I haven't seen this in a long time. Classic and adorable.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Chewy, my babies, and my room
In the old Victorian house where I live, there's a northeast bedroom that used to be my room. From the time I was eleven years old and waiting to enter the seventh grade, through three children and two divorces, from the time I stood only 4'5" tall, until only a few years ago, it was my haven.
First, it was painted blue -- my choice because blue was my sister's favorite color, and it was my way of sharing it with her. Eventually, I went with green, my own favorite color. Then, a few years ago, I relinquished the room. I don't know why. I moved into the slightly smaller southeastern room next to it. We had painted it an odd mauvish pink to match a bedspread and sheet set I had gotten for my daughter Cathie, who actually ending up living with her dad instead. But that room was a catch-all for stuff that didn't have a home downstairs, as well as a place for my first computer. One summer, while I was still working at WKU Campus Child Care, I slept in there a lot. I think the sounds of the crickets at night and the pool filter outside through the open windows was soothing to me. I was writing a lot at the time. Are you surprised that I was writing the great American novel? I'd been working on it since the age of thirteen.
But I think the most breathtaking thing about the pink room was the sunrise. When daylight hit those pink walls, the room was aglow. It was magic. In a house with 11- and 12-foot ceilings and several north-facing windows, it was filled with light. It was amazing.
Maybe that's why I wanted to be in there. There are other reasons which I frequently ponder, but no one can tell me if my answers are correct. I do not know.
When Cathie and E.J. moved back here, they moved into the green room. The green room is pretty cool, but it is filled with boxes, old clothes, books, video tapes, old albums, and who knows what else. It is like an attic, only worse. I think my mother's pack rat tendencies have been contagious. Well, that and the fact that any time there wasn't room for something downstairs, it usually ended up up here.
Things are a bit rough for us, currently. Cathie, of course, lost her job. Actually, she gave up her career. She has had a hard time both emotionally and financially since then. My hours at the track were cut. Rumors are that after live races this September, they'll be closing us down, and I'll have no job. Paul was laid off, so he has no job. He moved back to the house, too, until he can figure out what to do and where to go from here.
So the house has seen better days. It was built about 1868, remodeled in the late 1960s, and has seen tough times. Who would know that better than Cathie's ex-husband, who used to pretend to be interested in helping do repairs and make improvements? While they were still married, after making a show of caring, he privately informed Cathie that he thought she should just give up and let it crumble around our ears.
A couple of weeks ago, Cathie was suffering from a really persistent case of poison oak. The house became infested with fleas. My mother, who is 86 years old, thought the dogs should be indoors at all times, and all of us had trouble convincing her otherwise. We finally put Dusty, Winky (Bullwinkle) and Chewy outside, along with the cats. They seemed happy to be in our yard for the most part. Then we tried to bomb the fleas. I've never seen such a bad infestation. I couldn't sleep at night. The chemicals in the flea spray were making me sick. Cathie was spending the night at either my brother's or her aunt's quite a lot. My mom spent the night at my older brother's house in Portland, though she hates being away from home.
During this time, E.J. had vaccinations, and he felt ill. He stayed home from his new day care center because he was running some fever. I was in my mom's room, trying to get him to take a nap, when the front doorbell rang. It was someone from social services. She couldn't tell us that Ian called them, but we knew by something she said about Paul's former roommate being a caregiver to E.J. Of course, that situation had been very brief, but Ian knew about it. He doesn't want the baby, but he wants to cause Cathie as much trouble and pain as he can. The truth is that he is over $1,000 behind in child support to both Cathie and Amanda, and he knows he's going to be arrested. He thinks as long as he is attacking them in some way, he can frighten them into submission.
The long and short of that visit was that the social services lady said Cathie and E.J. must move out, and that we could not provide his care in the house while she was working. My mother was stunned by the news. I was not surprised, but I wasn't happy, either. I had become so accustomed to my little cutie coming to my room to watch his favorite movie with me, Disney/Pixar's "Cars." We had been trying to teach him my nickname, but his own name for me sounded like "Meme." Even though they didn't take my daughter's son away, I felt as though my heart had been torn from me.
