Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Buddy is Home

I collected Buddy's ashes today. Such a small box to contain a dog with such an oversized personality. I'll be honest, it was difficult being there. A family was leaving as I arrived, grief etched on their faces, so my composure dissolved before I'd even walked through the door. But the women who worked there were lovely, hugs and Kleenex were passed around, and I got through it. They really are angels, doing the work they do. It's so appreciated by those of us who are grieving and not quite in our right minds.

As I drove away, I looked down at the clock and it read 11:11. (My sisters and I joke that when we see 11:11 on the clock, it's our Nana saying hello from the other side.)

Hi to you too, Budster. You're home now, little guy.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Montreal Walkabout

Missing Buddy something fierce today, so I decided to walk to Atwater Market.

Met a pleasant looking older woman who was walking her two little dogs, so I stopped to pat them.

Our conversation moved from dogs (nod nod) to Barbados (nod nod) to children starving in Haiti because 3/4 of the population believes in voodoo so they take babies into the woods and leave them to die because they're NOT CHRISTIANS (wait, wha-at?!)

After several minutes of this nonsense, I finally said, "Surely you don't believe that God punishes children because their parents are not Christians?" And she said, "No, no. It's not God. It's the devil."

The dogs were cute at least.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

R.I.P. Buddy

Buddy died in my arms last night, at home, peacefully and quietly. He had been diagnosed with cancer last May, and it slowly invaded his body, ultimately affecting his heart and lungs. The vet said Buddy would not make it to see the summer, let alone live through it. But live he did, tail wagging and eyes sparkling, and I made sure he had the best summer ever. He ate steak and fresh strawberries, swam and retrieved endless sticks, chased chipmunks off the deck and napped on the couch. And then I had to let him go. I woke to my new reality of life without my beloved Budster. No gentle snoring in the corner of our bedroom woke me this morning, no nails clicked behind me on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the kitchen for coffee. My home feels so empty, and my heart is broken, the price one pays for loving so fiercely. We sign up for this reality when we bring that puppy home to share our lives, but damn it's hard to say goodbye.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Summer flowers

Playing around with the Canon.

Love the sharper images this lens provides.

All under the watchful gaze of The Budster.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Carefree Summers

I WAS BORN in the fifties. Helicopter parents were non-existent. Most of our parents were barely out of their teens themselves, so benign neglect skirting the cliff edge of negligence was par for the course, which was usually where you'd find the young fathers on weekends. "Go outside and play!" was our mothers' mantra. "And don't come back until I call you for supper, the street lights go on, or you're bleeding." The moms slathered on baby oil, held reflectors under their chins and discussed the merits of Toni® home permanents while we made our own fun.

Someone always had a soft red, white and blue rubber ball, or an India rubber ball which bounced a lot higher, but left bigger bruises after Dodge Ball. We played Red Rover, Red Light Green Light, Tag, and a game with linked elastics pilfered from the junk drawer. Some called it...

to read the rest of my story, go to WATERSHED MAGAZINE