In Case Of Fire

We’ve all asked ourselves that question: the house is on fire, you have one minute, what would you grab? I think we all have similar answers: photos, computers, pets, heirlooms… In my mind I had it plotted out too. Grab the laptops, the cats, my jewelry box, as many photo albums as I can carry and go.

We heard the screaming around 8:30 one night after dinner. It was my next-door neighbor who is generally silent. There was something to her voice that made me prick up my ears – an edge of panic. We muted the TV and that’s when the fire alarms went off. Not just a little beeping smoke detector but whole building siren.

“I smell smoke,” my husband said as he yanked open our door.

Our next-door neighbor had been screaming for her dog who she couldn’t find for all the smoke in her condo. “It’s the unit below me,” she blurted having finally gotten her dog. “Not again!”

“We can stop it!” shouted the guy across the hall matching her panic. There had been a fire in this building shortly before we moved in. It had destroyed several units and its terror was still fresh in our neighbors’ memories.

My husband and I looked at each other. Was this the real deal? Are we evacuating or just going down to handle the situation?

The guy across the hall slammed his elbow into the emergency glass over the hallway fire extinguisher. “Come on!” he shouted to my husband who grabbed our fire extinguisher and followed. I ran back into our kitchen for another. I put on shoes and a sweater, grabbed my phone and keys and followed after the guys. I was sure we’d be right back up after we’d put the fire out.

I reached the first floor and found the hallway thick with smoke. My husband and the guy across the hall pounded the door. “Is anyone in there?” shouted the guy. My next-door neighbor informed us that a woman and her dog lived there. We had no idea if they were home. The guys made a few kicks at the door. My husband realized that his flip flops were a poor choice. As the smoke thickened it was clear: this was a fire out of our league. We joined the flow of neighbors trooping outside.

Neighbors who’d never met stood together on the sidewalk watching the smoke billow the curtains of the imperiled unit. The president of our HOA finished her 911 call. And we waited. It was still just that one unit. Surely we’d be back in soon. Surely we didn’t need to really panic and go back in for the cats, laptops and jewelry. Surely.

“In the last fire,” the president mused, “we evacuated and were barred entry for two weeks while they made sure the structure was sound.”

Two weeks? Neither of us had wallets, my husband didn’t have his phone or decent shoes. How would we pay for a hotel or food? How would our cats survive for that long? Our next-door neighbor took that as her cue to walk to the hotel around the corner and settle in before we all had to head there. We still didn’t know if anyone was inside the unit and where were the fire trucks? We lived less than a mile from the fire house.

The guy from across the hall couldn’t stand it anymore, “we’ve got to get in there, come on!” He and my husband took their extinguishers and ran back in. They’re not foolishly running into a burning building, I told myself, just a perfectly fine building with one small fire in progress. I stood rooted to the spot.

The fire trucks came. To our revved brains it seemed that they puttered around, slowly assessing the situation and getting the hoses out. My husband and the guy emerged. The guy’s elbow streamed blood from where he’d broken the emergency glass. The firemen yelled at them and barred entry for anyone else. The guys, however, had somehow managed to kick the door in and empty both extinguishers into the fire.

“It didn’t seem to do any good,” my husband murmured. “All we could see was flames. They’re in the kitchen right by the door. We couldn’t tell if anyone was still in there but I doubt it.” I hoped he was right.

Our next-door neighbor returned from her hotel to check on the situation. “Why aren’t the hoses flowing yet?” she wailed. “My place is next!” And ours right behind, I thought.

The firemen set up yellow caution tape and we had to move down the sidewalk. The hoses finally started flowing as the unit’s resident came home. She was a wide-eyed girl in her mid twenties that I’d never seen before. She was horror-struck. She’d just left not half an hour before to run an errand.

“Stove was on,” a bustling fireman barked as he passed.

“I never cook! I didn’t turn it on!” the girl wailed. Confused and now in tears. “My puppy is in there!”

The girl sat down and I watched her. What was that like: to have your life going one way one minute and come home to chaos the next? I wanted to talk to her, comfort her, but had no idea what to say.

A short time later, a firewoman emerged from the building with a wrapped bundle. Thank God they found the dog, I thought. I wanted to see this reunion. The firewoman started to approach the girl but, seeing her in conversation with a policeman she stopped. My heart dropped into my stomach. It was dead. It had to be dead or she wouldn’t have delayed. The policeman wandered off and the firewoman went to the girl. I couldn’t tear myself away. I had wanted to see the joyous reunion, the relief at getting a treasured friend back. I wanted to see the utter despair, the pain even more. Not in a macabre way, not that I at all wished for her suffering. I just wanted to see the humanness of it. To see from the outside what I had so recently felt myself.