Cathie and E.J. went to stay at her father's house. Her stepmom, naturally, had to tell her that she told her so. Eve came home to visit, and she and they stayed at a friend's house for a couple of days. In the meantime, Cathie hunted for an apartment she could afford. Eventually, she found a little rental house not far from my brother's, only a few blocks from us. She's in the process of getting things cleaned out and moving their things in. She will be splitting the rent and the space with a friend. It's a little house, but it has nice rooms and plenty of potential.
Since the dogs have now been pretty much de-fleaed (is that a word?), Cathie was going to request that her landlord let her take Chewy, her chocolate Cocker Spaniel, to live at the new house. I knew he probably wouldn't care for the idea, and I reminded her that Chewy would be lonely when no one was home. She relented, commenting to her landlord that I had become very fond of Chewy.
Today -- well, it's early AM on Friday, as I finish writing this, so that's yesterday -- I was working on my shops, twittering, modding the CP board. Chewy had been making little worried noises, over on the bed Cathie had temporarily left here, on the other side of my monitor. Those flea allergies -- even one bite could cause grief. I decided I needed to give her another bath soon, although she looked better than she had in months. Cathie had clipped her shaggy hair and given her a bath a week or so before.
"Chewy's a good baby," I said softly, and she wagged her stumpy spaniel tail at the sound of my voice. Chewy has been developing cataracts, something I hadn't expected for her age. She is the fourth cocker we have owned -- no, the fifth, since we owned one when I was a baby -- but this was my first encounter with cataracts in my dogs.
About 3:30, I heard Cathie's voice calling upstairs to me, with a note of alarm in her voice.
"Mom!"
I responded, but I went to the stairway, knowing she wouldn't hear me otherwise. Sometimes I think my voice is "invisible," except to E.J.
"Chewy's dead!" Cathie shouted. I knew it couldn't be true. She'd just been there a bit earlier. I hadn't even heard her leave the room. I rushed downstairs. Barefoot, I went outside to see her across the little one-lane steet from our driveway. Chewy was lying in the grass next to the pavement, still warm, but not breathing. I lifted her head, felt her silken chocolate curls beneath my fingers, and didn't want to believe she was gone. I wanted to hold her and comfort her.
Dusty is our cute little Shih Tzu/Peke mix, mostly white with buff-colored points, who can be seen in my shop here: Too Cute for the Dog House. And Winky is the handsome Basset/Beagle mix who posed for this design: Love You Forever. I just hadn't ever gotten around to doing a drawing of Chewy.
As nearly as we can put together, Mom had gone outside to look for Dusty, and Chewy had gone along to take care of her business (so to speak). Mom didn't notice her go out. Then Chewy followed Dusty, who has a bad habit of squeezing out from under our ancient chain link fence. Dusty can see fairly well, though. Chewy could not. A neighbor woman saw an old man driving through hit Chewy, then get out to see if she was okay. He moved her out of the road, but didn't ask around to find her owner.
I guess I should be glad it wasn't one of the children who live in our neighborhood, like my grandson. But I can't find anything about this situation to make me feel glad.
Paul and I spent over an hour digging a hole in a grassy area of the back yard where we buried her beneath the tall trees. I wept intermittently.
I would be going about doing things the rest of the evening and suddenly tear up again. There has been too much sadness and death in the world lately -- much of which touched me -- without its coming into my own personal life.
Now I'm sitting at the desk in the green room, typing at the keyboard, expecting to feel the soft furriness of my little brown shadow rub against my bare feet, thinking I might be required to fuss at her for accidentally turning off the power strip. But that isn't going to happen tonight. I came across her fleecy little doggie bed out in the hall just a while ago, and I haven't yet stopped crying since. Maybe after I post this, I'll try to go to bed. I have to work at 1:30 Friday afternoon. And maybe in a few days or weeks, I'll try to draw a picture to remember her by.
