Survival of the Fit

I was not the only one slipping into survivalist mode today. It was nearly impossible to find a parking spot at any of the local grocery stores, with folks scurrying through the aisles stocking up on provisions in preparation for the mother of all storms.

Now, intellectually I know that this little meteorological disturbance will not be anything close to the apocalypse everyone is expecting. Sure, it looks a little bit freaky when they show the pictures from space, with the entire North American land mass being suffocated by a pretty ominous looking cloud. But the media has already succeeded in convincing me that the Mayans knew more than modern day weather men, and the real apocalypse isn't due for almost two years. Those guys knew their shit -- especially their astrology -- and my money's on December 21st, 1012. The Mayans are probably giggling in their graves about all the hullabaloo over this little tempest in a teapot.

Nevertheless, I found myself fighting the crowds at the local Jewel, worried primarily that I would run out of dog food for my beloved Manny and Leo. But while I was there, I figured I'd try to stock up on essentials for me and my daughter so we wouldn't end up eating potato chips, almond M&M's, and double stuff oreos for three weeks. The novelty might wear off.

Frankly, even if tomorrow's storm is as apocalyptic as predicted, it might be too late. We might just self-destruct long before the first flakes start to fall. Deep dark suburbanites are serious not only about survival, but about survival of the fittest, and to be the fittest, one must avoid carbs, fat, sugar, and anything else that tastes good. A few cat fights almost broke out by the low-fat cottage cheese, and I really thought World War III might break out over the last case of caffeine free diet coke. I felt an anxiety attack coming on, and I bet there's nothing worse than panicking during an apocalypse, so I gave up on being fit and simply headed over to the wine aisle to pick up a few bottles of red to help keep me sane.

After all that hassle, my household will have to survive on potato chips, almond M&M's, double stuff oreos, red wine, and lots of dog food. We'll be fat and happy; heck, we'll be downright giddy. This will be a good practice run for the real deal.

A Walk (or Two) in the Park

Central Park is beautiful in the snow. Saturday, as I strolled through the always-there-but- always surprising oasis in the middle of Manhattan, first with my younger daughter and then with my son, I couldn't remember ever seeing the park in the middle of winter. At least not a winter that has seen about sixty inches of snow in one month.

The news reports are full of stories about how people in the Northeast are struggling with the elements this January, and they certainly are. But Manhattan enjoys the dubious benefit of plenty of traffic and exhaust fumes, so the streets are remarkably passable. Central Park, though, is like an unreal bit of winter reality in the midst of the metropolis, its paths unplowed, slushy and slippery, its sloping walkways treacherous unless you happen to be on skis.

And wherever all the complaining New Yorkers are that we keep seeing on the national news, they were not in Central Park on this rare sunny day in January 2011. That's not to say there weren't plenty of New Yorkers there; the place was packed -- with walkers and runners and young parents pulling their kids along on sleds. The skating rink was filled to capacity, the hot chocolate vendors fighting to keep up with demand. And beneath all the woolly hats and tightly wound scarves, everybody seemed to be smiling.

My two walks in the park this past Saturday, first with one child and then with another, were as idyllic as any walk in a vast, quiet country field on a summer day. We chatted non-stop, occasionally catching each other as we slipped, occasionally pausing to navigate our way around other urban adventurers on the narrow paths, but barely noticing the cold. We talked about our year, a turbulent one for each of us, but in such different ways. I've come home knowing not only how important my kids are to me, but, surprisingly, how important I am to them. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

The weekend was one of generations coming together, the Thanksgiving clan convening to celebrate our oldest member's eightieth birthday. There was no shortage of shtick. Some cousins went to the wrong place after a long drive from Boston (kind of my fault), my fur-clad mother narrowly avoided being pelted by animal activists (she can't hear; I think she thought they were just saying "hello"), and my poor son had to shop for something to wear that night with his mother, two sisters, and his grandmother in tow.

Then, of course, there were thirteen boisterous Jews at a large table in one of New York's fanciest restaurants, taking pictures and clinking glasses and kibbitzing with a wait staff that seemed quite content to participate in our revelry. Not our fault that the guy with the stick up his butt at the next table kept getting bumped as we played musical chairs. He should lose a few pounds.

My mother's eightieth birthday celebration with "The Fam" (as I have dubbed the group on Facebook) was a smashing success, from the moment we stepped off the plane (or, for the others, the subway, or the bus, or the car, or the taxi). It was, truly, a walk in the park.

Batter Up(stairs)!

Like any red-blooded younger sibling, Manny the obese puggle has had it up to his floppy ears with all the attention Leo is getting. He's back to his life of crime and petty disturbances; negative attention is better than no attention at all.

Yesterday, when I dropped my daughter off at home before I rushed off to the store to get provisions for dinner, she called me in a panic; Leo was muzzle deep in Aunt Jemima pancake mix. The box (which my daughter had, naturally, left on the floor so she would not forget to bring it with her to school the next day), was torn open at the top, its powdery contents scattered around Leo on the upstairs carpet. I was appalled; Aunt Jemima pancakes without her syrup? It's like the spring without the fall.