The firewoman presented the bundle and the girl shook her head and cried with renewed despair. She rocked the bundle back and forth and wailed into the night. I waited until the first shock had time to sink in and I went to her. I sat next to her and rubbed her back. I told her I was so sorry, that I had lost my dog too a few months back and knew just what she was feeling.

“You do? She was just a puppy. I only got her two weeks ago,” the girl sniffed. “It was my birthday yesterday.”

‘I’m so sorry’ seemed like an inadequate phrase so I just sat with her and rubbed her back with each crying jag.

After a while the fire was out. Thankfully the building was pronounced sound with only the girl’s unit a charred ruin. My husband said he was going in to check on our place and the cats.

“I’m staying with her”

A dog-loving neighbor joined us and called animal control to dispose of the puppy body.

“The fire marshall can walk you through now,” a policeman informed her. “It’ll be your only chance to see about any valuables or stuff before we cordon off the unit.”

“What do I do with her?” the girl gestured to her inert bundle.

“Just put it down, no one will touch it. It will be fine here”

“I’m not just leaving her on the sidewalk!” the girl spat. She brandished the dead dog at the cop like a threat, like a debt he owed her. “Will you hold her?”

“I gotta file a report,” the cop muttered and turned to use his cruiser’s roof as a desk. The girl stared in wide-eyed pain. “The fire marshall’s waiting for you.”

“I’ll hold her,” I held my hands up to the girl.

“Really?”

“I’d be honored” She delicately placed the wrapped bundle in my hands and I held the dead dog in my lap. Her grey head lolled out of the wrap. I briefly wondered how the firewoman had found such a clean white cloth for the dog and I petted the soft head, tucking it better into the bundle.

The crowd dispersed, filtering back into the building and to evenings interrupted. I sat alone in the chill January air with a dead dog on my lap. I told her she’d be missed, that we were all so sorry, that we tried to get to her. I asked her to say hi to my Simon. And then I started crying for the first time in the whole incident.

After a while animal control showed up. I asked the dog-loving neighbor who’d come out to check on me to get the girl. I couldn’t just hand the dead puppy over without her having her goodbye. The girl came stumbling out, numbly dragging a small carry-on behind her. I gave her the puppy and she petted her ears and head, told her how much she loved her and how sorry she was for her short life.

She looked at the mercifully patient animal control officer. “I can’t,” she squeaked. The dog-loving neighbor stepped in and handed the bundle over to the officer while I hugged the sobbing girl.

Her parents arrived to pick her up. I wanted to give her my number in case she needed anything. I watched dumbly as she walked away. I drifted back inside and found my husband on the couch comforting our freaked out cats. We looked at each other confused, relieved, guilty. We had just abandoned everything we said we’d grab in case of fire. We’d left with no money or supplies for survival. We felt we’d failed our fire test.

We heard later that despite their initial scolding from the firemen, my husband and the guy’s actions with their extinguishers probably helped stop the fire from spreading more. I never saw the girl again. Our building smells like smoke and the ground floor is missing its carpet but otherwise it’s as though nothing ever happened.

Grief

The house is so quiet. Erie. A hole of blank space that matches the one in my heart. No one else would see it but I can’t stop staring. It’s the first day without my dog.

We were together nearly eleven years. Last night, after his paws curled under and he couldn’t stand even with help, I made the decision we’d been putting off; the one I didn’t want to have the authority to make – such a power over another’s life or death - the one I’d vaguely hoped we could schedule as if it would be easier if it were a to-do item on a given day. His suddenly all-too-evident pain forced my hand.

The cancer had finally usurped too much of his lungs. His pink tongue was a drab grey and his nose burned hot and cracked as he panted for breath, watching me with desperate eyes that begged me to exercise my authority. I sat with him splayed on the floor where neither of us could move him and waited for my husband to get home. He refused treats as I held him and petted him. Good dog ‘til the end, however, he held his bowels even as he lost control of his limbs.

We took him to the 24-hour vet where they hoisted him onto the exam table with an old towel under him. I held his head as the vet administered the injections. Slowly, he leaned over. He seemed relieved. He shut his eyes. I put my forehead against his trying to cram as many I-love-yous into the moments left. He took a shallow breath in and that was it. No breath out. No sigh. Just gone. He looked like he was sleeping. He looked like he wasn’t in pain anymore and it struck me how long it’s been since he looked like that. How long had I made him hold on for? How selfish had I been?

