It always amazes me how some parents successfully dodge the pressures of pet ownership. I was not so lucky. I spent numerous years in animal avoidance, but after the divorce I was rendered defenseless against my children’s plea for something furry.

What I did not anticipate (and certainly would have appreciated a heads-up) was the fact that if you open the door to one small hairy creature, it has the effect of knocking down the Berlin Wall. Our house quickly filled with breeds that multiplied and organized, circling and sniffing my legs like I was a chew toy with varicose veins. Soon we were outnumbered and I had to face reality. We did not stand a chance.

Don’t get me wrong, I love animals. I’ve always had this feeling that pets sort of come with the package. You get the house with the white picket fence…and with it, an old lazy chocolate Lab who sits on the lawn with a tennis ball wedged in its mouth, waiting for the 2.3 kids who are safely returning on the 3:15 school bus. Phew…. so none of that happened, but I remain a firm believer that children should learn how to keep something alive and breathing. I just wish they could have learned the technique at their friend’s house instead of under my guidance.

Initially…to compromise, I bought a goldfish. Of course I knew a fish would not satisfy their desire for a playmate, but I had read rave reviews from countless families who found their simplicity nearly euphoric. I sprang for the bowl, a small, but intimidating McCastle, a few pink and turquoise pebbles, and a frisky fish. This pleased my kids for a few seconds, but then my little animal activists were back at it again.

Eventually I caved and Willie, the miniature Shetland Sheepdog came to live with us. “Wills” was a hyperactive, over-bred, easily distracted, and hostile canine, and the kids adored him. After some unsuccessful potty training and numerous teething puncture wounds, I took him to the vet. He advised the help of an expert, a sort of Dr. Doolittle, who specialized in animal behavior.

Luna, the Dog Whisperer, drove up to the house in a rainbow painted van covered in animal stickers. Her motto, written on the car frame, “Have you kissed your horse today?” No doubt she gets a stare or two on the highway, but if she could do something with our dog, I promised to visit a rodeo and pucker up.

Luna hopped down from the van, clutching her bag of tricks. A leftover hippie from the 60’s, she wore a tie-dye sleeveless shirt over a long flowing skirt, accented by an ancient pair of Birkenstocks. Her underarm hair was braided and tied off with rubber bands. She smelled of incense and a 4-H corral and instantly our little Wills was in love. As she lowered herself on to the floor and spoke softly to our pooch, she explained that dogs need love and respect. Just like humans, they need to socialize and meet others in a non-combative atmosphere. I was just about to tell her that I wouldn’t mind a little public interaction myself but I was too busy raising a family that showered me with as much love and respect as a bar of soap in a gas station restroom. But Luna did not care about my issues. Instead she told me to hop in her rig because we were heading to Greenlake, a perfect social setting to perform her evaluation.

It was one of the first sunny days we’d seen in weeks and the pathway around the lake was weighted down with joggers, sunbathers, and skaters. Immediately Wills made sexual advances on a timid toy poodle and then hiked his leg on a toddler. Each time he needed reprimanding, Luna would speak in some sort of doggie swollen tongue and he would stop briefly, only to be distracted again by some new desperado longing.

Eventually Luna confirmed what I had already come to understand…Willie would need extensive training. This one was going to be tough. Then came the sales pitch—she just happened to have time to do some personal training for $460 smackeroos, and of course it was vital that I purchase the accompanying video for another $40 or a full volume set for $120. That was after the initial $100 consultation. I listened earnestly for the first half hour and then I virtually lost it and unleashed all my pent-up anxiety on poor Luna. I can’t recall what triggered my outrage, but all I could think about was the fact that I had taken my lunch hour to watch my dog sniff crotches and eat goose poop. That is when I asked the hippie to take me home, which she did with such alacrity that I hardly noticed when she stopped to cash my check.

