A List

A teenager’s tattered bra, polka dot on the inside, pink on the out.

Also, her underwear

because she leaves it on the floor, and says, it’s a long walk

to the washer, out her room, down two flights, and into

the Chinese lantern orange laundry room.

Blue crocs, pock-marked, invaluable to the part-time gardener.

Used often in place of running shoes for young boy’s football games

despite mother’s protestations about twisted ankles.

Indestructible, plastic, yet still palatable.

Golden fringe torn away from the ten-year-old Oriental rug,

First purchased for the new house, kept feet warm when answering the front door,

faded by summer sun and cool winter light.

Once a place to play and rest for toddlers,

Now His instead.

Heliobores, planted only last fall

because the nurseryman in the paper said so.

One of three plants took a hit. Tattered leaves litter the patio tile.

Deer-resistant is not the same as dog-resistant.

.

Spaghetti strands, not yet cooked, that never made it to the boiling pot

crunch underfoot. He springs on the fragments of dried wheat.

It is pasta and he is

named after an Italian, how bad can it be?

Feces of geese, green goo smeared across his tan-white face,

which also sports a look of delirium.

Though scrubbed clean, toxic green residue still forms a ring -

a moustache around his mouth.

Little losses,

bites of life.

Enzo as Therapy

Within the first months of being Enzo’s owner, my trainer had suggested Enzo might make a great therapy dog. I blew off the notion, knowing that the only one who should be participating in therapy was me. Weeks later, while browsing through books at the local Symmes Township Library, I noticed a sign accompanied by a picture of a dog looking quite similar to Enzo. The Cavalier King Charles’ name was Houdini, and Houdini routinely appeared at the library every Saturday from 10-11 a.m. to read with children ages 5-7.

I furthered considered the notion of Enzo – a reading dog. Not that he was going to read Where the Wild Things Are to any preschooler, but it had been proven that dogs with a benevolent, loving, but not too obnoxious nature, were given over to being perfect vessels for children for whom reading was a struggle, either through language development, nervousness or anxiety.

I began my Internet research on this topic and found an organization called R.E.A.D. whose mission is to improve the literacy skills of children through the assistance of registered therapy teams as literacy mentors.

R.E.A.D. stands for Reading Education Assistance Dogs. The R.e.a.d. program improves children’s reading and communication skills by employing a powerful method: reading to a dog. R.E.A.D. dogs are registered therapy animals who volunteer with their owner/handlers as a team, going to schools, libraries and many other settings as reading companions for children.

Dogs are ideal reading companions because they are not judgmental, at least mine is not, as long as I am feeding him his bananas in the morning, alongside his cardboard puppy chow. It is also clear that Enzo is not judgmental in that he will chew on ANY shoe, not just those belonging to my son Davis, whose footwear is optimum because his shoes have crossed many backyards, and his feet stink as if he never showered.

Last week, I visited my aging parents and took my dog along. My parents had been first to accompany me to the breeder’s home when I had gone in search of a puppy and found Enzo. At the time, there was also a runt in the litter, who had the nickname of Tiny Tim. My dad held Tiny Tim in his hands for the duration of my visit with the breeder. He could have cared a less about the others. My mother reacted this way too. She felt safe around a puppy being held in one’s hands vs. one jumping up on her lap.

In the end, Enzo became the I one selected, but during the entire drive back to my parent’s home, my mother lamented about not getting a dog. My mother has Alzheimer’s and her forgetfulness is only one reason why now is no longer the time for a dog. But in my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined her allowing the dog to occasionally have an accident on the carpet in the living room, or to chew up one of her door mats. But, since becoming a grandparent, she has changed her tune about what she allows from the grandchildren and a dog is no different. My sister’s dogs, affectionately named, The Fluffers, by their owner, and I.B.D’s (ill-behaved dogs) by the rest of the family are prone to occasionally pooping in the same spot on my mother’s dining room rug, and she simply shrugs it off, grabs a paper towel and plastic bag, and continues on with her chores.

As for my father, he would have loved to own Tiny Tim, who reminded him of the dogs he once owned. Blackie was some coon dog beagle mix and Tiny was part beagle, and part, just cute puppy. They were his hunting dogs, and served him well. The dogs survived until the first year of my parent’s marriage. After that, dogs took a backseat to children, and never became part of the equation. The only other pets allowed were bunnies, hamsters and gerbils. Not even fish. Of course, Subaru, our beloved but stubborn goldfish, still lives, after five years of intentional abandonment. So, I could see how my parents didn’t want to hang on to anything too long.

