BOONE - Part 1 of the HMB Doggie Series

CHAPTER 2

It’s the first night alone in our my house. Megan and James stayed with me the whole weekend, God bless their souls. But as Monday’s ugly face loomed ahead, I knew Megan would have to suit up and be the big-time lawyer she is and James would have to go back to running his construction company. They can’t babysit me forever.

It’s Sunday night and I’m sitting out on my front porch, an untouched glass of wine by my side like a loyal dog. I know I should go inside and try to get some work done…I haven’t worked all week. But I just can’t bring myself to be creative. As a fictional writer, my whole world thrives on being creative. But since Eric’s death I just can’t bring myself to sit down at my computer and stare at an empty page, waiting for the juices to start flowing. Staring at an empty page right now just reminds me of this empty abyss I’m about to embark on.

A knot the size of an orange forms in my throat and I grab my glass to try and wash it down. I can’t let my head go there right now.

So instead I stare out at the darkening sky. The nip in the air seeps through my thin cotton sweater, like tentacles wrapping around an unsuspecting prey. I like the feel of it though…like a reminder that I’m still alive. I savor this first sip of wine, letting the liquid warm my mouth before I let the warmth flood down my throat and run its course through my body. The sky itself is a luscious watercolor of reds, oranges, pinks, purples and blues. It’s amazing the color spectrum that one can gauge just by sitting, doing nothing but drinking a glass of wine. It makes me wish I knew how to paint.

I twirl the stem of my wineglass between my fingers. The leaves on the trees are changing colors already, reminding me that Fall is encroaching upon me, leading inevitably to the holiday season, which just happens to be Eric’s favorite time of year. That man was like an eight year old girl on Christmas Day, waking me up at the ass-crack of dawn so we could open our presents and have a cozy breakfast by the fire. It’s going to be very weird not having that this year, since that’s all I’ve known for the past 12 years we’ve been married.

We were your prototypical high school sweethearts. We met when we were twelve and, of course, at that time I was just barely starting to notice boys. Megan, however, was hot on James’s tail and since he was Eric’s best friend, it was only a matter of time before we all became close friends. James finally noticed Megan’s pixie-like spunk our freshmen year of high school. And Eric finally found the balls to say he’d been in love with me since we met. We were never apart after that. We got married after college at the tender age of 21 and I haven’t looked back since. Eric is the only man I’ve ever slept with and the idea of another mans hands on my body brings bile up my throat like lava.

A swift breeze sweeps my hair in my face and I shiver, coming back to the fact that it’s Fall and I’m sitting out on my porch in the dying light in nothing but a sweater and yoga pants, begging for the universe to throw me a nasty cold. I ease myself off the front steps and turn toward the front door, already anticipating the inescapable silence that will greet me when I walk inside.

Don’t be a pansy, Sal. Just do it.

I ease the door open and peek inside, like I’m expecting the bad guy with a gun to come out and start slinging bullets.

Nothing happens, however. And that I find even more frightening. There’s no action in the kitchen, no TV blaring from the living room, no water running from the bathroom. I fight the surge of loneliness that threatens to overwhelm me. It’s a deceptively foreboding weight that catches me at random moments, like when I’m stepping into the shower or opening a bottle of wine. And yes, those are really the only two actions I’ve done all week.

I ease down onto the couch and turn on the stereo, hoping a little smooth jazz will bring some light into this once happy room. I take a sip of wine and lay my head back, letting the sound of saxophones and trumpets lull me into a trance. I hear my phone ping from the kitchen counter. I have the urge to lunge for it like a lifeline but I hold back. I won’t be able to rely on phone calls and text messages to keep me occupied forever. I will need to program myself to be alone now. I’ll somehow have to get comfortable with the fact that it’s just me in this house now. This three bedroom, three bath house that Eric designed and James built. This dream home where I envisioned children running around in the backyard and me attempting dinner in the kitchen while Eric worked in his study on yet another of his beautiful floor plans.

Mother-trucker, this isn’t working. I gulp a mouthful of wine and stomp towards my phone. I can’t help it. I’m weak and I need a distraction. Freaking sue me.

The text is, of course, from Megan:

- How many bottles have you had so far? ;)

I snort and answer with:

- I’m on my first glass :p

- Wow really?! I figured you’d be bombed by now!

- I’m working on it, trust me. And it’s only 6:00…what do you take me for a lush?

- LOL hardly. I’m picking you up for lunch tomorrow so don’t be too hungover ;)

- Dually noted

I refill my glass and head back to the couch, phone in hand.

