Chance Encounters

Saturday morning I was out with the boys (have I mentioned how much I like saying "the boys" or "the girls?") I'm not sure if it's because I still can't believe I have boy(s) and girl(s) or because it means if I'm saying one of those words it means I only have two children with me. Practically a spa day!

On our way to speech therapy, we stopped at a light and I noticed the car in front of us was carrying two beautiful golden retrievers. It was a station wagon, and the two dogs were all the way in the back, sitting by the large rear window. When we stopped at the light, I pointed them out to Leo. Then, because I am me, I waved at the dogs. Yes, waved. As if they were going to wave back. Well I could swear they at least smiled at me.

I also found myself tearing up. Because the older one (one was, yes, a puppy) looked so much like our Ruby.

You won't believe what happened next. We pulled into the complex where the therapist is located. Guess who pulled up next to us in the parking lot? Well. I couldn't resist. And since I've yet to meet a rude or mean or even unfriendly golden retriever owner, I jumped out of the car and announced that I'd admired the dogs from the road (!) and would it be ok if my son(s) and I said hello?







I think it's safe to say they didn't mind.

That Back to School Attitude and Explaining the Unexplainable

Number charts have always been a struggle for Leo, but take a look at the first assignment Leo brought home this school year. SO proud of my boy.

It's not yet noon on the Friday (the thirteenth! eep!) of the first week of school...would it be premature to say we're off to a good start? Having started a week late due to Rosh Hashana, coupled with an extra week of togetherness, I think it's fair to see everyone was ready to get back to routine.

For example: At one point last week, after an especially hot and sticky trip to Costco with all four kids, I finally had the not-always-agreeable-Lucy strapped into her carseat. But she was still squawking and whining (Leo, especially, hates being in the car when one--or--heaven forbid--both--of the babies start crying). And so there was Leo (and Ellie) sitting in the back of the mini van, looking beleaguered and flushed and generally Over It.

Are you guys ready for a little break from the babies? I asked. Figuring they were both longing for camp, or, gasp, school? Anything that did not involve an outing in the car with a fussing, disagreeable two year old.

No. They answered, and each pointed at the other. They were ready for a break from each other.


Now that the big kids are back at school, everyone has been a bit more agreeable. Pretty much. I mean, there's only so much adorable togetherness these people can take.

Since school has started, Ellie has seemed a little whinier (if that's possible, ahem) than usual, but I am chalking it up to tiredness and the fact that she's made the leap from kindergarten (plenty of playtime) to Big, Bad First Grade. Also, there's been a bit more attitude coming from her than usual lately. For example, I ask her to get her clothes for the day and she responds, "I don't want to."

Come again?

I know I'm about to sound about 10,000 years old right now, but I just don't remember saying things like that to my parents when I was that age. Then again I was the perfect child, so...

In any event, a little light bulb went off in my head this morning, as Ellie exclaimed "Mommy! Today I get to choose something from the treasure box!" She went on to explain that she'd been given tickets all week from Ms. K. for good behavior and today was the day she'd finally get to cash them in.

That's exciting! I said to Ellie. But did you know that the behavior tickets extend to home? That means if there is misbehavior at home, tickets will be taken away at school? (Believe it or not this was all completely improvised--yes, yes, I know, I'm a parenting genius. It's ok, I know...)

"You mean you can CALL Ms. K?" Ellie asked.

I nodded.

A perplexed and slightly nervous look fell over Ellie's face. And with that, she disappeared upstairs to get her clothes.



Leo came home with an "All About Me" book yesterday. It was filled with his likes (pizza and the color pink) and dislikes (math and homework). There was plenty of information about his beloved family too and as you can see, his dear Ruby is still a part of it. This makes me both happy and sad at the same time. Poor Leo. It's hard enough for me to grasp the concept of death (She's here. And then, she's...not? I don't get it either buddy, believe me). I can't imagine what's going through his mind about all of it.

