awakening

“If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.”
-Emile Zola

Hi Guys,
I freakin’ love this!
Ask yourselves –– What would you do in this situation?
(I’d be super squeamish about cutting up an entire fish, blech!)
I think we should ALL push ourselves outside our comfort zones more often. Who’s with me?
Carry On,
xox

You Guys!
I’ve started playing this new game recently. Actually, I’m obsessed with it.

It’s called seeding. No, I’m not planting wildflowers, I’m planting money$.

Yes, you heard me, I’m leaving money on the ground wherever I go.

It’s a practice that’s been around for a while, and I was recently reminded of it by something written byPam Grout of “E-Squared” fame.

The idea is to leave a few dollars on the ground or indiscriminate places along your daily path. It’s more than just leaving a few extra bucks in the Starbucks jar, it involves the element of surprise.

You know the thrill you get when you find twenty dollars in the pocket of a jacket you haven’t worn in a while?
I do the happy dance when that happens because I love an unexpected windfall. Hey, who doesn’t?

What about finding money on the ground?
I used to find dollar bills or wads of cash on my hiking trial on a regular basis. It made me feel lucky and special and …rich.

And that’s the point.

I don’t really have the extra money to be throwing around right now, but I’m getting such a rush from this game that I can’t help myself.

I wrapped a five dollar bill inside of a one dollar note because of the wow factor. That happened to me recently and it made my day.
I thought I found a couple of bucks but as I unpeeled the wad each bill got larger. It was twenty-eight dollars in all –– an absolute found fortune and it bought my friend and me lunch!

I’m a firm believer in what goes around comes around, but I swear you guys, that’s actually secondary to how much fun this is, picturing people finding your little seed money. (You WILL start finding money BTW.)

Trust me, NO ONE is so jaded that finding some cash doesn’t make them smile.

What I know for sure is that the money finds it’s way to the people who need it. That’s the intention behind this little experiment, so don’t be worrying that Joe Fat Cat is gonna run away with your seed money. It ain’t gonna happen, so don’t use that as an excuse.

Believe me, the ones who find it will be extremely grateful. They will feel blessed and fortunate and lucky. Those are the seeds you’re planting. What a gift you’ve given them –– and yourself.

Try it. A couple of dollars isn’t going to make or break you and I swear –– it’s addictive.

My friend leaves a buck or two under her seat in the subway.

I drop a wad of ones outside my car just before I drive away.

I left three dollars in the park.

I leave dollar bills under tables and booths in restaurants, for the person who sweeps up to find as they close up.

I scatter money on my walk in the mornings (no, I won’t tell you the route).

I live in a walking neighborhood with lots of families, kids and dogs, so I left some cash in front of my house between my driveway and my neighbors and no one found it for a whole day. (As a side note, it’s weird, most people don’t look down at the ground.) Anyway, I kept checking and when it finally disappeared…it felt like Christmas –– I smiled my ass off.

I left four dollars on the floor of my car at the car wash –– and the lovely, honest guy who was vacuuming came and found me to give it back. Don’t you just love humanity?

Drop some seed money this week and write and tell me how it went and how great it felt. You won’t be disappointed.

Carry On,
xox

When you get married, you say the words For better or for worse, and you mean them.

I know I did. At least as much as you can grasp the true meaning of for worse –– as it seems so remote in that moment, just a phrase inside of a vow -– especially after a flute of champagne -–  or four.

I took it to mean someone who is legally obligated by the State of California to share with me the good times as well as the bad. I felt reassured by that.

But what if you discover that when a for worse happens, like a death, the two of you process and handle the situation COMPLETELY differently.
How could you have known that?
And now what?

Especially when the deceased was loved equally by the both of you, how do you cope?

When something bad happens you want me on your team.
You see, I have what I call Delayed Reaction Syndrome. I immediately go into a hyper focused state – cool, calm and collected. I’m the one that makes the calls, orders the food, hands out the Kleenex, writes the eulogy, and is clear-headed enough to make all the uncomfortable decisions. I’m the furthest thing from emotional.
I’m …robotically rational. That is, until it what I call Phase Two kicks in.

My husband on the other hand wears his emotions on his sleeve. Actually they cover the entire outside of his body -– most especially his face.

He is incapable of holding back tears or masking sadness, and his reaction to death is appropriate and immediate.
There is no ambiguity. He’s profoundly sad and you know it.
In that respect we are a perfectly balanced match.

He grieves in the moment, while I get shit done.

