2000 Miles

Two years ago, Cabbage and I drove to Denver for Christmas.  It was a quick turnaround over a long weekend, and we planned to log about 2,000 miles round trip. 

We started after I worked a half day and drove all afternoon, through the scrubby hills of Texas and northward to the plains as darkness fell. We reached a town that marked our decision point; either stop for the night or push on.  Tracking a winter storm on our phones, we decided to push through and barely stopped for food and fuel.  Georgie, always an excellent travelling companion, peed quickly on a light dusting of snow and loaded up again in the back seat.

It became colder as night fell and the wind picked up.  Cabbage drove with a firm grip on the wheel and held the truck against the wind.  Pheasants hurtled across the road, thrown from their roosts by the gale and powerless to chart their flight. 

I reached back to stroke Georgie's head, offered her a drink of water, then tried to rest.  My feet were swelling so I propped them up on the dash.  Not usually a napper, I'd discovered the bliss of drifting off.  I was sleeping for two. 

In my belly, our baby-to-be stirred, then frog-kicked me.  "Hi, Beep.  You're awake?"  We had called the baby Beep practically since conception.  "Oh, Baby, not there.  Don't stop there.  Can you move, please?"  A massaging rub, then a few pokes, and the baby was still sitting directly on my bladder. 

We had just stopped for a bathroom break not twenty minutes earlier.  "Beep...Please move?"  Still nothing.  Shifting in my seat, drinking cold water, nothing persuaded the baby to move again.  There was nothing else for it. 

"Cabbage, I'm sorry but I have to pee again.  I know we just stopped, but your child is sitting directly on my bladder."

"Sure, no problem."  Thank goodness he understands, I thought.  We found another restroom. 

We drove through a string of tiny towns and found ourselves battling a nasty storm.  The snow was flying horizontally, driven mercilessly sideways in blinding sheets by a vicious wind.  It slowed us to a crawl, but there was no place to pull over.  We pushed forward, finding our way foot by foot by following the lines painted on the road.  After a time, the wind quieted and we picked up speed again.

I was driving when we slipped through a bit of New Mexico and into southern Colorado.  My baby squirmed inside and then stilled again, napping.  Over my shoulder Georgie slept, and to my right Cabbage had finally closed his tired eyes and fallen into a deep sleep. 

The sun was rising as we rounded a curve and descended a steep incline.  The plains stretching to my right and mountains to my left were revealed as familiar.  I'd spent my childhood visiting southern Colorado, and this stretch of road was well known to me.  The landscape was scoured clean and glittering with virgin snow ruffled by sage.  Everything was icy white with the palest of blue winter skies above.  So clear and beautiful that I felt pity for all those warm and cozy in their beds, missing that singular moment. 

I pressed play on the CD and turned down the volume, just barely able to hear the lovely song I knew would become the soundtrack for this memory which so captured that time of my life.  2000 Miles by Coldplay.

My family surrounded me and slept, and I laid a hand on my unborn child.  I welcomed the beauty of the new day as I traveled through memories, over the road, and toward Christmas.

Boots It Is

Hmm.  I'm not sure what to say about this situation.

I wish I could say I didn't realize my socks were mismatched.  But I did. 

I just. Didn't. Care.

Dressing in the dim light of our closet at 5:45 this morning, I did manage to find a shirt, a sweater, a necklace and earrings to match.  I located jeans without holes and fished out a pair of boots that looked decent without polishing.  

Once upon a time I would have rummaged further for a mate for either sock.  It would have mattered, and I probably would have at least padded down the hall past the kitchen to the laundry room.  I'd have peeked in the dryer to see if the partner to either of these socks was hiding in there.

No longer.  

Since those days, I've been eight months pregnant while working eighteen hour days.  I've nursed and pumped and rocked a baby half the night, then commuted and answered emails and phone calls all day.  I've watched sick horses and worried the darkness to light. 

So this morning I picked two unmatched, clean, striped socks from the top of my dresser where they were waiting, next to the velvet bag holding Georgie's collar and a lock of her hair.