I wish I could have stopped her.
First, it was painted blue -- my choice because blue was my sister's favorite color, and it was my way of sharing it with her. Eventually, I went with green, my own favorite color. Then, a few years ago, I relinquished the room. I don't know why. I moved into the slightly smaller southeastern room next to it. We had painted it an odd mauvish pink to match a bedspread and sheet set I had gotten for my daughter Cathie, who actually ending up living with her dad instead. But that room was a catch-all for stuff that didn't have a home downstairs, as well as a place for my first computer. One summer, while I was still working at WKU Campus Child Care, I slept in there a lot. I think the sounds of the crickets at night and the pool filter outside through the open windows was soothing to me. I was writing a lot at the time. Are you surprised that I was writing the great American novel? I'd been working on it since the age of thirteen.
But I think the most breathtaking thing about the pink room was the sunrise. When daylight hit those pink walls, the room was aglow. It was magic. In a house with 11- and 12-foot ceilings and several north-facing windows, it was filled with light. It was amazing.
Maybe that's why I wanted to be in there. There are other reasons which I frequently ponder, but no one can tell me if my answers are correct. I do not know.
When Cathie and E.J. moved back here, they moved into the green room. The green room is pretty cool, but it is filled with boxes, old clothes, books, video tapes, old albums, and who knows what else. It is like an attic, only worse. I think my mother's pack rat tendencies have been contagious. Well, that and the fact that any time there wasn't room for something downstairs, it usually ended up up here.
Things are a bit rough for us, currently. Cathie, of course, lost her job. Actually, she gave up her career. She has had a hard time both emotionally and financially since then. My hours at the track were cut. Rumors are that after live races this September, they'll be closing us down, and I'll have no job. Paul was laid off, so he has no job. He moved back to the house, too, until he can figure out what to do and where to go from here.
So the house has seen better days. It was built about 1868, remodeled in the late 1960s, and has seen tough times. Who would know that better than Cathie's ex-husband, who used to pretend to be interested in helping do repairs and make improvements? While they were still married, after making a show of caring, he privately informed Cathie that he thought she should just give up and let it crumble around our ears.
A couple of weeks ago, Cathie was suffering from a really persistent case of poison oak. The house became infested with fleas. My mother, who is 86 years old, thought the dogs should be indoors at all times, and all of us had trouble convincing her otherwise. We finally put Dusty, Winky (Bullwinkle) and Chewy outside, along with the cats. They seemed happy to be in our yard for the most part. Then we tried to bomb the fleas. I've never seen such a bad infestation. I couldn't sleep at night. The chemicals in the flea spray were making me sick. Cathie was spending the night at either my brother's or her aunt's quite a lot. My mom spent the night at my older brother's house in Portland, though she hates being away from home.
During this time, E.J. had vaccinations, and he felt ill. He stayed home from his new day care center because he was running some fever. I was in my mom's room, trying to get him to take a nap, when the front doorbell rang. It was someone from social services. She couldn't tell us that Ian called them, but we knew by something she said about Paul's former roommate being a caregiver to E.J. Of course, that situation had been very brief, but Ian knew about it. He doesn't want the baby, but he wants to cause Cathie as much trouble and pain as he can. The truth is that he is over $1,000 behind in child support to both Cathie and Amanda, and he knows he's going to be arrested. He thinks as long as he is attacking them in some way, he can frighten them into submission.
The long and short of that visit was that the social services lady said Cathie and E.J. must move out, and that we could not provide his care in the house while she was working. My mother was stunned by the news. I was not surprised, but I wasn't happy, either. I had become so accustomed to my little cutie coming to my room to watch his favorite movie with me, Disney/Pixar's "Cars." We had been trying to teach him my nickname, but his own name for me sounded like "Meme." Even though they didn't take my daughter's son away, I felt as though my heart had been torn from me.
