Back in Virginia Beach, Daisy had a habit of sitting on the her end table and looking out the window.  She’d watch the birds, the squirrels and the neighbors come and go, but mostly she’d sit at her perch and wait for me.

Daisy knows that when I tell her something, I mean it. So when I tell her that I’m leaving, but I’ll be back, she knows I’m true to my word.

She knows she can trust me.

Sure, she’s just a dog, but it’s important to me that my dogs, as well as my friends, know where they stand with me. If I say I’m going to do something, I will do it. If I find I can’t do it, I will tell you.

Why? Because the bottom line is this ~ I’ve learned I have to live in a way that allows me to look in the mirror at myself and like who I see.

Each step I take through life lands me squarely where I place my feet. If my legs are shaky and my footing is weak, then I can’t stand rooted within myself and I surely won’t give much grounding to you.

Better that I tell you I’m slipping than to leave you sitting in the window, waiting. Old dog or old friend, it’s all the same.

So when I hold out my hand to you, or make a promise to you, and I tell you that you can trust me, you can.

The question is, can you trust yourself?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

I have always called LolliPop my little Mud Puppy. Just like Pearl was my Baked Potato, there’s no rhyme or reason for the name. Until now. Until Ojai.

Thrilled to have a yard again, she can’t just go out in the back and just do her business. Oh no. She’s got to climb up the hill behind the house and investigate every corner of the property, every single time she goes outside.

Dense in vegetation and ripe with the scent of coyote that pass in the early morning hours, there’s lots to entertain her. The dirt on the slope is more clay than dust, and because it’s rained several times in the past couple of weeks, right now it is a thick and slick and sticky paste.

Sometimes she calmly walks along the length of the ramp and plods back to the deck. More likely, though, she’ll take off from the top of the hill, ears and tongue flapping as she comes crashing down at top speed, energized, I like to think, by a sense of adventure. Freedom. Reckless abandon. Probably, she’s just having a damn good time.

She shuffles to the door, mud caked to her feet like sasquatch slippers. The first time she walked in, at 6:30 in the morning, I thought she’d stepped in poo. It took me by surprise and it took me 20 minutes to clean the muck from between her pads. Last night I pulled off the chunky clumps and stuck her little feet in the sink. This afternoon, I just carried a big bowl outside and plunked those paws, one at a time, in the warm water. Complimentary Puppy Paw Scrub and Drying Massage.

With all this trouble, it makes more sense to just take her outside on the leash and stand there with her while she pees, confined to one clean and pristine spot.

Invariably the rains will stop and the mud will dry. It is Southern California, after all.

She’s a country girl, and and she’s happy. She can run, and play. And breathe.

Think about it.

When was the last time you walked barefoot in the rain, jumped with both feet in puddles or bared your naked puppies to the mud?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

So in between crate training and working on the computer, I stand up, grab my keys, and exit, then stand there for 5 to 10 seconds, walk back in, put the keys down, ignore the dog, and sit back down to work. The idea is to make leaving no big deal. By the third time I’d gone out, Daisy got smart and positioned herself in nap mode in front of the door.

I don’t blame her for how she’s feeling. She’s a rescue and was literally scooped up one day by her former owners and dumped off at Animal Control with the order to “just kill her.”  This after they’d never let her go outside and fed her up to an enormous 85 pounds. The ride across country and a few days of kenneling and a new environment has no doubt had an effect on her.  No wonder she’s reacting to my own emotional circus right now, too.

The dogs and I have a definite psychic connection. I found out just how strong it is when I left them with a friend to attend Marianne Williamson’s latest lecture here in LA. Five minutes before I returned, both of them started jumping up and down, barking and getting excited like they do when I come home.  It wouldn’t have seemed nearly so strange except for the fact that I didn’t drive my car ~ it’s obvious they weren’t reacting to hearing that familiar sound from 2 or 3 miles away.

Daisy’s clearly responding to whatever separation anxiety I’m feeling. And here I thought I had that whipped. I mean, this isn’t my first move out here and it was that detached, lonely and disconnected mindset, real or imagined, that always did me in. That combined with very tangible logistics of starting over, including everything from changing jobs and making ends meet to becoming adept at navigating a city where it can take 20 minutes to go one mile, left turn green lights barely exist, banks don’t have drive-through ATMs and every single intersection requires the ability to observe pedestrians from one side of your peripheral vision to the other. Don’t even get me started on the fact that you just can’t do a quick stop at a fast food restaurant if you need go to the bathroom. If you do find a place, there won’t be any parking. After being forced to pee myself ~ twice ~ I’ve learned to ration my fluid intake. That, however, is another story for another time.