I spend the next thirty minutes trolling Facebook and Instagram, resisting the urge to post anything myself because I can bet my right arm I’d end up regretting it. And all I really accomplish is cementing the fact that others out there are happy and healthy, while I’m anything but.

Life is so unfair. As I’m thinking this very real truth, I scroll across a picture of a puppy. It’s a sponsored post by one of the many shelters speckled around the area and the caption reads something along the lines of my very thought that life is unfair. Puppies being brought into shelters, dogs being abandoned because they’re old or sick or their owners are too old and sick to care for them…the reasons seem endless.

“I feel for ya, little guy.”

As I stare into his soulful eyes, I can’t help but feel mine misting up. I don’t even resist as the first tear starts a track line down my face. Another falls. And then another.

Before I know it I’m clutching my phone to my chest, wine glass forgotten on the table in front of me, bawling like a little girl. And I know why I’m crying. It’s not because Eric was taken from me, per se, but of course that’s a huge part of it. It’s more because the Universe, in her sadistic and inequitable way, has managed to fuck over some of the most innocent and undeserving creatures on this planet. I’ve never so much as gotten a speeding ticket and the Universe decides to dish out a drunk driver to kill my husband. This puppy, who’s name happens to be Boone, came into this world thinking he was in the clear to have a happy home with a loving family but he was relegated to the shelter because he was born on the streets.

Innocent people shot in the street, campus shootings, terrorist attacks, some poor dude getting struck by lightening…it would seem that the Universe is just out to screw us all.

I weep and weep and weep. And it’s not a pretty weep. It’s the no-holds-barred-snot-bubbles kind of weeping that would have me running for the bathroom if Megan and James were unlucky enough to be here. I cry until I collapse from exhaustion (or maybe it’s the wine.) I’ve expended any energy I had and I don’t even bother to grab a blanket as I feel sleep wrap her fingers around me and pull me under.

~~~

I wake up the next morning exactly as I fell the night before. I hadn’t moved an inch. My phone is still in my hands. A fruit fly is dancing around the rim of my wineglass. With bleary eyes I make my way to the kitchen and dump the remains of my drink down the sink. I place the glass in the dishwasher, idly noticing I have literally no dishes that need to be washed. I really need to start eating.

I check my phone to see if I missed any texts or calls, but instead happen across the very picture that made me loose it last night. Boone still has those soulful eyes, the sweet face and fluffy ears. He looks like a German Shepherd mix (or maybe even purebred? I don’t know...I can barely spot a Dalmatian.) Nevertheless, Boone really spectacular. I feel my heart strings start to tug and for the life of me I try to shut it off. I can’t afford another meltdown like that again.

Apparently no one wants to bother a grieving widow because I have no calls or texts to attend to, except two from Megan checking on the status of my inebriated self-care program and one from James telling me he’s taking an equally drunk Megan to bed so I can sip-sip in peace.

I make my way to the bathroom and start up the shower. I decide that I’m going to make something of myself today. Since all I have is frozen casserole to nosh on, I decide my first order of business will be to go to the market and get some food. Good food that doesn’t require a microwave or a listless set of hands to prepare.

I strip out of my clothes and make the mistake of glancing in our my mirror. I sigh with displeasure. My body doesn’t look like that of a well-toned machine, a machine I’ve been working on putting together for the past five years when Eric convinced me to join his gym. I’ve always been trim, but once I started weight training I noticed a subtle change in how my body looked. Things got tighter, perkier and leaner. Now all I see is this drab little waif staring back at me.

I decide to attempt a visit to the gym today. I know in my heart of hearts it will only depress me further, since it was a place Eric and I frequented together and spent countless hours being each others cheerleaders, but I also know it will make me feel physically better. I can still be depressed with a banging body.

As I shower my mind drifts to little Boone and his sweet face.

An idea starts to hatch in my ever-muddled brain. Maybe the water is miraculously clearing it.

What if, just maybe, by getting a dog I could somehow fill this hole that’s been torn through my chest? Would it be better to have something else to focus on and not the dismal reality that I very well may never have sex again?

I know a dog can’t replace Eric, but maybe it would be the company I need to actually live in this house and not want to drink myself into a snotting mess every night.

I finish showering, towel off, send a quick text to Megan that lunch needs to be postponed (as does my half-hearted decision to work out) and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater…the first real outfit I’ve worn since the funeral.

I head for the car with a little more spring in my step.