Bela is not my dog.
She's a dog. One that, as of 9:09 pm on July 7, 2013, I have the honor of taking care of.
The labeling game has taken us too far, confused us and convinced us too much. Made us blind to bigger truths. Our labels make 'sense' and make us feel 'safe' -- but they're just that -- labels. They don't have any meaning but the meaning we give them.
I could wax on all day long about Bela being mine and mine and oh-so-mine...
But present-day scenery shakes me, as I'm a mere 10 minutes from the state line of Bela's former home. Bela was shipped in van with god-knows-how-many-other country dogs a couple of years back. Tennessee to Chicago was their route. Greener pastures, in the poetic sense of the phrase. (And really...likely not for all of them. Some may have accidentally plucked themselves from a really sweet situation by running off and not finding their way back before apprehension.)
She has transitioned, from one human host to another. So she's this amazing just-shy of 40 lbs. brown supposed-lab mix that was once shipped from TN to IL. I don't know more than that. I don't know who taught her to sit and put out her paw. (They may still refer to her as 'their' dog. ) I don't know what she looked like as a baby and if she had brothers or sisters. She's her ma's dog, for sure. That's the only soul that can really lay claim to her.
A few months ago, my niece Olivia's cat named for her favorite food ("Butter") ran off. We spent many teary nights trying to make her accept/be cool with the situation. We urged her to consider that death was not the most likely scenario; that Butter was likely hanging out with another family somewhere, probably not even terribly far away. To try to imagine her shrouded in love. To allllllmost.....be happy for her. (There are middle-aged adults that aren't capable of this. We tried to convince a 7-yr old to see the beauty in letting her dove go. And you know what? Though the tears streamed, I have the feeling that as a child, she was much more capable -- of freeing Butter from the chains of her love.)
I've been struggling with anxiety lately. The kind that, well, to be honest, makes it hard to breathe. Talking to my mom the other night, she threw out a little wisdom pearl. She suggested I try to do more like dogs and children. Live in the moment. They don't dwell in the past or think about the future. Don't have the attention span for such undertakings....tending to eradicate anxieties of the adult kind.
She's right. I don't need to have such a deathgrip on all things. What I think will happen vs. what I hope will. I have today. Today, Bela is in my care, so I'll take care of her. I'll walk her, feed her, and take her to the park. I don't know shiiiit about tomorrow. She may be here, I may be there, or she and I may both be elsewhere.
I took a solo trip to DQ a few days after my arrival here in Murray. I bought a small vanilla cone. The teenage boy in front of me bought an even smaller vanilla cone. It was so small, in fact, that I had to ask about it. "What is that you got?", I inquired. "It's a baby cone", he replied, and then headed to his black SUV. When I walked past his vehicle on my way to a bench, I saw a tiny face peeking out of the back seat, gently licking the baby cone. I had to get closer. The image was delightful. It was a dachshund, sized like the cone, coyly working on its treat. "Oh, HOW cute!", I squealed! His country drawl came back. "Yeah. She's our new dog. I mean, she's not a new dog but she's new-to-us. She just came to us. And we feel so blessed that she came." And then, "She's a puppy. And her name is Lucy."
"Happiness to you and Lucy," I said, planting a pat on her little head.
I sat near the wooded area in the back and slowly consumed my cone. About 20 minutes later, an older man in a golf cart came speeding into the parking lot and approached a table, hurriedly asking something of them. He had started to speed off when I overhead a customer saying, "No, we haven't seen no dog."
My eyes and my heart fluttered. I clasped my hand to my chest and ran after the man, saying, "Sir!!?? Were you talking about a dog??"
"I'm looking for my little brown dog. She's a dachshund and her name is Hazel and she's just run off and......" His voice trailed, in angst, knowing that the longer the explanation time, the less time on the search. Oh God. Oh God, I thought. Oh my god. The dachshund named Hazel, that belong[s/ed] to this man, now operates under the alias of Lucy and just ate a cone in the back of a black SUV and is being referred to as a teenager's 'new puppy'. oh god.
