AND BABY MAKES FIVE....KIND OF



Shortly before my daughter's seventh birthday, my husband and I were faced with the inevitable question most parents of grade school children face:

"Mom. Dad. Can we get a pet?"

Given that our second child was nowhere near close to being completely potty trained and still at home for most of the day with me; given that my husband worked odd hours; given that I was in the throes of editing both my novel and my first volume of poetry and trying to manage a weekly poetry open mic; given that five out of every seven days, for me, begins fifteen minutes before six a.m. and does not end until fifteen minutes before midnight; given that we have close to an acre of space to weed and mow and rake and shovel and keep halfway decent so that we are not kicked off the planet by the community association; given that I have, at very minimum, four loads of laundry to sort, wash, dry, fold and put away every week and a dish washer that had, at the time, konked out (read: handwashing the dishes after each and every snack and meal), given this all, my husband and I breathed a collective sigh and I simply answered for the both of us, "Not right now sweet-pea."

"But why?"

“Because pets are a big responsibility.”

“But I can help,” she reasoned.

“I know, honey, but…well, maybe when you get a little older.”

“And when is that, Mommy?”

When.
When?
When?

"Soon, sweet-pea. Soon."

Only partially satisfied, my daughter proceeded to negotiate for a cat, when the When finally materialized. "Well, Mommy. When we get a pet, can it be a cat?"

Since I am not given to falsifications or stringing my children along, giving simple answers to send them on their way; since I am not given to saying yes when I mean no; since cats really do make me nervous, unsteady, and generally uncomfortable; since no one in the preceding four generations of my family has ever owned a cat for similar reasons, I simply said, "No, sweet-pea. Maybe something else. But not a cat." Thankfully, Daddy agreed.

I went to bed that evening, flabbergasted with the mere thought of having someone else to care for. Tucked beneath my covers, I reminded myself of all the goals I’d set out to achieve and that another life—whether human, canine, or feline—would simply mean lost time. Lost time for writing. Lost time for researching. Lost time for workshops and reading and tai chi and yoga and—dare I say it?—meditation. Time lost from the getting on with life that every Mother wants after she’s birthed two children, seen them through breastfeeding and all-night crying; through ten thousand, six hundred and sixty-six disposable diapers (or at least it seems), through learning to walk and hold a spoon and sit on a potty and sleep all….night….long. The getting on with life that a Mother yearns for when her breasts have returned to human proportion; when they show some promise of heading north rather than south and being able to fit, again, in a normal sized bra sold in the sexy section of the store; when she can shop for pants that have a real waist, not elastic and can realistically visualize herself going somewhere that does not allow for sweat pants, running shoes nor Birkenstocks, but black tie and red dress cut dangerously above the knee and mini-purse that fits only a debit card and a lip gloss. Another life would simply negate my most desperate wish for more time. More space. More me. More of what I like to think of as the goodness of life.

So it was to be expected I suppose, that when third grade arrived along with ripe classroom discussions of summer recess and family vacations and new pets, that my daughter would come again and ask, “Mom. Dad. Can we get a pet now?

Once again my husband and I went back to the drawing board, divvying up between us the reasons we should and should not get a dog with me, this time, still on the later end of the see-saw. One year later, my book now published and our second child completely potty trained, Spouse was convinced that, well honey, maybe it's time. Maybe it is time for a family pet.

Given that I am Mother, given that I am the one who, for all intents and purposes keeps my household functional, I assumed the responsibility of not only researching what kind of dog would be best but what our budgetary constraints where. At first, I considered an English bulldog—the variety that is short and stocky with overlapping wrinkles that give their face a disgruntled appearance. But I soon found out that their price averages about $1,200.00 and their lifespan only 8-9 years. I move to the opposite end of the spectrum and consider a Rottweiler but the necessary research revealed it to be a breed not given to the rough house play that I know my son will deliver and a body frame that averages 120 pounds. I settle, finally, on a Lab. Gentle dispositions, great with children, good family pets. Sounded good to me.

Since my research for anything is usually extensive and it took over a month just to settle into the idea of even having a pet, let alone which kind of pet, it was close to Thanksgiving and we decided that rather than make any definitive announcements like Guess what, we’re getting a pet we would simply surprise the children for Christmas. After a number of telephone calls to local and regional breeders I settled on a woman located about forty-five minutes north of our home. Her voice was soft and inviting; she said we could visit anytime even if just to look.

One morning, after dropping the children off at school, my husband and I took the drive, gearing ourselves up (myself more than him) for the idea of having a pet. His eyes glowed with anticipation of surprising the children; my stomach flopped at the idea of barking and whining and pooping and bags of dog food that are so heavy as to break one’s back if one is not careful. We walked into a stable-like structure and peaked in at what remained of a litter of pups just over ten weeks old. There were three of them, one of which would soon become ours. We offered a deposit on one with sad, yet hopeful looking eyes. The breeder tied a blue ribbon around his neck and promised to hold him until Christmas. She lowered him back down and he became the teasing victim of the other two pups who jealously pulled at his ribbon.

On Christmas Eve we told the children we had just another few gifts to pick up. The morning was cold, the sky a typical December gray and my daughter slightly feverish but we took the drive anyhow. Once again, forty-five minutes north. After a half hour in the car driving to parts previously unseen, my daughter asked, “Mom, where are we going?”

“Oh, just to pick up a few more gifts, that’s all,” I answered.

When we arrived, we stepped out of the van and hugged the breeder as if we’d known her all the time. (I’d called her several times to check on “our dog” and each time she assured me he was doing well). We walked toward the stable, accosted by big mother and father dogs and my daughter, with an edge of fear laced in her voice, asked with all due seriousness, “Mommy, where are we going?” The breeder opened the door, reached down into the space where our dog and only one other of that litter were playing and hands us our new puppy. Merry Christmas, we say, to our daughter and to our son whose arms open wide to hold a real live gift.

