loss

Judgement alert! There may be some judgment leveled here. Hey, I’m no saint.

How come the crazy one’s never loose any sleep?
Is it their complete lack of a conscience that causes them to appear so slick, smug and impossibly fresh?

Not a hair out of place.
Barely a hint of the devil that lies within.

While those of us that have the misfortune to find ourselves in their orbit are sleep deprived, disheveled, walking disasters.

That will always bother me.

The fact that people who operate outside the constructs of polite society close their eyes at night and sleep the uninterrupted, peaceful sleep of the just.

Why is that?
How can it be?

The night before an arbitration with the attorneys for DWP to discuss the fact that their one hundred year old water main had burst and turned my store into an aquarium; I tossed and turned until the sheets were knotted up around my head and neck, fashioned into an unattractive turban/noose—and I ground my teeth down to nubs. Which left me the next morning gumming my toast, with a foggy brain and pronounced sheet marks on my face that didn’t fade until after lunch.

The team of He, She and It, that represented the water company, entered the room that morning laughing. Uproariously.
Like Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon had driven carpool. I felt at a distinct disadvantage. Out of the loop, like the funniest joke ever told was lost on me. Was that their plan?

They were meticulously coiffed and groomed, cool as the proverbial cucumbers, while I was drenched in flop sweat, permanently wrinkled and frantically struggling to remove a poppy-seed from between my two front teeth with my tongue.

Note to self: Don’t accept half a poppy-seed bagel when you’re out of coffee. And you forgot your water.
You’re going to need something to rinse your mouth with when the big guns enter the room.

If I’d had more sleep I would have remembered that.

They all seemed so nice, so genuinely happy to meet me; that is until the bell rang and we went to our respective corners. Then the gloves came off and the crazy started to show.

They made shit up. Their entire alibi was jack-crap.
With graphs, documents and flow charts. Listen, if you show me a flow chart, I’ll believe anything…almost.
Somehow they double teamed my attorney and me. In the most well crafted, legal babbly, thinly veiled insulting way, they pinned the whole thing on me. They made the accidental, midnight break of their trunk line water main seem like MY fault.

Business was slow, debt was high, it was 2009, and I need out—only I was too stupid to commit arson.

I know, crazy, right?

When we broke for lunch even I wanted to throw the book at me.
The picture they painted of me was that of a sad-sack, loser of a business woman. Which was exactly how I felt at the time.
I think my lawyer drank the Kool-Aid too—they were that convincing. She wouldn’t make eye contact, skulking in the corner on her phone, and then disappearing for the entire lunch break.

But you wanna know what trumps sleep deprivation? Rage. That’s what.
It also instantly removes sheet marks from your face.

It also over-rides all victim-hood.

Crazy and Rage are curious dance partners and they should never be left alone in a room together.
Let me tell you why. Crazy is so put together, so charming, pretty, and unflappable. Crazy looooooves a victim, she gets off on them, they get her panties wet.

Rage is no victim, he’s a gangster. He’s raw, he’s greasy and he talks real dirty. He wears a wife beater t-shirt and too much Aramis; and he has only one thing in his crosshairs—Crazy.

Crazy gets high on Rage and it quickly becomes a street-brawl.

But Rage is better than Sad, which is where I’d pitched my tent for eighteen months. Some say you can get caught in anger and never feel despair. The opposite had been true for me.
Sad victimhood. It’s like chum in the water to Crazy.

So Rage felt better. It felt…empowering. Sadness felt like quick-sand, Rage, like solid ground.

It got my attention and cleared my vision, so I could finally see the truth and it kicked Sad’s ass to the curb.

I locked myself in a public bathroom stall and raged for an hour before taking a walk around the building, coming to my senses, and finding my courage.

I knew my opponent. I was very familiar with Crazy.
You see, I had met her as a teenager in the form of my father’s second wife. I had witnessed her devour her victims and I was smart enough to remember that Rage threw her into a sort of drunken frenzy.

I also remembered that nothing can get to Crazy. Nothing touches their heart. There is no reasoning with Crazy. There is no sympathy, empathy or compassion and absolutely nothing is open for discussion.

They act as your judge, jury and executioner.

And the more they sense is at stake, the faster and louder the accusations come. Their aim is to keep you off-balance, on the ropes.

Remember they are rested, ready and strong after their peaceful nights sleep. How is that fair?
Because they get a buzz off this shit and they don’t care about anything other than winning.

I sure wasn’t feeling sad anymore, Rage had hatched a plan but I knew better than to let it enter that room. I waited outside the double doors of the conference room until I saw my attorney exit the elevator. I could hear the team of Crazy, Crazier and Craziest, whopping it up inside.

“You handle this, I’m leaving” I announced. I had her by the arm and was walking her back down a long hallway of endless doors, out of earshot of the hyenas.

“What?” she looked surprised.

“You don’t need me here. They can smell my fear and sadness, and well, their offer is beyond ridiculous. See what happens when they can’t focus on me. When they have to deal with you and only the facts.” We had walked in a circle making our way back toward the bank of elevators.

