Moved to Tears

The kids and I had waited a long time for this day, the day we would finally move into a house of our own after five years of apartment-living. And everything was going so well until our dog, usually the lovable lunk type, shot out our new front door like something fired from a circus cannon to attack a neighbor's 11-year-old Basset hound.

Hope, waiting for
"her kids" to come home. 

Everyone had been distracted. Hope was corralled in the fenced-in back yard, but was staring through the window like we'd abandoned her on Pluto, so someone felt sorry for her and let her in. When the movers opened the front door, and Hope saw sweet little Selma trundling along across the street, it was all over but the sutures.

Giving Hope the benefit of the doubt, she was in a strange place with a lot of commotion, she likely felt a need to stake out her new territory and protect us, and she might have mistaken Selma for a housewarming present. 

Selma's owner, a tiny woman in her sixties, had been walking her dog and minding her own business when Hope skidded up, clamped down on Selma's elephantine ear and wouldn't let go. One of the movers sprinted over, grabbed Selma's leash, and tried to kick Hope off. My daughter Sydney screamed. I went running, grabbed Hope, then had it pointed out to me by the mover at the top of his lungs, that Selma's ear was still trapped between Hope's teeth; yanking on Hope wouldn't help Selma.

What felt like hours in slow-motion was probably about 30 seconds, and Hope somehow became detached. I hauled her up in my arms yelling, "Stupid dog! Stupid dog! Stupid dog!" all the way across the street, up the driveway and into the house until I could dump her in the bathroom and shut the door.

I ran back to where Selma's owner, understandably distraught, was standing with the mover who was also shaken up. 

"I'm so sorry!" I said. I was in tears for Selma who, unbelievably, nuzzled my hand, making me cry harder.

"I need to wash my hands," said Selma's owner. "I have blood on them."

"Of course," I said. "Come in the house with me. Do you live on this street?"

That, I admit, was a self-serving question. The only thing that could make everything worse was Selma's owner living two doors down with all that ammo with which to bash me to all the other neighbors before I'd had a chance to make my own bad impression.

"No," she said, and indicated another street up the road from mine.

Oh, thank God, I sighed inside my head.

I escorted Selma's owner into the house where she nervously glanced around like a guest of the Munsters. I took her to the kitchen sink and she rinsed her hands.

"I have to take Selma to the hospital now." Her eyes were huge and her voice flat with shock. 

"Would you like me to go with you?"

"No."

Now really, what had I thought she would say?

"May I ask your name?" I queried.

"Karen O'Brien," she answered as we went on to exchange phone numbers.

"Please know that whatever it costs, this is obviously my responsibility and I will pay for everything Selma needs." 

"Thank you. I'll be back later," Mrs. O'Brien said, and left.

When several hours passed with no word from Mrs. O'Brien, I took the kids out to eat but left a note on our door so she wouldn't think we'd blown her off. While we were out, Syd and I made a stop at a pet store to buy Selma some treats. When we got home, we saw that Mrs. O'Brien had left a note in place of ours. It read cryptically:
                             
                                Selma and I stopped by. Please call.
                               ~ Karen O'Brien 

I called Mrs. O'Brien immediately. She was calm, polite and direct while telling me that Selma had surgery and the bill was $753.85. My brain glazed over and this soothing image arose of Hope's head on a platter, garnished with chocolates and chicken bones, her mouth stuffed with one of her own kongs.

Syd felt she should go too, so we walked up to Mrs. O'Brien's neat as a pin little brick house and knocked on the door. It was a storm door and when we knocked, Selma waddled up, forgot about her cone, and bounced off the glass. 

Mrs. O'Brien gingerly sidestepped Selma and let us in. She wasn't exactly warm; tolerant is a better word, but who could blame her? She indicated two empty seats then sat down on her sofa. Sydney offered the treats to Mrs. O'Brien with the first of the visit's many apologies.

And then Mrs. O'Brien smiled. "Oh, wasn't that nice of you." She offered Selma the treats but the dog didn't show much interest. "Well, I'm sure Selma will love these once she's feeling better."

When Mrs. O'Brien offered me a copy of the bill, I saw that one of the items was an "Elizabethan collar." Why should I have to pay for a fancy new collar? I thought, feeling a little ticked off until I realized that the Elizabethan collar was that cone Selma would be stuck in 24/7 for at least a couple of weeks.

I handed Mrs. O'Brien a check then glanced around the room. Beside the fireplace was a small Kelly green leather wing-back chair with little steps leading to the seat. 

"I take it that's Selma's chair,” I said.

"Yes." Mrs. O'Brien smiled again, this time fondly in the direction of the chair. "I didn't buy it for Selma, but she claimed it as her own. As she got older, she couldn't get into it by herself so now she has a little help."

