serendipity

The pill counter

She sits down at the kitchen table. It's Saturday, the day she refills the medicine boxes. 

She does this every two weeks; it's important. Someone's life depends on it.

No really. There's already been a close call.

It took some time, trial, and annoyance to develop a system that worked for both the pill counter and the pill taker. 

Morning pills on the left.

Evening pills on the right.

Twice-a-day pills in the middle.

She lines up 14 multicolored AM/PM boxes. The week starts with red and ends with violet. 

It's not precisely ROY G BIV, but it's a system.

She opens both sides of the boxes as she looks for and counts missed doses. This time, there are five. 

Even the best system can't ensure reliable pill consumption. For that, she would need an actual nurse or perhaps a pharmacist in the house. She doesn't have one of those.

So she sits, sorting, counting, and organizing, making sure there is one or two of each, as prescribed. 

You could track time with these boxes, each marked with the day of the week and morning or night. But that doesn't happen. According to the pills, the days are repetitive, marked only by the occasional missed doses. Days are marked by other things: doctor's visits, trash day, and the gardener's schedule. 

The pill counter remembers a similar medication schedule for her mother. White and blue boxes for authorized medication, rainbow boxes for drugs that were not. It was such pretty contraband. It took the pill counter a minute to figure out what to do with all of the containers of Vicodin. Each bottle was supersized and filled to the brim with Vicodin. Who hoards Vicodin? Thank goodness for safe drug disposal options. If those pills had gone into the water supply, they could have poisoned the county. If they'd gone into the landfill, they could have been discovered by any random person for any random purpose, like consumption. Or overdosing. Or sales.

Today's pill counting doesn't include any opioids. No painkillers whatsoever. These pills -- and there are oh so many of them -- are in support of good health -- to stay alive. 

She puts the pill bottles away and puts today's pill box on the counter.

 

Buying time and other shopping

She read once that people who buy books aren't really buying books. They are buying the time to read.

Huh.

That sparked some thinking: if she's buying time with her many book purchases, what else is she buying?

Cleaning products with the intention of making the house ready for visitors who are rarely invited over.

Essential oils (with an expensive diffuser) to soothe herself and buy serenity with magical fragrances.

Dumbells, ankle weights, stretchy bands, foam rollers, and yoga mats—to buy strength and flexibility if only she would use them.

Thank you cards to finally show gratitude to the people she cares about and for whom she is thankful.

Skincare—oh, so much skincare. Paying to turn the clock to days with fewer wrinkles, age spots, and blemishes. It must be said that this is one of the most expensive fool's errands a woman can buy. 

Gardening everything. Plants. Pots. Soil. Tools. Pest killers. Buying time to plant, grow, and kill (aphids).

Paid weather apps so she can pretend to know the future.

Very fine point Japanese pens in a spectrum of colors, even though she rarely colors, and when she does, she only colors in black. 

Meds, vitamins, supplements, mushroom coffee, and exotic teas, by subscription or whim, from grocery stores, pharmacies, or any other dealer. She's buying health, along with millions and millions of others. 

Cookbooks so she can learn to cook and nourish the ones she loves with deliciousness.

And here we are.

Back to books.

Buying her good intentions with money instead of elbow grease.

Wondering where she can buy elbow grease.

 

Reeling in the years

Dear 2023, I had hopes for you. Not big hopes. Not high hopes. Just a solemn wish for things to be a little better than the past few years have been. 

I'm not blaming the pandemic, things were tough before it tried to take over the world. But you should know that I'm no longer on speaking terms with 2022. I tried to work it out with them before the year was over, but it was just no use. I could never forgive '22 for taking my mother in such a long and miserable way. No restful fading into the sunset. No final words of wisdom. Time was counted down by the faithful distribution of oral syringes of morphine. Mom reminded me of a hamster, holding the syringes between her hands and sucking every last drop as if it was the most delicious thing she'd ever consumed. She had stopped eating by then, so it probably was the most delicious thing. And even though I sometimes feel resentful over her addictions, I can't blame her for being enthusiastic about morphine. She was in so much pain. Even as she slept, you could see it on her face. Her breathing was  shallow, and she would mumble, "Ow....ow...ow."