My point is that the same emotions and upheavals that affected me back then are still present now. Though tempered by experience and maturity and trust that all really will be fine, they are partying their ass off at 4 and 5 am when I wake, when I check the bank account, when I sit here too long in my own little space. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that I’m brave or bold for coming out here, leaving what I know behind, coming to a city that is known for being a difficult place to meet people, starting over.

No. I am not these things. I am not brave, or strong, or bold or courageous. I think those words belong to those people who sacrifice something of themselves for the good of others, even in the midst of their own terror. Brave is fighting against drug or alcohol addiction. Courageous is giving everything you’ve got up against cancer. Bold might be walking half a block in sight of a starving, deranged looking stray pitbull, which I did earlier tonight. But I think that’s probably more like stupid. What I am is more difficult to define than those honorable adjectives and not nearly so admirable. I came out here because I got tired of being scared. I got tired of being depressed and feeling hopeless and hating myself for being all of those things. I came out here because I got tired of ignoring the nagging pull on my soul that tells me there’s some sort of path I’m supposed to be following. I came out here because I knew in the core of my being that if I continued to live a life that in my eyes felt like I was playing it safe and practical and therefore cheating myself out of whatever unknown wonders lay ahead, then I might as well be dead.

There is nothing practical about this move and that is the first thing I tell people when they ask me why I came. It wasn’t for a job, it wasn’t for the weather, it wasn’t for a guy (though I don’t seriously know if I call that practical either). I’m here because I decided to throw logic to the wind and listen to intuition and meditation and all the illogical, unexplainable miracles and forces at work in my life. I came, ultimately, because for over 16 years I’ve lived with one foot on each side of the threshold, watching myself go in and out the door of yearning. It was simply time to make a choice before all doors closed and there were no choices left to make. I came because I was tired of hearing myself bark. It was time to start believing in myself, logic and practical, straight and narrow be damned. The truth is, we can do anything if the yearning is strong enough.

Turn On Yor Light.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

Helping the cable guy install internet.

Daisy is a barker. Fine in our old neighborhood, not so cool in the close quarters of this Los Angeles sprawl. Now that I’ve moved into a building with 19 other apartments on two floors, it’s become the problem of the day. Talk about shaking up that status quo.

We’ve lived here for almost a week and I’ve left her and Lollipop alone only once, for an hour or so, long enough to run with M., the resident manager, to pick up a chair and a bookcase. We could hear her howls halfway around the block ~ she is a Beagle, after all.

M. took an ass-chewing from Jazzman next door, and I took to realizing that I inadvertently created this mess by always allowing her to do what she does naturally when I’m not at home to hear it. Consequently, when I go out anywhere I’ve been taking them with me. They’ve been to Trader Joe’s, the 99cent store, and PetCo. They’ve ridden across town on the freeway in pouring rain to the thrift store. They’ve been to Runyon Canyon and on the plus side, they’ve begun to hike Runyon Canyon. I tend to underestimate my dogs and I didn’t think they could do either the hills or the city atmosphere.

I’ve always treated my dogs like cute, slightly pitiful little people. They are spoiled and loved and indulged. They greet me at the door like I’ve been gone for weeks, jumping and barking and running back and forth like they’re on crack. They tell me when they want to go outside. They sleep where they want on the furniture and I’m normally relegated to a corner of my bed. They are rescues and they’ve been through hell so it’s natural I’d want to make their life easier, comfort them, and give them the world. Pearl was quiet and it seemed to work fine. The same with Lollipop. Unfortunately, with Daisy I’ve created a brat. An insecure, obsessed, whiney pain in the ass brat. And unless I plan to live my live within the confines of those 8 foot walls, somebody’s gotta change.

According to Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, that somebody’s gotta be me. Dogs need structure and discipline and order and lots and lots of exercise to feel secure and well-balanced, but until now all Daisy and Lolli have had is the lovin’ and touchin’ and squeezin’. Cesar compares raising a healthy dog with our human interactions and relationships; if you’ve ever tried to love, coddle and protect someone through their issues you know firsthand that they don’t grow and they don’t change. Dogs, like people, innately don’t want to be somebody’s victim. They react best when they have your strength to emulate and when they’re made to wear their big-dog panties.

