In which I ride...

I bought a new bike last Thursday after months of shopping and agonizing. It’s a Trek Lexa S compact, a WSD, and I love it so much I’ve been obnoxious with giddiness. It really doesn’t look remarkable, except if you look closely in the sun and notice the sparkly, blue metal flake in the black paint. But I’ve never ridden a bike with so much giddy-up in my life. I feel fast on this bike. Granted, I’ve only had her up to just over 21 mph, but we’re going to hit higher speeds, I just know it.

I went out for a couple short rides just to get acclimated—a few miles around the neighborhood Thursday on bumped-up sidewalks and cobblestones and downtown Saturday for breakfast before the annual Pride Parade. And then Sunday I skipped out of church and went on my first ever ride on the bike path along the river. Now I understand why all of my bike-obsessed cyclist friends have been urging me to buy a damn bike already. Now I'm in love.

I shopped for months. After I moved into this house in the city the end of last summer, just four blocks from the Great Miami River, which is lined on both sides with bike trails, I knew I'd have to ride something besides my clunky, 22-year-old General mountain bike. Something I could carry up and down the stairs to the river path and haul easily in my van. I started getting excited about it the end of winter, so I mentioned to this Guy I've Been Dating, who's been cycling for several years, that I was thinking about buying a new bike. The conversation went something like this:

Me: I'm going to start looking for a new bike soon so I can ride around downtown and on the river path by my house. Maybe we could go for a ride together some time. Would you want to?
Guy I've Been Dating [looking like I just asked him to donate a kidney, takes a deep breath]: Maayyybee. Ummm. [Clears his throat and breaks eye contact.] How fast do you think you can ride?
Me: I don't know yet. Do I have to make a commitment to a particular speed just now? Thinking: Ouch. Obviously out of your league, but OK for you, buddy. See if I pack a tasty picnic of fine soft cheese, crusty bread, and a cold bottle of wine and take you out on a lesser-traveled bike path some Sunday afternoon for a leisurely ride. Give me a chance and I might make you want to slow down, speed racer.

So I researched and I shopped all the rainy spring. I consulted my serious cycling friends. Pat spent an entire Saturday riding bikes with me at various bike shops; Maury started preparing me to wear bike shorts. I read the Team Estrogen message boards and dreamed about riding along the river for miles.

I thought I wanted a commuter bike, a flat-bar hybrid with a cushy saddle, so I wouldn't have to ride bent over, but a lot of people seem to start there and then end up buying a road bike the next season. I didn't want to buy twice. The hybrids really didn't feel like what I wanted, yet the road bikes were more expensive. I agonized over bumping up to almost twice what I'd expected to spend and then getting something that might not be comfy. I really couldn't see my butt sitting on one of those tiny, hard saddles. It looked like I'd be riding on the head of a golf club. And those low handlebars with their weird shifters...I was sure I'd pitch right over on my head, and I didn't think I'd earned such confusing technology. But finally I started testing the road bikes and whee! What a ride! It's like playing a Gibson. Once you play an expensive guitar, you don't want to play the cheap ones any more. I rode the Lexa, loved it, haggled the price down $50, and finally handed over my debit card for the bike and various other necessities like lights, a computer, and a water bottle holder. Squeeee!

Imagine my surprise and consternation when the Guy I've Been Dating suggested a ride the very next weekend, less than two days away. He'd been telling me about the 12-mile sprints he rides most days after work and the longer rides on the weekends. His legs look like he's got bricks under his skin. (Girls, he can rock a kilt, that man, but my love of kilts is another story... and some kilt stories shouldn't be told at all on a blog.) He describes himself as a semi-serious biker, but he seems more like serious to me. I had....well, I had ridden around the neighborhood once. I was still on training wheels. Might as well dive right into the deep end though, right? I accepted, but asked him if he would even have fun riding with someone so far out of his league. He said we wouldn't know until we tried. Fair enough. He still wasn't getting the picnic though, not even the low-carb option.

