Before I became Carson's mom, I was Houston's mom.
I didn't become a dog mom because I wanted practice for the real thing, or because I thought I might never have human children of my own (though my mother sent me an article on how to adopt babies from China when -- at 25 -- I was *still* single and without prospects).
I did it for the love. The pure, simple, written-all-over-his-wiggling-furry-body kind of love that only a dog can give.
This week, I had to say farewell to Houston after 14 long, full years together. We met in rural Illinois, and lived in nine houses in six states since then. In each, we went for walks, took a Christmas-light viewing car ride, shared popcorn on movie night, and turned in for bed together every night. He grew from my dog baby into my best dog friend. And I miss him terribly
On Monday, after the vet left with his body, I cleaned up the artifacts of dog life scattered throughout the house. A water bowl near the back door, a leash near the front. A food bin and dish in the second-floor bathroom, where I'd placed a special non-slip rug that prevented the door from closing but also kept Houston from falling down while he ate his dinner. The suede, cedar-smelling dog bed under my desk. It had to go.
These things would only trigger tears, I thought, I needed them out of sight. I put his bowls in the dishwasher and took his bed downstairs. Then I vaccuumed the black hair from the carpet in our bedroom before getting Carson at daycare. I was falling apart but at least the house looked calm and collected.
On the way home, I explained that Houston had gone away and wouldn't be there when we got home, but I'm never sure how much my almost-2-year old understands. Not long after we arrived home, Carson pulled his step stool over to the counter near the refrigerator and opened the junk drawer. He loves to look at the screw drivers, tape measure, and other tools in that drawer. But Monday he pulled out Houston's brush, brought it to me, lifted his hands in a quizzical gesture, and asked "Yeesh?" He went room to room looking for Houston while I sobbed in the kitchen and reminded him Houston is gone.
He hasn't looked for Houston again.
But I still expect the dog everywhere I look. I wake in the night suprised he isn't lying directly in the path to the bathroom. I turn the corner in the kitchen thinking Houston needs dinner, only to remember he's gone. Houston's death left a hole in my life big enough to fall in and get lost.
Last night, I came home from work to find Houston's plastic dog dishes on the kitchen counter. Our Afghan house guest (who I call my Afghan son, though he's 24 years old and has a mother of his own) had partly emptied the dishwasher and partly reloaded it (strange, I know). As I made dinner I found a few dishes out of place, and put them where they belonged. Then I cleaned up the kitchen and took my son up for his bath.
As I sat on the bed reading books with him, Leading Man came in the bedroom to report that our houseguest was eating a bowl of chili in Houston's porcelain water dish. The one with the dog decorations on it and the picture at the bottom of the bowl with the word "woof!" It was so surreal, I had to see it myself.
Sure enough, there was our guest at the kitchen table eating chili from a dog dish. He didn't know it was a dog dish (obviously) and I don't know where he put the bowl when he emptied the dishwasher, but there it was.
For once I was thinking about Houston and laughing (not crying) on the inside. The universe has a strange sense of humor, that's for sure. But comic relief feels great. So I say, "Go ahead, Universe, make mine a chili dog."
