Colds and blahs

I don’t like Fall.   Yeah, yeah, yeah, pumpkin spice

I like pumpkin pie.   Mostly I like pumpkin pie because I really like whipped cream.   I make a pie for Thanksgiving and eat one slice, send the rest home with my step son.   I make one for Christmas, eat one slice, send the rest home with step son.   That’s enough.  Don’t put that shit in my coffee or anywhere else, it belongs in pie and that’s that.

Hoodies.  Oh, yeehaw, we can wear hoodies.  Why are we wearing hoodies?  Because it’s cold, that’s why, and I hate the cold.   My bones ache, my fingers turn blue and numb, cold is so much fun.
But, but, the leaves!  Yeah?  Spiders hide in the leaves.   I hate spiders.   Screw the leaves.   Also, they get tracked into my house because I live in the woods (I know, stupid place to live if you hate spiders and critters, shut up, it’s my home and I love it except for when the spiders, etc, decide to come INSIDE instead of staying out there where they can just go die somewhere).

And yay, Christmas is a couple of months away.   That’s a wonderful day.   The day that I turn into an ATM and hand out money to people who can’t remember my phone number the rest of the year.

Give me warm days and sunshine, let me walk out the door without having to put on extra clothing, let me go barefoot – keep this cold, yucky, pumpkin crap to yourselves.


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What if it was your father?

What if someone went to the media and said that your father molested them 40 years ago?   Would you automatically believe the “survivor?”   If there was no evidence, not a single person who could corroborate the accusation, would you still believe the accuser?  If it was your son accused?

What then?    If the accuser couldn’t remember any details, and was vague on everything, and came forward only when it appeared your dad was about to get a really important job, would you still believe the accuser?

If it was your son?    If there was no evidence, and no one who said that yeah, I saw it, I remember it, she told me after it happened?   Would you still believe the accuser?

This attitude scares the crap out of me.   And if it doesn’t scare you, why not?

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I want to start a blog

That tells about the times Mom loses her shit and then feels bad about it.

So today, after a great deal of exercise and stimulation, Maverick decided to run away from me and totally forget that he actually does know to come back when I call him.    And in spite of knowing better, knowing what I’m supposed to do, I lost my shit.   He ran from me and I couldn’t see anything but him running and not coming back and I was terrified that I’d lost him and I’d never find him.

I screamed.   It didn’t work, of course.   I made myself call him and run away, and he came running.   I was so upset, I brought him inside and just cried.

It’s been an awful day in a lot of ways, a lot of frustration and not a lot of joy.   I got a shower, finally, had a shot of whiskey, and told him how much I love him and that I’m sorry.

I promised Max that I would laugh more and yell less.   I’m trying, Baby Boy, I really am.


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I always think of forgiveness at this time of year.   September 11th was a day that saw the world change for so many of us.   I grew up in an era when we didn’t think about making America great, it was accepted that America was imperfect, but still the best place in the world, and that we were lucky to live here.   That Beaver Cleaver wasn’t an oddity, or a made up character, but the kid down the street.   I knew my share of Eddie Haskells, so anyone who tells you that all of the 50’s and 60’s tv shows were based on dreams and nothing to do with reality is full of shit.   I lived through Viet Nam, and the protests.   Through all that, we still held onto our belief, although we may not have expressed it, that we were invincible.  No one dared mess with us.   We were too strong, too powerful, and we just wouldn’t stand for any nonsense.    People were (and still are) dying to come here, not many are trying to escape.

Then the Towers fell.  And with them fell our illusions of safety.

I have never judged someone based on religion or skin color or who they choose to sleep with.  I’ve never felt the need to hurt someone because they didn’t agree with my beliefs.   I still can’t fathom what the purpose was behind flying planes into buildings.    Did they REALLY think it would take us to our knees for long?   Did they really not know better?   Were they honestly that stupid, or that filled with hate?

It didn’t work.   It did, however, leave residual anger behind.   Anger and grief that have never died.    Faded a bit, maybe, over the years.  But never gone away completely.

