The Hard Goodbye

I remember the moment like it was yesterday. I’m crossing our bedroom at the old house. Dom is sitting up in the bed when he firmly announces to me, “I’ve made a decision.”

I stop in my tracks. “You have, eh?”

“It’s time for us to get another puppy.”

I almost drop whatever it is that I’m holding. “Seriously? You’re serious?? You want two dogs at once? When? What kind? How is this going to work?”

He shrugs and shoots me a crooked smile.  “Start looking.  Didn’t you say you wanted a black Lab next?”

Yeah, I had said that alright. We already had our beautiful yellow Lab, Mason, and I had determined that my next dog would be a black Lab named Mabel – so named for the express purpose of allowing me to hang out the back door and yell, “Hey, Mabel! Black Label!!”  I don’t know why that image enticed me so, but there it is.  I also knew that I would call her Mabelline and sing the catchy question, “Why cantcha be true?”

The search was on.  Phone calls, classifieds (those were the days!), breeders and litters and small towns so remote I thought we might not make it back from them.  But there in the heart of Castor, Louisiana, were three 10-week old lab pups. One was a black female.  Stacey went with me and Dom to pick her up.  Mabel wrapped her little paws around Stacey’s arm as she held her, and we all fell in love.  The breeder said we needed to name her right then and there so she could tidy up her AKC records, and that she would appreciate it if we included Rose in the name, on account of the numerous Roses in the bloodline. Fine.  Whatev.  I had no intention of ever calling this pup Rose, much less registering her myself, so what could it hurt? Mabel Lena Rose Mainiero, it was.  A few signatures and $300 later (the first and last time I paid for a dog!) and we were headed back to Shreveport with an adorable surprise for the kiddos. 

Mabel on the day we brought her home, November 2008.

Mabel was sweet and docile that first night, as one could only be with Mason slobbering his welcome all over her. Mabel enjoyed being kenneled when we weren’t home, and thankfully so, given the amount of damage she did when we were present. I’ve written numerous posts about the things Mabel has eaten, the embarrassment she has caused, and the times she has worn my patience to its last tiny thread. I have said countless times that she was our wild-child dog. In her early and middle years Mabel cared only for her own entertainment, and let me tell you… if life was a car, then Mabel drove it like she stole it!

Mabel, all up in the camera! 2010

Mabel was known for eating and/or destroying absolutely everything that caught her attention. Her favorite things to “love on” until they were obliterated were Webkinz stuffed animals. She started with only the birds, which always cracked me up. Once the kids were out of bird Webkinz, she moved on to the other Webkinz toys and finally to any stuffed animal she could find until the entire line was extinct. With all of her antics throughout puppyhood and beyond, Aaron disowned her at least twice. Once, for chewing up one of his Lego Bionicle masks. I still remember the renouncement. “Vic!!!!” he yelled to his sister as he balled his fists up at his sides, “You can HAVE her!” I looked from my red-faced little boy to Mabel. Despite having just been declared dead to him, Mabel showed not even an ounce of remorse for having destroyed Aaron’s toy. In fact, I was pretty sure she was sitting on go to do it again. Remorse, regret, repentance…these three R’s were forever absent from Mabel’s vocabulary.

Who, me?? 2014.

Mabel was the quintessential pesky little sister to Mason.  She used to bite and tug on his neck to the point that I would feel sores under his fur when I’d snuggle with him.  Her favorite thing to do was be the first to run outside when the door opened, and immediately spin around to attack Mason as he stepped over the threshold.  I honestly don’t know how he tolerated her.  At one point when Mason was getting on in years, Mabel decided she would hide behind the wall at the top of the stairs and attack him each night as he came up for bed.  What a brat she was!

Ready to pounce, 2012

I spent many years of Mabel’s life calling her “Dom’s Decision,” as in, “Hey, honey, your Decision ran off down the street again,” or “your Decision brought a locust into the house tonight,” and my favorite, “your Decision stole a pound of candy corn from the kitchen and puked it up in the living room.”

The public shaming, 2013.

Life with Mabel was never dull. Fiercely independent and rocking her need for no one, Mabel tried to live on her own terms. Several years ago we nicknamed a large field near our home “Mabel Acres” in memory of the day during Sunday lunch when she took off out the side door and down the street to cut circles in the grassy field while the entire family tried to catch her. But Mabel had her sweet side, and though she preferred to act like she didn’t need our attention, she never seemed to mind when we lavished love on her.

Vic and Mabel, my brown-eyed girls, 2010.

Like me, Mabel loves sunshine.  She would often lay in the yard as her black fur soaked in the warmth.  She enjoyed the porch swing with me on many Saturday mornings. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure the time she spent with me wasn’t all about the coffee.