I held onto his ears until they were cool. It’d been months since the fever made them burn. They felt good cool. Soft and silky and cool. I wished I could somehow have a piece of his fur as a keepsake like a lucky rabbit foot. But that would be macabre. His beautiful soft fur that I will never pet again. I held onto him for far too long. We stood to go and the vet asked me if I needed more time. I said no; he was already gone.

We walked into the hallway, my husband keeping me up on my feet like he had with the dog. It was nearly nine and the two women who’d been waiting in the lobby when we carried him in were still there. Their voices carried around the corner to where we walked.

“That beautiful big dog that just came in here?”

“Yeah”

“Oh no, that’s so sad. Ohhhh.”

I collapsed into my husband’s chest in sobs. We crossed into the lobby. I gurgled a teary thank you to the night nurse and stumbled outside. It was a night bright with frost and wind. Clear. The moon stared back at me and I hyperventilated. He had to be just up there now. Just past the roofs, heading for the stars. Or maybe spiraling in confusion. I stared wildly at the black sky. “Where are you? I love you. Go. You’re done with pain now.” I didn’t dare say “how do I do my life without you?” in case it made him reluctant to leave.

My home is empty today. The strangest part is the shift in the minute calculations of my everyday. I wake up and as my brain comes into focus it jumps to “I have to get the dog outside” but I don’t and I slow my scurry from the sheets to a slow stumble. I swing my feet to the floor careful not to – there’s no dog to step on. I feed the cats, passing the nearly empty bag of dog food that still sits there. I shower and realize I don’t know what to wear because I haven’t been outside yet on the dog walk so I have no clue about the temperature. I get my breakfast ready and finish the milk. I turn to dump the dregs in a bowl that’s not there anymore. I rinse the container and chuck it in recycling. Unfurling my yoga mat to stretch, I don’t know where to put it. I always put it close to where he was laying so we could talk while I stretched. I finally settle by the table

I grab my purse to go. I’m twenty minutes early – one less body to care for in the morning, the routine doesn’t take so long, doesn’t take as long as it’s taken for a decade. How strange to recalibrate. One last glance at the curiously still house and I shut the solitude behind me.

In the car I pick stray fur from my sweater and wonder for how much longer I will find it there. In the car upholstery. In the rugs. In my coats. In my suitcase. In hidden nooks of the house. In the very fiber of my being.

“Hi, furballs!” I call out as I come home later. I’m bruised by the silence. The house feels empty. I don’t have to rush the dog out for his afternoon walk. I don’t have a reason to pass through the lobby so I leave the mail another day. A song catches my ear from the radio I’ve left on, still, to keep the dog company. I start to sing along changing all the words to be about him. There is no smile back at me or earnest face, head cocked as if trying so very hard to decipher my meaning. I feel foolish. I stop singing.

I sit at my desk to work, can’t find my pen. “Simon, what did you do with my pen?” slips out before I realize we can’t play the no-opposable-thumbs routine anymore. After a while I reach out my foot for his paw. Of course it’s not there to hold paws with me.

The afternoon passes and I think it might be nice out but I have no reason just to go out just for me.

Evening comes and there is no clackety clack of nails following me into the bedroom. No ears to pet and wish goodnight, no furry body to step over into the bed and promise to never leave. And through the night I stir awake listening for the sounds of need. There are none, no insistent paw steps that mean “I need to go out” no deep sigh saying “did you forget to pet me again?” I eventually drift into sleep and wake later into the silence of the grey morning that comes after and always will now.

The Old Dog on the Stairs

“You’re crying at a dogfood commercial?”

“But look,” I gestured to the TV as I sniffled into a tissue.

You probably remember the one. It started with a kid at the top of the stairs hollering “Come on, Casey” to a red Irish Setter puppy who frolicked up the stairs. Then it moved to a teen calling “here, Casey,” to a healthy, adult Irish Setter who romped dutifully up to his owner. It finished with a post-college guy encouraging “atta-boy, Casey,” to an elderly, graying Irish Setter who struggled up the stairs.

I burst into tears every time it got to old Casey: He’s trying so hard to please his human. They’ve had such a beautiful, long friendship. Casey doesn’t have much time left. How can you not cry?