“Give me a number you’ll you settle at” she asked as she reached into her bag for paper and a pen. She seemed relieved, like the day could be salvaged. Like it could go back to a language she understood—the law.

I wrote a figure down. She looked and nodded in agreement, folding the paper into a small square and tucking into her suit-jacket pocket.

The elevator chimed, opening right on cue. People were packed like sardines, but as I stepped inside she grabbed my purse strap, making me turn around. “This could end today” she said with a hint of a smile, letting go as the doors closed.

A hairy mystery hand reached around me and pushed the button for LOBBY, getting me the hell out of that DWP building. I know it was Rage. I could smell his Aramis. But I made sure I left him behind, losing him in the crowd.

*I got the call a couple of hours later that they’d settled on the figure I’d written down. “Piece of cake” I remember her saying in a distracted voice, (yeah, once the chum had left the building), she was already on to her next case.

We all slept well that night.

I know some of you guys needed to hear this,
Carry on,
xox

I can’t ever imagine taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune. Can you? No, of course you can’t!
Yet, I know people like that exist.
You know, they hang around the not so nice people.

I hear them in line at Alfreds;
I’ve overheard their telephone conversations (okay, just one side, but you can still get the gist) in airport terminals;
and someone has actually said something snarky and malicious TO MY FACE about a mutual acquaintance.
More than once.

The first time it came as such a shock that I just stammered, the food falling from my surprised lips, and to my credit I neither agreed nor rose to our friends defense — I just got up and left.

I say it’s to my credit because if I had agreed with the villainous, insane pleasure this woman was taking at the expense of said friend, well, I would have had to join The Douche Bag Club, a club so fraught with stink that you can only remain a member for about one month before dying of asphyxiation.

If I had come to our friend’s defense it would have come to blows and the place we were in was public, and although I may be on the small and polite side, I’m a scrappy spider monkey and I would have taken. her. down.

Plus I was wearing a skirt. And heels. And you have to take those things into account. You cannot wage a good assault in that kind of outfit.

All this to say: When it happened to me again, with someone different, I didn’t hesitate to speak up.

This time I had on pants; and comfortable shoes; and it was a telephone conversation so I could count on very little blood being shed.

Someone we knew had lost a ton of money when one of their stores closed. A real shitastrophy.
I had actually been in on several of the discussions leading up to the closure so I was aware that it had been an extremely hard choice for them to make.

This other person was deriving such delicious gratification, satisfaction, even enjoyment in relaying all the lurid details, as she understood them to be, that her glee reached a fever pitch as she exclaimed how much she loved when “rich people failed big.”

“Hold it right there.” I ordered, after finally hearing enough,
“Although it may look otherwise, it was a smart business decision, besides, that rich person is out in the world doing good things. Remember? They used to pay your salary and health insurance, and although they can probably absorb the loss, it’s still a shit-ton of money and I can assure you, none of this feels good to them.”

My words fell on deaf ears; she had HER story to tell that was a lot juicier but — nowhere near the truth.

It was a tale rife with bankruptcy, botched Botox and marital woes — and I gotta tell ya, this woman was in pig-heaven.

Can you imagine?

Here’s the thing you guys, and I’ve found it to be true time and time again: Those that take pleasure in other’s misfortunes; in failures, divorces, even accidents and tragedies are the side-line sitters — the ones that never take any risk. They live with their butts glued in the safe-seats, and pass judgment on those of us that get our asses kicked on the playing field of life.

Of course they hate rich people, because they don’t have the courage to leave their shitty job and go out on their own. They never ask for a raise, pose the hard questions or have an inspired idea.

Instead, they keep their binoculars trained on the ones that do — watching and waiting for a mis-step.

They are also known to be riddled with envy.
They can’t be happy for anyone’s success; they dismiss it, chalking it up to luck, family money, contacts, astrology, nepotism, anything but hard work, and the guts to take chances.

They also have a hard time with happy marriages, good health, washboard abs, and expensive vacations. Oh, how they hate a nice vacation story!

Please, when you encounter someone like this — and they spew their toxic nonsense all over you — set them straight.

And then drive away…and take an expensive vacation…with rich people.

Love you, Carry on,
xox

“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”
~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Hey you guys, how do you handle it when a project goes south, a relationship doesn’t work out or you lose your iPhone?

Processing loss.
What does that feel like to you? Kinda like you wasted your time and it,(the love, the attention, the years spent) was all for nothing?

Like a failure?
Do you go over and over the reasons in your head? All the coulda, shoulda, woulda’s?
Are you your own judge and jury, sentencing yourself to twenty years of sit ups and lunges for bad choices and various other transgressions?

Or is it more like a bump in the road?
“Okay, I gave it a shot. A ton of my time, energy and devotion went into this thing but the time has come to give up the good fight. I’ve been here before and I know how this works. It’s gonna hurt for a while, I’ll spend some time alone, licking my wounds; I will cry and scream and kick my dog until I rally, getting back on my feet…and then I will transfer all my contacts and info into a new phone and try to get on with my life.

