Remembering Gifts

Maria was my smallest whippet. Diminutive only in physical mass, her presence was luminous and cosmic. And, as I've mentioned, brassy.

She came from a "show kennel" before I knew better. One of too many puppies from too many litters, Maria did not know how to enjoy lap time. If you put her on your lap she would stiffen like an ice sculpture and try to drip off. Until her last two years. Something switched in her brain, and though she would grunt when you lifted her, she would soon relax.

But she was a cuddler from the get go. On the couch, in bed, under my blanket.

And she was a gift giver.

The following is an excerpt from a chapter in my first book, Mama Pajama Tells A Story, titled The Gifts.

After a particularly long, harrowing day at work, my husband and I fell into bed, exhausted. As we turned to each other in the dark, we were each struck by the thought that something was terribly wrong with the other.
There was a smell. A very bad smell.
OK, there had been plenty of garlic in the pasta, but this odor went way beyond garlic breath.
First we thought the other had suddenly developed a gross deficiency in his/her personal hygiene. Then we thought the other must have a terrible infection somewhere awful.
I sat up and turned on the light.
"Bill," I said.
"Patience!" he said.
"I don't have any infected, unhygienic anything," we both said.
I jumped out of bed and peeled back the sheets. Nothing. I lifted the pillows, and

there was our little gift: a putrefied slimy long-dead baby bird.
Maria had snuck it in from the yard and buried it under the pillow. Just for us!
After we changed the sheets and took a shower just for good measure, Bill and I laughed ourselves to sleep.
Years later, we still check under the pillows before getting in bed.

She shared with us the gift of being a world champion squeaky toy squeaker. She could squeak a squeaker three times a second nonstop for the entire time it took to fix dinner. I loved it. Drove poor Bill crazy. And, if the mood struck, which it usually did, she could de-stuff a stuffie faster than I could say, "Maria, what are you doing, it's too quiet, where...?"

Many a time our yard appeared to be a Colorado January, when in fact it was Kentucky August. Stuffie 'snow' everywhere.

She was the most efficient self-coverer. She could wrap herself in a blanket so effectively, that you could peer in a crate, or pass by a couch, or sit on your bed, and not realize there was a little whippet tucked in. In her dotage, she gifted me with the privilege of covering her.

"Arf." Translated: Servant!

[Patience continues with what she was doing.]

"Arf." Translated: I said, Servant!

"Coming, Maria."

"Arf. Arf." Now.

"I'm coming!"

"Arf. Arf. Arf." A little whippet could freeze to death, let's get a move on.

"There you go, all covered up, snug as can be."

[thirty seconds pass]

"Arf." Not quite comfy enough. I moved. You are allowed to try again.

She would start barking at me for her diner, which is served at five, at three. And if I said, "MARIA!" in exasperation, she would look stricken for two seconds, and then realize my error, and wag that tail, and bounce off her front feet as she redoubled her barking efforts.

I could prompt, "Maria, what does a cheerleader say?"

And if we were alone, she would say, "Rah, rah, rah," clear as a bell.

If I were showing off for company, she would say, "Arf, arf, arf, arf, wooooooooo!" and get the whole pack howling.

Giving me the gift of humility, of course.

If she were here, she'd be barking at me to get off my duff and walk the dogs, so I will, and I'll maybe reminisce a bit more, later.

hug your hounds