As a child one of her favorite things to do was to make potato soup. She would take all the pots and pans out of the cupboard and fill them with everything but the kitchen sink, which didn’t really make for anything edible or savory according to her mother but it kept her occupied and certainly made for a great hot mess.
A headstrong little girl, she couldn’t be told what she couldn’t do. She took on that “watch me” attitude and would be off proving it could be done. With great adventure in her heart she was always venturing off and exploring. Growing up in Southern Maine with the long winters, she longed to be outdoors, playing.
One winter she wanted to paint the snow but her mother said it couldn’t be done.
With her “watch me” attitude, there she was out in the yard with her watercolors, a few paint brushes, a cup filled with warm water in her snowsuit and mittens, painting the ice all the colors of the rainbow.
She didn’t let others talk her out of things she believed to be true. The snow can be painted.
***
A grown woman she floats through the bar mingling with friends, and acquaintances and lovers of nights before sipping from her glass of guiltless pleasure a “Brittany Special.”
The boys admire her from afar, when she locks eyes, that’s it they're hooked. With her fearless attitude and assertive personality, her blonde straightened and blow dried hair. Her breasts perched in her Victoria Secrets bra, bounce at the brim of her v-cut top. She walks right up to the group of young men standing and staring and introduces herself.
“Hi there, I’m Brittany.”
Warm and bubbly she stands with her big smile, bats her lashes and giggles. Her bangs fall over her scandalous eyes, she laughs wholeheartedly at whatever foolishness these handsome strangers try to entice her with.
They call her “Scandal.” Boy crazy and beautiful, a dangerous combination. She believes that the town too can be painted.
***
As headstrong as she was, she could still be talked into things that weren’t true.
Near her childhood home in Old Orchard Beach with her mother and her brother. The three were looking for treasures on the beach, picking through the seaweed and the shells and the sand. Brittany found a beautiful white oval shaped object, smoothed by time and the tide. She held it in her hands and went running.
“Look Mom, isn’t it beautiful!” She exclaimed.
“Oh Punky (Her mother called her long before Punky Bruster) do you know what it is?
She shook her head.
“It’s a Seagull’s egg!” Her mother told her.
“Really? I want to take it to show and tell!”
Unknowing to her mother she took it to school.Regardless of how headstrong she was or how able she was to talk others into the things she believed were true. This she could not convince her classmates of. Sometimes a rock is just a rock even if you are told otherwise.
A funny little girl, a little gullible but at least she believed in what was.
****
Laying on the bluffs in the midday sun with her close friends, the air warm making the skin moist, she covers her face and cringes.
“I love him you guys. I do. I haven’t heard from him. We were hanging out everyday. I stayed at his house three nights in a row.”
She keeps checking her phone,to see if there were any new text messages,any messages from him.
Her friends have tried to convince her that he was no good, and could not be great.
But she opened all the cupboards to her great hot mess, even if wasn’t savory, for she believed it could be; but sometimes a dick is just a dick, even if you’re told otherwise.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Paint Slinger
As a child I had a keen imagination and a clever a mind, I was often found making things out of other things. All by my-self drawing in the dirt or rearranging my food to look like something else. I loved coloring books, but quite often I would color outside the lines, and add things to the page because I felt they belonged there. I loved arts and crafts at summer camp, making braided bracelets and miniature cabins built out of tongue and groove Popsicle sticks.
It wasn’t until I attended catholic school, and met a crazy art teacher, did I discover that I was in fact an artist. Our assignment was a still-life; she placed a vase with two sunflowers in it on the desk in front of the chalkboard, the sunlight flowed in through the large old windows of that dark art room, illuminated the yellow and the maroon petals and warmed the brown of their center, those flowers spoke to me. That was all it took, sun, flowers and acrylics. I’ve been painting up a storm every since.
My formal training included three art classes in high school, a winter of private lessons, and one college level art course, the rest I have cultivated on my own; along with the support of my teachers, friends, and family.
