in the clearing

I know he was a dog. I know on the scale of loss and grief, he was a dog. I know this. I also know that he drove me insane over the last few months - no sense in pretending that part's not true. I just still have to remind myself that he's gone now. I think the reasons I'm having a particularly difficult time with all this is twofold. First, I bought him for E for our first Christmas together (still dating at the time). Solomon saw our engagement, marriage, college graduation - twice - for me, birth of two children, and a couple of moves. He's the physical representation of our life together. I knew he was getting older, much older - obviously, and that he would die. Probably soon. But he would die in his sleep after going out for a morning treasure hunt and lying in the sun with Maggie; which brings us to the two of the twofold.

He didn't die peacefully. He died in pain because of me. I can't get his face out of my mind - the way he looked so afraid of me. The look that told me he thought I did it on purpose because I'd been so mad at him the past few weeks. I can't stop thinking about how excruciating it was for him, with a crushed pelvis and two broken hind legs, to drag his 100 pound frame up a 1/8 mile driveway just to get away from me because he thought I'd hurt him again. Or how, when he saw E walking toward him, he lay there gently and quietly, licking his hand when E bent down to look him over. I can't stop looking out the window at the spot where he's buried and wanting to go dig him up because he's probably cold and lonely out there in the field. I can't stop thinking about what he must have been thinking when he was lying beside E, licking his hands while the lethal medicine was pushed through his veins to stop his pain - the pain that I caused. And I can't stop seeing E bent over his lifeless body, gently rubbing his head and saying goodbye, as he and my father-in-law prepared to bury him.

I just can't stop my head from thinking about what he felt, what he was thinking when it was happening. I got to pet him and talk to him after he was loaded into the car. I knew he wasn't coming back.

Maggie hasn't eaten in two days. She went on a jog with E last night and he said she perked up because she thought they were going to find Solomon. They were best friends and she seems lost. For that, too, I feel such tremendous sorrow.

I'll be better. I just needed to write this down, to tell someone who wouldn't tell me he was only a dog.

Mrs. Spit, I had read your post only an hour or so before this happened. I've read it several times since. Thank you.

And thank you to the rest of you for your nice words and sympathy. Really.

heavy-hearted

I'm not sure what to say or where to start, and I really, really don't feel like saying much beyond what actually happened, at the moment. I had just buckled the kids into their carseats and put the vehicle into reverse as the garage door was lifting. I backed out and the traction control light kicked on. Puzzled, I stopped and pulled back into the garage to see what the problem with the SUV was.

That was when I saw Solomon dragging his body with his front legs away from the driveway.

He was enjoying a morning nap in the sunshine and didn't hear the car or garage door open. I didn't see him and the backup sensors on the car missed him because he was low to the ground.

And I backed over him.

E came directly home from work to drive him to the animal hospital whereupon he was x-rayed, examined, and started on pain management. The films showed both legs were broken, his pelvis shattered. The doctor said it would be humane not to allow him to suffer and that with the multiple traumas he likely would not survive the multiple surgeries to repair him nor would he have any quality of life or comfort. So E stayed with him as he drifted to sleep and said goodbye.

I've joked here (and everywhere else) many times about wanting to kill him, and now I have. I know I didn't intend for this to happen, that it was a terrible, terrible accident ... but the fact of the matter is that words have weight and I've used mine too loosely. Now it's too late.

Goodbye, old friend. Goodbye.

gypsy rose

Two years ago today, we became a family of four. We welcomed the most amazing little baby, who we'd all been waiting to meet for what seemed like ages, into our lives and we were forever changed. She's fierce. She always has been. While most evenings find me collapsed in exhaustion from wrangling her, I hope she never loses that quality. She loves life, loves her brother and mama and dada (I think she even loves Grave Digger, but we won't hold that against her - she just has a big heart) with every ounce of her 28 squishy pounds. She gives the biggest hugs and best kisses, and she gives them freely.

Two years ago today, I remember the high from realizing that we'd made it - together and whole. I remember hearing her belt out her anger at the doctor and the lights. At life. I remember seeing her little 6.2 pounds and thinking she was so big as she squinted back at me from under her cap. I never thought we'd get another baby, get a baby girl, get one who personifies the very soul of living life abundantly. She is a blessing and a joy. A laugh a minute and a firecracker.

She is fierce. She's our Bean.

Happy second birthday, my beautiful, beautiful girl - I can't remember life without you and can't wait to witness the amazing person you're growing into, Love.

Mama.

soleil sur mes épaules

I probably shouldn't even say it. I'll whisper it for fear that speaking That of Which We Do Not Speak may cause a sudden monsoon to befall the entire eastern United States and I know the rage that would incite in some of you. Here goes: I think SPRING has SPRUNG!