2022 couldn't even give me a month to collect myself before it brought on that other thing. You know what it is. The malady that hurt us all and took us so much time to get through. 2022, you were no friend of mine. We're still suffering and angry about it. Then, to add insult to injury, you took Nico away on a lovely summer's day. Why? I can hardly breathe when I think about it. I will never forgive that. I can't stop crying.

But '22 did give us Paris in December. Ten days of just me and him, walking and walking and walking. I dragged him into every church I could. Croissant and baguette tous les jours. Plateau fruits de mers --  with uni! The days were freezing cold and beautiful.

So 2023, we need to have a little talk and reset the go-forward strategy. Because I just can't have another year like last year, Paris or not.

And this year, 2023 - your year - my sister has cancer. And that just won't do at all. This is happening on your watch, and before things get bad or even more off track, I need you to take care of this -- to take care of her. And by that, I mean cured. She is doing all of the right things to beat this disease, and we're depending on you to do your part. 

You've been warned, 2023, don't follow in your brother's footsteps. Make this a better year for all of us.

Especially for her.

Things she left behind

 

Love letters

An unsent suicide note

Her squishmallow

A happy buddha statue

An elephant side table

Her kalimba and tamborine

The Clavinova

Pounds of sheet music

VHS tapes and DVDs of lifelong favorites

CDs - Meticulously organized 

Vinyl - Less meticulously organized

Vicodin

Transcriptions of phone calls

Dozens of micro-cassettes stored in purple Crown Royal bags

Treasured 35mm cameras

Scores of 35mm negatives

A bronze baby shoe

A bronze ballet slipper

"I love New York" posters, postcards, t-shirts, magnets

NYC subway maps

T-shirts from TKTS, Bloomingdales, Godspell

Stacks of Playbills

Suede leather poncho with matching hat

Peace sign keepsakes

Temporary tattoos of butterflies

Syringes of liquid Oxy

Pop-tarts

Peach yogurt

A dozen clocks - all working

A dozen watches - none working

Tiny plates painted by tiny hands "I love you"

Seashells from Sanibel 

Shalimar-scented powder

A&D ointment, portioned into tiny balm containers

Baby books - hers and ours

Wedding pictures - hers and ours

Bessemer high school yearbook - a parade of southern girls with identical hairstyles

Newspaper clippings of her published photos 

Pictures of her children

Pictures of her children as children

Pictures of her children as parents

Pictures of her grandchildren

Pictures finger-painted by her grandchildren

Pictures of a life that was uniquely hers

Margaret Corinne Vail Raas Kacsmar

July 17, 1944 - March 7, 2022

Of all the things that threatened her health, cancer was the one we didn't see coming.

 

This picture is how I want to remember her. Smart, pretty, pensive, clever, and ridiculously talented. She gave me her eyes, her eyebrows (which took me years to appreciate), and her love of music. She taught me how to sing. She taught me how to breathe, how to hear harmony. She taught me when to be loud, when to blend in, and how to sing softly to a distant audience. She believed I was born for Broadway and spent a good amount of her time pushing me in that direction. Every other ambition I had was secondary, in her mind, to a career in musical theatre.

 

If she had a life mantra it was "Reality is an option."

 

She would sit at her piano for hours while I lay on the carpet underneath. Just listening. "What do you want to hear next?" she would ask. "Bach! " I would answer. "Play the Inventions." And her fingers would fly, transporting us.

 

She could be so much fun. And funny. She knew all the words and how to play on them. She would edit the New York Times and find error. She would bemoan the decline and incorrect use of the apostrophe. Words mattered. Grammar mattered. So much so that I'm sure she's looking over my shoulder right now, telling me to add an Oxford comma somewhere. It's making me a little nervous, that somehow I'll get this wrong. But mostly I'm sad.

 

My sister and I were with her when she left. Amanda was in mom's apartment, I was on the nannycam. It was such a quiet leaving it took us a few minutes to believe it had actually happened. But she wasn't saying "ow" anymore. Nothing hurt.

 

She just flew away.

 

Overboard

They say that every group has an asshole.

