National Dog Day: 39 Days

Adam Levine was right. This summer's gonna hurt like a motherf*cker.

Today is National Dog Day. Just as National Donut Day, National Creamsicle Day, and National Lighthouse Day ... it gives ordinary people extraordinary reasons to celebrate ordinary things. I'm sure it all has to do with social media.

But today is National Day Dog. And our dog was anything but ordinary.

39 Days

When we moved into our neighborhood 10 years ago, my own Dad said we needed a dog. Dogs and babies make neighbors. He was right. A year and a half later, we had neighbors.

We had a dog.

Jasper was a clearance sale Beagle. I had to really sell the Dad on his purchase. I always knew I’d have a Beagle, and his name would be Jasper. Back then, when I was 26, he was part of The Plan. Graduate from college. Get married. Buy a house. Get a dog. Have kids. He fit perfectly into that plan. He fit perfectly into our family.

Born on 3/16, we brought him home to the 316.

Perfect.

He screamed/barked bloody murder all the way home after we picked him up. 15 miles of freeway, with a howling, braying 11-week old puppy with ridiculous ears caged in the backseat. To his credit, the Dad just kept driving, hands gripping the steering wheel, silent.

We gave him a miniature green collar and a tour of his new home. We showed him the linoleum, tile, and hardwooded areas he was to stay on, period. No carpet. No furniture. No exception.

No chance in hell.

He cried all night, every night. Laundry room. Garage. Entryway.

He stopped crying when we put his bed right next to our bed.

He stayed there for nine years.

Acquiring a dog tethered us to something we needed. It gave us a home. A purpose. A reason to leave Happy Hour. It made the two of us into a family, and gave us someone else to focus on other than each other. It was that first integral “thing” we did aside from the mortgage. He kept shitting on the floor in the brand-new basement; we enrolled him in puppy school where we spent a month paying too much money for idiots to teach us how to discourage that very behavior of his. One of his instructors literally showed us how to tell if our dog was about to poop. It was awful. And hilarious. It showed us that if it mattered to someone important to us, like our puppy, we had to do it.

He never ate a single shoe.

He never chewed on a single piece of furniture.

He did eat my favorite childhood book of all time, the one my Grandma had gifted me because she had read it to me 5,987 times. The Meanest Mouse & Other Mean Stories by Janice May Udry. But the Dad salvaged a lot of the cover because it was my original copy, and found a replacement on eBay.

He was the unPuppy. The unDog.

The vet told us he had 11 days.

He lived, and really lived, for 28 more than that.

I know he had a few things yet to accomplish.

He needed to live to see the Dad celebrate another birthday on the 4^th of July. He needed to protect his baby sister from the loud, scary fireworks for one more summer. Because next summer, when she’s eight, she’ll wholeheartedly welcome them. She won’t need his protection.

He also needed to taste 40 handfuls of the fresh raspberries that grow so abundantly right here on his property. We took a final stroll through the gardens on his last day, and I apologized that the cucumbers and sugar snap peas weren’t ready for him. He loved those the most. Then he sniffed out the carrots, and we saw the few he’d been working on, gnawing on the tops that grow out so barely of the soil.

Who has a garden dog? I mean, I’ve heard of sheep dogs. Farm dogs.

We had a garden dog.

He was one of a kind.

Through the tears there is so much to be thankful for. I’m addicted to music, its form of therapy unrivaled when it comes to so many of life’s toughest lessons. When we loaded Jasper into the truck bed for his final ride, we laughed through the tears as the Dad’s favorite song of all time, Small Town by John Cougar Mellencamp came on the radio.

            Well I was born in a small town.

            And I can breathe in a small town.

            Gonna die in this small town.

            And that’s probably where they’ll bury me.

The next song on the final ride soundtrack was Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust.

That REALLY made us cry. But laugh, too, in that sick sort of deranged humor you can only experience when you’re on the edge of something awful.

            How do you think I’m going to get along,

            Without you when you’re gone?

            You took me for everything that I had,

           And kicked me out on my own.

And the trifecta of songs to wrap up our trip was when we walked out of the vet’s office, each holding an empty leash, an empty collar and Forever Young by Rod Stewart.

            May the good Lord be with you,

Down every road you roam,

And may sunshine and happiness,

Surround you when you’re far from home.

Each of us have sacred places, and we wanted to bury Jasper in his, which is the 80 acres where my Dad has built his cabin in Beaver Township. Beautiful, quiet, and full of sunshine. The most perfect spot for a forever sleep. I knew the area for his spot nearly exactly in my mind. The southwest corner of the cabin where we can see him from the window, and where he can see the driveway, announcing its visitors. 

