Here, dear readers — My day in real time.

Sort of.

5, 6, 7 & 8 a.m.: Sleeping. Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Large Wacky Cat 2, the stripedy one, pins me in on one side; muscular husband pins me in on the other. Why does the Cat want to sleep with us? It’s so flippin’ hot. Unable to move. Sex? No. Have to sleep. Can’t open eyes. Consider a new lifestyle that involves not staying up so late at night. Hmmm. What time did we go to bed? Vaguely remember 11 o’clock news. Keep eyes closed. Sleep. (more…)

No, it’s not anti-freeze — it’s the gallon jug we watered the plants with. Was he ever mad when he got too big to wedge his head in there to get a drink. (photo by Hockey God)

“Hey, wanna take a nap?” (photo by my sister)

Dear Internet,

You still there? Even with everything I’ve put you through the last few weeks? Whew. Close one, huh? Were you worried for my sanity? Don’t be, please. Although, Jesus God, it was a little hit or miss, eh? Luckily there was just enough cocoa left to bake a Volcano Cake tonight. How about a kitty picture? (Wacky Cat 2, ten years ago; photo by my sister.)

“Some people crack, you bake,” my husband just told me. Yeah, I crack eggs. That’s better than cracking up. I was putting the cake in the oven and reorganizing the kitchen. Life gets worse, then it gets better, then you do the whole thing all over again.

In Italian, “Peggio di cosi, si muore.” (Literally: “It can be worse than this — worse than this, you die.” Or something like that.) Or you could have a Neighbor from Hell like this one.

Here’s my other favorite — Wacky Cat 1 is grooming him. He got filthy at the pound. (Pic by my sis? Or my husband? Who knows.)

The rhodies are blooming, the honeysuckle has already inhaled the back fence — it is covered and nowhere to be seen. My hostilities? Gone. I turned over all six of our garden plots this week — so far we’ve planted potatoes, two rows of corn, yellow zucchini, two kinds of peppers and a tomato. We’ll plant bush beans later, more tomatoes, and I don’t know what else. Basil. We harvested what was left of the winter kale and my husband braised it for dinner last night with olive oil, garlic, onion and a dash of lime juice.

Kids? Still home. Homeschooling? Still going well. We’ve been having fun with this site (Wacky Girl: “Are you serious? These words are too hard!”), and this one and this one. We started out here. There are all kinds of preschool sites out there, with coloring sheets and fact sheets and all that. Wacky Boy has mostly been working through his sister’s old workbooks, doing word puzzles and matching games. For fun he loves the Yuckiest Site on the Internet and I Spy Fantasy. And Sesame Street. We’ll probably go to the science museum this week, possibly the World Forestry Center, or back to the zoo.

Honestly, who has time for school? I’m being flip — they miss their friends. I miss my quiet time. But why get them all, uh, de-loused, to be blunt, and then send them back to get lousy again? There is no point to that. And I don’t miss the scene there, the drama, the runny noses, the drinking fountains that don’t work, the vomiting, the volunteering.

(Note that in my mind “volunteering” is right there alongside “vomiting.” What the hell went wrong, formerly altruistic self? Where did you go?)

I don’t miss the crazy cafeteria and the special needs kids who need individual aides but will never have them. My kids are doing well in spite of the public school system, not because of it. I cannot say the same for a lot of the kids. They need help they are not getting and that both pisses me off and makes me feel helpless.

Principal and district are negotiating terms of getting a Lice Swat Team involved in the whole brouhaha. Because the school secretary, poking at the occasional kid’s head with a popsicle stick, with a look of visible disdain on her face? It is not cutting it. Wacky Cat 2 says:

love,

WM

In an attempt to swap out all the pooch ads over there on Google, I say…

CATS! And/or kittens.

Meow.

Wacky Cat Two, the Stripedy One, is losing his little kitten brain trying to dash outside to play a game my son fondly calls “Catch-Kill Birdy.” Wacky Boy likes playing this game himself. This game, it is not good. And it’s especially tempting to play it on gorgeous, sunny and clear days like today. It must have gotten to sixty degrees earlier — it’s fabulous. Wacky Boy and I gardened and weeded all afternoon, then brought out the wagon and walked over to pick up his sister from school. He fell asleep on the way there and is still asleep, two hours later, nestled in a bed of blankets and coats. Thank you, Radio Flyer.