If you're in a group, and you don't know who the asshole is, it's probably you." -They

Truer words were never spoken in my opinion, especially when it comes to group travel. There's always one guy. And I say "guy" loosely, because sometimes that guy is a gal. But whatever their gender, they have one thing in common: they're the asshole of the group.

One year it was the woman who sprinted off the Mexican panga every afternoon to take the first shower, even though the camp was on solar power and had limited fresh water; she had long hair and it "needed to be clean every night."

Last year there was the guy who so alienated and abused the clients who had paid for his trip that by the second day they were - five grown men - reduced to tears.

Today's guy approached the owner of the ship, dragging a chair behind him (he intended to stay awhile). "I am a very unhappy camper" he said. He acted as if he was about to present a list of serious grievances, but in reality he only had his angle: For one day the ship's crew had lost something of his, his fly fishing rods. The fact that he had put his rods in the wrong place at the wrong time was of no consequence to him. The fact that the rods had been replaced for the day with equipment much better than his own, was of no consequence. In fact, it was part of the problem. The equipment was too good, he said, he "was afraid to use it." The trip so far, according to him, was a disaster.

What could we do to make it up to him? "I would like a free ($18,000) trip."

They were nice enough not to laugh at him.

"If you won't do that, I would like free massages for me and my wife, every day for the rest of the trip." He didn't get that either.

Guys like this, they always have an angle. It's not about what's right, it's about what they can get for free. It doesn't matter who has to pay for it, as long as it's not them.

But Karma has a way of dealing with such things and by the end of the week no one would fish with him. Having been a selfish jerk to each new fishing partner, he was out of options. One nice guy, realizing the awkward predicament and being part of a fishing threesome, graciously offered to fish with him. He would, in his words "take one for the team." 

When the two came back at the end of the day, the nice guy had this to say: "He fished the front of the boat all day, crossing my lines and fishing in my water. I was casting from the back of the boat when all of a sudden, and with a tiny splash, he was gone. We looked at the front of the boat, where he had been standing, and he was simply not there anymore. He had fallen over the side of the drift boat, into a hole. It was just deep enough to cover his head. And for one moment, we had peace. For that brief moment we thought 'what if we just left him there?'"

But of course everyone jumped into the water to pull him out.

And of course he was fine. Wet and disagreeable, but fine. 

And of course, he thanked no one.

Your Wish is Granted

A Teenager's Timeline to Home Schooling, Courtesy of COVID-19

 

Every week (sometimes every day), driving to school, before the virus:

"I hate this place! I hate everything about it! I hate everyone here! Can I stay home? Mom! Let me stay home! I can do home-schooling!"

The week before "shelter in place":

"I can't believe my school is still open! They are so irresponsible! They need to close! We're all going to get sick! This isn't safe!"

The day of the temporary school closure announcement:

"YAAS!"

First day of home school:

"Zzzzzzz"

Sleeping. All day. All night. Almost 24 hours of sleeping. No, she's not sick, she's a teenager. They sleep a lot because they're actually vampires. She's very tired. Poor thing. Shhhhh.

Day 2 of home school:

Longer periods of wakefulness. An acknowledgement that constant sleeping and Disney+ is not the new normal. She makes a schedule on my whiteboard. She sets up a home-schooling spot in the dining room.

Day 3:

"I'm so bored! This sucks! How long are we going to do this? I don't see how we can all live in the same house together 24 hours a day! I miss my friends! I've got to get out of here!"

Also on Day 3, as if he was psychic, we get a message from the principal: Yes, homeschooling is hard. Yes parents, you will have to be very hands on. Yes, we have written a guide for you -- only eight simple steps! You must do these steps every day if you want your kid to graduate on time. No, we don't know if we will go back to school in April - or even this year. Gavin Newsom says probably not. 

Day 4:

Out of bed by 10am and working at the dining room table by noon. Her teachers are getting organized and so am I. I'm teaching her how to use Trello. I've already built a board for her, with a list for every subject - now she has to make cards for every assignment.

I'm going to institute morning standups, too. Yes I am. I don't know any other way. I didn't choose homeschooling when they were little and it would have been easier (at least the math part). There is simply no way for me to actually teach her now. She's taking Trigonometry, for crying out loud. And something called "The Theory of Knowledge." 