Stealing my joe, 2009.

Mabel changed when she became an only-dog in 2014.  She mourned Mason for a couple of weeks, not wanting to be alone outside, needing to know where Dom, the kids and I were at every moment.  She became gentler and more loving, and sweetly earned the famous phrase on her dog tag, “Mischief Managed.”  Her nickname morphed from “Dom’s Decision” to “Daddy’s Baby Girl.” She knew who was responsible for her sweet and easy life. 

In Daddy’s arms, 2014.

Mabel was none-too-thrilled with the introduction of Maximus to our home.  But she did eventually adjust to him as he grew and she realized that annoying little thing with the big ears was, in fact, the same species as her. 

“Someone get this dude off my back!” 2016.

Max took on the role of pesky little brother, paying Mabel back in spades for all the torture she showered on Mason.  Despite my best efforts to keep it sized properly, Mabel’s collar got stretched so that it ended up looking more like a red necklace draped around her shoulders.  I can’t think of a time they played together that Max wasn’t gnawing on her collar. 

Always with the collar! 2019

Mabel earned herself many nicknames over the course of her life. Mabelline, Mabellini, the Vixen, the Vixenator, Mablet, Mabel-Label, the Leine, Leinie-poo, the Bottomless Pit, the Unfillable Belly, Dumpster Diver, Teeny Weeny Mabellini, Baby Girl, and finally Grandma. I especially loved calling to her in an Italian accent: “Ciao, Mabellini! Andiamo, Mabellini! Why-a do you-a bark-a so much in the house, eh?!”

Helping me study, 2014.

Mabel became a diabetic in 2018. Diabetes for dogs is much like Type 1 childhood diabetes in people, meaning that you can’t “diet-and-exercise” it into submission. Even with the prescription dog food and the twice-a-day insulin injections, Mabel’s blood sugar levels would not normalize. We did the best we could for three years. We spent many weekends running blood glucose curves on her and charting her progress. I spent approximately two months right after her diagnosis chopping, measuring and packaging precise proportions of meats and vegetables to feed her a completely raw diet, and then cooking it for her, and then realizing I was cooking more for the dogs than for the humans before throwing in the towel and signing up for prescription dog food.

Mabel with Walter, 2015.

Mabel went completely blind this year, but she could still hear me come home in the afternoons and would know it’s Wine-Time – that’s when she and Max get to run in the front yard while Dom and I sit on the porch and chat. Sure, it took a little extra effort to get her in and out of the house, leading her through the forest of lilies in the flower beds because she couldn’t go up steps anymore.  But who could resist how happy it made her?  

Wine Time in the jungle, 2021.

I have said for the past few months that as long as she still enjoys Wine-Time, she still has life to live.  There is nothing we won’t do for our fur-babies.  But eventually we realized there’s nothing more we can do.  And that’s where the heart breaks. 

Mabel with another fuzzy, September 2016.

I remember seeing a poster on the wall at the vet’s office when Mason was just a puppy. It was a life expectancy poster and it showed the various breeds of dogs with their approximate life span in years. Labs were marked at 11 years. We were fortunate that both of our pups lived longer than that – Mason at 14 and Mabel, just a month shy of 13. As we realized Mabel’s age and illness were wearing her down, it was devastating to make that final decision. Ironic, that the first decision was so easy, and the last one so hard.

Loving on Aunt Stacey, Thanksgiving 2012.

I hate goodbyes. I hate this part of being a pet owner. There is never a “good” time to say goodbye. We always want one more day, one more chase, one more trip around the water bowl. We took Mabel to the vet for the last time today. The goodbye was just as hard as I thought it would be.

Christmas pup with her stogie, 2016.

The Book of Proverbs tells us that “a righteous man has regard for the life of his animal,” and this is the only thing getting me through this. Caring for them, even to that last day’s decision, is loving them. Mabel has so much more than our regard. She has our undying love and gratitude for the marvelous and mischievous ways in which she brightened our days and enhanced our lives.

Mabel claims all the decorations, 2009.

Take now to that “far green country under a swift sunrise,” sweet Mabellini, and run like somebody left the gate open. We will miss you terribly and love you forever.

Sunning in the backyard, August 2021

Mabel “Mabellini” Mainiero
September 17, 2008 – August 20, 2021

Mabel and Maximus

When we brought Max home, Mabel did not like him.  Let me rephrase for clarity: Mabel despised him.

I think it was Max’s quick, jumpy movements that made Mabel think he was perhaps little more than a funny-looking squirrel. I could almost read in her eyes the desire to chase him and the sure knowledge that, unlike all the others, she could catch this one.

Max knew immediately that Mabel was one of his kind. She, on the other hand, would not lower herself to believe such nonsense.

