Scent of a Manny

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Plagued by insomnia in the wee hours of this morning, I thought I might enjoy curling up with a book on my dog's favorite corner of his favorite couch. It was just another episode in my mission to overcome the emptiness of his absence, to maybe stop expecting to see his head pop up whenever I entered a room.

Slowly but surely, physical evidence of the valiant blind dog who had occupied my house and my heart for nine years is disappearing, but I still feel a bit surprised each time I realize he is no longer there. My first official act of closure was to pitch his little metal food and water bowls, along with the towel I kept beneath them to absorb some of the mess. Next, I lugged the various bags and cans of prescription and holistic diet food and treats to my car, intending to donate them to a nearby shelter. It isn't safe for me to go anywhere near an animal shelter yet, so the food remains in my trunk but, at least, out of sight. I tucked his leash, collar, and the bright green St. Patrick's Day beads he had been wearing the day he passed away into a drawer, the drawer filled with assorted dog-walking gloves and plastic grocery bags for poop pick-up.

Despite all my efforts, I am assaulted constantly by reminders of my loss. Manny's picture is still the wallpaper on my phone, and I cannot let it go. On a shopping spree at Target with my daughter yesterday, the register spit out a coupon for dog dental treats, even though I purchased nothing related to a pet. No matter how emphatically I try to unsubscribe, I continue to receive daily emails from the place where he got his baths. Dogs walk by my window all the time, and I have a moment of panic, wondering how Manny got out. When I walked into my bedroom last night, a shoe tree that Manny had once toppled was lying on the floor, shoes strewn everywhere. I assumed my blind dog was the culprit. My daughter suggested there may have been an unequal distribution of shoes. Buzz killer.

Back to this morning's insomnia. I truly believed curling up with a book on Manny's favorite corner of the couch would be liberating. The light in that particular corner is good, and it is the corner where I can lean comfortably on my left arm and have my right hand available for steadying a book or penning in answers to my New York Times puzzle. The cushions have been well vacuumed; the insidious layer of dog hair is gone.

All that is left, it seems, is Manny's aroma, and I use that word to be kind. Had Manny not been my dog and my house not been my house, I no doubt would have crinkled my nose at the distinct smell of dog that permeated my living space. But, with the exception of a few really bad days, I had become immune. To the dismay of anybody with a normal sense of smell, I would bury my nose in Manny's stinky coat, unfazed. Love induced blindness -- or, more accurately, anosmia. This from a woman who cannot sit anywhere near the bathrooms in a restaurant because she gets disgusted by the faint aroma of disinfectant.

Yes, I was unfazed by the smell of dog when it was actually accompanied by my beloved dog, but now, the stale odor of Manny in the corner of the couch, without Manny there, is oppressive. Gross, actually. There are only two possible solutions: sanitize the couch or get another dog.

Against my better judgment, I have been scouring the Internet, looking at breeds that sort of resemble Manny but not completely. Boxers and bulldogs are my picks of the moment, although the video clip someone shared -- of a bulldog's joyful encounter with a leaf blower -- has put boxers in a comfortable lead. The ones I am looking at are awfully cute and awfully expensive. At the prices I am seeing, I would repurchase Manny in a heartbeat, blindness and health problems and all, but for a puppy I have yet to meet I am not so sure.

It seems more prudent, right now, to get the couch cleaned. It will certainly be cheaper, but that's not really the issue. I am just not ready to fall head over heels in love again.

Satan as Co-Pilot

I am so confused.

Non-stop television news coverage of horrific events often has a numbing effect. Usually, after the first hour or two, I rely upon the repetitious chatter simply for some companionship and background noise. By the third hour, even though I am only half listening, I can recite the stories verbatim, having heard the same exact ones too many times as they loop their way around the ongoing broadcast. I no longer react to the ominous music that accompanies the announcer's occasional proclamation of "BREAKING NEWS;" I already know that the plane crash in the French Alps was not an accident, that the murderous co-pilot had always seemed so "normal," that the pilot had been locked out of his own cockpit and the co-pilot had been able, without not one computer geek on the ground noticing, to reprogram the auto-pilot in mid-flight to make a crash inevitable . I even know -- theoretically, at least, the way I know how to do CPR on a doll -- how to lock the cockpit door from the inside and where to find the useless keypad just outside.

