Gone Gone

I hear the familiar jingle in the hallway and it sends chills right through me. She's found his collar in the bottom of my purse where I stuffed it the day before.

"Guh Guh?" she asks. Over and over and over again. And each time she does we gently tell her "Gunther's gone gone."

"Oh," she says. Every time.

Five days and a handful of hours. It's taken me this long to write it down.

We sat together, Jason, Wes and me....huddled on the slick and freshly mopped floor of the vet's office. He knew it was time. He'd known for a while....much sooner than we were ready to admit. We all sat in sorrowful silence until Wes couldn't muffle his sobs anymore and threw himself over Gunther's body until his tears had run dry.

Gunther passed away on November 26, 2013. I hate that term...."passed away." But that's exactly what it is. He's gone away.

I chose him the night he was born. A surprise litter from my parents' Labs. The only black male in the mix of blacks, yellows, and chocolates. He was mine before he even knew it.

"'Gunther'? Really?" Jason thought that was the stupidest name for a dog he'd ever heard. But I didn't know any other dogs named Gunther. He agreed to let me call him that if I came up with a better registered name. "Gentlemen, Start Your Engines" won him over.

We'd been married not even a year. Our tiny apartment complex would not allow large dogs and this one was going to be large. So we moved. For Gunther.

He graduated Puppy Kindergarten (don't laugh) and saved me from the loneliness of early marriage when Jason worked nights and I was afraid to be by myself. We would walk for hours every evening and he was my best little buddy. He loved apartment living and was rather miffed when we moved to a house with a yard he didn't want.

But then came Wes and later on Sunny. He watched over them in their cribs and through the house and followed them into the cul de sac to play. We never had to tell him to be gentle with them. He just was. They rode on his back, pulled on his ears, tugged at his lips and held on to his tail. Never once did he snap. If things got a little too wild for him, he'd just walk away. But never did I worry about him hurting my children. He didn't have it in him. He genuinely loved them.

But Jason....Jason was his person. The one he longed to sit with, the one who's bedside he lay down by each night. The only one who would still let him sit in his lap. The one who never spoke to him with unkindness. The bond between them was visible. Gunther even slept on top of Jason's laundry piles. On more than one occasion I found him asleep with one of Jason's dirty socks held between his paws. That is true love.

I seem to have forgotten most of why he could also make me so angry. He was a food thief and a counter surfer until old age and bad joints stole the joy of it away. So he'd knock over the trash can instead and go hard on remnants of Wes' sack lunch or whatever leftovers had been thrown out the night before. Or he'd follow his girl around until she sat down with him and shared her Pringles one by one.

We had decided that would be our cue. When he stopped stealing food. Or when he stopped coming up the stairs. But we slowly realized he never would. He would find a way as long as he was breathing, no matter how labored it became.

His last night at home was a cold one. Wes opted to sleep in the twin bed next to Sunny's crib and Gunther quietly slipped in and slept next to them. His charges. Every time I got up to check on them he was awake. Keeping watch. And now I keep walking through the house looking for evidence of his life with us. His food bowl and water bucket are gone....Jason couldn't stand to leave them out. I'm still cleaning carpet stains and vacuuming corners, but the house has a quiet stillness over it. Not that he was loud....far from it. He was a quiet and gentle giant.

The doorbell rang yesterday and for just a second I waited to hear the deep and defining bark that always followed. It never came.

12 years and 4 months. That's a long time, and yet it's really not. Not when it's time to say goodbye.


Goodnight, sweet Gunther. You were unconditional love with an enthusiastic tail. And we were so very blessed to be yours.

First Day's Here Again

She says his name in her baby voice but without the "s" on the end. She always remember the two t-shirts that she sometimes sleeps in once belonged to him and her pink shirt with the bumble bee that he picked out, she remembers that too. She says his name with a question mark each time I slip one of them over her head and she smiles.

He's still my baby, too. No matter that just this morning I realized he's less than a foot shorter than me. My guess is we'll make up that difference before he's out of elementary school. I don't have to bend my head quite so low to kiss the top of his. For now we'll take on 2nd Grade. A new teacher, a new room in a different hallway and different faces left and right.

He brushes his teeth and combs his hair and without a beat missed he combs her's, too. She laughs and smiles wide at him and feels important and he does, too.

I watched him walk in line down that different hallway this morning, following closely behind his teacher. Sometimes he gets distracted and I just prayed that he would stay focused long enough to make it to his new room amid the swirl of first day of school morning mess.

Yesterday as he sat next to me in church, near death from boredom, I measured his sun browned wrist with my finger and thumb just to see if I could still wrap them all the way around. I was suddenly reminded that he's still little in some ways, but inching ever closer to independence. Ever closer to eye level.

"I'm kind of excited about school today," he whispers over breakfast. It's okay to be excited, I tell him. "Is it okay if I don't miss you?" he asks with a good measure of hesitation in his voice. Of course. But I hug his neck when time comes to leave and I feel his heart beating wild and strong. He's nervous and brave and he goes forth to conquer because bravery doesn't mean you're not scared. It means you go anyway.

Watch him, baby girl, and follow his lead. You'll be there soon enough.

Sweet Brown Girl

The earliest memory I have of you is seeing your uncoordinated self galloping toward us, ears flapping, tongue hanging out just off to one side. You slipped out through the back fence and went for a walk. On your own. In the early morning hours of a Saturday.

That was 14 years ago. It can't be time to say goodbye.

You gave us more joy than we could possibly have imagined.  A large girl with an awkward stare and an uncoordinated gait. Sweet hazel eyes. And the puppies.

Oh, the puppies.