We met downtown Sunday at noon at a little deli for brunch. I drove my bike over in my van and he rode nine miles in from the suburb where he lives. Same one I lived in for almost 20 years. He was already there at the table, sweating in his hot red shirt, sexy black bike shorts, and his special biker shoes that clip right to his pedals. Serious. I changed my clothes five times and ended up in my longest shorts, a tight black yoga top and sneakers. I had ordered some new bike shorts the night before, but for my virgin ride, I had to settle for civvies. I did not feel like one of the cool kids, even with my cool bike. For the first time I wanted to be wearing tight spandex shorts that look like they have a diaper built into the back, in spite of my friend Karen's warning that the chamois (which is supposed to both mop up crotch sweat moisture and provide padding on the golf club narrow saddle) will get lodged up into the lady parts if it's too thick. And not in a good way.

We stuffed ourselves with meat and fat and then I drove both our bikes over to the river. Almost time to put my new baby to the test--or rather to put me to the test. I was sure I was going to poke along behind the Guy I've Been Dating for about half an hour and then pass out from heat stroke, burnt crimson from midday sun and shame. It was already in the mid-80's and hazy. Sweat started dripping down my back as soon as we walked out into the humid air. As we were walking down the street to my van, I happened to look down at his legs. His muscles popped every time he took a step. I looked at my legs. My muscles....were probably under there somewhere. I considered asking him to put me in a kiddie seat and ride me behind him.

I said I was such a newbie at biking I felt like a freshman girl dating a senior boy. He said he doesn't wear a helmet when he rides; I said I do and mine matches my bike perfectly. I said I ride on the sidewalks sometimes; he frowned and said he doesn't. My inner bad girl pledged to see him ride on the sidewalk at least once that day.

We parked and unloaded his Fuji hybrid and my Lexa. He had saddle bags on the back of his bike, so he offered to take the ridiculous backpack tote bag I brought to carry my phone, keys, money, and a yellow bandanna. Why the bandanna? I don't know. I have always carried one when I biked and it comes in handy sometimes.

We got on our bikes and headed down toward the river, riding side by side on the brick sidewalk. My bike felt good under me, but we were just riding into the gates; the race hadn't started. We circled around Riverscape, where kids were playing in the fountains while the adults watched and fanned themselves, and headed down the ramp toward the river.The heat blew away as my bike picked up speed and settled onto the the bike path. I shifted into my highest gear and caught up with the Guy I've Been Dating. His calves still concerned me, but pedaling my bike was almost effortless and soon I stopped worrying about keeping up and just enjoyed his company and the view of the river. As we rode, I made note of bike path etiquette: the Guy I've Been Dating would speed ahead of me to pass slower riders on the left, usually saying, "On your left" as he came up on them. When we passed other riders coming from the other direction, he pulled ahead of me so we were riding single file. I said hi to every person we passed. I felt like I was being initiated into a new club, even though I didn't have the right clothes or speak the language yet.

We rode and talked....OK, I talked more because I'm a nervous blabbermouth dedicated conversationalist. I thought he was probably slowing down for me, but we didn't seem to be poking along compared to the other cyclists. We'd ridden several miles and I felt great. The seat wasn't uncomfortable and we were going fast enough I couldn't even feel the heat. I had no idea where we were part of the time, but it's a path. Where you've been is right behind you like a jet trail. I felt like I was flying along in utter freedom. In fact, I was eating bugs because I was smiling so much. I looked down at my computer and saw we were were cruising along at about 13.2 mph, which meant nothing to me. I wanted to see just how much I was slowing him down.

Me: How fast do you usually ride on your daily sprints?
Guy I've Been Dating: About 13 mph, although since I've been on this low carb diet my energy level has dropped, so sometimes only 10 or 11.
Me [looking back at my computer, which seemed to be malfunctioning already]: That can't be right. We're going a little over 13 mph right now.
Guy I've Been Dating: No, it's right. We've been cruising the same speed I usually ride. Why? Are you getting tired? Do you want to slow down?
Me: No, I'm surprisingly fine. I could ride this speed all day. I thought you'd have to ride slower for me.
Guy I've Been Dating: You don't even seem like you're breathing hard.
Me: No, I'm not. Have I shown you my new bike? It almost rides itself. (I probably said that five times. Obnoxiously happy with this bike, I am.)

