Eulogy for a Pup

Nothing will ever prepare you for death.

 Not time, not the knowledge of its inevitability, not illness--Death just happens.

 And no one's ever really happy about it, but we deal and that's the best we can do.

 It was a Friday evening in December. I was a freshman in highschool. I was standing in the kitchen doing God knows what (probably getting a snack after a long day at my nerd school) when my parents came home from work.

 I asked my mom about the puppy she'd promised us. Her coworker owned a beautiful chocolate brown chow chow and she'd just had puppies. She was going to buy one.

 Mom said they'd gone but he didn't have anymore dogs. She tried to keep a straight face as I groaned in disappointment, but couldn't as the front of her jacket started twitching. I ran to her and she unzipped her coat.

 There he was, this tiny, black, fuzzy, angry, little ball of fur, who smelled like death.

 "Why does he smell like that?"

 I still don't know. Maybe it was the kibble they gave him? Maybe he hadn't had a bath since he came out of the womb. Regardless he smelled pretty gross. There was no new puppy scent.

 One thing was for sure, the jerk hated being held. He was fighting against my mom and when I reached for him, the little brat hissed at me like the very spawn of Satan.

 I spent the whole first week of his life in our house with him. I learned he really liked milky cereal, he hated fuzzy slippers, he liked hiding under beds, and his tiny little teeth were as sharp as needles. But he was the cutest little evil thing.

 After days of trying to think up a name my mom suggested Baloo, like the big black bear from the Jungle Book and it worked.

 Eventually he faced the facts that he was stuck with us and allowed himself to be loved and squeezed and begrudgingly cuddled sometimes.

 He loved long walks, using every opportunity to scare the crap out of strangers. He especially hated men. The only man he liked was my dad, and only after dad established the fact that he was the alpha and Baloo resigned himself with being the beta. But there was no room for anyone else.

 He lived for car rides, sticking his head out of the window, letting the wind flow through his glorious mane. He looked like a mix between a lion and a bear. Cute but terrifying.

 He loved cheese and ice cream and mangoes and pizza and hot dogs straight off the grill and all the food he was probably not supposed to eat. But how can you deny those big puppy dog eyes?

 My mom used to make sure Baloo had an enchilada before making the rest of us one.

 The dog lived like a spoiled king.

 He was a part of our family: the short, furry, angry kid that didn't talk much, unless it was to bark when something annoyed him, or as he got older, when he was hungry.

 A dog's life is over far too quickly. At best you get maybe 10, 15, or if you're really lucky 20 years with them. And what is that compared to a human's lifetime?

 When you're holding a puppy you don't think about the future. You don't think about failing hips. Or diseases. Or muscle loss. You don't think about doggy incontinence. Or about carrying him up and down the stairs to go outside.

 But it's the harsh reality of old age.

 Baloo had a good life. He was strong. He was healthy. He was happy, in a crochety kind of way.

 Age crept up on him and in the end we knew we had to let him go. Even though I'd made him promise me a long time ago that I would be allowed to die first.

 I loved that dog. I love that dog.

 Thank you, Baloo. You were a very good boy.

Planets

I used to dream of traveling through space.

I'd dream of circling around the constellations and soaring across the night sky with the shooting stars.

I would sit at my window and stare up at the moon imagining myself bouncing around it's surface enjoying the weightlessness.

They bought me a book about the solar system.

I looked through the photos of each planet and decided I would travel to Saturn and dance on its rings.

I told you of my childhood dreams and all you could say was, "that's impossible."

I asked you why and you said, "because Saturn is made of hydrogen and helium."

I laughed at you, always so logical. "Well then, " I told him, "It'd be like dancing on air."

My Heart Hurts

I am 26-years-old.

Twenty-six.

In the grand scheme of things 26 years isn't really anything. It's just a blip in the timeline of the universe.

I feel like I'm barely even beginning to live.

Today I went to the funeral of the mother of one of my newest baby dancers. She was found in her apartment a week ago. She had overdosed.

I found out tonight she was only 26.

She was the same age as me. 

I think that's what's shocked me the most. No. that's not what shocked me the most. But I wasn't expecting us to be the same age.

She was born on Valentine's Day, 1986. 

She seemed older.

Not that that makes it any better. It makes me sadder. She looked older, she seemed older, maybe because she had led what I keep hearing everyone saying, a "rough life."  

When someone dies we forget all the bad.

It doesn't do us any good to dwell on it.

According to her family, her friends, she had an amazing life. She was an amazing person. She had everything going for her. She was so happy.

And yet it leaves me to wonder why we were all crowding the funeral home crying if everything was so fantastic?

We do not want to think about the grim realities. So we comfort ourselves with our happiest memories of the person we lost try our hardest not to think about why they are gone. It does not do us well to dwell on that pain.

I wish I had known her.

I think we would've gotten along really well.

I'd only met her a couple of times.

And that's all I'm ever going to know her and I am sorry for that, there is no changing that now.

But like Pris told me all we can do is love her little girl as much as we can.

Oh no.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no ohnoohnoohno.

Blue flashing lights in the rearview mirror.

Okay, don’t freak out. Don’t panic. Just chill and move over and maybe they’ll just pass you up.

Oh fuck. they pulled over too. Don’t look guilty. Calm down. You’re sweating! Stop looking so crazy they’re going to make you get out of the car if you don’t chill the fuck out. Oh my God! Why can’t you stop sweating?!

Shit. He’s knocking on the window. Lower the window. No, asshole, you don’t have to roll down the window, it’s not 1996! Press the button, press the button!

“Evening, miss.”

“Hello, officer.”

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No officer.”

“You were going 12 miles over the speed limit.”

“Really officer?”

“Did you not realize how fast you were going?”