I’m thinking it depends on the clarity of the ending. Some are clear-cut, easy to see; while others are ambiguous, shrouded in doubt.

Maybe you’re more like me — somewhere in the middle? Even occasionally ambivalent?

Don’t get me wrong, I can come unhinged, feeling completely abandoned when the book that I love or the TV series that makes me laugh out loud ends. When I see one lost glove I actively mourn their mate. So there’s that…

It gets worse.

I had a pair of huge, overstuffed down pillows that cost me more than I made in a month — for twenty years! I purchased them in Austria on vacation (naturally, I would have NEVER spent that on pillows at home — I didn’t even need pillows, I was pillow shamed by the rosy-cheeked Austrian goose down pillow lady in Salzburg) and then I lugged them all over Europe with me like a high-end, dough-boy gypsy — for three weeks.

Train stations, airplanes, restaurants, if I was on the move, they were with me. Why I didn’t ship them home I’ll never know.

Dammit I loved those guys.
Recently I made the long overdue decision to toss them. They were stained, lumpy and I’m sure mite infested. It took me FOREVER to make the decision, after all, we had been through so much together. I could only part with one at a time. It took me fifteen minutes to get up the strength to lower it into the disgusting black trash can on the morning of pick-up. Tears filled my eyes when it came time to do the same with the second one. I told my husband, late that night that I felt bad because it was so cold outside.

He just snarfed, he doesn’t understand when I give emotions to inanimate objects.

Remember when I couldn’t part with our ridiculously expensive sheets? (which I’ll have you know were also a vacation purchase).
http://www.theobserversvoice.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=4471&action=edit

Yet I’ve been known to walk away from commitments and projects, friendships that I deemed toxic, and even some romantic relationships — and never look back.

Ice queen or pragmatist?

I’m not sure which response is better so therefore I’ve come to the obvious realization that I suck at processing loss.

I am the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of endings.

Some things I am able to love and lose without much heartache at all, others gut me. I walked around in a marshmallow head stupor for five years after a bad break-up.

I’m either in tears about parting with a favorite sweater that is riddled with moth holes; unable to cope with decisions regarding my long dead business; or on the other hand throwing away mementos and keepsakes, photos, art projects and drawings from times gone by like a cold-hearted pirate separating his booty.

All this to say, I may not know shit from shinola but I do know this:
Death is sad;
friends come and go;
break-ups hurt;
gloves are made to be in pairs;
failure is inevitable;
And all loses are not created equal.

So, I’m in a quandary you guys and I’d love to know…

Which one are you? The sentimental saver, big-hearted devotee of all things you’ve loved? Or the cold, hard, rational pragmatist who understands loss and is able to move on unencumbered.

Or are you both and it depends on the loss?

Carry on,
xox

When you get married, you say the words For better or for worse, and you mean them.

I know I did. At least as much as you can grasp the true meaning of for worse –– as it seems so remote in that moment, just a phrase inside of a vow -– especially after a flute of champagne -–  or four.

I took it to mean someone who is legally obligated by the State of California to share with me the good times as well as the bad. I felt reassured by that.

But what if you discover that when a for worse happens, like a death, the two of you process and handle the situation COMPLETELY differently.
How could you have known that?
And now what?

Especially when the deceased was loved equally by the both of you, how do you cope?

When something bad happens you want me on your team.
You see, I have what I call Delayed Reaction Syndrome. I immediately go into a hyper focused state – cool, calm and collected. I’m the one that makes the calls, orders the food, hands out the Kleenex, writes the eulogy, and is clear-headed enough to make all the uncomfortable decisions. I’m the furthest thing from emotional.
I’m …robotically rational. That is, until it what I call Phase Two kicks in.

My husband on the other hand wears his emotions on his sleeve. Actually they cover the entire outside of his body -– most especially his face.

He is incapable of holding back tears or masking sadness, and his reaction to death is appropriate and immediate.
There is no ambiguity. He’s profoundly sad and you know it.
In that respect we are a perfectly balanced match.

He grieves in the moment, while I get shit done.

There are cultures in the Mid East and Africa where they wail when someone dies, loudly and with great emotion, their bodies and faces contorted by grief. They even have professional wailers, I guess to help the family (and us Delayed Reaction types) along their emotional path.

I envy that. I really do. It appears to be an amazing release.

Two to three hours later is when Phase Two starts.

That’s about the time the tidal wave of sadness and grief comes ashore, washing me out to sea. Now I’m the one who needs comfort, I become numb, my mind unable to focus, and I want to talk and hug…a lot.

But by that time my husband is finished with his outward displays of emotion. He’s all cried out. He has now retreated deep inside, into his cave, and had moved a huge boulder over the entrance.

There’s no reaching him now.

I need to be held and reassured. That is uncharacteristically physically uncomfortable for him.
I need to cry…with someone. My tears are too much for him to handle. He’s reached sadness saturation. He is not available to me in any way, shape or form.

Moving through grief is a very solitary process, and it looks different for everyone.
I get it, I do.
But I don’t like it.

