“Fletch, Fletch, come here!” I shout.
He does not come running.
The last time I shouted, he came running, only for me to demonstrate how my new foot brace had turned my whole leg into a robot. I’d finally seen the podiatrist for treatment after Fletch caught me trying to use a Swiffer mop as a cane. So a portion of my ongoing treatment involves the use of a night brace.
Anyway, my robot leg kept kicking him, which I explained was not my fault. I was all, “Dude, I have no control over robots; what do you want?”
He eventually ambles in and then I share my brainstorm.
“We’re going to be married ten years in three weeks and that’s a big deal. We should celebrate somehow.”
Before Martha, our old holiday traditions entailed doing nothing to commemorate an event; ergo last year we spent our anniversary drinking canned beer in the pool. By the end of the day, I kept telling Fletch I’d become “more fish than man.”
“I agree,” he says. “What do you propose? Have you got some big Martha party idea you want to try?”
Maisy leans into me and I run my hand over her sweet head. “Yes and no. We’re going to have a party…but you’re going to throw it. I want you to be in charge. You figure out the food and the drinks and guest list. You make the invitations. This will be your baby and your gift to me.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Has your Ambien kicked in?”
“Absolutely! But I must have gotten a good one tonight, because this really is a fantastic idea. Hear me out—in order to be a better hostess, I want to come to one of my own parties. I’d like to be my own guest.”
“Meaning?”
“You know how you always see the hotel owners on Undercover Boss checking into their own properties? That’s what I want to do. But not in disguise. You’ll know I’m here, because it’s my anniversary, too.”
He nods grudgingly. “This is not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“I know, right?”
We discuss details for a while, until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore and I happily nod off to sleep.
Ambien, you’re the gift that keeps on giving.
A week later, we’re having coffee after walking Maisy and giving her a subcutaneous treatment. We’re getting to be such pros at this. We got all her fluids in less than ten minutes! She even took her pills without trickery, so I can tell already today’s going to be a good day. Granted, Dr. Thornhill said she’s regressed a bit, so we’re back to fluids twice a day. Hopefully this is just a phase.
Fletch has a couple of folders in front of him and hands the first to me. “Okay, here are the catering choices—with our budget, we can select three items from each tier. Please go through and circle what you’d like. I’ve highlighted the items I think would be the most guest-friendly, according to their allergies and preferences. Now, our order isn’t large enough to have anyone here helping serve, but they will come and set up, which is half the battle.”
I scan the list of hot and cold appetizers, trying to do the math in my head. “Are you sure you have the pricing right? I can’t cater a party myself for the cost of the ingredients.”
He nods in a way that seems almost officious. “Positive. I triple-checked prices and cross-referenced the number of guests with the optimal number of servings per person.”
If he is, in fact, correct and he can throw a party together for less while employing professionals, then…then…then this whole year of living Martha-style has been a lie.
“You’ve got to be wrong. That’s the only explanation.”
He purses his lips at me and I amend my statement.
“Fine,” I concede, “I do end up either throwing out two-thirds of all the party food I make, or we eat it ourselves until it goes bad.”
“I recall having Independence Day hot dogs for lunch until July tenth this year,” he says. “I was ready to go Boston Tea Party on them and dump them all in the pool, but I figured they’d float and you’d just fish them back out.”
“What you’re saying is that a caterer can’t do a party better than me; she can just do it differently.”
Technically this is not a win for me, but I won’t pursue the point.
Fletch flips through the folders. “Anyway, here’s what we’re looking at in terms of liquor. I’m making a Costco run later this week and with the beer we have left over from the Fourth, we’ll have plenty.”
“Cool, thank you.”
Why isn’t he sweating?
Where’s the swearing and crying?
Throwing a party isn’t this easy; trust me—I’ve tried.
I point out, “The house is filthy. I’ve been so busy with Maisy that I’ve not kept up like I want.” Aha, here comes the sweating and crying!
“Not a problem. I have a cleaning service coming in that Thursday.”
“You’ll want to spot-clean the rugs, though.” In the diminishing battles between the New Girls and the Thundercats, the upstairs carpet has borne the brunt of the tail end of the cross fire. I’m not exactly sure how taking a whiz on the carpet establishes one side’s dominance over the other, but that’s what’s happening.
Also? I was having trouble getting meatball stains out of my workout shirts, and Fletch determined that the problem was our twenty-four-year-old washer, so we invested in a new set. We left the door open on the new front-loading washer, and last week one of the cats pooped in there. I really have to teach these assholes to journal their feelings so they can stop with the biowarfare.
He glances down at his list. “Stanley Steemer’s coming on that Friday.”
I’m not sure how the man who forgets to put the milk back in the fridge every day is so on top of this, but I’m not going to argue. Am I going to be all, “No! Stop! You’re going too good of a job here!”
And yet he’s making me look bad.
“What about the broken faucet in the powder room?” Okay, now I’ve got him.
“The plumber will be here tomorrow.”
ARGH.
