My twin brother Paul and I are standing in front of our mom's car, a hard-top convertible. The battered photo's edge reads "FEB 64" which would make us just over three, though the picture was probably taken in fall, making us under three, given the sun and shadow, short sleeves and naked ground. I think Paul is on the left, though I'm not completely sure of this assertion (maybe my mother will know if I ask her). We are dressed neatly, in the same dark navy corduroy pants and powder blue cotton shirts. I am scratching my neck; perhaps from a bug bite. Or maybe I just want the picture moment to be over with. Paul looks steadily into the camera, his stance confident and sure. I'm a bit more tentative. It's difficult to see, but we are holding hands. A tender gesture that tells me every think I need to know about this moment. We have each other in the torrent that is our young lives. The photographer captures both the car and the boys, perhaps unsure of which to choose. The photograph is torn and tattered, the car showing signs of rust and wear, and parked in front of our Aunt Irene's ramshackle home at Wells beach where we lived until we were five. Today, the house still stands, and sometimes I want to stop and ask the owners if I can take a look around to see if anything stirs, ghosts from my early life that might reflect some flicker of who I've become.
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Transition from summer to fall. It's always hard. Today on my walk through the neighborhood with Dasher, I come across a small turtle, no bigger than a boy's fist, smashed to bits on the road's edge. He's long gone, cracked pieces of shell cover what was once tiny organs, a young turtle's life. This past spring, I helped another much larger turtle across the road at this exact spot; she perhaps is experiencing her own grief at the brutal nature of life, her offspring flattened by a car tire. Then, a few hundred yards ahead lies another small turtle, crushed and composting into the road's detritus. My eyes well up. Dasher makes a quick olfactory inspection of the crumbling carnage and moves on. We continue our walk, transitioning from summer into fall, death behind us. Now, back at home, she is asleep on my lap. Homeostasis.
I'm here with our rescue pup Dasher. She's sweet and loyal and loves to cuddle. We've been a family, she, my partner Michael, and me, since April, 2015 - over seven years. At the time, I had done some animal transport rescue, and realized how much I wanted my own pup. Michael had raised dogs with his former partner, and was reluctant to to again take on dog ownership. After some discussion, we compromised on fostering. We met a volunteer with Lucky Pup Rescue from Kennebunk, Maine, who conducted a home visit to be sure we'd be suitable foster parents for animals who often needed TLC. She also wanted to make sure we had a fenced-in backyard for the our future foster to run and play. We do. Our only criteria was that we wanted to foster a small dog.
Dasher came off the long transport truck in Kittery, Maine where we life, here little body shaking from head to tail's tip. I took her into my arms and held on tight. Two weeks into our foster, we got a call from the folks at Lucy Put who said they had someone who wanted to adopt her. After a brief conversation, we realized we could not let her go, and decided to adopt her. The rescue had named her Sally, which didn't seem to fit her personality. We landed on Dasher, because she was quick on her feet and reminded us of a small deer, sans the white spots. We later learned that this experience of foster-to-adopter is quite common, and that "foster failure" was the term we had now earned. Fair enough. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2023
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