Meanwhile, I still had the problem, although Willie didn’t seem to understand that he was on probation. He bit the tops off sprinkler heads and ate the shingle siding; he dug patchwork squares out of our wall-to-wall carpet and gnawed the legs off our dining chairs. When the vet called to see how doggie obedience was going, I burst into tears. He offered another solution – The Canine Community, a campus designed for specialized training and long-term boarding. It certainly sounded expensive, but no more than repairs around the house would cost if I kept him at home. So after a quick phone call to enroll him in the program, I tossed him into the car and we drove to the country…and through the wrought iron gates of the community into perfectly groomed rolling hills, the smell of honeysuckle and lilacs, and the sound of a fountain oozing fresh mountain water through the ceramic mouth of a Great Dane. You would have thought I was taking Wills to Buckingham Palace for high tea. I’m not kidding, this resort was nicer than any place I had ever stayed. There was no doubt about it…someone was paying too much to teach Fido to heal and sit. And that someone was me…but I didn’t care. I was desperate.

Three women behind the reception desk spotted me dragging the dog through the doors. When I got Willie to the counter, they passed me a clipboard with release forms, a medical report, and a 3×5 card so that I could list my concerns. I asked them if they had something a bit larger, like a legal pad. They stared at me, their eyebrows raised, and then they began to exchange distasteful glances. When I completed my card, a heavyset woman in an Army green jumpsuit swung a jowl in my direction and read aloud, “I fear for my family’s life.” Then she looked at me and said, “Don’t you think you are being a tad dramatic? He’s a miniature collie, not a grizzly.” She peered over the counter at little Wills, who was happily dismembering the legs off a magazine rack.

I left Willie in the hands of these kennel-crazed wizards for an entire month, or at least that was the plan. My goal? Well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure. I had low expectations, nothing elaborate like commands of sit or stay. No, I was thinking more in the line of a dog that wouldn’t shred the wallpaper into piñata stuffing.

I had a glimmer of hope. The Canine Community would never be able to keep that fountain flowing if they couldn’t perform miracles, right? But just two weeks into his stay I got the call to pick him up. He was causing too many problems with the other dogs. The woman, who had scoffed at my 3×5 card, was now pleading for me to remove the Doggy Anti-Christ.

I arrived at the rehab resort to pick up my dog. I opened the car door and heaved my pet into the back where he immediately jumped up front into the co-pilot seat. Knowing he has a tendency toward car sickness, I tried to reach over and roll down the window, but before I could, Wills blew fine particles of his upgraded high protein diet through the air like gravel on a dirt road. We spent a long silent trip back to the city, eventually arriving home to fanfare. By the way the kids were carrying on, you would have thought Lassie had crawled a thousand miles back to Timmy.

The last straw hit when I ordered a new carpet runner for the stairs. The dog eyed the installer with a sense of excitement. As soon as the man secured his kneepads in place and began laying the carpet, Willie decided to mark new territory. The installer moved with amazing speed and agility, but he was no match for our pet. Wills kept his leg held in lock-and-load position and his stream set on drench.

It was summer. I looked at the kids playing in the plastic pool in the backyard. Since Willie’s joyous return, they had hardly noticed him. It didn’t matter. I knew they would be upset. I also understood all too well what I didn’t want to admit…there would have to be a compromise. Something they really wanted that I didn’t want them to have. What I did next I am certainly not proud of.

“So you know how you guys have always wanted to pierce your ears?

“Yeah.”

“How about today?”

“What’s the catch, Mom?”

“No catch.”

“But you said we had to be fifteen…That we would look like a couple of Ho’s on holiday if we got our ears pierced.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind. Besides, I’m sure mommy didn’t use the word “Ho.”

“Yes you did. That’s exactly what you said.”

“Here’s the deal. Willie, poor dog, is homesick. He misses his mommy and daddy very much. Of course this is sad, but we have to do what’s right and let him go home to his family.” I said, trying to appear noble.

“So what you are saying is if we get rid of our dog, we can pierce our ears?” My seven-year old stared into my eyes like a wise old sage.

