These are the good old days

. . .  tomorrow we might not be together
I'm no prophet, I don't know nature's way
So I'll try to see into your eyes right now
And stay right here, 'cause these are the good old days. --Carly Simon

When I was young, what I heard was a song about anticipation. Specifically, I heard that anticipating good things was a pleasant experience. I completely missed the message. Completely.

Fast-forward 43 years.

I've been engaging in a fair amount of bitching lately about the rigors of maintaining a household while trying to work and care for two animals and a sick Mr. Simply, all while my own health steadily declines. It started one night when I crashed into my reading chair after dinner and forgot to clean up the kitchen until it was already late, I was tired, and. . .

This.

Over the last couple of days I've been paying careful attention to what, each day, threatens to overwhelm me. The complicated pet-feeding ritual each morning, which includes preparing special drinking-water mixes for each. The dishes, of course. The trash. The laundry.

And then last night it hit me: These are the good old days! I wanted a husband, a house, a dog, a bird to care for. There are aspects of each experience that I did not exactly anticipate but on the whole, I like having a house, Diana, the bird. I like being married. I like what I do for a living, and I like the people I do it for. These are the good old days, when I have a house, a bird, a dog, and a husband to take care of, when I have a job to retire from, when my body is in better shape than it's ever likely to be again. 

So I think I'll stay right here.

Back in '71, I thought that meant that if you were having a pleasant experience, you tried to hold on to it. I understand now that Simon meant something entirely different by this -- now is all we have, and it is good. I might as well stay in it. 

Simply,

a tear for Daisy

Today is--was? would have been?--Daisy's 15th birthday. But she got so old by the time she was 14 that we had to put her to sleep.

I dreamed about her this morning.

I love Diana: She had my heart before we were halfway home from the pound. But Daisy was born in my house. I toweled her off and handed her back to her mother to nurse.

We had an incredible bond. I adored that dog. She went nearly everywhere I did, including to work every day, for years. I thought we would always be Daisy and me, as if time might pass all around us but we would never die.

Of course that cannot be.

So. I love Diana, and miss Daisy.

Simply,

Zippy and Daisy

Jill, over at I Blame the Patriarchy, reported that her beloved dog, Zippy, had to be euthanized yesterday. I left a comment there, but haven't been able to stop crying since, so by God I'm posting again here.

Not to be redundant, but my dog Daisy died last year and I still miss her. Just the other day the "new" dog, who is hardly new any more, came running down the hall and when I heard her feet for a second I thought "Here comes Daisy!" I turned, happily, to greet her, and there was this other dog. Things like that still happen about once a month.

And today, since I commented on Jill's post, I haven't been able to get the image of Daisy flying off the top step of the deck and vanishing into midair--forever--out of my head.Except she doesn't disappear forever because it keeps playing over and over in my head like a stuck video loop on some hellish version of You-tube. And every time I see it, it makes me tear up all over again, until it's getting damned difficult to get any work done.

I think I'll close and lock my office door and have a good cry. And go home and hug the "new" dog (Diana) extra times tonight.

Simply,