Mabel was curious about Max, but did not want him looking at her.  She would approach him when he wasn’t paying attention, sniff his fur, and then quickly look away the instant he turned his head toward her, as if to say, “It wasn’t me!” I swear, she’d whistle at the ceiling if she could.

All Max really wanted to do was snuggle with her.  All Mabel really wanted to do was serve him with breakfast.

When he sought her out, inching close enough to touch her foot or sniff her leg, Mabel would jump in the air, execute a ballerina-football-player move and land three feet away, wide eyed and panting. Sometimes, the hair along her spine would raise as she glared at him for daring to touch her. Other times she would just look at me as if to beg, “Control that beast!!”

We brought Max home on a Friday night. On Saturday morning Mabel watched as Max tried in vain to haul off with one of her bone-shaped chew toys.  When he finally gave in to the fact that the weight of the bone was more than he could lift, he abandoned the project in favor of chasing Victoria’s painted toenails. Seeing that her toy was no longer being violated, Mabel whisked it away to my flowerbed, where for the first time ever we watched her bury it so no one could find it.  Never mind that she left it half sticking out of the ground like a waving flag. Her instincts were on and she was protecting what was hers.

That Sunday morning Mabel lay sunning herself in the grass beside my flower bed, likely as a means to guard what she had buried the day before.  Max minded his own business on the patio until their eyes met. Then he began to slowly move toward her. Like a lion stalking prey in the outback, Max crouched to the ground and steadily put one foot in front of the other. Mabel’s eyebrow quirked upward. Her ears perked up and she watched him intently, not maliciously, for the first time.  I thought I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes.  “Hey, that thing might be a dog after all. Interesting.”

I took it as a good sign that Mabel might stop thinking of him as a walking hors d’oeuvre, and that hopefully soon we could let them play unsupervised. As it was, we monitored every single interaction. Because of Mabel’s fierce rejection of him initially, I feared any interest from her was self-serving and possibly detrimental to Max’s well-being, especially since she still gave him the “crazy eye” every time he came near her.

On the eighth day of Max’s life in our household, Mabel pawed at him before placing her mouth around his neck and giving him a quick spin across the patio. He righted himself, turned and lunged at her face. She ran far and fast to the end of the yard, leaving Max standing alone in her dust. She returned quickly and they faced off once again.  She pawed at him again, but this time he was ready. He ducked, evaded her jaws, and displayed toes and teeth as he sprang at her face. She ran away, only to return again with a playful look in her eyes.  Finally, I mused and let out a long held breath.

“So, Mabel,” I drawled as I scooped Max up and plopped him in my lap. “You think you can get by without eating him now?”

Mabel approached and ducked her head for me to scratch behind her ears. I held Max away from her so he would not run her off with the continued snapping of his little puppy jaws.  His squirming calmed as he saw Mabel relax under my hand, and he watched as she moved herself along my chair so that eventually my hand was positioned at the base of her spine, her favorite spot to be scratched. Max inched across my lap and stood on the arm of the lawn chair before gently placing his tiny paws on Mabel’s rump. She didn’t seem to mind that, so he decided to take it a step further. He slowly leaned his head down…and bit her tail.

Mabel’s head turned quickly to look over her back and her eyes narrowed on the ball of ivory fluff partially balanced on her hind end.  Then, with two quick swipes of her tail, she reprimanded him firmly and unmistakably. Wha-BAM! Max recoiled in my lap. And that was the official beginning to peace among pups in my home.

Now, they play together with reckless abandon, Max jumping to bite at her face, narrowly missing her jawline and landing his teeth sometimes around her collar. If he hangs on tightly enough, he gets worn like a new and cumbersome dog tag.  She may not trust him implicitly yet, but Mabel is finally beginning to appreciate this new little furball in her life.

I compiled a little video of the past three weeks for your viewing pleasure.  it is no great work of video skill, but it’s stuffed to the brim with cute. Ladies and gentlemen, I present Mabel and Max, wonderpups extraordinaire:

The Flight of Fifteen

Tags

2015, year in review

When I sat here last December to write the year’s final post, I had such high hopes that 2015 would be better than 2014. In the day-to-day mundane, I recognize that it has been, or at least that it was peaceful and we were happily present in the moments we were given within our own walls. But as for milestones and highlights, well, I have to say that we had more low points than I care for.

Most of our more memorable events of 2015 are, unfortunately, the kind of moments that knocked us to the ground, leaving us dizzy and confused, trying desperately to regain our equilibrium or at the very least, the air in our lungs. 2015 was good at sucker-punching us, if not much else. From the unexpected passing of our favorite priest ten days into the new year, to the loss of our diocese’s first bishop and first chancellor in the spring, to my uncle’s death from colon cancer at the end of the summer and the pancreatic cancer diagnosis my mother-in-law received in October, I was ready to wash my hands of this year before the first leaf hit the ground.