In the midst of starting over with an empty house, dwindling funds, waiting on the internet so I can get back to work and well, the overall stress of moving across country, not to mention the heavy rains LA is experiencing right now, this bump in the road has the potential to throw me into a ditch. Hiding indoors with my dog just isn’t feasible and it isn’t desirable either. Though I normally go without, right now, I’ve got to wear my panties front and center too, because it’s my energy and state of mind that matter most and ultimately affect Daisy.

The sonic collar she’s currently wearing around her neck has helped squelch the barking a bit, but I have to let her know that staying home without me is okay. Likewise I have to acknowledge that living life in a big, basically new, city is ok too, and put aside any trepidations I have both about leaving her home and venturing out. Daisy barks less with the collar on, but she still whines and scratches at the door, and when she does bark it’s a muffled howl followed by an ear-piercing screech: Bark BEEP! Bark BEEP! I’m just not sure that’s an improvement in the ears of my neighbors.

That’s a shame because Daisy is a great little dog. She’s sweet and she’s smart and she’s lovable. She carries her stuffed “babies” around with her and flops her fat body over for belly rubs and plays dead and rolls over . . . after several attempts. She’s also a major social butterfly ~ and right now that’s our downfall. While I don’t care much for Jazzman’s attitude or his way of handling the situation, the reality is that my neighbors in the building deserve the quiet, Daisy deserves to feel safe and secure, and I deserve a relaxed and happy home. Daisy’s gotta learn to be alone because as much as I love this new place, there’s a whole big ol’ world out there, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here with only my dogs and the internet for company. Now where’d I put those Big Girl Panties?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

That feel-good ending lasted only as long as the parking lot, though. Real life, suspended in mid-air during the almost 3000 miles between Virginia and California, came bounding back in, happy and loveable and goofy as it is, in the form of Daisy heaving herself onto my friend’s clean white sofa. It became apparent within the first 10 minutes that living arrangements would need to be reconsidered. The plan was to stay with a girlfriend for a few months and get my crap together at a leisurely pace, but with my two dogs, her sweet but bladderly-stressed out Italian Greyhound and no closet, drawer or cabinet space to speak of, that just wasn’t going to work. Lollipop took a drink of water from the Greyhound’s bowl, left her tongue-smutz floating behind, and that pretty much sealed the deal.

Over the next three days I looked at four apartments in the West Hollywood, Mid-Wilshire and Los Feliz areas. I thought I had Apartment Number One but it rented without the resident manager’s knowledge before I came along. Number Two was just gross like, well, number two. Feeling slightly desperate for a room of my own, I put down a “nonrefundable deposit” on Apartment Number Three. I came to my senses a day later and realized that a bottom floor apartment with no sunlight only steps away from Sunset Boulevard and my favorite hiking spot really isn’t an ideal location for either my sanity or walking dogs 4 or 5 times a day and night when you stop to consider that the next door neighbors are 7-11, a liquor store and various and sundry homeless sleeping on the corner.

My search continued and on Saturday afternoon I found an absolutely adorable second-floor studio with large windows looking out over the hills in a 1920s Spanish Revival building in West Hollywood within one block of the Farmer’s Market, the Grove, Whole Foods, Melrose Avenue and a gazillion trendy thrift stores.  . . . all utilities included. I really wanted this place. But it was in a busy area of town and I wasn’t sure the dogs could handle that. I really wanted it awfully bad, though. I wanted that open vista view.

I still had to wait for Monday and reference and credit checks. I made that time hell, losing two night’s sleep obsessing, worrying and willing something good to happen, bouncing pros and cons off friends and practically casting spells and writing “my” new address over and over in an attempt to make it so. After informing Apartment Number Three I would not be taking their place and expected my deposit to be returned (and not hearing anything back), I decided I’d lost enough sleep, sanity and quite possibly enough money to be painfully aware that I was trying incredibly hard to manipulate and control the situation. I did my part, and now I needed to trust it was enough and believe it would unfold as it was all meant to be. So during my hike in the Canyon, I sucked it up and simply asked the Universe to choose the place that would be best for my dogs. That would be best for me. The cell phone rang on the way home; Apartment Number One was mine.

Now two week’s here and I’m in a second-floor studio with hardwood floors and 8 foot ceilings in a stately old brick 1920s building in the mid-Wilshire area of Los Angeles. There are 19 other apartments here occupied by an eclectic mix of professionals and artists of varying ethnicity, sexual preference and age. The resident manager, M., is a love and has gone out of his way to welcome me and help out. In addition, there are at least six other dogs on the property and a fenced backyard. My view of the hills has been replaced with the side of the adjacent apartment building, but the rooftop is accessible and affords a 360 degree panorama both day and night. The downstairs neighbor across the alley is a jazz musician, and most nights I sit in the living room windows and listen to the sweet sounds of sax wafting up through the air.