There are cultures in the Mid East and Africa where they wail when someone dies, loudly and with great emotion, their bodies and faces contorted by grief. They even have professional wailers, I guess to help the family (and us Delayed Reaction types) along their emotional path.

I envy that. I really do. It appears to be an amazing release.

Two to three hours later is when Phase Two starts.

That’s about the time the tidal wave of sadness and grief comes ashore, washing me out to sea. Now I’m the one who needs comfort, I become numb, my mind unable to focus, and I want to talk and hug…a lot.

But by that time my husband is finished with his outward displays of emotion. He’s all cried out. He has now retreated deep inside, into his cave, and had moved a huge boulder over the entrance.

There’s no reaching him now.

I need to be held and reassured. That is uncharacteristically physically uncomfortable for him.
I need to cry…with someone. My tears are too much for him to handle. He’s reached sadness saturation. He is not available to me in any way, shape or form.

Moving through grief is a very solitary process, and it looks different for everyone.
I get it, I do.
But I don’t like it.

Come to find out we are just as incompatible in Phase Three.

His looks like this: Stay busy. Busy is good. Plan as many meetings and work related things as you can. Book yourself solid for twelve hours straight – then come home and pass out. Try to forget. Want all signs of the deceased erased from the house (I couldn’t do it) and no talking or tears please, too raw.

Mine looks like this: Stay in pj’s on the couch. Cancel meetings, walk neighborhood aimlessly while crying, with Kleenex stuffed up both nostrils, and don’t eat. Isolate and wish for company all at the same time. Bore strangers with your stories. Wish alcohol made you feel better or even helped you to sleep for that matter. Wash all the blankets and beds and then suffer huge regret, searching for her smell. Curl up with favorite stuffed animal for waaaaayyy too long. Forget to wash hair for three days.

Like I said, grief is an extremely solitary emotion that no amount of hugs, or kind words can help. Only time.

And just when you need it the least, it drives a wedge between two people who deal with death differently.

Even two people who love each other to bits just can’t manage to show up to soothe the other person. It was the first time I couldn’t help him. And it just goes to show that even when someone is legally bound to be there for you, sometimes they just can’t…and that came as a complete surprise –– and a crushing disappointment.

Phase Four:

You’ve got to find your solace inside yourself and that’s excruciatingly hard.

Even though he was required by law, when he promised, “I do” –– to be there for worse –– for me –– he had to find his own way first, and while he did that, I searched for my own.

Then we met, after a week, somewhere in the middle –– with open wounds and tears and stories of our journey, and in the process of finding our way back; we’ve grown and changed.

We’re different, and I think in the end we’ll be the better for it.

Carry on,
Xox

*Below is a post from last year that got a lot of play. I like the story and I stick with my observation about people in LA. I should know, I was born here after all.
Watcha think?

I heard this story recently, about a woman who went home for the holidays.

Don’t twitch with anxiety, this isn’t about family hijinks – it’s about worthiness.

While she was in Ohio, Illinois or Iowa, you know – the cradle of civilization for transplanted Californians – she met with friends who were also there serving their sentence – I mean visiting family.

Inside one of those knotty pine kitchens with the avocado appliances, we all know the ones, they haven’t been touched since 1970; they all sat around the table catching up. Life it seems, had been good to this cross-section of her friends. They had kids in college, long-standing careers, minimal health issues, at least one living parent, and all their teeth; yet, the entire first hour was a bitch session.

It was as if the Complaining Olympics had come to town. She got so caught up in it, hoping to at least medal, (she could picture herself atop the podium, National Anthem playing) that she embellished her story about a car insurance claim gone south.
In actuality she had a pretty good life, would they judge her for it if she just said so?

Meanwhile, the host made a pot of coffee in a percolator, and cut up a Sara Lee pound cake to give them just the right amount of caffeine and sugar to maintain their energy – in order to keep the complaints coming.

It was the house he’d lived in since he was four, a two-story colonial, which since his mom had passed was occupied solely by his dad, who by all accounts continued to be robust and health -– but apparently clumsy as shit.

“Sorry guys, I can’t find any cups that match” he said sounding embarrassed as he laid out the cake with a selection of several random cups.

There was a mug from the local University, a flowered porcelain teacup with a tiny chip on the rim, a green Pottery Barn ceramic mug that looked as if it had once been part of a set, a plain, clear, glass cup, a tall, white, fancy looking cup that was fluted and flared at the top, and a large styrofoam cup from a stack on top of the fridge.

