Searching Skyward

Translucent vapors float skyward, allowing my gaze to penetrate them and ponder what comes

after. Mothers leave but their impressions stay. The corporeal forms are gone and their earthly

shells interred within it. 

I smell the wood smoke, but it dissipates and disappears. No form lingers, neither olfactory nor

visual, just spiritual. 

We can only look through the haze, beyond, and hope. Hope to be with them again one day

but have no guarantee. Just believe what they said and follow their map of faith. And hope.

Searching for Meaning

Each day we (meaning I) go about our (meaning my) lives trying not to go crazy figuring out the meaning of our (meaning my) existence. 

I'm afraid life can narrow down ... if we let it .. to two things:  Money and Politics (capitalized for affect) which both simply mean POWER.

We do what we supposedly love so we can earn money and then move the money from one pocket to another. Along the way, we keep tabs on who has the most money, who everybody else loves the most, and who has the most popular thing to say. 

Some of us do what gets us by and earn the pittance we can scramble to collect for doing it and then drive ourselves crazy worrying about the meaning of it all. Why do we struggle with this stuff for so long in our lives only to realize it’s just been an uphill battle all along?

The only important things are people -- our family and friends, which are sometimes interchangeable terms. None of the other inconsequential stuff matters. We live, we love, and many of us try to learn. We want to care for each other in the best ways we can while nurturing our own souls and hope the loved ones gone before us will be met again one day.

I looked up two words during this contemplation:

Politics:  Use of intrigue in obtaining any position of power or control, as in business, university,etc.

Populist:  A supporter or adherent of populism (any of various, often anti-establishment or anti-intellectual political movements or philosophies that offer unorthodox solutions or policies and appeal to the common person rather than according with traditional party or partisan ideologies. Grass-roots democracy; working-class activism; egalitarianism. Representation or extolling of the common person, the working class, the underdog, etc.

A Fine Friend

A tribute originating in February got shelved when our silly old dog's decline kept my emotions
in turmoil. Letting go of our furry friends weights so heart-heavy that realizing the inevitable
end brings little peace.

Maybe rabbits run across a meadow and proved irresistible chases in his dreams.

The wheeling motion of Woody’s pumping legs as he lay sleeping on the makeshift

garage floor bed showed some crazy action was happening in his subconscious. More

and more time spent in slumber each day gave old legs that could no longer steadily

carry his girth a chance to run again. Two previously torn CCL tendons saw to that. 

To watch those legs move conjured a doggy-dreamstate bicycle. Surely dogs reach REM, too.

At 98 in “people years,” Woody slept through most of his later days. 

I asked at our very first vet visit, “Is it true that puppies with a spot on their tongue are

smarter?” Dr. Peacock croaked a non-committal reply, “Sometimes they are. Sometimes
they aren't."

Woody proved to be clever if not smart, listening when otherwise unoccupied and

convenient to him. Searching the world via scent is so much more important to a

strong-willed dog. 

The thread-bare washcloths and towels we left available made excellent chew toys,

but all else on the floor was fair game. We dared not leave any shoes, lest they get

chewed to a leathery pulp, that lesson learned only once. All others went where they

belong -- in the closet, forcing me to tidy up better than normal for a few years.

A number of gross canine traits devolved into time-tested bad habits. The lovable
lummox advanced the art of fish bone scavenging and litter box sampling. Baby
gates aren't just for tiny humans. He perfected a warning growl to protect prized
possessions like a dead, maggot-infested baby possum, empty turtle shell with
bugs decimating the host's rotting carcass, residual post-deer-season legs. The
"drop it" command meant nothing from second-in-command me. Woody remained
Beta only to my husband. What about not biting the hand that feeds you?

The Kid being born put our five-year old cat in charge, proven when he went
into attack mode, I guess defending the baby and me. Woody went after a
dropped pacifier, I yelled, "No! Leave it!" apparently with too much urgency
that sounded a feline alarm. Char lit into the dog's head like only a cartoon
cat usually can. Four legs formed an aerial "X," claws pumping madly, a jab
here, a round house there.

Softer times came later. Many nighttime bottles spent with pre-dawn television
re-runs of Cops hosted a line of partners down my body -- baby in my arms, a
big silver striped cat on my lap, a smaller tabby outstretched on my legs, and a
big lummox dog on the dog at our feet. Tender wee hours stoked my postpartum
crying when I irrationally questioned God's letting him run away on a 4:00 am
escapade when let out to pee.

Neutering was one thing we did right to keep him close to home, healthier, and
prolong his life. He never destroyed baby toys, at least not with the cat in charge
and all the old ruined towels we gave him to chew. He basically teethed on them
just like the baby.

Along with allegiance to Alpha came submission and piddling, though. Being
former housebroken at the old hardwood floored farmhouse didn't earn him a
place inside our newer carpeted home when we moved. He pooped in the
basement, probably marking his new territory but sealing his fate. Instinct's
backfiring on him, our "family member" should've still lived inside instead of
simply existing apart from his pack.

