Dogs

He poops in the house because he can’t help it, but never in the toilet because he’s a dog. If we get him out in time, he’ll poop outside – but only on hard surfaces, like concrete walkways if he’s ambitious enough to get there, or on the deck if not. He eats his food and his own poop. He also licks his arm until it bleeds and it never heals because it’s always infected because his tongue has fecal matter on it all the time. His breath smells like everything else on him which isn’t pleasant. He’s lying there now, just licking away at his arm. It’s a slow, methodical, lapping that sounds like a toothless old man gumming an apple or a cow chewing its cud. I glance up at the clock: 3:37AM. Perfect.

I try burying my nose in my pillow but I don’t want to die, not this way. So I construct an intricate cave system using pillows and sheets and blankets that no waft of stink could possibly find its… nope, it found its way. Gross! Ugh…. I roll over to face Gwen being careful not to disturb her slumber. The smell hasn’t woken her yet, but it’s coming. She’s facing me with the covers loosely hanging over her shoulder and she looks dumb. Her mouth’s agape like she might have had a stroke or whatever the thing is that Sylvester Stallone has working for him. Her hair is up and sort of out but some of it’s also over there but a tuft also flaps in and out of her mouth as she gasps. Not sure why that’s not waking her up. Suddenly her mouth twitches ever so slightly and the tuft of hair clings to a drool bubble that proceeds to pop and run slowly to the sheets below. Then, with no warning and certainly no large intake of air: she sneezes into my mouth and eyes. I flip back over quickly and wipe my face and the inside of my cheeks dry. But something is still stinging my eyes. Oh yeah, the dog.

He can’t hear me because he’s deaf. He can’t see me because he has cataracts. At this point, I sort of envy him. I want him gone, I’m tired of caring for him or burdening Gwen’s parents when we go away for the weekend. It’s 3:44 now, he hasn’t stopped licking, nor has she stopped sneezing—that’s so weird. I love the dog, I think. He’s been good for our family but every time I think that I really don’t know what I mean. It’s not like he adds value by doing chores or brings road kill home for supper- no, he just eats, poops, eats that poop, costs us money, and otherwise just looks cute. I’ll miss him though. I’ll miss the toenails clicking on the tile downstairs as he and his brother clamber to go outside. Oh yeah, there’s another one that’s just as gross but in other ways.

“Skipper, GO.” I whisper sternly like an idiot. I know he can’t hear and he’s not looking at me because he’s got laser focus on that open wound… Is it bubbling?

“OUT!” Nothing.

So I throw one of my pillows at his head and he lets out a yelp; mostly because he has no idea what happened but also because the impact made him bite his tongue. He gets to his feet and looks up at me and I’m just pointing towards the door. He meanders out with his tail so far between his hind feet that it’s almost touching his low hanging head. Sad. Smells better now.

I roll back to the sneezing goddess and she’s more calm now and finally closed her cake-hole just enough so her lips are now motor-boating with each exhale. But I can’t see that happening, I can only hear it because her hair has now come completely down over her entire face and head. Full frontal comb over. Cousin It without the glasses. At least I’m protected from the spittle. Given the current conditions, you wouldn’t think this; but I’d miss her if she were gone. I roll back over to the empty pile of clothes Skipper just left. Yep, there’s a turd. Great.

It’s 3:54 and I have six minutes. It’s the worst six minutes of my life. It starts out bad because I just know I’m going to fall asleep at 3:58 only to be jarred awake by the alarm like some jackass threw a pillow at me while I nursed a wound. But I don’t fall asleep before the alarm goes off-- because I’m too busy crying. The dogs have been around for 15 years and are all the clichés that go along with the one about them being part of the family, best friends, one of us, etc. They have given me and my family love and affection and all things intangible and many things that are. But that turd on my clothes will someday never be there again and it makes me miss him. Tomorrow it might just be an empty clump of clothes that’s not warm, that doesn’t have dog hair or a piece of poo on it. I’ll probably miss that. Worst two minutes are down…

Gwen could be gone. It’s happened to friends of mine. Aneurysm. Car wreck. Senseless shootings. Beyond that pile of empty clothes is a closet full of clothes. Clothes that I’d have to package up for Goodwill. Clothes that smell like Gwen. So many shoes, coupons, Tupperware of socks, hats…And our photo albums. Oh God, the pictures. I’m glad the closet door is closed right now or I’d remember so much more. There’s a file cabinet with “our stuff” all in it. A whole shelf of new toys she has for the kids’ “Reward Wall” and for “Mom and Dad Store.” What would I do if she were gone? Who would I be? Why would I be?

For the kids, of course. But that’s it.

3:59.

That’s only a pile of clothes and a single closet of memories. What’s the rest of this house hold? Our bathroom, her soaps, her hair brush. How would I get rid of all that stuff? Where she sits on the couch when we laugh with each other, her car that she loves and I hate, her wine glass, her garden. Even her cell phone matters to me now. Lake property- we built a home and memories up there together. Having lake property was a life goal for us and experiences for our children. The boys.  If Gwen were gone, how would I raise these boys to be good people? How would I keep them safe? That’s Gwen’s job!

Everything is Gwen’s job.

Everything is Gwen.

I’m out of control. So much energy balled up inside over losing her. All my muscles are contracted, my face taught. Tears and sweat flood my pillow. I’m perfectly still, yet my body inside rages of storms. 4:00, alarm goes off, I reach up without looking and turn it off. Emotions over what if? No, these are feelings over the ‘when’. I know it’s going to happen, it happens to our dogs, it happens to the ones we love and it happens to us. My body relaxes some and I’m drying out. Skipper slinks back into the room, does three circles on my clothes and lies down on his own turd. Beautiful. 4:01AM, time to get up, Gwen will need to as well—I roll over and give this beastly beauty a kiss good mor…

Her side of the bed is cold. I hear the click-clacking of Gilligan’s toenails downstairs as he paces the door, whimpering to be let out. In 3 – 2 – 1 I’ll hear the door open and Gilligan will go outside. Six minutes after that Gwen will be up here with two cups of coffee. I sit up in bed, not wanting to move and I just listen intently.

4:07AM I can still hear toenails. Was I dreaming? Has she been gone for a long time like in one of those predictable movies? Suddenly, at 4:08AM I get the nerve to head downstairs to let Gilligan out. Skipper stays, trying to lick his arm off. I’m a grown man, but I tread cautiously in fear because of what I might see or what truth I might realize or pile I might step in. Gilligan sees the light shadow as I come down the steps so he hurries his pace to the door. I round the stairs, head down the hall and turn the corner to the kitchen.

Gilligan whimpers. I stumble. A glass hits the tile and shatters.

She stands in front of the dishwasher, frowning at me. “Aren’t the dishes your job?” She asks.

Everything is Gwen’s job.

Everything is Gwen.