Trello is our friend. Well, Trello is my friend. I think.

May the force be with us.

 

Falling in Love Again

Our first Labrador was Tanite. She was black, British, beautiful and way too smart. She would do complex math equations, calculating wind speed and tides, to figure out how to retrieve the ball from the water with the least amount of wetness. She could swim of course, but she preferred the water ankle-deep. When she got angry she would find the thing you loved the most and destroy it. She really had a knack for it - a gift. Prescription sunglasses, the rocking part of the rocking chair, Topo maps, paneling on the house, the TV cable & remote, and (gasp) my shoes. If you liked it, she had her eye on it - just in case. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, and if you didn't get it for her, she would either make you pay later or take care of it herself.

Like most Labs Tanite was obsessed with food. She once ate 10 pounds of cat food and then asked for dinner. I still have the x-ray from getting her stomach pumped. She ate multiple seat belts, mad that we left her in the car for longer than 30 seconds.

When she was six years old she was diagnosed with cancer. Even though we planned to do everything to save her life - surgery, chemo, you name it, we (ok, me) got this harebrained idea that if she had a buddy, it would help her to recover faster. So we adopted Maya, blonde, beautiful, not that smart (the perfect Beta) and full of love and energy for everyone. 

We spent the first two weeks of Maya's puppyhood protecting her from Tanite, who was determined to kill her. Literally.

I don't know why we were surprised, Tanite was always a one-woman show and she was not going to share the spotlight just because she had cancer. I mean, if having cancer doesn't make you the center of everything what will? Eventually Tanite decided two things: she would survive her illness and devote her life to bossing Maya around. Maya was fine with that. 

Tragically, when Maya was six she was poisoned to death by our crazy next-door neighbors. (I'm not exaggerating, we had to officially disclose them when we sold the house.) We couldn't prove murder but it was obvious what had happened and we were devastated. One evening she was perfectly healthy, the next morning she was disoriented, foaming at the mouth with a racing and irregular heartbeat. Xavier took her to the emergency vet who sent him to a specialist in Berkeley who could do nothing. She died that night. Cue: tears, righteous anger and broken hearts...for most of us.

Tanite, once again an only child and the center of everything, lived until she was 14 when she became the incontinent version of Helen Keller. Blind, deaf, quiet and relieving herself wherever she would, we knew she was getting close to the end but we couldn't bear the thought of her actually dying. Not after everything that had happened. Then one morning she woke up and wouldn't eat. The girl who stole 10 pounds of cat kibble didn't want any breakfast. That was how we knew the time had come and she was ready. 

This was my first in-person experience taking a beloved pet to the vet to be "put to sleep." We cried and cried and cried for weeks. 

And then he wouldn't get another dog. It was too sad to lose them, and now we have kids and a puppy would bring even more chaos. Plus a puppy would destroy the house. ("Remember the rocking chair?")  So I waited. 

Two years later the Universe, acting through Dirk and Misha, gave us Gringo. He needed a home and we needed a dog and we all lived happily ever after until he was 14. When it was his time to leave us, I told Xavier that we would not be waiting two years to get another dog. "My oldest girl is in college my youngest is entering high school and my baby-making days are over." I needed - I need - something to love and care for that needs me back with the same intensity. Within two months he had found our puppy Rocco. Nothing distracts you from your sorrow quite like teaching and chasing and teaching and chasing and teaching and chasing a puppy. Especially a Lab puppy because as soon as they arrive they learn to use those cute little paws and tiny vampire teeth to start shredding your life and belongings to pieces.

This is what he looked like as a baby, our Rocco. From day one the phrase "God made him cute so we wouldn't kill him" became the house motto.

Did you know that it takes two years for a Lab to mature? And by mature I don't mean grow up and act responsibly. I mean that it takes two years for them to stop trying to dislocate your shoulder for no good reason and jumping on everyone and kissing them on the lips.

Rocco is a year and a half, AKA, Not Grown Yet.