Come to find out we are just as incompatible in Phase Three.

His looks like this: Stay busy. Busy is good. Plan as many meetings and work related things as you can. Book yourself solid for twelve hours straight – then come home and pass out. Try to forget. Want all signs of the deceased erased from the house (I couldn’t do it) and no talking or tears please, too raw.

Mine looks like this: Stay in pj’s on the couch. Cancel meetings, walk neighborhood aimlessly while crying, with Kleenex stuffed up both nostrils, and don’t eat. Isolate and wish for company all at the same time. Bore strangers with your stories. Wish alcohol made you feel better or even helped you to sleep for that matter. Wash all the blankets and beds and then suffer huge regret, searching for her smell. Curl up with favorite stuffed animal for waaaaayyy too long. Forget to wash hair for three days.

Like I said, grief is an extremely solitary emotion that no amount of hugs, or kind words can help. Only time.

And just when you need it the least, it drives a wedge between two people who deal with death differently.

Even two people who love each other to bits just can’t manage to show up to soothe the other person. It was the first time I couldn’t help him. And it just goes to show that even when someone is legally bound to be there for you, sometimes they just can’t…and that came as a complete surprise –– and a crushing disappointment.

Phase Four:

You’ve got to find your solace inside yourself and that’s excruciatingly hard.

Even though he was required by law, when he promised, “I do” –– to be there for worse –– for me –– he had to find his own way first, and while he did that, I searched for my own.

Then we met, after a week, somewhere in the middle –– with open wounds and tears and stories of our journey, and in the process of finding our way back; we’ve grown and changed.

We’re different, and I think in the end we’ll be the better for it.

Carry on,
Xox

When you’re grieving a loss it is impossible to escape the memories. No place is safe.

Every room, chair, blanket, toy, vomit stain, neighborhood walk, and piece of grass is a minefield of emotions.
That applies to the loss of a dog.

For a human being you can just multiply that by a quadrillion.

Since daylight savings time had the bad taste to pick last weekend, the weekend of her death to bestow upon us its gift of an additional hour of daylight, I had the poor judgement to sit out in the backyard and write.
My bad.

It was one of her favorite places.
It is dog Disneyland, containing all the essentials required for canine happiness.
Grass, toys, balls and frisbees, and the arms with which to throw them (ours), so our OCD dog could wrangle you into a game of catch no matter what other plans you had made for yourself.

Nap? Nope – Catch.

Settle in and read a book? Nope – Catch.

Bar-B-Q, talk with a friend, write a book? Nope, nope and double nope. But good try.

Time for a relentless five-hour game of catch!
You get the picture.

The boxer-shark puppy, Ruby, did not inherit the ball, frisbee, play catch gene.

She inherited a whole myriad of other traits that are even more annoying, like digging up lawns and eating expensive furniture, but that particular “play catch/fetch” gene? It skipped her entirely.

If you throw a ball her way it will hit her in the head and then she’ll watch it as it rolls right past her. Believe me, I just tried to play fetch with her on Sunday.

But that was then –– this was Monday evening.

We were sitting in back, remembering the old girl and crying.
Okay maybe not we, me, I was. My husband I’m sure was thinking: please for the love of God woman, give it a rest.

But grief didn’t care. I was grief’s bitch. Grief was the boss of me.

Anyway…after a half an hour of hearing me carry on, waxing poetic about how Dita would be playing ball right now, Dita would be next to me with the Frisbee,something had to give. With an exasperated sigh the puppy got up off the ottoman, stretched, sauntered over and picked up a tennis ball in her mouth, brought it over to me and dropped it at my feet.

Then she looked up at me with her big soulful eyes, so full of compassion that said: Shut the fuck up already, Here! Throw the God damn ball!

I half-heartedly picked it up and gave it a sideways toss onto the grass, never for one minute expecting what happened next. Instead of watching it whizz by her head like she usually did, the puppy bolted out to the lawn, stopped its momentum, picked it up in her mouth and ran it back to me… Just like Dita.

I jumped to my feet,“Did you see that?” I yelled, wiping the tears from my eyes to clear my vision. Had I imagined it?

My husband straightened in his chair. “Do it again” he said.
And I did; over and over for almost a half an hour. She fetched every ball, just like Dita. As a matter of fact EXACTLY like Dita. Same energy level, same ferocity, she even made the same little growl when she picked it up off the grass.

“If I bounce this ball and she spikes it with her nose, I’m gonna lose my mind” I announced very enthusiastically to my bewildered husband. “Because then I’ll know. That dog isn’t Ruby, that is Dita in that puppy body, playing catch with me so I’ll stop being so sad.”

And on the next bounce she did. She spiked the ball off her nose and caught it in mid-air. Just. Like. Dita.

“If I hadn’t just seen that with my own eyes…” my husband said, shaking his head, eyes welling up with tears.

Here’s the thing:

Our animals, family members, and all the people we hold so dear would never want us to suffer over their loss, that I know for sure, so I think they give us the gift of their presence, even just for a minute, to lessen our grief, and let us know they are near.