Cathie and E.J. went to stay at her father's house. Her stepmom, naturally, had to tell her that she told her so. Eve came home to visit, and she and they stayed at a friend's house for a couple of days. In the meantime, Cathie hunted for an apartment she could afford. Eventually, she found a little rental house not far from my brother's, only a few blocks from us. She's in the process of getting things cleaned out and moving their things in. She will be splitting the rent and the space with a friend. It's a little house, but it has nice rooms and plenty of potential.
Since the dogs have now been pretty much de-fleaed (is that a word?), Cathie was going to request that her landlord let her take Chewy, her chocolate Cocker Spaniel, to live at the new house. I knew he probably wouldn't care for the idea, and I reminded her that Chewy would be lonely when no one was home. She relented, commenting to her landlord that I had become very fond of Chewy.
Today -- well, it's early AM on Friday, as I finish writing this, so that's yesterday -- I was working on my shops, twittering, modding the CP board. Chewy had been making little worried noises, over on the bed Cathie had temporarily left here, on the other side of my monitor. Those flea allergies -- even one bite could cause grief. I decided I needed to give her another bath soon, although she looked better than she had in months. Cathie had clipped her shaggy hair and given her a bath a week or so before.
"Chewy's a good baby," I said softly, and she wagged her stumpy spaniel tail at the sound of my voice. Chewy has been developing cataracts, something I hadn't expected for her age. She is the fourth cocker we have owned -- no, the fifth, since we owned one when I was a baby -- but this was my first encounter with cataracts in my dogs.
About 3:30, I heard Cathie's voice calling upstairs to me, with a note of alarm in her voice.
"Mom!"
I responded, but I went to the stairway, knowing she wouldn't hear me otherwise. Sometimes I think my voice is "invisible," except to E.J.
"Chewy's dead!" Cathie shouted. I knew it couldn't be true. She'd just been there a bit earlier. I hadn't even heard her leave the room. I rushed downstairs. Barefoot, I went outside to see her across the little one-lane steet from our driveway. Chewy was lying in the grass next to the pavement, still warm, but not breathing. I lifted her head, felt her silken chocolate curls beneath my fingers, and didn't want to believe she was gone. I wanted to hold her and comfort her.
Dusty is our cute little Shih Tzu/Peke mix, mostly white with buff-colored points, who can be seen in my shop here: Too Cute for the Dog House. And Winky is the handsome Basset/Beagle mix who posed for this design: Love You Forever. I just hadn't ever gotten around to doing a drawing of Chewy.
As nearly as we can put together, Mom had gone outside to look for Dusty, and Chewy had gone along to take care of her business (so to speak). Mom didn't notice her go out. Then Chewy followed Dusty, who has a bad habit of squeezing out from under our ancient chain link fence. Dusty can see fairly well, though. Chewy could not. A neighbor woman saw an old man driving through hit Chewy, then get out to see if she was okay. He moved her out of the road, but didn't ask around to find her owner.
I guess I should be glad it wasn't one of the children who live in our neighborhood, like my grandson. But I can't find anything about this situation to make me feel glad.
Paul and I spent over an hour digging a hole in a grassy area of the back yard where we buried her beneath the tall trees. I wept intermittently.
I would be going about doing things the rest of the evening and suddenly tear up again. There has been too much sadness and death in the world lately -- much of which touched me -- without its coming into my own personal life.
Now I'm sitting at the desk in the green room, typing at the keyboard, expecting to feel the soft furriness of my little brown shadow rub against my bare feet, thinking I might be required to fuss at her for accidentally turning off the power strip. But that isn't going to happen tonight. I came across her fleecy little doggie bed out in the hall just a while ago, and I haven't yet stopped crying since. Maybe after I post this, I'll try to go to bed. I have to work at 1:30 Friday afternoon. And maybe in a few days or weeks, I'll try to draw a picture to remember her by.
I wish I could have stopped her.
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