Sophie in Memoriam

She was sitting under the dining room table shivering when I walked in. I didn't really know what to expect, really. I knew she would be small, but I didn't know just how small, nor did I have any clear idea of what a Dachshund looked like up close. I had seen a few of them in the street, but to have a reddish, brown, short haired one sitting like a starving, beaten child under a table was an entirely different matter. I went over to reach my hand in and touch her long nose. Mom stopped me. "She may nip at you, sweetie. She's pretty scared."

"Why is she under the table?" I asked. Why not a bed? or the couch?

"She was in the pen for longer than most dogs. I think she finds the legs and ceiling of the table comforting." Mom mused, crossing her arms and staring at the tiny brown dog.

I stared. She looked anxious. I assumed she'd probably come out of that and grow to be comfortable. I was wrong. Almost her whole life Sophie was an anxious wreck, shivering like a leaf when scared and furrowing her little doggie brows at the first sign of danger; which happened to be everywhere. The only time she seemed to relax was at home, on the lap of a male, or when running through a large empty field of grass out in the suburbs.

I felt similar to how the dog felt the first day I met her. My life seemed to be in upheaval as well: I was going through puberty, my home had been ruined by a massive fire, I was living in a new place with a new father figure dating my mother, and I was dealing with the loss of the conventional idea of family as I had known it; my parents being recently divorced.

We'd never had a dog until that point. I remember hearing about Mom getting Sophie for Step-dad, Jim's birthday and feeling a deep seeded need to be loyal to cats. CATS ARE BETTER! My mind would guiltily cry whenever I found myself petting Sophie and marveling at her ability to fit so comfortably in my lap. I had grown up with two different cats by that point... one nasty asshole cat named Ripper who loved to scratch tiny hands and bite small fingers reaching out to caress a tail. Ripper gained his name from the brutal way he dealt with the rodent problem in the building I spent the first 11 years of life in. Nermal, our second cat, was a calico-loner. A cat so totally uninterested in what was going on that the only time I felt a sense that she cared was when she was hungry. Otherwise, to pet Nermal was to catch her at a moment of rest and then tentatively stroke her back only long enough for her to tolerate before she'd swipe at the hand with her declawed paw.

Sophie the dog was a treat compared to the cats! She allowed us to pet her, pick her up, and nap with her. When young, she loved to play with the cat, allowing Nermal to torture her with hits to the face and a flicking tail. At first enemies: the two soon became companions, both rubbing their traits off on to each other until Sophie walked (and jumped) like a cat; and Nermal learned to beg for food like a dog, meowling with fervor whenever a delicious piece of steak was being devoured by the family at dinner.

Sophie was stubborn, refusing to come when called unless the call held a promise of food. She LOVED food (any flavor or ilk), getting into some serious trouble whenever my sister or I would accidentally leave candy lying around, leaving Jim to moan "Who left the m&m's on the table!? Sophie just ate half a bag! She'll have diarrhea for a week, girls!" And my favorite: "Oh my GOD. Sophie got into Nermal's litter. GROSS. She must have eaten a dozen turds!"

Near the end of her life Sophie mellowed out, allowing herself to get picked up more, and relaxing a bit whenever in new environments and not being so anxious all the time. She was a great travel companion and a wonderful sleeping buddy. Although her breath got so bad it smelled like someone farted in the room, she was a great friend to have around whenever the apartment was empty.

She'll be sorely missed, her absence feeling more like a loss of a human family member than any of the voids left by the cats. Her personality was infectious: always running to the door to say hello whenever we got home, and jumping with joy at the sound of a walk outside (until she realized how anxious it made her to be outside!) and being such a quiet, warm little being to tell secrets to. It is with a heavy heart that we say goodbye to such a great friend who lived with us for 14 years, providing my family with much needed love and support through such large changes in our own lives. Her passing is the end of an era.

Rest in Peace, Sophie.

Apocalypse

My apocalypse has nothing to do with earthquakes or asteroids or nuclear death. Instead: I imagined that the end of the world would be a crushing wave of zombies that corrodes and destroys all that I hold near and dear. Now that I've plowed through the entire comic series of "The Walking Dead" and have read "World War Z" I feel less frightened about a zombie plague and, instead, more curious about a hypothetical "end of the world" situation. What would I do if I had no "tomorrow" to worry about?