Rocco's favorite game is called I-have-something-of-yours-come-chase-me. Bonus points for those willing to run after him up and down the stairs. He is the only one who likes this game and yet we keep playing. He comes into the room with that "Hey! I have something you really like! Come and get me!

He says "Ha! You missed again! I am the great and powerful Rocco! Try again!"  

While Rocco is very good at commands like sit, stay, wait, hurry up, kiss, off, tangle, and heel, the command "give" is very, very, very hard for him. "Give" most often translates to "swallow this stolen thing that might just kill me. Swallow it now, as fast as possible For The Win." If it wasn't so terrifying it would be amazing to watch.

One time Rocco stole a knife from the kitchen counter and begged us to play chase. Reverse psychology worked (for once) and we were able to stealthily approach him, looking carefully in the opposite direction, to recover the knife before he could break into the Rabbit Run (hind legs in front of fore) and kill us all.  

God made him cute so we wouldn't kill him. 

Rocco is ridiculously beautiful and knows it. He is the only dog I've ever met that doesn't feel compelled to greet people at the door. If he knows you, he waits until you come over to him and rolls over so you may rub his belly. If you are the pizza man he is going to scare the life out of you. I'm pretty sure he's just barking "give me that pizza" but it sounds ferocious and I've noticed we don't have a regular pizza guy anymore. I suspect they draw straws to see who has to come to our house.

Rocco is the only Lab I know who is not a canine garbage disposal. We've already talked about Tanite and the cat food fiasco, and Gringo would literally eat anything except raw egg and arugula. Following the grand tradition of Labs through history, Gringo considered the garbage can - any garbage can - a very handy (right at eye level) source of treats. Rocco won't even eat a banana - or any other kind of fruit. He won't eat vegetables either. He wants meat, kibble, treats and bread, not necessarily in that order. 

Rocco knows he's not allowed on the bed, so he waits until I'm in the shower to hop up and go to sleep on my pillow. His favorite pose is the Superman, which makes my joints ache just looking at him. And yes, I am thinking about embarrassing him with a red cape. Because I can.

His best feature, or at least my favorite, is that he's totally bonded to me. For the first time in my grownup life, I have a dog that loves me more than anyone else. Which is one of the reasons I don't yell at him when I get out of the shower and find him asleep on the bed. Rocco spends his nights in a kennel box but his naps are usually spent with his head on my foot. He positions himself between me and the door to make sure I don't try to do anything like go outside without him. 

He's not a huge fan of cars (he was with me in my car accident last year) but he loves to go anywhere. Park? Yes! Friends house? Yes! Bath? Yes! He is so good natured it's impossible to stay mad at him for very long.

He's my boy.

My fourth Lab and my second boy. And I'm in love all over again, even knowing the clock is ticking as he ages 7x of me.

Let's not think about that.

This is Rocco, my lovely monster. 80 pounds of delicious, face-licking mischief. That we could never even think of harming. Because God made him so damn cute.

 

The Kindness of Grandmothers

Whenever I pass someone on my dog-walking path, I always remove my earphones, and if we start talking I remove my glasses. Not everyone says hello, but many do and I don't want to miss any of them. Whether it comes as a simple head nod or actual words, that brief contact with other humans gives every day a fresh start. 

Interestingly, I didn't  get many of these before I started walking our puppy. I guess it's easier to greet someone with a dog than a solitary pedestrian. As if the dog has provided the walker with some kind of seal of approval "I'm a dog person, I must be nice." Now of course that's not always true, there are plenty of anti-social dog people who are probably only liked by their dogs, but on the whole, dog walkers greet each other on the path.

Rocco needs at least 2-3 miles a day to avoid becoming a monster, so I'm out at least twice a day with him. At 80 lbs, black and unaffected by the constraints of his metal pinch collar, he can be a little intimidating. Especially on the days he's trying to drag me around from tree to bush to post (I imagine his internal dialogue goes along the lines of "this is mine and this is mine and this is mine!") and it looks like he might escape my grip. Only Lab people are unimpressed by all of this bouncy bossiness. They bend over with just the right mix of bend and step back, to avoid the inevitable nose crashing that comes from a hyperactive lab puppy hell-bent on kissing you on the lips.