I was thrilled that Leo was back to his old self, but we were puzzled by Manny's apparent lack of involvement in the caper. He was downstairs, my daughter informed me, sleeping. With a box of ready to mix pancake batter spilled all over the carpet, ripe for licking? I think not. I told her to check for evidence on his crooked little snout. Sure enough, there it was, the smoking gun, sprinkled against the black background of Manny's innocent face. And poor, not so smart Leo, was left to take the rap. The pancake batter -- which, by the time I arrived home, was no longer just powder; it's the kind you just mix with water, and apparently saliva works just as well -- will leave a mark.

So, just to piss Manny off, I thanked Leo for trying to clean up the mess his brother had made, and rewarded him with a nice, long belly rub. Well, never try to piss off a criminal mastermind who's already pissed off. Manny must have heard me ask Leo if, seeing as he got an extra belly rub and all, he might consider not waking me up in the middle of the night to let him out to pee. Leo, bless his heart, obliged. But guess who stirred at two o'clock in the morning -- for the first time in his life -- and ran downstairs and barked his little head off until I came down to let him out.

Like I said, negative attention is better than no attention -- or no Aunt Jemima -- at all!

The Wee Wee Hours

When my oldest daughter was a baby, I used to enjoy the middle of the night feedings. The hard part was dragging myself out of bed at two a.m., but once I got over that hump, the rest was gravy. There was something peaceful about being alone with her in the wee hours of the morning while each of us enjoyed -- for different reasons -- her efficient emptying of my swelling breasts.

She would go right back to sleep, and I would hold her for awhile before depositing her in her crib, savoring the sweet smell of her newborn head, marveling at the soft outlines of her face as she dreamed her sweet dreams. Her bow-shaped lips would open and close in tiny spasms as she concentrated in her slumber; her tiny body pulsed with each breath. Finally, as I felt myself drifting off, I would tear myself away and look forward to the bliss of a few more hours of sleep before she began her early morning cooing. Sure, the days seemed endless sometimes, but those nights -- before life became complicated by other (equally wonderful, of course) siblings and a not so wonderful job, passed way too quickly.

Almost twenty-two years later, I find myself being awakened on a regular basis at two a.m., but this time by an old dog. I've gotten used to hearing the telltale sound of Leo's toenails tapping on the wood floor downstairs, knowing a few low, tentative barks are soon to follow. I rush downstairs to let him out before he starts barking in earnest, waking fat Manny from his beauty sleep. (I don't worry about him waking my younger daughter; a Bolivian marching band could pass through her room without rousing her.)

As was the case with my daughter's middle of the night feedings, I look forward to the bliss of a few more hours of sleep, knowing that Leo will rest quietly after he does his business. But the process of letting him outside to pee -- especially in the dead of winter -- and waiting inside, on the cold kitchen tile, for him to finish, isn't quite as enjoyable as feeding time used to be. Especially now since I worry constantly that he will just lie down and never get up.

It's official. The tumor they removed along with Leo's spleen was cancerous. The good news is there was no evidence it had spread to the liver, but still, it's an aggressive form of the disease. So last night, when I waited patiently for him to show up at the back door and he didn't appear, I found myself putting boots and a down jacket on over my pajamas and trudging into the frozen back yard. There he was, enjoying the snow, glancing over at me as if I was nuts. Duh.

We're visiting the doggie oncologist (I picture Snoopy in a lab coat) next week, so we can discuss the chemo options that might extend Leo's life for a year. When you think about it, that's seven years in human time, so nothing to sneeze at. And I'm going to go for it, as long as I feel reassured that the drugs will not make Leo uncomfortable. Given the way he has rallied after major abdominal surgery, I'm optimistic.

A dog is not a child, and a dog is supposed to go before you do. And if I've learned anything from the "Leo crisis" this week, it's that Leo will let us know when he's had enough, and when that happens, we will listen to him. But my tail wagging, barking, jumping Leo is not ready yet, and neither are we. So I will just have to appreciate the fleeting time I have left with him -- even if it's spent freezing my ass off in the middle of the night waiting for him to pee.

Tall Tails

I never thought I'd be so thrilled to hear Leo bark. When Phil the furnace guy arrived yesterday morning, Leo actually bolted down the stairs, barked repeatedly, and even bounced up and down in his signature fake jump. Music to my ears and eyes.

Since Leo can't talk, I've relied on the position of his tail to monitor his recuperation. When we first visited him in the hospital, the morning after his surgery, his thick, heavy tail -- normally a lethal weapon -- was tucked pitifully between his legs. Even when he wagged it, that wonderful symbol of canine contentment remained stuck in the downward position.

Each day, Leo has been able to lift his furry smile a little higher; by Sunday night, it was almost parallel to the floor. But yesterday morning, when Phil arrived to fix the furnace, Leo did his best version yet of smiling from ear to ear. His tail lifted above the ninety degree mark, waving back and forth at its customary full throttle. Pure, unadulterated joy, simply because a vaguely familiar human had stopped by. Leo really couldn't give a shit about the heat.

