Ode To Legs

 Greetings all, it’s me here, up at 2:00 a.m., probably awoken by a nightmare but I don’t recall. Maybe Legs came to me in my sleep and awoke me, who knows. I know what’s required, took some more Simply Sleep, so I’m waiting for that to kick in, which it should in due course. While waiting, I wanted to reflect on my dear, departed Sir Little Legs, the most legendary Basset you could ever hope to meet. Descended from stud Special Forces, who won the Hound group at Westminster. Only male in that litter of females I saw when I went with Shirl to Athens to pick our pups out. So loud that he drove at least three people out from surrounding homes to our property. Anxious, drooly, yet ever so lovable, Legs was ours, and we loved him so much.

Thinking about how he was struggling in the end, I was struck yesterday afternoon with such profound grief, and doubt as to whether we were good parents for Legs…mom assured me that we were, we spoiled him, let him have the run of this place, walked him, tried to train him and socialize him from the get-go, yet he always was nervous around other dogs (never people). I’m pretty sure this is because his litter was removed from their mother early—maybe that’s why he was only $300 (or was it $350?). Sometimes I would get so embarrassed by his barking, other times I felt protected by it. I thought about getting him a bark collar, but that felt so cruel so I didn’t end up purchasing one. Oh, was I a bad parent, or maybe just a bad neighbor? Is everyone around us silently celebrating Legs’ demise? Will sweet Basset Lily pick up where Legs left off? Will Legs be reincarnated into another Basset we might adopt?

Dearest Legs, I miss you terribly. I cannot look at your chair without feeling such incredible pain. I’m going to have Michael put it out by the trash (when he is ready). I’m not throwing you in the trash, Legs, I just know your beloved piece belongs with all of my art works that are waiting for it at the dump. I’ll be listening for you today, Legs, in the voices of birds out in the trees in our yard. I know you are here with me, and I know you’re not suffering anymore. Perhaps you can follow me down to Athens when I drive down there with Arlene this Spring. I’ll bring your clay paw print with me, tucked in my purse so I have you close. Edwin the house cleaner will soon be here to wash you away from the floors, but it will be cathartic for us all. I may never clean your blanket again, or maybe down the line I will cut the blanket up into pieces for a quilted piece of art. My heart is broken, dear Legs. I miss you so.

Keep Movin’ On

 Well I’ve cued up the Ray Charles, like we did when we headed out West to Yellowstone. We are on our way to Med Vet. Michael talked to them about cremation services. Tears are flowing. I’m prepared.

***

Legs is gone. Our beloved, loud Athens hound has joined Big Lou and Miss Nell at the Rainbow Bridge. At last, he isn’t suffering anymore, he is at peace. Michael was back with him during the last moments before the euthanasia, I couldn’t bear to see him, so I sat crying in the waiting room, talking to a youngster there, who offered soothing words as I sobbed. At least I could shed some tears, the Risperdal didn’t completely block them. Michael was a mix between crying and grousing about the staff at Med Vet, but I was sure to apologize for his behavior, which was nothing more than his way of showing grief.

Me, I’m actually feeling a sense of calm and relief now that Legs is no longer suffering. Yes, there is a huge hole in my heart, how will it feel walking one Basset instead of two? Sure, as expected I’ve already put out subtle “feelers” for a source to be on the lookout for a male Basset for us…what do you expect, we got Legs inside of a month of Lou passing. Hey, I work quickly. I’m feeling like walking, I think I’ll make my way to the alleys, silently paying homage to Legs and the streets here he loved so much. More later, I have to move.

Dark Side Of The Moon

 

So. Somber day here at home, I’m a wreck watching Legs and his breathing, I cannot tell if he’s in distress and dying, though it looks like he is reasonably OK right now. Michael spent a long time with Med Vet on the phone this morning and now he is talking privately to mom—I’m thinking about all those people in the Arena last night laughing at the man in our section who revealed his butt crack when he leaned over, but I was stoically silent, such is the fate of worriers. I don’t think we are going to Med Vet today, save an emergency cropping up—Michael wants to see Dr. Sears, who knows Legs, he has treated him his entire life, so I’ve just got to hang in there and hope we can get into see our vet earlier than planned. I’m completely powerless here, and thank God I know Step One by heart, I’ve done it perfectly, as required. 