You birthed them with grace and guarded them with silent authority. One look from you and your mate would make for the corner of the yard, sitting obediently for hours (literally HOURS) until you would permit him to draw near, but not too near to your brand new babies.

One of those little puppies is mine. Soft and warm and black as ink.

He's old now, too.

He'll soon follow you through the gates of heaven. Wait for him there....please.  He's never been comfortable doing anything alone.

I'll never forget that morning that you ran away. Only weeks old. I took Anna to walk the surrounding streets and cul de sacs, hoping we would find you hiding under a bush or held in someone's arms, waiting for your girl who searched for you anxiously and with quiet fear. I could have punched the old guy who told us he lost a dog, too, and never saw him again. I asked him to please not say that in front of my little sister.

A jogger found you, running along the big circle. We'd never seen her before. We never saw her again.

That's how you got your name. An angel found you and kept you safe. A miracle. Mira.

There are no words to thank you. For your quiet presence, except for the barks in threes. Always in threes. For the countless birds you caught, open mouthed and with deadly accuracy, that you would bring to your girl even though she shrieked for you not to. For finding your way home to tattle on Ben for digging out again. For loving the girl who needed a friend.

You loved your girl. And she loved you.

Goodbye, sweet Mira.

Fourteen years wasn't that long at all.

five minute friday | "view"

Today I'm participating in Lisa-Jo Baker's "Five Minute Friday" series. It's a great little weekly series on a one word topic that I love seeing pop up in my email on Friday mornings. The rules are simple: set a timer for five minutes, write on the day's topic without editing or backtracking, stop when five minutes are up.

"View"

I put the car in drive and then stop next to the curb where she stands with my mama waving me goodbye. It's the same routine I had with my boy that broke my heart and filled it with joy and gratefulness every day for five years. She waves her chubby hand, arm moving with her own unique coordination. "Buh-bye" she calls, quiet enough for me to almost not hear. And then I watch her in my rearview all the way down the street. And around the corner until I have to look forward to the day ahead.

I haven't written much about her since she changed my life seventeen months ago. She was a surprise. Not planned. And that she was a "she"....I just never saw it coming. But then she came and my life looked different all at once and now I have to learn how to do girl hair.

I spend a lot of time looking in the rearview of life. How did I mess that up? How could I have done differently? But at some point we have to turn our eyes forward.

She asks me to carry her a lot. She likes the view from up high (as high as a relatively short person can carry her, anyway). It must be like when I ask the Father to carry me. My world from His perspective is just always better.

STOP.

In Celebration of Mamas

I usually dislike Mother's Day. Because I think it's silly. I don't like Hallmark cards that someone else wrote. I'd rather have a piece of yellow construction paper, "I love you Mommee" in green crayon. Because he made it. Folded it with his seven year old hands, smoothing down the crease with one and then the other.

I don't want artfully arranged roses. I want the gerber daisies he chose from the buckets at the grocery store because he thought they were bright and beautiful.

"They're your favorite, right Mommy?"

Of course they are. Anything he chooses for me, hoping it's my favorite, is absolutely my instant favorite. Even if it's....cactus.

Someone asked if I would get breakfast in bed for Mother's Day. I sincerely doubt it. But that's not what I want. I don't want any thing for Mother's Day.

I want another day to serve my family. Honest.

Every Sunday I head to the farmer's market and buy several dozen farm eggs. Sometimes a few bowls of mushrooms. I will do the same thing on Mother's Day. Because I have the awesome privilege of caring for my children and my husband. Making them breakfast every morning. Waking each of them up with a hug, coaxing them from their beds with a promise of warm food. It's important to me that I do this. I spend so much time away from them....

So much of my active mothering occurs when they're not even awake. I'm the first one up and the last to lay down. And I wouldn't change it.

To sit on the side of his bed and comb his thick brown hair with my fingers and wonder how it could possibly need trimming again. To trace the outline of his perfect nose and kiss his cheek and squeeze his foot as I quietly step out of his room, careful to avoid the million and one Legos he left on the floor.

To reach into her crib and twirl her precious curls around one finger and then another. To brush the soft squish of the top of her hand and the ring around her wrist. To place my hand before her open mouth just to feel her breath.

These living, breathing, giggling, screaming gifts. Thank you, God.


My mom sent me this picture today. My 17 month old baby hiding "behind" a tree. I am so blessed to be her mama that I can't even stand it.

For Mother's Day....

Just. This.



I can't even get into how much I love my own mama. I just get a huge lump in my throat and my fingers freeze. She takes care of me. And my brother. And my sister. And my daddy. And my husband. And most especially my kids.

Just. Can't. Even.

Happy Mama's Day, friends. I wish you love and joy and laughter with your families.

And handmade construction paper cards.

May I have your next twenty years?

He asked me if I'd go out with him. January. Twenty years ago.

I said yes. He smiled.

And two apartments, two houses, five cars, one large dog, two pretty kids and a lifetime later....I'm still glad I did.

I don't write much about him. For as outgoing and friendly as he is, he is also intensely private. And so I give him that. His privacy.

But I love him. And I want to thank him. For twenty years. For most of my life. He has loved me. Not so much in words. But in deeds. In patience. In presence.

He loves me.

I have yet to figure out just why.

It has to be maddening to love me.... I cry. I scowl. I stamp my feet. I say things that must later be covered by a quilt of apology, for spoken words do not consent to erasure.

He does none of these.

He gives me everything he has. And he doesn't keep score.


Twenty years....


Thank you. It's not always lovely.

Most of the time it's messy.

But it's beautiful....

And it's ours.


I love you, Jason.