“I want hoops! Big dangling hoops that go down to my ankles!” Squealed the five-year old.

“Alright, let’s get something straight. The only earrings that are going in your lobes are those tiny gold balls.” I said.

“Then I’d rather have a dog,” the youngest said, extending her lower lip into a full-on pout.

“Yeah, and I’d rather have sprinkler heads and legs on my furniture…so I win! Now who will get me a couple of hot dogs so we can lure Willie into the back seat?” I sounded manic, but let’s face it, I was.

As I said, it was not a stellar parenting moment. Actually, it goes down as one of my worst examples, but at least I have regained a sense of sanity since Willie returned to his place of birth.

The breeder was sorry to hear that he didn’t work out, although I think she was even more depressed when I told her he was neutered. “He would have made a great father,” she sighed. Before she changed her mind, I waved goodbye and peeled out of the driveway. A lone hot dog sat in the seat beside me.

It took a few years, but we eventually got another pet…and then another and another. The good news? The kids did a bang up job keeping them alive and breathing.

Growing up we were taught to respect people, particularly family since they are blood and all. This made logical sense to my brother and I except for one case…Grandma Vera. Although she passed away some twenty years ago, I swear her venom continues to burn holes through the red velvet lining of her casket.

I know my mom took a lot of abuse growing up but when she ceased to take it anymore, my grandmother transferred it over to me. One evening she skipped the verbal attack and moved right into the physical. She beat the crap out of me. I know what you must be thinking…”Come on, some old Granny beat you up?” And you’d be right to think it because she was a small woman…only about five feet tall, but honestly, she packed a mean punch. In hindsight, I don’t know why I didn’t defend myself. Instead I kept my hands at my side while she wailed on me. The next day, true to form, she’d forgotten the entire sordid affair. That’s the fuzzy effect a few vodka tonics persistently had on her short-term memory.

Soon after the attack she became sick. Cancer had spread from her breasts to the bones in her pelvic area. Her doctor gave her six months to live. We moved her into a nursing home. Toward the end of her life she lay in bed barely able to drink a can of Ensure. Her fighting weight was down to seventy-six pounds, but she was still more than capable of unleashing a devastating one-two with her lethal tongue. She accused the nursing home staff of stealing and they countered her attack by threatening to evict her, forcing us to beg them to reconsider.

The last time I saw my grandmother alive she was too weak to move and her eyes took on a porcelain doll-like quality…dull and lifeless. Then the pain overtook her and she began thrashing back and forth. I rang the emergency buzzer above the bed. A nurse entered. She moved through the room at a professional distance.

“Is there anything she can take? She seems to be in a lot of pain,” I said.

She flipped open a chart. “Her next dose is in 45 minutes.”

“Yeah, but look at her. Maybe you could crank it up a notch.” I asked.

“I’m not authorized without a doctor’s permission.”

Grandma Vera moaned and her eyes rolled back in her head. The nurse spoke to me as if my grandmother was already gone and she was recapping. “She had a dreadful night. She rang that bell continuously. When we’d arrive, she would scream at us. Called us butt-swishers and whores…and anything else she felt like. She refuses to learn our names. Pardon me for saying so, but she is very difficult. Oh, and for whatever it’s worth, we didn’t steal anything from her. She gave Maggie, one of the day nurses, a music box…the Eiffel Tower, I think. Vera liked Maggie. She insisted she have it. If that’s a problem I’m sure she’d gladly give it back.”

I told her it was a difficult time for all of us…and that Maggie could have the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, or anything else my grandmother doled out.

Grandma Vera died the next day. My mother stayed in her room until 4AM but true to her rebellious nature, Granny shutdown at 4:35. All of her things were immediately packed up and waiting for us at the nurses station at 8 that morning.

A week later we scheduled her memorial. None of us knew how many would attend. My grandmother spoke of a few friends although we had never met them. That probably sounds odd, but that’s just the way it was.