He, being the gracious host he was, poured his coffee into the styrofoam cup, everyone else jockeyed around, silently sizing up the remaining cups.

The one friend, a mom with five kids, took the plain glass one, handing the nice white one to her friend the attorney. “Oh, that’s too nice” her friend said, putting it back on the table, taking the dainty teacup even after she noticed the chip.

One of the guys took the college mug, after picking up the green cup from the set, and putting it back. After the other two got their cake, deferring the cup choice until everyone else had picked, one grabbed the Pottery Barn mug and the other reached up and got a styrofoam cup off the pile on the fridge.

No one chose the nice, white cup.

She was sure no one else noticed, but she did.

It was so interesting for her to observe what cups people chose.
It was like a small social experiment. Everyone left the fanciest cup for the other guy, until it stood alone, un chosen.

One of the men would rather drink from styrofoam than a fancy white cup. One of the women put it back and chose one with a chip.

What was all that about?

Worthiness. Apparently no one felt they deserved the nice cup.

Now, I’m gonna level a HUGE generalization here – that is SO Midwest.

If this little kitchen scene had taken place in LA – people would have pushed each other down to get the nicest cup; the chipped teacup would have been thrown in the trash, “That’s just dangerous” –– and NO ONE would have dared drink a hot beverage from styrofoam! “Studies have shown styrofoam to be carcinogenic and bad for the environment,” I can hear the attorney saying, citing a current class action suit that’s pending.

So, two questions: do you find yourself competing in a bitchfest when you reconnect with old friends, not being able to admit that you’re actually…happy? AND which cup would you have picked and why?

Don’t say you don’t drink coffee, this story works for you tea drinkers as well.

Xox

Uh oh…this one’s a real challenge for me.

When you’re grieving a loss it is impossible to escape the memories. No place is safe.

Every room, chair, blanket, toy, vomit stain, neighborhood walk, and piece of grass is a minefield of emotions.
That applies to the loss of a dog.

For a human being you can just multiply that by a quadrillion.

Since daylight savings time had the bad taste to pick last weekend, the weekend of her death to bestow upon us its gift of an additional hour of daylight, I had the poor judgement to sit out in the backyard and write.
My bad.

It was one of her favorite places.
It is dog Disneyland, containing all the essentials required for canine happiness.
Grass, toys, balls and frisbees, and the arms with which to throw them (ours), so our OCD dog could wrangle you into a game of catch no matter what other plans you had made for yourself.

Nap? Nope – Catch.

Settle in and read a book? Nope – Catch.

Bar-B-Q, talk with a friend, write a book? Nope, nope and double nope. But good try.

Time for a relentless five-hour game of catch!
You get the picture.

The boxer-shark puppy, Ruby, did not inherit the ball, frisbee, play catch gene.

She inherited a whole myriad of other traits that are even more annoying, like digging up lawns and eating expensive furniture, but that particular “play catch/fetch” gene? It skipped her entirely.

If you throw a ball her way it will hit her in the head and then she’ll watch it as it rolls right past her. Believe me, I just tried to play fetch with her on Sunday.

But that was then –– this was Monday evening.

We were sitting in back, remembering the old girl and crying.
Okay maybe not we, me, I was. My husband I’m sure was thinking: please for the love of God woman, give it a rest.

But grief didn’t care. I was grief’s bitch. Grief was the boss of me.

Anyway…after a half an hour of hearing me carry on, waxing poetic about how Dita would be playing ball right now, Dita would be next to me with the Frisbee,something had to give. With an exasperated sigh the puppy got up off the ottoman, stretched, sauntered over and picked up a tennis ball in her mouth, brought it over to me and dropped it at my feet.

Then she looked up at me with her big soulful eyes, so full of compassion that said: Shut the fuck up already, Here! Throw the God damn ball!

I half-heartedly picked it up and gave it a sideways toss onto the grass, never for one minute expecting what happened next. Instead of watching it whizz by her head like she usually did, the puppy bolted out to the lawn, stopped its momentum, picked it up in her mouth and ran it back to me… Just like Dita.

I jumped to my feet,“Did you see that?” I yelled, wiping the tears from my eyes to clear my vision. Had I imagined it?

My husband straightened in his chair. “Do it again” he said.
And I did; over and over for almost a half an hour. She fetched every ball, just like Dita. As a matter of fact EXACTLY like Dita. Same energy level, same ferocity, she even made the same little growl when she picked it up off the grass.