Leo has taken to telling complete strangers about Ruby which can be...uncomfortable. The other day at Costco a woman approached me about the twins (she wanted to tell me that she had boy/girl twins too, but hers were thirty). Leo, who was standing right next to Lucy and a pile of track suits, blurted out "Ruby died!" Needless to say, the woman nodded and quickly scurried off.

I don't want to discourage Leo from talking about Ruby, but we are working on appropriateness (sort of like, it's not ok to hug strangers). It's definitely a work in progress.

And unlike most of the other lessons, this one often leaves me teary.


Harry and Ruby, fall 2012. I didn't think I had any pictures of Ruby with either of the twins but found a few the other day. That made me happy.

"That's Just All the Life They Get"

Leo came home from camp with this yesterday, from his friend Deanna. Why did she give this to you, Leo? I asked. "You know," Leo replied, with that tone that tells me I am NOT the smartest person he knows. "Because! Ruby's dead."

***

For me, the grief comes in waves. Of course I think about her a lot at home. There are no more dog hair tumbleweeds and no more water bowls to hide from the twins. The mudroom doesn't have that familiar "eau-de-dog" aroma anymore, even though it's only been two weeks.

I drive by the vet, Ruby's vet, every morning, to take Ellie to camp. It's where I rushed to say goodbye to her, when I got the call from Erin. And my eyes well up with tears.

Of course, I'm not doing myself any favors when I peruse our photo archives and find pictures like this:

Leo, age three. Ruby, age four.

I've been thinking about why this is so hard. And why it is I have cried every single day since Ruby died. I cry on the bus on the way to work. I cry in the car. I cried yesterday as I sat on the floor of the mudroom, scrubbing the wall next to where Ruby slept. For a few moments I wondered, as I scrubbed, if I shouldn't clean it. And keep it, as what? A shrine to our dirty dog? Before I could think about it too much the little brown line, evidence of years and years of restful naps was gone. Just like that.

I donated her food, (an almost full, thirty pound bag of the best gourmet, all-natural organic dog food money can buy) to a friend who fosters dogs. She gently refused my offer of Ruby's quite new dog bed. "Keep it for your next dog," she texted me. At first I brushed that off as ridiculous (not that there won't ever be a next dog, just that right now, that feels a long way off, and the thought of housing an extra dog bed in our already crap-packed house feels both impractical and impossible).

And yet. I kept the dog bed after all.

At night before bed I feel like I'm forgetting something. There is no one to let outside one last time. I go to close the mud room door (Ruby could be prone to accidents so she stayed in the mudroom over night and when we were out) and now, there is no need. I still expect to stumble over her and swear that I see her shuffling around the house, out of the corner of my eye.

And I've only been able to come up with this, not so profound explanation: This is hard because Ruby signals a definitive end to this chapter of our life. Yes she was the start to our little family, but she was also here when Leo and Ellie were really little kids. And when the babies were truly babies. And every day, everyone just gets a little older and every day, everything changes just a little bit (older isn't bad! I know! And neither is change!) but I still sometimes just want to freeze time and make it so that everyone always wants to snuggle and sit on my lap and put their warm, soft little hand in mine when we cross the Costco parking lot.

***

After dinner last night, Leo came bounding into the kitchen, eager to show me that he'd put on his pajamas without being asked to do so (It's a nightly discussion).

"Tell Ruby!" He exclaimed.

It took me a minute to figure out what Leo meant. Recently he's started asking us to tell certain people (those he holds in especially high regard, grandparents top the list these days) about instances when he does something good without being asked (clears the table, washes his hands, helps bring groceries inside).

"Is Ruby proud of me?" Leo asked, as he opened the freezer door in search of vanilla ice cream.

Oh! Yes! I said. Very proud! Sooo proud.

"Mommy? Is Ruby all better now? Almost?"


These questions. Oh my goodness.

Oh yes, Bub. I said.

I don't even bother to hide my tears anymore. And the kids don't even seem to notice.

Yes, I said. She's all better. She's not in any pain and she's very, very happy.

***

"It's been four years since I lost my dog and I'm just now thinking of getting another dog," an old college friend wrote to me, in response to that picture of three year old Leo and four year old Ruby. "The grief over losing an animal is so pure. You can't be angry or blame anyone, that's just all the life they get. And it was a good one, for sure."

