Day 31: Magical Thinking

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

“I could not give away the rest of his shoes. I stood there for a moment, then realized why: he would need shoes if he was to return. The recognition of this thought by no means eradicated the thought. I have still not tried to determine (say, by giving away the shoes) if the thought has lost its power.”

“We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe their husband is about to return and need his shoes.”

Joan Didion, describing her grief after her husband passed away in The Year of Magical Thinking

The story of losing my dog is, of course, not really a story about losing my dog.

I’ve spent every day looking for small signs of him. Traces of his fur that the vacuum might have missed, a dent in a pillow perhaps, footprints in the snow.

A few days ago, I went for a cross-country ski in the park where I usually go. A few weeks earlier, I had added myself and Indie to a small snowman family on a stone wall in the woods. I wanted to check on the family to see if they were still there. If the snowman family were there, it meant… I don’t know… something?

I stopped to visit the melted remains of the snowmen, and I stared at the barbed wire fence just behind the stone wall where they sat. I looked up and noticed the mountain, still covered in snow, even in March. I looked up further and took in the bluebird sky, shining and beautiful, just like the day Indie died.

I stayed for a minute and then I kept going.

The snow sparkled as I skied around and around through the trees. I listened to music as I moved along. There was a song on the playlist that I had listened to the night Indie died and I did not want it to play while I was still moving. I’ve listened to it exactly twice since the night he died. Both times were on bluebird sky days, while I was alone in snow-covered woods.

Oh we learn
Life is short… love is tall
Hands and heart
Learn how to hold it all
Life is short… love is tall
Hands and heart
Learn how to hold it all

I got the idea that if I could get back to the snowmen just at the time the song came on, it would somehow… mean something. Like Indie was visiting me. Or not exactly Indie, but some sort of “magic.”

I got closer to the stone wall and the snowmen. The current song (‘A Road to Nowhere’ by Talking Heads) neared its end. I pushed myself to be at the snowmen in case the “magic” song were to come on. I raced faster and faster, a little bit clumsy, tripping over myself a bit. I could see the snowmen by the time ‘A Road to Nowhere’ was wrapping up, and breathlessly I sat on the bench and waited.

A different song came on. A little disappointed, I sat and listened anyway. It was ‘Starting Over’ by Chris Stapleton, a beautiful song with its own kind of magic.

On the way out, I decided to ski through the dog off-leash area, the one Indie never got to go to. I looked for pawprints that might look just like his. I searched and there were a zillion small paw prints. But none were exactly like his.

SOLSC Day 30: Fixing Things

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

At lunchtime on March 5th, about two months after Indie died, I went cross-country skiing at the town park just down the road from my house. On the way I stopped at a little bench in front of an old stone wall with a view of Mt. Mansfield in the distance. Sitting on the old stone wall were three little snowmen.

They were just like our family, but missing me, and Indie. So I stopped, hesitated and it felt a little silly, but I made a fourth snowman for me. And a small little snowman for Indie. I added little stick arms for me, just like the other three. I added four little stick legs, and a tail, for Indie.

I took a photo of them to make them last. Just as I skied four or five strides away, the snowman of myself fell apart. I thought about continuing on and leaving the snowman-version of myself that way, but I didn’t. I went back, fixed it up, and added a little heart. Why not?

I thought about how maybe I could fix myself up.

I thought maybe I could recreate different versions of myself, and Indie, and all the people I’ve loved and lost whenever I needed.

SOLSC Day 29: Frozen Pawprints

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

It was cold and clear on Indie’s last day, January 17th. After he died, his pawprints were still frozen in the ice all around our yard, in the driveway, on on the deck outside our kitchen sliding glass door. Despite his age was happy and strong right up until his last few weeks. His pawprints mapped out his trips to the edge of the woods behind our house, his marches up and down the front walkway, his running across the deck.

For days and days after he died I looked out the sliding glass door to check on his pawprints. Sure enough they were still there, but each time I checked, they were slightly more melted. His prints were slowly vanishing. Each time I looked, I would also sob. I kept this a secret, the frozen pawprints. I didn’t point them out or with my kids or my husband—it was too sad.

Just when it seemed that the pawprints were on the verge of vanishing, something wonderful happened one night. A snowstorm. Big beautiful fluffy flakes floated down and blanketed the pawprints, layer after layer after layer, filling the deck, covering the yard, the front walkway, the driveway, all of it.