We kept up that speed most of the ride. I started riding ahead when we'd pass people at least as much as he did. Eventually we rode down a part of the trail that was under trees, where it felt cool and shady. We weren't passing any other riders. We crested what looked like a long downhill grade and the Guy I've Been Dating said, "OK, we're turning around now." I had no idea how far we'd gone but evidently our ride was half over.

I stopped my bike, pulled up my water bottle and gulped half. Suddenly the heat slammed into me like it had been racing to catch up. Bugs hummed in the hazy, humid air. "Damn," I said. "It's fucking hot when you stop. We need to keep riding so we don't lose our air conditioning." So we headed back the way we'd come. We wanted to stop and watch an old fashioned baseball game we'd passed, but they had finished by the time we got back. We kept moving.The ride back seemed to take no time at all. My seat got a little hard the last quarter of the ride or so, and my feet went to sleep, but he assured me that was normal. Once we got to an area with a few stoplights where we had to stop and wait, they woke up and felt fine.

We did make one longer stop. We were probably less than a mile from Riverscape when we passed a young woman walking her bike. I kicked up ahead of the Guy I've Been Dating, but slowed down to ask her if she was OK. She said yes, but she had a flat. When he pulled up beside me he asked if she was OK. I told him about the flat and we dismounted under an overpass a few yards up the path to wait for her. She had an inner tube and a CO2 cartridge, but didn't know how to change the tire. I was clueless, of course, but the Guy I've Been Dating knew how and offered to show her how to do it; he even pumped up her tire with his little carry-on pump. Serendipity for me that I got to learn on her flat instead of one of my own. It took maybe half an hour to get her on her way, wipe the grease off our hands with the bandanna, and collect our karma points. Then we continued back to Riverscape and up the ramp to the water fountain.

I got off my bike expecting to feel sore and tired and wobbly, but I didn't. In fact I felt like I could have turned around and done it all over again. Beginner's hubris, I'm sure. I hadn't bothered to figure out how to set my computer for a trip so I asked him how far we'd ridden. He figured it out and said we'd gone about 14 miles. I know there are people who ride 50 or 100 miles in a day, so I wasn't sure if that was a respectable number of miles for a first ride or not. He said it was, and he also said I kicked his ass out there on the bike path. He was lying, but I might consider the picnic now--the low carb option with meat, fat and a flask of bourbon some fancy French water.

We rode back to my van on the sidewalk....hee. I loaded my bike and we said goodbye. He still had to ride nine miles back to the 'burbs. I wished I could ride with him because I still had some juice left in me, but I wouldn't have made the ride back into the city. It was enough for my first ride. Looks like maybe I can keep up with the cool kids after all.

I Am What I Am

For the service I wrote about in my last post, I had to create two poems: the introductory "loving myself is some hard shit" poem and the "I'm superfantastic" poem. We also wanted the congregation to participate in some way, so I suggested an exercise I've done in poetry workshops and services before in which the participants fill out a short prompt on a slip of paper. The slips are then arranged to make one communal poem. This is an exercise that relies heavily on serendipity, and the resulting poem has been different and amazing every time I've done it.

We combined it with another exercise, one I do with my beginning composition classes. Toward the beginning of the quarter I assign them an "I am what I am" poem* as an in-class freewrite. They don't have time to finish them in class and I don't grade them, but I'm always surprised how many of them finish these poems on their own and then hand them in to me just so I can read them. For me, this exercise has solid pedagogical underpinnings: students get a chance in a short piece of writing to practice vivid description, example lists, and repetition. From their perspective, they just like writing about themselves. Who doesn't?

