MindsBase

Well, I’ve seen a few posts, floating around the blogiverse, about what is inside women’s purses, and what those contents say about them. I wonder what to think about this little trend, since I don’t carry a purse. Does this mean I have nothing inside me worth revealing? No little mysteries that make up the collage that is ME?

On the other hand, I’ve seen some very interesting (to me, anyway) pictures of writers’ writing spaces, and what they say about the author. To that idea I say: I likey! So, without further ado, I present my work desk, and some of the little mysteries that make up my writing self:

Okay! Points of interest:

1. Eyeglasses on the printer, rather than on my face, in spite of being THIS CLOSE to me. I guess I’m determined to be blind. Note that they are not tucked into their case three inches away, either. I live my life in the gaps between.
2. Left corner, two phones, both probably holding unheard messages from poor people that will not get a prompt callback, while I instead plunk those noise-canceling cordless earphones onto my ears and listen to podcasts. I prefer recorded people to live people.
3. Downstage right, sustenance, need I say more? Who quits for lunch, honestly. If you stop to eat, it’s just an excuse to avoid writing. REAL WRITERS power through. (If you know me, you’ll get the irony.)
4. General paper-messiness. This comes from having research materials, idea scraps, important notices from kids’ schools and tax documents all sharing space in my head as well as my desk. Can you believe I never (knock on nice cherry wood desk) am late with my bills? I thank Quicken. Heartily.
5. Nice cherry wood desk. Better give a shout-out to my husband for this lovely desk, which matches the one in the kitchen and is so much better than I deserve. Apparently I just need more linear feet of it. By the way, I noticed several years ago that an environment with lots of speckle in, say, wallpaper or draperies made me feel less relaxed than the lovely woody, smooth surroundings you see in this pic. Thank goodness my husband built such a house for my persnickety muse. Isn’t the clutter of papers a problem? Not so much.
6. Crumpled paper towel in front of speaker. Can you say: too lazy to get a proper box of tissues during allergy season?
7. Bright white reams of paper serving as footstool for short-legged writer. I may be pathetic in so many ways, but I am determined to send out (at least during manic phases) crisp, clean, lovely copies of my work to real live industry mavens. Heaven help me.

This is a challenge to all my lovely writer friends to write me a comment with a link to your own desk photo. I want a glimpse into the genius that is you! No straightening up first, either.

I don’t normally have a very exciting life. In fact, I think most authors live fairly quiet lives, especially compared to politicians and professional sportsmen. If you want to hear about lots of great writerly action, visit Neil Gaiman’s blog, as he dips his fingers into many pies.

But since this is Amber’s blog, I want to share my thoughts on something that happened this week:

I should have known something really bad was coming down the pike, just around the corner, because lots of little things went wrong this week — involving pests, pulleys and policemen. Separate incidents.

I had finally gotten me and mine home safely, and just about put my house back in order, when I had a Feeling.

I went outside and stood on my porch and looked carefully at my dog, Pesto (the one I blogged about recently). She was sitting in the bed of her doghouse, awake and chillin’, the way she often does. So, I retrieved something from my car and went back inside again.

I had another Feeling.

I went back out to the porch and took a closer look at Pesto. She often sits a little funny in the back because of her advanced arthritis, but her front legs were positioned a little funny, too. I pet her black fur and rubbed her long, floppy ears. I noticed she was breathing a little heavy and had been drooling on her bed. So I stood back and called for her to come to me. She didn’t move. It was at this point I noticed her eyes. They’d lost their brightness, that cute thing the eyebrow moles do. She looked at me with sadness, with pleading.

I didn’t want to overreact. She’d gotten stuck places before, mostly in small holes around the pasture. She can’t use her back legs much so sometimes we drive the back end for her and she steers in the front. But because of the Feeling, I knew that this was different.

So, I grabbed my most logical child, my eight-year-old son, and told him I was concerned. I had him come out with me and we tried to help her up. Pesto tried briefly but collapsed again. My son suggested we give her some pain meds. It was a good idea, and the first pill (wedged in some cheese) she was able to get down — barely. The second pill took her a while to eat, and if you have ever given a dog cheese, you’ll know this is strange. Cheese comes only slightly behind fresh meat, in doggy cookbooks.

My son went to tell his brother and sister — what, exactly, I don’t know — while I grabbed a towel from the bathroom to use as a sling around her middle, so we could support her legs and get her up and walking. I removed the heavy lid of the doghouse, thankful for once that my husband builds even doghouses with extremely time-intensive features that you never thought you’d need.

With the kids watching and calling to Pesto, I lifted the ends of the towel around her middle, but it was no use. She wasn’t using her front legs at all now. The best I could do was move her into a more comfortable laying position, for which she gave me a look of gratitude before laying her head down.

That was the last time she moved, really.

I went right in and called the vet. It was 5:03pm on a Friday and I feared they were closed already. We have no doggie hospitals in backwoods, USA — as far as I know. I prayed someone would answer. A woman’s voice came on. After some time on hold, the woman told me I could bring Pesto in right now for emergency care. I knew what that meant. My kids knew what that meant. I told them anyway, that this was the end for Pesto. This brought our first wave of tears, but I couldn’t give in to it — I had to try and call my husband (who, in another unlucky turn, had lost his cell phone a few days before) and I had to get Pesto loaded into our car.

Fortunately, just as we were leaving, my husband’s car pulled in, so the family drove together. Pesto was awake on the ride, but didn’t raise her head to look around at all. My kids had their hands on her, speaking words of love and comfort. My husband said, “Well, Pesto, I guess this is what you have to do to get a car ride these days.” because the vet told us a year ago that her traveling days were over.

Once we carried her into the vet, batman blanket and all, we gathered around her on the concrete floor. The vet, a young woman with a frizzy brown bob, whose name I don’t even remember, took one look and said it was time. The words brought more tears, though we all knew the truth already. We could see the old girl was in pain. She was ready to be free from a body that had been holding her back.

It was simple, really. Peaceful. We each put a hand on her once more as the needles went in and the medicine stopped her breathing and then her heart. We knew she’d had a good run. Fourteen years! A breeder told me a month ago that after age twelve, a big hound lives on borrowed time. We’ve been ever so grateful that she borrowed that time for us.

We brought her body home, wrapped in the batman blanket, in a too-flimsy white cardboard box, and dug her grave in the drizzling rain. Now, instead of looking into the doghouse when we leave, we look into the field and say “see you later, Pesto.”

We know that it’s only an envelope under the dirt and rocks, though. We’ll see her later, running free on those horsey legs, ears flapping in a heavenly wind.

We love you, Pesto. We sure miss you. God be with you till we meet again.

Ms. Agnes dePesto, Jan 1996 – April 2010