When I returned in April to retrieve Enzo from the breeder’s, my parents did not accompany me, but asked me to find out if Tiny Tim was still available. Alas, Tiny Tim was gone. He had moved on to a good home with younger homeowners.

When I arrived home during my most recent trip (funny how I still call Amherst, that house, or visiting my parents “home”), my parents were pleasantly surprised to see Enzo in tow. He too was just as surprised (read “excited”) to see them, and promptly licked my father’s face for a full five minutes. My mother quickly picked up on my falsetto voice calling Enzo, and then giving him a command. Though he rarely listened to her command, he certainly piped up when he heard her call his name.

Once I labeled the stereo buttons for Mom to operate, she began playing her Sinatra records incessantly. Enzo camped out near the stereo speakers for all his naps, lulled into slumber by Fly me to the Moon, and the softness of September in the Rain. It became quite the spectacle for us to listen to him snore away, backside nestled up against the pulsating rhythms coming through the speakers.

He would excitedly greet Mom or Dad when they descended the stairs in the morning, jumping up, waiting to be scratched behind the ears, or, what he loved best, to have his belly rubbed with a brisk motion of a Swedish masseuse.

It was Enzo’s nonjudgmental ways that my parents loved so much, after falling prey to their children’s criticizing their parents for a house move they should have made long ago, or for paying off the bills of my imprisoned sister while risking their own credit. Either way, Enzo would not condemn them for their actions, only condone what they believed to be the best decisions at that time, to protect themselves or maintain their dignity.

As I rolled on the floor with Enzo, my father remarked, “He’s a good dog, and he’s been good for you too.” And for once, I agree that my father is right. Enzo had been my outlet too, when I needed to see simplicity in life. He had been my companion, when I needed to walk outside and play among the leaves. He had been my therapy for such a low, low price. And to boot, we could share the couch.

I will have to wait until Enzo is one year old before registering him, or at least having his temperament and training tested, to determine if he can actually fulfill the role of certified therapy dog. But I wonder, Do dogs have a purpose, a vocation? Do we train them for this, or are they born into it? I have these burning questions about Enzo, the same ones I have for myself.

I could be one of those people who project on their dog all day. But the three days with my parents were not a projection of any thing other a simple healing from hurting hearts.

Only the Shadow Knows

Enzo had been restless last night and hadn’t touched his vittles. Only hours earlier, he had been on a run with me where he had performed admirably with his legs and predictably with his nose.

But he woke before the sun this morning. I could hear his tail tapping against the wall of his crate. After I opened the latch, he ambled towards his food bowl and found the space empty, devoid of any sustenance, just a green post it note reminding me and others not to feed him after midnight. He licked at the towel that usually caught crumbs from his food and the strips of banana peel when my husband feels benevolent enough to feed him part of a banana.

He seemed lost, roamed aimlessly and listlessly through the house, displaying none of the tendencies for which he had earned the name Enzo, after Enzo Ferrari, of the famous race car family. When it came time to walk outside and watch Davis get on the bus, Enzo sat on the driveway, head heavily hanging down. After the boys got on the bus, he crept into my arms then I lifted him into the car where his crate awaited him. He crawled in, and went to sleep during the seven minute drive to the vet office. Enzo was getting neutered today.

The building was eerily quiet, an odor of sterility and cat litter permeated the office. Enzo had the first appointment of the day. Betsy immediately scooped Enzo in her arms while I signed the obligatory paperwork at the front desk. Finally, I checked the box “no” to having an EKG performed, a test that would detect any other abnormalities with Enzo’s heart. As a newborn, he had been diagnosed with slight heart murmur on his left side.

When I had first singled Enzo out from a picture of four males, age 4 weeks, he was already developing a beauty mark, a patch of reddish hair, against the backdrop of white fur, on his left cheek. I took that mark of imperfection as a sign. I did not want the perfect dog. I wanted one who was different. But it did come as a surprise when the breeder called to inform us at Enzo’s 6 week checkup, the vet had detected a murmur. The breeder offered us a different puppy as an option. But Enzo picked us. I wasn’t going to spurn his decision. Besides, as Enzo grew, he took up a larger place in our family and on the floor.