It has been a hard year, but it has also been beautiful. It is only so if we look at it through a lens of faith, which we are called to do in our home. Through that lens we can see peace in death, strength in illness, beauty in aging, and love manifested in the care and concern of family and friends who have come to our side as we mourn, cry and rage against things we cannot see.

These year-end posts are not about the moments that I will never be able to forget, no matter how tightly I shut my eyes. They are instead about the moments that I dare to recall during the tougher times – the simple, the peaceful, the ordinary – the very moments that construct security and belonging within my family, the moments that are so simple in their beauty, so brief in their existence, they threaten to vanish if I blink. So I memorialize the wonky and the haphazard, the simple and the prosaic, so that I may remember that these more modest days of our experience make life profoundly good.

Without further adieu, I give you the more pleasant moments of 2015.  Drumroll, please…

January: Here are my offspring, together and smiling. This was likely taken two seconds before a wrestling match broke out in my kitchen.

February: Since the rest of the snowday pics already showed up in another post, this is – sadly – the best I have to share from the month of my birthday. This is Mabel’s reindeer, mooning the backyard. Said toy was strategically placed here by Mabel herself, probably for the benefit of the squirrels and cardinals that evade her attacks.

March: Both kids got sick at the same time, so here we sat in the pediatrician’s office. They each offered their middle finger for the blood sample so that they could proudly “show each other their bandaids” for the rest of the afternoon. Ugh.

April: Mabel gets and appreciates a lot of attention nowadays. Here she is in my bed. (Ahem!) On my pillow. And yes, she is just in the process of raising her paw and rolling so her belly can be rubbed. Sheesh!

May: Ahhhh, Mother’s Day breakfast in bed. They only made two pieces of toast, so there was no second “M.” But there was Starbucks, so all was forgiven.

June: Our river trip to Concan, Texas. Victoria has since announced that she plans to attend vet school at A&M, so I figured this was the most appropriate photo.

July: This photo earned Gracie Lou a shaming on Facebook when a search for the missing toaster led us to her bedroom.

August: Aaron and I got an early start making our Halloween decorations. Here is one of the tombstones that eventually graced our front yard.

September: Mabel and her Octopus. I really can’t resist this face.

October: The kids took turns chauffeuring each other around the property during one of our more relaxing evenings.

November: Just us girls with our Mother-In-Law, Charolette, on Thanksgiving Day. As a family, we have so very much to be thankful for.

December: Though we are not really cowboy-hat sorta people, Dom and I have wanted black Stetsons for roughly ten years. Wish fulfilled.

So, there is the 2015 that I choose to remember. Bring whatever you’ve got, 2016. My gloves are on.

“Mom, I Can’t Feel My Toes.”

On this, the third snow day of the school year, we finally got actual snow. Admittedly, I never expected it to snow. 1-2 inches in north Louisiana? Puh-leeze, weatherdude! What are you smoking???? We may get ice and sludge and generally terrible driving conditions, but real-deal snow tends to pass us by. We Shreveporters live in what I call “the weather bubble.” Weather aims right for us, turning at the last minute to soar above us or below us, rarely coasting directly through our lovely city. We are grateful that most of the bad stuff passes us by. Unfortunately, so does much of the fun stuff.

Until today.

That heavenly snowfall began around 9:00 a.m. and continued its White Christmas cascade all morning long. But as I look out the window while writing this, the snow seems to have finally stopped falling. 12:21 pm. The driveway is mushy and the street is beginning to regain its grey asphalt hue, no longer smooth and white…which tells me it is melting… just like weatherdude said it would.
(Which also tells me the roads may not be as treacherous as they were two hours ago. I may try again to haul my butt into the office. Y’all don’t lock me out just yet!)

I love the color of our world when it is illuminated by sunshine. But if it can’t be gloriously bathed in bright yellow, then I prefer it to be white. This white…

My photography skills leave a lot to be desired, but my desire overwhelms my pathetic lack of skill to bring you this…

And this…

And this…

My poor, poor confused spring bulbs. 😦

And finally, yes, the kiddos took to the great outdoors, shunning their screen devices for a sacred morning of pelting each other with snowballs…

Aaron with a snowball earbud.

Look! They’re touching! And smiling!!

…and competing in a snowman building contest.   Here are Misty with her creepy penny eyes…

… and Frosty McTaxFraud, each sporting their very own coffee mug. Does anyone else agree with me that Frosty has a quirky Al Capone look going on? Nice bat.

So, while the kids toast their tootsies in front of the fireplace, I’ll leave you with a few more snaps of my favorite place on earth…

the garden in winter…

St. Francis near Mason’s grave

The Mabelline!

