STAYING ALIVE

         Aren't we supposed to sleep late on Sunday mornings? Isn't that the tradition in this country? It can't happen in this house, not with a sonar eared dog, who hears thunder even if it be thirty miles away in the distant Northern Catskills.

         Out of the cellar she comes, hyperventilating, into my bedroom to pant into my face. When I don't sympathize, she heads for the guestroom where the weekend visitor sleeps in supreme ignorance of this furry Doppler radar warning device. Can't have that happen, so I get up. It is raining, breaking the heat/humidity cycle that has enveloped the area for the past few days.

         As I drink my coffee in the living room, she continues to agitate about the weather. Books tell me to acclimate the dog to the noise, but I suspect that chance left seven years ago when she was a pup and underachieving at Upsandowns, the obedience school. I keep her diploma on the wall of my office, but get a laugh every time I see it.

         She really should have gone to Royalty training school to prepare her for her reign. She owns the house and all that are therein, or at least those parts the cat does not possess. I am consigned to my bed that she jumps on with glee, the couch that is two-thirds hers, and this computer table and chair, which is one hundred percent mine. She would take it too if she could figure out a way to sit upright and type with her big paws.

         With all due respects to her royal mien, she is not much help to my coming to grips with the fact that a constant of twenty-six years is missing from my life. She was not there at the beginning nor does she understand the end. The cat, for all her wisdom, does not seem to understand either. She looks up each time I come in the door, looking for the mistress who petted her and gave her the midnight feedings she craves.

         Neither animal can help me decide when, where or how to dispose of the books, clothes and other accumulations of these years. I am fortunate that one of our readers decides that she would like to have the art supplies for her son, but what of the two metal cabinets filled with oil paintings? They may stand in the corner of the garage for years, as they have done since we moved here.

         There are the proverbial ‘no-brainer’ decisions. Toothbrush, combs, old bedroom slippers and a torn poncho easily go into the trash, along with foods only she would eat. The big jobs like the closets and chests will take time. Advice comes from all quarters. My sister-in-law tells me she made the mistake of waiting, but another person says I must take my time and do it when it feels right.

         Though she died last week, I have had almost a year to miss her, either because she was in a hospital, assisted living facility or laying here in bed, her mind totally on her illness. As another friend said to me, I entered a tunnel and am only now emerging into the sunlight. From the beginning the outcome was predetermined. The period of mourning began then.

         So now I hear her in those moments when she would be sure to comment and instruct. I grocery shop with my guest and as I pick out romaine lettuce, I hear my wife say to put it in the bag and tie the bag shut. I hear her tell me to lock the car, though why anyone would steal my toxic dump would be beyond me. My friend suggests we buy a small grill to use on the deck and I hear my wife objecting, fearing the house will burn down.

         I sit on the deck in the evening and other remembrances come back, to be told to my friend. As I start another one, I mention that I must stop doing this, but she tells me to go on. By the next day I am emptied out and talk turns to a future not predetermined and then back to the present. The sun has come out to cheer this day that began with my heavy breathing dog.

         We plant the flowers in pots, put together the grill. She marinated the chicken last night and now she cuts up potatoes and wraps them in aluminum foil, which was always ‘Silver Paper” to Morgan. The charcoal is lit and soon the potatoes are cooking, followed by the chicken. This is a more memorable and movable feast than my Caesar salad of last night.

         We eat inside. As I am taking a second helping of potatoes, the phone rings. It is Rhonda, my brother-in-law’s long time companion inquiring how I am. As we chat, my friend dumps the rest of the chicken on my plate. She has been telling me how poorly I eat: “Too much starch”, she says, except that in her New England accent it is S-T-A-W-C-H, the ‘r’ having been lost in the Connecticut River.

         Rhonda and I speak of the animals and the obligatory ‘if there is anything we can do to help’. I explain that I am getting by just fine on the comfort of a stranger who has become a friend. We hang up, I finish the chicken and we pile each into our own car, I accompanied by the dog that started this piece. I guide her to the Parkway. She drives off into the evening. When I arrive home, the house feels friendlier and the task in front of me does not seem as hard. I give the dog an extra treat for being so good.

Valatie June 19, 2001