Wacky Cat Two is a fierce, efficient hunter and has been known to dart outside, kill a critter, leave it on the front porch for our admiration, then dart back in the house for kibbles all within a ten-minute period. We try to keep him in as much as possible — he’s also a street-fighting cat and I can’t afford the vet bills. Or losing another pet. Also, he enjoys sunning himself in the middle of our fairly busy street. Not the best survivor instincts, our guy. But with Wacky Pooch gone, he is more playful than ever.

I thought at least he’d mourn for a little while, maybe look around for his former buddy. But no. He is playful kitten again, our nine-year-old cat, and loves to play chase, grab paper out of the scrap bag and throw it around the room, climb under the covers and tickle feet. He’s giddy. I guess he was tired of the dog trying to rip off his limbs every time he walked through the room. (Me at the time, rationalizing: “The dog sure seems to be nipping at the cat a lot. Wacky Dog, no!”)

No Catch-Kill Birdy today, friend.

Wacky Cat One, the sleek beauty, is coming into her own now, too, at nearly 12 years of age. More playful than ever, will snuggle in on my lap without digging in her claws (this is new) and doesn’t slap Wacky Cat Two nearly as much.

Dogs!

I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves.
— August Strindberg

He’s wrong. I do bite. And yes, yes, I know. People can’t help that they’re stupid.

(PS — By the way, all of these stupid comments were made to my face or over the phone. Not on the blog. You all have been incredibly supportive and kind. Thank you. You would think, since we don’t know each other in “real” life — most of us, anyway — that that would mean license to be flip, or rude or whatever. Maybe we just save our best manners for the people we don’t know “face to face.” We should save our best manners for everyone, because you never know what someone’s deal is. I appreciate you guys, and thank you. You mean the world to me.)

(PSS — Thanks to Carol and Beth for keeping Thursday Thirteen going.)

For my Thursday Thirteen, here are…

Thirteen Stupid Things People Have Said to Me Since Wacky Dog Died

13. He was really old, right?

12. He was neurotic.

11. Your dog was really neurotic.

10. He would have drove me nuts.

9. All of that chewing would have drove me nuts.

8. You’d better find a way to deal with it, because he’s gone.

7. He’s still lost? (This from a friend who got my message saying, “We lost the dog.” Apparently my sobbing into her voicemail didn’t tip her off.)

6. Yeah, Labs have problems.

5. I’m glad we have a small dog. Small dogs live longer.

4. You’ll be glad not to pick up after him anymore, I bet.

3. At least he was old.

2. It just seems so… sudden.

1. Was he even sick?

Yeah, I know. I need to keep my mouth shut. More secrets = more better, right? Less information = less hurt. Yes, in some cases. But when you’re crying for a week solid, and you still have to do things like go out in public to get your kids to and from school, people ask questions. And what a lot of people don’t know, because 1) it’s none of their business and 2) I keep it guarded like the dark secret it is — people know that my Dad jumped. (I wrote about it here.) But what I never tell people is — he took our dog with him and killed her, too. (Because what? It wasn’t going to damage us enough, with the suicide? He had to throw a little more damage in there? Thanks, Dad.) She was a black dog, and really sweet, with a white blaze on her chest. She looked like a miniature version of Wacky Dog. And I was just a little older than my daughter when it happened. So analyze that in your spare time.

Also, Wacky Dog was our last dog, and some of my sorrow is because of that. I love dogs, even the crazy-kooky ones like Wacky Dog, and I’ve never not had a dog. But my husband and I decided this a long time ago. He’s not really a dog person, and I cannot deal with this kind of grief and sorrow again. Not when I can have a choice in the matter.

A lot of people have said the right things. Not everyone is stupid. So I give you:

13. I loved Wacky Dog.

12. He was a great dog.

11. You guys were a great family to him.

10. It’s good that he’s not in pain anymore.

9. My dog will miss him — they were good friends.

8. He was the best dog.

7. He ruled.

6. You’re going to keep hearing him — and looking for him — for a long time. I am sorry to tell you this, but for me it was (two months, six months, or just a pause, and then, “a long time”).