The game was a bust last night, we got shut out, I should have known we were in trouble when we didn’t get the free popcorn I thought we were getting with our tickets. Don’t know where that miscalculation on my part popped into my head, probably misinterpreted some Gameday Blast I received in my email. Because my heart is also breaking about Legs’ current condition, I’m going to head to mom’s on this sunny day, and try to work on some art, perhaps start that piece in homage to Jasper Johns. I’m not good with death, it rattles my serenity, I think I can handle my own death when it comes, but when it comes to my creatures great and small, it’s terribly, terribly difficult to process.

I just want to run away, how in the hell am I going to handle days of watching Legs like a hawk? Maybe I just pack a bag for mom’s now, and hide out there for a week (assuming she’d have me). Now Michael is telling me if I want to go to mom’s that’s OK—what about all the stuff we bought for Super Bowl Sunday, will all that get thrown out? I feel absolutely trapped, in a straitjacket, I cannot get loose, it’s horrible. If I go to mom’s, I won’t get these final days (if that’s what we are truly talking about here) with Legs, if I stay here I will slowly go insane with worry until we get to Dr. Sears (what if he cannot see us early next week?). OK Legs wants to go on his walk, he is eating, Michael is calm, it’s ME, I don’t agree with holding off, I want to rush Legs to Med Vet, maybe his demise (?), I don’t know what to think anymore. It all just HURTS.

I know I’ve got to get out of this house, at least for now, and that’s what I’m going to do after brunch. I will bring my pills and that ugly green bag and pack lightly for a few days away. I hope mom will have me, Michael has food here, and keys to the VW, which hopefully still runs. I’m in a nightmare, I just want to create art. That’s all for now.

Postscript From The Rat Catcher

 Well hello again, my what a surprise, I got around six pieces of scary art into a bag when I stumbled upon old friend “Revelations Of The Rat Catcher” which I had completely forgotten about, and which was not completely destroyed by the real rats like that piece with dice and most likely a map of Columbus. This large canvas can be read, though there is mold and a restoration of parts is required. I’m thinking I will not gift this work to the Columbus dump, rather take some time and think long and hard about who (or what) I deliver this piece to, most likely Fetter, but maybe I get up the guts to tuck it in a corner somewhere on the porch when I have my art show. There is an ominous prophecy on the piece, the meaning of which I’m not too sure, but at least I’ve got some pretty pastels anchoring a corner, so we’ve got that going for us.

I’m smiling now, no the rats didn’t win this one, maybe someone, somewhere knows where this piece belongs on the chessboard. I just moved my six pieces out to my can, so it’s the Puppet Master’s turn, we are playing a Queen’s Gambit this time. Michael should be back soon, Lily is waiting, and Legs is sleeping soundly. Here comes the weekend, the scary stack is getting smaller, and isn’t that a nice thing?

Let Whatever You Do Today Be Enough

 So good morning, dear reader(s), I come to you feeling perplexed about some situations I’m powerless to control. I’m trying my best to turn things over, much like flipping through the pages of my book that has arrived: “Jasper Johns: Seeing With The Mind’s Eye.” I’m facing issues like Leg’s declining health, Michael’s mother’s health, our financial situation, my friends I’m concerned about, just a host of things that bother me tremendously. I’m going to let go of orchestrating outcomes, and let my Higher Power’s will be done. Hopefully then I can find some semblance of peace. If that’s possible.

Now that “Primal Scream” is safely with Fetter, who has my full blessing to do whatever he wants with it, I may turn my attention today back to the moldy, scary stack of art in the basement. I’m figuring I can bag up a couple of pieces at a time and distribute them in the cans surrounding my place if there isn’t room to get the stuff all in our trashcan. No one is currently in the rental across the alley, so that trashcan is fair game—and Kientz has a can tucked back by his garage that I can reach. Of course everyone has Ring cameras installed these days (except us), so maybe I put on Michael’s black face-mask ski hat for a dramatic flair as I toss out my stuff. 