What I didn’t know however, is how the sun would beat down on him there, surprising even my Dad who knows that terrain better than he knows most things. One of Jasper’s many nicknames was Sun Dog- he craved the sunshine endlessly. Or how we had to clear away so many ferns before we started the internment process. Ferns? Like Where the not-so-red Ferns Grow? Eerie. But perfect.

So today is National Dog Day.

And I don't have one anymore.

But I did, for nine years.

And an extra 39 days.

And he was the very best. 

Lessons to Be Learned from the Terminal

We thought it was just the post-winter blues. Gain a little (lots) of weight, age, fighting to get back to a daily activity level appropriate, all that. I’m talking about The Beagle, the beloved fourth member of our little family. I just had this feeling – call it mother’s instinct – something just wasn’t right for the longest time. Turns out I was right. Something is wrong.

The best part of The Beagle is his heart. And now, it’s also his worst part.

We brought him to the vet about a month ago. They diagnosed him with pancreatitis and gave him new food and a few drugs. A week later, he was worse. The Dad and I spent a lot of time lying on our bellies that week, up in our dog’s grill, trying to coax him to do things. Eat. Swallow pills. Wag his tail. Breathe. Don’t you go dying on us!

The things you do for your kids. Even if they’re not of our species.

He has a bad ticker. Technically, it’s a tumor around his heart, that’s essentially causing him to be in congestive heart failure. We’re sort of stuck in limbo at this point, three+ weeks post operation that was literally a life-saving procedure. We were sent home with our boy with the instructions no one ever wants in their pocket; wait for the decline, say your goodbyes, and bring him back.

And because of how I’m wired, I always look for the positive in most scenarios. It’s one of my superhero powers. So in that vein, I started to see some lessons to be gained from the terminally ill:

1. Dogs Smell Fear

Regarding instincts, dogs have amazing radar when something isn’t right. The Beagle has always slept on my side of the bed on the floor – right next to his Mama for nine straight years. A month before he got sick, he abruptly switched to The Dad’s side. Strange, we thought. Then when he slept on Kid Rock’s floor for the first time in either of their lives the night he had surgery, we got it. Dogs can sense anxiety, and he was just making the rounds to ensure his humans were all okay.

2. Humor is Always the Best Medicine

There are jokes and there are inappropriate jokes and we’ve been saying them all recently. The whole, he’s kicking hospice’s ass, and be nice to him, he’s dying, keeps us smirking a little, and the mood, light. We’re trying to be normal for our daughter’s sake, but I think a lot of it is going toward our sake, too.

3. Shoot it Straight

Having Kid Rock hug her “brother” goodbye before he went in because we didn’t know the outcome was awful. Awful. But so would’ve living with knowing we kept her from saying that goodbye in case he never came home. Being honest with her was the best policy, even if it gutted us a little. Face the music. That’s not the worst part. The worst part is waiting to have the conversation in the first place.

4. Live Like You’re Dying

Because we are. This includes astronomical grocery bills because your dog now requires people food for his last meal(s), and getting over your issue with pet hair on your furniture. Think of two adults, one kid, and an overweight, geriatric dog in one queen bed on a Saturday night. So much snoring and kicking … and so many memories.

5. Never Give Up

As The Beagle was trying to shake his post-winter blues, I began training for my first half-marathon. Naturally, I wanted to help him overcome the holiday weight and sluggishness so I began my training with him. Poor little guy! Running in harsh the Midwestern climate while in cardiac distress? The humanity! I had no idea he was sick. His eagerness never wavered. I got my shoes; he got his leash. There were a few runs I had to call home for a doggy pickup after a few miles, but damnit if he wasn’t begging by the front door the next time I went out. American author Charles Bukowski said, “My dear, find what you love, and let it kill you.” For The Beagle, it’s running full speed via leash, tethered to his people.

6. It’s Never Just About a Dog

It was a Friday when The Dad called me from the vet with the diagnosis. He was crying, I was crying. I was at work, a safe place I’ve only been part of for six months. When my coworkers saw me crying my face off, they moved right in to comfort me. I kept repeating, it’s only my dog, it’s only my dog by way of explaining it wasn’t something BAD. They all assured me of course it’s bad. It’s your dog, your love, your life. It doesn’t matter how big or little it is to you or anyone else, if it matters, it matters. Period.