I tried to explain to him the scene I'd come upon moments earlier, and to relay that I think I'd seen her and that she was with a young boy and that he called her 'Lucy'...................... in angst, this too....
He listened, he did. But then he reared his head back and SPAT OUT AT ME, "MY DAWG'S NAME IS HAZEL!!!"
Then he sped off on his golf cart.
Two days later, I was walking 'my' dog when I saw the gentleman cruise by in his golf cart again, combing the streets. Eyes focused, body upright, tuning out irrelevant sights and sounds, in the quest for his Hazel.
Later, I wondered,
with his loss so lucid and drive so very focused
that
if he were to cruise right past Lucy,
if he would even know it was Hazel.
But then again, Hazel may just now BE Lucy. And would he want to rob her of that chance? To be a puppy again?
"The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost."
G.K. Chesterton
*(this post has been in the works for WEEKS now. as you can see from the timestamp I inserted in it above, I sat down to it at 9:09pm this night.
at 9:36pm, my sister called. Butter has been FOUND.)
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
A Southern Sabbatical
On the 3rd anniversary of Bela's adoption date, we packed up the car and headed to Kentucky for a summer stay. We packed patience and sunhats. We have eyes wide open and an appetite for all things country. She has settled in quite nicely. The porch is her perch; she sits and/or sleeps up there all the day long....
.JPG)
We're eating fine, too. There are eggs from a friend's chicken. Honey from my roomate's parent's bees, fresh-from-the-garden sugar snap peas, and just-picked mint for our water. (And homemade moonshine in the fridge, but I'm going to do my best to avoid that. For.....now.)
On our first evening here, we walked to the 60-year old Dairy Queen. As we passed a family sitting on the white bench out front, the mother looked at Bela wistfully and said, "Swayt little dawg." Swayt. As in 'sweet' but with a serious southern accent. This morning, an older gentleman stopped in the middle of the road to roll down his van window and tell me "I lock your dawg." Again, 'like' but with a southern touch.
We're just over 72 hours in and I, too, appear to be altering my speech. While exiting a store today, I struggled with the door. The shop owner gave me a gentle nudge. "You have to push it, dear," she said. "Oh.........I was pollin'", I replied. Yes.... 'Pulling' but with a twang.
It seems right. There is a husband of a friend of mine that could have just sworn that my last name was Grain. She and I were simply baffled how he would arrived at that conclusion until he explained that that was exactly how I pronounced it: 'Green', you know -- as in, "Grain."
.JPG)
We're eating fine, too. There are eggs from a friend's chicken. Honey from my roomate's parent's bees, fresh-from-the-garden sugar snap peas, and just-picked mint for our water. (And homemade moonshine in the fridge, but I'm going to do my best to avoid that. For.....now.)
On our first evening here, we walked to the 60-year old Dairy Queen. As we passed a family sitting on the white bench out front, the mother looked at Bela wistfully and said, "Swayt little dawg." Swayt. As in 'sweet' but with a serious southern accent. This morning, an older gentleman stopped in the middle of the road to roll down his van window and tell me "I lock your dawg." Again, 'like' but with a southern touch.
We're just over 72 hours in and I, too, appear to be altering my speech. While exiting a store today, I struggled with the door. The shop owner gave me a gentle nudge. "You have to push it, dear," she said. "Oh.........I was pollin'", I replied. Yes.... 'Pulling' but with a twang.
It seems right. There is a husband of a friend of mine that could have just sworn that my last name was Grain. She and I were simply baffled how he would arrived at that conclusion until he explained that that was exactly how I pronounced it: 'Green', you know -- as in, "Grain."
Monday, May 27, 2013
If Bela wrote about me...
...the things I think she'd say:
1. She builds little forts and comfort 'shelves' out of blankets when I nap. She'll tuck them behind my butt, under my chin, around my head and over my ears....to ensure I am (look) warm and cozy. It does make me warm, and yes, cozy...but it's certainly not needed.
