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First off...
Jan. 8th, 2008 | 10:10 am
The first entry of a new blog is like the first day of school.
My pencils are sharpened and smelling divine in their new zippered case, along with a fat pink rubber
eraser and a protractor and a tiny leather-bound dictionary. The case snaps into my bright blue vinyl three-
ring binder. Everything, including my lunch, is tucked into my schoolgirl backpack. I wear my hair in a braid,
a new red jumper, and white knee socks as I stand waiting at the bus stop in front of my neighborhood .
So here I am, ostensibly to write about places I will see and experiences I'll have in Los Angeles and
California before I move in a year. It's the L.A. Bucket List, if you will, with apologies for the cliché which, with
that movie trailer running every three minutes everywhere, will be harder to pull off than "You go, girl!" in
another month or so.
An obvious question is, "Gee, there are so many things to do and see in California and the weather's
perfect and everything seems peachy, so why move?"
I answer that question here.
In order to keep things breezy and general however, I neglected to mention the catalyst to all of the "This
isn't my hometown" thinking. It came on Monday, December 3, 2007.
I arrived home from work that day at my usual time, around 6 p.m.. Although I left work early, I sat in traffic
on The 5 for over an hour for a nine mile commute. My reason for leaving early was simple enough: I was
checking on one of my two dogs to see if I ought to take her to the vet. The vet's office closed at seven. I'd
have enough time to get her there if needed.
Big Dog, an eighty pound Florida Brown (a breed name for mutt, coined by my sister), had kept me awake
most of the night before, pacing and looking at me. That's all. She was looking at me. She wasn't hungry or
thirsty. She didn't have to go outside. I touched her all over to see if she had pain. She didn't. All she wanted
to do was stand there and stare at me.
When this behavior started early Sunday evening, I thought an earthquake might be imminent and she was
trying to warn me. My other dog, Little Dog, wasn't alerting me, though. (Unless his canine threat level
system happens to involve lots of snoring and stretching out on the couch.)
Big Dog paced and stared between short naps for the entire night. But since she behaved normally on the
morning walk and all bodily processes seemed to be functioning, I left for work, figuring I'd make an
assessment about whether to take her to the vet in a few hours.
I knew something was amiss when I put my hand on the doorknob to my apartment. I opened the door
hesitantly, and right there, just out of the swing of the door, was Big Dog laying dead on her side with Little
Dog standing nervously beside her.
I fell to my knees and apologized to her. Over and over. I called my mom. I cried into the phone. I called the
vet. They told me that they could take care of The Body. Big Dog, who had been with me for thirteen years,
was now called The Body. I wrapped her in a sheet. She was so stiff, it felt like she would break apart.
I stood up and looked down at the Big Dog-shaped sheet. How would I get her to my car, parked a half
block away? Eighty pounds of dead weight, I scrolled through my cel phone for someone I could call. I've
lived in this apartment for two years and I know two neighbors. One is never home and the other is a known
child predator. I have a handful of good friends in L.A., but nobody lives nearby. Still rush hour, it would have
taken the closest person thirty or forty minutes to get to my place and another thirty minutes to drive to the
vet with me. The vet's office closed in 45 minutes. I would have to do it myself.
And so I prayed, and half-carried and half-dragged her body out of the apartment, down the front steps, to
my car parked a few hundred feet away, crying uncontrollably and apologizing to her the whole time. I
passed a few people on the sidewalk and while they'd get out of my way to let me pass, no one offered to
help. By the time I got her to my car, my arms were numb and trembling and I had nothing left to lift her into
the back seat.
Just then a family walked by… a mother, a father, and two small kids on bikes with training wheels, out for
their evening stroll. The father, who was probably younger than I am, looked at me tearfully struggling. One
of Big Dog's legs stuck straight out from the bundled sheet. I thought that this man was going to help me,
but instead, he put his arm around his wife, and quickened his pace, shooing his kids along in front of him.
Somehow, I got her into the car, half on the backseat, half on the floorboard. It wasn't very dignified and not
at all fitting the loyalty and companionship she had given me over the last many years. I apologized again. I
took LIttle Dog with me for the ride to the vet's. I couldn't leave him alone and I couldn't be alone.
The people at the vet's office were very kind and told me to drive around in back where a strong young man
lifted Big Dog out of the back of my car like she was a baby and laid her on a stretcher.
The nurse who was with him noticed my state and asked sympathetically,
"Do you have anyone at home?"
"N-n-no," I blubbered. No, I don't have anyone at home and my dog died. I'm just about ready for Ty
Pennington to drive up in his bus.
"Well," she brightened, seeing Little Dog sitting patiently in the front seat. "You've got that little guy." She
reached in and patted his head and said to him softly, "Take care of your mom."
In a city of thirteen million people, I was relying on a fourteen pound poodle to take care of me on my
saddest night.
So I'm leaving, and giving myself a gift of an exciting year of new experiences to get where I'm going:
somewhere where I can take care of myself, but where I don't always have to do the job.
And now the school bus is here. Off I go.