We are going to a Jackets game tonight, sitting in the Lower Bowl, and I’m excited to see fellow basement dwellers face off yet again as the underdogs against mighty Toronto. I don’t care if we lose. I’m just excited I don’t have to cook tonight, I get my chicken fingers with Ranch dressing, I think we get a free popcorn tonight, and whatever goes is fine by me. I love my team, I love being in the Arena, and maybe for a few hours I can forget some of my worries. I do so hope Michael can get out of the house for a few hours this afternoon, and maybe let me braid his hair so he doesn’t look like an Indian?

Just spoke to Dr. Sears about Leg’s breathing and he said get Legs to Med Vet today or tomorrow. Michael wants a more wait and see approach but I’m going to put my foot down and call Med Vet today. I’ll drive Legs there myself if I have to, I’m not afraid, I’m feeling strong and stoic about what needs to be done. Dear Legs, he just wants to go on his walk, OK Michael is back and going to take him. On his walk with Lily, he met Edwin the house cleaner, and I’m thrilled we may have found someone to help us with cleaning, which we desperately need. I just need to try and let go, I went to Michael and he hugged me, and assured me we would get Legs to Med Vet if necessary before our appointment with Dr. Sears next week. I’m so worried but Shawn told me Legs isn’t dying yet, nor is my mother in law, so I’m just going to relax as best I can.

So taking stock of what I’ve got today so far:

1. Med Vet phone number (still waiting for Puppet Master’s line)

2. Edwin the Cleaner may have come to our rescue (if he has a time slot for us)

3. We have seats for tonight’s game against Toronto (popcorn included)

4. I’m guaranteed a shower today, and use of my MAC blush

5. At least one moldy art piece is coming out of this house (extra large black trash bags have been located)

6. Our family unit of two people and two hounds is still intact, so treasure today while you can

***

So I guess I’m homebound today, which is fine. I’ve got my Jasper book, plus my Howard Finster one, and “America’s Yesterdays” and a host of other intriguing picture books to read. Still waiting on my Van Gogh book, but that will most likely have to be a birthday gift from mom, as Michael has put a temporary ban on my ordering things from Amazon (but Target may still be fair game). So it’s good bye for now, friends, try to find some light and happiness today. In the little things (and little blessings).

Sweet Emotion

 Well, so. Today is Thursday, that means therapy, and on this windy, ominous(?) day I think I might bring OSU Barbie “Primal Scream” to Fetter’s office. No black mold on that one, my most disturbing(?) of all my art pieces, though that’s open to debate, as who cares about some poor student chased out of the Journalism Graduate School when there are OSU football players to celebrate? Seeing as my Risperdal almost completely blocks any ability I have to cry over things that are important to me—Leg’s declining health front and center—I don’t think I’ll need any tissue as I discuss how ripped apart and absolutely furious I was to be harassed by the top brass at Ohio State, all males, holding the purse strings, laughing their way back to their 50-yard line seats while I paced around in a circle on suicide watch at the old Harding Hospital on 161 (May she Rest In Peace). 

Ah, memories of the way we were, do I leave “Primal Scream” with Fetter, or drive around looking for a Boren Brothers trashcan…all I know is I want to somehow come to peace with the fact that OSU is very likely still to this day, two decades after “Primal Scream,” chasing away women who brush up against that white male elite with box seats and loafers, with a soft mid-section, beer sippie cup in hand, chanting “Three Cheers For Jones Junior High” and all that nonsense. Perhaps I’m meant to join forces with these women, but I’m not going to pull a Lorena Babbitt (or whatever her name was—Google it). I’m much more interested in the Lost Boys, perhaps Lost Girls, maybe doing some matchmaking and pairing them up together. 

