Pink, no less. And it was a boy dog, a "stud." Either that, or a bitch who lifts her leg when she pees. And why would you lift when you can just do a squat?
We were all "draggin'" stuff yesterday -- logo tee shirts, extra water bottles, high energy snacks. (Yes, I view a box of Dunkin Donuts munchkins as a high energy snack.) And plenty of dogs, more than a few in pink tutus, all of them in pink somethin', be it a leash, a bandanna, or a spare tee shirt. The humans, all decked out in shades of pink as well, walked and jogged in support of women and their loved ones who have been affected, somehow, by breast cancer. The dogs walked and jogged in loyal and unquestioning support of their humans, not really giving a shit about breast cancer. Taking an occasional dump, maybe, but definitely not giving a shit.
It's been a ritual for at least five years, maybe more, participating on Mother's Day with my daughters and our friends in the Y-Me Race for the Cure. Rain or shine, every year, a picturesque slice of the Chicago lakefront becomes festooned with pink balloons, pink tents, pink banners, men, women, children, and yes, dogs, in pink, from head to toe, snout to tail. Even pink port-o-potties. All of us pounding the pavement together, raising our legs in solidarity to stamp out a disease that takes so many women from us much too soon.
It was one of those days, yesterday, when you just didn't know what you'd see next. Several reports were issued in my neighborhood of a particularly strange sight: me, toting large cobweb infested sports equipment and other artifacts out of my garage, me, wielding a big ass broom and sweeping up mountains of dried up leaves, dust, and, oddly, spare change. After receiving several panicked phone calls from friends, I confirmed the rumors (experience dictates that there is no point in denying; folks around here are ruthless, and will ferret out the truth if it's the last thing they do), and wondered why people found it so surprising that I was doing what comes naturally on a sunny Sunday in May -- spring cleaning. "What got into you," one friend asked, concerned. Gosh, it's not like I was vacuuming! (The last time that happened, my beloved Leo freaked out, his drooping tail signaling his alarm. To this day, I don't know if it was the shock of me pushing a vacuum or fear that something bad had happened to the cleaning lady, the weekly bearer of exotic dog treats and issuer of extra special hugs, but I've stayed away from the damn thing ever since.)
Even my daughter seemed to have been swept up (pardon the pun) in the strangeness of the day. "Is it okay if I clean out the car while you do the garage?" she asked me. She stared at me, worried, waiting for a response, but I was speechless. I suppose she was somewhat motivated by the prospect of taking ownership of that car in twelve days when she gets her license, but still. Cleaning it out herself? Without even being asked? The day was magical from the get go; it was becoming downright miraculous.
For about twenty-three years, Mother's Day has been, in my mind, the most important day on the calendar. Coincidentally, my oldest child is twenty-three, and, yes, this does suggest a bit of self involvement on my part. But I don't think I am all that different from a lot of folks -- females, in particular -- who fail to grasp the enormity of motherhood until they actually experience it from the mother side. And, if you're like me, you spend the rest of your Mother's Days not only expecting to be treated like royalty by your own children (good luck with that) but also trying to make it up to your own mom, dispensing gifts and "I love yous" the way you never did before.
It was a day of small miracles for me. Time with both daughters and some good friends; a gift I had really wanted (okay, I wasn't subtle, but I never am); a morning text and an evening phone call from my son in Japan, just to say hi and wish me a happy Mother's Day. Male dogs in pink tutus, grown men in tee shirts depicting boobs and sporting logos such as "BFF: Breast Friends Forever." And I never thought I liked "breast men."
The breast cancer walk seems to inspire lots of incongruous behavior, lots of small miracles. Maybe, one day, miracle of all miracles, there'll be a cure.
Love the title!!
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