So it’s been one of those days, one of those weekends, a humdinger.
First, the arduous prep for a yard sale that’s been at least three years coming. I had piles of clothes left from when I worked at a consignment shop in Marietta where ritzy dames dropped off their expensive wardrobes simply because they were last season’s. But this was a dress size ago for me, and in Boston I won’t even have a closet, so it was time to let go.
Then, in the midst of sorting and pricing, my dog ate my magic rattlesnake vertebra. I found him chewing on it and at first thought it was a piece of plastic, but no, closer inspection showed it to be the rattlesnake backbone talisman given to me by my poetry mentor as a graduation gift from the m.f.a. program. This was devastating to me, especially since after I gave a bag full of magic dirt from a holy site in New Mexico to my Catholic friend I suddenly find myself without a single magic item in the house. And everyone can use a little magic, right?
I could use a little magic. Because even though my dog eats everything, indiscriminately, constantly, I still love him. But since we’re moving, we have to sell him. And I was brave, I tried to be, I really did. But knowing that we had an appointment to show him to a couple this afternoon, I cried all morning, found myself utterly heartbroken.
And how could I not be, when I think back to all the good times, like when we had to induce vomiting by spooning hydrogen peroxide down his throat after he ate a Hershey bar? Or again after he ate a box of Benadryl and part of an air conditioning filter? Or the five times he chewed through our television cord? Or the time he wedged himself inside a clothes hanger?
But even though he’s a mess, he’s my mess, and I know just what his fur smells like and what games he likes to play, and how he doesn’t like the way my brother knocks on the door, and how he’ll howl if I make too much noise if I’m crying. My mess, my puppy.
But my puppy who can’t come with us, and so come Wednesday night he’ll belong to another family, who seem really excited to get him. They have a kid, and the dad has tattoos, which should go right along with Henry’s rock-and-roll attitude. And when they ask for advice, like what food to give him or how to get him to go outside or where he likes to sleep, I’ll have only one response: ”Keep your magic rattlesnake bones somewhere safe. Like in the freezer.”
Then I’ll give my pup a kiss, pull out my map, jump in the Budget truck, and get the hell outta dodge.