The day of the memorial we arrived at the chapel an hour early with two hundred printed announcements. We stood at the door waiting for the guests to arrive. No one came. Not one friend. Just five family members fulfilling their obligation.

“Should we wait a little longer?” Pastor Nordsletten asked the handful of us.

“I think this is it,” my mom said.

“Well, then spread out,” he said.

Just as the minister began to speak, a little old man wearing a blue suit shuffled into the chapel and sat in the back pew. I tried to be discreet, keeping my head down as I turned to stare. He had short gray hair and his back and shoulders were hunched as if he’d spent the good part of his life in physical labor. What I remember most was his face. The lines were deep and straight like they were made with an Etch-A-Sketch…his eyes red and swollen. He looked like the type of man who had actually lived, not just skirted around the edge, but felt the full weight of life.

“For those who wish to continue to celebrate Vera’s life there will be a special gathering at her daughter’s home. The address is listed in your announcement.” Pastor Nordsletten flashed a tongue and cheek smile toward the family pew in a feeble stand-up comic attempt to cheer us.

The little man in the blue suit slid out of the pew. He wandered out into the foyer looking disoriented, until he pushed his way out through the large wooden doors and into the parking lot. The rest of us collected the flowers and stack of programs. We piled into the old family station wagon and headed home. Upon our arrival my dad immediately started pouring stiff drinks while my mom pulled tray after tray from the fridge. “What are we going to do with all this food?” she said.

Then the front door opened. The man in the blue suit climbed the stairs and met us in the living room. His eyes moved slowly and deliberately from one of us to another. I think it was my mom who spoke first. She introduced herself and extended her hand to the stranger. He said, “Bea, I know who you are.” He held both her hands in his.

“I have to apologize for my rudeness…I don’t recall meeting you.” My mother said.

“We’ve never actually met, but I know all about you…and your sister.” He said, turning to smile at my aunt.

“How did you know Vera?” My mom asked.

He took a deep breath and looked at the two middle-aged sisters. “Oh dear, where do I begin?… I guess you could say that I’ve loved your mother for as long as I can remember. Since the time we were little kids. You see, we were neighbors. My family had a small farm next to where Vera grew up in Kansas. I used to carry her books to school. I know this probably sounds sappy to you folks but it’s what we did back then when we were smitten. And I certainly was taken with Vera. We talked a lot about running away together since neither one of us were particularly happy at home. Vera’s dad used to beat her with a horsewhip for no good reason. I wanted to take her far away and save her from that whip. But then her mother became ill and died. Soon after, Vera’s father remarried and since there was so much sadness in that house and his new bride had family in Sacramento, they packed up and left. That was an awful day when they pulled out of the driveway for the last time. Not long after they left, my father had a stroke and could no longer take care of things. I quit school and became a farmer. It wasn’t a bad way to live, but I was restless. A few years later I got this hair brained idea that I’d hitch a ride to Sacramento and ask Vera to be my wife. I didn’t have a lot of money back then so I was nervous since I knew she wanted nice things. A house of her own and some pretty clothes. When I arrived, she was even more beautiful than I remembered. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.” He cleared his throat. “Could you spare some water?” he asked.

My dad quickly passed him a glass and the old man took a long sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes rested on my mother and her sister, as if he saw something of Grandma Vera resting in their features. No one spoke, waiting for him to continue.

“It nearly killed me when she said no. She turned me down flat. I can still hear her words. She said, “There are no guarantees in life…I know that, but I’ve watched my family struggle over paying bills and keeping food on the table all my life. I’m not going to make the same mistake, at least about money.” I remember feeling pretty small, wondering how she could turn down the kind of love we shared on account of my modest means. Let’s just say I have no memory of the trip back to Kansas or much else about that time in general. I do remember some drunken nights and a fleeting thought about taking a dive from a tall bridge into shallow water.” The old man took another sip of water and continued to speak.