I’ve heard and read numerous stories about occurrences that cannot be chalked up to coincidence.

Favorite perfume in the air, music they loved on radio, seeing their name everywhere, even an athletically challenged, previously uninterested puppy playing an all-star game of fetch.

All that just to let us know that they’re fine, they are with us and for God sakes stop crying!

Addendum: That incident helped me to really feel her near me, which then in turn gave me comfort –– she didn’t feel so far away. I feel so much better AND I tossed a ball Ruby’s way this morning…it hit her in the leg and rolled unnoticed into the bushes…just sayin’

Carry on,
Xox

“Grief, covers you with the weight of a wet blanket, smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack:
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…its about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of  its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

xox

* dearest loves, I want to extend my heartfelt thanks for all the outpouring of love and condolences, the emails, notes and flowers. It just affirms how extraordinary she was (is).

What can I say about losing a pet?

They are arguably a member of the family, an integral cog in the wheel that is our day-to-day life. They accept our moods, dysfunction and questionable decisions with a complete lack of judgement and a wash of unconditional love. Who else can do that for us?

We lost Querida (Dita) our precious 9+ year old boxer girl last night.
It was sudden, in her sleep, in the back of my husband’s van that doubles as her pimp ride everyday. The back seat of this vehicle looks like the inside of Jeannie’s bottle, lush and cushy, ridiculously cozy with balls and blankets and toys, befitting such a queen.
She exited this life HER way. No fuss, no muss and no drama.
It was the way I would have chosen for her to go, and truth be told, the way I had been begging her to choose –– the way we all want to go –– instantly, painlessly and peacefully. Right?

Then why do I feel so bad?

Ugh. I write this with such a heavy heart, and I know better….I really do. I know in my heart of hearts that she has merged with pure positive energy and is playing a wicked game of frisbee in dog park heaven…yet, I can’t stop the tears.

I’ve grieved cats before. I lost two of them to coyotes ten years ago. But losing a dog feels different to me in this way: Cats are affectionate, and mine loved me something awful, don’t get me wrong, but I never got a sense from them that they needed me. Not for their happiness anyway. Maybe to feed them and an occasional cuddle and pet, but I was quite aware that the human in their life wasn’t Janet specific – it was…interchangeable.

But my dog? SHE loved her mommy (me) and she let me know it every day.
She’d follow me around, especially this last year or so as her health declined, with her big soulful eyes, finding solace in watching me go through my daily routine. She’d peek around the corner if I wasn’t in the kitchen for coffee fast enough, Pssst, you comin’?
And accompany me to the bathroom to drink out of the bidet. She also stood beside the shower every morning waiting for the hot washcloth to rid her of the smeared make-up. As you can see from the photos, she was a bit heavy handed with the eyeliner.
They love routine. SHE loved routine.

Every morning I play the Gayatri Mantra chant by Dev Premal. It wafts through the house for a couple of hours while we go about our morning rituals. It soothes and calms and helps us start the day without killing each other.
Yesterday was no exception, but I noticed as I raced around, that Dita was standing in front of the computer with the most blissed out look on her face. I mean BLISSED.
I even made several comments to Raphael, chuckling, “Dita is REALLY enjoying the chant this morning!”

That’s what I want to remember.
My Yogi girl, with her snaggle toothed face, looking up at me, blissed out on the smell of incense and the sound of ancient Hindu chants.
As a side note, I play meditations at night to fall asleep. They last maybe fifteen minutes and none of us ever hear the end because –– out -we-go. All I had to do was start the intro and she’d hop down into her own bed, and proceeded to follow the breathing. I’m serious.

Breathe in… the tape would say, and as I inhaled a deep breath, I could hear Dita do the same. And…exhale… Which we’d both do, Dita and I, in tandem. It was so endearing that I would even elbow my husband, are you hearing this?

I’m gonna miss that.

Indulge me for a second while I remember her.

I raised her from an eight week old puppy the size of my foot.
I carried her outside to pee in the middle of the night as a puppy, inside my T-shirt, rain or shine, until she got the hang of the doggie door. It was me she came to when she didn’t feel good, right up until last week.
If I would have had a zipper, she would have crawled inside my Mommy suit.

We were a team, the two of us. Not like her dad and she, different –– in an almost metaphysical way.
We got each other. She understood my moods. She understood English for that matter, always freaking me out when I’d ask her to fetch her blue ball out of a box of tens of toys. She would disappear for a couple of minutes and there she’d be, blue ball in her mouth.
I know every mother says it – but she was gifted.

She held my hand at night, slept with me when Raphael went on his far away motorcycle excursions, and was our alarm clock, waking us all at 6 a.m. every morning. I expect I’ll be late for a while.

She was a wiz at balancing a banana on her nose, and then, on command, flipping it into her mouth, with great pride I must add. She also loved to eat ice cubes.

She hiked the canyons with me from the time she was twelve weeks until her legs gave out, loved to bite the sprinklers, was obsessed with balls, frisbee and playing catch, rode in the motorcycle sidecar like a biker bitch, wore a security vest at my husband’s job sites (with full attitude I might add) was impeccably trained, well-mannered and polite.