My collection of paintings range from watercolors, acrylics, oils, multimedia and a small selection of gel prints, I have over one hundred canvas in this tree house, numerous other works of art, not mention what’s still at the folks.
My subjects range from landscape to seascapes, flowers to trees; animals to abstracts, to my latest personalized collection of Tarot cards; each painted on different sized canvas.
Creativity comes in waves and my heart can be measured by frames. Time will pass with no artwork at all, I’m either content with my life and don’t need to express, or so discontent that I lay baren without seeds to plant. The control and the freedom that comes with artistic expression involves just the right amount of suffering to pour the heart out in color. Art is an outlet that can frustrate, but it what’s gets you through.
The “Paradise Orchids” (one of my masterpieces.)The creases of the flowers and the ridges in the leaves painted so precisely with the fine lines of the buttery oil paint in a ton of layers. The tubes of luminous red and sap green emptied, and the three boyfriends I went through before to complete it.
The Tarot card “Death,” I created a two paneled piece in acrylic with the Ace of Cups at the end of the cemetery. The beginning and the ending, marking the fall when I lost both my Grandmothers, all the colors where mixed with a hue of gray.
An untitled piece on gigantic canvas, I painted crescents that weave into each other, one side a blue moon with the stars, the other an orange sun with a tree.This painting can be flipped either way to put the tree on top or the stars. It marks the duality of my life at that time, the pros and the cons, the nights of the old and the days of the new.
My menagerie of artwork has been displayed around Eastern Maine: Local Fest, The Mall, The River Tree Café, The Village Green Art Show, and my “Tree House Gallery”, but those must be rearranged and traded off to the closet as the walls haven’t any more space to give.
I also exhibit my artwork for judging at the annual Blue Hill Fair. In the last five years I have been awarded 4 Second Place, 20 First Place, and 1 “Best of Show” for 2010, a total of 25 ribbons; that also accompany a small cash prize and get your name in the paper.
I paint mostly during the quiet of winter, although the budding of spring often infuses me with creativity. Some of my biggest discoveries were trying different mediums not following the directions and just producing art. No premeditated ideas, no deliberation, just slinging paint onto primed linen. Sometimes that is the most therapeutic part of painting; the rules are your own; a little color here, another color there, maybe a top coating with crackle paste; or perhaps epoxying broken shards of mirror to the canvas.
The music plays loudly, the distinct scent of oil paint lingers throughout the studio, my hands and forearms smeared in various color. The music no longer heard but fallen to the background of my thoughts, as I mull over the moments and the seasons past with the strokes of my brush.
We are all born something, I was born a paint slinger.
It wasn’t until I attended catholic school, and met a crazy art teacher, did I discover that I was in fact an artist. Our assignment was a still-life; she placed a vase with two sunflowers in it on the desk in front of the chalkboard, the sunlight flowed in through the large old windows of that dark art room, illuminated the yellow and the maroon petals and warmed the brown of their center, those flowers spoke to me. That was all it took, sun, flowers and acrylics. I’ve been painting up a storm every since.
My formal training included three art classes in high school, a winter of private lessons, and one college level art course, the rest I have cultivated on my own; along with the support of my teachers, friends, and family.
My collection of paintings range from watercolors, acrylics, oils, multimedia and a small selection of gel prints, I have over one hundred canvas in this tree house, numerous other works of art, not mention what’s still at the folks.
My subjects range from landscape to seascapes, flowers to trees; animals to abstracts, to my latest personalized collection of Tarot cards; each painted on different sized canvas.
Creativity comes in waves and my heart can be measured by frames. Time will pass with no artwork at all, I’m either content with my life and don’t need to express, or so discontent that I lay baren without seeds to plant. The control and the freedom that comes with artistic expression involves just the right amount of suffering to pour the heart out in color. Art is an outlet that can frustrate, but it what’s gets you through.
The “Paradise Orchids” (one of my masterpieces.)The creases of the flowers and the ridges in the leaves painted so precisely with the fine lines of the buttery oil paint in a ton of layers. The tubes of luminous red and sap green emptied, and the three boyfriends I went through before to complete it.