I would look at my robust, healthy Simon and be happy he hadn’t seemed to age a bit in all our years together. Always as eager for a hike as me, and just as willing to be happy with quiet time, for a decade this former pound puppy has been my perfect match. People have always stopped me on our walks and told me what a beautiful dog he is. I thank them as Simon smiles and nuzzles them for a pet. He knows.

Simon’s into his fifteenth year now. Old for a big dog. I believe it’s our active lifestyle and his not being a purebred got him this far, as well as the love of course. That and every time there’s been an injury or a sickness, I’ve always looked into his expressive brown eyes and said “you’re not allowed to leave.” He lays his head on my knee and somehow heals himself.

A few months back I noticed him panting all the time. He started to lose weight, drinking lots of water and not being able to hold it. I knew what it meant but I didn’t want to face it. With my limited salary I knew operations or chemo wouldn’t be an option. How effective could they be anyway at his age? I didn’t want to hear the words.

I took him in when he seemed to be in pain. Lymphoma, they said. They gave us antibiotics for infection, pain killers, and steroids to keep his lungs working. I went home and cried for days. So now Simon and me - a few weeks, a month, more? They couldn’t tell me how much time we have. I can only keep him comfortable and wait and watch.

The vet had chuckled, “Not a trace of arthritis or anything. Otherwise a totally healthy dog.” I want to scream that it’s not fair for his body to be in such good shape and still get taken down. It’s not used up yet. If the cancer just weren’t there…

Suddenly I have the old dogfood commercial Casey – the dog that makes me cry with his unsinkable will to please despite his infirmity. His ready smile breaks my heart.

After a few weeks on his steroids Simon started acting like a jerk. Begging incessantly, stealing the cats’ food, raiding the garbage – a doggie sin he’d never committed. I brought him back to the vet. He was down from his healthy 85 to 60 pounds, his spine and hind quarters skeletal. Quite simply he was starving to death. The cancer was stealing all his nutrients and he wasn’t getting any. We switched him to puppy food for greater nutrients and upped his feedings to three times a day. His walks to four. He stabilized and calmed down. Still smiling his happy dog smile. “But won’t that feed the cancer more, too?” my husband worries. I suppose it will but what can I do?

So we play our waiting game, enjoying whatever we have left. I tell him I love him a million times a day. I force his pointed steroid pills into bread slices that he eagerly gulps. I listen to his soft panting every night. I feel guilty that it irritates me and keeps me awake but I know it will be so much worse when it’s not there anymore.

Long gone are our wandering hikes in the hills. My once-strong dog shuffles behind me to the end of our driveway and back, his rear paws making a soft ‘shush-shush-shush’ as he fails to lift them. Sometimes, even moving slowly he stumbles. I modify my gait remembering not to rush and we amble along.

“What a beautiful dog,” people still croon on our short trips outside. I look at his emaciated rear and the visible curve of his ribcage. If you only knew, I think. Of course he’s still beautiful even as his eyes look sunken and his face fur grays. He wags his tail and nuzzles them for a pet.

Inside he struggles to get to his feet, his failing muscles fighting the slip of the wood floor. He can’t really hear anymore and I startle him if I come up behind him. I have to touch him or make vibrations to get his attention. And he smiles. Still that full-face, adoring-eye smile he’s always had for me, despite the pain, despite the fear he must feel at not knowing what’s going on. “The way that dog looks at you,” my mom always croons. It’s what unconditional love looks like.

He’s given me a decade of being the best dog ever. He’s always been there to comfort my tears or share my joys. I can’t imagine my adult life without him. I always thought he’d be around to help us raise kids.

He smiles, puts his head on my knee and nudges me with a nose that’s always hot and dry now. I give him whatever treats he wants. I stop myself from uttering my knee-jerk “you’re not allowed to leave.” It’s selfish of me and not fair to him. I tell him he’s allowed to leave if that’s what he needs. I bump my forehead onto his and tell him I’ll be OK but he has to tell me when it hurts too much; when it’s time. I pray I’ll have the strength to listen to him. Because otherwise I’ll hold onto him forever.

Simon vs. The Purse Dogs

*** I wrote this post five years ago and it never made it online***

I needed a dog. When you own a mountain home with a big fenced yard, you live at the base of a network of hiking trails and are a single girl, it’s a natural progression. I combed the humane society website every day for months looking for reasons to spend my lunch hour at the pound. I was very clear what I wanted: a medium-sized, short hair female with intelligent eyes. To non-dog people it may sound odd, but you really can tell how smart a dog is by looking in her eyes.