If I had more time and the foresight to plan, . . . I mean control . . . the situation, I probably would not have ended up here. I would have researched neighborhoods and limited my options to places within its walls. To be honest, my instincts told me months ago that the roommate situation would not work, but I didn’t want to hear that. My instincts also told me (as did common sense) that Daisy’s love of barking would be a problem in the city. Mr. Jazzman (also known as Dick, because that is his name) is not a fan of barking dogs and has already confronted M., shut all his windows tight, and given me the Evil Eye. And she’s only been alone once.

I did ask for the place that would be the best, but the best doesn’t always mean the easiest or the most comfortable or familiar. The best might just be designed to shake the status quo. So I’ll face the challenges as they come and give the Universe a big thumbs up for plopping us where it did . . . on a little street coincidentally called Orange Drive, with a view of the Hollywood Hills from the roof and my own private jazz club.

Maybe Orange really is all I need. Well, that and some furniture!

A room of my own, and a chair, too.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

I’ve gone through Virginia and Tennessee, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Days two and three were spent overnight in Maumelle, Arkansas and Salina, Kansas. The weather forcast for Texas and New Mexico called for major snowstorms in addition to the usual unpredictable blizzards in Albuquerque and Flagstaff, so I turned right in Oklahoma City back up to I-70 and the Northern Route. I’m heading to Colorado after all! This trip wouldn’t be the same without that, and New Years Eve alone in Barstow would have simply just sucked. Now that I’m past familiar territory, I’ve found my attitude and excitement level picking up. It’s freezing cold here and cloudy, but I’m already wondering where I packed my flops.

Driving across country gives you lots of time to think. Between the coffee and the extended “me time” I’ve come up with a few insights, both personal and universal.

1. Tailgaters are worse in Virginia than anywhere in the South. Seriously, I had more grills shoved up my ass between Louisa and Bristol than anywhere since. And Hampton Roads drivers are the worst. Lighten up people, you make my home state look bad.
2. American’s love their religion, particularly their Christianity. Jesus has more billboard space than cigarette ads. I sort of feel sorry for him, because he never wanted to be a SuperStar but here he is, plastered all over America reminding us to trust, have faith, believe, adopt not abort. He wants me to smile, because my mom chose life, which of course, I do, because the smiley faced ad is so darn happy. I’m all for spirituality, but I keep wondering why the need to shove religion in my face. Where are the Buddhist billboards? Personally I think the sun sparkling off all those ice covered trees in Kansas makes the same point, and in a better way.
3. We also love our sex, if the number of ads for the Adult SuperStore! is any indication. Every state has at least one. A billboard out in Oklahoma teaches us that “God Creates.” I guess the ads for the Adult SuperStore are there to serve as our reminder.
4. My dogs rock. I thought they’d hate this trip, hate giving up their home. Aside from one growling match a few minutes ago, they’ve been the best of travel companions. Sleep in the kennel, romp around rest stops, play in the hotel room and then sleep next to me all night. We don’t argue about the speed limit or where to get gas. They are gypsies at heart.
5. In the winter, there is nothing green southwest of Charlottesville. The trees are brown. The grass is yellow. Daisy found one green something sprouting up through the mud at our Maumelle hotel but she promptly plucked and ate it so I don’t have a clue what it could have been.

And a bonus. At least it is for me!

• After driving 1952.3 miles in less than 4 days, I have come to the conclusion that yes, I absolutely can go more than 40 minutes without needed to stop and pee!

Virginia Sunset. December 26. by karal

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, my dogs sleep in my bed. In their defense, they don’t know it’s mine. They think it’s ours. And I must make a pretty good bed warmer, because I normally wake to Daisy smashed against a hip and Lolli snuggled tightly in the space between my knees. Daisy occasionally snores and every so often when she’s really tired, Lolli lets out a trill in her sleep that flutters her lips and scares the pee out of me, but the truth is, I like their company. They make me feel safe.

“If you ever want to get married again, don’t tell a man you sleep with dogs.”

Sage advice from my stepdad, Hosa. Well-meant wise words spoken from a cringing male face, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Hi, my name is Karal and I sleep with dogs” isn’t typically my opening line.

First there was Pearl. Then I found Lolli.