I have realized that if I wear boots, my socks have zero percent chance of being seen.  Sometimes, that's the simplification I need to keep life's balance tipped in my favor.     

  

Blogging in Real Time

The past couple of weeks have been very busy ones for us.  I haven't been able to post as often as I like, because work hours have been long, house guests have been many (three separate guests last week), and in my limited spare time Beep's needs have overruled blogging.

This morning I was up while it was pitch black out, and shuffled my way out to the kitchen to try to get a post or two done before my family awakened.  I let Annie outside, I let Fletcher out another door (Fletch has been confined at night because we've had a resurgence in coyotes lately), and peeked at the horses. 

I sent up a plea for an uninterrupted hour.

Then Annie started barking, so I whistled for her and shut her on the back porch.

I sat back down to look at photos and think about what to post.

Then Annie started barking again.

I got up, muttered some unflattering things about Annie's intelligence level, and let her in her mudroom.

I missed my Georgie. I sighed, put my hands on my hips, and took a moment to recognize that Annie isn't Georgie.  Besides that, she's still a puppy.  I patted and asked her to be sweet and cooperate.  She panted, licked me and spun around in circles in agreement.  I gave her a nice new bone.  Bribery.

Back to the computer, back to ponder what to write...

After a couple of minutes I heard Annie's water bucket sliding around her room.  Followed immediately by the sound of the bucket rolling around her room.  *Crap*

Stomping back through the kitchen, I steeled myself for the mess I knew I'd find.  Annie was playing with her overturned water bucket, sloshing around in the puddles, getting muddy paw prints everywhere, mixing it with stray dog hairs, and generally having a great time.

I stepped barefoot into the drippy mess, grabbed her collar and shoved her out the door.  Grabbed the mop, went to work.  Listened to her bark on the back porch.  Mopped, squeezed outside, told her to hush.  Repeated that sequence about eighteen times.  

Then I told her she was a butthead.  And put the mop away.

And now, because Annie drowned my hopes of doing a post that might be actually mildly interesting, the only thing I can think of writing about is why I can't get a decent post written.

And now I have to go, because she's barking again.

But then, I will probably make my family pancakes.  And hopefully soon I'll be able to tell you about my new favorite pancakes, which are light, fluffy, made from scratch, and filled with extra goodness.

If you don't hear from me again, you can thank Annie.

Somewhere Bright and Cool

This week has been one of trying to adjust. After twelve years of sharing each of my many homes with her, I still expect Georgie to greet my car, walk up from the barn, or peek out from the shade of the porch.

The collar that encircled her neck every single day since 1999 is now empty and coiled on my dresser along with a lock of her hair. It will take time for it all to sink in.

Cabbage always asks “How are you?” And I respond by shaking my head, or silently meeting his eyes for a moment. His expression and voice soft, he comforts me with one of several kind replies:
“She’s worth missing.”
“I understand.”
“You’ll be ok. It takes time.”
And always, without fail:
“I got your back.”

All of this, and especially everything that is still good and right in my life, makes every day ok. I still laugh and smile and eat dinner and sleep at night. I just miss my JoJo, and instead of her as my constant companion, I have an achy sadness. Eventually I know I’ll feel better and have a different normal without her sweet face but I’m just not there yet.

I was thinking the other day of this photo.

I took it about eight years ago, soon after I got Maybe. It reminds me of those early halcyon days when I was still stunned that he was mine, that I actually had a horse of my own, and that he was such a beautiful and fascinating creature.

I had this photo a long time, and looked at it dozens of times, before I even realized Maybe wasn’t the only one in the frame.

We all recognize that black and tan face.

This. This was Georgie. 

She was a barn dog, a one-person dog, a goofball “helping” work a horse, and above all a happy and constant companion.

I remember that fall day; the sky was clear and blue in that singular Colorado shade, and from our perch on the high plains we had a panoramic view of the mountains all along the front range. The breeze blew crisp, dry air scented with grass and hay. Maybe and Georgie were happy and playful, teasing each other from opposite sides of the fence.