“If I bounce this ball and she spikes it with her nose, I’m gonna lose my mind” I announced very enthusiastically to my bewildered husband. “Because then I’ll know. That dog isn’t Ruby, that is Dita in that puppy body, playing catch with me so I’ll stop being so sad.”

And on the next bounce she did. She spiked the ball off her nose and caught it in mid-air. Just. Like. Dita.

“If I hadn’t just seen that with my own eyes…” my husband said, shaking his head, eyes welling up with tears.

Here’s the thing:

Our animals, family members, and all the people we hold so dear would never want us to suffer over their loss, that I know for sure, so I think they give us the gift of their presence, even just for a minute, to lessen our grief, and let us know they are near.

I’ve heard and read numerous stories about occurrences that cannot be chalked up to coincidence.

Favorite perfume in the air, music they loved on radio, seeing their name everywhere, even an athletically challenged, previously uninterested puppy playing an all-star game of fetch.

All that just to let us know that they’re fine, they are with us and for God sakes stop crying!

Addendum: That incident helped me to really feel her near me, which then in turn gave me comfort –– she didn’t feel so far away. I feel so much better AND I tossed a ball Ruby’s way this morning…it hit her in the leg and rolled unnoticed into the bushes…just sayin’

Carry on,
Xox

*this is a little trip down memory lane from last July. In honor of Dita, but also reminds me what a handful they were together!

This weekend, in a heroic act of immense bravery we took BOTH dogs, the boxer shark puppy, Ruby and the old girl, Dita, on a road trip up north to the Mountains of Santa Cruz.

Seems we were spurred on by a false sense of confidence, fueled by hope (and the need to get away, eat and drink too much and the lure of a good party) and by the fact that the couple who’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary we were road tripping to see, are dog lovers and had recently lost their old girl, and needed a dog fix.

Our friends usually have a room in their home with our name on it, except this time, since so many family members were coming into town and they had a full house.

No biggie, we’ve stayed at the local dog friendly hotels in the past, easy peasy – with one dog.

Now one mature dog and a seven month old boxer shark puppy isn’t two dogs; the number multiplies exponentially by the misbehaving, excess energy factor and the general havoc wreaked; making it seem in stress and aggravation as if there are nine wild, howling hounds.

I’d like to file a grievance right here and now with the Canine Powers that be.

I was misled to believe that the old dog would co-parent the puppy; giving us a helping paw with the potty training and pass along all the amazing traits that had made her such a well-behaved joy, and our home such a well oiled machine.

What a fucking lie.
The exact opposite has occurred.

The older girl now eyes with intrigue, all the raucous misbehavior that had never even occurred to her, like jumping up to the kitchen island to eat our dinner while our backs are turned.

She hits her forehead with her paw, like “Doh” and feels she has a lot of catching up to do.

Dita had the training of a service dog…..not anymore.

The puppy’s bad behavior has begun to rub off on her.
Ruby has cajoled my sweet old girl into barking (unheard of) ignoring orders to sit and stay, flipping us off and sticking out her tongue at us behind our backs, making long distance phone calls and smoking behind the garage.
They are both behaving like thirteen year old teenage bitches.

If this trip had a title, it would be called the “what’s the worst case scenario dog and pony show?”

“Well, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” was our default expectation.

Those two could assume the roles of furry terrorists. They could trash the room like a couple of drugged out, over sexed eighties rock stars, they could jump on party guests, muddying white pants, overturning lavishly decked out buffet tables and leave two big poops in the middle of the lawn. That was our worst case scenario  speculation. We wanted to steal ourselves for the worst, like soldiers preparing for battle, so we could be prepared.

We have a doggie door at home, which in my opinion is the best invention since sliced bread.
It is better than sliced bread. I will happily slice my own bread, if my dogs can take themselves out to shit in the middle of the night.

When we go away, we are privy to our dog’s bathroom habits, of which we are blissfully otherwise unaware.

In other words, we have to wake up, get dressed, get a leash, walk down a long corridor, traverse stairs, find a patch of grass, and indulge Ruby’s urge to go star-gazing and maybe relieve herself of a thimble full of pee at 3am.

Then, back at the room, the minute you get everyone settled, get undressed and climb back in bed, Dita, who had been feigning coma sleep, yawns loudly, shakes and lets you know in no uncertain terms: now she has to go out.

I know they hatched this plan when we left them alone in the car while we ate lunch on the way up. They are now laughing the uproarious laughter that only the naughtiest of dogs can hear.

I’m certain of it.

I’m telling you, Mean Girls.

The Worst Case Scenario Dog and Pony Show.

