3 years ago this week, in a blaze of solo packing glory, I packed up our condo like a crazy person when it was suddenly, FINALLY confirmed that the sale would actually go through (don’t ask, there are seriously some things that even my blabber-mouth self will never be able to speak of,) and prepared to turn the keys over to the next owner of my beloved Treehouse.
I spent my last night there alone – Binky-the -wonder-dog having been carted off to my parents’ house, along with Jr in an effort to prevent his particular kind of packing “help,” (pulling everything out of boxes I had just filled whenever I turned away for a half a second;) and The Mr. traveling for business.
It was good that there were no witnesses to that particular brand of emoting – I wandered from room to room with a box of tissues in one hand and a bottle glass of Vhino Verde in the other; delivering long-winded, tear-gargling monologues about all of the fabulous memories each space held for me. There were several instances involving me hugging appliances and doorways, and a declaration of love for the giant patio that was so garbled by sobs and snot that I think I traumatized the next door neighbor’s cat permanently.
It was hours and hours of the textbook example by which to measure all other examples of “ugly cry.”
Last Sunday, the 25th, was the actual anniversary of that shameless emotional evening, and I was feeling particularly sorry for myself thinking back on it, and on the obvious and faultless wonder of The Treehouse and our fabulous perfect life there. Yep – time hadn’t clouded my memories of that At All.
At 3:00 in the morning Binky woke me from my peaceful, urban-dream-filled slumber. He was pacing and panicking and having a furry meltdown, scratching at the back door. One eye cracked open as I came downstairs, I popped on the back light expecting to see the dreaded Mega Coon, or our neighbor’s cat (equally menacing and WAY more carnivorous than even Mega Coon.) Nothing was there and my fuzzy first born was LOSING HIS MIND trying to get outside, so I opened the door and out he ran.
Turns out the poor guy had the poo. Like really. Like whoa.
As I watched him, um, dealing with his issue, all over the back yard, I was struck by the memories of a few nights in the city that were very different from that nostalgia and wine soaked last one in our old home. Memories of past tummy troubles with Binky, of him and me pacing up and down 7th avenue at horrifically early hours of very dark mornings, as he was coping with the aftermath of some mystery something he had snacked down on an earlier walk. Meanwhile, I was glancing back and forth, nervously aiming my pepper spray and a bag full of dog poo at any noise I perceived on the deserted streets – trying to throw my best crazy-don’t-screw-with-me eyes at the occasional teetering soul who dared pass too close headed home from some booty-call or night cap.
I did not miss that. I did not miss that one damn bit, and I don’t think my sick, miserable doggie missed going up and down in the elevator (that seemed to take FOREVER to come, on those nights in particular,) or trying to work out his issues going back and forth on one narrow patch of grass under a street light, with me standing right on top of him acting like a freakjob. (I know my weaknesses. Solo night time streets pretty much ANYWHERE is one of them.)
In and out went poor Binky for the next 3 hours, from his cozy home directly into his private, large back yard where he could do his doggie business as much as he needed while mom stayed on the sofa inside, sans pepper-spray and nutty faux-ninja-like reactions.
Around the time the sun was coming up, he came in for the last time and laid down overlooking his yard to rest.
I am not confirming or denying anything – but I may have even given that doorway a little hug.
Reluctantly Suburban 