It’s so easy to picture them now together in a place not so different from that. I hope they’re playing again, both of them young and whole and joyful, somewhere bright and cool.

Watching the Steam Rise

On Saturday, I tried to ride my horse.  After losing Georgie Friday night, I needed the mental challenge and physical exertion.  I needed an escape. Unfortunately, Sam was not in the mood.  He was hyper and uncooperative, challenging me at every turn.  Eventually I cut my losses and got off, and later I went for a short run instead.

This morning I tried again, and it was a different story.  The doctor was in.

Winston Churchill apparently liked to wax philosophic about horses, and one of his better-known quotes is "There's something about the outside of a horse that's good for the inside of a man."  I like the quote but it's only partly true.  It's ultimately not about the outside of the horse.  It's about the inside- the mind, the heart, the intelligence.

Those are the qualities that make this my therapy couch.

Sam and I walked to the arena.  It was where I needed to be. 



It was just after 8:00 in the morning, and it was beautiful.  Long rays of sunshine, crisp clear air, and a happy horse to act as salve for my hurting heart.

After our ride, my sweet Sam enjoyed a sudsy bath and some grazing time.  While he munched and the steam rose off his wet, warm muscles, my mind drifted toward Georgie.  Of course.

I thought of all the thousands of hours she and I spent at a barn together.  

I remembered her nosing around while I rode, following scent trails until she disappeared around a corner, across a field, or into the forest.  When it was time I always whistled for her- one short, then one long and lifting call.  After a pause she'd reappear, running.  Her tan markings bobbing, black fur streaming, she'd come racing with joy from wherever she'd been, back to my side in a big long loop.

My heart felt quiet and tender.  I thought of her, and I watched the steam rise.

  

Saying Goodbye to Georgie

[It's only fair to warn you...  This is the very sad account of how my dear Georgie died.  She was my dog for the last twelve years through, well, just about everything- cross-country moves, jobs, boyfriends, marriage, births and deaths.  If you'd rather skip the sad stuff and enjoy some photos from our life together, that would be just fine with me.  Just scroll down until you see the photos start.  I hope they make you smile, and maybe even remind you of a special dog who changed your own life.] 

Saying Goodbye to Georgie

Last night, my beloved Georgie died.

It happened suddenly and there wasn't much time for a goodbye.  I hope that also means there was not much suffering for her, but I don't know.

I was fighting traffic on my commute home when Cabbage called me to say "Don't stop at the barn.  Come right on home."  When I asked him, sharply, "What?" he said "Well, Georgie's not feeling too good..."

His tone was enough.  I got there as soon as I could.  There were stoplights, slow drivers, the crush and congestion of rush hour traffic.  My gas tank, which I'd been intending to stop and refill on the way home, was almost on E.

I pulled through the gate, teeth gritted, gripping the steering wheel.  Flying from the car, I stopped short at the sight on the back porch.  It was Georgie, lying on a pallet of soft rugs, with Cabbage (holding Beep) softly petting her sweet face.  He had a fan blowing cool air on her.

He looked up at me.  "It's ok,"  he said.

I took a hesitant step forward, then another, and bolted the last couple of steps to them.  Kneeling beside her, I put my face down and cried "Georgie girl?  I'm here.  I'm here, JoJo."

He ears perked up, her eyes shifted to mine.  I ran my eyes, and then hands, over her and immediately found her swollen abdomen, panting breath, distant gaze.

I thought She's hemorrhaging.  Oh my god.  This is bad.  I knew she was dying.

I pulled out my phone, dialed the vet clinic for the emergency clinic number, and Cabbage called them for directions.  As quickly as we could, running, we loaded the baby, opened the back of the car.  I checked for gas in our lawnmower cans.  There was none.  Goddammit.

I didn't know how to move her, how to gather her up without hurting her...  Cabbage swept past me and scooped her up to his chest.  I carried her head, walking backward.  I smoothed her face and talked to her.  She looked at me, passive but coherent.  When we laid her in the back compartment, she didn't move.

I sat in the back seat, trying to soothe my fussing baby and comfort my dying dog.