Beta (me) cleaned the floors before, but Alpha (my husband) won the struggle
of Woody being banned to outdoors. The dog pen let Woody feel nature, and
the garage kept him warm at night in wintertime, but my guilt feelings still
overcome me when I get a whiff of that lingering yeasty smell out in what
became a bigger doghouse.

Our walks got shortened by old bones and sore joints, which made me sad.
A jaunt to the lake turned into a line down the street and back. Little stamina
diminished our ability to enjoy that time as much, regardless of our wishes.
Walks stopped entirely in June. Having him tug on the leash to go, that drive
to keep going, broke my heart a little. His determined will to live is probably
what prompted Alpha's absence and left Beta (don't moms always have to be
strong?) with the final vet trip responsibility. That really sucked.

It’s not all about me, but I’m tired of feeling sad so much of the time. People die, pets die, the

seasons change and nature dies, and all of it sucks bad.

No dog should be outside all the time. I now firmly believe domesticated animals belong inside --

cats AND dogs. I hope we change our ways if another dog blesses our home.

A veterinary condolence card made seeing those black pads and toenails with his inked

print bittersweet. Trying to get big webbed-foot-pawprint didn't work so well. He yelped unhappily

which seldom happened in 14-plus years.

With the cashing instinct still intact and so strong, Ol' Wood wiped out chasing a damned neighbor
poodle this summer and yipped painfully. He'd had such a high tolerance but then couldn't walk at
all, which meant we lifted him up to do his business. Pee cascaded over his feet, and sometimes
he pooped beneath himself and sat back into it. Your heart rips out watching that happen. A wise
women once told me how pets should be allowed dignity, too, and we have to decide when it's
time to let them go with some grace.

So I told his life story out loud in homage and embraced the poor fella as the vet administered the
euthanasia, my selfish olfactory sensitivity be damned, and bid farewell to our faithful friend and
my son's protector. Woody's cremains joined Char and Gris Gris up on the fireplace mantle with
my tired old heart. Maybe it's ridiculous to hold onto ashes and bone fragments, yet they may be
burnt up with my own body one day, and we can all go for a final swim in the river. Let's hope
there are a lot of rabbits to chase past the rainbow bridge.

Rockblocks: Generation Gap

Rockblocks : Generation Gap:
The holiday season stirs up memories of friends and family. My friend and guest blogger, Katy Brandes, shares a poignant story about a meani...

WTH 2018?

I'm so glad it's 2019. Maybe we can just have a do-over this year. Overcoming last year's major losses. Here's to new beginnings.

Anniversary of Grief

 

This post is 365 days overdue. It could've or should've been written right after you both died. Your lives were worth celebrating, but I couldn't find adequate words to pay tribute and still can't. A year later I'm still struggling to put this suffering into words. Maybe it's dissipated some but may not ever disappear. I don't know how to make this emptiness stop hurting.

I lost my best friends a year ago. Someone who doesn't know me would consider me crazy for pouring so much emotion into pets, but they don't know. You all were with me when I was by myself but made me feel not so alone. You stayed with me through all the moves, the different strangers walking in and out of our lives, forever loyal companions and supporters. I had you, and you had me. Even if I could depend on people, you were faithful. The pair of you were an impermanent part of me that made my life feel more meaningful. If I felt like nothing else meant anything, your lives depended on me, and that kept me going.

You seemed to know I tried my best to help you when you were both sick. Animals age and get sick, but your suffering wasn't fair. A lot isn't fair, but you didn't ask to keep going. I made you do that, so I had to let you go. I hate hearing "it's the humane thing to do" or "it's selfish to keep them alive for you." Because it sucks that you couldn't stay with me longer, and I know no other pets will ever measure up to you. None will be as smart as Char or as sweet as Gris. And nobody will ever fill this hole in me. I still lay awake sometimes with a stone being ground inside my chest. Your lock on my gaze, Char, gave me closure. Animals don't do that unless they know, and I felt your message. But I wish it were enough.

Now I'll just keep missing you, even though I can breathe. No panic attacks but no connection like we had. Gris was my darling girl, but Char was my partner longer. You both welcomed my boy, protected him from the stupid dog, and stuck with me and to me when I felt alone when the house included three people supposed to be a family. You were my family, though. I never felt alone with you near me.

And I still can't do you justice. No eloquence comes, and my tears won't stop. I think I see you out of the corner of my eye, but I'm wrong. I'm still sad. I miss you so much, and I wish I knew why this is still so hard after all this time. You filled a third of my life, and I can't imagine feeling that loved by anyone else again.

It's silly projecting all this feeling onto pets, "just animals," but maybe you know how you were loved. You can't be just gone, because you were so important. Part of me is gone. Living lacks without you, but this anger is wasted. I wish remembering your beautiful lives took it away. Instead of you simply being gone. I will always miss you.    

Link on over ...

He likes them - you will, too. Check out my short stories at katy brandes writes.