2. Her OCD has gotten pretty bad, especially since we've been living on our own.
She checks the burners and the outlets and the fire alarm like 20,000 times every single time before she walks out the door. Then once she's outside the door, she locks it and re-locks it and checks the lock on it another 20,000 times. Her friends want to know why she's late occasionally? That's WHY.
3. She puts a LOT OF peanut butter in my kong when she goes.
(Yes, I think we're seeing a theme here and it's called: Kelly's guilt. The guilt of my mother.
It really does pay off sometimes, but I guess I feel bad that she feels bad. I'm really just hanging out when she's gone...)
4. She has a weak-ass arm. She pretty much can't excercise me without the aid of a Chuck-it. She looks a little dumb, always standing in the park with it at her side -- her arm extender. But it's necessary. It's just necessary.
5. She sings a lot. That's often soothing but can occasionally be just ridiculous. I think I'm the subject of most of her songs. Which is also soothing but kind of ridiculous.
6. She cries more than what I would say the average human does, but she cries less now than she used to. So there's that.
7. I love her. Lovelovelovelovelove her. Love, outside the confines of loyalty. Love her.
She doesn't even know how much.
1. She builds little forts and comfort 'shelves' out of blankets when I nap. She'll tuck them behind my butt, under my chin, around my head and over my ears....to ensure I am (look) warm and cozy. It does make me warm, and yes, cozy...but it's certainly not needed.
2. Her OCD has gotten pretty bad, especially since we've been living on our own.
She checks the burners and the outlets and the fire alarm like 20,000 times every single time before she walks out the door. Then once she's outside the door, she locks it and re-locks it and checks the lock on it another 20,000 times. Her friends want to know why she's late occasionally? That's WHY.
3. She puts a LOT OF peanut butter in my kong when she goes.
(Yes, I think we're seeing a theme here and it's called: Kelly's guilt. The guilt of my mother.
It really does pay off sometimes, but I guess I feel bad that she feels bad. I'm really just hanging out when she's gone...)
4. She has a weak-ass arm. She pretty much can't excercise me without the aid of a Chuck-it. She looks a little dumb, always standing in the park with it at her side -- her arm extender. But it's necessary. It's just necessary.
5. She sings a lot. That's often soothing but can occasionally be just ridiculous. I think I'm the subject of most of her songs. Which is also soothing but kind of ridiculous.
6. She cries more than what I would say the average human does, but she cries less now than she used to. So there's that.
7. I love her. Lovelovelovelovelove her. Love, outside the confines of loyalty. Love her.
She doesn't even know how much.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Rats, Cats and Babies -- Oh My!
Bela's inclination to hunt amuses me, exhausts me...and occasionally embarrases me.
The embarrassment is silly; I can't do anything about her natural instinct. But I'm attempting to live with her...in a city....around, like a TON of other living things -- things she would like to make extinct.
Rats. Cats. and Babies.
I'm pretty sure Chicago would be cool with Bela eradicating the rat. (If I let her free, this would likely happen sooner than later, as she has twice caught a rat in her mouth while walking.)
And as a race, we are divided on cats. But there ain't a person around that would be comfortable if they knew...that her ears perking up just now, and that shake in her back legs....: that's for your baby, Yo.
While she enjoys catching rats with her teeth, I can't really stomach the thought of one ending up in her stomach....so I have made her release both of her previous catches. I struggle with 'allowing' her to hunt street cats. The cat is often interested in her and/or taunting her, seeing that she is well-restrained by a leash. And I keep thinking that I can convince her through dialogue that...you know, the cat is like a super cool animal that you could even consider respecting....
Her relationship with felines has me straight up baffled. She hunts them like crazy, both outside and in. But I'm committed to letting her know that if she could play it cool, we'd be invited into more homes. My friends could stop feeling conflicted about liking her, because the threat of her eating their cats would be gone. It would just be really nice.
(*It should be noted that there is a cat that she has actually NUZZLED. Face to face. Lovingly. On multiple occasions. I've been able to make no sense of this, thus far.)