The Tarot card “Death,” I created a two paneled piece in acrylic with the Ace of Cups at the end of the cemetery. The beginning and the ending, marking the fall when I lost both my Grandmothers, all the colors where mixed with a hue of gray.
An untitled piece on gigantic canvas, I painted crescents that weave into each other, one side a blue moon with the stars, the other an orange sun with a tree.This painting can be flipped either way to put the tree on top or the stars. It marks the duality of my life at that time, the pros and the cons, the nights of the old and the days of the new.
My menagerie of artwork has been displayed around Eastern Maine: Local Fest, The Mall, The River Tree Café, The Village Green Art Show, and my “Tree House Gallery”, but those must be rearranged and traded off to the closet as the walls haven’t any more space to give.
I also exhibit my artwork for judging at the annual Blue Hill Fair. In the last five years I have been awarded 4 Second Place, 20 First Place, and 1 “Best of Show” for 2010, a total of 25 ribbons; that also accompany a small cash prize and get your name in the paper.
I paint mostly during the quiet of winter, although the budding of spring often infuses me with creativity. Some of my biggest discoveries were trying different mediums not following the directions and just producing art. No premeditated ideas, no deliberation, just slinging paint onto primed linen. Sometimes that is the most therapeutic part of painting; the rules are your own; a little color here, another color there, maybe a top coating with crackle paste; or perhaps epoxying broken shards of mirror to the canvas.
The music plays loudly, the distinct scent of oil paint lingers throughout the studio, my hands and forearms smeared in various color. The music no longer heard but fallen to the background of my thoughts, as I mull over the moments and the seasons past with the strokes of my brush.
We are all born something, I was born a paint slinger.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Piece of Mind
Sometimes we try something for the first time because it scares us, or because we don’t know what to expect, but the second time it is because our curiosity provokes us into it. To satisfy our peace of mind, we think maybe our second experiences and impressions might just be different from the first.
***
The four of us in the Jimmy head out the back roads of the County, Keith and Nikki in the front, Chris and I in the back for our double date to the gravel pit.
The landscape in Northern Maine is filled with hills that roll into the horizon, houses that rest slanted, and farm equipment shiny and rusted parked in the dooryards.
We turn down Cow Tail Road. A white fence follows, and dips with the peaks and valleys of the green pasture. The sun shinning, and the cows grazing, this peaceful scenery is smothered in the stench of caw patties as we cross the narrow bridge over the brook. We veer right down the dirt road.
Keith sets out to inspect the area, by walking about the pit. Determining its safety, he sets up the target by hammering it into the sand pile, and staples on the paper bulls-eye. He then unloads his collection of arms and ammunition.
We create a firing line. Keith steps up first with his brand new Springfield XDM, 9mm semiautomatic. He locks and loads and assumes the position. We all pull our ear protection over our ears as he fires. The sound echoes through the pit, and can be felt in the air. An excellent shot at that, beautiful grouping at the bulls-eye.
We each take turns firing.
This being my second time to ever fire a gun, I step up to the firing line, and stand tall with my arms out in front of me. My left hand firmly grasps the ivory grips of “Dirty Susan” Keith’s .38 special double action revolver. I load her up with bullets.
I slip my finger over the trigger, cock the hammer back with my right thumb and stare down the sights till I find the bulls-eye. Ready I breathe in and hold my breath, aim and fire.
The barrel tipped upward as the bullet ejected, my shot didn’t even make the target. My hands, my wrists, my shoulders all absorb the recoil. Recoil was a concept I had yet to experience.
A little flustered I take a deep breath, peer down the sights and aim a little lower than the center. I cock the hammer and fire again. I make the target this time. I repeat this action, with deep breaths and tight grips till the five round revolver empties. For good measure, I fire one more shot. The pistol warm in my hand, smokes a little as I push the release with my thumb. I open the cylinder to expel the empty shells to the ground.
Exhilarated, pumping with adrenaline I reach for the next gun. I go down the line taking turns with my group and trying each gun of collection before us. A .22 Rifle, .38 special revolver, .357 magnum, 9mm semiautomatic, and a 12 gauge shotgun to boot. We shoot up all the targets that we had and most of the ammunition.
