My Grandmother's Kitchen Table, with a Lazy Susan in the Middle

I was sitting in Sunday School, sipping decaff coffee from a paper cup, when I unintentionally visualized a cigarette being tapped into an ashtray. For many years I have closely associated coffee and cigarettes, even though I've never smoked, even though no one in my immediate family smokes. It isn't because the two are paired so often in songs, though they are. It isn't because of that first scene in Stephen King's *The Shining.*  I realized right then that it is because my grandmother used to sit at her kitchen table with her coffee and her cigarettes. She would smoke, and stir her coffee, rapidly with a silver spoon.

My grandfather, her husband, used to sit at that same table with his red-backed playing cards, playing a game of solitaire. She had her crosswords. He had his cards. I don't do crosswords, or play cards alone. But I remember the cigarette being tapped out into a heavy glass ashtray. I remember the cards arrayed on the kitchen table.

P.S. It's my wedding anniversary today. Thirteen years together.

What Happened, Part 3

It is news to me when he tells me that the swelling in our dog's head has gotten worse instead of better. For two days I had been saying, “I think it's working; I think the swelling has gone down.” For two days I had been preparing myself to tell the children their dog is dying.

I've been thinking through all the reasons why it would be better if we didn't have a dog. I've been trying to balance what my heart feels against what my head knows: that we can't afford to take her to the vet for more than the most absolutely necessarily things (that would be the rabies shot), that not having her would save us the cost of dog food every month, that our air filters wouldn't get so clogged, the vacuum bags wouldn't fill up so quickly, the yucky dog smell would go away, and the floors would stay cleaner longer. I wouldn't have to feel guilty about her ears or her flea problem anymore. She wouldn't suffer anymore.

A recent visit with a friend had taught me to accept that sometimes we make really unfortunate mistakes with our pets, the living creatures in our care. When a pet dies, it teaches us the lessons we need to learn in order to better care for future pets. I hate for any living creature to suffer, whatever you may believe about cats and dogs, but despite our best efforts, suffering is an unavoidable fact of life in this fallen world.

I went downstairs and asked my husband if we were going to spend a lot of money on Allie before the end of the week. He said, no, we wouldn't be able to spend any more money on her. She was getting worse and not better. When he took her to the vet that morning, she would probably have to be euthanized.

And that's when my heart broke for my dog. For My Dog. Yes, she is a living creature, and our chosen responsibility, but she's just a dog. Though I don't believe we were ever in any actual danger of losing our child on Monday afternoon, we could have lost Our Child, and that would have been truly devastating. Still, my heart broke for her. I'm the one who didn't want a dog. I'm the one who complained about her hair, her smell, her ears. I'm the one who used to put her out at night so I could sleep, or vacuum, or think, yet there I was, weeping for my dog.

When Michael took her to the vet that morning, I thought I was saying good-bye to her for the last time.

When he came back without her in a surprisingly short amount of time, and I asked him what had happened, he told me there was one more thing the vet was going to try. It was unusual that she had started eating again, a little bit of dog food from my husband's hand, but eating. It seemed worth another shot to save her.

This felt even worse than knowing my pet was dead, because it meant more days of waiting and wondering. I was sure by now that she was going to die anyway, and now we were just dragging it out. It felt worse, but maybe it was better. Dr. Askew did a little minor surgery on her, and we picked her up that night, along with prednasone, and instructions to continue the antibiotic. The next morning she was still alive, and the swelling had gone down. She started eating again. The swelling went down more. I started taking her for walks.

Michael bathed her, and we started babying her, giving her plenty of water, taking her out to pee with regularity (i.e., frequently), keeping her out of the basement. I've stopped ignoring her all day.

Keeping her out of the basement has probably brought about the most significant changes. There's something down there that makes her skin itch, and scale. That's where she picks up the fleas. All this time we have probably been exacerbating her sickness without knowing it, all because I didn't really want a dog that lived in the house.

A week later, though still on meds, Allie is probably healthier than ever. I can't take her on long walks like I want to, but she looks and smells better. This morning when I got up at 5:00 to give her medicine, she was anxious and happy to head out the door. I still wonder what might happen when the antibiotic runs out. We left her outside for a couple of hours one evening, and when we came back she had clawed her wounded ear so that it was bleeding.

Almost a week since I started this blog post, she's gained weight because of the prednasone, and despite the occasional self-mauling, the wound is beginning to heal. I think we'll run out of the antibiotic today, and we're weaning off the other. I still have a dog, and she still sheds, but I love her more now than I did before, so I don't mind as much. I still have my dog.

What Happened Last Week, Part 2: The Cockroach Attacks

I realize I'm risking TMI, but I'll spare you the less necessary details. I'm in the bathroom, and I'm stuck there, when the large, disturbing cockroach appears.

This is the South. I'm used to having these little guys around, but they disgust me to the point that I usually can't even stand to kill them. I can catch and release a lizard, I can kill a wasp, I can capture and release a spider, given a plastic cup and a piece of cardboard, but I cannot deal with cockroaches unless they are already dead.

He crawls around the room from corner to corner. I ignore him as best I can, thinking he'll naturally stay away from me. There's no need for histrionics. Until there is need.

I'm telling you, this thing flies from the bathroom wall to my arm while I am sitting there, and proceeds to make its way up toward my shoulder. No amount of arm shaking or swatting can detour him from his goal, and that's when I start screaming. I refer you to “What Happened Last Week, Part 1” if you wonder why so strong a reaction. He eventually falls to the floor, and that's about when my two little boys arrive to find out what's wrong now.

“The roach was on my arm,” I huff, breathlessly.

Warily, we watch it crawl around the room. I'm still seated, you realize, a captive of this thing, and the fact that there are now other people in the room with me. Next thing we know it flies again, from the corner of the bathroom to land RIGHT ON MY LEG. And that's when we all scream. When I shake it from my lap and try to stomp on it, this thing miraculously survives, And that is when my husband arrives on the scene, ready to dispatch dread creature, only after demanding to know why we're all screaming, that is.

I have damaged my children irrevocably. Now they are afraid of roaches. Especially afraid is my little one, aged four.

You may still be wondering what happened to the dog, right? Next post.