I recently wrote about how writing is good therapy. The state I'm in right now, I'm about to test that theory big-time. We'll see if writing this does me any good.
Murph is sleeping at my side right now. You all remember Murph? The pup who peed eighteen times a day, ate a painting and fell out of my car on a freeway onramp? It is a miracle, but here she lies, a little sleepy but completely content. I'm watching her for my ex who is busy being a success. He's here, there and everywhere, signing books and screening his movie.
We were once homeless with nineteen cents between us. We had to steal food to eat. Now he's a millionaire. It's a bit weird to think of him this way. Things change, I guess.
We once lived in an old button factory that was impossible to heat and full of mold and all other sorts of disgusting critters. Except that--though we didn't have money enough for a bed--we borrowed a hundred dollars to adopt a little border collie from the Anti-cruelty society. She was the very opposite of disgusting. Big black eyes and fancy fur. She pranced around our hovel of a living environment like queen shit, all legs and tail and eyes. You guys know about Maxie, though.
The first morning Murph came to town, she woke me up at dawn for some kibble. I couldn't get back to bed, so I got up, brewed some coffee and took the pups to the dog park up the street. It was empty. We had the whole park to ourselves, and took full advantage of it. Murph grabbed a tenny out from under Maxie and took off. Maxie chased her in circles, nipping at her neck, pouncing more than running because she's queen shit. The sun rose over the rocks and burned up the mist, and I remember thinking to myself--curiously--Erin, you'd better savor this perfect moment, because nothing lasts forever.
And not long afterward, it ended, when a lady showed up with four dogs.
Wednesday morning, a friend of mine knocked on my door. I opened it to find her holding a collarless stray she'd found in her car. A little Terrier, four months old.
"You should keep it," I said.
"I don't want the responsibility."
"Well then, I'll take it in and find it a home."
And that's what I did. For three days, it was my full-time job. The puppy became "Sadie," and I took Sadie to all three Humane Societies, the dog park and all the vet offices in town looking for her family. No one claimed the dog, and so she stayed with me.
Yesterday afternoon, I took the trash out. Murph, being codependent as hell, followed me around the perimeter, watching me from various windows. Maxie hung back with the puppy. The most violent squealing erupted inside my place. I opened the door to find Sadie banging her little body against it to get out, quivering and not-so-much squealing as screaming, bleeding through her nose and eyes with a broken skull. I drove her to the emergency vet.
I'd like to tell you what it's like to hold a puppy your beloved companion of five years attempted to kill while it squirms and squeals and blood pours out its little nose, but I really don't want to elucidate the experience to myself or to you. I'd like to just forget it.
But there's the problem.
How do you forget? I can't. The puppy made it, but my own fancy/prancy, sweet little dog died, or at least, the dog I thought I owned died, or at least, my glowing projections of what I wanted my dog to be died. You can say, I suppose, that Maxie is just a dog, and all dogs are capable of acting out violently when pressed. You can move on, maybe, but only if you never held that squealing, dying puppy in your arms. If you did, you can't forget.
The puppy's owners turned up at my door, eggplant-colored, for it seems the puppy was stolen from them, and is now going back to their young daughter with a broken skull. Maxie is going to live with Murph and my ex in LA. I am staying here, alone. Things change, no?
I have never felt such sadness. It is unbearable.
Posted by The Bunny at 12:31 PM