There are way worse things than having your dog die. But it’s not a hangnail either. The one big plus about having your dog die is that you no longer have to worry about your dog dying. That seems a curious thing to say although I’ve thought it before – about my mother’s wedding ring which I worried obsessively about losing and then finally did lose at a Cubs game a few years ago. The ring was gone so I no longer had to feel for it hanging on a chain around my neck, wouldn’t have to have that exquisitely awful premonition that the ring had disappeared. Now, I don’t have to get up in the morning and go see if my dog is breathing.
The other dog is still breathing. And laying about and eating his kibble mixed with rice and going to the dog park and trotting down the trail with his tail in the air. Yesterday, Swirl stopped at nearly every tree to sniff. “Do you think he smells Punchy here?” my husband asked. Absolutely, I thought, the park is like a scrapbook of their finest moments.
In other news, I bought a pair of bellbottom jeans, along with platform boots, and a paisley top. I’m going to visit my daughter in California next week and she is having a 70’s party. I have to tell you – all modesty aside – I look like a million bucks in those bellbottoms. And the platforms. Well. Yes.
Yesterday, I learned that a lake in northern Michigan was a place where many African American families bought summer cabins in the fifties and sixties. A friend, whose parents bought a cabin which she still owns, told me that it became a place where no one would be hassled even though the cabins for African Americans were clustered on what was described as the bad side of the lake. Not so, she said, the sunsets were far better from that side of the lake. It’s true. I’ve seen pictures.
Almost every day, we see our friend which is what we call the man walking along the lakefront at all times of day in both directions – north and south. He wears heavy black insulated coveralls, boots, and a thick black hat. He always has big headphones clamped over his hat. He changes his gear depending on the weather, but the coveralls are a constant. He doesn’t change his pace or look up, he’s never with anyone, never conversing or even stepping around someone or glancing at a dog. At the beginning, I wanted to go ask him why he was walking so much but, really, what business is it of mine?