For the congregation's poem, we used the prompt "I am what I am....I am ____." Our minister, Amy, and I agreed we would both write an individual "I am what I am" poem to share during the service, and then I'd read the community poem toward the end. This is my "I am what I am...." poem.**

I am what I am…I am the red-headed bastard stepchild who belonged but never fit in…one of these things is not like the others…a fair-skinned, freckled summer child, I am the lightning rod who saw too much and challenged too often. I was too smart for my own good. I knew grownups told me one thing but did the other for their own good, but they hid the truth in their sock drawers and on the top shelves of kitchen cabinets, behind their acrid clouds of cigarette smoke and deep in their bottles of bourbon. I was relieved to find out Santa wasn’t real because finally someone told me the truth.

I am what I am…I am Iowa: corn, soybeans, hogs banging feeders, county fairs, the Hawkeyes, demolition derbies, and beer for breakfast. I am small town squares where the community band oompah oompahs at the ice cream social on Thursday nights when the stores stay open until 9:00 pm. Iowa, where we were so poor we didn’t even have accents, but someone will always stop to help if you break down on the side of the road. I couldn’t run away fast enough or slam the door hard enough behind me, but it’s still there inside this city girl. Iowa…Iowa, that’s where the tall corn grows, and that’s where I officiated at my lesbian cousin’s wedding two years ago. Yes, I married my cousin. I am what I am, and part of me will always be proud I was born and raised in Iowa.

I am what I am…I am a mother. I’ve baked a million cookies, cleaned up vomit in the middle of the night when I had the flu myself, sewed Halloween costumes, homeschooled for 12 years, driven a million miles in my minivan, given great advice, read a million books aloud, kissed boo boos, yelled sometimes, hugged more. I didn’t want to make the same mistakes my parents made, so I invented new ones. I wanted to be perfect, but now that my kids are grown, I’m not sure what perfect means. Although, if I could do it again, with everything I know now, I’d come close. Soon I will be a grandma and I will bake a million more cookies, kiss boos boos, never yell, give less advice, and hug like a grandma.

I am what I am…I am an A minor chord, black leather, late nights downtown in the city, dark, bitter chocolate, and cold white wine. I am the waning moon, a daughter of the Goddess; I am tarot cards and patchouli, long skirts and silver bracelets. I am standard poodles and wild alley cats. I am folk, blues, rock, and Rachmaninoff. I am contradictions.

I am what I am…I can wrap a harmony around any melody, dance the jitterbug, play several instruments and fake even more. I can grow vegetables, cook, write, teach, sew, knit, and kill and dress out a chicken or a fish. I even have a superpower that I can use for good or for evil, and yet I never think I’m enough. I always want more, please.

I am what I am…I was a little girl who was told she should be seen and not heard, but I don’t play by those rules any more. Now I am woman hear me roar*** and sing loudly, read my poems, tell dirty jokes and, yes, sit in silence. I am what I am and I will be seen and I will be heard and there is more to me than any one poem can hold.

* From Tom Romano's book Crafting Authentic Voice.
** Hey! I have an idea! You could try this exercise yourself and share your results in the comments here.
*** You have to sing this part really loud, even if you're a man.

The Weight of Loving Me

A couple of months ago I agreed to do a service at church on poetry. I agreed before I knew the topic, because I tend to say yes and then fake my way through having signed a contract without reading it I'm a professional. Turns out I had to write new poetry--two new poems-- specifically for this service because nothing I've written before was appropriate, for this topic or for church.

I admit I procrastinated on this poem and the other one. I made notes over a couple of weeks, but I didn't start putting the poems together until the afternoon before the service. It took longer than I expected for many reasons:
1. The topic made me cringe.
2. The minister didn't really want me to say "masturbation" from the pulpit.
3. That's none of your business.
4. I thought the entire poem was banal.
5. I was pretty sure I was going to fail...hard.
6. I took a break for several hours and went downtown to party with friends.
I finally went to bed at 4:00am, knowing I'd have to be up at 8:00 to put the final polish on my jumbled up pieces of word shit poems.

