Signs

I don't usually ask God or the Universe for signs. Maybe because I don't want to be disappointed, or because then I'll think EVERYTHING is a sign and make myself crazy trying to read the pattern of ice crystals on my car windshield. Wondering if the lone crow sitting on a high branch, as I rushed to the car this morning was "caw caw cawing" me a message from beyond. Is that you, Casey? I actually wondered that for a brief second. Come on Bethany.

When I was a kid, I wanted so badly to believe my stuffed animals were real/had feelings. I was particularly attached to Spunky the Skunk and remember one day setting him on my dresser and willing him to move, to give me some kind of sign that he was real. I spent a good part of the day staring at that darn stuffed skunk.

My friend L believes in signs and gets them. Signs that don't seem imagined or forced, but give you goosebumps. In the past year, we've had to have two of our other elderly dogs euthanized. I did not ask for signs after, but was knocked over the head with some pretty cool ones, within the hour after they'd left us. I didn't share Lady's here because it's so hard to believe. But it happened, Susie saw it too and we hold it close, as a kind of comfort.

L suggested I ask for a sign about Casey.

I didn't. I am too afraid to never get one.

Or afraid I will just start making them up, seeing things that aren't there, messages from my dead dog.

And I didn't notice anything just after, like with Lady and Snoopy.

This weekend I took a walk. When I felt the grief kick up, I stopped on the hill, grabbed a stick and wrote C-A-S-E-Y, drawing a heart around her name in the sand. It was barely visible.
I kept walking.
Then I found myself peering into the trees and bushes, dead leaves, the sky, thinking of signs and expecting what, to see her name spelled out back to me?
I just chuckled and walked on, shaking my head. Silliness.

The next day I found myself writing her name again, on the storm door window condensation as I waited for the little dogs to do their buisness outside.

And I thought, well, if I was going to ask for a sign and then actually believe it, I'd want to see her name somewhere, how I spell it, not KC or Kasey, but Casey.
I put it out there, but shyly, not REALLY.
Because what am I asking for anyway? A sign that I did the right thing? That she is somehow still spiritually connected to me? That "All Dogs Go to Heaven" as my movie buff friend texted me after? That the Rainbow Bridge truly exists? That no one really DIES?

Today was my first day back to work since losing her. On the 45 min drive I feel a swirl of guilt. I KNOW she was 17, but the vet was willing to give her fluids, do blood tests, ultrasounds, try to figure out if he could help her feel better for a bit longer. Did I jump the gun? Give up on her? Why didn't I rush her to the vet after her seizures? Why did I just think, "She's failing. She's old." I should've..., you know, on and on. Maybe she didn't have to die just yet. Maybe I let her go too soon.

Get to work. Drag the big, metal, book drop wagon up the ramp, breathing in the cold. Trying to enter the work day. Start emptying the bin. It's filled to the brim. Someone's dumped a bunch of donations in there, so I am walking back and forth, piling the donation books on the other side of the circ desk. Maxine and Babs are chatting. I've got most of it empty when Maxine comes over and says, "Oh, I was going to help you." She reaches down, picks up one of the last books in the bin and gasps. She holds it to her chest.
I say, "What?"
She says, "Maybe I shouldn't have helped you. I don't know if I should show you this."
Me again, "It's okay. What is it?"
Once we found a dead fish in the book drop. So I am prepared for anything.
She hands me a hard cover book, dark pink. The title takes up most of the whole front, says in big bold letters:
Why Casey Had to Die
The photo underneath is a woman's hand holding a compass.

Oh. Okay. Her name. Casey. There. On a book. For me.
It doesn't say: Why did Casey have to die? It's says: Why Casey had to die.
Which I just take as: Casey had to die. Casey died. It's okay. You did the right thing. It was her time.
And the compass, well, I will just say, for a very long time Casey has been my North Star, my home. I could never go far from her without feeling guilty and somewhat lost. I suppose I've used her anxious attachment to me to mask my own anxieties and fears and stopping, as an excuse to not venture out, to not find other connections.
If you think this all sounds crazy, not the sign so much, but my tangled connection with this dog, well, it IS. Of course it is. I can tell you, Casey was my mother's dog first. My mother raised her. And I'm not in therapy for nothing, folks.
With Casey no longer home waiting for me, missing me, needing me, I am free in a way I have not been in 17.5 years.
I definitely need that compass.

My boys

Bo Bo and Roscoe.
These little guys have been sticking close to me all weekend.
Comfort and joy.