Georgie?  Can you hear me?  I see you, JoJo.  I love you.  Do you hear me?

I tried to find a place to pet her that I thought wouldn't hurt.

I covered my eyes to pray.  "St. Francis, please bring comfort to this sweet girl of mine.  I'm begging you to take away her pain and give her peace.  Send your better angels.  She's my girl.  She needs your better angels."

I did not ask for her to live.  I knew it was too late.

Her abdomen seemed to grow tighter, distend more.  Her breaths grew shallower.

We had to stop for gas.  It didn't take two minutes.  We had to stop for fucking gas.

My baby was crying and saying:
"Mama." 
"Yes, baby?"
 "Mama." 
"What, baby?" 
"Mama."

We were getting closer to the clinic, but there was a train.  There was construction.  We had to flip a u-turn and drive a block through a neighborhood.  The sun was shining through the trees.

Her breaths grew shallower.

Georgie?  Can you hear me?  I love you.  I remember the farm where you first found me.  I remember everything.  I love you.

"Oh, no.  Oh, nonono.  Cabbage, hurry."  She wasn't taking every breath anymore.
"I'm trying," he said.

We finally pulled up at the clinic, and as Cabbage carried her through the doors she took her last breath.  They did CPR, they administered drugs.  They tapped her abdomen to relieve pressure on her organs.  They did more CPR, tried and tried to start her heart.  The vet came to talk with me while the others continued to work on her.

She was gone.  I told them to stop and let her go.  I knew she was already gone. 

Her stomach had bloated, flipped, and compacted arteries.  Her circulation was interrupted, her body couldn't function.  There was so much damage and oxygen deprivation.  The vet told us it doesn't happen often, but they see it more this time of year.

An hour and a half before, she was playing with Annie, running through the yard.

We said goodbye to her in a private room, right after I looked Cabbage squarely in the eye and said "This can't be it.  This can't be the end of it for Georgie and me.  This can't be the end for us." 

I hugged her head and stroked her ears.  I asked Beep if she wanted to say bye-bye to JoJo, and she didn't.

I petted her a long while, and told her I remember everything...  I remember everything.  You're my girl, JoJo.    

***********************************************************

In Memory of Georgie

1998- October 14, 2011

 

White Noise, In Absentia

I've been riding long enough that it doesn't take much to put me in The Zone: that blessed, peaceful place where thoughts and stressors fade, my inner monologue ceases to exist, and there is little left of me.  Instead, there is only a rider, reacting to and shaping the movements of a horse.   

It's wonderful.  And when I swing my right leg over, jump down, and my boots connect with dirt once again, I am a better person.

Running is a different story.  I am by no means an experienced runner, and The Zone is not only not achievable for me most days, I'm not even in the same zip code.  I run because it's good for my body, not my mind.

During my runs, my head sometimes feels sometimes scattered.  Like this one.

I'd like to just head out the door, and leave in peace and quiet, but first there is a confederacy of dunces in my way.

I shouldn't include Georgie in that description.  But these two?  They are the original confederacy. 

So no zone yet.  And the deer are starting to stare...  I don't know if you can see them here, but I can.  I can feel them looking at me.  They actually live in The Zone, and they're laughing at me.

And now I'm thinking about Junior.  These skid marks scarring our driveway are remnants of his maniacal, unescorted and unwise field trip around Cabbage Ranch.

Confederacy.

See why I can't find The Zone?  I'm hemmed in by this crazy cast of animal characters, which lead me to the thoughts whirring through my head. 

I blame the dunces. 

It's their fault I can't stop thinking about their stories, and The Zone slips further away, pushed back by the tide within my head.

I have to take the lead dunce-ette with me on my run.  She's learning to be a pretty good running partner, and even better I'm pretty sure she'd- as Cabbage would say- light up anyone who got too close. Translation: Bite 'em.  Chew them up.

Hard to imagine, I know.

But I'm increasingly sure about that.  So as I ponder that, Annie and I get on our way, and hit our stride on a little two-mile run, I am waiting for the inner monologue to quiet.

But it's not to be.

