Wildflowers

You belong among the wildflowers. 

Derek Zoolander: Are you here to tell me what a bad eugoogoolizer I am? 
Matilda: A what? 
Derek Zoolander: A eugoogoolizer... one who speaks at funerals. Or did you think I was too stupid to know what a eugoogooly was?

I've always wanted to write a eugoogooly for someone. I've also always wanted to quote that line from Zoolander with a straight face in the hopes that somebody would think I was serious and then, because I'm an English teacher by trade (a.k.a. master of words), trick that person into thinking that I'm right and they had it wrong all those years they thought it was called a "eulogy". 

No, I don't digress...yet. This is a eulogy, and no eulogy is any good without some humor tossed in for comic relief. 

I first met Pablo some time in 2015, back when he was my friend's roommate's dog. It's probably more accurate to say that we first crossed paths in 2015, as I'm sure I didn't pay him any attention. Likely, I noticed him, or at a minimum, the copious amounts of hair he shed all over Connie's house. I also probably assumed that he belonged to Connie, not her roommate because her roommate, Chloe, was far too tall and attractive for me to converse with.

Seriously, she's a badass. When I met her, her name wasn't even Chloe; it was Patience. But she's such a powerhouse, she had the balls to change her name to one that she feels much better represents who she is, regardless of how others might react. Boss. Lady. We may be like family now, but at the time, I was the same way with powerful women as I am with dogs: I avoided them like the plague. 

When it comes to me and other women now, I could write a book just on how much that has transformed and evolved. As for the latter, the thing is, I don't have dog skills. Don't make a big thing of this because it's really no different from other statements one might use when they want to warn you about their character flaws, or general weirdnesses. They say things like, "I can't cook"; "I have no rhythm"; or "I have a terrible singing voice." Then, any such culinary, choreographed or vocal attempts, respectively, are usually followed up by, "I told you so." But there's no need to witness me in action with a canine, even if it would up the funny factor of this post.

Maybe, instead of writing, this time I should just upload a collection of photos of me interacting with dogs throughout my life, but that would probably require me actually having a collection of photos of me interacting with dogs.

You should just take my word for it that I'm not joking when I say that I don't have dog skills. And before you judge me, know that this is not my fault, nor does it have anything to do with a dislike of dogs. On the contrary, I love dogs and have always wanted one of my own. But when you grow up allergic to everything, there are some limitations. You might, for example, abandon any and all dreams of becoming a chef, a zookeeper, or, in my case, of being someone who can do normal things, like breathing.  

So, I developed my own set of skills for being around dogs. This includes, but is not limited to: 

• skipping sleepovers, parties and events where dogs might be in attendance
• building a tolerance to the sleepy side effects of Benadryl
• making a fashion statement out of carrying bags large enough to hold multiple inhalers & an EpiPen
• running longer distances to build my endurance so that I can take the long route home, should I cross paths with an unleashed dog while I'm out for a run 
• keeping my hands full to seem like I'm not rude, but am otherwise too occupied to take a moment to pet your dog 
• developing a unique sense of always knowing where the nearest sink is in case I slip up and touch a dog
• building my leg muscles to be able to stand for extended periods of time, thus not having to ever sit down on a surface covered in dog hair/fur

It's taken me years to perfect these, and with practice, you might be able to do them as well as I do. But it would probably be easier if you stuck to the basics and just learned how to be around dogs without being entirely awkward. You'll never be as charmingly awkward as me anyways, so there's really no use in trying. 

Needless to say, moving into a home with not one, but TWO dogs was a risk. But I had already survived Mark taking his own life, and nothing was really going to get any worse than that, so living with dogs wasn't much of a concern. I had a new lease on life, and I was ready for a new adventure!

Lies.

I had an apartment I couldn't afford and the early signs of PTSD, a result of Mark's suicide having occurred in our guest bedroom.

I desperately needed to move, and when Connie found out, she said we should chat. This had me practically dancing for joy, which I stifled, of course, because I didn't want to get my hopes up. Connie owns a gorgeous home in a wonderful area of San Diego. I was no longer afraid of her roommate or hiding from her powerful badassery; rather, we were all tremendously close. Mark and I had been regular visitors to the house for a "Monday mule" and donuts, and this was also where I'd come on the day Mark died, when Connie and Chloe dropped whatever they were doing and opened their home, their fridge and several bottles of alcohol to me and everybody I invited over. 

My weirdness with dogs wasn't even a thought when the opportunity to move in came up. Honestly, I thought they'd be far more concerned about me being a grieving basket case than anything. But the only questions they conjured up while addressing any potential issues were about how much space I needed for furniture and whether or not I'd be okay with dogs.

My answers: "My furniture will all fit in the bedroom, and I don't touch dogs...so I just won't touch them...please let me live with you in your paradise of a home."