One day, I came across a photo of a bright eyed dog with a huge grin all over his giant, furry face. I kept clicking back to it until finally my coworker pulled out her keys and said, “Get in the car.” The next day the paperwork was handled and I was leading an 85 pound, shaggy, male Shepard/Collie mix out to my tiny hatchback.

“How am I going to get you in there?” I asked him as I contemplated just how much lifting 85 pounds would kill my back. He cocked his head, looked from me to the car, jumped in the open hatch, sat down and looked at me again as if to say “like this?” I knew we were going to get along just fine.

Back at the start, I discovered why Simon had been turned in to the pound. He had an issue with bolting. On several terrifying occasions, he slipped past me as I opened the door and ran toward the highway near our mountain home. He usually chose to do this when I was barefooted or carrying armfuls of groceries. So I’d drop eggs and milk and fly after him, ripping my feet to shreds, convinced I was about to prove myself the worst dog owner ever as he got flattened by three semis and an ice cream truck. On the third or fourth chase, I realized he wasn’t actually running from me. He’d keep looking back over his shoulder, grinning, to make sure I was still playing along. He just wanted to play, to have my attention, to be listened to. How like a human.

Five years later, I have learned to listen to him and he to me and we usually walk through the Hollywood hills without a leash. We are companions, not master and beast. Listening to the second major Simon in my life has taught me I don’t need to force my will on a situation.

I’m not proud to say there have been times when I considered selling out on him for certain human males in my life who didn’t like dogs or found my having to go home to walk one inconvenient. Simon has been very patient with me, waiting for me to realize these men are not worth my time.

When I decided to move to LA, suddenly having a giant, trail-loving mountain dog was less of an obvious pet choice. Everything here seems to be small enough for a purse, or lunch depending on your perspective. On observation, it seems many of these “dog” owners are more in it for the accessory cache’ than the companionship. The conventional wisdom is that you can tell a lot about the owner from the dog. Maybe it’s the mountain girl in me but Chihuahua with rhinestone collar and crocheted sweater does not say good things. At least it doesn’t say down-to-earth person of substance, intellect and world consciousness. Maybe it’s just me.

Simon avoids purse dogs as they tend to have Napoleon complexes and lunge at him snapping and biting. This allows me to avoid their owners who tend to be blonde and covered in brand names. Sometimes with matching rhinestones and crochet.

Sure, sometimes it would be nice if Simon were more portable and welcome at Hollywood shops and eateries. But only so he could see for himself. Sometimes I don’t think he believes me when I tell him about what I see in this town.

Having a big dog in an apartment town has certainly been extra work. If I were just getting a dog now, I might make a more convenient choice. But when has convenience been interesting? When have you grown from taking the path of least resistance?

Angel (Who Isn't)

The angry dog snarled and barked again, whipping itself into a frenzy. It lunged forward on its leash gnashing its teeth at me. Instinctively I took another step to the side. The owner, to my surprise, wasn’t scolding the dog or making much of an attempt to discipline it in anyway. I wished I could have. I wasn’t afraid of the frothy incisors, just annoyed. The dog in question was a six pound Shi Tsu.

Angel is a dog who lives in my building and she or he, I haven’t investigated, is anything but. Every morning I have the distinct pleasure of running into Angel and her useless owner who always ignores my “good morning,” the height of rudeness in my book. If I didn’t find the woman and her dog so repellant, it would be funny that every morning, the dog snarls like it will explode if she doesn’t let it off the leash to attack us while she ignores me and coos “quiet now, Angel, be a good dog.” It’s my suspicion that Angel doesn’t speak English.

I refer to Angel and dogs of his/her ilk as a little shit. Angel is what my dad would refer to as a punt dog. You know, the kind of dog with no redeeming qualities that you’d like to drop kick. Now calm down. I am huge animal rights advocate and don’t ever condone violence against any creature. But if it could be harmless violence like in the cartoons, Angel would be a good candidate for a Wyle E. Coyote anvil. And Angel is not alone.

Walking last night, two small poodle mixes snarled and snapped at Simon and I as we passed. The owner had to yell above the yaps: “Sorry about the noise.”

“That’s OK,” I replied. “I’m just glad I don’t have to live with it.”

I’ve never been a fan of little dogs. Aside from stand-out exceptions like everyone’s favorite scene-stealer Hero, they just seemed like of useless to me. I mean if you want a pet that size, get a cat. I have one and he’s fabulous.

