I Feel Lucky

The advocate working at the rescue center wasn’t completely honest.

We were looking for a boxer. We left with a shepherd-mix.

“Look! See the way she uses her front paws? I’m sure she’s part boxer! She has to be!”

It really didn’t matter. She had already spoken to me through limpid brown eyes that said, “I’ve seen a lot of things I’d rather I hadn’t.” We had much in common.

She was thin. Despite the “impeccable care” provided by her previous owner, heartworms had invaded her body, dictating she ingest large amounts of poison over several weeks which the veterinarian hoped would kill the worms before killing the host.

Lucky did what she’d always done. She survived.

She rode, stoically, in the back seat on the way to her new home, and upon arriving, acted as any dog would when introduced to new environs. Loping from room to room, she encountered my six-year-old son, who felt the exuberance of his new pet down to the ends of his fingers which he attempted to wrap around Lucky’s head in pursuit of a sloppy dog-kiss. What he got instead, was a nip to the nose, and as I attempted to calm him I looked into sad, brown pools of regret and wondered who felt worse, the biter or the bitten. The large scar over Lucky’s left eye assured me she knew the humiliation of attack.

She barks a lot, sounding off anytime a walked dog parades in front of the house. And, it isn’t necessary to look out the window to know that the pot-bellied pig is grazing in the grass across the street. Lucky is always on guard.

Our other two dogs give Lucky a wide berth as she has, on separate occasions, let each of them know she is boss. And, if their play gets out of hand, it is Lucky who steps in to referee a peaceful conclusion. Lucky’s maternal instincts survived the surgery evidenced by the tattoo burned into her lower abdomen.

The office is quiet as I read what I have just written. A scraping sound grabs my attention, and I turn to see Lucky standing at the door to the puppy’s metal-fenced crate. She lifts her paw, resting it against the wire until I reach out to open the door.

The eyes she turns on me tell me all I need to know as she lowers her head and slowly enters the space. She lies down, looking at me once more, before placing her snout on her fawn-colored paws.

Strange dogs parade by our house unannounced. Revelry ensues in another room, unabated. Lucky curls up inside a small, secure space, and rests.

Southern Snow

Snow falls as thick, fluffy, wads of ice that slap the tops of puddles left by yesterday’s rain.

The grumbling sound of thunder accompanies the shouts of children undeterred from summer pastimes, as a baseball splits the flakes on its way to a tobogganed batter.

Paddled cactus fronds bend with fluffy, white weight.

Birds jump about leaving three-pronged impressions in the green and white lawn, while, seeing them, the dog pauses at the back door, unwilling to brave the blizzard despite the temptation.

But, he watches.

From his perch in front of the windows, his ears perk as he watches white stuff fall from a pewter colored sky, covering everything it touches. He watches hooded, mittened children run and play, and gather slush, crunching it between hands they no longer feel, before hurtling it at the nearest unsuspecting target. I wonder what he thinks…

I join him at the window, and wrapping myself in my own arms as a guard against the icy glass, we marvel at the wonder and beauty of a southern snow.

Are You Really Gonna Eat That?

“You’re actually going to eat that?”

Gingerly, careful not to touch it’s fiery lip, I slid the bowl of steaming cream-of-chicken soup out the microwave.

“Yeah!”, I answered. “It’s only got one-hundred-twenty calories.” I pushed the red and white can in her direction.

Slowly stirring to break up small clumps of chickeny goo, I looked up to see a look of utter distaste on Susan’s face.

“What?”

“I just never saw anyone eat it. I mean I use it in recipes and all, but I’ve never actually eaten it.”

I slowly walked the hot soup to my designated spot at the break table and joined another co-worker who was arranging chicken salad atop a concoction of apple chunks and red pepper strips.

“Apples and peppers?”, I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh yes!”, she exclaimed. “I make my chicken salad the same way I make my potato salad. I dump in anything I can find in my refrigerator.”

I sat with that a while before turning the conversation back to the soup.

Sipping first, I offered, “I just remembered how I got started eating cream-of-chicken soup.”

Two interested faces turned my way.

“My mother used to give it to us when we were sick. She started with chicken noodle, and when that stayed down, we graduated to this.” I slurped another spoonful.

“And ginger ale!”, I said after swallowing.

“My mother gave us ginger ale.” Susan concurred, still casting a doubtful eye in the direction of my bowl.

“And not even good ginger ale, just regular ginger ale. It was one of my favorite things about being sick.” As I spoke, I flashed on the sickroom of my childhood.

Days spent home from school were spent in the bed, and Mom had a television, reserved for just this occasion. After my sisters had left for the bus stop, she pushed it in on the rolling cart it lived in. It was the only time we ever had the television all to ourselves. The door to the bedroom remained closed unless she opened it to bring in ginger ale, soup, aspirin, and/or Pepto-Bismol. I think about those days often, even thirty-plus years later. It was the only time I had Mom all to myself, and the time when she seemed the most caring.

“We had broth.”, I realized Susan was speaking.

What ensued was a discussion of forgotten culinary delights. The fish sticks that were a mainstay of many a baby-boomer’s Friday night, as Mom finished applying her lipstick, while Dad left to pick up the baby sitter. The SpaghettiOs, which Mom later insisted she had never served us at the picnic table while on vacation at the beach. But I can still remember how good they tasted paired with pan-fried luncheon loaf. And pimento cheese! Specifically toasted pimento cheese sandwiches and the pimento cheese toast Dad baked in the oven on Saturday mornings.

We came away with the realization that dietary habits have changed drastically over the past thirty years, and probably for the best. At the same time though, I wonder at the loss of simplicity and routine inherent in the foods of our childhood.

Our children may have a finer grade of food, but I wonder if it loses something in the translation. My children never experienced the camaraderie of Friday nights in front of the television, watching the same sit-coms for years on end, after finishing a plate of breaded, compressed fish parts. They won’t remember the anticipation of smelling the scent of rosewater that preceded Mrs. Jordan into the house, or the sense of awe when Mom finally emerged from the back of the house, having traded her uniform of polyester pull-ons for a skirt and heels.

A cherry armoire hides my son’s television from view, but it’s always there. When he stays home from school, he does so in the bed, watching the same television he always watches. And the door to his bedroom remains closed until I open it, bearing a glass of ginger ale, a cup of soup, or ibuprofen.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a day off to spend with my son. I called him in for lunch, and as he washed his hands, I filled his plate with greasy, brown fish sticks.

“Mom! We never eat this stuff!”, he exclaimed through a grin.

“Is it ok?”, I asked.

“Yeah!”, he exuded.

Yeah…