I'll address the baby-hunting, I will. But bear in mind, it's not real...as in, she doesn't know it's a baby when her ears perk up and she tries to paw at the door to get out and get. it. In all honesty, she's probably thinking it's a cat or a rat. It's just that the sound of a baby wailing can be quite sharp. High-pitched. Kind of tortuous. Prompting Bela to think of...well...torture?? So while the baby-tracking requires mentioning, my neighbor's babies are in no way in harm's way.
The rat and cat shit is real, though. And one night, while we were out walking, this hate triangle came to a head like I literally could not believe. We were crossing by a school that had a gated area in front, and Bela kept tugging to get closer. I had no reason to not give her this courtesy, so I moved myself in a little and let her sniff about. Her body went rigid, and I saw a gleam in her eyes, so I thought maybe there was a little something in there. It was hard to perceive the picture; it was dark and so silent that my senses were straining to pick up on anything. Then, I saw it. I gasped, then chuckled aloud. It was like Jesus orchestrated the scenario for my sheer delight. Because Bela was hunting a cat that was hunting a rat.
I know for a fact that Bela did not commit murder that night, but I am not at will to speak for that cat.
The embarrassment is silly; I can't do anything about her natural instinct. But I'm attempting to live with her...in a city....around, like a TON of other living things -- things she would like to make extinct.
Rats. Cats. and Babies.
I'm pretty sure Chicago would be cool with Bela eradicating the rat. (If I let her free, this would likely happen sooner than later, as she has twice caught a rat in her mouth while walking.)
And as a race, we are divided on cats. But there ain't a person around that would be comfortable if they knew...that her ears perking up just now, and that shake in her back legs....: that's for your baby, Yo.
While she enjoys catching rats with her teeth, I can't really stomach the thought of one ending up in her stomach....so I have made her release both of her previous catches. I struggle with 'allowing' her to hunt street cats. The cat is often interested in her and/or taunting her, seeing that she is well-restrained by a leash. And I keep thinking that I can convince her through dialogue that...you know, the cat is like a super cool animal that you could even consider respecting....
Her relationship with felines has me straight up baffled. She hunts them like crazy, both outside and in. But I'm committed to letting her know that if she could play it cool, we'd be invited into more homes. My friends could stop feeling conflicted about liking her, because the threat of her eating their cats would be gone. It would just be really nice.
(*It should be noted that there is a cat that she has actually NUZZLED. Face to face. Lovingly. On multiple occasions. I've been able to make no sense of this, thus far.)
I'll address the baby-hunting, I will. But bear in mind, it's not real...as in, she doesn't know it's a baby when her ears perk up and she tries to paw at the door to get out and get. it. In all honesty, she's probably thinking it's a cat or a rat. It's just that the sound of a baby wailing can be quite sharp. High-pitched. Kind of tortuous. Prompting Bela to think of...well...torture?? So while the baby-tracking requires mentioning, my neighbor's babies are in no way in harm's way.
The rat and cat shit is real, though. And one night, while we were out walking, this hate triangle came to a head like I literally could not believe. We were crossing by a school that had a gated area in front, and Bela kept tugging to get closer. I had no reason to not give her this courtesy, so I moved myself in a little and let her sniff about. Her body went rigid, and I saw a gleam in her eyes, so I thought maybe there was a little something in there. It was hard to perceive the picture; it was dark and so silent that my senses were straining to pick up on anything. Then, I saw it. I gasped, then chuckled aloud. It was like Jesus orchestrated the scenario for my sheer delight. Because Bela was hunting a cat that was hunting a rat.
I know for a fact that Bela did not commit murder that night, but I am not at will to speak for that cat.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Viva El Perro; Commemorating Cinco De Mayo
One year ago, I almost lost Bela. And when I say 'lost her', I mean in that big, sweeping sense. As in completely. We were playing fetch in an unfenced area when she got in in her guns to take off. She first ran to a tree where she'd spotted a squirrel. After the squirrel ran up the tree, Bela ran again -- this time, seemingly for the the sake of running, for the feeling in her legs. It wasn't an accident; it was intentional. She ran into traffic with the wind at her back.
