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My apologies; mea culpa. I have been remiss in my oinking responsibilities. My thanks to those of you who gently prodded to get me back online. I have no excuse for my absence other than: Life got in the way.
Is there anyone out there who considers time to be a fluid, relaxed space? Time is compressed in my world. I think I must orbit a black hole that peels time from me second by second. I start most days with: Oh please, let me sleep just five more minutes! And end with: Is that the 11 o’clock news? The moments in-between are filled with quick assessments: Is it possible to retrieve Nora from school, snack her, make it through eight traffic lights, get her skates laced and her onto the ice in less than 20 minutes? Can I make it to Lowe’s, the grocery store, the post office and the bank in the hour before the kids get home? If school started 10 minutes ago and I drive 60 miles per hour, will he be more than 15 minutes late?
When I posted last, we had just adopted Paco. In the weeks that followed, we packed and then demolished our kitchen, learned that Paco likes to mark, bought a new dishwasher, met with Liam’s math teacher, ordered replacement parts for the stove after the microwave accidentally fell on it, borrowed a dog crate, primed and painted part of the upstairs of our friends’ house, attended seven other meetings at two schools, tested for a red belt, scheduled and rescheduled appointments to get our hair cut, helped organize a night of silent and live auctions, hand-washed dishes in bins in the bathtub, had two field trips, got our hair cut, connected the replacement parts for the stove, competed in one Tae Kwon Do tournament, dealt with a temporary kitchen sink, bought gifts for four birthday parties-went to three, hosted one, primed and painted the backsplash, walls and ceiling, stopped using the dog crate, oversaw the installation of new cabinets and countertop, made fruitless calls to seven home improvement stores looking for oil-rubbed bronze sink drains, bought white sink drains, dyed Easter eggs at our friends’ house and…finally…unpacked the kitchen.
Poor dog. He had no idea what he was in for when we walked into his life.
**
Before demo, our kitchen had brown ceramic floor tiles, yellow laminate counters, oak and pressboard cabinets whose shelves sometimes tipped, a tiled backsplash with brown grout and a too-large peninsula that trapped guests in one half of the room or the other when I opened the refrigerator.
Demo was pretty satisfying:
And now, I am thrilled to have cherry cabinets, seamless hi-mac countertops, drawers that glide open and close softly, an extra deep sink and a super-quiet dishwasher. Floors and backsplash to be installed later this year. A big thank you to all our friends who lent expertise, muscle and fun to this project. You know we couldn’t have done it without you!
Once upon a time, there was a boy. The boy owned a red dog with a curly tail. The dog was one of a kind—a mixed-breed stray found riding the “T” in Boston. This boy loved this dog more than anything in the world. Until the day the boy met the girl.
At first, the dog resented the girl for usurping his place in the car (among other places) but after many months, he grew to tolerate her. The trio moved to the suburbs. The dog was unhappy. He was no suburbanite; he was a city dweller. The boy and the girl tried to cheer him up. They got a puppy to keep him company. The dog thought this was a tremendously stupid idea but learned to tolerate the puppy at least as well as he did the girl. Life was good.
Time passed. Before they knew it, the boy and the girl grew up.
Babies were born, mortgages obtained, promotions earned. Bills were paid, child enrichment programs found, someone started preschool. And the red dog became sick and died. Diapers were changed, family vacations planned, the chimney was replaced. The twelve-year-old puppy passed away in her sleep. Home improvement projects were started, business trips taken, play dates scheduled. Season after season whirled by. Someone started fourth grade.
The girl was surprised when she turned the page of her hometown newspaper and found a dog with a curly tail staring out at her. He was advertised as the “pet of the week,” right next to the police blotter and an article about a car colliding with a moose. So surprised was she that she didn’t pause to consider the consequences before sharing the dog’s picture with the boy.
The boy and the girl debated the pros and cons of dog ownership for weeks. While they argued, the shelter accidentally burned to the ground. The boy called all the shelters in the surrounding area in hopes of locating the dog. He found him. He had heartworm and lyme disease, but he was alive.
The boy and the girl and their three children drove to the middle of nowhere to meet the dog. The girl griped about muddy paw prints, expensive diseases and additional responsibilities for most of the two hour drive.
When the shelter’s manager went to retrieve the dog from his kennel, the boy held his breath. The girl steeled herself to dislike him. The kids chased each other around the room like puppies. The dog trotted into the melee with his head held high and his cinnamon bun tail waving from side to side.
He was red. An unbelievably familiar red.
The girl felt the tears gathering, didn’t trust herself to speak. She looked at the boy and knew it was a done deal. He was in love with a red dog. Again.
Meet Paco.
This post is in memory of Rocko. (The irony? Paco came to us pre-named.)
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