Taking it slow

I've never seen lines inside a pinecone like this. They please me.
I am wearing men's deodorant today (Susie's). Axe, Instinct. I thought it might help me feel less vulnerable. I feel instead like I'm trapped at an 8th grade dance, where the boys have all splashed on buckets of cologne. But when I catch the scent, I do feel different and Other, not exactly myself, and I needed some of that distance today. I will wear a muscle shirt later for my Wii workout and really rock the casbah.

Susie is out buying a new shower head and a headlight for my car, will bring me home a raspberry decaf. I've got laundry in. I'm trying to bond Maury and Tulip (rabbits). Wasn't able to do that with Casey here, because I didn't want to confuse her path by blocking off a space for them. Tulip is hiding in the purple Igloo. Maury is not playing nice. Pam (rabbit whisperer/rescuer) says it can take over a week with them in a neutral space to bond properly. We have them gated off in the kitchen. Cross your paws. Rabbits are social and prefer the company of other rabbits, but the bonding process is tricky. Tulip lost her bondmate Henry about a year ago. Maury has never been bonded.

Yesterday went surprisingly well. Casey snored in my arms after the vet gave her the sedative, resting so soundly, softly. I cradled her and talked to her for a long while. Dripped tears on her head. And then he came back with the other shot and she didn't feel a thing. My hand was buried in her soft fur, over her heart and I felt, beat, beat, beat, stop.
Oh. Okay. That's it.
Deep breath.
Peace.
I'm in and out of heartache. I've lit a candle for her.
You all have helped me so much, your words and comfort. I've FELT it easing me, helping me not to go to that really crazy, lonely, death place. (Well okay, I went there a bit last night, but I called my aunt and she let me wail.)
So, I am okay. Thank you for asking. Thank you for caring, for thinking of me, and for understanding the depth of this.

Here are some things on my fridge.

The pad I started recording my veggie/fruit/water intake on each day with check marks. Fresh sheet today. It's helping.
Block Island. I wish I lived there. I will live there. Wait, I AM living there (is that right, all you intention following/believing folks?).
The rabbit magnet, not so true. My mom got me that. The rabbits mostly drive me crazy, are way more work and money than I care to spend. They are a long story. They've taken up a huge chunk of my life and money. I consider them my volunteer work. I only have them because they were dumped by other people and had no place to go. Poor little, fluffy hoppers.
(Little rant to follow that I know none of you need to read, so just skip it. Sorry, I can't help myself:
I stopped wearing my rabbit rescue shirt to work because people kept asking me if I wanted their rabbit. No I don't want your rabbit. Are you insane? I already have more rabbits than I know what to do with because of people like you. You wanted your rabbit. That's why you have it. Rescues don't want to have to rescue animals. There are a million other things we'd rather be doing.
People suck sometimes. Bunnies are not toys and should not be given to children. Bunnies get big. Bunnies need fresh hay everyday. Bunnies poop and pee and shed a lot. Bunnies need to be spayed and neutered. Bunnies need supervised play time out of their cage for hours each day. Most bunnies don't like to be held or carried. Bunnies will growl and nip. Bunnies need special vet care. Bunnies should live in the house like your dog and cat companions. Bunnies are social and smart and sly. Bunnies like toys and jobs and projects. Bunnies need lots of attention, even though they don't know how to tell you that by barking or purring or crying. Bunnies chew EVERYTHING, especially electrical cords and woodwork. If you still want a bunny after this, please adopt one.)

Below is a pile of clay something or others I made a couple weekend ago and haven't figured out how to assemble. They are still sitting on the potholder from when they came out of the oven. I'm sure some of you can guess who it's for. Yes, I have a bit of a crush.

All Will Be Well - Gabe Dixon

This is the best video I could find on Youtube, clearest sound. Sorry it's so jumpy.
Love this song. It's been playing in my head for days.
"The new day dawns...
All will be well. Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself. All will be well. You can ask me how but only time will tell.
The winters cold. But the snow still lightly settles on the trees. All will be well. Even though sometimes this is hard to tell..."

Thank you for all your prayers, wishes, thoughts, words and love. It is carrying me through this difficult day.

No need to comment. I know you're there.

