The Eds and I have a routine. When my alarm goes off, he LEAPS from his dog bed onto my bed, hips allowing, and presses his dog head into my shoulder and we have our good morning hug. I allow hugs from Edsel.
Then we get out of bed together and stretch at the same time. He always looks at me before he stretches. Then he goes outside while I pee for the first of 30430430404 times that day, lately.
Then I get his pills ready and he takes those with his breakfast while I make coffee and shower. Also, I’ve begun to observe that I shut the door when I shower, and really, why?
He gets in his chair and watches me blog. I’ll bet if I look over there right now he’s peering at me like I hung the moon. Hang on.
HAH. He was.
They say dogs with his condition live 6–24 months after they’re diagnosed. It’s only been three, so I’m trying not to even consider any sort of Edsel end.
I’ve had four years of having just Edsel alone, without Tallulah, and in some ways I’m glad I did. He came on as the backup dog, but I believe he’s done a fine job of being the main dog, a few chewed puppies notwithstanding.
Oh my god, I looked over there again and he’s still staring at me. Put it back in your pants, Edsel.
Anyway, thank you for your words of wisdom yesterday. I will take them to heart. You know things are bad when Miss Doxie texts you for your address. “I know your address is in here somewhere,” she said, having scrolled through our stupid myriad texts, “but just tell me and end this misery. I’m sending you a subpoena.”
You could probably make a book out of our texts. Also, she is not in my address book, which means I never send her a Christmas card, and I realize there are a lot of people I know since we all went digital who I don’t send Christmas cards to.
In fact, that reminds me.
Back in the ’90s, when we all liked Sugar Ray and brown lipstick, I worked with a woman who broke her foot. She needed a ride to work for, like, six weeks and I volunteered to be her driver. I came to call her Broken Foot Woman, and we got quite close over the weeks. We stayed friends after we left that job. I remember several giggly brunches, back when I was the kind of person who went to brunch. And giggled.
She moved to Iowa, and I moved here. I send her a Christmas card every year (Broken Foot Woman, 1 Main Street, Iowa). She’s not a Christmas-card-sender.
I think people who only send cards to those who send cards to them are the most mean-spirited of people.
Anyway, this year she mailed me a letter! She said she felt bad that I write her a card every year and that she never sends one. (See. That doesn’t even register with me. I just like sending them.) She’s coming to town this spring and wants to get together, and she added her phone number, and have I remembered to call or text? No. I have not.
So I’m glad I brought this up right now because now I will possibly remember to get in touch with her.
You know. Maybe.
Broken Foot Woman always had a gigantic Thanksgiving, where she took the furniture out of her living room to make room for tables forming a giant L shape. I went to it once, with my mother, stepfather and husband, fmr. I was sitting next to an earring-ed middle-aged man whose music we were playing. He’d brought a CD of his band or what have you.
Broken Foot Woman’s teenage daughter was sitting across from me, as we had formed a kind of bond and had spent much of Thanksgiving in her room talking about makeup.
“What is this cheesy music?” she asked.
Also, June says, warming to the subject and getting more coffee, Broken Foot Woman and I were among the first people at work to get cell phones. I’m certain getting a cell phone was Marvin’s idea, so I could call him when I’d been kidnapped or whatever bad thing he was certain was going to happen finally happened.
I had this giant gray phone the size of your shoe. One day, someone at work said wouldn’t it be hilarious if I called Broken Foot Woman on HER cell phone, from across the aisle. So I did.
“That just cost me $4,” she groused.
Where the hell did I carry that giant shoe phone? In my purse? I remember graduating from that to a phone with blue buttons on it.
Or maybe the phone itself was blue. It played Moonlight Serenade when I got a call.
But then I got a silver flip phone, and I went to the mall and had it bedazzled with pink gems that formed an Eiffel Tower. I also hung a Hello Kitty from the antenna.
I was 37 years old.
Anyway, I know this has all been pressing news and I will leave you now to head to work, with my phone that does not flip or have buttons. One day they will sell iPhones at the vintage store and 21-year-olds will think they’re quaint and use them as their dating profile name.
iPhone 8 Plus, 27, M. Not here for hookups.
This has all been very important.