Imagine my surprise when my kind and supportive congregation said my poems made them cry and laugh. They asked for copies. One woman wants to send them to her daughter in California. So I thought I might as well post them here. The first one explains my difficulty with the topic. I'll post the second one in a couple of days. Keep in mind, I wrote these poems to be spoken. My fear is that they won't read the same on the page, so pretend you're hearing this on Def Poetry. And, yes, I could upload a podcast, but I'm too fucking lazy busy educating the youth of America.

Loving Me

Rev. Amy says, “Let’s do a poetry service. Will you read yours?”

I say, “Yes, I write poems.”

She says, “The topic is loving oneself.”

I think, Surely she doesn’t mean masturbation!

I say, “I haven’t written any poems about loving myself.”

I think, Because it sounds like either a Hallmark card or an OWL* lesson.

We have a meeting,

Amy, Laura and I, and we say,

“It’s hard to write a poem about loving oneself. We’ll start with how hard it is to say those words

and then we’ll write the ‘I’m super-fantastic’ poem.”

I say, “I’ll write new poems for the service. Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”

I start…

…

…

I tap my pen on my desk

tap

tap

tap

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I love me

You should too.

This is not the topic of my poems.

My poems screech around twisting curves at 78 miles per hour.

My poems walk barefoot on hot, gritty sidewalks littered with broken wine bottles, spent bubble gum, and cigarette butts,

or accidentally stumble into minefields of broken promises.

My poems need to be navigated carefully,

not appreciated for their floral scent,

pink bubbles,

rainbow ponies.

And yet the idea of writing about loving myself…

loving me…

feels more dangerous than any bad-ass, angsty, black-leather poem I’ve ever written.

Because back where I come from

loving yourself…loving myself…

looked like showing off

and the punishment for children who showed off could be severe.

Compliments were as rare as type AB blood

and were to be received with denial and shame.

The mantras of my childhood go something like this:

“Little girls should be seen and not heard.”

“You’re not cute.”

“God doesn’t like show offs.”

“Sit down and shut up.”

“You don’t need to go to college. You’ll end up back here married to a farmer anyway.”

 “Stop trying to be better than you are. You’re not better than anybody else.”

Don’t get me wrong. I knew I was loved.

The message was that loving other people and Jesus is OK,

especially in the long run…like eternity.

Acting like you love yourself is obnoxious, and if you persist,

other people won’t like you very much.

God won’t love you.

I learned to equate loving myself with bragging,

showing off,

shame.

Loving myself was wrong.

And so was masturbation.

This is the place in the poem where you expect me to tell you

how I overcame those word wounds and learned to love me

just for who I am, but I told you

my poems aren’t the teacup ride at Disney World.

I have lots of advice for other people about how they

should be kind to themselves,

be gentle with themselves,

love themselves….

What’s harder is knowing how to do it myself.

It has taken a lifetime to deconstruct the girl inside me,

after her bones fused, her muscles grew solid,

her red heart barbed wire-wrapped like the fields of Iowa….

the girl who didn’t dare love herself, but stubbornly wanted to.

And just as long to rebuild a woman who believes…

maybe?...

it’s OK to love myself as I love others.

Maybe it’s OK to stand up at the front of this congregation and sing a song,

and accept compliments afterward with neither denial nor shame…

or to stand up in Joys and Concerns and share a joy

that might sound like I’m bragging.

Maybe it’s OK smile at myself in the mirror and say,

“Hey, doll, lookin’ pretty good today.”

And it’s more than OK that I went to college

and later I went to college again,

and I married a farmer’s son, but I never went back to live on the farm.

Maybe…maybe I’m OK…

or even worth my own love.

As I wrestled with the topic of this poem

I looked in the mirror and said to my reflection,
“I’m supposed to write a poem about loving you

and I don’t know what to say…”

And as I looked into the blue eyes of someone I’ve known all my life,

myself,

she…I…replied,

“I’m not the one who said those things to you,

so why do you keep repeating them?

