Frisky Barrington shared his king size bed with three other pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that he called 'family'. Sometime around midnight these mismatched objects of his affection would find their comfort zones and the night would (then) pass peacefully. Until midnight arrived, the war (actually, a series of mini-battles that when gathered together for review, could justifiably be called a 'war') anyway, the war for bedding real estate was fierce and combative.
By morning's light Frisky inevitably found himself on a sliver of the bed, with the lamp table on his side being annexed for the repose of his head, left shoulder, and whatever else had been pushed, shoved, jostled, scratched, clawed, punched, or otherwise manhandled during the night.
Frisky was a side sleeper. He favored no particular side. Left side, right side, with an occasional changing-things-up by sleeping on his back or (rarely) sleeping on his stomach. Observers to his nocturnal habits could bear witness that all four of the major positions and at least six of the minor positions were exhibited throughout the night. Along with the four major sleep positions and six minor positions Frisky (being a creative sort) inserted a few variations on this nightly pas-de-quatre which made the nightly 'tableau' more interesting for all involved.
This particular night, was no different from the other nights. It may have been the night before Christmas when this occurred (it would make for a nicer story if it was the night before Christmas), but, it could have been sometime on the 4th of July (post fireworks) when both dogs and humans are finally assured that the last cherry bomb has been exploded and quiet once again reigns in their neighborhood. Maybe it was the night of Halloween, when the last of the trick-or-treaters had come and gone. It could very well have been no special night at all - a night like any other night. Not a weekend night, nor a mid-week night, not a payday night, not a night where a birthday or anniversary had been celebrated. I suppose the actual calendar date is immaterial. But, it was that special moment of quiet that is generally more noticeable when an event of importance shatters the day-to-day humdrumness. That special moment of quiet when the guests have all left the party, and the hosts are left with nothing but cake crumbs, dirty dishes, and half empty (or maybe half full - depending upon one's point of view) bottles of wine or champagne.
On this particular night, at this particular moment of quietude, when the weather outside was: well, if we start describing weather conditions, we'll be here all night. On this night, 'it' started with everyone claiming a generous portion of the bed for themselves, while politely (an insincere 'Bless-your-heart' politeness at best) leaving space for the others. The real action generally started under cover of darkness; when the lights were off, and the glow and the noise of the television were clicked away by an always misplaced and hard-to-find remote control.
On this night, Frisky turned this way and then that way. He fluffed the pillow, pulled the blankets, tugged at the sheets, stuck one foot out, then one foot in, was simultaneously too hot, and too cold, (but not too rich nor too thin) and at some point, he turned his back on the assembled masses (or messes) on those who shared/fought-for his bed.
And then (most good stories have an 'and then') Daisy placed her right paw upon him. No, Daisy didn't just place her right paw upon him - her paw, with complete intent, and with what appeared to be calculation, fell upon his back. I suppose 'fell' isn't quite the correct description. One would not intentionally 'fall-down-the-steps' (unless one was a paid stunt person). 'Falling' is an action that is happenstance, coincidence, something that occurs without thought or premeditation. Daisy's paw did NOT just 'fall' upon him.
Having raised doubts about whether Daisy's paw 'fell' upon his back, we must now question whether it is accurate to describe the placement of this paw upon his personage as being so general, so meaningless, so unimportant as to cavalierly describe the placement of this paw upon a place so specific that a place as large and non-specific as 'his back' dishonors the intent of the gesture. Furthermore (complicating things that were already too complicated to describe) Daisy's paw did not and could not possibly be accurately described as having 'fallen' upon Frisky's shoulder. Daisy's touching of Frisky (on this night) was done with intent, and with meaning. The touch was not accidental, it had intent, purpose, a reason. It was done in such a way that any intentions could readily be explained (and whisked away) by the anthropomorphism that Frisky (and others) were so frequently guilty of! In this regard Daisy (like anyone testing a love that might be unrequited) and Frisky could both deny the depth of their feelings to a public that is quick to find fault and make mockery of things such as this.