I felt better knowing his tracks were covered by snow. And when the snow melted not long ago, the prints were gone. I keep looking for some little speck, some faded pawprint in the dirt on the deck. But no, it’s all washed away now.

SOLSC Day 28: Christmas Eve

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

From the beginning of the Slice of Life Story Challenge challenge, I hoped that as the end of the month grew near I would be ready to let go, in a way, of the wave of loss I feel each time I stop to think about my little dog. Something unlocked inside me when he died, and I wish I could lock it back up sometime soon. A week ago, I started to feel a sense of “fond memory” instead of “fresh loss” as I was writing.

However I knew there were a handful of posts I needed to save for the end of this month. Each one is a memory I know I want to keep, but are also the hardest ones to write because writing them feels so final. This is one of them.

My son was born on December 20, 2013 at 11:11, just before his due date. He was born during a terrible ice storm, which meant we couldn’t leave the hospital for the entire three days I was in labor, and for three days afterward. (It was delightful—but that is another story).

So we brought Jackson home on December 23 (I think) or maybe it was on the morning of December 24 and t Christmas Eve we all went to the annual Moore family party, including Indie.

The party was extremely hard on me, as you can imagine, having given birth just a few days prior. I don’t know what I was thinking, agreeing to go. But that too, is another story.

The real story, right now, is about Indie.

So Brinton, Lily (who was four at the time), baby Jackson, and I survived this party with the entire extended family and were finally ready to go home. It was around 9:00 in the evening - practically the middle of the night for me. I was sleep-deprived and weepy. I had a terrible migraine, and was just completely miserable. I could not wait to get home.

We packed up the baby, the toddler, the gifts, the leftovers, everything. This took forever. Lily kept overheating and taking things back off. I tried to wait in the car while Brinton said his goodbyes but it was a -20F Vermont night and I was just too cold and anxious about having the baby in the cold car, so I went in and out of the house trying to move Brinton along.

Finally, after all this, I got baby Jackson, tiny Lily, and I buckled up in the car. Brinton called to Indie to come. There was no answer, no jingling of dog tags. No barking. Nothing.

The house was searched. More calling into the cold moonlit night. Nothing.

Lily, baby Jackson, and I all piled back out the car, and back into the house. Jackets were removed, the baby needed to be fed, and Lily, by now was having a full blown tantrum — can you really blame her?

The entire family was now in search mode. “When was the last time we saw him? Did anyone let him out? When was that? What about after dinner? Did anyone see him then?”

More than one person thought they had let Indie out before dinner, around 4:00. That much we knew. Nobody had seen him since. As mentioned, the temperature was -20F. We live up on Mt. Mansfield, the highest mountain in Vermont, so live far north and we’re up high in elevation. It frequently gets below zero for stretches of time, especially at night but an entire day of -20 is very cold, even for us.

Convinced Indie must have frozen to death, I began to cry in front of the entire family - which I hated so, so, so, so much. I hid in a bedroom with Jackson and Lily and listened through the windows to everyone calling for Indie. Eventually, after calling and calling for him, we decided there was not much else we could do but go home, and hope that he came to the door after we left. Grandma and Grandpa would keep the lights on for him.

Lily, thankfully, fell asleep in the car on the short drive home. A Christmas miracle - maybe the only time she has ever fallen asleep in a car. I was free to sob as hard as I wanted. As we drove home I searched the road, the snowbanks, driveways, and ditches. I was terrified that I might see his little body frozen on the roadside but couldn’t stop searching. I was convinced that my dog who was also my best friend had died on Christmas Eve, all because I hadn’t checked for him at any point in the night.

It was the longest ten minute drive home and seemed to take all of my physical strength to put Lily in her bed. Isn’t it strange how you remember the smallest things like that — every small thing felt so heavy that night. Finally, still sobbing, I put my pajamas on (knowing I wouldn’t be sleeping — I still had a three day old baby, remember?)

I lay down on the bed on top of the blankets, holding Jackson, exhausted.

Brinton came into the bedroom. “I’m going after him.”

“What do you mean, going after him? You’ll get hypothermia and then I’ll have a dead husband and a dead dog,” I said. I remember saying these exact words.

“No, I won’t. And Lincoln is coming with me.” Lincoln is one of Brinton’s cousins. Lincoln will always do anything we ask.

“Then you’re both going to get hypothermia,” I said. But Brinton was already out the door. So I sobbed some more.