She was my “shop dog” at Atik, the greeter, the mascot and the resident rascal. She’d wear any hat, glasses, and reindeer antlers that came her way, she even rocked an orange polar-fleece vest that made my husband cringe with embarrassment.
She was game for anything. I loved that about her.

She knew funny. She had the comedic timing of Lucille Ball.
Dita knew how to make us laugh and loved to do it. But she never overdid it – she was a pro.

She hasn’t been too keen on the addition of the boxer-shark puppy this past year. I think our little plan backfired, calling attention to her advancing age, rather than prolonging her youth. I’m sorry baby.

I look forward to the sadness lifting so I can be more receptive to feeling her around me, because I know that’s how these thing work., and I’m looking forward to her visit.

Thanks guys, I needed to write just a small tribute to her – she deserved it.

A class act till the end, she touched a lot of hearts and will be sorely missed by so many.
Fuck…losing a pet…

xox

Dedicated to everyone who’s lost their pet.

Well…you’ve just read about the loss of my beloved cat, Fraidy.
What about Teddy? What happened to that portly, needy, stay at home fella?

Our friend who was taking care of the cat(s) told us Teddy had been his ever-present self while we’d been away, meowing for Fraidy, but grateful for the extra attention.

The day I returned from Palm Springs, to my new life “after Fraidy”, as I got out of the car, I remember noticing tufts of white fur dancing in the breeze all over the front yard.

We entered the house from another door besides the front, otherwise we would have seen it.

The next morning, after Teddy hadn’t come home all night, (maybe he’d seen Fraidy get killed and was traumatized, hiding; we surmised) I thought I’d go down the street calling his name – so he’d know it was safe to come home.

That’s when I saw it. There on his chair on the front porch, signs of a struggle; cushions askew and fur – everywhere.

I screamed for Raphael and we followed the trail. Tufts in the bushes adjacent to the chair, bigger tufts past the driveway and close to the sidewalk (what I’d seen the previous day) all leading to a ridiculous amount of fur in a circle on a neighbor’s front lawn. It was obvious, something horrible had happened there.

I was scream-crying, hands covering my face.

no,no,no,No,NO,NO!…

“Go back to the house Janet.” Raphael was looking around in the bushes, another neighbor had joined him.

“I’m not kidding, GO BACK!” He yelled at me.

“What…do…you…see? Is…he…there? Is…it…Teddy?” I was crying so hard the words were spaced between sobs.

He walked over and hugged me, turning me around, aiming me back toward the house. “GO HOME, NOW.” He didn’t yell, he said it with a quiet authority I’ve never heard in his voice before – or since.

I zombie-walked back to our front porch collecting the fur, Teddy’s fur, along the way.
By the time Raphael came slowly walking back, shoulders slumped, head down, I’d collected three large double hands full.

That’s my Teddy Bear, I thought, remembering a fight I’d broken up years before, in the middle of the night. I had leapt out of bed, woken up by that cat screaming that sounds like babies crying and I KNEW it was Teddy.
I ran stark naked out into the backyard, following the screams, yelling his name, until he made a beeline, running past me back inside. I pulled him out from under the couch and checked for blood, there was none, but he was covered head to toe in sticky, wet saliva.
He ended up having puncture wounds in his neck, under all that thick fur, that abscessed, battle wounds of a VERY close call.
The vet thought it was probably a possum. In the week that followed he had to have drains put in and wear the cone of shame, and his late night battle had taken its toll, that chubby, black Siamese face turned completely white. It took a couple of years to return to its normal color.

Bottom line – Teddy was a fighter, I could see he’d put up a good fight.

I’ve asked my husband many times since then, often in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep, “Did you find Teddy in the bushes that day? Did you see him dead?” His answer is always the same, “no”, but I’m not sure I believe him.

In the weeks and months that followed, I grappled with my grief and my guilt. I felt that if I’d been home I could have saved my boys. I can still feel it as I write this.

I turned to my spiritual practice to help me cope with that kind of loss. I read books and talked to whomever would listen, and the consensus seemed to be this:

Our animals are little angels that share our lives and shower us with unconditional love.

They hold or balance our energy, licking our tears and climbing into our laps when we need them the most.

We will see them again someday.

All of that gave me comfort.

It was also explained to me that since my life had recently changed SO dramatically, it was okay for them to go. I had gotten both cats as a single, working woman in an apartment. A lot had changed; I was married, in a house with a dog and I’d just quit my job of twenty years.

“They held the energy of your old life” a wise friend told me, “it’s okay for them to go, you’re not alone anymore, your life could not be more different. Bless them for getting you here.”

That was in 2006; and I’ve since noticed that when anyone around me loses a pet, their life is going through some kind of transition; a baby, a move, change of jobs, marriage, illness, empty nest, divorce, something that sends the silent signal “It’s okay to go.”

So when you lose that precious pet, if you can crawl out of the hole of despair for just a second, you’ll be able to see it too.