And then I heard from Sean, another caring and concerned friend. “You’ve already got one pitiful looking dog, Karal. Now you’re going to adopt a dog with no bottom jaw and a tongue that hangs out of its mouth? You need to think about what kind of guys you’ll attract when you’re out walking those dogs. You’ll make an impression. I’m just saying.”

Lolli and Daisy, my infamous 85-lb beagle rescue, definitely draw a lot of attention. Teenage boys on skateboards think Lolli’s tongue dragging the ground or covered in sand is pretty awesome. Ditto for Daisy. Now down to a svelte 53.2, she’s got a stripe of white hair running wildly down her back like her own radical rat tail, a turkey-breast sized chest of fat that wiggles and jiggles when she walks, and genuine bona fide butt cheeks. She’s the neighborhood social butterball, and she’s way cool.

Lolli’s tongue almost always causes a little confusion, though. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone mutter under their breath That Dog Needs Some Water! when we walk on the beach. Once I explain that Lolli was horribly mistreated, had 17 surgeries to repair her face, and is now a very happy, hardware- and jawbone-free dog, and is in fact not suffering from heat stroke, they will usually jump up from their chair to hug both me and the girls.

At first, I considered having a t-shirt made saying My Dog Can’t Hold Her Licker and just going about my own business. But people are drawn to them, and I’ve talked at length with numerous kids and their parents about rescued dogs, and injuries, and the healing power of a little happiness and love. But I’m only telling their story; they lived it.  Now, they deserve to rest their heads on a comfy mattress or a cozy leg, and not be confined to the floor like dirty laundry.

Which leads me back to the bed-sleeping beagles.

About a month ago my next-door neighbor watched the dogs for the weekend and his 6-year-old daughter helped.

Meredith: “I’ve been inside your house.”

Me: Yes, I know.”

Meredith: “I fed your dogs.”

Me: “Yes, I know.”

Meredith: “I’ve been in your bedroom.”

Me: “Yes, I know.” (Ok, I didn’t know. But I figure she’s six and curious. No harm done).

Meredith: “Your bed is full of dog hair.”

Woman to woman so to speak. No unsolicited advice, no dire words of warning, no judgment. Just the truth.

I came close to asking her if that’s why her daddy hasn’t asked me out, but I bought a really good dog brush and doubled up on the vacuuming instead.

My dogs still sleep in my bed, because that’s just the way it is. I’m no longer oblivious to the dog hair, but changing my ways in anticipation of snagging some uptight none-dog-loving guy I wouldn’t want to share my bed with anyway doesn’t make any more sense to me than worrying that walking in public with them will somehow lure the weirdos and freaks out of the woodwork while all the good guys run for cover.

And for the record, sleeping with dogs had nothing to do with my divorce.

We had cats.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

I’m known as a nice person in the neighborhood, but there are body parts strewn all over my house.

Chester Cheetah has been dismembered. One arm is under the sofa, another is in my bed. His leg is buried somewhere out in the yard. I picked his eyeballs from the living room carpet two nights ago. But Chester Cheetah isn’t ready for the trash heap just yet. Because he’s Daisy’s baby, and she loves him to pieces.

Lolli found Chester this past May on our trip to Nag’s Head with the other OBX Skanks. He was resting peacefully in Pam’s house,  upstairs under a bed, just waiting for two crazy beagles to come along, sniff him out, and bring him home.

Lolli found him but Daisy claimed him, and he’s been her constant companion ever since. When I come home at the end of the day, Daisy greets me at the door, runs to the bedroom, grabs Chester and bounds back, first to the sofa and then to the back door. Chester goes with her outside. Chester goes with her potty. Chester sleeps next to her at night. In short, he is her baby. He is also her toy, her prey, and her her conquest, all things that Lolli will never pretend to be.

It doesn’t matter to her that his arms and one leg are gone, or that what used to be his eyes are now two gaping holes of white spongy blankness. Like the old Wendy’s commercial used to say, parts is parts, and Daisy loves Chester’s parts just as much as she loves his whole. Space is limited on our drive to LA, but Chester Cheetah, or what’s left of him, will be going along for the ride.

After all, this is love.

Lolli with a new Chester in the OBX. Daisy and Chester last night.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

The first time I met Pearl she was standing at the edge of my parent’s yard in the bitter February cold wearing nothing but a pink towel and a smile.

She’d shown up from nowhere about 2 weeks prior and stuck around despite my dad’s refusal to feed her for the first three days, hoping, no doubt, she’d go back to wherever it was she belonged. Pearl had other ideas, and eventually he relented, fed the dog a piece of leftover chicken, and as he always likes to tell, cleaned out the refrigerator while she stood there, half-starved, waiting for more. My niece, 8 years old and thrilled to have a pet, promptly named the dog Pearl, claimed her as her own, and covered her with a towel to keep her warm while she slept in my parent’s shed.

