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One of the terrible things that happened this summer that I didn't really want to talk about in detail for various reasons was that my mother's long-term (30+ years) BFF died. My mother has been taking D's death very hard; she's sort of a pollyanna and softhearted to boot, and so the way she deals with wasting illness is to refuse to admit it's terminal until the very end, and then, at the very end, it feels lightning-fast to her, sudden and completely unexpected even when it shouldn't be. It happened with her friend D, and it happened with my grandmother, and I wish there were something I could do to prepare her for things like this, not so much because I tend to be more realistic about these things and feel that's the way everyone should be, but because I hate to see my mother so desperately shocked and lost as she is when she loses someone she really loves.
All this is backstory for the fact that she called me today in a fever of upset from Dallas (where she's been visiting my baby niece) because she just found out that D's husband, who's been great throughout D's illness and whose life seems to be falling apart in the aftermath, brought their Boston Terrier to a kennel when Hospice came in and never actually picked Norman up again afterwards. Norman, the BT, was D's darling, and her husband can't face having him in the house now that she's gone, and so Normie's been languishing at the (quite nice) boarder's for a month now. In fact, he's getting round to admitting that he really sort of wants to put Norman down, and my mother, who feels -- and rightfully so -- that D would not want her beloved dog put down, has been scrambling to rearrange her life to take him in.
But her house is full of greyhounds -- they only have two, but it's not a huge house, and all those legs and dog beds make for a tightly-packed house of dogs -- and so she thought I might like to have Norman. And I hadn't thought of getting another dog right away, and goodness knows I can't afford one right now, but she wants to pay for Normie's upkeep, and I can't resist a pet in need, really, because that's the way I roll. And so I might be getting another dog, my first Little Black Dog, if D's husband is willing.
Part of me accepts that things like this happen. I do understand that grief hits everyone in different ways, that taking care of a pet that someone you love has treasured might be a labor of love, might be a tribute or a duty to that person, or it might be an unbearable reminder of your loss. I do understand that something that might seem easy or welcome for someone might seem impossible to someone else. And, hey, not everyone wants a dog, not even people who've spent the last twenty years living with one dog or another. I understand, and I said all these things to my overset mother, but you know, that doesn't really mean that I don't want to call D's husband and say SUCK IT UP, YOU, AND GO PICK UP YOUR GODDAMNED DOG WHO NEEDS YOU. I won't, I wouldn't, but I'm just saying.
God. At the end of this unequivocally shitty summer, I want some good news. I want my people to sit on the couch with me, all of them -- it won't be that crowded, I don't know that many people -- and after we all cry on each other's shoulders for a while, those of us who need it, I want us all to take stock and remind each other that we're still together and we still love each other, we're still around, and that means something.
It does, doesn't it?
All this is backstory for the fact that she called me today in a fever of upset from Dallas (where she's been visiting my baby niece) because she just found out that D's husband, who's been great throughout D's illness and whose life seems to be falling apart in the aftermath, brought their Boston Terrier to a kennel when Hospice came in and never actually picked Norman up again afterwards. Norman, the BT, was D's darling, and her husband can't face having him in the house now that she's gone, and so Normie's been languishing at the (quite nice) boarder's for a month now. In fact, he's getting round to admitting that he really sort of wants to put Norman down, and my mother, who feels -- and rightfully so -- that D would not want her beloved dog put down, has been scrambling to rearrange her life to take him in.
But her house is full of greyhounds -- they only have two, but it's not a huge house, and all those legs and dog beds make for a tightly-packed house of dogs -- and so she thought I might like to have Norman. And I hadn't thought of getting another dog right away, and goodness knows I can't afford one right now, but she wants to pay for Normie's upkeep, and I can't resist a pet in need, really, because that's the way I roll. And so I might be getting another dog, my first Little Black Dog, if D's husband is willing.
Part of me accepts that things like this happen. I do understand that grief hits everyone in different ways, that taking care of a pet that someone you love has treasured might be a labor of love, might be a tribute or a duty to that person, or it might be an unbearable reminder of your loss. I do understand that something that might seem easy or welcome for someone might seem impossible to someone else. And, hey, not everyone wants a dog, not even people who've spent the last twenty years living with one dog or another. I understand, and I said all these things to my overset mother, but you know, that doesn't really mean that I don't want to call D's husband and say SUCK IT UP, YOU, AND GO PICK UP YOUR GODDAMNED DOG WHO NEEDS YOU. I won't, I wouldn't, but I'm just saying.
God. At the end of this unequivocally shitty summer, I want some good news. I want my people to sit on the couch with me, all of them -- it won't be that crowded, I don't know that many people -- and after we all cry on each other's shoulders for a while, those of us who need it, I want us all to take stock and remind each other that we're still together and we still love each other, we're still around, and that means something.
It does, doesn't it?