There is no shortage of experts on CNN. I assume there will soon be, if there is not one already, a consultant specializing in aircraft crew lavatory behavior, particularly since the TSA will no doubt be scrambling to issue new regulations on the subject. That's just the way post-9/11 operators operate; if there's a bomb in a shoe, they will x-ray all shoes, if there's explosive powder in a drink, there will be no outside drinks, if somebody with dark skin appears to be sweating, there will be a full body cavity search. What will they think of next? Well, it all depends on what or who causes the next disaster. Maybe a psychiatrist in every cockpit. Maybe a cache of uber-grenades capable of penetrating a grenade proof door -- sealed, of course, in an overhead bin with a secret code that can override overrides.

We live in a crazy world, where seemingly normal and competent people can singlehandedly end hundreds of lives and ruin countless others. We are running out of bandaids. We are at a loss. And we are all, sadly, at a point where nothing surprises us.

Well, hardly anything. As I went about my business, hoping for some new articulation of questions and maybe even some new answers, my waning attention was grabbed by an unfamiliar voice: "Hi. I'm Ron Reagan." Isn't he dead? I ran back into the room to watch. This Ron Reagan did not look anything like Nancy's husband. He was thin, about my age, with lots of teeth, including one vampire-quality standout on the right side. He was engaging in a bit of a rant about religion and atheism, capping it all off with the somewhat bold statement that he is not afraid of Hell. Of course he isn't. You can't be afraid of something you don't believe in.

Young Ron was speaking on behalf of the Freedom From Religion Foundation (FFRF). With a lull in new information about the tragic plane crash, I began to wonder what the FFRF was all about. I could not believe it was simply about being an atheist and being fearless about Hell. Information was scant, but, from what I could tell, FFRF is less about standing for a particular position regarding God and Hell than it is about standing for separation of church and state and the freedom to choose one's beliefs or non-beliefs and the freedom to not have religion of any kind rammed down one's throat. Ron's little ad, in my opinion, was not doing justice to what could be a very good cause. And it certainly seemed a bit inappropriate when so many innocent lives had just been lost in such a senseless way. On the bright side -- if there is one -- it did catch my attention.

As I said, I am confused. About why anybody, suicidal or not, can be so reckless and evil and place so little value on life. About why, so many years after 9/11, we still cannot figure out a way to keep the good guys in and the bad guys out. About why some guy with a Dracula-esque mouth can capitalize on his father's name to make a mockery of what might otherwise be a legitimate cause. And, perhaps, about how I -- and many others -- have become so numb.

Presence of Mind, Present of Time

There is no present like time. 

That is the somewhat shuffled but wise message offered up by The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. I loved the first one, only liked the sequel. Maybe it was the sight of the thoroughly white haired Richard Gere hobnobbing with the old Brits that threw me. I still remember putting off some already eleventh hour studying one evening in college to see American Gigolo. I don't recall anything about the test, but I recall everything about Richard. Everything.

I saw the original Marigold about three years ago, and found it particularly moving. To me, it was a movie about dreamers, young and old. And it was about those of us who are sandwiched somewhere in between, too young to dream, too old to dream -- really just too preoccupied to see clearly. Or maybe just too scared to seem ridiculous. Fast forward to three years later, and the "tweener" with whom I had so closely identified was being coaxed over to the other side. She was plumper and a bit more wrinkled than I remembered, but still beautiful, and a white haired Richard Gere is still, after all, Richard Gere, and I was thinking the other side doesn't look all that bad. I even stopped obsessing over whether my friend and I had gotten a senior discount on our tickets or whether movies are just cheaper on Tuesday afternoons. 

The young dreamers in the movie are still radiant and smooth-skinned and captivating. I envy the way their joints seem to guide them seamlessly and painlessly through the obligatory Bollywood style dance number. Some of the moves made me wince out loud. But the old dreamers, weathered faces notwithstanding, are still radiant and captivating as well. I identified with the way their joints seemed to crack and pop each time they even attempted to keep up. I smiled to myself as I shifted in my seat to relieve some of my own aches.