Brinton and Lincoln drove back to the party and headed into the frozen ravine behind my in-laws’ house, a place where the family dogs loved to chase animals. They wore every piece of ski layering they owned - which was a lot of layers, and donned headlamps. Within a minute or two, Indie appeared out of the shadows, nonchalant and smiling, as if to say, “Oh hi. Fancy meeting you here.”

We will never know where Indie was that entire time. Was he hanging out in a neighbor’s shed eating their horse grain (maybe), was he running through the woods all night, chasing animals (definitely possibility), or was he just hanging out in the ravine, doing nothing?

That Christmas was full of danger and relief. My baby was born in an ice storm. My dog ran away, but was found. Out of relief, I cried and cried and cried.

SOLSC Day 26: Thunder Storms & Smooshed Face

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

For a lot of Indie’s life he didn’t have a dog bed at all. He slept in our bed, sometimes on the couch. When the kids were born, he’d get up in the night and rotate around to each of our beds — especially Lily’s. Occassionally we’d find him sleeping downstairs on the basement couch, or in the living room. But we never really thought about gettin him a bed until later on.

Come to think of it— it was his fear of thunder that led to me getting him a dog bed. When we lived in New York, we really didn’t hear thunder storms come through. It wasn’t that there weren’t thunderstorms — I’m sure there were plenty. It’s that the street our apartment where our apartment was located on was already so loud that we literally didn’t hear thunder. (That’s another story).

When we moved to Vermont, we could suddenly hear nature. The first time a thunderstorm rolled through, Indie panicked. He cried and cried and whined and whined. He wanted to go outside, but then inside. He wanted to be held, but would then wriggle out of arms. There was nothing we could do but hug him and wait for it to be over.

So I bought him a Thunder Jacket. It’s exactly what it sounds like. A jacket that fits snuggly onto your dog for them to wear during a thunderstorm to calm them down. As you can imagine, the Thunder Jacket had the exact opposite effect — Indie hated it.

Then, I saw one of those adds that you see on Instagram or FaceBook — for a doggy stress bed. It’s a donut shaped dog bed that is super soft and fuzzy (in other words—just a dog bed). It promised to relieve stress and anxiety so I bought one for Indie. He loved it so much I bought him a second one. So, for the rest of his life after that, he had one bed upstairs, and one bed downstairs.

When Indie woke up from a deep sleep, he’d raise his head (usually from my bed, or my husband’s pillow, sometimes from his own doggy beds), he’d look around, and just.. thump…let his head fall back down in bed. Other times, he'd look up, with the fur smooshed down on one side of his face where he had been sleeping, like he’d been out all night and it was too early in the morning. If he could talk, he would have told us to turn out the lights and stop talking.

In fact, a lot of times, we did exactly what he told us. We’d jus turn the lights back out and let him go right back to sleep.

SOLSC Day 25: They Fly in Their Dreams

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

When Indie slept, he almost always made some kind of noise. He snored a tiny little doggy snore. He would “arf” every now and then, or make little almost barks. He would sometimes shake all over. And sometimes he paws would move in a running motion, out in front of him, like he was flying in his dreams. Every once in a while his tail would thump, thump and I knew he must be having a good dream.

SOLSC Day 24: New Tricks

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

They say an old dog can’t learn new tricks, but Indie, did right up to the end. A year or two before he died we bought a new couch and my husband didn’t believe that I could teach Indie to stay off of it. Indie had always been allowed everywhere. He was one of us. But it only took just a few stern looks (he was deaf by then) and he knew what I meant and just… learned.

He also learned to open doors with his tongue late in the game. I loved it when he did it. Seeing his little pink tongue appear in the crack between to door and the floor just struck me as so funny. Then he’d curl his tongue upward and just pull with it until the door opened just a crack. Then he’s stick his nose on the door (I can remember the snuffling sound) and push until the door opened.

I found an old post from three years ago about Indie losing his hearing and still learning new “tricks.” Here it is:

Our dog, Indie, lost his hearing over the course of one summer several years ago. At first it seemed like he was just selectively ignoring us. We’d call to him to come, and he’d just stare back in a way that we interpreted as stubborn—but it turns out he probably just, legit, was not hearing us.

He’ll be fourteen years old in June. I’m not even sure what that would be in dog years - 80? 90? 100? In any case, although he’s small and shaggy and still looks puppyish, he’s a very old dog.