Jesus, screw meds, I really, really want the release tears give me, but no, I feel absolutely nothing except some mild annoyance and the occasional ability to chuckle when I see an Apocolypse Now brigade of police helicopters on their way to the Franklin Park Conservatory, like two days ago. I really wish a copter could set down in our disheveled patio, but maybe the police horse brigade might stop by during my art show, allowing people—should there actually be anyone here—a chance to pet the mighty steeds.

No, I’m not going to display “Primal Scream” at my house, in fact I don’t want to be present should it ever be displayed (which it won’t). I’m leaning towards just handing it over to Fetter, our esteemed OSU graduate (and football fan) to do whatever he wants with it, maybe store it in his basement, or better yet burn it along with the journal of mine he has containing mad ramblings about obsessions with Army Generals (and other creatures).

Ah, Insanity Art, let’s just build a big funeral pyre and burn everything, then gather up the ashes and bury them in a grave next to those in the cemetery next to the state institution for the insane. You know those cemeteries, the ones with markers listing only numbers for those buried there. Yup, right here in Ohio, Arlene is taking me to one this Spring, I can’t wait. Maybe I’ll bring some ashes to scatter. Or maybe not, I’m just angry thinking about OSU, lost dreams, outrageous behavior, messed up priorities, evil white men, you know the cast of characters and who always gets hurt. The one with the bleeding heart, maybe I need a tattoo after all, but maybe not.

Where do I belong, I don’t know, in the alleys I guess, with cysty Legs, slowly inching along, and with Lily, pulling hard, trying to get ahead but always facing resistance. Yup, that’s where you can find me now, or driving a late model car with stained seats. I’m not in Washington, I’m not doing the talk circuit, nope, I’m just one of the forgotten ones, who can’t seem to get anyone to e-mail me back with information I am looking for and need for my on-going art projects. Guess I’m on my own, so what’s new, maybe as a last ditch attempt I try to email someone at The Wall Street Journal, maybe they can help me follow the money (and find out who’s the Republican/Independent mayor candidate for Columbus). Or at the very least, get me the cellphone number for the Puppet Master’s office down in the basement of the Washington Post—you know all these reporters know one another.

Oh well, I see blue sky out my hospital window, and perhaps I can get the hounds rallied for a walk soon. Gotta call mom and see what she’s up to for the day. Keep on keepin on, ride through those emotional hangovers, help the Lost Ones to laugh, they need it. See ya.

Reveille

 Well good morning, dear readers, I awoke very early this morning (4:30 a.m.) after falling asleep in my clothes during a very soothing AA meditation meeting last night. I felt great, and got myself showered first thing, like in days long ago at Culver when they awoke us (with a bugle perhaps?). Got the coffee made, and was all settled in with an intriguing playlist prepared by Google’s AI when Michael came down and disturbed all of my fun. Drats, foiled again. Regardless, I am not going to let him spoil all the fun Andy Warhol and I are planning to have with Google this morning. The dear folks at Apple are providing a little assistance, so hat tip to them for teaching me how to do a screen shot on my iPad!

OK Michael has gone back to bed so away we go!

I finished “Letter To Smith” yesterday, replete with sexual innuendo, and homage to Georgia O’Keefe, Julia Child, Jasper, Andy Warhol and Jeff Bezos—with a big bugger off to cancel culture, and my stamp of all the messiness of some of the students wandering around the well-manicured campus. I’m sure no one will understand the piece, though I fully intend to display it prominently at my art show in May. It’s actually a much “neater” piece than I intended, but I wanted to fold a little of OCD mom into the work, so she could have a little say in the commentary. I’m not necessarily angry at Smith, nor holding a grudge—what’s at issue is they refuse to pay attention to my podcast interview I did in 2020, discussing recovery from a very challenging dual diagnosis. So rather than phone them up and lodge a complaint, I just assembled this art piece, and if it finds it’s way to the Columbus dump (certainly not Jill Biden’s office), so be it.

