and I put it off with the excuse of "after retirement". Part of it was (insert Dr. McCoy voice here "Jim - I'm a doctor, not a writer!") But honestly, the thought of writing an entire book wasn't just daunting; it was flat-out frightening. I pictured it in one of those $5 bins at the bookstore, spent brass of the heart that no one wants to pick up. I pictured the sound of the critic's crickets, or worse---their scorn.

But I did it anyway. 7 books later, 5 #1 bestsellers, 3 major literary awards and I still show up at book signings looking around like I expect a “real author” to show up, then I just dive into the cookies, pour a cup of coffee, and share my dreams. Without dreams, there is nothing to do but wait to die.

My parents fell in love as teenagers. World War II interrupted their wedding plans but they wed on his return from England, so many years later. Dad told very few stories of those times. All I have of those lost years is a stack of letters, written in the years he was overseas, carefully held together with a ribbon. Reading them feels a little like eavesdropping, as you can almost hear the words as they formed---heartfelt, intimate.

I open one; it is just one single page, and I think of the way their day stopped at the brink of it. In these letters bridging the time and distance they had to be apart, there was talk of how much they missed one another; of how their families were faring; of good coffee and how Dad missed vegetables from the farm; of burning heat and a cold on the field that would murmur to your very bones. There was playful affection, there was unstated passion and stated promise. Some were in Mom's flowery script, the rest in Dad's meticulous, indomitable hand. "Is everyone there well?" Mom would ask, and Dad would reply that they were, though some were now only well beyond Lamentations.

Dad never imagined that he would not come back, he never told himself that they would not be married, would not have children, would not make a life. Even in times of great battle, he held the final prize in his hand, never doubting that it would come to be. He watched over that dream as our Father in heaven watches over us, his creation shaped out of the primal absolute that contained nothing and all, knowing we are equally as capable of being ruined and being saved, but believing we will be saved, as to believe anything else is to perish. 

We all have our dreams, just as we all have our fears. My husband was, and is, a gifted musician, a prodigy as a youngster. He performed with a symphony orchestra in Austria before he was 18, offered a university scholarship to study music. He wanted to be an engineer. He still plays, well enough to make me cry. But his passion is creating---inventing things out of form and void, and steel and noise, things that touch his brain and his heart---for what the heart holds becomes our only truth.

I talked to my father every night in his last years. He did a lot in his life, Golden Glove Boxer, Veteran, Freemason, father. One night I asked him what was his biggest regret, and what was the one thing he was glad he did. What he said was his regret was: "That time in my 20's I spent $5 on hair growth tonic from a bald barber", and he chuckled. What he said he was most happy for surprised me until I understood what it meant. He said. "I'm glad I loved and lost Gracie" (my mom).

But it was not because he was the one that physically remained after she died, but because he was glad that he had followed his heart, not his good sense. Because if he had not, she would not have become the one he had to grieve over, because he chose to abandon the idea of them.

Those of us who have lost a furry family member understand. Though we hate that deep hurt of loss when it is their time to leave us, we have no regrets about the months or years with that soul, if offered a choice now to change the experience. So many precious memories; so much love, we would not have experienced if we'd not dare to dream that dream, of making them part of our lives. So as you look around your life this day- think of things you'd like to hold onto, picture flesh and blood, wood or glass, cat or dog, paper, or plastic. Do not think about all you will risk to get it. Do not think about how long it might take, or even if it will be what you expected. Do not think about what happens if you get it and lose it one day.

I look at a photo of my parents on their wedding day. Dad in uniform, my mom wearing a beautiful dark suit. They look both innocent and immortal, even if slightly amazed to be saying those vows after a great War separated them for years.

On my table, I see a violin, worth more than my first home. I carefully put it away, for in a few hours my husband will be home and that table will be littered with all manner of tooling bits and mechanical drawings and plans. They will lie next to a small pile of books to be autographed and mailed for an animal shelter auction. Across the floor are strewn countless toys of a new rescue dog, one surrendered because she wasn’t physically “perfect,” I look at her bowed legs and funny gait, and all I see is her heart (and the remains of a slipper).

I don’t have the vista of the open plains that was to be my dream home, I have the skyline of a major city. Yet, the sun still dawns just the same here, with a first ray of light out of the east that darts fleeting and faint through uncertain clouds, a portent of daylight and thunder. I wouldn’t trade this view of life for any amount of planned perfection or the promise of only sunny days. All these things are objects that print the often-silent mold of our dreams and desires, as easy to be ignored as small fairy feet, when they are magic indeed. - LBJ