Three years ago, when I was so moved by the original Marigold, I decided it was time to get serious and write a book. Looking back, I realize I misunderstood the message. Sure, it was about dreams, but it wasn't necessarily about making dreams come true -- not immediately, anyway. I think I have learned, since then, or maybe I am just beginning to learn, that time is not running out simply because I might get a senior discount at the movies. None of us knows how much of it we have left, and, yes, there is no present like time. But, as the old saying really goes, there is no time like the present, and there is no need to rush.

Processing the News

I lay awake most of last night staring at the ceiling. Thinking there must be something going on in the world to take my mind off the achingly empty space in my soul (and at the foot of my bed) left by the sudden departure of my dog. I went on line to investigate.

There was lots of old news: Netanyahu is pissing off Obama, ISIS is spreading its toxic word to misguided teenagers well beyond the battlefields of Syria, politicians are behaving badly. Yawn. There were a few titillating new tidbits -- the glossy photo of Kim Kardashian's large ass, or more accurately, the large photo of Kim's glossy ass, looking like a pair of balloons inflated by a helium tank gone haywire; the uber-moral right wingers equating Chipotle's refusal to serve environmentally unfriendly pork with other businesses' refusal to serve gays, lesbians, and bisexuals (that one made Kim's butt cheeks seem less ridiculous). And -- tucked in right after the really important news -- there was the unimaginable tragedy of seven children losing their lives in a house fire not far from my old high school in Brooklyn.

That last one stuck with me, gave me a dose of perspective on the topic of personal loss. On the topic of what's important and what isn't. Theoretically anyway. Life will go on, for me, even for the firemen who had to battle the Brooklyn blaze, and the talking heads will continue to talk mostly about the power of fanaticism and inhumanity and abject stupidity. Maybe that's what it's all about -- why we are all here for such a short time. After all, how much can anyone take?

My attempt to take my mind off my own silly grief was an exercise in futility. The news -- whether it is sad in and of itself or whether it is sad by virtue of the fact that it is news -- did not make the long dark hours pass any quicker. Nor did it stop my mind from its constant trickery. I kept hearing the click-click of tiny paws on the wood floor downstairs, the polite but firm bark of a dog by the back door wanting to go outside, the gentle, rhythmic snoring of a creature dreaming of tantalizing new smells and bit of beef jerky.

I doubt life will ever again be bearable for the mother who survived the Brooklyn fire or for anyone else who loved those children. Not so for me. All I lost was a dog, and when you get a dog, you fully expect that it will die before you do. In life, they provide you with a special kind of love and joy, and in death they leave you with a special kind of pain. And, on the bright side, in both life and death, they give you a good reason to take your mind off all the fanaticism and the inhumanity and the abject stupidity. Thank you, Manny, for that.

Safe Travels, Manny

Before I left Manny at the veterinary hospital a little before midnight, I asked if I could go give him a hug. This was the same hospital where I had sat on a blanket four years earlier, in the area not intended for visitors, trying to feed peanut butter on a spoon to Manny's best buddy, Leo, after his surgery. The doctors and nurses and technicians all went about their business around me, as if it were perfectly routine for a patient and his owner to be having an indoor picnic in their midst. I knew they would not deny me a simple hug.

The young smiling woman who had just painstakingly gone over the non-medical details with me -- phone numbers, visiting hours, procedures, the estimated cost (which, at this point in my dog mothering life does not even make me flinch) -- led me back. Manny was sleeping peacefully in his "private room" on the lower level of the neat stack of cages. I hated to disturb him; after what had been a rough day, I was happy to see him comfortable. I'd be back in the morning anyway to discuss treatment options with a doctor in the internal medicine department.

I went home, exhausted and relieved that he was in good hands. My phone vibrated only two hours later. I missed the first one and was staring, paralyzed, at the caller ID when it vibrated again. His heart had stopped. Manny was gone.

Just like that, this creature who had charmed me senseless the moment I saw him, the guy who has weathered more than his share of bad luck for the past four years but, in spite of it all, has stood by my side and been one of the few constants in my ever changing landscape, was gone. When I finally announced his passing to my Facebook world yesterday evening, I mentioned the hole in my heart. A friend commented that losing a beloved pet feels like losing a limb. Yes, I think that might be right.