And they left behind a fear.   A fear of anyone from a certain area, no matter how innocent they may be.   When I went to Ohio a few  years ago, I stopped at a rest area near the exit for Shanksville.  On my way inside, I stopped and read the plaque that states that this is the area where the plane went down in the field.   I went inside, to get a burger for my lunch.  In line in front of me was a group of Arab men.    I found myself shaking, wanting to yell at them, ask them if they had come to see the monument to  their handiwork.   This is what the attackers accomplished.   Unreasoning fear and hatred of innocent people.   Not sure if that’s what they planned.

And on this day,  unexpectedly, I got a message from someone I’ve known for years, who cut me off without an explanation a bit over a year ago.   A message of apology, a message saying she loves me, and is sorry, and it was not my fault.    I have no idea how I’ll respond.   Forgiveness?    I don’t know if I can.

I struggle with forgiving, and forgetting, hurts done to me.   Max never held a grudge.   I, however, can hold one till it screams for mercy.

So I shall ponder the message from my former friend, and decide what I want to do about it on another day.

As for the 9/11 attackers – I will never forgive, and never forget.


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I used to be the strong one, the one who could handle anything life threw at me.   I was, and still am, the one no one in my family will take on, head on, although they still try to play their stupid games thinking I won’t find out and won’t take them down before they know what hit them.   I am fierce in defense of my husband, and my dog – my dogs- It still doesn’t seem right to make that word plural.

When my mother died, my heart shattered.   I’m not  unique in this, few can experience the death of the person who carried them in her body and nurtured them without experience the most devastating pain.   It wasn’t her death that broke me, it was the aftermath.   My family, most of them, showed their true colors, their real opinions of me (useless bitch) (golddigger) (mooch) (lazy ass bitch).   The stories flew, the lies were spun, the gullible believed and still believe that I stole my mother’s money, I robbed the estate, and some even bought the story that I somehow killed my mother.

One person held me together, kept all the shattered bits of me from flying in every direction.  Together, we built a life.   Still, I was in pieces.  I was never really whole.   Max helped heal my broken heart.  He showed me that I was worthy of love, that I could love, that there was joy in the world, and beauty, and friends who didn’t care if I wasn’t perfect every moment.   He didn’t care if my hair was thinning, if I was fat, if the floors needed mopped.  He loved me even when I didn’t deserve it.

So the pieces of me slowly came together again.   Different.  Weaker in some spots, stronger in others.

Then he got sick.   I had read everything about preventing cancer in dogs, I had given him all the foods that were supposed to help, all the supplements, and still, I couldn’t stop it.  We fought so hard, and we lost.

Once again, I was shattered.   I never want to feel this pain again.   I didn’t think I would survive it.

Bear asked Max to send us a puppy.   Along came Maverick.   Broken and scarred as I am, Maverick loves me.   He climbs into my lap and his tail wags and he wiggles and bites me and he just totally loves me for no reason except I’m his Mommah and he’s just so full of joy that all that spills into the broken spots and in spite of me, healing has begun.
Love doesn’t know that you’re broken.   Love only knows that you’re you.


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Tears flowing

Today wasn’t a great day

I’m not a morning person.  Wandering the field while puppy chews sticks and eats grass and taking stones out of his mouth, and leaves out of his mouth, and waiting for him to be motivated to poop, while my feet get wetter by the second and my pant legs are wet and I need to pee and please dear GOD will you just poop, for crying out loud?  is not my idea of a fun way to start the day.  Nor is wandering around the house eating everything in sight and playing with empty plastic pots and digging holes and jesus mary and joseph, I need my coffee, this is not fun!

Sigh.  This too shall pass.

The field.   Max’s meadow.  His tree, where he rolled and dug and sniffed baby bunnies but didn’t bother them, and got the zooms, and tore around – all of these are reminders of my sweet, beautiful boy.    When he was young, he would chase me as I mowed that field.  When he got older, he would just watch, and when I was done, would run out, zoom around, roll in the piles of cut grass, eat the clumps that fell off the mower – MAX, YUCK, LEAVE IT!!!!!!!!!! – the one thing he would NEVER ever drop.   His paws would be green from the grass.   And I would laugh and tell him, “look at what Mommy did!”  and he’d run up the sand mound and zoom back down and around me and I’d laugh.