I wasn’t worried about being seen or heard.

I was a little girl and I just wanted to have fun—

to sing loudly and dance and spin in circles until I was dizzy.

They lied about Santa and the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny;

they lied about God;

they probably lied about you too.

You would have loved me when I was a little red-haired girl.

Why can’t you love me now?”

I looked back at my reflection, and I saw the

blue-eyed toddler who loved to sit on her grandma’s lap and rock,

the shy ten-year-old who hated being teased about her red hair and freckles,

the anorexic teen smoking a Virginia Slims,

and the too-young Air Force officer’s wife, struggling to fit in.

I saw the new mom who swore those words would never come out of her mouth

and they didn’t.

And I saw the older mom who cringed with pride when her daughter,

after a break-up with her boyfriend said,

“I’m hot. I’m gorgeous. Who wouldn’t want me? His loss.”

I wondered if I could go back and tell those other me’s how hard it is

to write a simple poem about loving myself,

or if I could explain to my 90-year-old self how hard it has been to write a poem about loving myself….

And I knew it was time to stop writing this poem,

and move on to the “I’m superfantastic” poem.

See, it’s not easy to deconstruct a child who learned that loving herself was wrong.

It took writing this poem to finally realize,

there was never a reason not to love her in the first place.

*Our Whole Lives, the UU church porn lifespan sexuality curriculum.

Wading into the Water

I'm curious how people react when they take a risk that doesn't work out the way they expect it to. What is the range of reaction? Do you curl up in a ball and wait to die? Or fight back with your teeth and elbows and bare hands? Do you pray and try to reach a compromise with your Higher Power? Do you walk away and tell yourself you don't give a shit until you finally don't any more? Or do you lash out and try to hurt somebody? Do you run to your friends and rehash the entire ordeal again and again, picking apart the details, trying to make sense of it? Or do you hold it close to yourself, breathing in the shame of failure like particles of asbestos? I don't think you have to choose one. It seems you could choose all that apply and then fill in the blank if I've left yours off the test.

I recently took a risk that I'd been dreading for months. It felt like going off the high dive at the swimming pool when I was ten, only this one was a mile high. My closest friends didn't think it was a risk at all. They said nothing could go wrong, that I should just plunge right in and then I'd see how silly my fears were. I reminded them I wasn't a very good swimmer. They wouldn't even entertain the notion that anything negative could come from it. They laughed (kindly) at me for worrying, and we made jokes about the ridiculous, unlikely ways things could go awry. They told me I was silly to worry. A couple of them said, "Hey, I'd be glad to swim with you if you want to practice." I said I needed to find my own pond if I was ever going to do it.

I wanted to believe them. These are the people I trust most in the whole world. Of course I wanted to believe them. But they're also the people who love me most and I don't think they see me the way the rest of the world does; certainly they don't see me the way I see myself. And for that I'm grateful. We're all blinded by love, and for the most part, I think that's a wonderful thing. Because it's not so much that we're blinded but that we choose to see the best in those we love. Any list of things I'm grateful for includes the love and support of my friends right at the top. But in this case, it took a lot of encouragement from those loving friends for me to even consider the risk, much less do it.

Eventually I did start to believe them though, and I thought maybe I could do it and maybe it could be OK. Maybe even better than OK. I might actually belong in the water. I might look good in it. Hell, I might even be asked to join the synchronized swimming team. Booyah!

I have to admit, it's not entirely true to say I took the Nestea plunge into the thing I'd been worrying about. If I'm going to continue the metaphor, I'd have to say I waded in, just to get a feel for the water. I didn't jump in feet-first or do a cannonball and splash water everywhere or dive headfirst and touch the bottom with the tips of my fingers. I'm not much of a diver, although I do sometimes swing my feet in strange waters, even in unknown waters. This time though, I did wade in and dog paddle for a while. I even tried a few breast strokes. I was in long enough to think the water felt pretty damn good. Warm. Welcoming. Safe even. I liked it. I liked it a lot. Booyah indeed! And I got out feeling confident about going back in again...soon. I thought eventually I might even take a swan dive, just to show off a little bit and to prove to myself I could. I was positive the synchronized swimming team wanted to sign me up. I was more than ready for synchronized swimming. Give me my rubber cap!

