DOGGIE DOWNER

So... my job, every time Claudia went out of town...  was to take care of my Dad's dog. Normally SHE did it , ever since my father got sick and then passed away. Believe me... we TRIED finding this pet a new home, but, to no avail. Which actually worked out fine, given the dog was by far THE MOST PERFECT PET EVER. Seriously.

He was old. Thus, he slept practically all day long. He had excellent health, thus his medical needs were next to zilch. He ate like clockwork thus he ran right outside lickety split all by himself, to finalize his digestion process. He was a beautiful dog. He never chewed on anything, he rarely barked, he was never demanding and was certainly one of the smartest dogs you'd ever meet. I mean it... anyone whoever met him fell absolutely madly in love with this dog.

Well, except me. I am so not an animal lover. I hated having to house him when Claudia was away. BUT... I did it, with only minimal bitching, since as I just said... this dog WAS the most perfect pet on earth. In fact, taking care of this dog was far easier than taking care of my house plants.

Which brings me to: last Easter. Almost a year ago, now. All I can you tell is... one minute the dog is prancing around happy as a lark... and the next minute I see him sprawled out on all fours, not able to get up. AT ALL! He can't stand. He can't walk. He can't move.  Uh.. HE CAN'T BE A DOG! I took one look at him and decided: holy sh*t... this SO can't be good. And, it wasn't.

Okay... so this was on a Sunday, like I said. On Easter Sunday, no less. At dinner time. Yeah... GOOD LUCK FINDING A VET AT THAT HOUR. Bottom line: I did find an emergency hospital, I did have my neighbor come lift the dog up into the car and I did drive 40 mins. away to get some doctor's advice.

The advice wasn't happy. The dog was STILL in perfect health, mind you, regardless of his age. However, there WAS a problem: his brain was no longer telling his feet to hold him up and begin walking.

And, it never would. Which was pretty disheartening since faster than you can say 1-2-3, I clocked it out immediately that I'm NOT carrying the dog all over the place for the rest of his life. Soooo not happening.

Anyway, the doctor basically told me: Sorry Charlie... this dog will no longer have any quality of life, etc. etc. so bingo. I had to begin making a really difficult decision. All by myself, no less. Me?? Who is no animal lover in the first place? I'M THE ONE WHO HAS TO PUT HIM DOWN?? Oh geez... give me a break. I was an f-ing mess.

Uh... until I had to deal with the FUNERAL PLANS, THAT IS. OMG... you have no idea what I had to contend with. I swear... I thought I was burying the POPE for God's sake. Talk about putting me over the edge. 

Case in point: Cremation or burial?? At home or at community cemetery? Spend time in the GOODBYE ROOM or say goodbye in the examining room? Witness the putting down or let the doctor do it alone? Paw print souvenir or merely hold on to your own memories? And most important of all.... Oh yeah, DEBIT OR CREDIT?? Trust me... tis NO cheapie deal to run medical tests and plan a funeral for pooches! Unfortunately, this dog was not on my medical plan.

Anyway I'll spare you all the details of this ordeal, but I do have to say... this dog was by FAR the most wonderful pet known to man. Which is why, one by one, I made each of the 47 decisions as I suspected my Dad would have wanted. And why I was also major sad on the drive home. AND further why, I couldn't even touch the dog's bed, food dish, etc. once I got home again. I let everything sit just as is, waiting for my housekeeper to come in, three days later, and do the deed for me. I DID keep the collar and dog tag however, and it's hanging nice and prominently right in my kitchen. I love looking at it actually, since there is no doubt in my mind: THIS dog was the most incredible pet, ever.

Was I sad about all this?? VERY. Do I wished I could still be taking care of him? Uh... not necessarily. Instead, I just REALLY REALLY hope the dog hooked up with my Dad once again, up in heaven. Man, would my father ever have been thrilled to death! I know.. sort of a tactless pun, but you get my drift.

JIGGITY JIG

Ever hear of the Mother Goose rhyme HOME AGAIN, HOME, AGAIN, JIGGITY JIG? It's a cute little ditty, especially if it's only in a book, and not being lived out in real life.

Enter: MY KID. Uh... guess who jiggity jigged right smack back home? And, at way older age than I'd ever have thought, too. Turns out he and his roommates decided not to renew their rental house, which if you ask me was probably the smartest move any of them ever made. But... that's a whole other story. THIS story is about how an empty nested Mother learns to live with her son once again.

Oh yeah... as a heads' up. It's easy. JUST DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOUR KID WANTS YOU TO DO.

Well, within reason, anyway. On the other hand, that is SO not how it works in my house. The good news however is... I adore my kid and we enjoy each other's company; thus I have no problem having him here. For a spell, anyway. He's neat. He's helpful. He does all the manly jobs. He obeys most rules. And basically, he's a fabulous kid. Who could ask for more?

Well... his future wife, for one. Whomever she may turn out to be. I am telling you... this kid is going to make someone a fanTAStic husband. That's the good news. The bad news is: she had SO better be ready to endure the craziest crap ever. As in: RULES. His rules.

Case in point: my son demands to do his own laundry. Now that's a twist on motherhood, if ever there was. He's not insisting upon it because he feels he's grown, responsible, capable, etc. No. He insists upon it because I DON'T DO IT THE RIGHT WAY. Huh?? Since when?? Is that a joke?? Apparently there are hordes of rules about how to wash and dry his workout clothes. Half of them can't go into the dryer, for instance. Instead they need to air dry. And to DO SO?? Wanna guess where they have to hang? FLUNG OVER ALL MY DINING ROOM CHAIRS, that's where!!

In fact, look up at the picture above. Yeah... that's his clothesline of choice!! MY ENTIRE DINING ROOM IS FILLED WITH GYM SHORTS HANGING OFF EVERY ONE OF THE CHAIRS!! My OWN mother would have killed me. But for my son? A PERFECT SOLUTION. Don't ask. And the OTHER half of the clothing has to be put in the dryer for an exact, specified amount of time, and with softener sheets only. No laundry balls allowed. Geez.

A couple other rules include that: 1.) I HOP RIGHT TO IT IMMEDIATELY when it's time to replace a full recycling bag with a new one. HUH? I'M NOW ON A TIMER?? 2.) I need to leave the dish towel spread ALL THE WAY OUT, covering my stunning granite countertops, just to be up and ready 24/7 for use as a drying mat 3.) I stock ONLY fresh veggies given anything refrigerated longer than 2 days will lose it's firmness and 4.) I should reserve and maintain plenty of room in my refrigerator to house my kid's 9 varieties of salad dressings. ALL AT ONE TIME, mind you. Is he NUTS?? You should SEE all the flavors he has going, here. I won't even get into a discussion of temperature settings on the thermostat or the need to hear Howard Stern 24/7. Suffice it to say: I almost feel as if I have TWO sons living here in my house.

Now, I'm pretty good at following rules. I actually LIKE living by rules. They help to keep my grounded and organized. However, I'm also sort of used to their being MY rules of thumb. Not my kid's. So, as a heads' up to all parents who find their children moving back home for a spell, all I can tell you is: UH... GOOD LUCK. You'll probably need it.

Unless you're like me. And decide to choose your  battles, letting the other stuff slide. It's your ticket to sanity, trust me. Besides... if I REALLY wanted to do battle it would DEFINITELY be over the 5 foot boa who also moved in with sonny boy. Don't even f-ing ask... I want to shoot the damn thing so badly, I can't even tell you. I'm just too afraid to even go near it. NEW RULE: Find reptile hit man.