I knew I had to stop this madness.
I had to nip this thinking in the bud, or it would become a self-fulfilling prophesy.

As I always say, it’s all in the energy of our expectations.

Why couldn’t we hope for the best instead of expecting the worst?
We had to.

I decided to rename the trip to the BEST Case Scenario Tour, where every thing turns out BETTER than expected, where the girls are well-behaved, everyone sleeps through the night, there’s no crying (Raphael) and everyone has fun.

Once I suggested we change our expectations, the vibe shifted.
Although we were still hyper vigilant at the party, we let them run free without leashes, playing with the kids and even ended up abandoning our plan to put them in the van once the food was served.

Truth be told, they played so hard with all the kids and the other dogs, smiling their big toothy dog smiles, (including a one hundred pound, big lug of a Great Dane puppy) that they were far too exhausted by the time the food was served to cause any trouble.
They fell asleep in the car two seconds after we left to go back to the hotel, slept through the night without a whimper and had sweet dreams of the best dog day EVER.

Did they suddenly become the best behaved dogs in the world? Or did we just chill out and stop expecting mayhem?

Hmmmmmmm, hard to tell.

What was the Best case scenario?
Exactly what happened.

*You can substitute the word dogs with children, co-workers or in-laws, it’s all the same.

Tell me about your dog/kids road trips. I’m sure you’ve got some stories to share.
Remember when you share it helps the tribe!

Sending big, wet, dog kisses,
Xox

So I woke up this morning feeling so much better. I’ll write about why tomorrow.

Needless to say it’s been a rough three days and when I looked in the mirror this morning, while I was brushing my teeth, the reflection that looked back at me was that of a puffer fish. My eyes swollen from crying, nose chapped and red and basically just a hot mess on toast.

It actually shocked me, it was so…NOT attractive.

Then I heard a voice in my head and it was that of my late friend Scott from my days in jewelry. Scott was a gentleman jewelry dealer in his seventies, with a head of white hair, bespoke suits and gorgeous antique rings and watches, he was someone out of another era… Let’s face it, Scott was a dandy.

He was also a shrewd judge of character and noticed everything down to the most minute detail.
This man had impeccable taste with the manners to match and although he spoke very little, what he said always hit the mark.

Scott could be a pompous ass, but who cares! — I thought he was divine.

Anyway, one afternoon while he was perusing the jewelry trays and entertaining me with one of the stories from his fabulous life, a customer entered. She gave us both a nod when we looked up but I noticed when Scott directed his gazed back down at his pile of treasures, he had one very raised eyebrow.

After another few minutes passed, I asked her if she needed any help and she very cheerfully answered back that she was “just looking”.

When I directed my attention back to Scott the eyebrow was still arched to high heaven.

Soon after she thanked me and left the store. A minute later without looking up, Scott said in his best faux British accent, “She had a face made for radio” which was his 1950’s gentlemanly way of acknowledging the obvious.

The woman was polite and nice but unfortunately, she was coyote ugly.

I gasped when he said it, but without missing a beat he looked up and winked at me with one of his twinkling, crystal blue eyes.

This morning I heard Scott’s dry, sarcastic voice as I looked in the mirror, “Sweetheart, you have a face made for radio.”

And I started to laugh. And not just a giggle, no it was from my big toe, into my belly, giant knee slapping peals of laughter –– long and deep and after the last few days I’ve gotta tell you –– it felt really good.

I’m sure my husband thought I’d lost my mind.

You guys, I do!
Today, I have a puffer fish face made for radio!

Love you Scott!

I just had to share.

Xox

“Grief, covers you with the weight of a wet blanket, smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack:
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…its about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of  its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

xox

* dearest loves, I want to extend my heartfelt thanks for all the outpouring of love and condolences, the emails, notes and flowers. It just affirms how extraordinary she was (is).

What can I say about losing a pet?

They are arguably a member of the family, an integral cog in the wheel that is our day-to-day life. They accept our moods, dysfunction and questionable decisions with a complete lack of judgement and a wash of unconditional love. Who else can do that for us?

We lost Querida (Dita) our precious 9+ year old boxer girl last night.
It was sudden, in her sleep, in the back of my husband’s van that doubles as her pimp ride everyday. The back seat of this vehicle looks like the inside of Jeannie’s bottle, lush and cushy, ridiculously cozy with balls and blankets and toys, befitting such a queen.
She exited this life HER way. No fuss, no muss and no drama.
It was the way I would have chosen for her to go, and truth be told, the way I had been begging her to choose –– the way we all want to go –– instantly, painlessly and peacefully. Right?