Comments
Jan. 8th, 2008 | 10:10 am
The first entry of a new blog is like the first day of school.
My pencils are sharpened and smelling divine in their new zippered case, along with a fat pink rubber
eraser and a protractor and a tiny leather-bound dictionary. The case snaps into my bright blue vinyl three-
ring binder. Everything, including my lunch, is tucked into my schoolgirl backpack. I wear my hair in a braid,
a new red jumper, and white knee socks as I stand waiting at the bus stop in front of my neighborhood .
So here I am, ostensibly to write about places I will see and experiences I'll have in Los Angeles and
California before I move in a year. It's the L.A. Bucket List, if you will, with apologies for the cliché which, with
that movie trailer running every three minutes everywhere, will be harder to pull off than "You go, girl!" in
another month or so.
An obvious question is, "Gee, there are so many things to do and see in California and the weather's
perfect and everything seems peachy, so why move?"
I answer that question here.
In order to keep things breezy and general however, I neglected to mention the catalyst to all of the "This
isn't my hometown" thinking. It came on Monday, December 3, 2007.
I arrived home from work that day at my usual time, around 6 p.m.. Although I left work early, I sat in traffic
on The 5 for over an hour for a nine mile commute. My reason for leaving early was simple enough: I was
checking on one of my two dogs to see if I ought to take her to the vet. The vet's office closed at seven. I'd
have enough time to get her there if needed.
Big Dog, an eighty pound Florida Brown (a breed name for mutt, coined by my sister), had kept me awake
most of the night before, pacing and looking at me. That's all. She was looking at me. She wasn't hungry or
thirsty. She didn't have to go outside. I touched her all over to see if she had pain. She didn't. All she wanted
to do was stand there and stare at me.
When this behavior started early Sunday evening, I thought an earthquake might be imminent and she was
trying to warn me. My other dog, Little Dog, wasn't alerting me, though. (Unless his canine threat level
system happens to involve lots of snoring and stretching out on the couch.)
Big Dog paced and stared between short naps for the entire night. But since she behaved normally on the
morning walk and all bodily processes seemed to be functioning, I left for work, figuring I'd make an
assessment about whether to take her to the vet in a few hours.
I knew something was amiss when I put my hand on the doorknob to my apartment. I opened the door
hesitantly, and right there, just out of the swing of the door, was Big Dog laying dead on her side with Little
Dog standing nervously beside her.
I fell to my knees and apologized to her. Over and over. I called my mom. I cried into the phone. I called the
vet. They told me that they could take care of The Body. Big Dog, who had been with me for thirteen years,
was now called The Body. I wrapped her in a sheet. She was so stiff, it felt like she would break apart.
I stood up and looked down at the Big Dog-shaped sheet. How would I get her to my car, parked a half
block away? Eighty pounds of dead weight, I scrolled through my cel phone for someone I could call. I've
lived in this apartment for two years and I know two neighbors. One is never home and the other is a known
child predator. I have a handful of good friends in L.A., but nobody lives nearby. Still rush hour, it would have
taken the closest person thirty or forty minutes to get to my place and another thirty minutes to drive to the
vet with me. The vet's office closed in 45 minutes. I would have to do it myself.
And so I prayed, and half-carried and half-dragged her body out of the apartment, down the front steps, to
my car parked a few hundred feet away, crying uncontrollably and apologizing to her the whole time. I
passed a few people on the sidewalk and while they'd get out of my way to let me pass, no one offered to
help. By the time I got her to my car, my arms were numb and trembling and I had nothing left to lift her into
the back seat.
Just then a family walked by… a mother, a father, and two small kids on bikes with training wheels, out for
their evening stroll. The father, who was probably younger than I am, looked at me tearfully struggling. One
of Big Dog's legs stuck straight out from the bundled sheet. I thought that this man was going to help me,
but instead, he put his arm around his wife, and quickened his pace, shooing his kids along in front of him.
Somehow, I got her into the car, half on the backseat, half on the floorboard. It wasn't very dignified and not
at all fitting the loyalty and companionship she had given me over the last many years. I apologized again. I
took LIttle Dog with me for the ride to the vet's. I couldn't leave him alone and I couldn't be alone.
The people at the vet's office were very kind and told me to drive around in back where a strong young man
lifted Big Dog out of the back of my car like she was a baby and laid her on a stretcher.
The nurse who was with him noticed my state and asked sympathetically,
"Do you have anyone at home?"
"N-n-no," I blubbered. No, I don't have anyone at home and my dog died. I'm just about ready for Ty
Pennington to drive up in his bus.
"Well," she brightened, seeing Little Dog sitting patiently in the front seat. "You've got that little guy." She
reached in and patted his head and said to him softly, "Take care of your mom."
In a city of thirteen million people, I was relying on a fourteen pound poodle to take care of me on my
saddest night.
So I'm leaving, and giving myself a gift of an exciting year of new experiences to get where I'm going:
somewhere where I can take care of myself, but where I don't always have to do the job.
And now the school bus is here. Off I go.
Comments
