The Urbane Homestead

Mother's Day

A few days ago, Joe said, "Mama, did you know you are the luckiest woman in the world?" I've often thought that for a variety of reasons I am very lucky indeed, but not knowing specifically what he was referring to, I asked him why. "Because your birthday is only two days after Mother's Day," he answered. Hmm. The proximity of the celebrations of a lifetime commitment to anxiety and servitude and that of the swift passing of time and my impending mortality—not something that would have occurred to me....

But this morning when I woke up, I felt very lucky, because there were two beautiful cards waiting for me on my night table. One was big and pink and decorated with glitter glue, foam shapes, and cut-out hearts with vocabulary words on them. It's lovely and I'm thinking that every mother of Mrs. Callahan's first graders has something similar. The other card, however, was unique. It's a postcard with a photo of a dog; on the back Joe had written: "For a mom so swweat and nice, our little puppy is your present, for a happy Mother's Day and a sihn of love." My heart melted. What could be a better gift? He did it all by himself; Henry didn't even know he was planning it.

Actually, I did know Joe was going to make a card of some sort, because last week he left a note for his confidante and advisor, the tooth fairy, asking what he should give me for Mother's Day, and she recommended this plan. But I had no idea it would be so sweet.

Bruce!

Vicki came over this weekend and took some lovely pictures of our little Bruce-ells Sprout. Can you see how much he's grown already? Yikes!

Greetings, Poetry Lovers

Joe has opted vociferously for "Bruce," so Bruce it is. In honor of our Scottish heritage, Slobbert the Bruce. But his nickname is Bullwinkle.

Here he is, admiring the view:

Pix

Pictures have been added to the previous post for the viewing pleasure of our audience.

Personnel changes

Recently we discovered that Henry is allergic to the rabbits. He was never really sold on them anyway; Joe adored them in theory (but not in rabbitat-cleaning practice); I actually really liked them, which was a good thing, since I did most of the work. Joe and I ultimately decided that we loved Henry more than we loved the bunnies, so they had to go.

This:

 

Or this:

Incredibly, it turned out to be really easy—I posted a notice and description on Craig's List, and within an hour we had a call from a woman who was looking for rabbits to love. Her last pet rabbit had died of old age last year and she was ready for more. She came and visited and it was sunshine and flowers all around, and now she has two new bunnies and a ton of accoutrements; she's keeping me posted on their adjustment and, honestly, I think they're having a lot more fun at her house than they did at ours. I couldn't have found a better home for Poppy and Kiska if I'd made one up.

And then the house was so quiet. We were down to just animal—an all-time low. Kismet, confused perhaps by the lack of competition, became the very most attentive cat ever. That was nice, since she's always been slightly psychotic. Now she's sweet and cuddly, most of the time. But we clearly were in dire need of a dog. Hence, Maximus (or Bruce, or Cholmondley, or Snicket), a 12-week-old spaniel/retriever mix, whom I found on Petfinder. He's the most relaxed puppy I've ever met. Joe adores him—so far, in practice as well as theory.

Love, and death

After we went to pick Walter's ashes up from the vet, I felt much better. I realized I had been worrying that Walter was anxious, or scared, or lonely, and that was because I didn't and couldn't know where he was and so I couldn't take care of him. (Although we did know for sure that his spirit was not haunting the house. Walter was always hypersensitive to any display of sadness or anger; tears or argument or even an overly excited tone of voice would turn him into a trembling basket case. Last week we spent so much time crying that if he had been there, we would surely have seen some kind of ghostly jello action.) Now I know where he is, at least, the part of him that got so weak and tired toward the end, and I can take care of that.

It's a little creepy, I know. But love is a little creepy, too, if it's done right, because it's all about getting a little too close to someone, or letting someone get a little too close to you, past the point where it's safe.

Heaven

I've never been particularly interested in the concept of an afterlife. There's just too much to do here, and in fact, getting a nice long rest seems a lot more appealing than being reunited with all my dead relatives and hanging around for eternity. But now I'm thinking that if such a place exists, Walter will be waiting right inside the entrance for me, with his eyes shining and his tongue hanging out, doing his you're-home-you're-home-you're-home dance with his stumpy tail sticking straight up and wiggling, and his expression that says "Now we can have some fun!!!!!!!!!!!! Did you bring a stick?"

Walter

1991-2007

He was a good dog.

Mostly about the dog

We've all been moping around coughing and blowing our noses all weekend. Yes, we have colds. But how lucky we are that a cold is such an inconsequential thing, requiring only ginger tea and chicken soup as palliatives, and patience until it is over.

In the meantime, Walter is now just skin and bones and diaper. He stumbles and slides around the house, having lost a lot of control of his legs. He can get upstairs by himself, but if we don't notice when he wants to go down again, he'll attempt it on his own, which most often ends in a tumble down the stairs (actually, he slides down butt-first, and seems to be completely unfazed by the experience). But he still eats with gusto (most comfortably, while he's lying down, Roman-style), and he likes to be with us and to be petted and hugged. He's not quite ready to give it all up. And I haven't explored my feelings deeply enough to know if I'm ready to let him go.

A few months ago, for the first time ever, Walter got skunked. He was blissfully snacking on compost, I think, and so was the skunk. I'm sure the skunk noticed Walter, and stamped his or her feet and hissed and raised his or her tail, and gave him ample warning to back off, buster. And I'm equally sure that Walter was utterly oblivious to the presence of any other creature on the compost pile until he got hit full in the face with skunk spray. Poor old guy. Even after several trips to the Dog-o-Mat for their special anti-skunk rinse, he was still pretty darn stinky, and it's only recently that he's gotten back a little of his toasty smell.

A valentine

Joe made a beautiful valentine for me and Henry. It has drawings of ribbons and hearts, including one with a zingy halo sort of thing, and this lovely poem:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I love you,
And your work shoes.

Signed, Joe, your baby