No, it’s big dogs for me. Simon, my 85-pound beauty and I stroll by the little dogs. Simon would never dream of snarling or snapping like they do. He calmly smiles and wags his tail hoping for a new friend. But even he has learned. When we pass a little dog, he shies behind me. Sure enough the little shit will come at us like a snarling fur tornado - or a very puntable angry mop - while the nonplussed owner apologetically, or sometimes indifferently, yanks the little creature off its feet pulling it away from us and then usually admonishes it to be nice. As if.

Out for a walk last week we were charged by a deranged Yorkie and my boyfriend had a great point: If my Simon behaved the way those little dogs do, I’d be forced to have him put down. People would be terrified and outraged that I had such a poorly behaved and seemingly dangerous creature in public. The more I thought about it, the truer and more unjust it seemed. If a big dog comes snarling and snapping at a person there is a hue and cry to destroy the dangerous animal. The owners are vilified for having such a poorly disciplined dog.

Why then do we excuse or even condone such abominable behavior from small dogs? Why are they allowed to be assholes? Just because they probably can’t rip you to shreds like a Rottweiler could? So what? It’s freaking rude, unacceptable behavior. If a child came up to me in public and screamed at me, I’d say poor parenting. I think it’s no different with dogs. I would never tolerate having such a poorly behaved, walking napoleon complex share my home. Who are these people that do?

There will always be bad parents in the kid world and the dog world. Until there is some kind of magical doggie good citizenship council, it’s up to us, the thinking pet owners, to institute a change. Don’t hang out with small dog people unless they have proven that their small dog is really cool, like my cousin’s Chihuahua/terrier, Tucker, who actually looks like a cartoon. Or our good buddy Bono the pug.

If you must have a small dog, recognize that the snarling fur tornado greeting is unacceptable behavior and train it to behave like a decent citizen. And if you don’t, may a cartoon anvil meet you soon. And your little dog too

Late Again

When I was in elementary school, I was late nearly every day. Every night, the principal would call my mother for yet another parent/teacher conference. On every call, she would be pulled to her wits’ end.

“She left home with plenty of time to make the walk. I told her not to dawdle. I just don’t understand.”

This is how I learned the word “dawdle”. But I still did not see how it applied to me. I was not a dawdler. I had very important business to take care of on my mile and half walk to school.

Being a hippy mountain town, one day the principal decided to detour on his bike ride to school to follow me. His plan was to observe my dawdling, no doubt, and hurry me on my way.

On the call that evening, my mother was irritated. “Why didn’t you hurry her along then?”

“She talked with each dog in each yard she passed. I didn’t have the heart to interrupt her.”

“Certainly petting a dog or two wouldn’t make her late,” mom reasoned. Allergic to every non-human creature and thus not a fan of fur, mom could not sympathize with my constant entreaties for a dog of my own.

“Well, she really talks to the dogs. And this was after she’d stopped at a Christmas tree at someone’s curb and proceeded to pull every single strand of tinsel off. Then she continued to an open meadow and stashed the tinsel under a rock. After showing it to a few dogs.”

Some days my walk-to-school business was more monumental in nature. One morning after a good snow, I felt it was very important that I practice the cursive writing we were learning. I climbed the fence into the local middle school’s football field and inscribed my name in lovely, looping, 20-foot tall letters by shuffling through the virgin snow. It was a thing of beauty. Not to mention a practical use of new scholastic skills.

Except for the dog conversations, these other events were just one-offs. They were not part of my over-arching walk plan.

Foiled in my quest for a fur-bearer, I decided I wanted a bird. Every morning, the field across from my school was filled with feeding black birds. I knew I would have one.

During the warm months, I practiced various approaches to the birds searching for the one what would not scare them off. During the winter months when there were no birds, I plotted and schemed so I’d be ready for their return. Finally, I had a sure-fire solution: I would bring a blanket with me and throw it over the flock. Surely it would trap at least one before they all flew off.

The plan had a kink, however, that I couldn’t see my way past. Once I had captured my new bird, what would I do with it all day until the walk home? I couldn’t bring it to school. The nuns wouldn’t have pets on the campus. I was afraid to hide it in the blanket off school grounds. What if some other bird-coveter found it and all my efforts were wasted? I couldn’t very well turn and take it home right then because, well, then I’d be late for school. And I couldn’t wait for afternoon for the walk home because, as my careful reconnaissance had shown, the birds only fed in the field in the morning. The blanket plan was flawless save for the issue of bird storage.