Ever the extremist, she didn't run into the intersection of Hermitage and Haddon, where we live -- or even Division and Paulina -- this death naysayer ran into the 3-way intersection of AUGUSTA, MILWAUKEE AND I-94.
"BelAAAAAAAAAAA! Beeeelllllaaaaaaaa!!, I screamed, running full speed, down a sidewalk, after her. A car stopped and pulled over to the side of the road. A man in his mid-thirties jumped out of the driver seat and ran interference. He put both hands on my shoulders, as if to shake or ground me. "You CAN'T go over there," he said, firmly. My heart was pumping, my mind racing, my dog out of my line of sight and I shook my head at him in wonder. "She's my dog and I'm GOING TO HER," I replied. He put me up against a wall in order to restrain me. The need to protect me then so strong that his pretty young wife got out of her seat, leaving their infant unattended in the back. She tried a more womanly approach, softly saying that I just 'couldn't see that.' That I should 'just stay back.' I remember being called 'honey'. I remember feeling that I was being confined, talked down to and denied my rights as a mother. I got ANGRY. I shook the two of them off with fervor and finished my sprint into the intersection, terrified at what I believed I was to find there. Her body mangled. I had the image already in my mind. They had given that to me. That was what their impositions and so-called allegiances to me had conveyed.
But when I actually arrived at the intersection, there wasn't a lot going on. A car had pulled over to the side and the driver had exited. He was the one who had hit her. I barely looked at him, my eyes searching for her body next to his wheel. He threw his hands up, exasperated, and seemed to be voicing something about her running into his car and where did she go.........????
Once I understood that he truly didn't know, that's when real panic set in. Because if he didn't know where Bela's body was....then how could I sit next to it while it died? How could I offer a sense of calm, a hand for her palm? How could I comfort her in her final (likely scared) moments before she drifted away from this world?
And so my search began. I ran, screaming her name in a blood-curdling fashion, from block to block, coming back to the scene of the crime and then heading out again. I was wild. I was no longer worried that Bela 'could be hurt' --- I was ONLY intent on holding her face and letting her know I was with her while she passed. I only wanted to be a piece of peace. And I couldn't make it happen. I couldn't find my baby to be with her. There was no 'but Lord, I don't want her to go...' It was only, 'as she goes, Lord, may I PLEASE LORD PLEASE just get to stroke her back and look into her eyes and sing to her.....PLEASE LORD PLEASE. PLEASE. I begged God.
I was standing there as traffic whizzed by me, my plight unimportant to the world around me. And I kept wondering, 'how long do I wait here before I make my feet walk....[away]'? Aware that she could very well be miles from where I now stood, as it is a well-known fact that injured animals often flee and find a place to die in solitude. I did not think I could live, not knowing where she'd gone. Not knowing if she'd died immediately, lived through hellatious moments of suffering, or been spared, and simply moved on to a new chapter in her life.
The driver now gone, I stood near where he had been. I looked up to the skies and cried, my vocal cords still sputtering her name. And then, just like that, as I whimpered...my eyes led my head to a row of bushes, where a little brown dog stood, having just emerged from them.
It was a very quiet moment. She looked shell-shocked. I felt the same. I slowly walked over to her. She was whole. She was standing. She was brown, not red, and had two ears and four legs and a middle body. My dog. Alive. In front of me; not miles down the road or on the side of the highway or in the otherworlds. She was right there for me to lean down and touch. And so I did. I noticed her head was bleeding, so I gently picked her up, unsure of bleeding that I possibly couldn't see.
A boy that had seen me running offered to act as an ambulence. You could see a touch of concern for the interior of his little black sportscar, as we climbed in. "I'll hold her on my lap," I said. We drove up Milwaukee to North Avenue and turned left. Bela was breathing, so we felt relieved enough to talk. He had gone to U of I like myself. His parents lived in the suburbs and he was living in the city now. He couldn't have been more than 22. I think his name was Kyle --- or Kevin -- or Ken. Something with a K. Something that intimated a quietude.
