Her name is Winnie.
She’s the canine Prozac, the doggie upper, the pill designed to heal at least part of our suffering over Sophie. A 40-pound bundle of hyperactivity, cuddly as a well-worn pair of blue jeans. Irresistibly healthy. A two-year old mix of Golden Retriever and Border Collie. A rescue dog who now spends the bulk of her day representing the best of her genetics, chasing tennis balls and herding anything and anybody—including the pieces of our broken hearts that, for the past two weeks, have been floating aimlessly about in our bloodstreams.
We got Winnie last weekend, after realizing that it’s easier to “get a gun” (according to Dan), than to rescue a dog from death row. You’d think once we showed even a slight interest, we’d get a dog by DHL the next day. But no. It doesn’t work that way.
First, we had to fall in love with 800 dogs on petfinder.com, only to find out they’ve been adopted and to keep looking. Then, we had to fill out a bazillion applications on shelter and rescue web sites—a full time job on some days—and wait for our vet to give us a stellar reference. Then, we had to submit to several telephone evaluations and home visits to prove that a) we weren’t crazy or unfit to own a dog b) we wouldn’t give the dog up at the first sign of trouble and c) we had a fence with the appropriate measurements.
Between each step of the process, we cried over Sophie’s ashes, returned to us by the vet in a small cedar box to remind us she wasn’t a dream or one of my stories.
Then, finally, after a great deal of time, energy and lost fluids, the folks from the Golden Retriever Adoption, Placement and Education organization (www.graperescue.com) decided we were worthy enough to adopt one of their babies. So we did.
We got Winnie.
And while it hurts to think of Sophie as no longer being here, it does help to know that life goes on with our new girl. An oversized hairball of cuddly puddly doodle snoop. (Sorry.)
That even though we couldn’t save Sophie’s life, we could save hers.
“Babe, why are you crying?” Dan asks me, as we get into bed on the night we got her.
“Because I LOVE HER,” I say. She’s sniffing around the bedroom rug, like she’s looking for a good place to do her business.
“Oh.” He looks confused.
“I miss So-So-Sophieeeeeeeee….” More tears. “He-ere Wi-wi-winnie.” She looks up at me, tilts her head, and leaps up onto the bed. I pull her onto my lap and kiss her head. “You’re a go-go-good gir-r-r-rll.” She looks bored.
“Babe?” He looks concerned.
“Yes.” Full sob. I hope the dog doesn’t pee on me. Or worse yet.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m gr-gr-great.” I take a deep breath and then bury my face in Winnie’s furry neck. Pet dander be damned. Thanks to Oak, Maple and every-other-genre-of-tree pollen, I’m already on one Claritin and Zyrtec-D, four shots of Nasonex, half an Allegra, a Singulair sample AND two Benedryl. I got nothin’ to lose here.
She lets out a doggie belch.
“Good girl,” I say. “YOU”RE A GOOD GIRL LIKE SOPHIE WAAA-AAASSSSS.” I proceed to cry like Lucille Ball in the old “I Love Lucy Reruns,” when she was trying to elicit Ricky’s sympathy. My mouth wide open for maximum sound quality, I expose the anchor to a long lost set of tonsils. (The operation to have them removed the ONLY time my thin-obsessed mother ever let me eat ice cream, which is why I remember it so vividly.)
Dan walks out of the room and returns quickly with a beer. He sits down on the bed, looks at me cuddling the dog like Mary cradling the baby Jesus, and turns on the television. The Action News theme sings loudly from its speakers.
“Do you remember when we used to watch Action News with Sophie?” I try to compose myself. “She really liked Monica Malpass and Dave Murp-phy. But she always barked at that Adam Josephs, remember?” I pace my breathing and try to laugh at the memory. Winnie is desperately trying to get free from me, but I clutch her face to my chest. “No, no, Winnie. Not yet. Mama’s not done giving LOVEYS.” She tries to puppy nip my hand. “No bites, Winnie. No bites, baby. No friggin’ bites.” She stops. “GOOD GIRL.”
Dan looks at me like my head is a complex array of strings and several are on the verge of snapping.
“It was good, wasn’t it? I mean, she enjoyed that, don’t you think?” I hang on his answer as if it will determine my very future.
“Do I think she enjoyed the weather?” He’s starting to look frightened.
“Well, yeah? You know. The people and everything. The show.”
“Babe.” He puts his arms around me and Winnie. “It’s okay to cry over Sophie. Winnie won’t be offended.”
“She’s mad that we got another dog, isn’t she? Sophie. It’s too soon.”