5. This must be tough for the kids.

4. This must be making you really sad.

3. I am sorry.

2. I wish there was something I could do.

1. He had a good home with you guys, and you did all you could.

You know why I love the Internet? A lot of reasons, really, all of them starting with I can look up the lyrics to any Sly and the Family Stone song that I want, ANYTIME I WANT. This still amazes me. But you know, I’m easily impressed so that’s not saying much. I also adore the Internet, the Information Highway, running willy-nilly from here in Oregon all the way over to North Carolina, down to Rio by the Sea-O, then flying ZOOM like a CRAZY BOOMERANG all around the world, BECAUSE IT MEANS I DO NOT HAVE TO PHOTOCOPY AS MUCH STUFF. (more…)

My husband is over the dog and moving on. The kids are over the dog and moving on. Thankfully, they’ve stopped asking if I’m going to get them a new kitten. The kids, not my husband. Somewhere they got the idea that when a pet dies you run out and get a new one. This is not happening here. No one could replace Wacky Dog and all his crazy lovey ways. No more dogs. I cannot take this heartache again, this horrible decision I had to make. By myself. Because my husband was nuts about the dog and couldn’t let him go, and I can’t fault him for this. I loved the dog, too. He was my dog — he was our dog, but he was my dog. And the kids are little. Too little. If they were teenagers I would have discussed it with them. As it was, I just told them, before I left to take him in, “He’s really sick and the vet doesn’t have medicine to make him better. I don’t know if he will make it.”

And I’ve decided that when I start to break down, it’s okay to cry and break down, but I don’t need to answer the kids’ each and every question, when I’m a mess over this. They wanted to know specifics and I don’t want them to have that information. I just tell them “This is too difficult for me to talk about.” Because it is. And because I want them to be kids for as long as they can. That’s why I’m the grown-up.

I didn’t stay there with him, in the room. I sat with him in what they call “The Comfort Room” for a long time, petting him and talking with him. (And it was comforting. It was softly lit, with a nice couch, and art on the walls, and several boxes of tissue placed around.) I was counseled by a vet tech, who was just an angel, she was so kind and understanding, and a vet who was equally compassionate. It sounded to him like Wacky Dog was showing signs of senility, the way he’d get confused (wanting outside, then back in, not going to the bathroom outside, then going in the house). And the way all of his obsessive-compulsive stuff had gotten worse (chewing on the woodwork, gnawing on his paws and tail, not being able to sleep at night, fretting over everything). The vomiting and the diarrhea had gotten worse. Medicine wasn’t helping. He was such a big puppy, my guy, but when the vet said that, about the senility, I knew he was right. I told my dog, you don’t have to worry anymore, and I let him go.

I’m not over the dog.

I still hear him everywhere — I think he’s scratching at the door and I go to let him in. I spill food on the floor and whistle for him. I peek at the weather and the clock and think, “We have time for a walk, good,” then I remember. I can’t figure out why my foot is cold, then I realize he’s not lying on it. He was a cuddler.

It’s only been a week and a day. That’s not very long. Of course everything is dogs, dogs and more dogs at the moment — the black Lab (just like mine!!!) who snuggled up to the lost climbers (yet more people here, lost in the snow, but they were OK) on Mt. Hood; dogs are running all over the park; they’re jumping into the backs of people’s cars and they’re going places. Then on “Grey’s Anatomy” last night, there’s Meredith in the after-life, with Denny and the bomb squad guy and she says something like, I don’t really want to see you guys, the one I want to see is…

And her dog, Doc, who she had to have put to sleep, bounds up on the table.

I’ll see you somewhere over the rainbow, Wacky Dog.

Let’s have some happy puppy stories on this blog — enough sadness. My dog, Wacky Dog, was Good Dog and Crazeeeee Dog and he was awesome. So my Thursday Thirteen is in his honor…

And this post is in honor of Leanne, who is saying “No more Thursday Thirteen.” I am hoping she changes her mind. Because I love the Thursday Thirteen.