He let me out on the north side of North Avenue and I had to cross the street. There was no crosswalk. Normally crossing without a crosswalk would have me tuned into every bumper in the vicinity, but I just Took The Street. She had ALREADY been hit by a car. What was one of these stop-and-go vehicles going to do to us?
As I neared the front door to the vet's office, I remember thinking, 'Oh shit...I'm not going to be able to open the door. I have my dog here - in my arms - and she's a little big for the hoisting and I'm really worried about her organs right now and I can't risk dropping her by releasing one arm from under her body...so...what the HELLLLLL AM I GOING TO DO ONCE IT'S ME AND THAT DOOR HANDLE, facing off!???'
Well, I suppose my wild-eyes and hair and tear-streaked face and blood-stained jeans walking through a busy street may have called the attention of those inside. Because one vet technician ran to open the doors for me, as another stood behind her, waiting to transport my dog to the emergency room. I spurt out the only thing I knew at that time: "she. got. hit. by. a. car."
My legs shook under my seat. I wanted to call anyone - or everyone -- to make someone live through this with me, because doing it alone felt like too much. Then I looked up. The Boy K was coming through the doors. He came in to sit by me in a cold plastic chair, just to comfort me a minute longer.
Bela later left with some staples in her leg and some bandaging on her head, but besides that -- she was fine. She was going to heal and I needed to give them $800...but she was fine.
She dozed in and out of sleep all afternoon on her fainting couch. It was HOURS after finding her outside those bushes that I saw her actually see me. She woke up, looked over and then seemed to realize who I was and where she was. Her eyes got all fluttery and excited and she waited for me to bring my face to hers so she could lick it.
That's when I realized that even after I found her, she'd been gone. Her mind had heeded her ears when they heard me, but her body didn't know she'd made it until that moment. And it was that same moment, that I truly knew she was home as well. That it was over. I laid back on the couch to relish in watching her recover, and thanked God.
Ever the extremist, she didn't run into the intersection of Hermitage and Haddon, where we live -- or even Division and Paulina -- this death naysayer ran into the 3-way intersection of AUGUSTA, MILWAUKEE AND I-94.
"BelAAAAAAAAAAA! Beeeelllllaaaaaaaa!!, I screamed, running full speed, down a sidewalk, after her. A car stopped and pulled over to the side of the road. A man in his mid-thirties jumped out of the driver seat and ran interference. He put both hands on my shoulders, as if to shake or ground me. "You CAN'T go over there," he said, firmly. My heart was pumping, my mind racing, my dog out of my line of sight and I shook my head at him in wonder. "She's my dog and I'm GOING TO HER," I replied. He put me up against a wall in order to restrain me. The need to protect me then so strong that his pretty young wife got out of her seat, leaving their infant unattended in the back. She tried a more womanly approach, softly saying that I just 'couldn't see that.' That I should 'just stay back.' I remember being called 'honey'. I remember feeling that I was being confined, talked down to and denied my rights as a mother. I got ANGRY. I shook the two of them off with fervor and finished my sprint into the intersection, terrified at what I believed I was to find there. Her body mangled. I had the image already in my mind. They had given that to me. That was what their impositions and so-called allegiances to me had conveyed.
But when I actually arrived at the intersection, there wasn't a lot going on. A car had pulled over to the side and the driver had exited. He was the one who had hit her. I barely looked at him, my eyes searching for her body next to his wheel. He threw his hands up, exasperated, and seemed to be voicing something about her running into his car and where did she go.........????
Once I understood that he truly didn't know, that's when real panic set in. Because if he didn't know where Bela's body was....then how could I sit next to it while it died? How could I offer a sense of calm, a hand for her palm? How could I comfort her in her final (likely scared) moments before she drifted away from this world?