Okay, I didn't say the last part, but I was thinking it. The rest is more or less the truth, and it made sense to me. I don't actually have to touch dogs just because we live in the same house. And so, four months after Mark's suicide, I moved out of my clean, free-of-animal-hair/fur, albeit anxiety-inducing, apartment and into my current residence with Connie & her dog Journey, and Chloe and her dog, Pablo, officially known as "Pablo Pugcasso".

I adapted quickly to cohabitation with dogs, primarily because I didn't have to feed, bathe, clean up after or do anything at all with them. They did their thing, and I did mine. I found my favorite places to sit in the house, not sharing any with Journey or Pablo. In other words, I stuck to the kitchen counter chairs and my bed. Beyond that, I relied on my sturdy legs to hold me up. I was too foggy with grief to focus on a movie or a TV show in the first few months, so I rarely sat on the couch. "Andrew" and I used to enjoy sitting outside to watch the sunset, but the patio furniture was also Journey's favorite spot. So, if we sat there, it was always on top of a blanket. Making out with someone in a pile of dog hair just isn't my thing, and I hope "Andrew" appreciates that the small effort of preparing a hair/furless spot for us to sit on is about as romantic as I get. 

Confession: I can't actually tell the difference between fur and hair, so I stick to a pretty general rule of touching no animals ever. It's just safer that way. And whether I'm allergic to it or not, I don't want it on my clothes. Icky.

I found out yesterday that it was about this time last year that Pablo's health first began to wane. Having never lived with him before, and probably having confused him with Journey...because I maybe didn't know who was whom...or who their respective owners were...or anything about either of them other than that they left hair/fur everywhere... I wouldn't have noticed a change in Pablo. I was also far too disconnected from just about everyone to have any interest in what was going on with others. This was a blessing in disguise during what was possibly the most frightening presidential election in the history of ever, but it didn't help to foster my relationships with my new canine housemates.

Nevertheless, I developed a fondness for both Pablo and Journey. It would have been hard to not love them. They never judged me for talking to myself, or to them, and they didn't run away when I was an emotional mess. I'm not a big fan of crying in front of other humans, but I never did mind it much with the puppies, as I prefer to call them and all dogs, regardless of their age. Even when my roomies aren't home, I know I'm not alone. Plus, Journey barks at any living creature that comes within twenty feet of the house, and Pablo, being nearly deaf, would join in as soon as he realized that he was missing all the fun. So, I didn't have to worry that someone would break into the house without my first having been warned by our live-in security alarm.

Yes, our house is THAT house in the neighborhood. Walk by with caution.

Most of my interactions with Pablo were attempts to get him to stop barking at a wall, the door or the air outside. What this mostly consisted of was me walking directly in front of him or clapping very loudly, both of which were usually followed by a conversation with myself about how I was walking right in front of him to then not be seen and clapping as loud as I could to then not be heard. There was typically then some monologue about how I'm alone and talking to myself, destined to become a cat lady (I hate cats even more than I'm awkward with dogs), and the neighbors must think I'm a lunatic. But eventually, I'd get Pablo's attention and, slowly but surely, he'd come back in the house to continue barking at nothing, just inside rather than outside.

For the last six months of his life, that was basically our relationship. Don't get me wrong; our love for each other wasn't limited to that. There was also a great deal of passing by each other throughout the day, as well as me turning a blind eye every time he and his bro-lover, Journey, got freaky in the living room. And then there was the time that Pablo and I, both suffering from insomnia, stayed awake and barked/chatted with each other for most of the night while my roomies were away and Journey tried to find a quiet place downstairs to get some sleep. That was a great night, and I really loved being tired the next day. But Pablo was nearly blind and deaf, so most people resorted to clapping and standing very close to him hoping that he'd notice and subsequently shut up.

Really, his bark was terrible. It had three, maybe four variations. There was the single high-pitched yelpish bark. Then he had a double yelpish bark, which consisted of a primary high-pitched yelp followed immediately by a lower-pitched bark of sorts. There was the crying howl he let out while watching his food be prepared. It probably didn't actually qualify as a howl since it sounded more like bad singing and often had me worried the neighbors might think we were torturing him.

Finally, there was my favorite: the low, lazy "ruff". This was your typical "woof", except Pablo had a real knack for making it sound like he was half asleep and got too tired mid-woof. He also sometimes fell asleep standing up, so this was probably the only noise he could muster in his exhausted state. I mean, standing is just so tiring, as are sleeping all day and eating breakfast. Sooooo very tiring. 

Chloe took him to the vet early this year when his seizures became more frequent and he was no longer housebroken. After a few weeks of confusion and misdiagnoses, it turned out that our Pablo was simply getting old. He also developed what I believe is officially known as "dog dementia". It certainly couldn't be human dementia, but somehow, adding the word "dog" in front of "dementia" softens the situation a bit. (Because dogs are basically big balls of love and goodness in dog-form. Duh.)