THIRTEEN HILARIOUS STORIES ABOUT WACKY DOG

13. One time a pig truck drove by us on the highway. An extremely large pig truck that was full of smelly, yummy, snorting pigs. You have never seen so much happy sniffing in your life as my dog that day, with his head hanging out the window, tongue out and drooling.

12. There was the time two girl dogs fell all over him at the park. No, I cannot go into details, but he was Happy Wacky Dog. Then there was the time I was throwing a tennis ball for him and a guy driving by yelled, “Sit, Ubu, sit! Good dog!” out the window at him, which cracked me up.

11. When we first got him my husband said NO DOG ON THE BED! Which explains why a week later there we were, napping happily with Wacky Dog snuggled between us. On his back. Legs waving in the air. Snoring. (This is my happiest dog memory.)

10. About a week after that, we couldn’t find the dog. Called for him, and up he popped from under a quilt on the floor, where he was completely covered up, snoozing. Woof!

9. I have beautiful memories of Wacky Dog and Wacky Girl, age two, racing laps around our kitchen, into the entryway, the dining room, and back into the kitchen. (This is Wacky Girl’s earliest memory, and how sweet is that?)

8. My son’s second-earliest memory is of his sister chasing him around, into the kitchen, the entryway, the dining room, and back into the kitchen, with Wacky Dog chasing both of them.

7. The Dog Who Loved the Game of Pounce. Wacky Dog liked to watch us from across the yard, and when we’d call him, he’d skulk, wiggle, hold as still as he could, for as long as he could stand it, and then finally SPRING across the yard and race to us. Pounce!

6. The dog loved to howl and never missed any opportunity to do so. He could bay like the hound dog he was. We’d have “Family Howls” where we’d all throw our heads back and bay. The neighbors, they did not know what to make of this.

5. There was the time he crawled through the window.

4. There was the time our housesitter and her husband did not know what to do with him — he wouldn’t stay in the house (without chewing it to bits), you couldn’t crate him, he wouldn’t stay in the back yard (why should he, when he could sit in the front yard instead?) and they couldn’t take him with them.

Solution: “We put his bed on the front porch, told him ‘Stay’ and ‘Good dog!’ and he was still there when we got home!” What a good puppy. He loved everyone and everyone loved him. “People aren’t strangers to him,” one of my girlfriends said, “just friends he hasn’t gotten to know yet.” I loved seeing kids’ reactions to him. They’d ask, really quietly, “Is it OK if I pet your dog?” then would love all over him while he wiggled and smiled. He was a smiley dog.

3. There was the time he rolled in a dead porcupine at the beach. Actually, this was not hilarious to me at all, and only hilarious to him for the first couple of sniff-happy moments. Yowch.

2. When one of us would call, “Who’s there?” he’d bark like a maniac. Ditto if you just said, “Who” or “There?” Also, he loved squirrels, birds and cats, and didn’t mind sharing his yard, but when I would tell him, “Git ’em!” when I saw a squirrel, he would go into this barking frenzy and chase it out of the yard. Then he’d strut.

1. This one isn’t hilarious, but I am happy knowing that he had almost ten great years with us. (We’re not sure how old he was, but think he was one or two when we got him.) It makes me smile thinking of all the good times we had.

Love you, Wacky Dog. Miss you.

Your Wacky Family

dear internet,

I miss my dog. The way he slept at the foot of my bed. His crazy Tourette’s-style barking that lasted daily from 3 or 4 in the afternoon until my husband got home at 6 or 7. The kids running to the window to see if their dad’s car had pulled up (at 3:30, 3:45, 4 p.m. — you get the idea) then telling the dog, “He’s still not here, Wacky Dog!” This used to crack me up. His soft nose. His soft ears. The way he’d nuzzle my hand. The way I had to look behind me before I pushed my office chair back, because nine times out of ten he was sleeping there and I didn’t want to roll over his foot or floppy ear.

I miss him all the time.

Please tell me this will get better because I feel like it won’t ever.

Our black cat, Wacky Cat One, has started greeting us at the front door when we get home, just like Wacky Dog used to. She’s never done this before. This makes it a little better. That, and everyone being so nice about the whole thing. I wasn’t the only one who was nuts about that dog.

WM