7. Hope Floats

We have no idea what to expect. We only know it will get a helluva lot worse before it gets better. And that’s okay. We went to some dark places with this whole thing, saying we’ll never, ever get another dog. But that’s just not true. We’re dog people and dog people have dogs. We’ve had nine incredible years with BeagieSmallz. We couldn’t imagine never having that kind of love in our lives. We will say goodbye. We will grieve. It will be awful, but we’ll sign up to do it again and again because the pain is always, always worth the price.

They Really Ought to Meet Your Mother

Today wraps up your first grade year. I had the notion to write another recap blog, about how smart and capable and kindhearted you are. How much you'll miss art class and the graduating 8th graders and how insanely proud of you I am. How proud we are.

But you know all that. You are all that.

Instead, I paraphrased part of an incredible Ted Talk I saw at work this week. Before the video played, I leaned forward and said to my Tribe, "I'm in a weird, emotional place this week so I'm sure this will do a little damage," because I knew by topic alone this spoken word, this poetry would hit me where I love to be hit- in my Mama heart.

If I Should Have a Daughter

by Sarah Kay

Instead of "Mom," she's going to call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. 

And I'm going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand." 

And she's going to learn that this life will hit you. Hard. In the face. Wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. 

There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself, because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried. 

And, baby, I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him. 

But I know she will anyway, so instead, I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix. But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. 

I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this. There'll be days like this, my mama said. 

When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. 

And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away. 

You will put the wind in win some, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. 

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am ... pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. Baby, I'll tell her, "remember, your mama is a worrier, and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." 

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. Always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. 

Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

Watch entire Ted Talk here.

Why I Let My Daughter Watch the Avengers

I overheard two guys say, “what’s this thing rated?” when we walked past them and into the theatre to see Avengers: Age of Ultron last night. It’s rated PG-13 and I assume they were commenting because we had Kid Rock, age 7, in tow.

That’s right. I let my daughter watch the Avengers and you should, too.

I’m kidding. I don’t care what you do with your kids, just as I assume you don’t care what I do with mine. But yes, I let my daughter watch the Avengers for a couple reasons.

One. It shows her that there are good guys in this world. That’s it, more than anything. Yes, you can argue the franchise is violent. Graphic. Gory. It’s not, really. It’s sort of like Coyote trying to blow up the Road Runner with dynamite – it’s implied. The violence is sci-fi. Captain America throws his shield, Thor his hammer, Hawkeye his arrows. The bad guys stop pursuing. We need heroes in our everyday lives. She needs to know that bad guys – even if they win a battle but not the war – will be met with a troupe of superheroes. She needs to know that you can be a girl and kick ass, too. Thanks Black Widow.

Two. Because I’m so glad she’s moved on from princesses. I wasn’t a girly child. At all. I fought when I had to wear tights and dresses, and sleeping in those pink plastic curlers the night before Easter made me cry. While I revel in Kid Rock’s affinity for piles of jewelry and the-fluffier-the-better when it comes to her skirts, a (large) part of me is rejoicing in her tomboy-ish ways … and I know her Daddy concurs.

Three. Be careful what you wish for. You can argue that Tony Stark and his unwillingness to accept just good enough created Ultron. Just let shit go, man.

Four. It’s OK to root for the protagonist every now and again. I mean, who didn’t love Loki just a little bit? And also – don’t judge a book by its cover. The Twins, as they’re referred to in this film are nasty, evil-filled little humans. They are Romanian, to boot. You want to hate them and hope for their demise. Yet underneath those covers are their hearts and stories and you might change the way you previously judged them.

Five. Finish what you start, and carry a big stick … or, hammer. There are some intense scenes near the end of the film as the Avengers discuss how they’re going to proceed. They’re injured. They’re weary. They’re outnumbered. They’re pissed off at each other, at odds with personal decisions. But, Avengers always avenge even when they assume they’ll die trying. Hawkeye has always been my favorite Avenger, and his speech to Wanda … Academy Award-winning!

            You go out there and you fight, okay? And you fight to kill. If you stay in here, you’re good. I’ll get your brother to come and fetch you. But I need to know, okay? I’m going back out there because it’s my job. And I can’t fight and babysit. So I need to know because the city is flying, we’re fighting an army of robots, and I have a bow and arrow. None of this makes sense, but if you step out that door, you’re an Avenger.

Six. It teaches her to appreciate the theatre. I just spent 12 years in the cinema industry and I know how magical, how tangible Hollywood is. Even when we have 2008’s and budgets have been stripped to the minimum, there’s always a way to buy a ticket at the box office. She might not get to go to Disneyworld again, but I can promise her we’ll take her to see every single Disney film in the theatre and for those few hours, life is sweet.