Manny attached himself to the ones he loved, a furry little appendage. It took some getting used to, particularly for his buddy, Leo, who was far more aloof. From the beginning, Manny would join Leo on his favorite chair, pressing his rump against his buddy, relaxing until he had to leap off behind his mentor and join him in barking at some unknown something out the window. Manny never appeared to know what they were barking; he would turn to watch Leo for cues, and he would keep barking as long as Leo did. Leo learned early to pick his battles with Manny; as much as he resented sharing his chair, he always left a little room.

I have peppered these pages, over the years, with stories of Manny and Leo, partners in crime, an obnoxious little brother and an extraordinarily kind and tolerant big brother who would emit a low but firm growl when Manny crossed the line. Leo was elegant, tall, and lean. Manny, well, not so much. Manny, the criminal mastermind, would sniff out mischief -- gourmet human treats on a counter out of his reach, a heavy sofa cushion that needed to be unstuffed --  and never seemed to have a problem convincing Leo to help him out. He'd cock his head in Leo's direction when I arrived home, his way of pointing a finger. Wasn't me. Leo never bothered to protest. After all, he wasn't the one with cannoli cream in his whiskers, peanut butter in the corner of his mouth, a dusting of upholstery stuffing on top of his head.

Four years ago, within the span of two weeks, Manny lost his best buddy and his eyesight. For a long time, he waited for Leo to return home, but finally gave up. He never wasted much time waiting for his sight to return. He just took it in stride. He walked into walls, fell off our stoop into the bushes, forgot, sometimes, where the staircase was. He didn't even seem angry when I moved him out of the house he knew into an unfamiliar townhouse with a lot of stairs. I wondered, at the beginning, how on earth I was going to deal with a blind dog for so many years. He was only five. Now, I wonder how I wondered that.

As it turns out, illness took him way too early. He knew better than anybody how to make me crazy (I'll spare everyone the story of what happens when a dog eats a jar of Vaseline), but he also knew better than anybody how to make the best of a bad situation. When I heaved him into a sink full of V-8 juice after a skunking (Walgreens was out of plain old tomato juice), he just enjoyed the unexpected cocktail hour. It's five o'clock somewhere was what he must have been thinking as he lapped up a good part of his bath. He never gave up on the pantry door, always hoping that one day, instead of smashing into it with his face, it would be open and he could help himself to a snack. He loved a good car ride, staring out the window as if he could see. He loved a good walk, no matter what the weather, and learned quickly to start lifting his forepaws in anticipation of a curb when I said "up." It was like a dance, graceful, slow, poised. He never whimpered if he miscalculated. And he loved a good nap, particularly if it meant snuggling on the couch with someone you love.

When one of his human siblings would visit after a long absence, he would howl with delight at the mere smell of them. Add a belly rub, and the howling would reach a fever pitch. Pure, unadulterated joy. I've never seen or heard anything quite like it. Manny's tail, even on his worst days in recent months, always managed to stand up and wag about something. He appreciated the little things. If he could talk, he would never have asked "why me?"

I go forward, now, with a heavy heart and a lot of wonderful memories. And life lessons that we humans tend to forget, lessons I will try to hold on to when the going gets tough. Like today. 

A Slice of the Good Life

Today is one of those rare days, when the moon and the stars are aligned and the numbers all add up, just shy of ten o'clock, to form the first ten digits of pi. It will happen twice today, and then never again until the next century. 3/14/15 at 9:26:53.  3.141592653 -- a small but satisfying helping of the infinite pi.

A rare day on an otherwise rarefied weekend --at least for this empty nester. I am spending two full days in the company of two of my three children, and though I am partial to cake and cookies, I am happily helping myself to a hefty slice of pie -- the pie -- on "Pi Day." Two thirds -- .6666666666, to be exact.

