Saturday, July 4, 2009


This is our Tinkerbell -- or Jezebel, depending on how well she is behaving that day. We adopted her in January 2008 from the Delaware County SPCA. We went that day "just to check it out", you know, "just see what they had". All words that were used when we left the house that day. We had just put down my "best friend" of fourteen years, Palmer; she'd become ill suddenly and seemed to beg me for help with each breath. Scott was on the road that week, and we had planned to take her last ride to the vet when he got home; she couldn't wait. She hadn't eaten for days, and whether it was pain or just the confusion created when her "Mommy" couldn't seem to fix what was wrong, her eyes gripped my heart in desperation. I left a tearful message on Scott's voicemail that Christine and I were headed to the vet for a quiet, sorrowful departure that night.
It had been less than a month since then. I didn't want a replacement -- there could never be one. I wanted time to grieve. I wanted, when the time came, to go out and get a dog because we wanted a dog. My family wanted something completely different. Truthfully, Palmer had been a little strange -- she was my dog, my best friend, and everyone else, she tolerated -- and not always so well. My family saw this as their chance. While I know they cared for her, they didn't love her like I did. They saw her as "not quite what they wanted"; now she was gone. Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to paint anyone in a bad light, but this was a family we were building, and "my old friend" was exclusive. They never complained or wished that she was not around, no matter how many times she grumbled, growled or snapped at them; they just saw an opportunity to add another piece to the equation that we all could enjoy. And that is exactly what we did.
Of all the dogs that day, "the tennis ball dog" was the one that everyone gravitated toward -- everyone except me. I assumed the part of the taskmaster. "We're just looking, remember?" "I thought we weren't getting a dog today." "We didn't even get the house ready. What're we gonna do -- just turn her loose and hope she's housebroken?" I think at some point Scott snapped back into reality and said, "I'm sorry, Babe, did you say something?" But it was all over for practicality. "The Tennis Ball Dog", AKA "Tinkerbell" had them from the door. She was sitting, pressed up against the front of her cage, tennis ball in her mouth and tail wagging. When she stood we realized it was actually her tail that was wagging the rest of her, and she was a sweetheart. She'd been turned in by the police in a "round-up" of dogs whose owners were suspected of dog fighting; she bore some scars on her face, but apparently, not on her heart. She has turned out to be "our dog" and, in her own way, she is something different to each one of us. To Scott she is "a man's dog", greeting him at the back gate when he comes home and sharing leftovers with him at the kitchen sink. To Joe, she is his buddy, cuddling at the foot of his bed at night. To Christine, "Belle" is "the cool dog" that attracts a crowd wherever we go and, as a result, makes Christine the center of attention. To Madison, Tinkerbell is still "the tennis ball dog", waiting for Maddy to come along and make a huge fuss, talking baby talk and scratching behind her ears while she plants a big kiss right at the end of Tinkerbell's nose. When it comes to Olivia, Belle is her partner in crime -- standing by with ears upright and head cocked, watching Olivia's every move, knowing that somewhere along the line Olivia will unearth some treasure or uncover some treat that Belle can explore and gobble up. To me, Tinkerbell is mine -- not like Palmer was, never like Palmer -- but she lays with me, seeks me to let her out or feed her, loves to walk with me, and assumes sitting in the passenger seat of my truck is her God-given right. She comes when I call her, runs through her repertoire of tricks on my command, and most days, follows me from one end of the house to the other.