In my daily dog travels I often see older women walking down to the water with bags of crackers and bread to feed the "please don't feed the wildlife." I've seen a women throwing whole slices of bread and round Ritz crackers, because, you know, that's what ducks need for a hearty breakfast - more sodium. I tend to mock these women, only in my head, because I fundamentally disapprove of feeding wildlife. I guess it's nice to be surrounded by adoring ducks and screeching seagulls, and maybe it feels like love, but it's bad for them. It's also bad for the rest of us who might want to do something silly like eat a sandwich unmolested by the lagoon. But I'm not looking for a fight with these little old ladies, so I usually give them the eye and a wide berth.

This morning, one of those bird feeders passed me as I walked up the path and she down to the water. She stopped to say hello, or rather, she stopped me and started talking excitedly about the beautiful day and my beautiful dog and his need to pee on everything; as if we knew each other. It was unexpectedly a nice chat, not overly meaningful, just  warm and friendly. She didn't stay for long, and upon parting, she hugged me. I was equal parts touched and surprised and I hugged her back. She smelled just like she should, lightly scented with that older-woman perfume that is both familiar and floral. That unexpected hug filled me with a sense of well-being that I kept with me the whole morning. 

The Story of Gringo

 

 

The first time I saw him it was nearly dusk. He was tied to a house pier at the far corner of the yard. He was sobbing.

I remember, it broke my heart.

I didn't know him, didn't expect to see him and even though my girls begged to pet him, I didn't let them. Maybe he was tied up for a reason. Maybe he was dangerous.

Ha. That's a good one.

Over dinner with friends, Mr. and Mrs. Tenderheart, we got to know his story: 100% black lab, a great beauty with good breeding. An amazing jumper and swimmer, he'd make a great splash dog if anyone would let him try. He started his career as a field trial dog and then was sold to a duck hunter who didn't like hunting but loved the accessories: expensive club membership, expensive guns, expensive dog. The Faux Huntsman didn't really like dogs. He had a 400 acre ranch on which he never let Gringo run. When he wasn't working the field as a gun dog, Gringo spent his days in a concrete, chain link kennel. At only three years old his teeth were worn from chewing the metal fence (please let me out) and his elbows were rough from sleeping on concrete. All he wanted was to be loved - and to be useful.

A few days before Gringo got tied to the house, he'd had a run-in with the Faux Huntsman. Although Gringo understood dozens of commands to search for and retrieve fallen ducks, the Faux Huntsman couldn't or wouldn't use them. He fitted Gringo with a shock collar, which, while not unusual, is usually reserved as a safety measure. If your dog is determined to retrieve a wounded bird that flew onto public lands, or the wrong private lands, there are people who might shoot him for trespassing. They are within their rights to do so because, in addition to the trespass, he might be dangerous. It's important to have a way to contact your dog to call him back when he's working, mind on his mission, and about to get into trouble.

Most hunters use the shock collar buzzer a couple of times a season. Not the Faux Huntsman, he had one finger on the gun trigger and the other on the buzzer. Come back. Buzz. Go left. Zap. Go right. Ouch! You get the picture. And if that collar was around your neck you'd probably get a little tired of it electrocuting you every few minutes. Gringo certainly did. On the fateful day of the run-in he refused to come back to his "master." Mr. Tenderheart was there to witness Gringo standing his ground, glaring at the Faux Huntsman from across the field, setting off a human/canine standoff. 

Hell-bent on winning a pissing contest with a dog, the Faux Huntsman said to Mr. Tenderheart "I'm going tarpon fishing, while I'm gone I want you to dispose of the dog."

Dispose of the dog.

Mr. Tenderheart said "I'm not going to shoot your dog, but he can stay here while you're gone because clearly you need a break from each other."

That is how Gringo got tied to the pier. And while it was better than being shot, he was not free, his fate was still in limbo. He sat there at the foot of the house, crying of loneliness and waiting for his miserable master to come back from his tropical timeout.