Three years ago, when I had blended my family of one son, with Mark’s family of three teenage girls, a dog had been high on the list in the girls’ demands for blending successfully. That and their own rooms. Their mother had died three years prior. Their old dog, Gipper, has passed away the previous Christmas. The girls were looking for something to tie their life back together.

Numerous arguments ensued between Mark and me over the topic of a new dog. If the girls knew now, they would be horrified to know that these fights threatened the beginnings of our marriage. The fights went something like this. I would be standing in the same room with the girls and Mark. One of them would mention getting a dog. And Mark would casually laugh it off. Later, when we were alone, I would ask, “Why can’t you tell them we are not getting a dog?”

My demand to simply tell the girls the truth was not unreasonable. But Mark had other ideas - that they just needed to say those things and to let the issue pass. The topic finally died but not without tears shed over what was a clear lack of respect for my voice in the marriage. At the time, I did not want a dog and was no more willing to take one on the midst of our jumbled year, than I would have said, “Let’s adopt,” because I had always wanted a brother for Davis.

Three years later, I lost the argument for good. But I prevailed in choosing the time and place. I picked the dog from the litter and bestowed the name Enzo upon him.

I dropped him off at the vet this morning with tears welled up in my eyes, as I recalled the past four months with Enzo. His sweet freckled face is the last I see before turning in at night. He has brought calm to the household. He is often the focus of our family’s entertainment. My niece Sophia, who lost her cat as a pet because her mother has an arm’s length full of traffic and legal charges against her, took to Enzo, wanting to walk him every day of her visit. The two were inseparable, appeared to be the same size and their pleading brown eyes went a long ways towards each of them having their way with me.

Enzo has given Cheryl, our oldest, a sophomore in college, more reason to come home and spend time with us. For the middle two girls, he has brought company and an excuse to unplug and sit outside or go for a walk. And for Davis, Enzo has brought a companionship that can mainly be attributed to their mutual attraction to sweat and dirt. They play together, climb over each other, and watch Sponge Bob and Scooby Doo. In some sense, Enzo has taken the place of the brother Davis never got. And Mark has welcomed him with the same gentleness he welcomed Davis.

But I have been the biggest beneficiary. Per my productive training with him, Enzo is my shadow. He accompanies me as I move about the house on laundry/cleaning days. He never tires of following me up and down steps, sometimes two at a time. He nudges his backside until it is up against my bare feet, a trait which I will love more in winter. I am learning so much from this creature. How to be faithful to those in your home. How to bask in the sun on the warm patio tiles. And how to be ebullient in the midst of anger and open to what life presents.

My office has felt empty without him today. My toes have been cold, and the sun has remained hidden behind the clouds, which is just as well, since my shadow is not here at my feet.

2009-08-31 Without My Shadow

Enzo had been restless last night and hadn’t touched his vittles. Only hours earlier, he had been on a run with me where he had performed admirably with his legs and predictably with his nose.

But he woke before the sun this morning. I could hear his tail tapping against the wall of his crate. After I opened the latch, he ambled towards his food bowl and found the space empty, devoid of any sustenance, just a green post it note reminding me and others not to feed him after midnight. He licked at the towel that usually caught crumbs from his food and the strips of banana peel when my husband feels benevolent enough to feed him part of a banana.

He seemed lost, roamed aimlessly and listlessly through the house, displaying none of the tendencies for which he had earned the name Enzo, after Enzo Ferrari, of the famous race car family. When it came time to walk outside and watch Davis get on the bus, Enzo sat on the driveway, head heavily hanging down. After the boys got on the bus, he crept into my arms then I lifted him into the car where his crate awaited him. He crawled in, and went to sleep during the seven minute drive to the vet office. Enzo was getting neutered today.

The building was eerily quiet, an odor of sterility and cat litter permeated the office. Enzo had the first appointment of the day. Betsy immediately scooped Enzo in her arms while I signed the obligatory paperwork at the front desk. Finally, I checked the box “no” to having an EKG performed, a test that would detect any other abnormalities with Enzo’s heart. As a newborn, he had been diagnosed with slight heart murmur on his left side.

