Tomorrow I will wash out Oskar's ears and replace the towel in his kennel. The stinking ears bare the subtle odor of infection, and I do not know if it is prudent to treat them again by conventional modern veterinary means. A bit of peroxide on a cotton ball, then later we will mix up a homeopathic remedy found on a British website about spaniel's ears. This infection keeps coming back.
After a morning goodbye to J_, I will catch a bus to the car rental store, then Oskar and I will drive across the grey plains to Minneapolis, the frozen tundra of childhood. The signal for public radio will be lost at a dark snow covered point in the afternoon. Perhaps this rental car will have some device to plug in an I-pod. I will pretend this car is mine for a few days, abandoning the memory of the black, salt-coated beast that only starts when it wants to, whose engine lights go on and off at inopportune moments.
Perhaps this drive can rid me of the memories of this difficult year, one that has thrown me for a loop. (Correction, not all memories. There are ones that I want to keep as well.) Selective amnesia would be nice–– a quick procedure, performed by a medical technician, so routine that a doctor isn't necessary––maybe this is the answer. Does it exist? A pill or injection to make you forget?
This drive, done under so many different circumstances over the past seven years, is beautiful and long. Coming into Minnesota at a chilly dusky hour across the Mississippi, at the hilly southern point near LaCrosse, it could take your breath away. One imagines skidding over the edges of these cliffs like a deranged bird. Its dreamlike and cinematic. Characters include truck drivers and heavy set ladies who work at gas stations. Toll booth operators. Families in cars with dogs. Me, looking distant, with a puppy on a leash, shivering while we stop to let him relieve himself. His paws dance across filthy snow to gracefully squat in the ideal spot. He is just like my other girls, the older beagles from a past life. I think about them curled up somewhere and I wonder if they remember me. Especially my Tess, whose fragile skeleton of a body clung to my lap as I drove her home from a shelter years ago.
Oskar makes me forget them some. He brought with him a divine promise of a new life. A canine Messiah whose $500 "adoption fee" and subsequent vet bills were scrounged from the remnants of my scrambled past. Dog, apartment deposit, expensive dinner to thank J_ for putting up with me, and then the money was pretty much dried up. This year life has made some rather startling shifts, from peaceful, to hopeful, to crazy. At one point it was shattered on the floor. In what deformed shape might I reincarnate?
Here I am, an exhausted monster.
This Christmas marks the end of what has been the most horrifyingly insane year of my life. I approach it humbly and with a bowed and solemn head. Gifts were purchased thoughtfully. This year I will not be embarrassed that I did not buy enough for my father, or aunt, or brother. I even contemplating getting something for the woman at Starbucks. I drive home with a heavy heart and heavy suitcase. I will use presents to show my family that I am okay, that I am of sound mind, that I am a functioning and contributing member of society.
At the close of the year I am caught between mourning the life that is over and adapting to the one that is to come. I am trying to find my way home.
This drive, done under so many different circumstances over the past seven years, is beautiful and long. Coming into Minnesota at a chilly dusky hour across the Mississippi, at the hilly southern point near LaCrosse, it could take your breath away. One imagines skidding over the edges of these cliffs like a deranged bird. Its dreamlike and cinematic. Characters include truck drivers and heavy set ladies who work at gas stations. Toll booth operators. Families in cars with dogs. Me, looking distant, with a puppy on a leash, shivering while we stop to let him relieve himself. His paws dance across filthy snow to gracefully squat in the ideal spot. He is just like my other girls, the older beagles from a past life. I think about them curled up somewhere and I wonder if they remember me. Especially my Tess, whose fragile skeleton of a body clung to my lap as I drove her home from a shelter years ago.
Oskar makes me forget them some. He brought with him a divine promise of a new life. A canine Messiah whose $500 "adoption fee" and subsequent vet bills were scrounged from the remnants of my scrambled past. Dog, apartment deposit, expensive dinner to thank J_ for putting up with me, and then the money was pretty much dried up. This year life has made some rather startling shifts, from peaceful, to hopeful, to crazy. At one point it was shattered on the floor. In what deformed shape might I reincarnate?
Here I am, an exhausted monster.
This Christmas marks the end of what has been the most horrifyingly insane year of my life. I approach it humbly and with a bowed and solemn head. Gifts were purchased thoughtfully. This year I will not be embarrassed that I did not buy enough for my father, or aunt, or brother. I even contemplating getting something for the woman at Starbucks. I drive home with a heavy heart and heavy suitcase. I will use presents to show my family that I am okay, that I am of sound mind, that I am a functioning and contributing member of society.
At the close of the year I am caught between mourning the life that is over and adapting to the one that is to come. I am trying to find my way home.
1 comment:
It is was just a lovely gift on this Christmas Eve to read your writing again. You have a gift Andrew and I think you should visit Life After Style as often as it is helpful. I wish you much merry and bright.
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