Sadly, I never did figure a solution. But my bird-lust must not have been so covert. For Christmas that year my parents got me a blue parakeet that I named Clifford after the big red dog. I was an early fan of irony. Clifford died the next day while I was at school so they got a replacement Clifford hoping I wouldn’t notice. I did notice but called him Clifford with no “2” appended to his name. I could play their denial game too. Clifford the Imposter, however, died immediately as well. It seems taking a parakeet through the snow world between the pet store and the car was just too much for the little things. After C2, the store had only green parakeets so the illusion of parakeet survival could not be continued. My parents ‘fessed up and I had to admit, having finally had one in a cage wasn’t the fanciful experience I’d imagined. I lost interest in birds. Turns out they just weren’t as conversational as dogs.

I found other necessary tasks to occupy my daily school walk between dog visits. That Spring, I busied myself surveying the intricacies of my school route which I then reproduced on an accurate map. I put my stamp on my town by renaming all the streets and paths of my route after my favorite horses: Arabian Way, Thoroughbred Trail, Clydesdale Cut, Pegasus Path. Unfortunately, the city planning commission did not take my improvements into serious consideration; the first of many disappointments in bureaucracy.

The year after that, I moved from my mountain town out to California. My new school was much further from home than my old one had been. My dad got me a fuchsia bike with a banana seat, a basket, and pink handlebar tassels. We rode the route on a Sunday so I’d be able to do it myself.

I started my California school as a bike commuter and I made it to school on time. As far as my parents were concerned my punctuality must have been because the bike was faster than walking. That wasn’t it. I’d have stopped more if I wanted. I did miss my tinsel collection from time to time. But the thing was: my dad wasn’t allergic to pets. Now in California, I finally had a real dog of my very own and I had to hurry home to walk him. Plus, the added bonus of his companionship meant I had someone to talk to while I built my new rocks-from-people’s-yards collection.

Feeling Clapton

No, I cannot miraculously play like a guitar god. But this week, I got a taste of Clapton circa Tears In Heaven.

My dog has always been something of a mama’s boy. In fact I seem to be rather skilled at attracting mama’s boys to my world. Explains why I like Italians. But Simon Le Dog, despite the fact we’ve been together for seven years and I always, amazingly, return home, is still convinced each time I shut the door behind me he’s been left forever. He’ll emit such plaintive yowls they can be heard for blocks and I’m quite certain my neighbors think I must keep hot needles in his paws.

I can understand his separation anxiety to a point. When I got him from the pound he was five and had been dumped twice. Our session in the pound meet-and-greet enclosure was cool at best. I sat in a chair while he walked away and sat with his back to me with an air of “yeah lady, sure you want to take me home. I’ve heard it all before.”

We’ve gotten very close over the years and it pains me to think he still thinks I’d ever leave him. I mean I’ve dumped boyfriends who didn’t like him. Our mutual attachment is strong to the point where I can instantly make myself cry if I think about life post-Simon. He’s twelve now after all.

This week it seems he took solving our daily separation into his own paws. My across the street neighbors who adore Simon and often sit for him called me when he showed up on their porch, limping and sheepish. “He knew he’d done something bad.” One reported.

Best we can surmise he somehow got himself up onto the window sill in our bedroom. He sees the cat up there every day so he must have figured, why not? It seems at a certain point, he realized this was not a good place to be as we live on the second floor and the stairs to the street end just below, fifteen feet down.

From the claw marks on the sill, I think he tried to turn around and slipped, going out back end first. That he made that fall and survived at all is nothing short of miraculous. That he survived with no broken bones or internal injuries is amazing. I believe the cat is now short a borrowed life or two. It’s a testament to his youthful spirit. He has no arthritis and is as active and playful as dogs half his age.

Many hours at the emergency vet later, the only serious issue is a blown ACL that will require costly surgery. Only - like that’s somehow not crazy-serious and more money than I have. But it so easily could have been so much worse.

Now my days are filled with surgeon and rehab research and countless calls to vets, friends and fellow dog-owners. And guilt. What kind of mom lets this kind of thing happen? I should have known he might try something crazy and unthinkable, shouldn’t I have? I guess I was in denial. I mean what kind of intelligent being flings himself out a second story window? I thought the fear of falling would be enough to stop any such impulse. I swear he’s a really smart dog.

So, a day late and a dollar short, all my windows are now screened and barriered against further mishaps, although now I really doubt he’d try it again. But I don’t want to be in denial about it. Apparently one of us has to be a responsible adult about the whole thing and I think for too long, I expected it would be him.

