ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2010-04-09 02:50 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2010-04-09 02:50 pm
Friday – Nickels, Dimes and Dogs
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“First my dog and then my grocery store,” I said to The Carney, a.k.a., the Angel of Death, a.k.a. Jim, “You keep nickeling and diming me, man.”
The Carney didn’t even look at me, though he did crack a crooked grin on the side of his mouth that wasn’t holding his cigarette. Being just slightly younger than Time (who he once told me he admires and considers to be a mentor), he’s been around long enough to know that pissing and moaning is part of human nature. It's something people need to do from time to time in order to make ourselves feel better by wallowing in our own misery for a bit. The demise of my 16-year-old dog and the closing down of one of the last family-owned-and-operated grocery stores in southeast Texas are of little concern to Jim. He’s seen it all – literally – millions upon millions of times before. Still, he tried to sound sympathetic. Not enough people give him credit for it, but Death has a strong streak of decency.
“Sorry ‘bout that, baby girl. You’ll adjust; least most people do. I noticed you been crying more about the store than you did about the dog.”
I felt my face grow a little warm. He was right; I cried when my dog died, but her lifespan was obviously near its end and, while her death made me sad, it also came as a relief. News of the mom-and-pop grocery store’s demise, however, came as a shock and I’m still reeling from the idea of it closing. I’ve cried a lot more over that retail establishment than I did over my pet.
“I can get a new dog,” I said, “There are hundreds to choose from within 50 miles of me. There are only 3 other places to buy groceries around me, and I hate them all.” Even I had to admit this sounded a little shallow. Okay, a lot shallow. “I guess I’m rotten for feeling that way.”
“Nah, cut yourself some slack,” Jim said, taking a draw on his cigarette, “It’s not the store you’re crying over. If they were opening up in a new building, you’d be fine with that. What you’re crying over is the relationships and the experiences the store represents to you. That’s part of what makes you humans kinda sweet; the way y’all get attached to each other but cover it up by thinking you're all attached to something else all a buffer. You’re more like dogs than cats is what it comes down to. You need your pack around you and your territory staked out. Even people who think they’re like cats are more like dogs. Some dogs need smaller packs and less turf, but it don't make 'em a cat.” He reached down to scratch his dog’s head.
I guess I forgot to mention that: death has a dog now. The beast jumped off the Ferris Wheel of Life a couple months ago and instead of passing through the gate like everyone else does, or jumping back on in a new car like some others do, he walked over and lay at Jim’s feet. It looks to be some sort of Border Collie/Labrador mix. Sometimes the dog tries to herd the souls stepping off of the Wheel when Jim stops it to let them off, until Jim gives a sharp whistle and the dog races back to sit at his feet. Then the dog gives a short bark at the recently demised people to let them know he is still watching them.
“I’ve had dogs before,” Jim told me the first time I saw the dog and he introduced us. “Sometimes they stay a few years, sometimes they even stay a millennium or two. Then one day they jump back on the ride to be a puppy again, or wander through the gate to find their previous owner. Thing with dogs is, they like being dogs, and wouldn’t consider being anything else. Cats’ll come back as anything, so long as it has claws, but dogs gotta be dogs. Anyway, since he ain’t staying forever I’m not gonna bother naming him.”
I reached down to scratch Death’s dog’s other ear, and he closed his eyes and got that dreamy look dogs get when they are really, really content.
“Yeah, he likes that. Don’t’cha, pal? Anyway, grieve what ya gotta grieve, baby girl. Dogs, places, or whatever other parts of your world that you love and you’re gonna long for they're gone. Ain’t no shame in that.”
He tipped back his head and blew a smoke ring, meaning the subject was all wrapped up as far he was concerned. As the ring floated about his head like a hazy gray halo, he smiled and winked. After all this time I’ve known him, Death is still a big flirt. I consider it ill advised to flirt back, but I always appreciate the gesture, nevertheless.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
“First my dog and then my grocery store,” I said to The Carney, a.k.a., the Angel of Death, a.k.a. Jim, “You keep nickeling and diming me, man.”
The Carney didn’t even look at me, though he did crack a crooked grin on the side of his mouth that wasn’t holding his cigarette. Being just slightly younger than Time (who he once told me he admires and considers to be a mentor), he’s been around long enough to know that pissing and moaning is part of human nature. It's something people need to do from time to time in order to make ourselves feel better by wallowing in our own misery for a bit. The demise of my 16-year-old dog and the closing down of one of the last family-owned-and-operated grocery stores in southeast Texas are of little concern to Jim. He’s seen it all – literally – millions upon millions of times before. Still, he tried to sound sympathetic. Not enough people give him credit for it, but Death has a strong streak of decency.
“Sorry ‘bout that, baby girl. You’ll adjust; least most people do. I noticed you been crying more about the store than you did about the dog.”
I felt my face grow a little warm. He was right; I cried when my dog died, but her lifespan was obviously near its end and, while her death made me sad, it also came as a relief. News of the mom-and-pop grocery store’s demise, however, came as a shock and I’m still reeling from the idea of it closing. I’ve cried a lot more over that retail establishment than I did over my pet.