In honor of the daylight savings time and gorgeous weather, I'm bulleting this abbreviated post because I'm heading outside for the second time today.

• The dog has declined any further "treasure" hunts. Mayhap it was the beating rained down upon him with the fan end of a broom? Or maybe just the psychotic lady in her mismatched pajamas with a towel on her head screeching obscenities before the sun rose?
• My little bitty Bean is turning TWO on Sunday. How this is possible, I have no idea.
• Speaking of my little bitty Bean, I've been heard saying more than once that there will be no Terrible Two's with her because she's been raging with Terrible Two's since she was one. Oh, irony of all ironies! Can she get worse? Don't ask. Better yet, ask Lyndsey who had the unique pleasure of seeing this sprite in action at a park which included - but was, unfortunately not limited to - writhing about on pea gravel (because pea gravel in your girlie bits is far more preferable to listening to your buffoon of a mother), trying to swan dive off a platform into said gravel and dissolving into hysterics when her stuntwoman attempts were nixed by evil mama, trying to eat said pea gravel and raging against evil mama who swooped in justintime to save bones and organs from complete and total destruction.
• At this outing, a little punk kid (maybe two or three years old, but stay with me here...) walked up to me and threw a handful of sand into my eyes. On purpose. I'd say Beans put him up to it except she was in the line of fire, too, and he'd previously nailed Lyndsey's poor C, too. Punk.
• I bought two pair of sandals! And I've been wearing them!

How've you been enjoying this glorious weather?

death's acre

We live in an out-of-the-way place. Going for milk is at least a twenty-minute drive. If we want to see our closest neighbor, we need some high-powered binoculars. The only sounds I hear at night? Crickets in the summer and still silence in the winter (save for the dog barking at rogue deer who wander through the fields). The kids can play outside and I know there are no cars nearby because we're a half mile off the road. Up the hill behind our house is a huge working farm and across the road is the house my husband's grandmother raised her four children in which is bordered by a spring. Our house is cut into formerly pastured farmland and the view is lovely from any direction.

Enough of the waxing poetic. All this land? A virtual cemetary for our disgusting, demented labrador to roam and pillage. I swear. I swear I could wrap my hands around his old, loose neck and strangle it until he is no more. I bought this dog for my husband's first Christmas gift almost thirteen years ago. For most of his life (the dog. Solomon - for his wisdom. Snort.) he lived in a fenced-in yard or inside a tiny house. If you know anything about Labs, they long to be outdoors and love it. When we moved here almost four years ago, we knew we wanted it to be a place for the dogs to be free to just be dogs - no more fences or leashes, no more worrying about cars or neighbors whose shoes could be mistaken for chew toys. And for most of those four years, it's been just that. This past week? It's bearing a striking resemblance to Death's Acre.

About thirty minutes or so down the road is a place affectionately named The Body Farm. Why? Because it's a stinking body farm. It's part of the University's Forensic Anthropology department. Why is this important? Because apparently life is a little more real out here in farm town. Apparently, it should be of no concern if your dog happens to dig up a dead calf and drag it's decaying leg to your front door whereupon he proceeds to feast. You are clearly in denial if you think said behavior is unnatural and morbid, and you are unkind if witnessing this behavior makes you want to beat said dog within a inch of his aged life. Not once. But twice. In less than four days. I suppose I should be relieved that the dog has converted to vulture-like carrion behavior rather than knowing he's homicidal and stalking other animals.

I called my father-in-law early this morning, after seeing Solomon and his present, who promptly hopped in his truck and came over to inspect and clean. Bless that man. I told him I'd rather he take the dog off with his breakfast vittles when he reminded me Solomon was a dog and dogs are dogs. Well, thank you very much for clearing that up. I asked him if he thought the dog had killed the calf, and he roared with laughter as he choked out, "Solomon's so old and decrepit, he couldn't kill himself," followed by more chuckles.

This is true. He's old. He's started having regular accidents at night when we bring them in. He's now dragging in all the carnage he can uncover this side of the Mississippi. He's hanging on by a string, there's no doubt about that - but I swear, I'd like to take that string and tie it around his neck.

I'm not sure what can be done about this disgusting new hobby of his (short of sending him to a watery home down by the river), but something has to be done. Any thoughts, or am I destined to mark off the days of this fellow's golden years with bated breath?

a hitch

in my giddy-up, that is. My mojo has left the building. I'd like to have something witty to write about, some laughable craziness at the hands (paws?) of the ferrets, but I think I've been too busy to put pen to paper or finger to key. Busy waiting for spring (apparently we are the only people in the entire eastern United States to be missed - again - by snowfall) and the beginning of DST, which is this weekend for those not in the know. In the meantime? I'm buying sandals! If sandals can't give winter the boot (heh), then I don't know what can. So what are you doing to banish winter and bring on the sun?