I would eat everything I have ever wanted to eat

When I was a kid, I had a fantasy about walking in to a kitchen and having the entire place filled with everything I have ever wanted to chow down on. I would somehow compile all of the ingredients that I would want to see: Lobster Tails, Cream Puffs, Filet Minion, Pad Thai, Mashed Potatoes, Turkey, Pizza and Ice Cream, etc... and I would go about trying to eat all of it. I've also always wanted to take really yummy food, like: Pizza and Ice Cream and put it in a blender and then try and drink the drink I had made. I know that sounds totally gross, but I would do it just to try it. End of the World and everything, right?

I would begin project: "say what's on my mind to everyone on my mind"

I've always thought about the possibilities of having NO FILTER. And that doesn't have to be a bad thing! Hell, most of the time I find myself just ringing through a series of stupid commercial lyrics rather than thinking negatively or positively about someone in front of me. At the end of all humanity as we know it, though, I could call up everyone I've ever wanted to rant at and say everything and anything I want!

I'd rob a store.

Especially a fancy jewelry store! I'd take all of the jewels I could find and put them ALL ON. I'd pose in front of a mirror and pretend I was a princess.

I've always wanted to burn an entire building down.

I know this sounds sociopathic, and it is, but, like, if it were the end of the world... I would totally do it. Imagine the destruction! The flames leaping out of windows, the smell of burned wood and plastic! That entire building was burning to the ground because I threw several Molotov cocktails into the ground floor! I would watch the fire grow and consume. It would be pretty epic. (I promise: I won't do this unless the world was, indeed, in the midst of an apocalyptic melt-down).

I might kick a dog...

Terrible. I'm a terrible human-being. But, sometimes, there are certain dogs that bark their fucking heads off (especially cute, nasty looking Chihuahuas) and when they do: I would put on the biggest, ugliest boots I could find and punt kick that little fucker across a baseball field. Then, I'd probably feel really bad about doing it, but by that point the world would end so I wouldn't have to deal with the guilt for long.

The world has not ended, however. We are now in December 22nd in many parts of the world. I am very happy to report that I will not being burning down buildings or kicking innocent (yet sometimes, rat-like) dogs across any wide open spaces. A small price to pay for the gratefulness in knowing that another kick-ass year for me to enjoy will be coming in about a week.

The Death of an Ex

I thought you died today!

Seriously! I thought, for a moment, that you were lying somewhere on your death bed having just expired your last breath. I jumped to that conclusion when I was asked by a friend (in a sober, quiet, and bated voice) if I had: "...heard what had happened to you today?" WHAT HAPPENED!? Oh, you had a baby and a friend wanted to make sure I was up to date so I didn't find out through some other source. OK. Phew!

It's been a while since I've thought about you. You make regular appearances in my sub conscious, and you pop up in dreams from time to time, but generally I'm concentrating on the most recent guy in my life. Unless, of course, something out of the ordinary happens that reminds me of you. But, seriously, I don't give you a lot of rental space in my brain. Your memory has slowly started to fade out, like a black Tee shirt that's been washed so much it turns a dark charcoal and loses its original, powerful, black.

Thinking about you dead made me very sad and that caught me off guard. I remember (two summers ago, when we first decided to really not talk to each other ever again) I would bike home from work late at night. I'd be biking up a really steep hill to get on the Queensboro Bridge and I'd think about you as a character in my brain that I liked to torture so as to take my mind off of how awful it was to bike that hill. I'd imagine all the things I could say and I'd scream them at you in my brain. I'd hurl insults and create terrifically embarrassing scenarios to put you in and I'd watch, in my imagination, as you were peed on by a goat and then kicked in the nuts. Or, I'd wistfully place you in a moment when you somehow ran in to me on the street after I started dating Justin Timberlake and I'd pretend I didn't see you and you'd look so downtrodden that the paparazzi following us would notice and then do a very embarrassing interview with you right there on the street, and as they do it a pigeon would shit on your face.

You know, that kinda' thing, it'd help me bike up the hill.

Thinking about you being dead today was not fun. Not at all. Even though you're in another phase of your life and we don't talk anymore and I'm very happily not married to you; I still wish you health and safety. I wish you happiness and fulfillment. I wish you the life you want to live.

Isn't it funny how death can make us all the same? Like, in war times, when one is in the trenches, it really doesn't matter who has more money or fame or a happy family life, we can all die just like the next guy. And death is a means of measuring how much a person can really mean, can't it? Death can make a memory of someone precious, when before, when that person was alive, that memory was never really recalled or treasured.

So, I guess, what I'm trying to say is: I really care about you, even after all of the horrifically awful heartbreaks we put ourselves through. I mean, I'm glad we're not together, but there is still a place in my heart that loves you and wishes you all the best.

I'm really glad you're not dead.