They carried you as far as they could go – and then they handed you, or will hand you, off to someone new.

I get that system. I don’t like it, but it makes sense to me, and I harbor the hope of seeing all my furry friends on the other side.

What a great day THAT will be.

Big kiss with a wet nose,
Xox

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost their pet.

While we were away I actually received a few calls, “Hey, I just saw your cat in my front yard” the lady five blocks over reported. I thanked her, explaining that he had returned home.

Damn, when I get back I’ve got to remember to take down any signs that are still up, I told myself; but I thought it was sweet that people were calling and I was thrilled that he was back to visiting his old haunts. So no red flags went up when we got a message mid-week, that someone had our cat.

“Please call me, it is very urgent that I talk to you. I think I have your Siamese cat.”

“Another Fraidy siting” I said out loud while Raphael dialed her back. Thirty seconds into the call I could tell by his face this one was different.

I remember we were sitting in the car, in a parking lot, but then I left my body as he gave me the news: this woman had found the upper half of a Siamese cat; an obvious coyote kill.

It had taken her days to reach us; for some reason his collar was missing, and as was his nature, that little shit was far from home. She had put “found cat” signs up in her neck of the woods, but it wasn’t until someone saw one of my signs and put two and two together that she had a number to call.

We went back, met her and her family, bringing pictures of Fraidy, just to make sure it was him. Of course, it was – but she really loved seeing photos of him alive and well.

This woman is an angel on earth, an animal LOVER and a mom.

Here is a beautiful letter she wrote to us after our initial meeting about my darling Fraidy and the gift he gave her family. This letter was Her gift to me.

July 15, 2006

“Dear Janet and Raphael,

It was very moving to meet you both. It’s strange to have shared something so personal with people I don’t know, and I’ve found myself wanting to tell you a little more about the day I found Fraidy. I need you to know – more than I was able to express when you were here – the gift your beautiful cat gave me.

Three days before we went on a family trip, my daughter’s dog Lulu, had been diagnosed with bone cancer. Our housekeeper, Angelica, stayed at our house taking care of her and all of our other animals. Lulu took a dramatic turn for the worse after we left town and died two days before we came home.

My daughter, Ivy, is 14, the same age as Lulu. She and Lulu were inseparable.
Everyone who knew the profound relationship between them believes that Lulu timed her death so Ivy wouldn’t be here to experience it. The trip home was one of the hardest of my life knowing that Ivy would walk in the front door and need to be told that her beloved soul mate had passed away while we were gone.

We got home Saturday night, June 24th. I was up most of the night consoling Ivy and woke up Sunday morning feeling completely helpless. I took our little dog for a walk in the neighborhood to try to find some peace with it all before the rest of the family woke up.

It was probably 7-7:30 in the morning. There are often lots of people walking at that hour, but on this morning the sidewalks were completely quiet. It was in this quiet, surreal state of exhaustion that I saw a beautiful Siamese cat in the yard of the home on the southeast corner of my street and Kraft.

The image that will always be with me was the peacefulness of his face. It was in such startling contrast to the attack that had been made on him. It was as though his life had been taken from him in the middle of a happy nap. When I petted his head, he was still warm, so I found him very close to when he died. Because he was laid so neatly in the yard, I can only assume he’d been carried there by a coyote who had been frightened off by something – maybe even by my dog and me walking down the street.

I ran home and came back with the car so I could wrap him in a towel, bring him home and keep him safe. (she put him in a large freezer in her garage) I came back later with Ivy to ask neighbors if they knew whose cat he might be, which is when we met Geralyn, the woman who later saw your sign which put me in touch with you.

I didn’t let Ivy see Fraidy, but she knew his death had been the opposite of how Lulu had died – inside, surrounded by our friend and other dogs. The experience of trying to help with someone else’s loss really helped her get through the first day.

When I hadn’t had any response to the signs we put up by Thursday of that week, I decided to bury him. I chose the back corner of our yard because it’s the most peaceful spot. It’s far from all the dogs, kids and gardeners, and is where I love to walk to get away from everyone. A couple of times a day there is a great shaft of sunlight that shines right where I buried him. I had a little service for him by myself when every one else was off at work and camp. (she is a famous illustrator, and she decorated a rock as a headstone with her art and his name).

I sat with him for a long time. The suddenness of his death put the suddenness of Lulu’s death in great perspective for me. The tranquility in his face reassured me of a greater plan, and gave me peace about our loss. It was as though he was saying to me that even this vicious attack couldn’t scratch his great spirit.

It is this message from Fraidy that has helped me help Ivy cope with losing Lulu in the weeks that followed. It has given me – and her – great strength. It’s made me believe more deeply that our next life is just on the other side of this one, and that animals travel between the worlds more easily and are certainly always around us to be our guides. The book I’m sending, http://www.amazon.com/Cat-Heaven-Cynthia-Rylant/dp/0590100548
was written for children, but is exactly how I imagine the next life to be.