When I had first singled Enzo out from a picture of four males, age 4 weeks, he was already developing a beauty mark, a patch of reddish hair, against the backdrop of white fur, on his left cheek. I took that mark of imperfection as a sign. I did not want the perfect dog. I wanted one who was different. But it did come as a surprise when the breeder called to inform us at Enzo’s 6 week checkup, the vet had detected a murmur. The breeder offered us a different puppy as an option. But Enzo picked us. I wasn’t going to spurn his decision. Besides, as Enzo grew, he took up a larger place in our family and on the floor.

Three years ago, when I had blended my family of one son, with Mark’s family of three teenage girls, a dog had been high on the list in the girls’ demands for blending successfully. That and their own rooms. Their mother had died three years prior. Their old dog, Gipper, has passed away the previous Christmas. The girls were looking for something to tie their life back together.

Numerous arguments ensued between Mark and me over the topic of a new dog. If the girls knew now, they would be horrified to know that these fights threatened the beginnings of our marriage. The fights went something like this. I would be standing in the same room with the girls and Mark. One of them would mention getting a dog. And Mark would casually laugh it off. Later, when we were alone, I would ask, “Why can’t you tell them we are not getting a dog?”

My demand to simply tell the girls the truth was not unreasonable. But Mark had other ideas - that they just needed to say those things and to let the issue pass. The topic finally died but not without tears shed over what was a clear lack of respect for my voice in the marriage. At the time, I did not want a dog and was no more willing to take one on the midst of our jumbled year, than I would have said, “Let’s adopt,” because I had always wanted a brother for Davis.

Three years later, I lost the argument for good. But I prevailed in choosing the time and place. I picked the dog from the litter and bestowed the name Enzo upon him.

I dropped him off at the vet this morning with tears welled up in my eyes, as I recalled the past four months with Enzo. His sweet freckled face is the last I see before turning in at night. He has brought calm to the household. He is often the focus of our family’s entertainment. My niece Sophia, who lost her cat as a pet because her mother has an arm’s length full of traffic and legal charges against her, took to Enzo, wanting to walk him every day of her visit. The two were inseparable, appeared to be the same size and their pleading brown eyes went a long ways towards each of them having their way with me.

Enzo has given Cheryl, our oldest, a sophomore in college, more reason to come home and spend time with us. For the middle two girls, he has brought company and an excuse to unplug and sit outside or go for a walk. And for Davis, Enzo has brought a companionship that can mainly be attributed to their mutual attraction to sweat and dirt. They play together, climb over each other, and watch Sponge Bob and Scooby Doo. In some sense, Enzo has taken the place of the brother Davis never got. And Mark has welcomed him with the same gentleness he welcomed Davis.

But I have been the biggest beneficiary. Per my productive training with him, Enzo is my shadow. He accompanies me as I move about the house on laundry/cleaning days. He never tires of following me up and down steps, sometimes two at a time. He nudges his backside until it is up against my bare feet, a trait which I will love more in winter. I am learning so much from this creature. How to be faithful to those in your home. How to bask in the sun on the warm patio tiles. And how to be ebullient in the midst of anger and open to what life presents.

My office has felt empty without him today. My toes have been cold, and the sun has remained hidden behind the clouds, which is just as well, since my shadow is not here at my feet.

Time for a Change

When my first husband died, I had some well-intentioned friends who suggested that I get a pet, possibly a dog. While I was grateful they did not ask for his golf clubs (see “Don’t ask for the dead man’s golf clubs” book), I was reluctant to take their advice.

After a few weeks of considering their thoughts, I took the plunge. Well, I say plunge, because we got a fish and a ten gallon tank instead. We actually bought two. The first goldfish we named Vern, after an old curmudgeon, but a lovely gentleman, that I knew from the Oregon Coast. The second we named Speedy, named by Davis’ because if fish could fly through water, this one appeared to do so.

In the ensuing years that we cleaned tanks, prayed over their deaths, and replaced these fish with a few new ones, I was grateful that I had not gotten a dog. There are many risk-takers out in the world. I believe myself to be one of them. I am always trying out new species of plants and was the first to utilize the fiber optic grass in my tribal head pot bought for me years ago. I ran hurdles in high school, and traveled with the college ski club to Colorado without knowing a soul. But I am not a risk taker when it comes to animals, or shall I say, anything other than a human being, or a plant.

So, it comes with some surprise that I found, now was the time to have a dog. I have no concrete reasons other then that when I sit on the kitchen floor with tears in my eyes from a sadness I am experiencing, I comprehend why this dog was put in my life.