Though I had scribbled a laundry list of names for the new addition to our family, our daughter took one look at him and named him Sunny. (Or Sonny, depending on how you choose to spell it. I suppose she meant Sunny because up, overhead, was a break in the clouds as we carried him to the van; a little ray of winter sunlight against his bright beige coat).

Sonny was not easily convinced that climbing into our van was such a good idea. Feet spread out in parachute position, Sonny kept his face to the floor of the van and shivered the whole way home. I pet him continuously, stroking his fur and lightly touching his ears, trying to convince us both (myself more than him) that things were going to be okay. At home, he peed on the floor after we literally dragged him out of the van, through the garage and into the door. He scurried under the table and stayed there, face to the floor. Quickly we discovered that Sonny had not even the slightest idea of how to negotiate the steps that lead downstairs to his crate and had to be carried up and down and up and down. We discovered how much like infants puppies really are, with bladders the size of a walnut, prone to pee-ing whenever and wherever they can. And despite my attempt at being happy about my children’s new pet I began to feel instead an all too familiar lack of patience and a nagging wonder if it hadn’t all been One Big Bad Idea.

But the beautiful thing about Life is that lessons are all around, when you cultivate a sense of awareness. In one month, Sonny has taught me the meaning of loving unconditionally; of finishing each day and being done with it knowing that blunders and absurdities have crept in but forgetting them as soon as you can is necessary for both survival and sanity. Tomorrow is indeed a new day. Though I may have yelled at him the day before, threatened him with bodily harm and a ride back north to the breeder’s, it never precludes Sonny from wagging his tail the moment he sees my feet coming down the stairs. Sonny has taught me that Love is the close cousin of Forgiveness.

Sonny, in his short time here, has now learned how to go down the steps. After significant wimpering, standing at the top of the steps, wimpering more, stepping back, stepping forward and wimpering more, looking at me as if to say, “Please carry me down” and me responding, “No Sonny, you’re getting too heavy”, Sonny decided to throw caution to the wind and make his way down—after all, how else will he get there? Sonny has taught me Courage, that sooner or later you do really have to throw caution to the wind; that wimpering and crying and debating and negotiating are all forms of Fear rooted in some twisted idea of hurt or failure. Sooner or later you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do and you can’t expect anyone else to do it for you. It’s yours. Own your own fear, then summon the courage to let it go.

And Sonny has taught me the true meaning of One Step At A Time. Sonny had enough sense to know that taking more than one step was too far a reach for his short paws; that by simply taking one step and then another, soon enough he’d get to the bottom—his destination. He has taught me that progress can indeed happen with simple, small steps; that the drastic headlong approach is rarely necessary nor is it wise. He has taught me that being Brave does not have to mean being foolish and that how you get to a place pales in importance to the fact that you have gotten there. I no longer curse my small amount of time, rather I bless it, make peace with it, and realize my steady progress in small simple steps, One At A Time.


Looking back on Sonny’s ride home, I realize what it means to have Simple Blind Faith. Sonny had no idea where he was going—we could have been leading him to slaughter for all he knew—but he used his instinct, taking clues along the way from my gentle rub around his ears and my strokes along his back. His simple act of sitting still reminds me of a line from poet and essayist Alice Walker’s book, Absolute Faith in The Goodness of The Earth in which she writes:

When we let spirit lead
us
it is impossible
to know
where
we are being lead.
all we know
all we can believe
all we can hope
is that
we are going
home
that wherever
spirit
takes us
is where
we live.

There is no way of knowing anything. There are few absolutes in this thing we call Life. All that we can ever really do, all that we are ever really responsible for having, is Simple Faith. Not answers. Not solutions. Just simple faith. Sonny has taught me that Faith is not found in a church, in a reverend, in rosary beads or good luck charms, not even necessarily in the Bible, the Qu’ran or the Bhagavad Gita, but in the quiet spaces of the heart. Clues are all around us that everything really is going to be okay; simple, gentle strokes that serve as reminders that Spirit is with us and wherever it leads us we will be at home and we will be given all the tools we will ever need.

Every day, Sonny pulls me into morning with a deep, throaty bark. Try as I might to hold onto the warmth of my bed, I know that he has learned so much, so soon; that he really is a good dog and has held his bladder for as long as he could. His bark is a gentle way of letting me know of his need to relieve himself and his readiness to go outside. Despite the fact that he’s been all around our yard and as far into the neighboring woods as he can go, Sonny finds something new every day beneath the bushes and behind the trees. For him the air, the grass, the leaves, the twigs, and now the snow (something he’s never seen)—all of it is new despite having seen it before. The simple sights and tastes and smells are, for Sonny, a blessing and a welcome reprieve from being in his crate all night long. Sonny has taught me what it means to be Mindful, not to assume that I have seen all there is to see, but to meet each day with eager anticipation and a sense of wonder, welcoming not just the lessons and the gifts that are to come but the ones that are already there. With Sonny, I am pulled into areas of the yard I rarely frequent enabling me to look around with new vision. I see the possibilities for a beautiful English garden or maybe a space to grow a few fresh, organic vegetables; with Sonny I am pulled into the soft parts of the grass, beneath naked trees whose long, arthritic branches feel like the shelter of a Grandmother’s arms. Here I find the metaphors for poems and stories and essays like these and moreover, metaphors for life, if, like Sonny, I simply pay attention. Pay attention, for goodness sake.

As soon as I can, I'll upload a picture of the latest love of my life.