Then why do I feel so bad?

Ugh. I write this with such a heavy heart, and I know better….I really do. I know in my heart of hearts that she has merged with pure positive energy and is playing a wicked game of frisbee in dog park heaven…yet, I can’t stop the tears.

I’ve grieved cats before. I lost two of them to coyotes ten years ago. But losing a dog feels different to me in this way: Cats are affectionate, and mine loved me something awful, don’t get me wrong, but I never got a sense from them that they needed me. Not for their happiness anyway. Maybe to feed them and an occasional cuddle and pet, but I was quite aware that the human in their life wasn’t Janet specific – it was…interchangeable.

But my dog? SHE loved her mommy (me) and she let me know it every day.
She’d follow me around, especially this last year or so as her health declined, with her big soulful eyes, finding solace in watching me go through my daily routine. She’d peek around the corner if I wasn’t in the kitchen for coffee fast enough, Pssst, you comin’?
And accompany me to the bathroom to drink out of the bidet. She also stood beside the shower every morning waiting for the hot washcloth to rid her of the smeared make-up. As you can see from the photos, she was a bit heavy handed with the eyeliner.
They love routine. SHE loved routine.

Every morning I play the Gayatri Mantra chant by Dev Premal. It wafts through the house for a couple of hours while we go about our morning rituals. It soothes and calms and helps us start the day without killing each other.
Yesterday was no exception, but I noticed as I raced around, that Dita was standing in front of the computer with the most blissed out look on her face. I mean BLISSED.
I even made several comments to Raphael, chuckling, “Dita is REALLY enjoying the chant this morning!”

That’s what I want to remember.
My Yogi girl, with her snaggle toothed face, looking up at me, blissed out on the smell of incense and the sound of ancient Hindu chants.
As a side note, I play meditations at night to fall asleep. They last maybe fifteen minutes and none of us ever hear the end because –– out -we-go. All I had to do was start the intro and she’d hop down into her own bed, and proceeded to follow the breathing. I’m serious.

Breathe in… the tape would say, and as I inhaled a deep breath, I could hear Dita do the same. And…exhale… Which we’d both do, Dita and I, in tandem. It was so endearing that I would even elbow my husband, are you hearing this?

I’m gonna miss that.

Indulge me for a second while I remember her.

I raised her from an eight week old puppy the size of my foot.
I carried her outside to pee in the middle of the night as a puppy, inside my T-shirt, rain or shine, until she got the hang of the doggie door. It was me she came to when she didn’t feel good, right up until last week.
If I would have had a zipper, she would have crawled inside my Mommy suit.

We were a team, the two of us. Not like her dad and she, different –– in an almost metaphysical way.
We got each other. She understood my moods. She understood English for that matter, always freaking me out when I’d ask her to fetch her blue ball out of a box of tens of toys. She would disappear for a couple of minutes and there she’d be, blue ball in her mouth.
I know every mother says it – but she was gifted.

She held my hand at night, slept with me when Raphael went on his far away motorcycle excursions, and was our alarm clock, waking us all at 6 a.m. every morning. I expect I’ll be late for a while.

She was a wiz at balancing a banana on her nose, and then, on command, flipping it into her mouth, with great pride I must add. She also loved to eat ice cubes.

She hiked the canyons with me from the time she was twelve weeks until her legs gave out, loved to bite the sprinklers, was obsessed with balls, frisbee and playing catch, rode in the motorcycle sidecar like a biker bitch, wore a security vest at my husband’s job sites (with full attitude I might add) was impeccably trained, well-mannered and polite.

She was my “shop dog” at Atik, the greeter, the mascot and the resident rascal. She’d wear any hat, glasses, and reindeer antlers that came her way, she even rocked an orange polar-fleece vest that made my husband cringe with embarrassment.
She was game for anything. I loved that about her.

She knew funny. She had the comedic timing of Lucille Ball.
Dita knew how to make us laugh and loved to do it. But she never overdid it – she was a pro.

She hasn’t been too keen on the addition of the boxer-shark puppy this past year. I think our little plan backfired, calling attention to her advancing age, rather than prolonging her youth. I’m sorry baby.

I look forward to the sadness lifting so I can be more receptive to feeling her around me, because I know that’s how these thing work., and I’m looking forward to her visit.

Thanks guys, I needed to write just a small tribute to her – she deserved it.

A class act till the end, she touched a lot of hearts and will be sorely missed by so many.
Fuck…losing a pet…

xox