***
Sometimes we try something for the first time because it scares us, or because we don’t know what to expect, but the second time is because our curiosity provokes us into it. There’s nothing like the power of a pistol in the grip of your female hand. I certainly found my piece of mind and I keep on the nightstand.
***
The four of us in the Jimmy head out the back roads of the County, Keith and Nikki in the front, Chris and I in the back for our double date to the gravel pit.
The landscape in Northern Maine is filled with hills that roll into the horizon, houses that rest slanted, and farm equipment shiny and rusted parked in the dooryards.
We turn down Cow Tail Road. A white fence follows, and dips with the peaks and valleys of the green pasture. The sun shinning, and the cows grazing, this peaceful scenery is smothered in the stench of caw patties as we cross the narrow bridge over the brook. We veer right down the dirt road.
Keith sets out to inspect the area, by walking about the pit. Determining its safety, he sets up the target by hammering it into the sand pile, and staples on the paper bulls-eye. He then unloads his collection of arms and ammunition.
We create a firing line. Keith steps up first with his brand new Springfield XDM, 9mm semiautomatic. He locks and loads and assumes the position. We all pull our ear protection over our ears as he fires. The sound echoes through the pit, and can be felt in the air. An excellent shot at that, beautiful grouping at the bulls-eye.
We each take turns firing.
This being my second time to ever fire a gun, I step up to the firing line, and stand tall with my arms out in front of me. My left hand firmly grasps the ivory grips of “Dirty Susan” Keith’s .38 special double action revolver. I load her up with bullets.
I slip my finger over the trigger, cock the hammer back with my right thumb and stare down the sights till I find the bulls-eye. Ready I breathe in and hold my breath, aim and fire.
The barrel tipped upward as the bullet ejected, my shot didn’t even make the target. My hands, my wrists, my shoulders all absorb the recoil. Recoil was a concept I had yet to experience.
A little flustered I take a deep breath, peer down the sights and aim a little lower than the center. I cock the hammer and fire again. I make the target this time. I repeat this action, with deep breaths and tight grips till the five round revolver empties. For good measure, I fire one more shot. The pistol warm in my hand, smokes a little as I push the release with my thumb. I open the cylinder to expel the empty shells to the ground.
Exhilarated, pumping with adrenaline I reach for the next gun. I go down the line taking turns with my group and trying each gun of collection before us. A .22 Rifle, .38 special revolver, .357 magnum, 9mm semiautomatic, and a 12 gauge shotgun to boot. We shoot up all the targets that we had and most of the ammunition.
***
Sometimes we try something for the first time because it scares us, or because we don’t know what to expect, but the second time is because our curiosity provokes us into it. There’s nothing like the power of a pistol in the grip of your female hand. I certainly found my piece of mind and I keep on the nightstand.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
The Beast of Breakfast
“Welcome to Vacationland.”
“The way life should be.”
Slogans that lure strangers from afar to this northern state of New England to explore what it has to offer. Autumn being harvest season, it’s when we reap the rewards, it is the season of the leaf peepers, the newly weds and nearly deads.”
They come by road and by sea, in car or tour buses, on boats or cruise ships. All on their own adventures with hopes of catching a glimpse of a moose or maybe a whale, or to explore the great outdoors; whatever their adventures may be all these vacationers will soon grow hungry.
Melissa and I begin our opening shift by brewing coffee, icing creamers and lemons, setting up plates with butter packets and miniature pitches for maple syrup. And checking our sections for full sugar and jelly caddies.
The fog rolls up the street, and enchants me with its mist, can’t even see the cruise ships in the harbor. Today's passenger and crew totals over 7,000; now that’s not to say that they all tender in, or that they are all coming to the restaurant for meals or for our bus tour tickets, nonetheless we prepare.
At some tables you can’t even get the words, “Good Morning” out of your mouth, and the transient diner barks for coffee. I just close my mouth, bow my head and go fetch. I am more than just a vehicle to the nectar of the bean.