Mabel’s favorite part of any snow day is coming in and getting dried off.

I’m gonna need more towels.

Farewell Fourteen!

If I were a glass-half-empty kind of girl, I would have to say that 2014 sucked Shrek’s big toe. Our litany of misery reads like a warped version of the Twelve Days of Christmas. One seizure (Dom), triple-bypass (Pops), four family funerals, six months of chauffeuring, and seven months without our favorite of all God’s creatures, the incomparable Mason.

True, 2014 was a roller coaster of blessing and curse, bitter and sweet. And yet, it seemed to me that each time we sunk into the valley of emptiness and grief and the fear of what could have been, our faith buoyed our souls out of shadow and into sunlight, reminding us not only to be grateful for each day we have with those we love, but also that the end of what we can see on Earth is not an end at all.

So with my glass half full, I present our Pictoral Year in Review:

January: Let’s just go ahead and start this off with the one wonky, unrelated-to-anything photo of the year.  Here is a show-stopping pic of our trampoline on the first icy day of January.  As you see, sleet does not keep my kids from bouncing, or, er…sliding.

February: Aaron was in 8th grade and getting ready to celebrate Mardi Gras in high style with the Class of 2018.  Here he is dressed to impress – or at least dressed to make me cry!  (Never mind that his Daddy was dressed EXACTLY LIKE THIS the first time I saw him!) I noticed Aaron’s height compared to the mantle’s edge as I posted this, and was pleased to show him that he’s grown four inches this year!

March: Victoria made her musical debut at my grandmother’s house by playing the water glasses.  She’s not nicknamed Gracie Lou Freebush for nothing!

April: I’m not entirely sure this happened in April, but it is in the right place on the timeline of my camera roll, so it gets the billing, even if it’s not really a “picture.” I was joking in the last line of my reply, but this really did make me proud!

May:  Paw prints and heartbreak.

June:  Headed to Grandmama and Granddaddy’s house on a Saturday.  We decided to take Mabel so she wouldn’t be home all alone.  Here she is propped in the backseat and grateful for the outing.

July: Victoria and her sweet friends gave Mabel a spa day.

August: You know those moments when you’re just hanging out, enjoying life, and you suddenly feel like you’re witnessing the present and the future all at the same time?  Yeah, this was one of those moments.

September: My boss came over and taught us and our parents how to make Italian sausage.  Primo!!!!  Here Dom and my dad are learning to case the sausage. October: My first fully-completed Pinterest project.  I started this back in March, I think.  Finished it in October.  My favorite literary places. I’d spend a lifetime on Blackfriar’s Bridge just to catch a glimpse of Tessa and Jem. November: Dom and I headed to a fancy-schmancy dinner one evening, and he asked Vic to take our picture before we left.  So glad he did.  Wish I’d had the foresight to put the ironing board up first. December: All I asked for was one sweet photo of my darling children together.  This is what I got, which is pretty typical of them nowadays.  {sigh} Teenagers! There it is, folks.  Our 2014 in a nutshell.  Come to think of it, my glass runneth over.

Lost Socks

Tags

dog socks

When we set out to build our house and planned to have less carpet in the new home than in the old one, my primary concern was whether Mason would be able to walk well on the tile and hardwood which would dominate our floors. I scoured Amazon for no-slip dog socks and found a collegiate-looking striped set for Mason. For Mabel, there were hot pink socks with a skull and crossbones design. Most fitting, don’t you think? I ordered them immediately.

Sadly, Mason did not care too much for his socks. Sometimes I think he equated them to cement shoes. Other times, he tolerated the socks for what I was certain was the knowledge that the socks would keep him from sliding across the floor. Toward the end, Mason was so timid about walking on the bare floors that if we couldn’t find the socks, we often had to make a trail of towels and blankets to get him from the living room to the bedroom or vice versa. Admittedly, the socks were a bit tedious. If we did not remove them from his feet on his way outside, he would accidentally leave one in the yard, or more often, the socks would get wet. Trust me, pee-soaked doggie socks are just gross.

Mason sleeping with his socks on. 🙂

At one point shortly after last Christmas we lost one sock. Just one. Three remained. Mabel’s socks were too small for Mason’s big ol’ feet, so we rotated the three remaining striped socks in an effort to keep his back feet stable. We must have asked each other a hundred times where that lone sock could have gone. Dom swore Mabel took it.

When we packed up Mason’s things on that last day, we gently placed his three socks with his collar in his food bowl and reverently committed them to a cabinet in the utility room.