As it turns out the water wasn't as friendly as I thought. Not that there were sharks or electric eels or piranhas circling, smelling blood, ready to tear flesh. No, it was more that I didn't make a splash at all. Nothing. Just...nothing. When I turned around and looked for that inviting, cozy body of water, there was just a puddle there. No synchronized swimming team. No heated pool deep enough for a swan dive. I didn't even leave wet footprints; you wouldn't have known I'd been there.

Turns out my friends were wrong. They didn't know water could evaporate so fast, and they certainly didn't think it would do so after I'd been in it. Oh, how I love them for thinking that. I love them for thinking I'd come up all wet and glistening like Aphrodite on her shell.....but I didn't. I really didn't.

I'm not sure how most people deal with the disappointment of taking a risk and failing, but unlike proud Aphrodite rising from the ocean on her clam shell, I tend to crawl as far as I can into my hard, round little crab shell where I hide and drink my own tears. I can be pretty difficult to reach then, except maybe by one of those exceptional friends at just the right time.

I'm curious though because I'm pretty sure my way isn't the only, or even the best, way to deal with a failure. What do you do? How do you react when you plan to do a risky thing and it doesn't work out the way you hoped it would? Do you get right back out there and try again? Do you turn your back and give up forever? Or do you have other ways of dealing with it?

I'd like to say I'll take a chance on the water again, but at this point, I'd probably have to fall overboard, and that's not likely to happen. For now, I'll keep my feet firmly on the land.

The Weight of a Poodle

The end of our time together is drawing near. Thirteen years have passed in the wag of a tail. The past few weeks Pippi's health has slowly declined--even more than before. At first she struggled to get up and down the stairs; now her legs will barely hold her up. She's been eating less and losing weight. She looks like a wasp she's so thin, and her hip bones poke out above her back when I take off her diaper so she can go out. We had to stop walking down to the river--four blocks there and four back--but the weather turned cold so it didn't seem like such a sacrifice. Last week I took her in the van with me and I had to lift her out because she couldn't jump off the seat. And then New Year's Day when the Seventh Day Adventist ladies rang and rang the doorbell Pippi didn't even get up off her bed. A month ago she would have run downstairs to bark at them. When I come home, she doesn't get up. She knows I'm here, and her tail twitches, but standing up takes so much energy and it hurts. I've watched it happen, understanding this is yet one more thing I'm powerless over.

I know the time is coming when I'll have to make a decision. This morning she didn't want to stand up. I could tell it hurt her, that she just didn't have the strength to do it....and yet she did because she will do anything I ask her if she possible can. I walked around upstairs with her so her joints could loosen up before she tried going down those fourteen steep steps to the first floor. I walked to the bottom of the stairs and called her down. She made several false starts, but finally she put her front feet down on the first step and let the momentum carry her....she fell sideways on the fourth step and landed on her side. I caught her before she fell to the next step and carried her down. She's light--maybe 40 pounds now. When I set her down on the floor, her legs buckled but she stood back up. And she went outside, where she squatted and squatted and squatted, like she's been doing for months. I finally got her to come back in, but she missed the first step and fell again. I carried her in.

I put a folding table in front of the stairs so she couldn't go upstairs without me. She's got a bed in the living room and one in my bedroom, but she's always slept on the one in my bedroom while she waited for me to come home. Somehow today she knocked that table over and got back up the stairs. I didn't even try to coax her down; I just carried her. I'm afraid that hurts her too.