Scott and I are reminded frequently of just how blessed we are, and today we realized that, right down to our dog, God is good to us. We could have fared much worse than our "sometimes Jezebel", but even with the loss of a "good friend" God chose to bless us with someone whose company we could all enjoy.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Pianosaurus

A few weeks ago my teenage daughter and I were riding down the road when I asked, "If you could get three things, or people, or relationships that you have lost, back into your life, which ones would they be?" It's not really a typical thing for me to wax so philosophical while driving with Christine in the car. Normally, she is prattling on about the events from the previous night at "firehouse", or her plans for an upcoming visit to one of the attractions listed in the "Weird PA" book. Sometimes we talk music or play a "Name That Tune" sort of game, naming the artists instead; most of the time, I just "veg". I may drop tiny hints that she is jobless and her plans often require admission or chauffeur services, but outside of that I simply enjoy her company and avoid lectures about unmade beds or any friends I find questionable. The fact that she is homeschooled affords me all sorts of opportunities to be "Serious Mom" without having to do it while driving defensively on the interstate. But somehow, on this day something prompted my question, delivering with it the caveat "Keep it light; make it fun and insightful." Being the good sport she can be, she played along. My son is no longer at home with us and we all miss him terribly, so as I suspected, he was #1 on her list. The dog we lost over a year ago was #2 -- no bombshell there. It was the third item that took me completely by surprise -- her Pianosaurus. Pianosaurus was a toy piano shaped like, of all things, a dinosaur. Don't get the connection -- prehistoric, plastic, extinct, musical? Neither do I, but it was adorable, inexpensive, and it really worked; unlike the dinosaur, it stood the test of time. When we finally gave it away to Goodwill, I think one of the stickers was starting to peel -- other than that we forfeited a perfectly good Pianosaurus. But it was time. In fact, I believe I actually said that to her as we stacked it on top of the kid-sized shopping cart with the cardboard groceries that had not fared so well as Pianosaurus. She agreed. She had gone from the curly-haired, toddling little maestro to a sticker-collecting, karate-kicking seven-year-old. It was time. Funny, when I asked the question, a toy piano could not have been further from my mind. The past five years or so have been fraught with change and loss. Her dad and I divorced, I remarried, her brother left home, her pop-pop died suddenly and her nana, who lives within a block of us, for all intents and purposes ended her relationship with us. Our home, though beautiful, is a far cry from the house in which she grew up; rules and routines changed as she gained three younger siblings and I gained a partner with whom I could raise a family. For a while, I believe, she felt as if she'd lost her own mother. My attention was no longer solely at her disposal; I was exhausted by eleven years of unhappiness, and I was determined to find my own sense of individuality. The frumpy, sleep-deprived woman who designed each day around the whims of her children, and fostered an unhealthy but ardent need to be everything to them, was gone; Christine had experienced the pangs of yet another loss. Time, counseling and prayer have begun a healing. Slowly maintaining consistency, being respectful of one another's "space", and loving each other have helped us all deal with the losses we've experienced and the changes we've endured. But what of the Pianosaurus? I realized we all have a Pianosaurus. The thing that reminds us most of a happy, simple, safe time in our lives where we had never felt the sorrow of death, the pain of rejection, the frustration of growing up or the menace of growing old. Some of us collect classic cars or commemorative plates to fondly remind us of a "simpler time". We call old friends or siblings, listen to old albums or revisit our alma maters. Cemeteries are all about remembering, grieving, and renewing. Pianosaurus is a security blanket, a place we all go to immerse ourselves in things as they were -- not because what we have now is not good, not because where we are now is not lovely, but because we cherish the past if we are ever to embrace the future and all it brings. We need to thumb through the photo album of our mind and visit, if only for a little while, a moment in which we were blissfully happy, safe and secure at the Drive-In, stretched out on the backseat of our parents' LTD, wrapped in crisp, clean PJ's and listening to the crackling box hanging from the window. When our visit is over we realize we have touched, once again, the things that made us believe we could be whatever we wanted to be; we have renewed our faith in the world and it's reassurances that troubles and fears are merely part of the "Circle of Life". Pianosaurus helps us step into tomorrow by reminding us we are loved, by restoring a bit of innocence within us, and by assisting us in forgetting, however briefly, the things that compelled us to "grow up" in the first place. As odd as her request may have seemed at first, my daughter led me to realize that from time to time I, too, want my Pianosaurus.