Today Mabel followed me into my bedroom and immediately began sniffing around my nightstand. And then she went all-out nutso, digging at the carpet and trying to reach her paw all the way under the nightstand. She was acting like she does when she has cornered a frog or a lizard, so I was nervous about investigating with her. But then again, no way was I going to allow some crawly critter to exist in my home, much less eighteen inches from my side of the bed, so I knelt down and peered under the furniture to see what all the fuss was about. There was something big under there. Something big and dark.

The thing seemed inanimate, so I grabbed a coat hanger and shoved it under the nightstand to hook the unsuspecting prey. Mabel just about came unglued. I pulled out the coat hanger and proudly displayed Mason’s fourth sock. Undoubtedly, he wore it to bed one night and inadvertently kicked it off while he slept in front of my nightstand. And we thought we had looked everywhere for that thing!

I don’t usually get too excited over lost or found socks. But, four months later, this reminder of Mason makes my eyes watery and my heart happy. And Mabel thought it was worth celebrating, too.

Monkey’s Cardinals

Tags

cardinals, spirit birds

Don’t worry…I’m not pathetically weepy this week. We are healing. We are slowly adjusting to life with one dog. Mabel is healing, too. She’s different now. Pensive. Surprising.

So here’s the story: From my family’s perspective, cardinals represent our deceased family members checking in on us, at least since my grandmother’s passing in 1996. Rumored to have been her favorite bird, the cardinal became synonymous with her spirit in the eyes of me and my mom. When my grandfather passed away in 2004, my uncle reported a flock of cardinals in PaPa’s backyard. Mom and I thought that a fitting representation of my grandmother calling him home.

The one exception I personally hold for this bird-spirit thing is blue jays, which remind me of my cousin, Sam. It was a blue jay who sat on a tree branch above me and sang on the morning Sam left our midst. I think Sam would have liked that he has his own bird. 😉

My dad embraced the cardinal thing when his last pup died. Now he and Mom both watch for cardinals and report on their backyard bird activity with great respect.

Even though we see cardinals flitting about in the field across the street from our home and even though I have kept a bird-feeder filled, we have never had them visit our yard. I attribute this long-standing absence of birds to Mabel and her stellar lack of hospitality. But yesterday Dom told me he saw a cardinal trying to eat from the bird feeder I recently relocated! Even though I had just cleaned and refilled it, moisture had reached the seeds and clogged the spout through which the seed is made available, so the cardinal wasn’t able to eat and consequently did not stick around. My bird feeder is cute as a button but rather meh on functionality. I cleaned it out again and put it back on the hook in hopes that the birds would return.

One of Mabel’s new quirks is that she doesn’t want to go outside alone.  It was no different this morning, so she ate breakfast in the kitchen while I made coffee. Then we ventured to the back patio together where we spied TWO cardinals playing in the yard, toward the back of the property and sort of near Mason’s grave. I froze, not wanting to scare them, and immediately looked to see Mabel’s reaction. She froze, too, ears perked. I was so afraid she was going to charge the birds. But she surprised me again as she quietly sat down beside me and watched the birds play, a new softness in her eyes. This is Mabel, people. Mabel. I can’t even lie…I started crying.

“Those are Mason’s cardinals, aren’t they, girl?” I asked in a whisper.

Her left ear twitched and four seconds passed before she charged, though quite a bit gentler than usual. The birds flew away and Mabel sauntered back to lay beside my chair.

But I think those beautiful red birds must carry some of Mason’s spirit with them, because one came back to visit the feeder at the edge of the patio. And Mabel let him.

To Mason

Tags

dog souls, dogs in heaven, grief, mourning, pet loss, The Rainbow Bridge

Hey, Monk. I know you’re busy running around with your new friends. I hope you’ve met Bull and Dayzi, Boo and Emma, and Sadie-Girl. I’m sure you have several new furry friends who are waiting for their family members to come and get them. I doubt you’ve had time to check in on us, what with all the tail-sniffing and tail-wagging you’ve likely been doing since you arrived at The Rainbow Bridge.

I miss you, Monkey. I miss you so much. Daddy misses you even more, if that’s possible. And the kids, omigosh! We’ve emptied three Kleenex boxes in less than 48 hours. I think Vic emptied one all by herself. It rained for the past two days, so today was the first sunny day that I was finally able to sit on my swing next to your grave. Your headstone will arrive in a few more days, proclaiming you The Best Dog Ever. It’s the truth, you know. You were the best dog for us. I hope you know how much we loved you.

Mabel misses you, too. Although she didn’t spend much time with you when we brought your body home for burial, she knew. She tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but she looks for you still. She hasn’t strayed far from my side. Even as I type this, she lays curled up just a few feet from me. It’s funny…the independent dog who loves to be outside doesn’t want to be outside by herself anymore. But, as I sat with you on the swing today, she wouldn’t come close. She stayed far away, choosing to lounge in the sun and gaze our direction. Only when I stood to walk back inside did she come near, and then she eagerly followed me in. She didn’t do much bug-hunting these past two nights. She hasn’t complained, but we can tell by the way she stares out the window or looks at the floor that she misses you.