“Not long after, Vera married your father, John. I assumed they knew each other for a while so she probably had him in her sights when she turned me down. I never met the man. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, but the last letter I got from her said she thought he could make her happy. Believe me, that hurt. I found out they moved to Seattle so I packed my bags and left the farm. I’d sacrificed enough for that place. I got to the Northwest and bought myself a home and a few acres. I figured even though she wouldn’t be my wife I was going to be near enough if she needed something. I sound silly, but damn it, I know what I like. A few years later I met Nettie at a church gathering. I told her I had a big heart but half of it would always belong to Vera. She said she’d take the other half and we got married. Nettie was a good wife. We raised three sons and were married 42 years. When she died I knew I had to take a little time. It would be disrespectful to her memory if I looked Vera up so soon. Besides, her husband John had died and I knew she was probably grieving as well.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. His voice began to shake.

“This morning marks a year since my wife’s passing. I talked to my boys about it and they gave me their blessing to contact Vera. I woke up early, got out the phone book and circled her number. I was like a schoolboy with his first crush. I barely ate any breakfast. But you have to understand…sixty five years is a long time to wait for a dream.” Then the tears dropped…one after the other onto the carpet.

He sighed heavily and continued. “It was too early to call so I grabbed the newspaper on the porch and sat down to read. I always look at the weather first. That’s the farmer in me. Then I take a quick glance at the obituaries. A bad habit I guess, but when you get to be my age there’s a good chance you’ll know someone. This morning my eyes weren’t focusing…then I saw it. Vera’s name nearly jumped out at me…” There was an uncomfortable pause, then through tears he blurted, “I must look pretty awful. Can’t seem to stop crying. It took all my energy to put on this damn suit. I thought I was saving it for our date.

We stood motionless in the room…mouths open. He was honoring a woman that none of us knew. The grandmother who needed guarantees. The man who stood before us was the ever patient lover, waiting in the wings for his unfulfilled dream of undying devotion to finally come true…. But the possibilities and intensity of his longing would stay forever unknown.

As if the old man couldn’t stand the pain a minute longer, he lowered his head and pointed to his heart. After a brief moment, he set his empty glass down and walked toward the stairs.

“I need to ask you one more thing,” he said. “When we were young we talked about getting out of Kansas and traveling the world. I told Vera that I’d take her to Paris. I even gave her a music box of the Eiffel Tower. Did she ever get to Paris?”

“No,” my mother whispered.

He nodded, and with one final look in our direction, he descended the stairs.

My family hid things in bookshelves. In between the straight white rows of World Book Encyclopedia and the navy blue accumulation of Reader’s Digest Book of the Month, I would find valuable letters, keepsakes, and occasionally a small stash of cash. The bookshelf became my parent’s way of thumbing their nose at the Great Depression. In their mind, banks weren’t safe, bonds and gold fluctuated, and home values were slow to climb. Not to mention that a mattress was about as safe a camouflage as my generation’s Fake-Rock-Hide-a-Key. But, with the fumes of the Depression still burning, a bookshelf became a place to hide money and supply a sense of security in a time of crisis. As a child who escaped such financial hardship, I had no idea what an emergency might resemble, but I assumed it would have something to do with the Russians, as everything did back then.

As I sit here tonight I am reminded of a comment made one evening by a man while skeptically surveying a bookshelf at a mutual friend’s home. When our host stepped from the room, the man shook his head, fingered the vast array of literature on the shelves and then said in disgust, “What a damn self-congratulatory collection!” It was tossed out like a grenade in a densely populated foxhole. The statement infuriated me. That my friend would compile books to express pompous elitism, a need to tote an academic snobbery into a living space in order to convince visitors of complexity, smacked of blatant envy. And then I thought about my own bookshelf and how it remains a sanctuary to the written page and occupies a vast and varied gangly bunch of characters…some of my favorite people.

