I look at Lily’s pee spreading across the hardwood floor and my head becomes heavy and hot like warm water filling my skull.
I am sorry Jerry, I tell him. He spent sweaty hours interrupted by scrapes and splinters to install this floor one board at a time.
This morning as urine rolled through the living room he was trying to carry a plate of fried eggs and his coffee to the table. The spill was trickling after Lily. Her footprints were beside it.
I went hunting for paper towels, spread them across the floor where they pulled moisture from seams and cracks, and crouched down to soak it up.
I am sorry Jerry.
STOP saying SORRY!
You think you’re making things better, I ask. I am upset and you’re YELLING.
I am upset TOO …
Later he is sorry and I am sorry and our lives are released from the task of carrying gloom around like a newborn and nurturing it with sour moods and frustrated thoughts.
Wondering what I must look like to a normal person, I squatted beside Lily’s mess and slapped clenched fists against my ears. Eyes squeezed shut and making a funny little whining noise. The dogs are familiar with it; they weave paths around each other, brushing noses against sides against thighs against cheeks and pass one another, turn, and cross the room again as they peek reluctantly at me then look away.
Heads are down slightly and their movements cautious. How could I do this to my dogs? Soon Hershey and Bandit rumble down the spiral stairs and I hear their doggy door clacking.
Standing with heavy wet warm paper towels I drop them in a trash bag and head downstairs.
In the shadows I know some long-lost enemy stands, arms folded, watching me try to pick up soupy messes with paper towels and cupped hands. Piles sit waiting for me as if someone stood with a bowl of pancake batter and poured it on the floor.
Angry and back upstairs I call the vet and say I don’t want to wait to see if the anti-inflammatory and new diet work I don’t want to put her in a kennel a crate a confined space where maybe she can hold it in but that’s not the problem. We have not yet determined the problem and I finally agree to a blood test.
I have reservations because we have to be sure she fasts for 12 hours and this dog can’t afford to lose a pound. Jerry will bring her to the vet at 9 the next morning. She isn’t supposed to eat after 9 the night before.
From the couch as he watches me make the appointment he extends his hands: thumbs up.
When I am exceptionally stressed the shadows move. Shadows in motion scurry in my peripheral vision then dive behind a door a couch a table a bed and out of sight. My little shadows tease, like the ambiguous form that followed me through my childhood dreams. The person’s face was never clear but I knew a few things: my dream friend was male, always my age — he kept pace with me as I grew— he had dark hair and dark clothes and whenever I try to see him even today I do not find features or a face. Now I have left his remnants swimming at the edge of vision where anxiety festers in my living room.
I am sorry Jerry, I tell him. He spent sweaty hours interrupted by scrapes and splinters to install this floor one board at a time.
This morning as urine rolled through the living room he was trying to carry a plate of fried eggs and his coffee to the table. The spill was trickling after Lily. Her footprints were beside it.
I went hunting for paper towels, spread them across the floor where they pulled moisture from seams and cracks, and crouched down to soak it up.
I am sorry Jerry.
STOP saying SORRY!
You think you’re making things better, I ask. I am upset and you’re YELLING.
I am upset TOO …
Later he is sorry and I am sorry and our lives are released from the task of carrying gloom around like a newborn and nurturing it with sour moods and frustrated thoughts.
Wondering what I must look like to a normal person, I squatted beside Lily’s mess and slapped clenched fists against my ears. Eyes squeezed shut and making a funny little whining noise. The dogs are familiar with it; they weave paths around each other, brushing noses against sides against thighs against cheeks and pass one another, turn, and cross the room again as they peek reluctantly at me then look away.
Heads are down slightly and their movements cautious. How could I do this to my dogs? Soon Hershey and Bandit rumble down the spiral stairs and I hear their doggy door clacking.
Standing with heavy wet warm paper towels I drop them in a trash bag and head downstairs.
In the shadows I know some long-lost enemy stands, arms folded, watching me try to pick up soupy messes with paper towels and cupped hands. Piles sit waiting for me as if someone stood with a bowl of pancake batter and poured it on the floor.
Angry and back upstairs I call the vet and say I don’t want to wait to see if the anti-inflammatory and new diet work I don’t want to put her in a kennel a crate a confined space where maybe she can hold it in but that’s not the problem. We have not yet determined the problem and I finally agree to a blood test.
I have reservations because we have to be sure she fasts for 12 hours and this dog can’t afford to lose a pound. Jerry will bring her to the vet at 9 the next morning. She isn’t supposed to eat after 9 the night before.
From the couch as he watches me make the appointment he extends his hands: thumbs up.
When I am exceptionally stressed the shadows move. Shadows in motion scurry in my peripheral vision then dive behind a door a couch a table a bed and out of sight. My little shadows tease, like the ambiguous form that followed me through my childhood dreams. The person’s face was never clear but I knew a few things: my dream friend was male, always my age — he kept pace with me as I grew— he had dark hair and dark clothes and whenever I try to see him even today I do not find features or a face. Now I have left his remnants swimming at the edge of vision where anxiety festers in my living room.
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