I didn’t do anything heroic helping Fraidy find a resting place.
He gave me a gift I will never forget, and I am very thankful for him.
When I contrast his free life with the way our cats live – perfectly safe, but the closest they’ve ever gotten to a tree is to see one out the window – I think he was a very lucky guy.”

That he was.

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost a pet.

He was a rascal and a renegade. He was all of seven pounds, my gorgeous seal point Siamese companion.

I named him Fraidy Cat because I gravitate toward ironic names, I called our previous cat Doggie, because he was clearly a dog in a cat suit.

When I walked into the room to pick a kitten, they all scattered, except him; he ran up to me, meowing his face off. “Well, aren’t you brave, you’re a pipsqueak but you sure aren’t a Fraidy cat” I said as I scooped him up in one hand.
He looked at me with his cornflower blue eyes and that settled it, he’d sealed the deal and stolen my heart.

I’d always had indoor cats, it was better for their physical health and MY mental health; you see I’m a worrier; so if my cats were to go outside, Tom-cating around, not being there when I needed him, getting dirty, I’d knew I’d freak.

So he spent his days at the windows, howling to get out, jumping at the glass, shredding the screens.
I spent my days inside my very convenient denial, that is, until the guy I was dating at the time, a huge cat lover, took me by both shoulders, guiding me to the screen door, kicked it open and held me there while Fraidy bolted OUTSIDE and up a tree. He’d howled at the birds in that tree for two years, coveting their freedom, now he was up there, climbing among the leaves; I had to admit – he looked ecstatic.

That was the start of his outdoor life.
Being the rule setter that I am, I did instill some parameters – furry little rascals need boundaries.
When we shook the container of dried food – dinner time.
Once he was in for the night, that was it, he used the cat box and slept inside, on my pillow, or in my armpit.
I fed him and let him out when I got up. It became a routine that made us both happy. On the weekends, when I was around, he’d stick close to home, rolling on my little patio in the sun. Life was good.

The longest he ever stayed away was three days, and I lost. my. mind.
When he finally did show up, he was filthy and starving, with a far away look in his eyes – like he’d seen too much. He’d clearly lost one of his lives.
He didn’t have much to say for himself, and after twenty-four hours of my interrogation and his silent treatment – I made him promise that there would NEVER be a next time – and it was never spoken of again.

When I moved to my current house (which came with a cat door – it was a sign) he had a companion by then, Teddy, who was his polar opposite.
Teddy was a fat (I mean big-boned) Teddy bear of a cat, a grateful, gregarious, well-mannered rescue Siamese, who never went much further than the backyard or the front porch.

Fraidy, on the other hand, could barely contain his excitement every morning when I’d open the door to the pantry so he could get to the cat door and start his day. He loved all the mature trees in the neighborhood and brought me presents on a regular basis, (dead birds, mice and once a baby possum) to express his gratitude for the change of locale.
The fauna around the house submitted a petition and formed a coalition to ban Fraidy from certain sections of their territory – but he wasn’t having it. ALL of Studio City was his domain.

Seriously –– All of it.

I found that out in the most profound way, when in June of 2006, seven years after moving to this house and navigating coyotes, traffic and other cats, Fraidy broke our agreement and went missing – for a long time.

It was an unseasonably hot Memorial Weekend, and after shattering his previous three-day record, I started to really worry, putting up signs and calling his name around the neighborhood.
That’s when I got the calls, from far and wide, coming from miles around. “Your little Siamese, yeah, I see him all the time; but it’s been awhile” one caller five blocks over reported.
“That Siamese with the red collar, he was in my backyard as usual just last week, that’s the last time I saw him. I’ll call you if I see him, I hope he comes back.” That lady lived across Tujunga, a big street with fast-moving traffic, which made my stomach turn, I had NO IDEA he was wondering that far from home.

One evening as I was pulling out of the driveway, I saw a cat walking up the sidewalk toward the house.
A small, skinny Siamese.
Fraidy?
I had all but given up, it had been seventeen days.

I stopped the car in the middle of the street, jumped out and called his name, and he came running over like nothing was out of the ordinary – but it was.
I swept him into my arms and ran inside calling Raphael the whole way. I couldn’t believe he was back. “It’s him right?” I kept asking.

It was weird, he hadn’t lost any weight, he still had his red collar with all his tags on, he was clean, un traumatized and purring away.
“Smell that” Raphael was now holding him, pushing his body into my face, “he still smells like your perfume” (I wasn’t wearing any that night) and he did, he reeked of my scent.

“Someone obviously had him” everyone said, happy that he’d reappeared.
“Yeah I guess; someone who wears my perfume which is discontinued and impossible to get.”

He seemed genuinely happy to be back.
Man I wish he could have told me where he’d been over a glass of wine and a can of tuna, I’m sure it was an incredible story.

A few days later we left for a week in Palm Springs with my whole extended family, a friend was staying at the house with the cats.

I felt uneasy, I didn’t want to leave Fraidy – his return to me after such a long time was so remarkable ; it was as if he’d returned from the dead. He was my Lazarus cat. 

(To be continued)