Two years later Pearl was digging holes in the backyard and my sister was threatening the pound. I’d just left a fairly messed up relationship, already had two cats, and was kinda-sorta subletting a converted garage apartment from a friend who kinda-sorta hadn’t yet informed the landlord I was there. I wasn’t exactly looking for a dog, but I’ve never been very good at passing up strays, — either the animal or people variety, — but Pearl wasn’t much of a dog in the normal sense of the word.

She’d been so mistreated and abused that she’d literally had the personality beaten out of her. She was rigid and stiff and complacent, and you could lift her, bend her, shape her, pose her into any position and she would stay that way, afraid to move. Long before I realized I would be taking this tattered beagle home, I had teasingly nicknamed her Doorstop Pearl and Lawn Ornament Pearl because she was just so … still. But I always sought her out when I visited my sister, and normally I’d find her smashed to the back of her doghouse, staying out of harm’s way, just happy to have a place to sleep in relative safety and quiet. Everyone else thought she was a joke, but I liked her.

I liked her, in part, because I could identify with her. I’d just walked out the door and down the road from meanness, too, and I could relate to being too scared to move, and sleeping with your back pressed against a wall and I could relate to wanting to be quiet and left alone. I could relate to her gentleness and I could relate to the scar on her right cheek, because I had one too.

Pearl, true to her Southern name, was a mixture of grace and grit. Her left ear was ripped and separated, the bottom few inches torn in two, but she had the sweetest face, and quiet, calm eyes. Fearful of the nightly summertime fireworks, she’d climb behind me on the couch and shiver and shake while I held her, calming her down, yet many nights I’d wake during a thunderstorm to find her standing on my chest, front legs planted firmly and head held high like a coyote on a cliff, guarding me from unseen evil. With a fierce determination and a faraway look in her eyes, using her paws to scrape at my hair and my head, she’d gather me safely from danger into a nice, neat, if not slightly scratched and annoyed, bundle.

She earned the nickname Lightning because she walked painfully slow under most circumstances, and normally I’d have to carry her back from our walks, but she’d frolic in the dunes when we went down to the beach. I often forget that one of my first photographs was of Pearl running through the sand. Pearl didn’t know how to play, but toward the end of her life, she’d get frisky for a moment or two and bounce around with abandon. I think it surprised even her. She could sleep all day, but traveled with me all the way across country to California, and we’d play chase in the hotel hallways at night. One of her favorite things to do was walk the short walk to the corner, strolling along in true Pearl style. She’d do her business, sniff the telephone pole, then turn and look at me with her “spunky monkey” face and take off running back to the house. I’d have to quickly unhook her leash or she’d wiggle like a fish on the end of a pole. Off she’d go, galloping back to the house, weaving across the road, looking back to make sure I was in close pursuit. Sometimes she’d wait, then spring forward again. And then, she’d walk back in our house, slowly up the stairs, and into bed where she’d promptly fall asleep.

For six years, Pearl wasn’t much of a dog, but she made me laugh, and she was was my best friend, my fairy godmother and my guardian angel all rolled into one. Then, with little warning, her kidneys failed and she became sick and began to fade away and over a sunny, three day period last spring, I waited and watched while she got worse, got better, got worse, improved, and came home.

Pearl spoke a language that had nothing to do with words. The night before she died, she woke around 4am to go outside. I sat on the patio, under a sky full of stars, the air scented with magnolia and honeysuckle, while she slept in my arms. Listening to her breathe, smelling her neck, feeling her warmth, trying to take her in, remember it all. I sat there holding my dog, and I made a few promises, quietly, about the way I would live my life, without fear, without regret, with a little playfulness, a little bit of spunk, and a lot of love. With no more thunderstorms to fight, she woke, pushed her front feet against my chest, leaned her head back to look at me, and for the next several minutes just stared into my eyes, the faraway look replaced with something intense and genuine and strong. Then she laid her head back down and once again went to sleep.

Today, I  see the first magnolia blossom of the year, and I remember Pearl. The honeysuckle has bloomed again. And yes, I get it. Sometimes, life just sucks. People leave. Dogs die. Things change. Life goes on. And that’s just the way it is. But that day, after our vet left the room and all that remained was to say goodbye, what I heard escape from my lips sounded an awful lot more like please come back.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.