11-11-11

          My stinky dog lies dejected at my feet because I’m typing instead of feeding him. He has a growth, big as a jawbreaker coming out of his leg, black and shiny. On top of his head another one sprouts, a bright pink pearl. When it first appeared last summer, I thought it was a tick and  tried to yank it out.  The vet calls these “little warty things.” I wonder if they hurt him. How would I know? He seems so sad now, but that’s because he thinks it’s six thirty, time for dinner. But Sunday the time changed, so he has to wait.

          Does he stink from old age or from rolling in who-knows-what? When we moved from rural California to a mid-sized Texas town, I wondered if he would become a civilized dog. He didn’t. I spend half our morning walks yanking him away from deer poop, which he loves to eat. Then he finds a spot on someone’s lawn to roll in, until he’s camouflaged in an acrid, feral scent.  He sniffs some shrubs like a wine connoisseur, then licks the leaves.  I needn’t have worried that he’d be bored here.  Obviously he isn’t.

          I love to say good morning to the white-tailed deer who stare at us with big surprised eyes.  They’re much smaller than California Mule deer; delicate and dainty, they skitter off when I stare too long. I’ll miss them when we move from this neighborhood, which I hope will be next year. I need to have something to look forward to – a private yard, a pool where I can float on my back and look up at the sky.

          I need to look past the present which I’ve decided to think of as my holy duty – helping my mother die.  Not that she’s on death’s door, yet. But the decline since she broke her hip is dramatic. She might as well have been crushed under a garbage truck, smashed and glued back together with flimsy glue.

           I wish I could bring her back to Texas with me, move her into a rest home here, so I could visit her every day. But she’s still too frail.

          The full moon is as round as that thing on my poor dog’s leg. It looks like it’s about to burst. It floods us with a thick yellow light and creates shadows that hide my missing cat who doesn’t come when I call.  She threw up today, like my mother threw up three times yesterday.  I stand in my zories on this desolate dead-end street calling, “Kitty! Kitty!” but there is no answer. 

          Back inside my odiferous dog raises his head. I ignore him and bury my face into certainty – my other, warm, sleeping cat on the couch, who half-heartedly purrs as I inhale her sweetness.