I mean, thank you. This is going to be an incredible anniversary, but ARGH. Why is he already better at this than me? He hasn’t been poring over Martha’s entertaining books for the better part of the year; nor has he filled his days watching a massive TiVo cache of old show episodes.
Is it possible that some people are more predisposed to party planning?
Wait, at least I’m on the ball about something.
“Oh, forgot to tell you—I picked up a couple of cans of Off! at the grocery store yesterday. The mosquitoes have really being going crazy at dusk, so I bought enough for everyone.” Weather permitting, we hope to hold the party outdoors.
“No need. I’ve scheduled the exterminator to spray for them.”
I grit my teeth. “Great, then I can concentrate on the decor.” I’m sure that this will be my oeuvre. I’m going to construct pretty paper lanterns and poufs and hang them in the apple trees.
He consults his stack. “The landscapers will string up twinkle lights in the backyard over the weekend.”
DAMN IT.
“And this falls within our party budget?” I mean, he went all Imelda Marcos and the shoe closet here, surely. That’s why the anniversary gathering is going to be fab, right? We’re going to be eating cornflakes all winter because he tapped into our reserves. Or else I’ll have to squirrel away more party hot dogs or something.
Fletch slides a spreadsheet across to me.
He’s not only on time but under budget, so much so that I can now have a cake made.
If smug were a drug, he could sell it by the gram. (Ten points for catching the Vanilla Ice reference.)
He neatens his stack and says, “Of course, I sent the save-the-date e-mail a few days ago, and the hard copies are going out today.”
I guess I can’t be surprised at how on top of things he is. When Fletch planned his high school reunion earlier this summer, he used Martha’s site for guides on everything from suggested vendors that would
print and mail invitations to an online RSVP system.
Oh, that’s it.
He didn’t do this on his own, not really. He had Martha’s help! That doesn’t account for why he’s better than me at party planning, but it does give me some comfort that he’s not, like, a soiree savant or something.
He shuffles his folders again. “There’s one area where I might need your help.”
“Pfft, finally. I thought you had this on lock.”
“For the most part, I do. But I’m having trouble with the love tree.”
?
“I’m sorry. The what?”
“Your love tree. When we discussed the party the night you had the good Ambien, you demanded I plant you a love tree for our anniversary. So I talked to Rich and he’d never heard of a love tree, either, but he was going to check with Bob the Arborist. But maybe you can help us out—do you want something flowering or something that will be at its height at the beginning of September? Also, where in the yard do you want it?”
I’m still confused. I don’t recall a single word of this conversation, as it must have happened deep in the Ambien fog.
“I asked you for a love tree?”
He nods. “You said you wanted it to”—he makes air quotes—“‘symbolize our lives together’ and we could plant it in the yard and ‘watch our love grow every year,’ preferably within eye line of the breakfast table so you didn’t have to crane your head. You were real specific about that part, actually. Seems like a good idea, though. Rich suggested we plant it where the old ash tree was. I was thinking either dogwood or flowering maple.”
He pulls out his iPad and begins to scroll through our options. Everything is gorgeous.
See?
This?
Right here?
Is why I live for that five percent.
Viva la Ambien!
The anniversary party is a rousing success. Almost everyone we love attended, including some of our out-of-town old friends who’d been to our actual wedding. Everything about the night was magical, from the company to the food to the music to the weather. Fletch was so proud of himself, and it was gratifying to step back and look at all we’d built in our lives over the past ten years of marriage.
And yet there’s still a hole in my heart.
Maisy isn’t going to make it.
As she slowly, steadily worked the crowd on Saturday night, I had the feeling she was saying her good-byes. By the end of the night, she was stationed on her dog bed, too worn-out to even lift her head.
When we took her to see Dr. Thornhill the last time, he was somber and didn’t talk about her levels. We received no congratulatory handshakes. Every week when he draws blood, he runs a computer model on her functions, and for the past couple of weeks, they’ve been trending downward. When we asked about scheduling her next visit, he simply said to call him in a few days.
He knew, but he was waiting for her to tell us.
Maisy had a good Labor Day, though. She sat in her favorite lounge chair and quietly panted in the sun, a small doggie smile playing at the side of her mouth. Then yesterday, she and I were taking a stroll at dusk and we spotted three deer in the neighbor’s yard. Instead of barking or losing her mind in the myriad ways she always used to do upon seeing another living creature, she simply looked at me and wanly wagged her tail, turning for home.
This is our last walk together.
This morning, Maisy doesn’t bound out of bed. She doesn’t nose after the cats or frolic with Libby. For the first time in ten years, she doesn’t roll around and scratch her back.
When she looks at me, I know it’s time.
And I love her enough to let her go.
Funny thing about grief—you can’t run away from it. You can fill your days with activity and even leave town, but it follows you.
Grief is the ultimate debt collector.