And so my search began. I ran, screaming her name in a blood-curdling fashion, from block to block, coming back to the scene of the crime and then heading out again. I was wild. I was no longer worried that Bela 'could be hurt' --- I was ONLY intent on holding her face and letting her know I was with her while she passed. I only wanted to be a piece of peace. And I couldn't make it happen. I couldn't find my baby to be with her. There was no 'but Lord, I don't want her to go...' It was only, 'as she goes, Lord, may I PLEASE LORD PLEASE just get to stroke her back and look into her eyes and sing to her.....PLEASE LORD PLEASE. PLEASE. I begged God.
I was standing there as traffic whizzed by me, my plight unimportant to the world around me. And I kept wondering, 'how long do I wait here before I make my feet walk....[away]'? Aware that she could very well be miles from where I now stood, as it is a well-known fact that injured animals often flee and find a place to die in solitude. I did not think I could live, not knowing where she'd gone. Not knowing if she'd died immediately, lived through hellatious moments of suffering, or been spared, and simply moved on to a new chapter in her life.
The driver now gone, I stood near where he had been. I looked up to the skies and cried, my vocal cords still sputtering her name. And then, just like that, as I whimpered...my eyes led my head to a row of bushes, where a little brown dog stood, having just emerged from them.
It was a very quiet moment. She looked shell-shocked. I felt the same. I slowly walked over to her. She was whole. She was standing. She was brown, not red, and had two ears and four legs and a middle body. My dog. Alive. In front of me; not miles down the road or on the side of the highway or in the otherworlds. She was right there for me to lean down and touch. And so I did. I noticed her head was bleeding, so I gently picked her up, unsure of bleeding that I possibly couldn't see.
A boy that had seen me running offered to act as an ambulence. You could see a touch of concern for the interior of his little black sportscar, as we climbed in. "I'll hold her on my lap," I said. We drove up Milwaukee to North Avenue and turned left. Bela was breathing, so we felt relieved enough to talk. He had gone to U of I like myself. His parents lived in the suburbs and he was living in the city now. He couldn't have been more than 22. I think his name was Kyle --- or Kevin -- or Ken. Something with a K. Something that intimated a quietude.
He let me out on the north side of North Avenue and I had to cross the street. There was no crosswalk. Normally crossing without a crosswalk would have me tuned into every bumper in the vicinity, but I just Took The Street. She had ALREADY been hit by a car. What was one of these stop-and-go vehicles going to do to us?
As I neared the front door to the vet's office, I remember thinking, 'Oh shit...I'm not going to be able to open the door. I have my dog here - in my arms - and she's a little big for the hoisting and I'm really worried about her organs right now and I can't risk dropping her by releasing one arm from under her body...so...what the HELLLLLL AM I GOING TO DO ONCE IT'S ME AND THAT DOOR HANDLE, facing off!???'
Well, I suppose my wild-eyes and hair and tear-streaked face and blood-stained jeans walking through a busy street may have called the attention of those inside. Because one vet technician ran to open the doors for me, as another stood behind her, waiting to transport my dog to the emergency room. I spurt out the only thing I knew at that time: "she. got. hit. by. a. car."
My legs shook under my seat. I wanted to call anyone - or everyone -- to make someone live through this with me, because doing it alone felt like too much. Then I looked up. The Boy K was coming through the doors. He came in to sit by me in a cold plastic chair, just to comfort me a minute longer.
Bela later left with some staples in her leg and some bandaging on her head, but besides that -- she was fine. She was going to heal and I needed to give them $800...but she was fine.
She dozed in and out of sleep all afternoon on her fainting couch. It was HOURS after finding her outside those bushes that I saw her actually see me. She woke up, looked over and then seemed to realize who I was and where she was. Her eyes got all fluttery and excited and she waited for me to bring my face to hers so she could lick it.
That's when I realized that even after I found her, she'd been gone. Her mind had heeded her ears when they heard me, but her body didn't know she'd made it until that moment. And it was that same moment, that I truly knew she was home as well. That it was over. I laid back on the couch to relish in watching her recover, and thanked God.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)