I know this probably sounds odd to those who crave speech and flesh to warm the human experience, but there is something quite wonderful about looking at a bookshelf and realizing all the places it has taken you, the minds it has explored, the freedom and escape it has offered. Bound in each novel is a journey of tales, a lifelong search for the purpose of life as seen through the eyes of so many, through years and visions, mishap and tribulation. When I finish a new book I feel as though I’ve walked their path and set about in my own shoes to find more. To breathe through their lungs, waddle carefree into childhood follies, and wander in their tired old bones, until they are completely spent. We must then choose to use our own minds and hopefully pick up the torch of these soul bearers, the searchers of truth, who had the guts and wisdom to look at the world and dissect it for our capture… until we are ready to let it go. They have left the ripe fruits of labor on that “self-congratulatory shelf” for us to contemplate.

As a kid I used to wonder what happened to old books that had lost their audience. Did they make one final cough, sputter, and drop into a deep dark hole of fermenting alphabet soup? Did those old souls become kindling during long winter months? Books are my friends, my companions in sorrow, joy and release. I realize that in my need for space, my Kindle has given me that false sense of security. I can download in seconds, the cost is minimal, and if I remember to charge the battery, it will probably last longer than my old ticker. That being said, let me remain true to those printed jewels and the smell and feel of the pages. More importantly, let me never forget the dream to see my book published and upon my own humble bookshelf. 

Every Wednesday morning when I was a child my mother would take my brother and I to a bowling alley. She had her own ball and shoes back then, and we looked forward to her dragging that black swollen case out of the hall closet to the trunk of our Buick.

I don’t know what it was about those mornings that appealed to us…maybe it was a break in the menu of grilled cheese sandwiches and afternoon naps, but somehow those dark, dreary lanes and all that swirling smoke felt deliriously mocking of her motherly role. There was the smell of frozen meat thawing, french fries in greasy bins, socks unleashed, and body odors grossly perplexing me as to their origins. There were racks of worn shoes, bottles of booze, and lane after lane of broken down hangdog housewives throwing gutter balls.

Back then I gave little thought to the plight of women and their weekly respite from daily household duties. I just loved the release and roll of the ball…the sound of it gliding down a lane…the excitement building…and then the explosive collision. All that momentum and build up leveled me. We would raise our arms in the air precisely as the hard rubber sphere smashed into pins, sending those little wooden soldiers flying. I remember how my brother and I would hold our breath, wait for impact, followed by the feverish scratch of pencils on scorecards. We would watch in amazement as the machine dragged the downed pins, then miraculously push my mom’s black ball back up the spinning belt once again.

Strange how I never thought that bowling required skill. We didn’t even realize it was a sport, as it seemed not to fall into that category…like hot dog speed eating, or the distance one could launch a cricket into space with a slingshot. For us, it was just a mid-week event that broke the monotony of childhood. A day in which we learned to appreciate bowling…as if an art form – the drop of a cigarette into an ashtray, the blowing of fingertips before insertion into black holes, the feet planted on laminated hardwood, the ball cradled in a palmed prayer, the backward swing, toss, and all important followthrough pose. I remember being proud of my mom…how she wore a hat on her head that looked like a frisbee struggling to achieve orbit against bobby pin odds. Next to our mundane lives of coloring and building blocks, it felt devilish. We had no idea it was something our mother did to occupy her time so that she didn’t lose her mind.

Back then feelings seemed as containable as bowling lanes. Somehow my mom learned to stifle the knowledge she had more to offer, knowing and fearing that it would remain smothered in motherhood until the last had left the nest. I’m not saying she didn’t find her share of happiness…but that happiness was surely not the same thing as the fulfillment of being free to dream and explore ones’ potential.

Nowadays, I can only guess very few mothers hit the lanes to let it all hang out with regularity. They seem too busy shuttling their kids to events, wrestling with machines at the gym, and surgically pickling and preserving themselves at day spas…resurfacing with faces and bodies tight as the frogs I used to pin back and dissect in high school.