Bogs Circlescape

Susie came home tonight with a new pair of black, work shoes. They looked rugged, warm and waterproof. She said they were super comfortable and cushioney. She tromped around the house like a happy kid, then invited me to try them on.
Oh. Delight. They are much lighter than they look, snug and comfy. I immediately thought of spring and muddy gardening chores. They seemed like the perfect shoe. She said, "These are men's, the women's all have flowers on them."
What? Of course I rushed to the computer, Google images. Lots of fun shoes and boots and prints. I didn't HAVE to have any of them, until this pair popped up. Green and pink bubbles on brown! Oh. Please Mom. Can I get em? Can I get em? I promise I'll wear them all the time.
Oh wait, I'm 39. That doesn't work anymore (well okay sometimes it does, but only around holidays).
I don't know where I've been. These boots are RAD. Gardening sites sell them too.

They even have them in pink, but only in children's sizes.
I tend to get a case of the gimmies when I'm having a difficult time emotionally.
It's all a distraction. These boots will make me happy. Right?
If I have these boots I will be able to keep stepping through dismal February, stomp into muddy March, slosh into April rain, splash in the puddles, with warm, colorful feet. I will keep walking, looking down at my feet, forgetting for a while that my sweet ol' Casey dog is not home in her lime green doggie bed, dreaming dreams of her long ago puppy hood, waiting patiently for her mama to come home.
I've made an appointment to have her euthanized on Friday, 1:30pm, at our old vet in R.I. We feel more comfortable there. It's time. I know this. I knew it on Monday when she did not wag her tail or even recognize me when I came home from work. She cannot see or hear anymore, but she ALWAYS smells me, knows me, does a little jig when she realizes it's me. I slumped to the floor and held her. She leaned her body into me. We breathed together. I cried and cried and for the first time I felt like it was time, the right thing to do. It's weird, because since then she's gotten worse, not eating much at all, can barely walk. She has pain meds. We are keeping her comfortable. She's resting well. I wish she would go on her own. I keep praying for this, hoping, wishing. But I think I missed that opportunity.
I keep telling her it's okay to let go, to leave me. But she doesn't believe me. Why should she? I resuscitated her three times, weeks ago. I'm sure I have her quite confused.
She thinks she needs to protect me, watch over me. I tell her I will be okay without her, and I am trying hard to believe that.

17 years old! That seems like cause for celebration. This dog has stayed with me as long as a person can hope for really. I cannot curse the heavens. I am grateful, lucky, loved.
Blessed.
The drive there is the hardest part I think.
I dread it.
And then of course, the after. That space.
The missing. The gone.
She has been at my feet for almost my entire adulthood.
Literally, right there, tripping me or leaning her head on my socks. She is my twin in lots of ways: too attached, too needy, full of anxiety. She wants to know where I am, always. We have a goodbye ritual when I leave the house for work or errands so she knows I am driving away and not out working in the yard. Otherwise she will sit at the door and sniff at the space underneath, waiting waiting waiting. Even during these last months, when she is sickly and tired and frail, she always finds me. I will notice her sleeping peacefully in the living room and ever so quietly try to slink away to my computer desk in the bedroom, trying not to make a vibration. But before I can even log on, I hear the click of her toenails down the hall and then the flop of her body at my feet.
She's needed me for a long time. I've needed her.
She is my one constant. My always, my soul dog.
She's saved me over in over. Helped me get out of bed each day.
Okay, I won't go on. Not fair to any of us. February is hard enough already.
Thanks for hearing me.
Go love on your pets.
I will have my face buried in Casey's soft, golden curls until Friday.

Hairy balls

Come on, you know me better than that. I may be veering off the gardening blog path lately, but I'm not THAT far gone...yet.

Each gardening season, I find something whimsical and/or odd to try growing from seed. These experiments keep me feeling childlike and excited about gardening. Well, I imagine growing things from seed will always make me blissful, but growing NEW, weird, fun plants, I've never heard of or seen in real life, makes me singing/skipping happy.

Last year I went a little overboard, trying Chenopodium "Strawberry Sticks", Amaranthus "Pony Tails", Hulk Asters, Craspedia "Drumsticks", and these apple scented pom pom flowers whose name I can't recall. Some end up in my regular "must have" list after the trial (like the Nigella "love-in-a-mist", Bunny Tails, and Celosia (they look like brains) from 2 years ago. Others I nix: the strawberry plant was supposed to have edible fruits: yuck, bitter and mealy; the apple pom poms did smell delicious but were too tiny to bother with again.

I am starting to compile this year's seed wish lists. And look what I just stumbled upon in my new Thompson and Morgan seed catalog:
Hairy Balls Plant ( Gomphocarpus physocarpus ). For some reason I can't find it in their online catalog. But other seed companies have it listed.