Whoops, Michael is up again, clearly worried and concerned about some private things we discussed last night. Contrary to popular opinion, he is extremely, extremely sensitive, I have always known this about him, and he may spout off initially when he is presented with a dilemma, but he always then backs down and gives it some thought. I’m deeply concerned about him, I know he is troubled right now, and I know we will be facing some difficult personal decisions in the future. He may want to flee Columbus to avoid doing things, but I’m not going to let him—we are staying here, and going to tackle things one step at a time, with me turning things over to my Higher Power (except where solid action on my part is required). 

I think Michael is scrolling Twitter(?) right now, and God help him, I certainly don’t think that place has any good answers for him. Maybe he’s worried about money again, I don’t know, all he does is tell me to stay off Amazon, and that’s fine, I’m on my own analysis of Amazon’s logo, not what’s on their shopping site (at least today, I don’t think?). Dear Michael, another Lost Boy, what’s going through your head right now? I’m trying to look over at his iPad to see what he’s reading but I don’t want to pry and be obvious about my sleuthing…perhaps I just stick with my own iPad and my dance with YouTube and the ads which the programmers have selected for me, which are absolutely boring and lack creativity, really a shoddy job, if you ask me. If I were YouTube, I’d fire the ad staff and bring in some new blood, maybe hire some Gen Xers who didn’t serve in the military, rather bailed out from corporate culture and are now living off the grid in Idaho. 

Well the sun is now rising, Michael is pacing, everyone is tense, Legs is throwing up outside. I’m going worse case scenario that Apple stock is in the toilet, the futures market has tanked, Michael is secretly going to try and take a second mortgage on the house out, we are going to end up in subsidized housing, it’s the End Of The World, catch me now I’m falling, and let me give thanks to the nuns at The Villas for wrecking our serenity. Maybe someone put a pox on this place, but I thought I got rid of that when I got “Cassandra Calling” out of the basement and chucked it in the trash outside. Here comes another day of chaos, but I’m remembering sponsor Shawn said last night when you are in the pit, just get on your knees and say a prayer, so here goes:

Dear God, give me strength to navigate through minefields. Help me find a safe spot to sit and rest and take off my helmet and breathe. Help me to let go of painful things in my past and let go of trying to orchestrate outcomes. Dearest God, please take over and deliver things where they are meant to go. Help me to stay rooted in one day at a time and thy will, not mine be done. I struggle with this God, and it’s preventing me from doing the Steps. Dear God, please work through Shawn today, and help me to listen to what he tells me about getting out of the pit (with John McCain). Dear God give me the strength to do my moral inventory, both on paper and in my art, guide my hands, help me to ease my troubled spirit. 

***

I will let Michael solve his problems. I will always listen, but I will move forward and work on my problems—mostly spiritual and intellectual—and get rid of stupid diets and eat sensibly and work on myself. I see Shawn at 1:45 p.m. today, and we can talk openly and honestly about why I am clinging to self-will and not turning things over to the care of God. What this means is we have to do a reading of Step Three again, so I shall bring my ”12 and 12” where I have underlined and circled the most important parts. I’m trying, I’m not giving up, even though it appears everyone around me is playing games (or in the gaming business). Oh, it’s all fun, to a point—except when John McCain gets involved and gives a big thumb down to everyone in the room.

I see out my window the sun is shining and the “No Parking” sign is obscured, so I guess it’s all systems GO today. Michael is back to bed, whether he’s tossing and turning is his business, whether he talks to the strict nuns is his business, whether I troll the alleys and City dump is my business. I am kind, I am compassionate, I am open, I am willing. I’m still working on the honesty piece (aren’t we all), but my art is honest, so there’s no problem there. It’s a beautiful day, I’m clean, I’ll be taking the hounds for their walk and getting some exercise. I just gave Legs his pain pill so we will let that settle in and perhaps he can go for a longer walk today. We shall see. So I bid you adieu, Trust In Your Decisions, Don’t Die In Darkness, and all that advertising stuff. Signing off, me and Andy, off to some warehouse in Columbus. Later friends.