Daisy did not 'reach' for Frisky. She had not 'grasped' for Frisky. The spot that benefited from Daisy's delicate gesture was not a back nor a shoulder (per se). Even though a shoulder is oftentimes considered as part of one's back, it was not the shoulder that attracted Daisy's reach. A paw upon the shoulder would have suggested a neediness that the ever-independent Daisy was unlikely to reveal. A paw upon the shoulder would have been more grasping in nature. Suggesting that Daisy did not want Frisky to leave. "Frisky please stay, I need you, I want you, I love you..." might well be emotions that this terrier felt, but terriers (much like humans) are unlikely to reveal such raw emotions because of the disadvantage that such revelations would create in future relationship issues.
The paw was not on Frisky's spine. That might have suggested a 'pushing' type of action: "Frisky, I like you, and sometimes I love you, but could I please have some space?" If one needs space (emotional or spiritual) any chiropractor will assure you that a little spinal pressure is the best place to begin in the movement of an object that once seemed immoveable. Pushmepullyou is a wonderful creature and unlike the double headed Pushmepullyou in Dr. Doolittle, Daisy boasted only one head . Frisky had spent a lifetime in relationships with people who loved him and hated him (often within the same millisecond). Whether it was a Mister or Miss Pushmepullyou (Pushmepullyou's being rather genderless) Frisky danced their dance, pushing, pulling, twirling, jumping, twisting and shimmying to the beat of their drums. Along the way Frisky had become quite savvy about issues where 'no' meant 'yes', where 'go away' meant 'I need you to be closer' and this touch from Daisy was neither push nor pull, not come hither nor shove. It was not insincere. It was quite the opposite: a rare moment of unguarded, unplanned sincerity between two entities.
The placement of this paw can best be described as somewhat clavicle-adjacent. A spot somewhat near one's (physically) beating heart, but a spot best defined as definitely near one's ever-beating emotional heart! An acupuncturist could readily identify this spot. A chakra specialist could also better describe the location. A reflexologist might be better suited to explain why this particular spot on Frisky's back (when touched in just the right way) sent Frisky into paroxysms of peace, and of pleasure. Unlocked were emotions as sublime as a movement in a Beethoven Sonata, Choral Fantasy or 9th Symphony and emotions as complicated as a Rubik's Cube.
The anointment of Daisy's paw upon Frisky's back could not accurately be described as more than a whisper. Nor could it be said that this touch was heavier than a feather. When Daisy wants to be held, she feels like cotton candy. She is as light as air. Sometimes (when she wants it to be) she weighs no more than the weight of a cotton sheet drying on a clothesline in a soft summer's breeze. She is the weight of a dream, the weight of a thought (even a heavy thought accurately describes the lightness of being Daisy). She is the weight of the moon, of the stars, of the sky and the clouds. Oftentimes, she lays her head in the crook of Frisky or The Jimster's elbow for a moment of repose. At those times, she is as light as the aforementioned clouds. She is ethereal, ghostly, weightless. When the moment has passed, and it becomes necessary for her human friend to go about their duties, that same weightlessness is magically turned into twenty tons of inert, immovable, you're-not-going-anyplace, dog.
When Carol Barrington became ill, and just before her passing, she commented to Frisky that her sister Minnie had visited earlier in the day. Carol knew her situation to be hopeless, and unfortunately, home care was simply not possible at this stage of the disease. In circumstances that are out of one's control, one must take control of that which is controllable. There was no hug, no embrace, no massage, no medication, no ointment, that could stop the cancer's spread. However, there were still small comforts to be enjoyed. A big arrangement of flowers was nice, but the showy flowers in the showy arrangement(s) that Frisky presented faded quickly and the last few surviving blooms were plucked off to be placed in a cup of water to be enjoyed, examined, and reviewed in search of clues to the true meaning of life. Those last few flowers never kept their secrets long, and in their simplicity, they did, they did reveal the true meaning of life.
Minnie could do no more for Carol than to minister to such things that helped Carol to retain some dignity in a situation that offered little dignity with its bedpans, sponge baths, catheters and other intrusions. Towards the end of one visit, Carol drifted in and out of sleep. The pains that morphine could not overcome often inhibited the deep sleeps that Carol had so often enjoyed. Minnie had fluffed the pillow, tidied the bedside table, and now smoothed the bed linens, tucking Carol into the bed like a love letter into an envelope. Little else could be controlled and their educations at the hands of nuns at Little Flower made neatness the one controllable element of this horrible circumstance at which they had arrived. Frisky entered the room as Carol awoke (Minnie having left sometime earlier). With rheumy eyes, but clarity of mind, Carol said to Frisky: "There's nothing like the feminine touch..."