Two days later we went to the Tenderhearts for dinner. In theory it was a simple dinner with friends but as soon as we heard Gringo's story we had to meet him, the stubborn boy who refused to come back even when faced with electrocution. Mrs. Tenderheart untied him from the pier, brought him upstairs and introduced us. Gringo was black and brown with mud and he couldn't stop wagging his tail. It was his first time in a house. (Akin to a bull in a china shop.) He hit everyone with his strong tail even as he was also kissing us. Hello! Hello! Hello! You smell nice! What's this? A house? What's a house? Who are you? Can I come with you?

I fell in love at first sight. Like I'd lost something important and just found it again. I needed to save him. I needed him to save me. We're dog people.

I didn't care about the person who thought he owned him, I knew Gringo was mine. I felt compelled, I needed to bring him home with me, tonight if possible.  The girls (aged three and eight) were equally in love with this muddy ball of infectious joy. We volunteered to kidnap him on the spot.

Xav was faced with a conundrum. Gringo really did belong to someone. An asshole to be sure, and a Faux Huntsman to boot, but a very, very rich someone. We couldn't just snatch Gringo. Besides, Xav was not ready for a new dog. He still missed our girl lab who'd died two years before. 

Sadly, with dragging feet and lots of whining (and not just from me), we left Gringo with the Tenderhearts, to be returned to the house pier. We went home. The girls were sniffling "why can't we just take him?" I looked at my husband "why can't we just take him?"

The next day, and every day afterward, I told my husband to "go get my dog." And every day he replied that Gringo was not our dog. Unbeknownst to me, he secretly called Mr. Tenderheart to see if some kind of hostage release could be arranged. Would he please talk to the Faux Huntsman and see what could be done?  "There is a family with little girls that wants Gringo. A very nice family who loves him. Will you let him go?"

Huh. I guess. Okay.

The day Gringo arrived home was full of joy. We couldn't stop petting and cuddling and laughing and rolling around with him on the floor. Yes, there were a few hiccups. He would lean against us so hard we would literally topple over - especially the girls. He aspired to be a lap dog despite his 75 pounds. Having never lived in a house it took him a few days to learn that dogs pee outside and sleep inside. That big bowl of water? Try to drink out of it without creating a lake in the kitchen (he never learned). That giant fluffy pillow? That's yours, sleep on it. The rope toy? Yours too. The lambswool bone (now called "wubby") that you have to keep in your mouth 24/7? That is definitely yours.

Gringo was incapable of greeting anyone without something in his mouth. A rope toy, the wubby, a large cow bone, it didn't matter. If he didn't already have something in his mouth when you walked in the door he couldn't properly greet you until he did. Some unfortunate days he would greet us with the oversized cow bone in his mouth, inflicting bruises on our knees, and we accepted that we only had ourselves to blame. We spoiled him a little. With giant marrow-filled cow bones, cooked specially for him.

In the 10+ years he was with us he never bit anyone in anger and he never fought with other dogs. On a few occasions little dogs (and it was always little dogs) would try to nip his face or to dominate him; he would simply take his big paw and roll them onto the ground with a growl that sounded a little like "Are you kidding? Stop that."

The only behavioral problems he had stemmed from his years at the Faux Huntsman's ranch. Now that he had a home and a family to love he couldn't bear the thought of being without my husband. What if he left and never came back? Whenever he saw Xav pack a suitcase he would fret and pant with anxiety. We never left him alone for more than a few hours - he went with us everywhere. If you didn't like, or couldn't be around dogs, we would find a way. Leaving him was not an option.

This past year has been a tough one. Old age can be awful and his last year was spent going to vets and specialists, with him sleeping all day and pacing all night. We were sleep deprived in a way we hadn't been since the girls were babies. He had ultrasounds, blood tests, spinal taps, blood tests, MRIs and more blood tests. He lost weight even though I overfed him. We couldn't figure out what was wrong with him, aside from the fact that he was 98 dog-years old (not a good enough reason). I was his mother, his doctor and his pharmacist, juggling medications like tramadol, valium, quellin and gabapentin. I changed his food and gave him supplements. I never stopped trying to make him well, until the very end, when he was struck with vestibular disease and we finally discovered cancer. 

Cancer.

I can't tell you about his passing, it's too soon, I'm too sad. But he died with his head in my lap. Peacefully. Knowing that he was loved. 

He is loved.