Driving down Jenne Road on one of many trips back and forth between our house and the location of the hillbilly wedding last weekend:
TW: I want an apple.
Me: Sigh. Yeah, my Toshiba’s about to die. I really want a Mac!
TW: No. (Pointing to trees dropping fruit on our route) I want an apple.
The scene: my quiet suburbanish cul-de-sac at midnight. An hour earlier T and I ordered a pizza. Concerned that my explicit directions about which door to approach would be ignored, and my upstairs neighbors’ dog would bark and awake the family, I await the delivery’s arrival in the driveway, wrapped in a blanket.
A car turns onto my street; I cringe at the sounds of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blaring through the open sunroof. There are two men in the car, and it stops at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, 25 yards from where I stand. I can hear their conversation clearly.
Driver: What number is on that mailbox there?
Passenger: Looks like 12174. What are we looking for again?
Driver: 12126
Passenger: Shit! Are we on the wrong street? Or do the numbers get smaller the other way?
Driver: Fuck if I know. Let’s see if we can see more numbers up a ways.
The whole time, I am whispering loudly, waving my arms, but they don’t notice:
Hey! I’m right here! This is 12126!
They pull up in front of my driveway, displaying methamphetamine characteristics that set my teeth on edge and raise the hair on the back of my neck. They look startled to see me standing there. The driver says loudly:
You order a pizza?
I say:
Yes. Could you please keep your voice down? The whole reason I’m out here is so that your arrival didn’t disturb my neighbors.
Driver, as he tosses the pizza through the sunroof toward me:
Oh, sorry about that sweetheart.
And at that, I bristle and hiss:
I’m not your fucking sweetheart.
Clearly this asshole didn’t know who he was messing with. It is COMMON KNOWLEDGE that I am not a sweetheart.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Buddy gave more love than any other cat I’ve ever known, and his absence is still unreal to me. When I visit Utah next week, it will be strange not to be greeted by him in the driveway.
This morning I learned that dear Buddy, who my ex-husband seriously and earnestly describes as his soulmate, and who was well-loved by everyone who had the privilege of meeting him (even those not generally fond of felines), was killed by a roaming pitbull and its canine sidekick in their quiet Salt Lake City neighborhood. This isn’t the first time this particular dog has killed an animal. The tribe is pulling together to take whatever legal action is possible, given the likely negligence of the dogs’ owners.
As I tweeted earlier this morning, I am unspeakably sad. The violent death of this feline family member last night has me sobbing. My attachment was strong to Buddyboy, and dogs who REPEATEDLY kill cats SHOULDN’T EXIST BE ALLOWED TO ROAM AROUND FREELY.
More will come later, like pictures of Buddy curled up with Cassie the dog and Buddy soaking up sunlight and stories of Buddy’s adopting B and me back in early 2000.
Right now, I feel so impotent and helpless, being 766 miles away from grieving family members. All I can do is tweet, blog, and call my legal contacts in SLC to see who might be able and willing to take the case.
Sigh.
For the moment, I guess I should probably focus on my own work here in Portland.
Two days ago was my friend’s birthday. Thoughts of him wove throughout my day as he celebrated in the Colorado mountains and I on the Oregon coast.
I’ve written about him before and though I can be generally verbose, my feelings toward and about him are so tender, precious, and unique, that I find myself quietly appreciating him, deliberate in the words I choose.
We met shortly after I moved to Portland on a day powerful and auspicious for many reasons. We sat face-to-face just hours after the lunar eclipse, and my spirit and being were literally pulsing as I sat across from him, sipping a stout and eating a salad. Between his unabashed eye contact and curiosity and willingness to connect, human-to-human, I was and continue to be delighted. What fortune! This incredible person wants to know me! And is letting me know him! The care with which he approaches his life, his relations, his dreams and the dreams of others - I am astounded. I am grateful.
He knows me. He sees me. Isn’t that what so many people want - to be seen? It’s what I want, anyway, and the active recognition, acknowledgment, questioning, and candor are aspects of our friendship I hold dear. When I go to those places of self-doubt, he sends me email reminders of how he sees me. And inevitably I cry and shake my head in disbelief at the blessing he is in my life. We are real with each other, and though at times our feedback may be unsolicited, it’s understood that it’s given with love, and accepted as such.
In my 32 years, I don’t know that I’ve ever had a friendship like this. He’s my best friend, and as I more fully understand what friendship can mean, he consistently shines as an example of someone who watches, listens, feels, and reflects traits I honor and admire.
C, I am incredibly glad you were born.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
near Leach Botanical Gardens, off Foster and SE 122d Avenue
I’ve been obsessed with cars ever since my car door was ripped out of my hand.
9th & SE Hawthorne. Love that it's a BMW.
I always like the Jibs and Jabs. And I need to get busy (work-busy, not sexy-busy). So, yes, it’s a SLYT. Deal. (But enjoy!)