There are the diners that say good morning back to you, and ask how you are; as you take your breath to reply they cut you off and tell you what they will have. There are two creatures of this world,one:
“I want two eggs and toast.” The woman confirms.
“How do you want your eggs? I ask.
“Sunny side-up.”
White, wheat or rye? I ask.
“Wheat.”
“And you have a choice of homes fries or grits?
“Yes.”
“Which?” I must ask.
“Oh, um, home fries.”
Then there are the others creatures;
“I want coffee black and my wife’s with cream and sugar. She will have blueberry
pancakes, real maple syrup and bacon well done. I a spinach and goat cheese omelet, wheat toast dry, home fries crispy, and orange juices with our meal.”
Followed by, “Oh and we are on your bus tour of the park, and we need to board in thirty minutes.”
Meanwhile I am standing there with one pot regular and one pot decafe and all I had asked was, “Would ya like coffee?”
Interactions with the transient diners like this continue relentlessly throughout the day. Passing dialogue, filled with questions on each side, and repeated answers, and inflection of tone as patience thins either mine or theirs.
All amongst the clamoring and clanging of dishes, and those god damn coffee cups, half empty begging to be filled and to be warmed.The checks that need printing, the printer that needs paper; those plates in the kitchen grow hotter the longer they sit dying in the window, the voids, the separate checks, and the ten percenters.
Then there’s Andy cussing behind the line at all the orders that just came in all at once. Tis the season of the leaf peepers, the newly weds and the nearly deads; we survived another grueling day of cruise ship season and the turn and burn beast that is breakfast.
“The way life should be.”
Slogans that lure strangers from afar to this northern state of New England to explore what it has to offer. Autumn being harvest season, it’s when we reap the rewards, it is the season of the leaf peepers, the newly weds and nearly deads.”
They come by road and by sea, in car or tour buses, on boats or cruise ships. All on their own adventures with hopes of catching a glimpse of a moose or maybe a whale, or to explore the great outdoors; whatever their adventures may be all these vacationers will soon grow hungry.
Melissa and I begin our opening shift by brewing coffee, icing creamers and lemons, setting up plates with butter packets and miniature pitches for maple syrup. And checking our sections for full sugar and jelly caddies.
The fog rolls up the street, and enchants me with its mist, can’t even see the cruise ships in the harbor. Today's passenger and crew totals over 7,000; now that’s not to say that they all tender in, or that they are all coming to the restaurant for meals or for our bus tour tickets, nonetheless we prepare.
At some tables you can’t even get the words, “Good Morning” out of your mouth, and the transient diner barks for coffee. I just close my mouth, bow my head and go fetch. I am more than just a vehicle to the nectar of the bean.
There are the diners that say good morning back to you, and ask how you are; as you take your breath to reply they cut you off and tell you what they will have. There are two creatures of this world,one:
“I want two eggs and toast.” The woman confirms.
“How do you want your eggs? I ask.
“Sunny side-up.”
White, wheat or rye? I ask.
“Wheat.”
“And you have a choice of homes fries or grits?
“Yes.”
“Which?” I must ask.
“Oh, um, home fries.”
Then there are the others creatures;
“I want coffee black and my wife’s with cream and sugar. She will have blueberry
pancakes, real maple syrup and bacon well done. I a spinach and goat cheese omelet, wheat toast dry, home fries crispy, and orange juices with our meal.”
Followed by, “Oh and we are on your bus tour of the park, and we need to board in thirty minutes.”
Meanwhile I am standing there with one pot regular and one pot decafe and all I had asked was, “Would ya like coffee?”
Interactions with the transient diners like this continue relentlessly throughout the day. Passing dialogue, filled with questions on each side, and repeated answers, and inflection of tone as patience thins either mine or theirs.
All amongst the clamoring and clanging of dishes, and those god damn coffee cups, half empty begging to be filled and to be warmed.The checks that need printing, the printer that needs paper; those plates in the kitchen grow hotter the longer they sit dying in the window, the voids, the separate checks, and the ten percenters.