Since he can’t hear anything anymore, without thinking much about it I’ve started adding gestures whenever I talk to him. When I say “sit” I tend to wave down to the floor. When I say, “treat” or “cookie” I hold my fist in the air as if I’m holding a dog treat. To get him to come, I pat the side of my leg.

Even though it wasn’t intentional, Indie has picked up on all the cues and now he pretty much responds just as if he could hear us—unless of course he’s outside and out of eyesight.

Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

Hopefully when I’m his age, I’ll still be learning a trick or two myself.

Orginally posted as part of the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge,  May 23, 2021

Day 23: Running Out of Time

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

When Indie died, I kept a list on my phone of every little thing I could remember about him. Everything in my house, yard, car, and every piece of furniture, blanket, and rug conjured a memory. Tiny details about Indie. His fur, his little bunny legs, pokie paws, and his sausage-shaped tail. He leaned against me when I was sick, going through a bad phase, hurting, sad, or depressed. I would hug him tightly, soaking in his unconditional love.

It’s Day 23 and I’m running out of time to write all the stories.

I worried that writing all these memories wouldn’t be good for my mental health. Writing these stories means remembering fifteen years of highs and lows in my life. Now that I’m in it, I know that this month will be important. I also know that I need to stop after Day 31.

I knew I was running out of time in Indie’s final days, too. He leaned on me, radiating love, during all the terrible things that happened to me. I used to scoff at the idea of a “therapy pet.” For me, meds and a psychiatrist are necessary - but a dog? I understand it now—and wonder if a therapy pet is such a good idea. Fifteen years wasn’t enough time with him and what if I fall apart without him?

For the final two days, I spent every single minute holding him, or laying down next to his dog bed and just watching him breathe, and just sobbing. My kids sobbed. We all sobbed together. Is it terrible to say I hoped he would die peacefully in his sleep? Did we have to choose the day and time when would die?

I was so young when he first arrived, and now I feel old. Fifteen years is too short of a time for a dog’s life, but that’s a lot of aging for a grown woman. There’s a big difference between 30 and 45. Can I really start over now? My dog is gone; years have flown by; I’m still here; there’s still a lot left to do.

It’s only Day 23. Still quite a few days, and quite a few stories to go.

Day 22 SOLSC: The Moon Shown Brightly

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

We knew it would be Indie’slast hike. It was March of 2021. He was thirteen years old, his legs were getting a bit stiff, he was a little shaky and had lost his hearing by then. But he still flew through fields, and leapt off the steps of the deck to chase squirrels.

In the spring, when the chairlifts were closed, but there was still snow on the ground, Bolton Valley had the best sunsets. We bundled up like usual, with backpacks and headlamps.

The kids sprinted ahead. Indie ran back and forth between us. It’s amazing to me that he still did four times the amount of hiking. Racing ahead, coming back and circling us, leading us along.

At the peak, we had snacks and hot cocoa, and watched the sun go down. Indie began to shiver. We wrapped him up in my down puffy layer, made a sleeping bag for him out of it, and held him tight. He smiled with his little pink tongue showing. The sky turned to gold, then fire, then violet. The first stars appeared and the moon rose behind us.

We donned headlamps and skipped down the mountain, taking turns holding our dog. And by the time we reached the car, dusk had fallen, and the sky was dark. But the moon shown brightly.

Day 21 SOLSC: Tolerating the Shower

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

Indie never liked water. Luckily his smooth wiry coat always stayed clean. His fur was a little raincoat. He was always warm and dry.

His special coat required grooming every 4-6 weeks with a special process called “stripping.” (I tried to do it myself once and it was disastrous - Indie looked like he had mange). When he came home the groomer he looked and felt like a little prince. His fur was short and velvety after a grooming . Over the following weeks the top wirier coat would grow longer and softer making him look like a little Star Wars creature. And then he would get groomed again.

On the occasions when he did get pretty dirty, or if he just started to get stinky we would give him a shower. He just stood there looking miserable while we soaped him up and washed him one leg at a time.

After a shower Indie would slide on his back across the bedroom carpet, like a little snake. Then he would snap up and run. And then stop. And then slide like a snake again. Then he’d run down the stairs and through all the rooms, skittering from rug to rug because the wood floors were too slippery.

He tolerated rivers and kiddie pools too. On really hot days I walked him into the river him to cool off in. I dipped him in a kiddie pool from time to time while I was gardening. He moved his paws in vague swimming motions, as if he were asleep and dreaming about swimming instead of doing it in reality.