There was a back support pillow reading WOOF in a bentwood rocker opposite the wingback. Clearly Mrs. O'Brien, who was a widow, cherished this dog and just as clearly, she was a very nice person. Syd and I teared up again as the three of us discussed what happened. Then Mrs. O'Brien, proving herself a straight shooter said to me:

"Well, I admit for a while there, I was thinking about bombing your house, but I'm pretty much over that now. And I'm pleased to see how seriously you've taken this. The two of you can stop by and visit Selma and me whenever you like."

Later we learned that Mrs. O'Brien was to have shoulder surgery in a few days, so the day after her operation, Syd and I walked over to her house with a plant. The storm door was closed, but the front door was open and a coloring book and crayons were scattered on the floor. In the driveway was a car with Massachusetts plates.

"Oh, how nice; Mrs. O'Brien probably has family helping her after her operation," I said. I knocked softly and when no one answered, I hung the plant in its gift bag on the door knob.

A few hours later, I received a text from Mrs. O'Brien thanking me for the plant and explaining that her daughter and son-in-law drove up from Boston to help after the surgery, but the surgery was postponed because Mrs. O'Brien wouldn't be able to oversee Selma's recovery with one arm. How could things get any weirder? Surely, next up, Selma would somehow manage to explode. 

"But it's fine," the text continued. "Now we'll just have a nice visit instead." 

Since moving day, when Hope "helpfully" introduced us by mauling her dog, Mrs. O'Brien has continued to allow us to befriend her. We've exchanged more texts and the other day Syd walked over to her house with a slice of cake. While they chatted, Syd offered to walk Selma any time and Mrs. O'Brien said that she would be happy to pay Syd for her services.

Replied my daughter, of whom I am immensely proud: "Oh, I think that under the circumstances, walking her for free is the least I can do."

Emile, Are You There? It's Me, Nellie!

When my marriage ended and the dust finally settled, my kids told me I should try online dating. Inwardly I groaned, but I have to admit, I was curious. It had been nearly 20 years since I'd last dated; my mind, face, body, my very psyche for that matter were different now - in some ways better and in some ways not. What kind of men would I attract? Would I attract any? Who might be out there who would make sense as the other half of a couple with me?

When I met my ex-husband, my weight was a healthy 140 pounds or so and I was in my late thirties. But during my second pregnancy at age 43, I developed gestational diabetes, a condition which resolved itself after the birth of the baby, but which had left my metabolism so wildly out of control, that my weight ballooned to over 250 pounds. Despite consulting an endocrinologist, and doing everything she told me to do, including exercise, the most weight I ever lost at any given time was six pounds - honest: six pounds. And every time I lost those six pounds, they would fly back and wrap themselves around me faster than you can say, "big mama."

I'm sure the life stressors we all cope with were part of the problem, too, and that I sought too much solace at the bottom of a bag of chips, but overall, I tried very hard to eat in a way which should have landed me at a healthy weight but just couldn't seem to succeed.

Eventually, I opted for bariatric surgery and my weight dropped to something somewhere in the chunky range. Then divorce stressors replaced family stressors and I lost about thirty pounds without even meaning to. So when my kids started nudging me towards online dating, I was thinner than I could ever remember being as an adult; about a size eight. But that weight fluctuation had led to a confused self-image, so I often stared in hard-blinking amazement at pictures of the handsome men approaching me on the dating sites I'd chosen. Why were they attracted to me, I wondered. I won't mention the sites by name, but they rhyme with Scratch.com and No Way, Stupid.

But it's funny (and not in the hah-hah way) that I could learn so much about the mysteries of physical attraction at such a late stage of life; sometimes more than I wanted to. Some men who reached out to me online seemed to think the heavens had opened up to deposit me in front of them. Then again, one man I dated struggled with his lack of physical attraction to me while feeling very connected to me "emotionally and intellectually."

Hearing this hurt, so when he finally managed to articulate this concern, I grappled for my dignity, sat up straight in my pen and demurely folded my hooves atop my udder. And it was a herculean effort to limit my weeping to only one set of my six eyes.

Then, one night he and I had dinner with his sister who was chatting me up as we waited for a table. "So you met my brother on Scratch.com?"

"That's right," I smiled.

"I never had any luck on Scratch," she mused.

"Neither did I," I said. 

And then we all laughed and laughed and laughed. I was joking - mostly, but zinging him a little felt good. I have to say, though, that knowing him was very much worth the jab to my ego and he proved himself a wonderful friend. And one of my most honest, damn him.

But really . . . Who can explain it? Who can tell you why? Fools give you reasons; wise men never try. Oh, wait, that was Emile De Becque serenading Nellie Forbush in South Pacific. Some Enchanted Evening was the song. And that was physical attraction the way it should be.

Now, if I could just find my Emile De Becque, I might even be willing to change my name to Nellie Forbush. Then again, maybe just Nellie.