“Is that what you think?” He takes a long swig from the bottle.
“Good girl, Winnie.” I pet her little head. Long pause. “No. I don’t. I don’t think that. Well, maybe.”
“Sophie wouldn’t want us to be unhappy. Maybe she sent Winnie to us to help us heal.”
A Geico commercial comes on. That little frog is funny. Those commercials often make me want to call Geico just to tell them that I like their ads, but then I get busy with other stuff and forget to do it. “Do you notice how cuddly Winnie is? Sophie was NEVER this cuddly. I mean, it’s great. Don’t you think?” My eyes start to water. “I LOVE IT. LOVE LOVE LOVE IT! GOOD GIRL, WINNIE.”
“It’s nice.” He gives me a squeeze. “Do you want a beer?”
I ignore him. “Winnie doesn’t run through our legs either. Sophie used to love to run through our legs. Remember?” Winnie tries to break free of me again, but I push her head back down to my chest. “No, no, baby. We LOVE you. WE DO.”
“Babe, you’re shouting. And she looks uncomfortable.”
“Sorry, my ears are clogged.” I look down at her. “I think she looks so peaceful and calm.” The dog is wincing, rubbing a paw over her eye.
“No dog will ever replace Sophie. You do know that.” He chugs the beer like it’s Gatorade and he’s just completed a triathlon.
“Of COURSE not.” I sneeze and the dog gives a little squeal.
“We’re gonna love Winnie just as much as we loved Sophie. It’s just gonna take some time.” He’s talking to me slow and steady, like I’m a mental patient.
“Of course we are. Right baby?” I look down at her. She’s wiggling like David Blaine trying to get free from a locked coffin. Finally, I let her loose. “Baby,” I explain to her, “you have to let mommy go pee.” Exhilerated to be free, she settles in at the edge of the bed. I stand up and look at her and then at Dan.
“I know,” he says, “that’s where Sophie used to sit.”
I lean over to kiss him. “I love you, babe.”
“I love you too.”
So this is what our lives look like for right now. I’m sure it’ll get easier. And we are growing to love Winnie, even though she crapped in the house twice and sometimes growls at Dan and jumps on every single person who comes in the house, clinging to them like a pack of leeches. Or, even worse, a single forty-something.
She also hunkers down with us every night, lays on our chests, licks our faces, wags her tail, and catches a Frisbee like I’ve never seen. She’s smarter than most of the men I’ve dated. And far more limber. The other night, we took her for a drive, while she balanced her back two legs on my lap, the front two on the sill and her head halfway out the open window. I bet Rt. 202 South looked a lot different from that perspective. I’m thinking about trying it myself.
She also grins a lot which is contagious. That part of it all feels good.
In a magnanimous gesture to repay her for these momentary pleasures, we gave her Sophie’s old doggie bed, covered with a few of our t-shirts and the smelly blanket she loves that the rescue gave us. And we told her to go ahead and think of Sophie as her guardian angel, because we know she’s ours.
What I don’t know is what my next crisis or excuse will be for not getting to work on novel number two. I could always use the whole wedding thing. Or, we can move. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll start looking for a new house! That’ll REALLY stress me out and divert my attention.
Whew! Another problem averted.
In the meantime, the other night I had dinner with my best friend Lorrie, my ex-sister-in-law Paula and her sister Mindy. By the way, we all grew up together, so it’s cool. We’re all cool.
We were at Havana’s in New Hope, eating fried food and drinking diet soda and beer, when we got into this conversation about the perils of being a parent. Paula and Lorrie, who have children, told Mindy and I, who don’t, that we have no idea what it’s like to be a parent.
Mindy said they had no idea what it’s like to be single and 40 without children. Or, what it was like to be an aunt, for that matter.
I told them they had no idea what it’s like to be engaged, 43, childless and, soon, a stepparent.
We chose teams. Mindy was on mine. We told the other team—let’s call them the “fish taco” team—that they were condescending and belittling. That we weren’t children, even though we didn’t have any.
The fish tacos told us we were clueless. We wouldn’t know what to DO with children. We couldn’t even imagine what it’s like to raise them.
Ironically, what I remember most are the onion rings.
It was fun. Gosh, life is good.
Okay, that’s it. I’m done. Hopefully, by my next blog, I’ll have actually written at least a chapter. As always, I ask that you pray for me. Oh, and Winnie too. She’ll need it.
Until then.
  Share