Indie didn’t like water, but he was always near whenever we were swimming, or running in a sprinkler, or having a hose-battle, or washing the car. Then again, he was always near.

Day 20 SOLSC: Vacuum Cleaner

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years. 

Like lots of dogs, Indie was always right underfoot when we were in the kitchen. He was stepped on so many times that it’s unbelievable he never was seriously hurt.

Come to think of it, at some point he developed a crook in his tail (which we called his sausage tail because it was a funny fat pointy shape). We’ll never know if it was because he got stepped on. I suspect our kitchen sliding door had something to do with it. In any case, like all his injuries, it never seemed to bother him.

When the kids were little, food fell constantly from their seats, from their hands, mouths, clothing. Indie was right there to vacuum it up. He never missed a crumb. Even in the end, not a crumb was missed. My husband and I knew how lucky we were. Sometimes we‘d visit friends who didn’t have a dog. When their kids dropped food on the floor my first thought was how much work it must be to have kids but no dog.

Early on Indie developed this weird habit of licking the carpet. The first time was when he was just a puppy, and we still lived in our apartment in Brooklyn. He never really chewed (except one time with a Birkenstock, and the corners of a few books that I didn’t even notice until he was much older). But he licked and nibbled a bare spot into one of the rugs. We used bitter apple spray and that seemed to keep him from doing it again — for a while.

When we moved into our house that we live in now he started doing it again. Only this time there was wall-wall carpeting in the upstairs. We could hear him from another room - slurp slurp. But then when we tried to catch him in the act - nothing.

Eventually he chose a favorite spot on the stairs landing, where he would sit and sunbathe everyday. From there he could see and hear almost the whole house. He could see out the windows he was too small for, without the height of the stairs landing. He licked the heck out of that square of carpet.

When Indie died, everywhere I looked everything reminded me of him and I couldn’t believe how hard it was—still is. This silly little dog. And I still can’t do anything in a day without thinking about where he would have been be sitting or sunbathing or licking up crumbs.

Day 19 SOLSC: Animal Battles

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years. 

Indie loved to fight. For such a small, adorable cuddly little dog with humans, he was vicious with animals.

For years we couldn’t have other dogs over. It was too stressful. Once he was thirteen or fourteen years he became and too old and too tired to care anymore. It was one of the many lovely unexpected things about Indie in his old age.

But until then, he was a fighter.

The first time we ever left baby Lily with my in-laws, we came home that evening to be told that Indie had battled a porcupine and that my father-in-law had spent the afternoon at the vet. Indie looked no worse for the wear. You’d never know that anything had happened.

Two or three years later, we had just moved into our house—which means it was October or November of 2012. I was painting the dining room when it happened, and it was my husband’s cousin’s birthday. He was having a terrible birthday already if I remember, which was why he was at our house that night, after Lily had gone to bed, for some consolation. If I remember correctly, Indie was out in the yard when we heard him barking that certain bark — the killer bark.

I had all the windows open because I was painting, and smell immediately filled our house. It made our eyes water it was so strong. Brinton ran into the backyard and grabbed Indie in his arms to keep him from continuing the battle and brought him into our garage to give him a bath because it was freezing cold outside, snowing a little. The garage idea was a HUGE mistake. The smell would linger for months. In the garage, Brinton gave him a bath using regular shampoo which did absolutely nothing. By this time Justin, the cousin had left.

Then, an even BIGGER mistake. Brinton put Indie into the back of his station wagon and drove him to his parent’s house where they had special shampoo for skunked dogs, and stunk up their house too. And his car just stank for the rest of the time we owned it.

Then, not long after that, Indie got sprayed again at Brinton’s parents’ house — while they were watching Lily, of course.

He got into it with a porcupine again, too. The second time his mouth was so full of quills that he couldn’t close his mouth, and he had them stuck inside his nose. The vet took hours and hours to remove them all. MONTHS later, a different cousin of Brinton’s pulled a remaining quill out of Indie’s quill that no one had discovered, and hadn’t seem to bother Indie a bit.

Another time, I was standing in the front yard, once again at Brinton’s parents’ house and young toddler Lily pointed out into the field and said, “Look Indie carrying something.” I turned and immediately knew that he had a dead animal in his mouth, even though he was thankfully too far away to actually see for sure. I took Lily into the house and asked my mother-in-law to keep her away from the windows because “Indie has something.” Then I had the terrible task of getting him to let go of a baby groundhog.