This morning I gave her straight canned dog food--didn't mix it with dry like I usually do. She hasn't been eating much so I wanted to entice her. She ate it and she took her pills. The cancer pill she gets every other day. It's supposed to help with the pain too, but it's hard to tell these days if it does. She ate the dog food. When I got home tonight, I cooked some a couple of chicken breasts and gave her one. She ate that too. One thing about living with a dying dog, it doesn't matter if she eats people food. She can eat anything she damn well pleases. Tomorrow I plan to give her some bacon.

I called my kids today and told them it wasn't going to be long. We've had Pippi since Sophie was six, more than two-thirds of her life. She doesn't remember life without Pippi. She wants to go with me if....or when....I have to take Pippi to the vet and....well, you know. She thinks it's only right that she be there for the end after all the years they've spent together. I would rather spare her the experience.

Tonight I went to rehearsal for a play I'm in, Octette Bridge Club. One of the other cast members asked me how I was. I said I was OK. She said, just OK? So I told her I was probably going to lose my dog in the next few days. She said the last time she did a play at that theater she had to have her 20-year-old dog put to sleep, and it was awful. She said toward the end she was dragging her futon over by her dog's bed so she could sleep beside her, and didn't I think that was silly. No, I don't. Tonight I will carry Pippi up to my bedroom so she can sleep by my bed like she has for the past thirteen years. It's never silly to love, is it?

In fact it was thirteen years ago in January that we brought her into our family. She flew down to Ohio from Michigan and the kids and I picked her up at the airport. She was so happy to see us; it was as if she already knew us. We all thought she knew we were her family. I would like to write more about her life with us, but tonight I just can't do it. I'm having a little trouble seeing the screen through my tears.

So I'm back to the three questions. 1) Is she still eating? No, not as much. But she will eat if I give her special, irresistible foods, like chicken and that refrigerated dog food that comes in a roll. 2) Is she happy to see me? Does she love to be with me? Yes, and up until the past few days she's still tried to follow me everywhere, even to the bathroom. But she can't do that any more. She doesn't even follow me to the kitchen when she knows I'm cooking. But does she still love to be with me? Yes. I think she'd have to be unconscious not to. 3) Is she in pain? Yes, the balance is tipping on this one. I'm afraid she's in constant pain. She lies in one place, in one position, for hours at a time. She doesn't shake when she comes in from the cold. She's very careful now. And she seems so fragile...more like a bird than a dog. Yes, I think she's in pain, at least when she stands up and walks. And yet up until three days ago, we were still going for short walks down to the corner and back. And she wagged her tail and pranced her poodle prance the best she could. Three days ago...I think that was our last walk.

I'm grateful for the thirteen years I've had to share with Pippi, but the past four years she's been with me through changes I never would have imagined that day we picked her up from the airline and welcomed her as the fifth member of our family. In those four years she's been with me as my marriage shattered and my husband--ex--moved out. And then my son moved out. And then my daughter. Since the vet diagnosed her cancer and told me to prepare to euthanize her, we've moved out of the only home she knew and into an old house in the city. It was a hard, anxiety-provoking move for her as it was going on, but she's liked it here in our new house. We've spent hours sitting on the front porch watching the neighborhood like a movie. Other people have passed through our lives in the past couple of years, including the one who asked me those three questions. Some were good for a pat on the head, but others she loved and nurtured and licked their ears. Somehow she knew when someone just needed a dog to be there...just to be there.

After all those years I spent as a wife and mother....Pippi was the last member of our family left here with me. I can't help but think she got me through this move and stayed a few months to make sure I was settled. But now....as that friend said last spring, she is going to trust me to know when to do the right thing, and to love her enough to do it. And to love her enough to do it.

It's the dark time in the turning of the Wheel, so maybe it's right that this happen now. The earth rests in her cold darkness that mimics death. My heart resists even as I feel the inevitable pull while the Wheel turns....and turns again.

And so I give thanks to the Goddess for the years I lived with the best dog ever...ever. And may She give me the strength to be as true a companion to Pippi as she has been to me. Blessed be.