Her name is Winnie.

She’s the canine Prozac, the doggie upper, the pill designed to heal at least part of our suffering over Sophie. A 40-pound bundle of hyperactivity, cuddly as a well-worn pair of blue jeans. Irresistibly healthy. A two-year old mix of Golden Retriever and Border Collie. A rescue dog who now spends the bulk of her day representing the best of her genetics, chasing tennis balls and herding anything and anybody—including the pieces of our broken hearts that, for the past two weeks, have been floating aimlessly about in our bloodstreams.

We got Winnie last weekend, after realizing that it’s easier to “get a gun” (according to Dan), than to rescue a dog from death row. You’d think once we showed even a slight interest, we’d get a dog by DHL the next day. But no. It doesn’t work that way.

First, we had to fall in love with 800 dogs on petfinder.com, only to find out they’ve been adopted and to keep looking. Then, we had to fill out a bazillion applications on shelter and rescue web sites—a full time job on some days—and wait for our vet to give us a stellar reference. Then, we had to submit to several telephone evaluations and home visits to prove that a) we weren’t crazy or unfit to own a dog b) we wouldn’t give the dog up at the first sign of trouble and c) we had a fence with the appropriate measurements.

Between each step of the process, we cried over Sophie’s ashes, returned to us by the vet in a small cedar box to remind us she wasn’t a dream or one of my stories.

Then, finally, after a great deal of time, energy and lost fluids, the folks from the Golden Retriever Adoption, Placement and Education organization (www.graperescue.com) decided we were worthy enough to adopt one of their babies. So we did.

We got Winnie.

And while it hurts to think of Sophie as no longer being here, it does help to know that life goes on with our new girl. An oversized hairball of cuddly puddly doodle snoop. (Sorry.)

That even though we couldn’t save Sophie’s life, we could save hers.

“Babe, why are you crying?” Dan asks me, as we get into bed on the night we got her.

“Because I LOVE HER,” I say. She’s sniffing around the bedroom rug, like she’s looking for a good place to do her business.

“Oh.” He looks confused.

“I miss So-So-Sophieeeeeeeee….” More tears. “He-ere Wi-wi-winnie.” She looks up at me, tilts her head, and leaps up onto the bed. I pull her onto my lap and kiss her head. “You’re a go-go-good gir-r-r-rll.” She looks bored.

“Babe?” He looks concerned.

“Yes.” Full sob. I hope the dog doesn’t pee on me. Or worse yet.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m gr-gr-great.” I take a deep breath and then bury my face in Winnie’s furry neck. Pet dander be damned. Thanks to Oak, Maple and every-other-genre-of-tree pollen, I’m already on one Claritin and Zyrtec-D, four shots of Nasonex, half an Allegra, a Singulair sample AND two Benedryl. I got nothin’ to lose here.

She lets out a doggie belch.

“Good girl,” I say. “YOU”RE A GOOD GIRL LIKE SOPHIE WAAA-AAASSSSS.” I proceed to cry like Lucille Ball in the old “I Love Lucy Reruns,” when she was trying to elicit Ricky’s sympathy. My mouth wide open for maximum sound quality, I expose the anchor to a long lost set of tonsils. (The operation to have them removed the ONLY time my thin-obsessed mother ever let me eat ice cream, which is why I remember it so vividly.)

Dan walks out of the room and returns quickly with a beer. He sits down on the bed, looks at me cuddling the dog like Mary cradling the baby Jesus, and turns on the television. The Action News theme sings loudly from its speakers.

“Do you remember when we used to watch Action News with Sophie?” I try to compose myself. “She really liked Monica Malpass and Dave Murp-phy. But she always barked at that Adam Josephs, remember?” I pace my breathing and try to laugh at the memory. Winnie is desperately trying to get free from me, but I clutch her face to my chest. “No, no, Winnie. Not yet. Mama’s not done giving LOVEYS.” She tries to puppy nip my hand. “No bites, Winnie. No bites, baby. No friggin’ bites.” She stops. “GOOD GIRL.”

Dan looks at me like my head is a complex array of strings and several are on the verge of snapping.

“It was good, wasn’t it? I mean, she enjoyed that, don’t you think?” I hang on his answer as if it will determine my very future.

“Do I think she enjoyed the weather?” He’s starting to look frightened.

“Well, yeah? You know. The people and everything. The show.”

“Babe.” He puts his arms around me and Winnie. “It’s okay to cry over Sophie. Winnie won’t be offended.”

