Eating Poo

Puppy or not, you’re just not supposed to do that. It is wrong. So is getting a puppy on a minutes notice just a week after finally deciding you are not going to get a pet of any kind. That you simply cannot take care of one more thing. That enough is enough.
Coco is 9 1/2 weeks old, cute and soft and full of sweet puppy eyes. She sits, she shakes, she chases her tail. She pees once in a while in the house, the moment she comes back inside from a long outdoor romp. I yell. I am not as patient as I would like to be. I am not as cool or calm or tolerant or full of unconditional love. Coco reminds me this – stares at me like “huh? WTF? What crawled up your behind?” as I holler “NO!” and grab the furry little love nugget, wanting to hurl her into the great unknown, but placing her somewhat gently outside instead.
In certain ways, my life has been a series of potty training and tolerating something. First it was my own unbridled passion for life, next my addictions, then my kids, then an old dog who never should have had to die, now Coco. The mortgages don’t care what is happening, nor does the laundry, or the clients, or the boss. Only the heart cares. Mumbles something incoherent, whimpers a little, cries.
Feeling alone in something, at the same time that the crowd is nearly suffocating you doesn’t help – but then, even that doesn’t make the experience unique enough to warrant the unrequested aide one so desperately needs in the midst of such despair. So the puppy barks (!), leaps up at nothing in particular with a monomaniacal zeal, falls on her chin, wonders at the finality of a slammed door.
I am trying to choose between now and the future as if I could. Trying to calculate loss. Running years, like numbers on a calculator…counting moments that have passed that I somehow think I missed.
If love were perfect, it would sit when you needed quiet without having been asked. It would shake for no cookie at all. It would nuzzle into the broken crook of your heart and exhale warm glue into the fissures. It would not pee on floor. And if life were perfect you could wake up happy and stay that way, for an entire hour or a day or a week or maybe even a series of years that floated by slowly like a single spiderweb thread through a a windless summer afternoon. If men were perfect they would love all our little disasters and women, they would smile at the toothpaste tube and children, they would never feel the disappointment of a promise you never made and certainly never meant to break. But, there is pee on the floor and a blob of toothpaste on the mirror and a lot of tiny disasters everywhere and it is late and the children are exhausted just from being alive and…..the laundry thinks it is cute all crumbled in piles pretending to be done.
I gave the dog a bath tonight (she is called “the dog” when I am faining ignorance of how she ended up here in the first place) because earlier today she ate poo. At least, I am 99.9% sure it was poo. (I am holding on to that last .01% because I believe in miracles and unicorns and even rainbows in the midst of hurricanes of shit). So I gave her a bath and she was so tiny in the big tub; so tiny and scared and confused. And I was thinking, maybe we are all a little like this – cute and fluffy terrorists when we’re running around letting our shit hang out – and then tiny and scared when the unknown comes calling. I don’t know, I was just thinking that. Just for a minute.

2 thoughts on “Eating Poo

  1. You are a skillful word whisperer and beautiful lively human being, sexy , funny and compassionate…just keep breathing…yes you do have that enormous heart swelling capacity for despair as well as glee, worry and hope, and a laser eyesight leaving nothing unnoticed when fog feels like an enviable thing to wrap around life's bitter-sweet daily gifts…exhale… you are here: X
    You're doing it. You are fabulous. Inhale… Repeat…

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