I hope so.

Saying Goodbye to the One Who "Started Our Family"

This weekend, we said goodbye to this sweet girl, our Ruby.

She had just turned eleven years old. I complained plenty about her the last few years. Four kids and a dog: It's a lot. But the simple fact is, she was a wonderful, wonderful dog. She was a sweet soul with more patience than any creature I have ever known, as you can see here.



And here.



And here.



And of course, here.



She was happiest when she was just with us.



She loved to have her belly rubbed with your foot. She'd stick her leg up and lay back as if to say, "Don't Stop! I love it!"



She always had to be right there, doing what we were doing, a part of our little gang.

Yes, she was often frustratingly underfoot (especially when someone was eating). And don't get me started on her unabashed food thievery. She must have ingested the equivalent of a thousand purloined cheese quesadillas and pizza slices, usually in one gulp. I often marveled at how she didn't even seem to have to chew her stolen food--poof! It was just gone. She never left a crumb on the floor either, and enjoyed the bounty of dropped food that comes with four children.

And so thanks to Ruby, I didn't sweep my kitchen floor for eleven years.




I still remember the hot, sticky night that we drove out to the hinterlands of Long Island to pick her up. She was floppy and soft and slept in my lap all the way home like an infant (which, at eight weeks old, she was!). She cried all night long that first night home with us-- Erin had to sleep with her hand in the little box where we'd set up her bed. And when she woke us up to go outside at 5 a.m. the next morning, I wondered if I was grown up enough to handle this whole dog business.

Erin had wanted a dog for a long time but I was hesitant. It seemed like a lot of responsibility (by the way, Sweetie? Getting Ruby? One of the best ideas you ever had). Because the simple truth was, I needed Ruby. It was the fall of 2002 and New York City continued under a layer of grief following September 11. At that time, Erin worked many nights and weekends. My mother was still dead and I felt very much alone. Ruby was my constant companion and together, she and I explored the streets of Park Slope, Brooklyn. We chose restaurants based on who had outdoor seating (and allowed dogs). Prospect Park was our backyard and to this day, the sight of Ruby's little blonde legs bounding after a tennis ball through the dewy grass, ranks as one of the happiest sights of my life. Her ebullient joy was infectious-you couldn't watch her in her tennis ball chasing element and not feel happy.

I regaled my friends and family with pictures of her, our undeniable "First Baby" via email. There was Ruby, frolicking in the snow outside our Brooklyn stoop. There was Ruby jumping in the crunchy orange and yellow leaves. My canine photo gallery email recipients tolerated me. When we announced I was pregnant, my stepmom said, "You'll see, a baby is even more fun than a dog!"



She moved cross country twice and without complaint, traveling via airplane and Subaru Outback.

When an old friend from graduate school heard about Ruby's death, she wrote this:

"I remember a joyful picture of you and Erin with Ruby as a puppy...you two were beaming. At the time, I thought, that was the start of your family."

She was right.

And then the kids came along. Leo, in particular, was in love with her.



And Ruby loved the kids. And tennis balls.



We often joked that if  you could harness the energy and focus Ruby spent on catching a tennis ball, you could probably generate power for a small town.



I'm pretty sure Leo had a tennis ball hidden in the snow somewhere. He loved hiding them from her. And she in turn adored the hunt.



I have some guilt, that she went from being "Our Baby" (sleeping in our bed, enjoying full days devoted to her with long walks, morning, noon and night)  to basically the fifth fiddle. She may not have always gotten the "right" kind of attention, but you can't say Ruby was ever lonely.





She was a silly dog with a boundless amount of energy and a puppy spirit until almost the end.

She was Leo's first best friend and Ellie's first word.

And I realized the twins likely won't remember her, which seems unreal, since she was such an intrinsic part of our family. But I couldn't even find any pictures of them with her.

People are asking us if we'll get another dog. Probably? Someday? I think once you've had a dog it's hard to not have a dog.

But there will never be another Ruby.