Enzo was named after a character in a book who sat with the owner’s wife while she fought cancer. And sometimes, I project this same quality onto my Enzo. When he does sense in me, a sadness, he will engage in eye to eye contact, of course he does this when he has been bad, or is trying to be cute, but nonetheless, his rich chocolate eyes remind me of earth and grounding. And there is a part of me that whispers, namaste, to him – the divine in you honors the divine in me.

I hold Enzo some mornings after the kids leave, and cry for a sister who is in mental and physical pain and for her daughter, my niece, who does not understand why the world asks this of her young soul. And sometimes tears well up because I think Enzo could have shouldered some of my sadness from years ago when Devin died yet I was too stubborn to give in to the notion of dog. I hold onto Enzo and his innocence, as if I am still holding on to some piece of my sister spirit that has been kept safe from harm.

I pray that Enzo can help change my heart. A heart that has become hardened, a heart that no longer holds my faith in God, the justice system. A heart that can only open itself up to the human condition and this little furry animal that a fish could never replace. Maybe I don’t really need a change of heart, I just need help turning it right side up again so that all of life does not run out me. I hope Enzo is strong enough for the both of us.

The Origin of "Enzo"

Lately, we have been asked, “What is the origin of the name Enzo?” Of course, those that know me and know my heritage, know too that Enzo is Italian. Yeah, I know his kind was named after King Charles and all that baloney in the English court, but I tell you, I have seen Enzo in a fit at nighttime, and I tell you, this pup is Italian.

Let’s begin with what Enzo is not. His name is not Endzone, sorry ultimate Frisbee players on our daughter’s teams. His name is not Enzoroni, Mark, he is not a pasta of any sorts. He is not a girl, and his name is not Enza, or short for “influenza”.

His name is derived from the Latin surname Laurentius, that is, "citizen or descendent of Laurento," ancient city of the Lazio region that the Romans associated with a "forest of laurel." His day is celebrated with St. Lawrence on August 10, 2009. Every saint in Italy has their day, and patrons with those names celebrate. Enzo should be no different.

By the way, laurel is a form of leaf usually made into a wreath that is horseshoe shaped. In Greek myths, it was given to special people, such as winners in competitions in poetry or sports. This is good - we are writers and sportsters here in the house. Of course, it was also used as a drug so the ancients could get stoned. We do not subscribe to that, but a little bit for Enzo before bed would not hurt.

Until recent times, laurel wreaths were used to show that someone had done something special (for example, the Olympics gave laurel wreaths to the winners). The saying "resting on one's laurels" came from this and meant that someone can relax now because he or she did something good in the past. The Italians do the rest thing very well. I believe they are still resting from the Roman Empire times. This is surely true of Enzo too, only his idea of relaxing involves laps, usually when we are sitting on the kitchen floor, with no pillow in sight for the weary owners.

To sum up Enzo in one word would be doing him a great injustice. I can tell you that when I call out, "Andiamo", that boy moves. So if I really, really had to come up with one word, I would, of course, say Italian!

With Apologies

05-01-2009

The following is in order of occurrence:

I apologize to my grass for its share of dog poop it has held, and for the share of dog poop that I cannot scoop up with our new Scoop it and Sack it.

I apologize to the shoe company Clark’s, maker of the Privo brand, for defiling their shoes, my brand new (read one day old) shoes, with dog poop that I did not know I stepped in.

I apologize to my kids for telling them all the time to wipe their shoes when I did not have any inkling there was doo-doo below mine and just assumed it was dirt, and smeared that across the rug in the garage.

I apologize to my husband who sat next to me in the movie theatre last night, and put up with my constant seat hopping because I thought the seats smelled funny.

I apologize to the movie theatre. I am sure that Regal Cinemas has cleaned all sorts of bodily excrements off their seats and floor, but one would suppose it was more human waste that dog’s.

I apologize again to my husband, because we took his car. I was tired of driving my new car (only a female can make that statement) and thus carried dog doo onto the mats of his Lexus. He may notice that on his way to work this morning.

I apologize to Enzo, for when he had an accident this morning, following my accident from yesterday, it may very well be because he sniffed out where my shoes had tread the day before.

Finally, I apologize to my neighbors, who, over the course of ten years, I have consistently cursed out under my breath for not picking up their dog poop and have a new found respect for the undesirable but necessary task.