After we say good-bye to Maisy, Fletch and I are at loose ends. We don’t know what to do now that our days aren’t filled with caretaking. I make some halfhearted stabs at Martha-based projects, but I can’t seem to concentrate on anything. We don’t even really eat, subsisting mainly on snacks from the “big box of happy” gift basket that Stacey made sure was delivered the day we lost her.
A week later, Fletch and I fly to Las Vegas in the hopes that getting away will help. It does and it doesn’t. We’re able to forget while in Vegas, but the minute we arrive home and she’s not there, we experience the feelings of loss all over again.
Everywhere we look in the house, there are signs of Maisy, whether it’s the ottoman she chewed long ago or the E-Collar I used to help steady her while we gave her fluids. Each time I walk past her love seat and she’s not there, I break into tears.
The worst part of all this—outside of missing my girl every second of every day—is that I feel like I wasted three years of my life worrying about this moment. I mourned her long before she was gone. Despite all my anxiety, the worst happened anyway. I thought somehow I was bracing myself against the sadness by preemptively fretting, yet all I did was waste the time I could have had being happy.
That is, except for the past two months. I knew we were on borrowed time, so I made the most of every single moment, and when Maisy left this realm, there was no question in her mind as to how much we adored her.
The Tao of Maisy dictates that we need to be awesome, give awesome, and get awesome, but we’re doing none of those things right now. We’re just sad.
When Maisy was initially diagnosed three years ago, Fletch and I rescued the Thundercats, because I was determined that no other creature was going to die on my watch. But until we tear out all the floors and install bar grating so feline fluids can sluice through when they anger-whiz, we’re steering clear of more cats.
The way I see it, we can spend our time mourning, or we can honor Maisy’s memory by rescuing another pit bull.
Happiness really is a warm puppy.
“Everything about this dog is a lie,” Fletch proclaims as the Red Menace bounds over the back of the couch in pursuit of Chuck Norris.
“No, it’s not! She just got over her shyness. Like, really quickly.”
Last week Elaine told us about a seven-month-old pit bull in need of a forever home. Although she’d not personally met the reddish-caramel-colored puppy called Whiskey, the foster parents assured her how sweet and mellow Whiskey was, so we wanted to meet her.
Elaine and the foster parents brought Whiskey over on Sunday and we spent a few hours introducing her to Libby and Loki to see if she might be a good fit. Libby loved her on sight—naturally—and Loki wasn’t aggressive toward her. He didn’t like her, but he didn’t try to annihilate her, which was key. He would be far more difficult to win over, largely because he’s an older dog. Think about it—most seventy-year-olds don’t want to be friends with toddlers. But once they get to know each other, they can enjoy each other’s company.
I counted on Fletch to be the voice of reason here, because three weeks after losing Maisy, you could lead Cerberus the three-headed hound from Hades into my house and I’d be all, “I LOVE DOGGIE SO MUCH!”
In terms of looks, Whiskey wasn’t exactly the kind of pup you’d put on an adoption poster, either. She was awkward and gangly, too big to really be considered a puppy, but not yet grown into her frame. Also, her head was enormous and her weird yellow eyes were spaced really far apart, kind of like a horse or a hammerhead shark. Because her face was all one color, save for the eyes, she had absolutely no expression, save for a blank stare. Plus, she was shy and had such separation anxiety that the first family to adopt her sent her back to the fosters in three days.
So when Fletch looked at her and said, “I’d probably call her Hambone,” I knew we’d found our new family member.
But Fletch is a little bit right: Hambone’s not exactly as previously described.
Hambone, aka the Red Menace, is a handful.
We had our first inkling of this on Sunday night, when we tried to put h
er in her crate when we went to bed. Elaine said that whatever we did, we had to make sure she bunked in her crate, and that she wasn’t allowed to sleep with us until she found her place in the pack. She said that even if Hambone cried, we were to Ferberize her.
Which would have worked fine, had Hambone not disassembled her cage around her. We’d heard she’d done the same thing at the first owners’ house, but we figured they were stupid and didn’t have their crate properly assembled.
Sorry I misjudged you, strangers.
As Hambone clambered into bed with me, curling up in Maisy’s old spot, all I said was, “Don’t tell Elaine.”
Then, the next morning, Fletch went upstairs to work in his office while I showered. Hambone didn’t like us both being out of her line of vision, so she climbed up on the bathroom counter and barked until I rinsed all the shampoo out of my hair.
A week into her tenure here and she’s proven herself to be stubborn, bossy, and mischievous. She’s profoundly annoying to the cats, as every time they hiss at one another, she bounds over to break up the fight. She’s making Loki crazy with her constant sucking up, and she’s emulating all of the bad habits Libby learned from Maisy. We’ve started to train her, and as yet, she cycles through every command she knows, desperate to be rewarded with a treat.
I think she’ll fit in here just fine.
BANANA GRABBER
My job now is to figure out what life looks like post-Maisy. I figure the quicker we get back to living our normal lives, the better off we’ll be, so I dive back into my happiness project.
Immediately, I realize that in living like Martha for so many months, I’ve not made her macaroni and cheese once.
Did we lose a war or something?