Especially when I see these sprinklers going.  We're in the middle of an extreme drought, and this green grass serves no purpose except to landscape a far-off part of an entry into a subdivision.  Nobody lives near it, it's not even close to the entry sign. 

Really, people?  I hope it's at least giving some last resort nutrition to deer. 

The next few minutes have me still shaking my head over the wasteful sprinklers, until I pass these remnants.  It was, once upon a time, an armadillo.

To be more exact, it was a dead and very stinky armadillo.  I ran past it a few weeks ago and the stench almost made me gag.

So there was that.

Strangely enough, the stinky armadillo gives me enough mental fodder for another half mile. 

This sign?  I'm glad it's up.  But who doesn't know there's a county burn ban?  Probably the same guy who'd throw a cigarette butt out the window.   

Since the guy who would throw his cigarette butt out the window [at any time but especially] this summer probably lives in deep in them thar hills and wears a mullet and only brushes his (three) teeth during the full moon on even years is illiterate, I don't know how much impact this sign is actually capable of having. 
Hmph. 

Getting near the end of my run.  Off in the distance lurks The Hill.

Not today, Hill.  But someday soon.  *shakes fist at sky*  Someday soon!

I'm wrapping up my short route, and I finish fine but with my head still going 100 miles per minute.

Walking back down our drive, I notice this tree.  It's so drought-stressed, I don't know how I missed that  before. 

H2O.  STAT. (note to self: ask Cabbage to use his mangled bird claw to help me water this tree)

Hi Georgie.  I'm not relaxed, but I really do feel better for having gone on my run.  I sure am glad to see you again.  And I'm sorry I lumped you in with the dunces.   

Hopefully she'll forgive me.  Even better, hopefully next time I'll get a little closer to The Zone.  If not, there's always a trip to the barn later.  I know The Zone waits for me there, about 7 feet off the ground, right in the middle of my saddle.

A Few Minutes With A Good Dog

I've had Georgie since 1999, when she wandered onto the horse farm where I worked.  I saw her sitting underneath a tree at the end of the drive.  She was a pathetic sight: a starving, dingy little grey mutt with every rib and vertebrae showing through her thin, straggly hair.  As I approached, I saw she was eating grasshoppers to stay alive, but she clearly wasn't making it.  The dog started to trot away, as strays will, and I said No, no, little dog.  You can stay.  She immediately trotted over to me, sat down, and let me stroke her black head.

From that moment, Georgie never let me out of her sight.  As I rode horses in the summer heat, she would watch from the shade underneath the horse trailer.  If I went into the barn, she'd camp out at the end of the aisle, in the doorway.  Little by little, she allowed me to get closer until I could pet her at will. 

I named her Georgie, after one of my favorite artists, Georgia O'Keeffe.  Almost immediately, I also started calling her JoJo.  She has been my constant companion: at my side through cross-country moves, through breakups and job changes, through new love and marriage, through deaths and births.  JoJo and I are a team.

JoJo was Beep's third word- right after Mama and Dada.  Beep knows who's important on Cabbage Ranch.

JoJo is about 13 years old now, and her joints ache.  She no longer runs alongside my car at 30 miles per hour.  She can't hear me calling to her from the back door, and I had to stop taking her with me on runs.  But she's still my girl.

Last night JoJo and I went on a little tour of Cabbage Ranch.

We checked on the mares, and called them up to enjoy the mister hanging from the tree limb.

In her old age, Georgie no longer wants to chase the horses.  The mares approve. 

That's Goldie on the left, and Cedar on the right.  Cedar is Junior's mother.

Next, we noticed that even the birds' nests around Cabbage Ranch have horsehair.  It's a theme.

Then Georgie and I took a look at a pretty prickly pear.

Live oaks framed our view of the sky as the sinking sun lengthened the shadows on the ground. 

All this exploring (in 104 degree heat) made Georgie tired.  She settled down for a rest, in a central location, so she could still keep an eye on everything.

This looks like a good spot.  She's figuring out the best way to ease down.

Getting closer...

And she's down...and pulling a sticker out of her paw. 

All in a day's work, for a good dog.