“She’s mad that we got another dog, isn’t she? Sophie. It’s too soon.”

“Is that what you think?” He takes a long swig from the bottle.

“Good girl, Winnie.” I pet her little head. Long pause. “No. I don’t. I don’t think that. Well, maybe.”

“Sophie wouldn’t want us to be unhappy. Maybe she sent Winnie to us to help us heal.”

A Geico commercial comes on. That little frog is funny. Those commercials often make me want to call Geico just to tell them that I like their ads, but then I get busy with other stuff and forget to do it. “Do you notice how cuddly Winnie is? Sophie was NEVER this cuddly. I mean, it’s great. Don’t you think?” My eyes start to water. “I LOVE IT. LOVE LOVE LOVE IT! GOOD GIRL, WINNIE.”

“It’s nice.” He gives me a squeeze. “Do you want a beer?”

I ignore him. “Winnie doesn’t run through our legs either. Sophie used to love to run through our legs. Remember?” Winnie tries to break free of me again, but I push her head back down to my chest. “No, no, baby. We LOVE you. WE DO.”

“Babe, you’re shouting. And she looks uncomfortable.”

“Sorry, my ears are clogged.” I look down at her. “I think she looks so peaceful and calm.” The dog is wincing, rubbing a paw over her eye.

“No dog will ever replace Sophie. You do know that.” He chugs the beer like it’s Gatorade and he’s just completed a triathlon.

“Of COURSE not.” I sneeze and the dog gives a little squeal.

“We’re gonna love Winnie just as much as we loved Sophie. It’s just gonna take some time.” He’s talking to me slow and steady, like I’m a mental patient.

“Of course we are. Right baby?” I look down at her. She’s wiggling like David Blaine trying to get free from a locked coffin. Finally, I let her loose. “Baby,” I explain to her, “you have to let mommy go pee.” Exhilerated to be free, she settles in at the edge of the bed. I stand up and look at her and then at Dan.

“I know,” he says, “that’s where Sophie used to sit.”

I lean over to kiss him. “I love you, babe.”

“I love you too.”

So this is what our lives look like for right now. I’m sure it’ll get easier. And we are growing to love Winnie, even though she crapped in the house twice and sometimes growls at Dan and jumps on every single person who comes in the house, clinging to them like a pack of leeches. Or, even worse, a single forty-something.

She also hunkers down with us every night, lays on our chests, licks our faces, wags her tail, and catches a Frisbee like I’ve never seen. She’s smarter than most of the men I’ve dated. And far more limber. The other night, we took her for a drive, while she balanced her back two legs on my lap, the front two on the sill and her head halfway out the open window. I bet Rt. 202 South looked a lot different from that perspective. I’m thinking about trying it myself.

She also grins a lot which is contagious. That part of it all feels good.

In a magnanimous gesture to repay her for these momentary pleasures, we gave her Sophie’s old doggie bed, covered with a few of our t-shirts and the smelly blanket she loves that the rescue gave us. And we told her to go ahead and think of Sophie as her guardian angel, because we know she’s ours.

What I don’t know is what my next crisis or excuse will be for not getting to work on novel number two. I could always use the whole wedding thing. Or, we can move. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll start looking for a new house! That’ll REALLY stress me out and divert my attention.

Whew! Another problem averted.

In the meantime, the other night I had dinner with my best friend Lorrie, my ex-sister-in-law Paula and her sister Mindy. By the way, we all grew up together, so it’s cool. We’re all cool.

We were at Havana’s in New Hope, eating fried food and drinking diet soda and beer, when we got into this conversation about the perils of being a parent. Paula and Lorrie, who have children, told Mindy and I, who don’t, that we have no idea what it’s like to be a parent.

Mindy said they had no idea what it’s like to be single and 40 without children. Or, what it was like to be an aunt, for that matter.

I told them they had no idea what it’s like to be engaged, 43, childless and, soon, a stepparent.

We chose teams. Mindy was on mine. We told the other team—let’s call them the “fish taco” team—that they were condescending and belittling. That we weren’t children, even though we didn’t have any.

The fish tacos told us we were clueless. We wouldn’t know what to DO with children. We couldn’t even imagine what it’s like to raise them.

Ironically, what I remember most are the onion rings.

It was fun. Gosh, life is good.

Okay, that’s it. I’m done. Hopefully, by my next blog, I’ll have actually written at least a chapter. As always, I ask that you pray for me. Oh, and Winnie too. She’ll need it.

Until then.
  Share