Then there’s Andy cussing behind the line at all the orders that just came in all at once. Tis the season of the leaf peepers, the newly weds and the nearly deads; we survived another grueling day of cruise ship season and the turn and burn beast that is breakfast.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Family Portrait
We lived in a ranch style home, built from starch by my father, grandfathers and other member of my family. Like your typical family portrait out in the country included the family dog. We called her Sheena, a beautiful golden retriever with reddish long hair, deep brown motherly eyes, a wonderful companion for us kids.
Sheena was a roamer, but always knew her way back home. There were no sidewalks on the road I grew up on. We’d just walk along side the dirt and tall grass, or we could walk the four-wheelin’ trails through the woods, as did the dog. She was never spaded so when the times came when she went into heat, she would run frantically around the house dripping droplets of blood onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor, just begging to be let out.
We spent many of our summer days out to camp and Sheena usually would come with, but not in this condition. On hot days, we’d leave the back door open, and latch the screen door to keep her in. There were lots of other dogs around these parts, in heat, it didn’t take her long to scratch through that screen and find herself doggy-stylin’ it in some yard down the road.
*** *** ***
She had several litters in her life time I remember one in particular. Mum made a bed for her to lay her pups in the corner; she was very territorial of this space. Curious little children we sat in the middle of the living room floor watching inching our way forward till we heard Mum’s voice yelling from the kitchen, “You kids better leave her alone!”
When they were born six in all, they were covered in mucus and some blood, and there was this little sac that came along with them. We watched from a distance as she licked them clean with her motherly instincts. They were tiny whitish and blackish things, their eyes still shut, whimpering, shaking, and huddling together; and their scent very distinct yet indescribable.
Soon thereafter we were sent off to bed. I woke in the middle of night, to the sound of a puppy yelping repeatedly. The house dark and quiet, except for a lamp, I climb down off my bunk-bed and head down the hall. Sheena lay with all her pups nestled up to the warmth of her belly, except this little one all by his lonesome, shaking and whimpering.
I try to nudge him up to the rest, Sheena wrinkles her snout at me. The action that occurs just before a dog shows their teeth. With her fatigued body and protective instincts, she softly growls at me under her breath. My eyes swell with tears.
“I’m just trying to help you Sheena.This puppy wants you too.” I lie on the floor and watch as she nudges him away again, she just doesn’t want him near. I didn’t understand, and took my sleepyhead back to bed.
The next morning, my brother, and my little sis and I sit around looking at them. We discover that one of them only has three legs, so he is appropriately named Tripod. I pick up the little one from the night before, hold him coupled in my hands; tiny, black in color not really hair just pigment, covered in that scent. I hold him and admire his cunningness, when suddenly his body goes limp. I breathe in, in shock and hold my breath. His little heart beat stopped, the movement of chest seized and that little pup died in my hands before me.
“Mum…Mum…” The tears swell in my eyes. “He just died, I was only holding him.”
Sheena lost two that day, few hours later Tripod went with his brother. Mum and Dad explained to us that they were runts,and survival of the fittest.Together we packed the two dead pups into cereal boxes, dug holes in the earth and buried them near a rock out in the backyard.
*** *** ***
Few years later, our family went on a road trip, something we rarely. I brushed Sheena out on the back deck,. She took her paw and placed it in the palm of my hand, almost like a goodbye. I hugged her and told her we would be back in a few days.
Then we were off to the White Mountains in New Hampshire. My grandmother had gone over to feed her and let her out, but the day we returned she didn’t come back when let out. Dad made a quick stop at Doug’s, and sent my sis and I, to the meat department to get some marrow bones for her for when she returned.
We pull into the yard, the driveway dark and there she was under Dad’s truck. Something she always did to hide from the sun and cool herself in the shade. The headlights still on in the minivan, but she hasn’t come to greet us yet. She just lay there. She too had died. I recall the moment days before when I brushed her, and she placed in paw in my palm, it was a goodbye. So we prepared for another burial in the backyard.