I know our experience has very little in common with what Eric Clapton’s family went through losing his son to a fall from an open window. But I understand how he must have felt. You just never think things will go that far; that basic survival instinct will prevail...that you’ll be able to prevent tragedy by the sheer force of your parental will. And I’m sure Clapton’s guilt and sorrow were a hundred fold mine. My furry son lived after all. But I’m sure he dealt with the guilt and judgment of others and I bet he he hoped people would grant that it was a very unfortunate accident. As a parent, you beat yourself up enough. And I have been. I’m the worst mother ever. Must be. How could I ever hope to actually give birth?

My mother called in the midst of all of this self-flagellation. “Oh honey, you can't think that way. Remember your hands?” She then reminded me of the time when I was just learning to walk and my aunt pulled a roast out of the oven. Before she or my mom could react I toddled over and lost my balance, falling hands first onto the open oven door. I have pictures of me with huge mittens of bandages cradling “See Spot Run” and other favorite titles as I retreated into my literary world for healing.

I told her about a friend in New York who’d been bathing her new born in the kitchen sink when he flailed up and hit the instant hot water spigot resulting in 3rd degree burns over his whole tiny body. As mom and I talked it seemed like every parent we knew of human or fur baby had dealt with some crazy accident or other.

“Every parent makes mistakes. We all just do our best. We can’t think of everything. He’s lucky to have a mom who loves him so much.”

I felt better. Not let off the hook or anything but human in my erring.

So Simon and I are housebound for the time being. He cries if I leave the room now and I tell him this was all a silly way to get my attention. He gets pain meds twice a day while I research our best course of action. Mostly I’m just glad he’s here on his pillow next to me. I’m sure that day back in the pound enclosure neither of us would have guessed we’d ever get here. But here we are. Happy to be together. And maybe, in spite of all this, I’ll make a good human mom too. Someday. For now it’s time for another milk bone.

Dog At Venice and Hauser

I saw a quick, furry flash from the corner of my eye. Though I was cruising down Venice boulevard in fourth gear, I turned to see the dog scuttle under a parked car. Right behind him a shirtless man slammed into the car wielding the dog’s doubled-over leash like a whip. I jerked my wheels toward the curb but I didn’t pull over. I was barely going to be on time to Sarah’s as it was.

As I pulled up to the next stop light, my stomach knotted. Could I really just drive away knowing a man was beating his dog in broad daylight? I decided Sarah would understand and I swung around the block. Back on Venice, I found the dog alone, panting and looking back to the man who sat in frustration about a half block away. I parked and went to the dog.

A friendly red chow/retriever mix, he wiggled happily under my touch as I checked for blood and asked him if he was OK. The man, still brandishing the leash, was walking towards us. In my mind I had a whole litany of angry speeches. Though he was clearly a weight-lifter, I had a good six inches on him and figured, worst case, I could take him.

He got within spitting distance and I stood up. Before I could get a word out he smiled and calmly asked if I wanted the dog.

“Is he yours?”

“Yes. You want him?”

“I saw you hit him.”

“He chase cat. You want him?”

This was unexpected. I knew if I was really going to make a difference in the situation, I should take the dog. And do what? My apartment was already crowded with a dog twice this size and a huge cat. But I could feel a larger self asking me: alright girl, just how much responsibility are you willing to take here?

“Take him to a shelter.” I suggested.

“No, they just kill him.”

“There are plenty of no-kill shelters in LA.” Although I couldn’t think of the name of a single one as the adrenaline made my hands shake.

The man shrugged. “I kill him myself.”

“Please, just take him to a no-kill shelter if you don’t want him.”

“You want him?”

The dog grinned up at the man who had never looked me in the eye. I could feel the plates of time grinding in one of those crossroads moments. Do I take this dog and figure out how to get him a better home or do I walk away? The dog thumped his tail and sat next to his master.

As I drove away, the man attached the leash to the dog and they walked around the corner.

I hope I read him right. He didn’t seem like a dog desperate to get out of his situation and I’ve seen them. I hope the man heard me and will do the humane thing but I know the chances are slim. I hope I made a small difference for good beyond a stranger getting pissed about a meddling gringa and taking it out on a little red dog.

When I recounted the episode later to my dad, he said I’d been crazy to get out of the car. I could have been hurt. True. But I think it would have hurt a lot worse to just keep driving.