It’s hard to go out there now.   It’s hard to stand under the branches of his tree and not see him there.    Some days, it’s not so bad.  Some days, I think of him rolling on his back in the grass, and I smile.  Today wasn’t one of those days.  And today was the day that Maverick wanted to go there, over and over, and sit, just sit beneath the branches of that tree and look down the hill.

I’m not supposed to be grieving – we have a puppy, everything is supposed to be fine again.   I’m not supposed to miss my boy.   But I do.  With every breath, I want him back.   I want him well, and happy, and running down that hill after a deer, and rolling in the grass under his tree.

I want him back.

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Don’t tell me

Not to cry

It’s only been 3 months

don’t tell me he’s waiting for me

I don’t want him waiting for me in your heaven, I want him on my front porch

Don’t tell me I should be better because “we have the puppy now.”

Yes, Maverick makes me laugh.  He is a total  bundle of joy and excitement and new and I  LOVE YOU MOMMAH and laughter and bright and smart and funny.

He’s not my Max.   I love this little guy.  I didn’t think I could.   He’s not a replacement.  He’s another.

Some days are easy.  Some days are hard.   Today was hard.

“and all the tomorrows”


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Counting Mondays

11 Mondays

11 weeks ago, we let you go.   Much has changed in those 11 weeks.   And every Monday, at 8:30, time stops, and I see your sweet face, and I feel your fur under my hands, and I whisper again, “it’s okay, baby, you’re not gonna hurt anymore.”

Every Monday, for 11 weeks

How many Monday will it be till I stop counting?  I can’t imagine Mondays ever being okay again.

I’ve started counting Fridays.   Two Fridays since Maverick.   His silly antics and puppy nonsense are helping my shattered heart to heal, my heart that isn’t broken but shattered into a million pieces.

Still.  I count the Mondays.

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Love in a bundle of fur

Max was many things, but he was not much of a cuddler.   He loved people, but he was happy to have some distance between himself and anyone but a few.   He would put his head on my lap, push himself between me and other people, but just lay on the floor beside me?  No, that wasn’t really his style.  He preferred the cool space by the front door to my lap.

Maverick wants to be on me all the time.  When he’s playing, when he’s sleeping.   He gets his toy – of which he has many – and gets part of his body on my lap or as close to my leg as possible.   When he sleeps during the day, he wants up on the sofa, curled up between me and a pillow, or beside me on the floor, but some part of him has to be touching some part of me.

I love seeing the similarities between them.  I love seeing the differences.   I love that there ARE differences.   I couldn’t handle a Max but Not Max.   This funny, adorable little guy reminds me of Max in so many good ways.   And I cry while I laugh at him, wishing Max were still here, wishing Max could truly be a big brother to this Tiny Terror.   He’s so full of himself, so confident, so curious and happy and loving.  I know he’d love Max.  I know he’d look up to him and learn from him – I miss him so.

I told the Bear that I want to get a sign made and put on the path to Max’s field.   That field will always be his – as will so many things here.   And my heart will always be his.  I’m grateful that there’s room in this oh so broken heart to love another.   Grateful to Max for showing me that I can love more than one, and to Maverick for giving me Chapter 2.

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Sleep deprived but not love deprived

I really didn’t want to love this little terror.  I didn’t want to open myself up to this pain, this searing, unending pain, this loss that doesn’t get better with time, not again.  And then they put him in my arms and my heart went – oh, wtf, let’s do this.

Little Maverick.  You are the sweetest little tiny terror.

I asked Max to send us a puppy.   I guess he knew we needed laughter in our lives again.  The Tiny Terror has mde me laugh more in the past few days than I have in months.

And still I cry.   I miss my Max so much, and everyone tells me it will get better, and I should be getting over it and Maverick will heal my shattered heart.

That’s an awful big job for a Tiny Terror.   I don’t think he’s gonna make me whole.  I think he’s gonna make me laugh and let me see that I can love again, and that there’s still laughter in my soul.  Max taught me patience.   Good thing, because the tiny one is on the go from the minute he wakes up till the moment he crashes.  And oh, that moment, when he’s almost asleep and so sweet and soft and cuddly – that makes all the biting and tearing up the house worth it.

But it sure would be nice if I could get more than a couple hours of sleep at a time!

Posted in dogs, Maverick, Max, puppies | Tagged , , | 4 Comments