I've never had a dog of my own, but I have loved a few dogs in my life, prior to Journey and Pablo. "T" (short for "LT", short for Lieutenant, short for Lieutenant John J. Dunbar and named after the leading role in Dances with Wolves... #tatonka) was my late Uncle Joey's late Golden Retriever. He was an absolute love and the gentlest of dogs. Sadly, he suffered from epilepsy, which caused seizures. I understood what it felt like to be stuck in a body that didn't always cooperate, so I always felt connected to LT. He unintentionally traumatized me by giving me a dose of tremendous love I could never fully experience because I was so painfully allergic to him and his fur. 

Note: He's the only dog I know of who for SURE had fur, not hair. Brownie points for me. 

I also really love Bear, otherwise known as "Puppy Bear". He is my dog-nephew and belongs to my brother and sister-in-law. Truthfully, I haven't the slightest idea what kind of dog he is. I believe he's a mix, and there's a name of a dog breed that just won't come to me right now. This is one of the side effects of my condition, the one that has me lacking in dog skills. But I know all that I need to know: He has fur (I think), he goes on hunger strikes when his humans are away, he's fairly pathetic and won't save me if somebody breaks in, and he's so adorable I'll risk an allergy attack just to snuggle with him. 

Then there are the many Boxers in my life, the first of which bit me while I was out for a run about eight years ago. I have no clue what his name was. I only remember that he was just about the happiest, stupidest looking dog I've ever seen. If I could speak dog, I imagine that while he was leaping across the street, mere seconds before taking a chomp at my left thigh, I would've heard him shouting, "HUMAN!!!!! I LOVE HUMANS!!!!"

PSA: Keep your dogs on a leash or in a fenced-in yard. His human was fined for not doing so, and I had to be watched for rabies. The whole thing was rather unfun, especially since he wasn't even a bad dog, just a dumb one.

The next Boxer I fell for was Hinky. Or maybe it's spelled "Hinkie". Regardless, SHE is my dog-niece, and Bear's dog-cousin. I call her that because she belongs to my sister and her boyfriend, Jon. I've only met her on one occasion, when Mark and I drove up to spend Thanksgiving weekend with them in 2015. Hinky/Hinkie is your typical, gross Boxer with an excessive amount of drool, plus the occasional sneeze right in your face. She must also have allergies. I don't know her well, but she's family, so I'd love her even if she were terrible. But she's not; she's wonderful, and so peppy.

During grad school, I lived with Ivy the Dog. This was her full Christian/Jewish name, and we were housed, as well as fed and regularly spoiled, by my grandfather, Pops, and his lady-for-life, Meryl. Ivy was white, small and furless. She showed little to no affection for anybody but my grandfather, so I feel no guilt in saying I don't know much else about her. I did, however, once "save" her from what I thought was a serious alarm going off in the basement, warning us of an impending disaster. It turned out that the "unit" that was making all the noise was meant to detect water in the basement; it also turned out that it didn't work, as there was no water flooding the basement. It would've served much better as a fire alarm. But when that thing started blaring louder than necessary, I made sure to take Ivy out of the house and to safety with me.

Okay, I didn't remember her the first time I left the house, but I went back in for her. If that's not proof enough that I do actually love dogs, I don't know what is. 

But back to Pablo, because this is about Pablo.

This is probably why I've never been asked to eugoogoolize someone. I take too long and use too many words. Perhaps this is more of a tribute to all dogs and the honor of being with someone as they pass on.

I hope I've illustrated how very much I am not a dog person, much to my own dismay. I want to be one, and it's been a work in progress. I've said many times since Mark died that a dog of my own is in my future, not only for the companionship, but because it would probably have me majorly step up my growth game. I have no desire to pick up another living creature's fecal matter, and wet dog food makes me gag. But I could do it, and we'll be the best of buds, me and my future dog.

Losing Pablo yesterday has prepared me for something I'm certain I will go through again in what occurs to me as possibly one of the saddest losses a human can experience. I base this primarily off of the movie Marley & Me, which makes me cry more than any other movie. No two losses can ever really be compared, but talking about the death of a dog is very uncomfortable to me, so much so that when a dog dies, I become one of those people who sucks at talking to you about your grief and generally doesn't ask you how you're doing. It's not unlike how most people talk to me about Mark and/or suicide.

I get how this might seem odd; I even startled myself finding the words for it just now. This would definitely be shocking to those who were here last night, seeing as I didn't shed a tear for Pablo, not to mention that I am someone who lost her husband to suicide just fifteen months ago. Losing a partner, even when the relationship isn't going very well, is dreadful. In addition, having been through that experience and witnessing what his mother went through, I truly don't think I'll ever witness anything more painful than seeing a parent lose a child.