I was slightly disoriented when I woke this morning in a hotel room in New Orleans, and not only because it did not smell or sound like flatulent dog. Looking up from my low perch on a rollaway bed, I saw my two daughters sleeping peacefully on opposite edges of the king size bed. (I had assured them I preferred the rollaway; it's a much shorter trip to the edge of the bed, and that's a big deal when you have to pee in the middle of the night and all your bones and joints feel as if they've been soaked in concrete.) They looked so peaceful, and so small.

Whether it was the creaking of my unfolding limbs or the soft grunt that escaped my lips when my feet hit the floor, they each opened an eye and stared. "I love you mommy," said one. The other lifted up one arm in a what appeared to be a failed attempt at an air hug. I kissed the top of each of their heads and tiptoed to the bathroom. I cannot remember the last time I did that (kissed my sleeping children's heads, that is, not tiptoed to the bathroom, although I do admit there was a hint of an unfamiliar spring in my step). It promises to be a day of rare pleasures.

New Orleans is certainly the place to go for good music and solid people watching. Still in my hotel room, well before dawn, I heard and saw some of the best, sleeping only a few inches away from me and breathing in the same air. A rare slice of pie on "Pi Day," and, pardon me for seeming piggish, hopefully only the first of many.

Running for Virtual Roses

Recently, I signed up for an online class on how to book a blog (or blog a book -- I cannot remember exactly). I felt like a racehorse crashing out of the gate when the appointed hour for accessing lesson number one arrived. I was out in front, devouring the lesson before any of my virtual classmates were awake, the first one to venture onto the message board. 

I suppose I should have paced myself better. Maybe if I had given the material a chance to sink in I would have been able to keep my interest level up long enough to actually try some of the exercises. Instead, my burst of adrenaline led to an early crash. I could not figure out where the course was going to lead me, much less how it was going to get me there. I wasted my chronically paltry reserves on the discussion board, figuring the instructor would explain it all to me and reboot my engine. Maybe I could meet some of my virtual classmates, commiserate with them, even, about virtually everything.

The instructor suggested I do some of the assignments. If I really wanted clarity, apparently, I could purchase the supplemental course materials, which happened to be books written by her on the very same elusive topic. The books were not available online; they were the tangible kind, and cost lots of real money. I had already spent too much of that on what was starting to look like a desperate attempt to have someone do all the unpleasant work for me -- the careful planning, the market research, the tasks that require not just vision and an urge to spew but a lot of effort. I imagine this is how folks feel in mid-January after they've forked over the gym fees and realize that (a) the good stuff always costs more, and (b) even then, nobody else is going to do the actual work for them. There are no quick fixes in real life; if you want a Hail Mary pass, play football. 

I am way too old, brittle, and non-confrontational for contact sports, and despite my frequent forays into the virtual world of the Internet I am a realist. If Woody Allen was right -- that 80% of success is just showing up -- I am doomed to fail. At least when it comes to booking a blog or blogging a book. I did not show up to any of the remaining online classes. This filly pulled up lame way before she approached the finish line; I never even made it to the first split. I did not stick around long enough to see if the virtual instructor ever checked on my progress, or whether my virtual classmates even existed. 

All is not lost. True, I could not quite make it to  virtual class filled with virtual people, even though I did not even have to get out of bed or change into real clothes to do so. I still show up when I want to, for the stuff that makes sense to me. My father always told me I could succeed at virtually anything (though maybe not anything virtual?), as long as I put my mind to it. Combine that with Woody's advice, and success should be within my grasp. Neither one felt the need to mention that your heart needs to be in it too, but why state the obvious?

Facing Things Head On

You can never be too careful, but sometimes it's just not worth the effort.

The sidewalks are making that awkward transition from winter to spring. The temperature is slowly inching upward and the thaw has begun, but piles of blackened snow still flank the shoveled paths. The ground is an ugly mix of lumps and ruts and ice and muddy puddles laced with wilted blades of grass. The winter, though certainly not as unrelenting as it was last year here, or this year on the East Coast, has turned me into a bit of an ugly mix as well -- of stiff muscles and achy joints and creaky bones. The sound of birds chirping in the morning and the early onset of daylight savings time make me cautiously optimistic, but a healthy dose of ibuprofen remains my breakfast of choice.