Minnie could do no more for Carol than to minister to such things that helped Carol to retain some dignity in a situation that offered little dignity with its bedpans, sponge baths, catheters and other intrusions. Towards the end of one visit, Carol drifted in and out of sleep. The pains that morphine could not overcome often inhibited the deep sleeps that Carol had so often enjoyed. Minnie had fluffed the pillow, tidied the bedside table, and now smoothed the bed linens, tucking Carol into the bed like a love letter into an envelope. Little else could be controlled and their educations at the hands of nuns at Little Flower made neatness the one controllable element of this horrible circumstance at which they had arrived. Frisky entered the room as Carol awoke (Minnie having left sometime earlier). With rheumy eyes, but clarity of mind, Carol said to Frisky: "There's nothing like the feminine touch..."
It was a decidedly feminine touch that Daisy presented to Frisky that fine and memorable evening. Men can touch gently, softly, caringly, but no man, can ever duplicate the touch of a woman. Daisy's cotton candy ministration to Frisky's personage struck a lonesome chord on his heartstrings, and he remembered with fondness (a long lost memory) of summer nights in Dentdale when Carol tucked him into line-dried sheets after a bubble filled bath in the ball-and-claw footed bathtub of the Barrington Avenue home...
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Frisky and The Jimster have both submitted their DNA for examination by one of those 'ancestry-r-us' companies, so we'll soon know how much Irish contributes to the stubbornness of those two fellows. I wonder if dogs have nationalities? Well, there are Irish Setters and German Shepherds. French Poodles and Staffordshire Terriers. Daisy is a terrier of some sort. If there's an Irish terrier, Daisy would be one. She's very smart, very opinionated, very sweet, very kind, easily hurt, quick to defend, ready to smile, sometimes she'll cry (quietly). She likes to smile, and is oftentimes offended by the smallest of events, gestures, or opinions. She is empathetic, sympathetic, and sometimes just pathetic. She is strong, indomitable, unbeatable, and sometimes a bully (but in a Cowardly Lion kind of way). She cries (for what once was, and for what could have been), and laughs (at the absurdity of what once was, and what could have been). In this regard, she is much like Frisky, who can oftentimes, (recalling some moment past or present) be found in full-sob in the fresh vegetable department of the local grocery, and who is only moments later laughing with the cashier as his comestibles are bagged, and his grocery bill paid.
Like many of the Irish, she thinks that her emotions are her secret. As anyone who has ever spent any time around the Irish knows: there are no secret emotions when it comes to Irish people. On this night, at this moment, a secret passed between Daisy and Frisky. Like two elementary school children experiencing their first crush: Daisy loved Frisky. Oh yes, it was Daisy and Frisky sitting in a tree....... Daisy revealed her hearts desire: she did not need Frisky, she did not want Frisky. Frisky did not need Daisy, nor did he want Daisy. It was love, it was hate, it was sweet, it was sour. It was of-the-earth, and yet ethereal. It was a lightening bolt of emotion between the two of them - a moment of Godliness, a moment where the fleeting nature of life, life's problems, life's rewards, life's burdens, life's exaltations, life, life, life.....
'It' lasted for several moments, and some other movement in the bed changed the spirit (but not the intent or meaning) of Daisy's touch, her embrace, her gesture.
In the morning's light, both Frisky and Daisy exchanged knowing, somewhat guilty glances between themselves. It was not the love that dare not speak its name, but it was not a love that could be explained by song, dance, poetry, or rhyme. Some things in life just 'are'.
The ending of this story has not yet been written. If life is fair (and life is never fair) soon (possibly sooner than later) Daisy will turn around and Frisky will be gone. The Jimster and Daisy will walk back to the limousine (the hearse having left only moments before) and there, on a beautiful sunlit morning, the traffic on Allen Parkway will zoom past Frisky's grave, and Glenwood Cemetery will add a new member to its community.
Daisy will place her paw gently, caringly, knowingly, upon Jimster's knee and on that long ride back to the Houston suburbs that is now absent of Frisky's presence, they will both feel a feather-like touch, and they too will know that they were loved.....
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