Seven. The power of the sequel. And sequels and franchises. I’ve always been a huge proponent of giving my daughter something to look forward to, no matter how big or small. As the film wrapped up, there were conclusions drawn that allude to a sequel. She loves to know she’ll get to see her heroes in action again, even if it’s not for a few more years.

Eight. Find someone to be your lullaby. When Hulk smash gets really Hulk SMASH, he needs someone to be his touchstone, his reality. He finds that in Black Widow. Only she can calm him down, and she knows when to apply it. When you can't see past your rage, sadness, anxiety, whatever it is, count on someone to tell you, Hey big guy. The sun's getting real low.

So, yes, two grown-up men sitting in the first row of auditorium six last night ... it's rated PG-13 and I parental guided the shit out of the movie for my under 13 kid. She loved every single scene, and clued her Mama in on the subtle nuances and character references even I missed.

Teach Them Well

There was a commercial from the 1980’s – “I learned it from watching you,” it was when Say No to Drugs became America’s anthem. The commercial featured an angry father discovering his teenaged son was getting high, and the kid’s response was, well, “I learned it from watching you.” Dad gets high, kid gets high. Do as I say, not as I do.

Kid Rock wants long, brown hair like her Mama. She always has. She loves to wear my heels in the dining room, so she clicks on the hardwood floor. She prefers her lipgloss very, very dark. Make it noticeable! She pleads. She sets her alarm extra early so during the week, she can lay on the bathroom rug near my feet as I get ready for my day. It’s here with her at my feet I realized the opportunity I have to teach her well. After I’ve busted my ass at the gym pre-dawn and just before coffee, it’s there in those moments she trusts me and loves me most. She taught me that in order to teach her, I have to trust myself and love myself most. So instead of studying my profile in those awful bathroom lights, looking for the things – and there are always things – I despise, abhor, and possibly hate, I love, accept, and appreciate. She’s learning it from watching me.

Mothering a girl is by far my greatest gift and absolute privilege. Each day over the past seven-and-a-half years, I’ve rejoiced in that fact. It’s scary as hell. The future is terrifying. I was talking to a friend a few weeks ago who has younger siblings, and she asked if mothering is like that, going into freak-out Mama Bear mode at their defense. I said well, yes. Kind of. What the Dad and I agreed to do somewhere along the line is empower her. To teach her well, and then let her do it on her own. Because that’s the way this is built. Parenthood. We’ve never been helicopter parents, or rescue parents. When pushed on the subject matter, I’ll admit I might baby her too much, whereas the Dad admits he holds her to too high of a standard. After all, she’s only seven. After all, she IS seven and she’s empowered. We can’t be on the bus with her, the hallways, art class, or the playground. She has to know how to navigate that on her own. I love her stories, her indignations. What she deems unfair. How she defends her people. She’s a storm trooper already and I suppose I’m waiting for the principal to call. If you empower them, realize all that might encompass. She might throw a punch. Throw a can of paint. Throw a party.

One of my favorite quotes (and I am a word junkie) is, “We must be our own before we can be another’s”, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. In motherhood, I’ve taken that to mean – I have to take care of myself first, before I can successfully do that for my daughter. It was a hard transition, almost fighting against nature, when I realized I had to be my own before I could be hers. Because childhood is fleeting. 18 years is not a lot of time. Yes, I’ll be her Mama forever, but 18 is sort of the expiration. What would happen to me after that? What if I spent two decades not being my own? What would the shell of me look like? Teach them well.

Since she was born, I’ve traveled. I spent the first 7 years of her life kissing her goodbye more often sometimes, than I felt I was kissing her hello. I joined clubs and boards and teams – all obligations that while taking me away from her, in a sense, would make me my own. I maintained precious friendships and date nights and girls’ weekends and road trips and projects. I choose my freedoms and expressions of fashion including green extensions, a roadmap of tattoos, a nose ring more than a decade old. But you’re someone’s mom. But I’m this girl, first. I showed Kid Rock it’s impossible to physically be in two places at once – like a conference in Miami Beach and parent-teacher conferences, but spiritually and soulfully, it’s not impossible. I worked two jobs for years, missing more bedtimes and the sweet, sleepy routines than I made. I missed practices, presentations, celebrations, milestones. In reality, I missed nothing. I began a new career I’m incredibly passionate about, but removed the flexibility I had to favor her. I skip a lot of early weekend wake-ups with a warm, heat-seeking missile of kid so I can train for things that are important to me, to make her proud and inspire her to never be too afraid to try anything. The better I am, the better she is.

Together in the bathroom each morning, we love, we highlight, and we celebrate.

Teach them well.