Dog spa day seemed like a good idea. Until it wasn't. Puffy's beard was getting mangy and gross. Star has been shedding like crazy. We have a huge walk-in shower. I've showered with my dogs before. Puffy's spa treatment went well. I shampooed him and gave him a Swedish massage. I trimmed his beard and eyebrows and then clipped his toenails. The little fella actually seemed to enjoy it. Star was a reluctant participant of spa day. She's a big girl; nearly 75 lbs. But she desperately needed a shampoo, brush, and possibly a blow out. We have large tumble weeds of Star fur billowing throughout our house. It's like an old western town. During the shower, Star was stress shedding. I was covered in it. I looked like a Yeti. I managed to get her shampooed and as de-furred as possible. Then I got greedy. Her toenails are ratchet; long and unruly and clacking on the hardwood floors. The first two paws went well and then the last 2, I clipped them too short. I don't think it hurt her but it looked like a shark attack in the bottom of the shower. Of course, dog spa day had been my idea. Lee went along with it because he knew it was pointless to try to reason with me. I had even thought, now that we are empty-nesters, we can have dog spa day every Sunday. I had shower duty and Lee had towel duty. Star was bleeding all over the floor with every step. It was wet dog fur and blood and puddles. Lee was not amused. He did not see the humor in the situation. I had to shower again to get all the excess dog fur off and clean the shower while he had to dry 2 wet dogs, one with 2 toenail injuries. My husband doesn't ever lose his patience, but he was damn close. Then we had to try to bandage Star's paws. First aid tape doesn't stick to damp dog fur. We probably went through about a half a dozen gauze pads and rolls of gauze until Lee decided to put tube socks on Star. All she cares about is getting scraps from the table. Lee had even warned me before I clipped their nails to be careful not to go too short. After we ate dinner, Lee said the only reason he was irritated was due to his hunger. But I know he was irritated because I signed him up to be a groomer for dog spa day.
The other day, Puffy bit me. He's never bitten before and it was my fault, really. I was in my bedroom and I heard one of the dogs crying. When I rounded the corner I saw Puffy laying outside his kennel biting the wire at the bottom of the cage. He's older and has Canine Cognitive Disorder so at first I thought he was just acting crazy. Then I realized his back paw was stuck. His little toe, the toenail to be exact, had somehow gotten caught in the wire and he couldn't get it out. I sat down next to him and tried to free his back paw but the toenail was long and hooked over the wire. I should have anticipated that he might not understand my efforts to free him were benevolent. He looked over and chomped down on my right forearm. I had to pry his teeth off me. And his foot was still stuck. I was able to hold his snout and get his toenail unhooked from the kennel and, immediately, he was happy and hopping around and sniffing me. I had a perfect imprint of his teeth on my forearm. Luckily there was no broken skin and he's up to date on his shots. I still called a couple of ER friends and did a video chat with Methodist Hospital to make sure I didn't need antibiotics. Everyone reassured me that I was fine and they all had more sympathy for the dog. Not only had I been viciously attacked by my best friend, but I had also been betrayed. The emotional pain was worse than the physical pain.
I think the toenail caught on the kennel instigated dog spa day. That and Star's exceptionally long nails. But I think there might be more to it than just canine hygiene. I think that I am grasping at how to fill my time now that all 3 of my kids are gone. The other day I cleaned and vacuumed my whole house. I've been tackling my to-do list for work. I've been working more days. I've gone to hang out with my mom. I've been to exercise. I've watched TV. I've been out with friends. I've done my daily devotionals and journaled. But it's weird to think this is it.
The dogs are getting old. By a cruel twist of fate, I think that the rainbow bridge is not too far off for either one of them. The other day when my mom came over to let the dogs out, Puffy got lost in the back yard. When she went outside to find him, he was waiting outside the shed doors to be let back in the house. We had to buy Star rubber socks to wear on her back paws because she is having trouble getting her back legs off the floor. A few times I've found her spread-eagle like a starfish on the ground and I have to help her up. She cries a lot at night too. We have her on pain medicine and joint supplements, but I don't think they are doing the trick. The vet offered to give her acupuncture.
The hardest part about the dogs is they were litter mates with my kids. The 5 of them grew up together. I can still count to 3 and Star will listen to me. They have been remarkably good dogs. I'm not ready to say goodbye to them. We just started dog spa day. Star needs to have her quinceañera next April. I need at least one daughter with a quinceañera. I'll never be ready to say goodbye. The miles we've walked in the neighborhood and on the bayou, the nights of them sleeping in my kids' rooms, the countless afternoons when it's just been me and the dogs, my 2 pals lying on the ground next to me, and the hundreds of photos and videos of them I've annoyingly sent on our family group text - that is the hardest chapter to bring to an end. This is the hardest part of empty nesting. The kids leaving is hard. But the dogs leaving - that is devastating.
In August, my last one will leave the nest. For this, I am profoundly unprepared. It all went much faster than I could have predicted.
Being the parent of young adults is an art that I have yet to master. In my mind, I still think of them as little puppies. I want to tell them what to do all of the time. But, they aren't necessarily appreciative of my unsolicited advice. I find it difficult to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. I think this is where conflict mostly arises. When they share something with me it's not because they want my input.
When I talk to my friends who have children that are roughly the same age, they tell me the same thing. I think it is easier for my husband. I don't know why. It's not like he doesn't care what goes on in their lives but he doesn't try to tell them what to do. He comes across as more accepting and thus, they talk to him about more things. Sometimes he doesn't tell me stuff because the kids ask him not to tell me ('Don't tell mom. She'll freak!"). They are correct.
My general approach to life has been to catastrophize. Regardless of the situation that is being put forth, if it involves one of my kids, I think of the ABSOLUTE WORST SCENARIO. It is a character flaw. I know this about myself. Thus far, in real-life, none of the doom-filled scenes have played-out. I am working on this with my therapist; my tendency to react rather than respond. It's not easy.
Most of life isn't easy. There are episodes of utter, unadulterated joy and in these times I try to be cognizant of what is happening. Usually, it's something seemingly mundane and lacking in ceremony - a drive in the car, a morning when everyone is home, a meal around a table. It's during these moments I try to remember to give thanks. Those of us who are of my generation can recall Mountain Dew commercials. It was always kids in their early 20s jumping off cliffs into a lake or jet-skiing or laughing with their friends around a campfire. It was all very curated and made to seem like life was one giant fun-filled adventure. Honestly, that is what social media is now; it's the Mountain Dew commercials of yesterday. We had the benefit of knowing it was scripted. I think we forget that when scroll through our feeds.
The day of and the 2 days following my daughter's graduation, I bawled my eyes out. During pilates, I wept. At the stop light, I wept. In the shower, I wept. These were giant, breath-sucking, snot-slinging sobs. At night, I cried myself to sleep. I didn't think I had any more tears to shed, but they kept coming. I'm not alone. I know there are other weepers out there. You've texted me. I know you exist. Don't worry, I'm not going to out you. I'm so freaking grateful for you and your realness, for your vulnerability, for your friendship, for your transparency, for your partnership in feeling inadequate, for sharing your mistakes. I know your victories; sometimes I have to remind you of them (and vice versa). But it's the sorrow and the anxiety and worry that binds us together.
What am I going to do when my nest is empty? At times I'll roost, but I'm going to use my wings to fly. As long as they'll have me and as I learn to listen more and talk less, I'll fly to wherever my chicks make their own nests. I'll keep my nest nice and cozy so they can come back whenever they'd like. I'll come sit on your porch, drink your coffee or your wine and laugh or cry with you. I'll spend time with those I love and take stock in the here and now and treasure all the moments that make this a life.
