6:30 A.M., push down the black plastic ball on the French press, pour, honey, cream, taste, it’s perfect. House is dark, babies still sleeping. Time to write. “What did Jack do that was so cute last night?” Alan asks me. He heard me on the monitor while the babies and I were doing our night time routine. Jack put his hat on, a straw hat that Maureen picked out, it reminded her of Mikey Hynes. Mikey always wore a hat. Alan said he would sit in the last row at church so when he took off his hat no one would be sitting behind him to see his bald head, he was in good company too, the row was filled with these men. Mikey would have loved Jack, he would say something like, “He’s a good strong lad.” At night in the nursery when the babies are side by side in their diapers I can really see the width of Jacks back compared to Fiona. His leg muscles are strong, he would be able to work hard on the farm back in Ireland. Sometimes the thought runs through my head, what if he’s giant? What if he develops a love for football and gets used and destroyed way before his time. Right now he’s cuddly, sweet, his cheek always a little damp and cold because of teething. He giggles when I say, “I’m gonna get you.” He’s so fucken cute. The schedules are off by an hour this week, so when I got back the other night from putting Zappa down I was secretly hoping the babies were still awake. I heard them talking in their cribs, I went into the nursery and picked each baby up. I took off their sleep sacks. I needed cuddles from Jack and Fiona. We had missed our routine that night because I wasn’t home at bedtime, Ramona put them down for me. They made me feel better, all their love. Yesterday we mourned Zappa together. We started off going to breakfast. It was our first time. I put Fiona in the front carrier and held Jack, we walked in the door of Le Croissant. I ask if they have high chairs and my waiter sets me up in the way back corner, which is perfect. Jack and Fiona are having a blast, looking at the menu, the ceiling fans, people in the mirrors. I order cinnamon French toast, a jack and avocado omelet, chicken apple sausage, and a cup of milk. For a greasy little diner the food is awesome and a huge hit with the babies. Jack keeps watching one of the waitresses, she comes over a couple times and says, “He’s flirting with me.” One time she asks me how old they are, I tell her one. She then says, “Doesn’t the boy go vroom vroom vroom with trucks already and the girl doesn’t? It’s genetic, the girls don’t do it but the boys do.” I tell her I haven’t noticed that yet and she tells me, “You watch.” We then took Billy on a walk. I let the babies out of their stroller for a while to investigate. Billy was really good, she wasn’t agitated by them at all. But the entire time I was saying, “Jack don’t put that in your mouth. Fiona NO take that out of your mouth.” Little pebbles and wood chips. “Do you want me to make you some toast?” I ask the babies. They are awake now, making funny noises in their high chairs, eating cheerios, pointing to things and squawking. I take out the cinnamon raisin toast too early. It’s kind of soggy but they seem to be enjoying it. I love them so much.
Tag: dogs
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The catheter was in, Zappa lying down, I was by her side petting her ears, her face, avoiding the vertebra protruding, her ribs, her sunken in sides, her massive fatty cyst. Three drugs were injected, the first to numb her veins, the second to relax her, the third phenobarbital. After the second drug was injected her whole body relaxed, the shaking and panting stopped, I started to cry, then the final beat of her heart, I cried harder. The questions ran through my mind, is it too soon, am I doing the right thing? But I knew it was and that I was. I told Billy to say goodbye to Zappa before we left. Alan said “Come on Jen, let’s go, she doesn’t understand you.” But just at that moment Zappa and Billy started licking each other’s faces. This morning when I went to feed Billy her breakfast I felt an emptiness in the back yard. Zappa is gone. It’s been an emotional several months, since Zappa has gotten weak and incontinent. The feelings have wavered between annoyance, guilt, sadness, and avoidance. Zappa started following me one morning on 23rd and Downer. I was walking Wiggly. Zappa was just a little tiny puppy. I took her home. My roommate Meg said “No Way!” We already had two dogs and a cat. I called my mom and she said “YES”. I took Zappa and Wiggly on a road trip that weekend to Death Valley. We camped out under the stars. The next day we went exploring Devil’s Hole. It was at least 100 degrees. Sunday night I dropped Zappa off at my Mom’s house. She lived there until December 20th, 2008. After my Mom died I took Zappa back. I’ve never had a dog live for so long, 14 years. I got home from the Vet and needed to take a shower. I cried more in the shower, I thought of when Zappa and Billy first came to me, I took them on walks every morning, they kept my Mom close to me. I could smell her house on their collars and bedding. We mourned her loss together. I thought of how Zappa would run so fast to catch her ball. I haven’t been able to take her for a walk in months because of the weakness in her legs. She hasn’t had a good quality of life lately but she still seemed so happy all the time, until yesterday. I think saying goodbye to Zappa was saying goodbye to my Mom again. All the pain from that loss is at the surface again. I had to make the decision to turn off the machines at the hospital when my Mom had the heart attack. It brought back those memories. The final decision. The certainty that time can’t be turned back. The reminder of years gone by. The knowing that the end will come for me too.
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“WOOF” “WOOF” “WOOF” I hear. “BILLY” I yell out the back door. She’s not there, sounds like it’s coming from the front. “Billy! Come here! Sorry Nancy!” I say. “She was in my yard, I tried to let her out but she jumped over the fence.” Says Nancy. “I’m so sorry” I say. Nancy starts walking up to my front door. I haven’t had time to pick up the dog poop, I’m so embarrassed, it stinks. Nancy walks up the steps, “Don’t get too close, we’re infected with the flu.” I say. “I just wanted to let you know Billy was drinking from our fountain, it has stuff to kill mosquitos.” She says. I think it will be O.K., since the stuff doesn’t kill birds. I don’t have any of those cute pictures or videos everyone posts with their babies and their dogs. Billy’s not that kind of animal. The vet says she might be part wolf because of her long legs and wolfy personality. I think that’s why my mom chose her. Vikki saw Billy’s picture on the Clear Lake SPCA web site. “Jenny I found my dream dog.” She tells me. “I’ll take you to get her.” I say. It’s a three hour drive up to Clear Lake, on the 101. We drive past the exits for Guerneville and Mendo. It’s beautiful up here. My Mom is really nervous, when we get into Clear Lake we get lost. The shelter is closing soon, my mom is panicking. She starts to cry. She recently lost two dogs, Riply and Mingus. Riply survived way longer than she was meant to, my mom even had a leg amputated to cut off the cancer. Riply lived a whole year after that. I never saw my mom so depressed and sad after Riply was put to sleep. We drive down a long dirt road and arrive at the Clear Lake SPCA. My mom only got to enjoy Billy for three months, she died that December of a massive heart attack. Alan and I took Billy and Zappa to live with us. Zappa is old and incontinent so she has to stay outside in the dog house. Billy sleeps outside too. It’s been hard to keep her in the yard. She likes to go after the Raccoons and coyotes. The other night when I put her out she was all wound up, in the morning she had a gash across her face. I don’t know if it got caught on a fence or a raccoon’s razor sharp claw. The first couple of weeks after the babies came home when I went outside to be with Billy I would cry. She looked at me like I had betrayed her. It was just me and her for so long, we’d get up in the morning take a long hike. We were always together. This morning Jack fed Billy a piece of toast all by himself. Billy loves the babies now, as long as they are in a high chair or stroller. It’s really hard to give so much love and care to so many beings at one time. To make sure they each know how much I love them. To give equal attention to everyone, including myself and my husband. Sometimes I feel like I can’t do it, like I’ve run out of words and feelings. There’s such a strange area of doing all the things that need to be done, loving all the creatures that need to be loved, and just being present. It’s easy to get lost.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 