Yesterday, fortified with Advil and lulled into an unseasonably sunny disposition by the singing birds and the time change and other minor harbingers of spring -- like grocery store shelves filled with boxes of Matzoh in one aisle and peanut butter and chocolate shaped eggs in another -- I ventured out for an extra long morning walk with Manny the blind dog. We were a sight, I'm sure, with me shuffling along like Tim Conway in an old Carol Burnett Show skit and Manny methodically sniffing his way through the wildly erratic terrain. We both walked gingerly, whatever functioning senses we have on high alert. Still, we each had our share of missteps.

And face plants. Manny is accustomed to bumping his snout into walls and light posts and mounds of snow. Like most dogs, he approaches everything face first, and even a seemingly jarring impact leaves him unfazed. I, on the other hand, not only lack a soft flat snout but am also theoretically possessed of a distinctly human dexterity, both mental and physical, that enables me -- compels me, really -- to brace myself before using my face as a bumper. Theoretically.

Today I'll be attributing my fat lip to a fist fight and the cut on my nose to cheap single-ply tissues, in case anybody asks. For the most part, I'll try to lay low, maybe curl up with Manny between Advil binges and nurse my weary bones while he nurses his digestive issues. With any luck, we will both heal without medical attention.

And the next time we go for a walk, I won't bother to stare down at the ground looking for black ice and I'll just try to rely upon that mental and physical dexterity I'm supposed to have and brace my fall with a more cushioned body part. Caution is not serving me well, whether it is extreme caution while walking or cautious optimism about spring. As it turns out, being too careful can just be a waste of time. If you're going to end up with a face full of snow or a fat lip anyway, raw instinct makes more sense.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Moody Blues and Pinks

When I was about eleven -- and approaching the end of my brief career as a technically proficient but far from gifted pianist -- my piano teacher attributed my particularly foul mood one day to hormones. She's probably getting her period, she whispered to my mother, turning her head so I wouldn't hear. Period. The word was always whispered. Like cancer. Just another curse, always whispered, as if saying it out loud made it contagious.

As it turned out, I was light years away from getting my period that day. I was, quite simply, a moody bitch. My ex-husband used to refer to it as PMS -- permanent menstrual syndrome -- back when he still thought I had some redeeming qualities. My gynecologist, who generally only sees me annually  and can tolerate my evil side because he has an advanced degree and understands that my occasional nastiness is totally within the realm of normal, has been assuring me for several years that when menopause finally turns me into a raging lunatic he can prescribe some magic bullets to adjust the hormones. Not as effective as the bullets my husband had in mind, no doubt, but nice to know there's a back-up plan.

I have yet to call upon bullets of any caliber; my mood swings -- documented as they have been since I was eleven -- are as familiar as an old shoe, as much a part of me as my fear of spiders and the slightly off center bump on my nose. And, as I read recently, there is good science to support my own vacillations and those of my ilk (i.e. women). According to a highly credentialed psychiatrist -- and I base this assessment upon her many years of practice, her impeccable grammar, and her acceptance for publication in the esteemed New York Times -- women are hard wired to be moody. Chemically, hormonally, physiologically, Adam's rib made us this way. It's why we can nurture our young and protect them the way nobody else can; it is why we can feel joy as deeply as we feel pain, and it is why we are capable of dealing with the challenges life throws our way.

Nevertheless, physicians tend to prescribe anti-depression and anti-anxiety pills for women far more often than they do for men. For years, they have medicated our moods as if they are a disease rather than a force of nature. The pills make us calmer, or more content, but they can also make us a little bit numb. When I am a raging bitch, the heavy artillery may seem like a good idea, but if it means never experiencing unadulterated happiness I am willing to forego numbness and take my chances.

It's no different, I think, from putting up with winter in Chicago. I think I would die of boredom if I woke to clement weather every day. A little dreariness helps me to appreciate even a small peek of sunshine. They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. I have found that not to always be true, but I love surprises, or at least a little unpredictability. Seasons, genders, hormonal fluctuations, times of life -- the world needs yins for all its yangs.

I like to think of March as neither a lion nor a lamb but, rather, as a lioness. One day fierce and infuriating, the next soothing and reassuring, the thing that lets us know everything will soon be all right. Just like a woman.