But there's just something about a dog. We don't call them "man's best friend" for nothing. They're your buddy, and they're there all the time. Their love is unconditional. Sure, you feed them and provide shelter. But they love you back even when you accidentally step on their tail, give them dinner way later than planned, or shut them in your room, leaving them no option but to pee on your blanket because you couldn't hear them barking over the loud music in the living room. (Sorry, Pablo.)

There's also something really nice about being able to prepare for a death. 

Disclaimer: You can never be fully prepared for ANY loss, and there is NEVER enough time, at least not in the human experience.

But somehow, there was just enough time yesterday. There was time to invite loved ones over. There was time to go to the store to buy Pablo bacon and a burger of a higher quality than we even purchase for ourselves. We forgot to plan food for ourselves, but we worked it out. And in the meantime, we shared memories, took and compiled photos, and treated Pablo like a king. 

I had personally just come back from a weekend away and had some errands to do, but when I got to the store, I found myself wanting to get back home as quickly as I could to get some photos of me and Pablo. I couldn't wait to lie down on our hair/fur-infested rug and put my face as close to Pablo as I possibly could in the hopes that he would lick me. I would like it to be known that he had rather atrocious breath. Seriously, it was rank. But even when I was right in his face and talking straight to him, he barely saw or heard me.

So I did what any good dog-aunt-type-figure would do: I bribed him with food. I was ready to put a treat in my mouth if it got him to get close to me. I settled for a bacon-smelling, square-shaped treat on my forehead. Apparently, he still had his sense of smell, so I got my first and final kiss from Pablo. There's nothing like the sweetness of a forehead kiss, and man oh man, I'd snuggle right up next to Pablo for another if I could right now.

I didn't quite know why while it was all happening, but it was very important to me to be involved in such an event. Though I didn't cry, I witnessed all of it. I saw everyone else in the room tear up, some to the point of sobbing. I passed tissues around and took photos of friends and family circled around Pablo as he drew his last breaths. I helped Chloe prepare the paper bags and twine that would serve as his biodegradable "burrito blanket" wrapping before we put him in the ground. And I helped wrap him up, tucking his paws in to his body and snuggling him in, nice and tight, from snout to tail. I tied the last bow and felt his body, still warm. And I couldn't help but think how this was such a nice way to go.

Yes, I witnessed it all. Not one part of it was too difficult for me to watch. I didn't want to miss a second, probably because I missed so much with Mark. I don't prefer that Mark had been sick and that I had watched him slowly die, as many of my widow friends have done. I sadly also know others who were there to witness their loved one's suicide, and that is so unimaginable that anybody reading this probably wouldn't have even dared to think such a thing had I not come right out and said it. 

When you compare, it leads to despair. Things with Mark could've gone worse, and they could've gone better. Or maybe it could have not happened at all, but it did. I do not choose to live with regret over how things are or were. Things went how they went, and I can't change them now. It would be a waste of my energy to wish it were different, but I'm human. Sometimes, my emotions get the best of me. I've come to accept many aspects of Mark's death, and I trust that in time, I'll come to accept many more. But accepting something and liking it are two very different things.

Luckily, that wasn't the case with Pablo. I don't mean the suicide because I'm not sure there even is such thing as canine suicide. Also, if anybody asks, it was the vet. I saw the whole thing with my own two eyes. The cause of death is certain, and we're not left with any questions, like Why? or What if? 

Rather, the enjoyment of the whole experience is one I will never forget. I liked being able to touch Pablo, even though his body was no longer alive. I liked feeling his warmth. I liked wrapping him up knowing with certainty that it was in fact Pablo we were about to bury. I liked putting my hand on his face and knowing that he was intact. I liked being there not just for, but WITH Chloe to ensure she got to see Pablo off exactly the way she wanted so that there wouldn't be anything unsaid or undone that would need to be completed later. 

It was a real honor to not only witness, but be part of Pablo's departure from the living yesterday. I'm not sure what else to call it. In plain English, Chloe had him put down last night. I keep trying to come up with a witty name for it, but all in all, what happened was a group of friends and family (a.k.a. "framily")  gathered, mostly on the floor, around a 13-year-old pug named Pablo while a very sweet veterinarian gave him some happy drugs, allowing him to peacefully doze off, away from the physical pain and mental confusion that had slowly been taking over. We then laid his body to rest outside our home in a spot we can see from the window and Journey can sit at if he wants. I don't know if dogs do things like that, but I'm totally watching Journey to find out. I'm sure he misses his buddy. 

Pablo now rests among the wildflowers.

Actually, that's not true. He's in the front yard under some rocks and dirt next to the turtle statue and the tomato plants. But he WILL be among the wildflowers, once the seeds get planted into the soil above him and then bloom into wildflowers. And that's lovely.

R.I.P. Pablo