I don’t worry about you anymore, so that’s the up-side. I find that I am free of the constant concern that you need to go outside and aren’t saying anything, or that you’ve slipped on the hardwood or tile and can’t get yourself up. Or that you’re thirsty. I hope that water bowl in the sky is big enough for you!

No, I don’t worry about you anymore, but I miss you so terribly that it buckles my knees sometimes. I really didn’t know it was going to be this hard. I thought I was ready to let you go. The rational side of me said it was time. And I felt like you were ready. But I didn’t know that I could go for three hours completely accepting of the situation, and then break down out of nowhere, awash with this unutterable feeling of loss. Did we do the right thing for you? Did we wait too long? Not long enough? Only in my tears are there questions, only in my grief, doubt.

I miss seeing you next to the back door when I come in. I awaken at night and listen for your breathing or your cough, maybe even the playful snort as you rub your face on the carpet, “quarter-rolling” as we call it. Daddy misses seeing your head spring up when we enter the room. He buried you by himself, you know. He asked us to let him do it alone. He needed that time with you, that last offering of care for the faithful companion that he loved so much. We know ultimately that we did the right thing for you. Death is a part of life, not the end of it. A segue to a Something More. It’s just that when you stand on the edge of it and peer over the rail, you can’t see the bottom, and it’s terrifying. I don’t like that part. I don’t like it at all.

I still have my necklace on, the paw-print charm that I finally wore on Tuesday. Do you remember me showing it to you? You sniffed at it, but I don’t think you were all that impressed. I had it engraved with your name to honor your place in my heart. In the last two days I have grasped it countless times to calm my mind or steady my tears. I told Victoria that she could wear it too when she needs to feel close to you. She has asked to wear it three times already. I finally took it off and put it around her neck last night. She slept with it. I felt so lost this morning that I woke her up to take it back. She understood. I might have to invest in a charm just for her. 😉

Lots of people have missed you and cried with us. Some of the people you just met a week ago, some you’ve known for years. Vic’s friends all cried and posted sweet notes for you on Instagram. They all loved you. You are very hard not to love, Monkey!

I had decided one time that Heaven likely occupies the same space that we do, just veiled by a shimmer that separates the dimensions. A “grey rain-curtain,” as Tolkien said. I hope that’s true. It gives me comfort to think that you can still run around in our yard, even if we can’t see you. Not everyone understands the loss of a pet. Some of my friends will think I’m crazy. Some of my friends will think I’m mis-informed, or worse, sacrilegious when they learn that I believe you will be in Heaven with me. A dog with a soul? Yes, a dog-soul. Not a human soul. Something different…better. Because you were better than human. You loved everything. You loved unconditionally and without prejudice. You showed us by example how we are supposed to love each other. Humans are supposed to be smarter than dogs, but I’m not sure we measure up. You are an energy, Mason. And energy can be neither created nor destroyed; it just is. I believe that energy is soul-like. And that yours, like many beloved pets, exists on a plane somewhere between Human and Angel. Closer to Angel, I believe. Definitely.

Go run and play some more, Monkey. We love you.

Ciao, 2013!

Tags

2013, photo recap, pics by the month, year in review

Is anyone else in as much shock as I am that 2013 is over?  I mean, we just got it started, right?  2012 flew by for us in uncertainty and anticipation.  2013 was supposed to creep.  Creeeeeeeeeeeeeep, I say!

But it didn’t.  It’s over.  Gone.  Just like that.  Poof!  Our first year in the new house, our first (and only) year of both kids in middle school, a quiet and peaceful year.  The year that was supposed to settle in, get comfy and stay a while slipped out like a welcome house-guest, leaving the borrowed blankets folded neatly on the sofa.  We hate to see that sweet guest go, but are grateful for the memories it left behind.

January:  Aaron’s first Social Studies project.  He’s more a Science Fair kinda guy.  But he had fun with this.

February: We finally finished building the fence.  Whew!!!!        March: Victoria’s birthday party, of course!!

April: Lady, my Father-in-law’s yellow lab, decided she wanted to help Dom mow the yard.  As you see, she’s all in!

May: The kiddos, hanging out and being sweet to each other.  (Cue collective awwwwww!)

June: You know there’s always at least one month with no notable pictures to speak of.  This is the one for 2013.  As I attempted to re-upholster the wing-back chair myself, this is one of the wounds I suffered.  I know, I know…big whoop.