Naturally, I've been worried about whether going forward with surgery for a ten year old lab who probably has cancer was a humane thing to do. We weren't ready to let Leo go, but I can't help but wonder whether the decision was best for him. More than anything, his lusty bark and enthusiastic tail wagging has reassured me. Leo is alive and well, for now, and enjoying life's most simple pleasures. Like a car rolling to a stop in front of our house; or a sudden gust of blowing snow; or (his and Manny's personal favorite) high school kids pouring off the school bus at three forty-five every weekday afternoon.

I was pretty happy to see Phil the furnace guy too, but only because I couldn't wait to smell and feel actual heat coming through the vents. I have never been able to grasp the concept of simple pleasures the way Leo and Manny do. But sometimes I get it. Right now, I'm smiling from ear to ear, because Leo just managed to jump up on the couch.

My Tale of Two Cities

Okay, I admit it. While most of the Chicago metropolitan area literally shut down yesterday afternoon to watch the Bears face off with the dreaded (and dreadful, I'm told) Green Bay Packers, I was snuggled up on the couch with Manny watching the Australian Open.

Zillions of chickens in the Midwest were running around without their wings (it's taken me years to figure out that there's nothing particularly special about the chickens raised in Buffalo), thousands of humans in the Midwest were running around without their brains (how else does one explain sitting outside when it's one hundred degrees below zero just to watch a bunch of oversized men push each other around), and I don't even care enough to refresh my memory and find out what a line of scrimmage is. In my mind, the frigid football spectacle made a stadium full of sweaty, drunken Aussies look downright intelligent.

Sure, I'm disappointed about the Bears' loss, but I'm even more disappointed that the New York Jets lost as well, crushing my dreams of a Superbowl which could indeed have been a metaphor for my own inner conflicts. (Who else can turn the Superbowl into something that's "all about me?") It's an even fifty-fifty now, the portions of my life that I've spent living in Chicago and New York. New York is where I was raised; Chicago is where I've spent all of my adult life, raising others but still trying to figure out what I'm going to be when I grow up.

New York and Chicago, my yin and yang, although I'm not sure which is which. Like everybody, I have my dark and passive yin moments, balanced by the occasional brightness and strength of yang. The energy of two great cities pulses through my veins, and I like to think I've absorbed the best of both. I'm edgy and I'm laid back, I'm loud and, sometimes, painfully quiet. I'm a Mets fan and I'm a Cubs fan, and, to the extent I can care about football, I would have liked to see both the Jets and the Bears make it to the Superbowl. Doesn't make me all that different from television and advertising executives, I suppose.

On Superbowl Sunday, my yin and yang will join forces, and I will be rooting against both teams -- all the guys who dashed my hopes of throwing the greatest Superbowl party ever. I'll say a prayer for all the flightless chickens as I nibble on their wings, and I'll put in a good word for next year for the two great cities that have shaped me.

Now We're Cookin'

All of Leo's vitals are good, and he's doing just fine on regular old oxygen, so the super nice folks at the veterinary hospital are pretty sure he can come home this afternoon. There's only one stumbling block: he refuses to eat dog food.

Well, hellooooo! Would they eat dog food when there's a whole jar of peanut butter and a loaf of fresh bakery bread sitting there? Leo had no problem licking peanut butter off my fingers yesterday when I showed up with the emergency provisions. And, according to yesterday's nurse, he would have made room for an entire sandwich later on had they allowed him to be such a glutton.

But they won't release him until he eats regular dog food, and my task this morning is to bring some of his delicious kibble from home and coax him into eating it. Now Leo may have the nicest disposition in the world, but he's a stubborn old coot, and he's no mensa candidate, so I have my work cut out for me. Somehow I need to convey to him the connection between choking down the disgusting dry chunks and going home, where I am certain his spirits -- and his tail -- will lift.

So don't tell my human children, who are well aware that I make very little effort to stock the house with food for them or prepare any sort of delectable meals, that as soon as I finish my Starbucks and this "Leo update" I will be cooking some long grain rice to sneak into the crevices of Leo's food bowl. Not Uncle Ben's instant, mind you; Leo gets rice from scratch. I'd go into the rice paddies and really do it up right if I had some extra time.

And please don't tell my kids about the little thermos of beef bouillon I'll be sneaking into the hospital in my purse. Sure, I love them, but their hungry stares have just never pulled on my heartstrings the way Leo's does. Maybe if they were dimwitted enough to sit for indefinite periods of time, unblinking, watery brown eyes gazing so longingly that it almost seems possible for them to will the food off someone else's plate into their own mouths, I'd take the kids more seriously. Leo (and Manny), not rocket scientists by any stretch of the imagination, have the routine down, and I fall for it every time. Patience can be so much more effective than brains.

Yes, first I will try to reason with Leo, and explain to him that he can't go home until he eats his kibble. Just a few bites. But when that fails, I will be armed and ready with a sprinkle or two of rice and a little drizzle of bouillon. And, with great fanfare and lots of "good boys" from the super nice staff at the veterinary hospital, we will head for home.