“I was keeping up with traffic.”

“There is no traffic.”

“I know, because they’re all going faster than me.”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

“It was a little funny...”

“License and registration please.”

“I’m sorry officer...Officer Finnley, I’ve had a long day at work and I just wanted to get home. I didn’t realize how fast I was going. I won’t do it again. Please just let me go this one time. Please, please please?”

“Where do you work, Melanie?”

“Umm... Diamonds.”

“Diamonds?”

“Diamonds.”

“The strip joint?”

“The strip joint.”

“You’re a stripper?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like a stripper.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?

“Strippers tend to be a little more...”

“A little more what?”

“Uh, I don’t know, you know a little...um and a little....uh....and well you just look so wholesome.”

“Well, I’m a stripper.”

“That’s too bad, miss.”

“It’s not all that bad. It pays the bills.”

“You should be in college or something.”

“Geez, dad. look are you going to give me a ticket or not?”

“No, you’re off the hook just this once.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Just ease up on the gas, okay? That’s how people get in accidents.” “Of course. Oh wow. Thanks so much. You know what? You should come on by Diamonds, I’ll make sure you get a free lap dance.”

“Um, that won’t be necessary.”

“Well, the offer’s good.”

“Thanks. Head on home then. Be safe.”

“Thank you. Good night, officer.”

Smile. Put up the window. Turn on the car. Drive off normally. He’s pulling out too. Oh God, please don’t let him follow you home. Oh, yes, he’s flipping a U. Oh thank God. We’re in the home stretch.

Good job! First run in with the law and you didn’t shit your pants.

Morning After

And then I woke up incredibly concerned about squirrels...

I sat on the bed waiting for her to come back.

My neck hurt. I must have slept wrong.

I looked around the room. It was bare. White walls. No sign of anyone actually living here other than our clothes on the floor and a pack of cigarettes on a dresser.

Too empty. Too cold. A room like this would drive me insane.

I wrapped myself in a sheet and thought about walking to the kitchen for some coffee, but then I remembered she was a tea kind of girl.

Seems unnatural.

“Good morning.”

I looked up, she walked in towel drying her short blonde bob.

“Hi.”

She walked over to her closet and pulled out a pair of slacks and a blazer.

“The shower’s free, you can go ahead and use it.”

“That’s ok.” I just sat there watching her get ready.

“So, are going to get dressed then?”

“I guess.”

I didn’t move. She was moving around the room so quickly. She had just come out of the shower and she was practically ready and out the door. And I just sat there suddenly aware of my nakedness.

“You talk in your sleep you know.” She looked at me while putting on one of her earrings.

“Do I?” I knew I did. My old roommates used to tell me I’d mumble and sigh and moan in my sleep. It kind of freaked them out.

“Yeah. You told me to close the window because the squirrels would come in.” Oh God. I thought I had dreamt that. She saw the look on my face and laughed. She grabbed the cigarettes off the dresser and pulled out a lighter from inside one of the drawers. “Do you want one?”

She pulled out two cigarettes, put one in her mouth and offered me the other one.

I accepted. She lit hers and I reached for the lighter.

“A lady never lights her own cigarette.” She sat down on the bed next to me.

“What about you?”

“I’m not a lady.” She winked and I rolled my eyes. She lit my cigarette and I took my first puff. “Sweetie,” she started and then took a long drag. She blew a couple of smoke rings and turned back towards me. “You’re gonna need to get dressed and you’re gonna need to leave.”

I just held my cigarette. I didn’t really want to smoke it. I just needed something for my hand to do.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way.” I handed her my cigarette and went to get up. She held onto my sheet. “I can’t get up if you don’t let go.”

“Yes you can.”

“Please let go.”

“Oh you’re no fun.” She let go of the sheet and I got up and picked up my things. “Do you want me to leave the room?”

I did. But it seemed stupid on my part. She’d seen all of me. Her hands and lips had made their way over the entirety of my body. To be shy about dressing in front of her just seemed silly at this point.

“No. I’m sorry I’m just not good at this sort of thing.”

She stood up and walked over. “Of course not. You’re straight.” She laughed and pulled at my sheet again. I didn’t fight her this time and let it drop. “See,” she whispered in my ear, “not a big deal. Now put your dress on love, I’m gonna be late for work.”

I put it on and shoved my underwear in my purse.

New Year

When you have several blogs floating around the great expanse of the World Wide Web (does anyone even call it that anymore? Saying that makes me feel ever so slightly nostalgic) you forget about half of them. Or at least I forget about this one, even though it's the one I have listed on my twitter bio.

I guess this is the only one I could say I would fully devote to writing. I have two other blogs, a tumblr, which hardly counts since I use it mostly to reblog photos of Tom Hiddleston and other sexy actors and a xanga which is like an old private diary you start as a teenager and don't know how to give up.

And no, I won't let you read it.

Anyway.

I've resolved to write more in this new year and to start submitting my work different places and sharing my writing with more people outside of the small circle of friends that usually say, "that was great I really liked it." Because as nice as it feels to have someone say that they like what you write, sometimes you need to hear that they didn't so you can think about what you need to improve.

I guess another reason I don't let people read what I write is because I am at my core incredibly shy. It is easy to be silly and funny and outgoing, because even though I am those things, it is easier to put on a good show by being that person than to really let people in and show them everything that is real.

As the years pass I am trying to be less guarded.

So I'll start the year by letting you read the things I spend hours scribbling into my notebooks. The funny, the sad, the dirty, the morbid, the creepy, the hopeful, the optimistic, and the painful. And I hope that you'll enjoy some of it and I hope that I can grow from it.

Happy reading,

Jenny

Testing out the magic of apps

Does this work?

If so, do you see those ppl with me?

I love them