From Seedman (this description cracks me up):

For those who crave lime green hairy balls in their arrangements, truly unique. Grows about 40" tall, blooms in only 7 weeks. Annual.

From Nicky's Nursery

Hairy Balls
Gomphocarpus physocarpus Syn Asclepias physocarpa

Common name Swan Plant
Tender Perennial. Large, rounded inflated fruits on long arching stems, very popular in modern floral arrangements. Height up to 180cm flowers June to September. Flowers are insignificant, fruit are translucent capsule light green in colour and inflated like balloons with soft spiny projections. Stem length up to 120cm with approx 8-10 fruits. Most attractive stems with ornamental fruits for cut flowers and conservatory plants

Very cool, up close pic from Dave's Garden forum.

Well, now I'm craving lime green hairy balls and must have them for my arrangements.
Aren't you?
Doesn't the botanical name, Gomphocarpus, sound like a sexually transmitted disease?
Well, of course it does.
FYI: I've ordered coleus seeds from Seedman's before, great selection, wonderful service.

I am also intrigued by the Pepino (melon pear). Anyone ever grow/eat these before?

From the TM catalog:
Tomato Relative-Bush

Unusual round to egg-shaped fruits are cream skinned with purple streaks. The deliciously sweet and juicy flesh has a taste and aroma similar to melon, and can be eaten in a similar way. Ideal for growing in the greenhouse or in a sheltered sunny spot outdoors in a container, as the plants need warmth to flower and fruit successfully

Online description: The pepino has a taste that is similar to a cucumber, cantaloupe, and a honeydew melon. Because of this, other common names for the pepino include melon shrub, tree melon, mellowfruit, pear melon, and the sweet cucumber

Thanks for indulging my gardening talk.
This summer, watch out for hairy balls and pear melons here at Bloom.
See, I CAN have my cake and eat it too
(I move from veggies to cake at lightening speed).
Not really the right idiom, since I'm already discussing food.
But you know what I mean, right?
I can have a bisexual garden, at least.

Men do yoga

Now,
let us welcome the new year,
full of things that have never been.
Rilke

Quote from a card from my aunt's boyfriend, who is now my pen pal. Even though I suck at writing back. He just keeps writing to me, sending delightful, funky cards and scrawly, fun letters on recycled paper, no matter. It's strange, but wonderful. He likes me. He wants to be in touch.
I like him too.
I don't have many men in my life.
He wrote in a recent letter: "I read your blog (sometimes)."
I loved that.
And who doesn't love a REAL letter, real mail from a real person, waiting in your metal mailbox?
Pure, old fashioned joy. No electricity involved, no mouse, no clicking, no signing in with passwords, no attachments, no sitting still staring at a glowing screen. You walk down your pebbled driveway, you open the little oval door, you reach in and voila: crisp, cold, paper, familiar handwriting, canceled stamp.

He takes the train to Boston to visit his daughter in college. He prays. He reads and writes and paints. He does yoga and takes long nature walks with my aunt. He has dinner with his ex wife and her boyfriend (husband?). His children seem so loved and interesting and connected. Gay and straight and beautiful.
He is a gentle, generous, searching soul.
I wonder what it feels like to have a father who knows how to listen to you, how to SEE you.
When I was a teen, my father used to harass me by asking over and over, "Are you GAY Bethy?" Because I didn't have a boyfriend. Because I didn't act like a "normal" girl.
I didn't think I was then. I didn't know what was wrong with me.
I still don't think I am. Though I've lived as a Lesbian for 10 years.
It was a big deal for me to identify myself here as: "bisexual." To just SAY it last week.
Kind of weird to have to come out as a bisexual.
I don't like that word. I suppose it does boil down to who you want to have sex with, what the word is trying to identify/define. But sex comes after the love and love comes after the like, the soul connection. And it makes one sound so promiscuous. I am closer to nun than promiscuous.
See what happens when I mention men here? Two seconds flat and I'm talking about sex.
They are good for other things too, right?
Like hauling heavy objects, fixing sinks and building trellises (I know women can do these things too).
I am so black and white. That's why Richard is good for me. He shows me that men can be as rich, varied, feelingful and complex as women.
Men do yoga!

Hi Richard (just in case today is a sometime). I will write to you this weekend, on a piece of purple painted paper. And I will send you a little packet of that Jasmine tea you liked when I brought all those loose tea samples to dinner. I bought you and Liz some pens for Christmas too.

Happy weekend everyone.
Stay warm. Crazy cold here. 3 dog night (Really for me it's 2 cats, 2 dogs on the bed tonight).