You know how you go to work at your lunch lady job, and the maintenance man retires, the one who is the nicest man on the planet, who greets your son at school every day with a high-five and a smile and treats him like he doesn’t have a special need in the world, when really your son would rather listen to “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy” on his electric piano on the highest volume, ALL day long than do anything else, and the nicest man on the planet draws you funny pictures, and would do anything for anyone, and makes work totally non-work-like, and the school has an assembly for him and the kids sing “In My Life” and you start crying SUPER hard, and then the nicest man on the planet sees your son in the crowd and picks him up, and your son says, “I wish that you would never leave”, and then they hug in front of the entire school and you sob so violently that when you go back to the cafeteria you can barely roll up the turkey wraps?

Yeah, me too.

Goodbye, Mr. B.  We love you.

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One evening, not long after we bought our house in 1998, I was home alone when I noticed a car slow down, then stop out front.  From my bedroom window I could see two men sitting in the front seat, looking up at my house.

They pulled away, but a few minutes later they were back.  This went on a few times…them slowing, then stopping in front of the house, then pulling away, only to return again.

As dark approached, I called my husband and asked him to hurry home.  Then I called my sister-in-law, who lived nearby.  Right after I hung up with her, I stood frozen in the dark corner of my living room as I saw one of the men peeking in the window just a few feet from where I was standing.

My first call was to the police (the man was caught and arrested at the end of my street) and my second call was to my husband to tell him that I wanted a dog.  Like, now.

A month later we went to look at a litter of Labradors.  I didn’t pick out the snugly pup or the one who was covering me with kisses.  I chose the dog who was pulling my purse across the driveway.

Here’s a hint…when choosing a puppy, the one who pulls your purse across the driveway may also turn out to be the one who drags a 25 lb., frozen turkey out of the kitchen sink and tears it to shreds that you find all over your house.

She may be the one who gets the trash can off the kitchen counter and spreads coffee grounds and dirty diapers in every room.

She could be the dog that you refer to as, “The Shark” because she eats everything in sight, including the entire box of doughnuts belonging to the construction workers down the street, a 12 inch tall, solid-chocolate bunny, a breast pad, and a ham shank that makes her leave piles of diarrhea and vomit all over the house. 

Also, that mess might just be discovered on your 30th birthday AND be smelled all the way from your garage.  Your detached garage.

Did I mention that she may jump the fence and run away frequently too?  So, you’ll have that going for you.

But, she might also be the dog who fiercely protects you and viciously barks at anyone who even looks at your yard.  She could be the one thing that makes you feel safe in your own home, because you know she wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.

She may be the most loyal partner you could ask for, but once you have a baby she leaves your side to go lay under the crib. 

She could be one of the best dogs you ever have.

But damn, it’s going to hurt your heart bad when she gets old.

Fair warning.

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About a week ago, I had a nightmare. 

I dreamed that there was a knock at our front door.  Keep in mind, a knock at the door is a daily occurance around here.  We live in close proximity to quite a few schools and there are a lot of politically active people in our neighborhood.  Someone is always fundraising or trying to get you to swing your vote.

In this nightmare, I ignored the knock.  So the dream was, virtually, reality because that is exactly what I do when I’m awake, except that I usually see the person coming and shut the blinds first.

In my dream, I ignored the knock, only to hear three, consecutive knocks a few moments later.  Against my better judgement, I opened the door only to be pushed back into my foyer by an intruder with a gun.

Then I woke up.

This nightmare will stay with me for awhile.  I know that.  I clearly remember two nightmares I had when I was eight years old, a series of them that I had when my ex-boyfriend was harassing me and one a few years ago about me, my husband, our two kids and the SUV in which we were riding going over the side of a cliff.  Whoever said that dreams are rainbows and unicorns doesn’t know a thing about my brain.

Last night, in my real life, someone rang the doorbell and I ignored it.  A few moments later, there were three, consecutive rings.  It was just like what I had experienced in my dream.

My 11 year old daughter asked, “Are you going to answer the door?”

I replied, “No.”

She questioned me further.  “Why?  Are you thinking about that dream you had?”

“No”, I lied.

She was on to me.  She glared at me and said, “You know, Mom, you can’t let your nightmares control your life.”

I may not be as smart as she is, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t open that door.

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So, you know how you go to work in the school cafeteria in your $100 shoes that you bought because your plantar fasciitis was really acting up, and then suddenly the hip you’ve had problems with since you were 19 years old decides to make you start limping like you’re elderly, and then you go home to find your one year old dog got your bottle of Ambien off of the counter and REMOVED THE CHILDPROOF LID, and you think that you can’t call the vet because she will insist that you bring her in and they’ll pump her stomach and it will cost you $800 and the dog will still die, so you look it up online and see that you should induce vomiting, so you give the dog some Hydrogen Peroxide and then she vomits the entire world in your backyard while you’re walking around holding your ears and singing, “La-la, I can’t hear you making that hacking sound and re-eating your own vomit”, and then you go pick up your kids at school and your son has a fever and he cries so hard that he throws up too.

Yeah, me too.

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