July: Mabel is a food thief.  Here she has absconded with a hoagie roll that Aaron had made into a ham sandwich.  The entire hoagie, minus these two inches you see, is in her big fat mouth.

August: For the first time in Caddo Parish history, three Mainiero children are at the same school.  I had to document it.

September: Some mornings the sun shines just right through our front door and casts a rainbow on everything in its path.

October: This one deserves the video.  It just does.  We told Mabel that this is what happens to animals who steal food off of my kitchen counter.

November: I felt like the Grinch decorating his dog.  Except I think Mabel and Mason wear their antlers cuter than Max.  😉

December: The frosty, sunlit view from the deer stand. It was prettier in person.  The best part was watching the cardinals play as the sun came up.  You know, since the deer didn’t feel like coming out…

May your New Year’s celebrations be fun and safe.  And may 2014 bring you peace and joy.

The Cookie and the Dog

Today we celebrate Mabel’s fifth birthday.  I don’t know whether the miracle is that we’ve survived or that she has.

Over the last month our furry youngster has consumed – among other things – two sticks of butter, three innocent frogs, a Silence-of-the-Lambs-size moth-bug-thing (creepy little dude, he was), a bag of deer jerky and an eighth of a 12” cookie cake (which thankfully didn’t have enough chocolate in it to do her harm).  The final two items earned her a public shaming on Facebook and Instagram.  She didn’t even have the decency to look remorseful.

Mabel gives us plenty of reasons to smile, though.  Every morning she insists on pushing the top of her head into me as I give her kisses on each ear.  If she doesn’t feel she has received enough affection, she firmly nudges my elbow until I acquiesce and pet her for another ten minutes.  It is especially annoying when she nudges the elbow connected to the hand holding a full cup of coffee.  And speaking of coffee, she still likes to sneak drinks from my cup.  In her quieter moments, Mabel suns herself in the backyard or snoozes on the puppy bed we have in the living room.  Her “comfy” positions crack us up.

In honor of the Teeny-Weeny Mabellini, (although after eating cookie cake, she’s not so teeny-weeny anymore)  here is the recipe for the homemade cookie cake I found in August (and which I have subsequently made five times.  Kinda takes away my right to scoff at Mabel’s weight, doesn’t it?)

Triple-Awesome Cookie Cake

I found the original recipe online, but for the life of me cannot get back to it.  You would think I could have bookmarked it, but alas…  If I come across it again I’ll be sure to link back.  At any rate, the original recipe is sufficient for a one-inch thick 12” round cake.  I needed more cookie for Aaron’s birthday party, so I increased the batter by half.  It’s just as easily reduced by half, so I’m listing all the appropriate measurements and sizes for your convenience.   It’s important to note at the beginning that I have changed the amount of chocolate chips in the cake because I thought the original recipe called for too much.  (Too much chocolate? I must be ill.) I have made it with full-on chocolate chips some times and half the allotment at others.  If you want more chocolate, feel free to double the portion of chips listed.

	8-9” pan	12” pan	11×15″ pan
Butter, room temp	1 stick	2 sticks	3 sticks
Sugar	¼ c	½ c	¾ c.
Brown Sugar	1/3 c.	2/3 c.	1 c.
Eggs	1	2	3
Vanilla	½ t.	1 t.	1 ½ t.
Flour, all purpose	1c + 2T	2c + 4T	3c + 6T
Kosher Salt	½ t	1 t	1 ½ t
Cream of Tartar	½ t	1 t	1 ½ t
Baking Soda	½ t	1 t	1 ½ t
Chocolate Chips, semi sweet (I use Ghirardelli baking chips)	½ c	1 c	1 ½ c

1. Cream the butter with both sugars in a mixing bowl (medium speed) until fluffy.  Add the eggs and vanilla and mix well.
2. In a separate bowl, combine the flour, salt, cream of tartar and baking soda.
3. Gently blend the flour mixture into the egg and sugar mixture.  Once combined, fold in the chocolate chips.
4. Spread the batter into a lightly greased pan. (I used to swear by Baker’s Joy, until I nixed the preservatives BHA and BHT from my life.  Now I use Spectrum Naturals brand Canola Spray with Flour for a quick and easy dusting.)  The batter is very thick, so I have to push it to the sides of the pan and smooth it out the best I can.
5. Bake at 350 degrees for 25, 30 or 35 minutes (depending on the size), or until the top is golden and you’re drooling at the lighted oven window.

So, yeah, this picture is totally of Aaron’s sheet-cookie-cake in August, and certainly not intended for Mabel on any day.  I used my regular buttercream icing recipe for the white icing, and whipped powdered sugar into homemade chocolate syrup for the accent icing.  To. Die. For!

Happy 5^th Birthday, Mabel.  Leave the cookie cake alone next time, please.