“I can get a new dog,” I said, “There are hundreds to choose from within 50 miles of me. There are only 3 other places to buy groceries around me, and I hate them all.” Even I had to admit this sounded a little shallow. Okay, a lot shallow. “I guess I’m rotten for feeling that way.”
“Nah, cut yourself some slack,” Jim said, taking a draw on his cigarette, “It’s not the store you’re crying over. If they were opening up in a new building, you’d be fine with that. What you’re crying over is the relationships and the experiences the store represents to you. That’s part of what makes you humans kinda sweet; the way y’all get attached to each other but cover it up by thinking you're all attached to something else all a buffer. You’re more like dogs than cats is what it comes down to. You need your pack around you and your territory staked out. Even people who think they’re like cats are more like dogs. Some dogs need smaller packs and less turf, but it don't make 'em a cat.” He reached down to scratch his dog’s head.
I guess I forgot to mention that: death has a dog now. The beast jumped off the Ferris Wheel of Life a couple months ago and instead of passing through the gate like everyone else does, or jumping back on in a new car like some others do, he walked over and lay at Jim’s feet. It looks to be some sort of Border Collie/Labrador mix. Sometimes the dog tries to herd the souls stepping off of the Wheel when Jim stops it to let them off, until Jim gives a sharp whistle and the dog races back to sit at his feet. Then the dog gives a short bark at the recently demised people to let them know he is still watching them.
“I’ve had dogs before,” Jim told me the first time I saw the dog and he introduced us. “Sometimes they stay a few years, sometimes they even stay a millennium or two. Then one day they jump back on the ride to be a puppy again, or wander through the gate to find their previous owner. Thing with dogs is, they like being dogs, and wouldn’t consider being anything else. Cats’ll come back as anything, so long as it has claws, but dogs gotta be dogs. Anyway, since he ain’t staying forever I’m not gonna bother naming him.”
I reached down to scratch Death’s dog’s other ear, and he closed his eyes and got that dreamy look dogs get when they are really, really content.
“Yeah, he likes that. Don’t’cha, pal? Anyway, grieve what ya gotta grieve, baby girl. Dogs, places, or whatever other parts of your world that you love and you’re gonna long for they're gone. Ain’t no shame in that.”
He tipped back his head and blew a smoke ring, meaning the subject was all wrapped up as far he was concerned. As the ring floated about his head like a hazy gray halo, he smiled and winked. After all this time I’ve known him, Death is still a big flirt. I consider it ill advised to flirt back, but I always appreciate the gesture, nevertheless.
no subject
Do grieve whatever you need to, Nina. Change takes a lot of time.
And just because I like to know these things on my entries, here:
Dogs, places, or whatever otehr parts of your world that you love and you’re gonna long for they're gone. Ain’t no shame in that.”
You misspelled "other" in the line above.
And here:
He tipped back his head and blew a smoke ring, meaning the subject was all wrapped up as far he was concern.
I think you meant "Concerned"
There is no shame in crying more about one loss than another. Loss is loss and, for me, sometimes I cry more over the "little" things...for me, loss "piles" up. Like I cried and cried about my jeans getting ruined recently...but, honestly, it wasn't the jeans I was crying for. It was a pile of other things that happened before that that I was crying about.
no subject
Incidentally, did you know that both Robert Frost and F. Scott Fitzgerald were both really bad spellers? Probably not. It's the kind of thing that only a really bad speller remembers and takes comfort in.
I'm been crying about my mom, my cousin Leslie, and everything else I've lost lately. It's like I store all my grief in a box and it gets jumbled up somehow. What a funny thing the human brain is.
no subject
Grief is funny like that. I don't know if it means we never get over things completely or?
Like...sometimes, what my little girl does..she'll say something and it's so sweet and I remember being a little girl and longing to...longing for my mom to love me and so her "I love you, Mom" just makes me weep because I loved my mom too and...I don't know. I'm weird. Not every time but sometimes even happy things make me mourn something I "thought I was over."
::hugs:: Nina. For me, fighting tears doesn't help much. I actually (if I feel I need to) "plan out crying" sometimes. ie, if I feel...like..tearing up at every little thing...I don't want to be like that at college or whatever. So I..."plan" it...put on a sad song after my kids are in bed..."let it all out"...so I can stay composed later.
Sometimes that helps.
Now you probably REALLY think I am odd. I don't do it all the time or whatever. It's just grief is so odd..catches me unaware. Sometimes doing that helps me keep it together other times.
And I promise, I am happy person a lot of the time. This comment makes me sound very weepy.
There are just times. And it sounds like this is one for you, somewhat. ::hugs:: Each loss adds but people love you and we're here on the other side.
I am clumsily trying to..comfort you or something but I know..in a way, only time can help.
::hugs::
no subject
I'm okay. Writing is my therapy (I think we share that in common). Tears are healing and if I need to cry, I do (usually alone in the car when no one can see, another form of therapy I take advantage of). Crying alone is kind of luxurious, because when you are soaking down someone else's shoulder there is a general sense that you need to wrap it up as soon as possible before their shirt gets too wet. Crying behind the wheel of the car, you get to sob as long as the ride lasts (and then take a minute to fix to your face before you get out of the car at your destination).
*hugs*
no subject
*HUGS*
no subject