How we could be so young and watch life and hold life and then to watch death and hold death in the palms of our little hands? Sheena was more than just a companion for us kids she was an anchor for some of life’s lessons learned. One being that portrait of the ranch style home out in the country along with the family dog, sadly includes a shovel.
Sheena was a roamer, but always knew her way back home. There were no sidewalks on the road I grew up on. We’d just walk along side the dirt and tall grass, or we could walk the four-wheelin’ trails through the woods, as did the dog. She was never spaded so when the times came when she went into heat, she would run frantically around the house dripping droplets of blood onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor, just begging to be let out.
We spent many of our summer days out to camp and Sheena usually would come with, but not in this condition. On hot days, we’d leave the back door open, and latch the screen door to keep her in. There were lots of other dogs around these parts, in heat, it didn’t take her long to scratch through that screen and find herself doggy-stylin’ it in some yard down the road.
*** *** ***
She had several litters in her life time I remember one in particular. Mum made a bed for her to lay her pups in the corner; she was very territorial of this space. Curious little children we sat in the middle of the living room floor watching inching our way forward till we heard Mum’s voice yelling from the kitchen, “You kids better leave her alone!”
When they were born six in all, they were covered in mucus and some blood, and there was this little sac that came along with them. We watched from a distance as she licked them clean with her motherly instincts. They were tiny whitish and blackish things, their eyes still shut, whimpering, shaking, and huddling together; and their scent very distinct yet indescribable.
Soon thereafter we were sent off to bed. I woke in the middle of night, to the sound of a puppy yelping repeatedly. The house dark and quiet, except for a lamp, I climb down off my bunk-bed and head down the hall. Sheena lay with all her pups nestled up to the warmth of her belly, except this little one all by his lonesome, shaking and whimpering.
I try to nudge him up to the rest, Sheena wrinkles her snout at me. The action that occurs just before a dog shows their teeth. With her fatigued body and protective instincts, she softly growls at me under her breath. My eyes swell with tears.
“I’m just trying to help you Sheena.This puppy wants you too.” I lie on the floor and watch as she nudges him away again, she just doesn’t want him near. I didn’t understand, and took my sleepyhead back to bed.
The next morning, my brother, and my little sis and I sit around looking at them. We discover that one of them only has three legs, so he is appropriately named Tripod. I pick up the little one from the night before, hold him coupled in my hands; tiny, black in color not really hair just pigment, covered in that scent. I hold him and admire his cunningness, when suddenly his body goes limp. I breathe in, in shock and hold my breath. His little heart beat stopped, the movement of chest seized and that little pup died in my hands before me.
“Mum…Mum…” The tears swell in my eyes. “He just died, I was only holding him.”
Sheena lost two that day, few hours later Tripod went with his brother. Mum and Dad explained to us that they were runts,and survival of the fittest.Together we packed the two dead pups into cereal boxes, dug holes in the earth and buried them near a rock out in the backyard.
*** *** ***
Few years later, our family went on a road trip, something we rarely. I brushed Sheena out on the back deck,. She took her paw and placed it in the palm of my hand, almost like a goodbye. I hugged her and told her we would be back in a few days.
Then we were off to the White Mountains in New Hampshire. My grandmother had gone over to feed her and let her out, but the day we returned she didn’t come back when let out. Dad made a quick stop at Doug’s, and sent my sis and I, to the meat department to get some marrow bones for her for when she returned.
We pull into the yard, the driveway dark and there she was under Dad’s truck. Something she always did to hide from the sun and cool herself in the shade. The headlights still on in the minivan, but she hasn’t come to greet us yet. She just lay there. She too had died. I recall the moment days before when I brushed her, and she placed in paw in my palm, it was a goodbye. So we prepared for another burial in the backyard.
How we could be so young and watch life and hold life and then to watch death and hold death in the palms of our little hands? Sheena was more than just a companion for us kids she was an anchor for some of life’s lessons learned. One being that portrait of the ranch style home out in the country along with the family dog, sadly includes a shovel.
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