Countless squirrels, rabbits and chipmunks in the backyard. We’ll never know how many.

But the one that topped them all was the bear.

Brinton and his dad were mountain biking on the trails near home when the chain fell off Brinton’s bike. Indie strayed away, as he does whenever we’re not moving fast enough to keep his interest on a trail. Soon enough, Brinton and his dad heard the killer bark—only much more of an alarming bark than his usual killer bark.

Brinton, I’m told, went running toward the sound and spotted Indie standing between him and an adolescent black bear. What he did next was so stupid. He ran TOWARD Indie and the bear. He stopped Indie up, and ran to his bike, not looking back. Then with NO CHAIN attached he pushed with his feet and rolled as fast as he could down the trail.

Indie had major surgery after that one, with manny stitches, broken bones, and internal injuries. But he bounced back within a few months, good as new.

He was truly tough as nails that dog. What else can I say?

Day 18 SOLSC: That One Time He Got to Go Mountain Biking With Me

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years. 

A short memory.

Indie was a great trail dog if I was moving fast. He loved to run alongside, run behind, chase, or otherwise follow. But I slowed down or stopped, he’d lose interest and run away. I mean, really run away.

Indie has disappeared into the forest while hiking, running, jogging, snowshoeing, cross country skiing, you name it. Once, my husband and a friend who was visiting for the weekend spent an entire day calling for him in a riverbed because they were afraid that it they returned home without him, I might fall to pieces.

There was also the problem of Indie with other dogs. He was nasty. I learned early on to pick him up and hold him tight whenever another dog owner was near. He was such a cute, small little dog that people would stop and innocently say, “Don’t worry about my dog! She loves other dogs! No really, l don’t mind. We understand, go ahead and give it a try, our dog is so patient.” For years I would awkwardly slide by, without saying much. Eventually I learned to reply, clearly, and with no uncertainty, “I’m sorry! He’s NOT friendly!”

Not to mention his love of battles with wild animals. That’s a whole other story.

All this is to say, although Indie had joined Brinton often, Indie only got to go mountain biking with me one time, about six or seven years ago. I was too afraid he’d either escape or fight another animal.

He loved it so much. He could run so fast, practically lifting off the ground. I loved the way his little ears flapped, and the way his little legs reached in front of him, galloping, really.

It was a hot day, and when we reached the first flat spot I stopped and gave him a cup of water. I could tell he was tired already, and my heart sunk. He was about eight or nine years old at the time, not young. But I don’t think I had ever seen Indie tired, ever. Certainly not in the midst of an adventure.

That was the first time I ever thought about Indie getting old. I remember thinking that I wish I had taken him on more mountain bike rides.

After his cup of water, we continued on, but I made sure to slow down just a little for him.

It was a turning point, having to think about slowing down, and getting old.

SOLSC Day 17: Indie's Origin Story

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

I’ve been putting off writing this story, honestly. It’s a long, disgusting story that I rarely speak of. So here it goes.

When we moved into our apartment in Brooklyn, we were SO excited. It was a recently renovated warehouse, and we had an entire floor to ourselves. AN ENTIRE FLOOR. This much space is unheard of in New York City. It was an embarrasing amount of space. Once, during a party, friends took turns riding a bicycle back and forth through the apartment.

Okay, so we’re living in this amazing apartment, and when I look back, this was one of the best times of our life. We were in our late 20s and early 30s, established enough in our careers to feel like adults, but young enough to stay out all night, hopping from restaurant to restaurant, and party to party, throughout our neighborhood in Bushwick/Greenpoint/Williamsburg.

For you New Yorkers, we lived just a block from the BQE in 2004-2012ish, at the time, not the best location, but it was cheap and it worked for us. It was full of artists and creative people that couldn’t afford rent in the city. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize that we were a part of the beginning of a wave of gentrification that would raise prices and ultimately drive out families and businesses who had been in the neighborhood for generations.

We should have known. Construction of new condos and highrises were going on all around our building the entire time we lived in the apartment, but we kept living it up. This construction would come back to bite us. Hard.

So, as I mentioned, we lived in a renovated warehouse, and for the first 4-5 years the ground floor lay empty, in waiting for some store or other business to move in. Eventually, around 2006-2007 they began to renovate the space for a furniture store to set up shop.

Okay, so if you live in NYC you know that construction stirs up RATS. And boy were there a LOT of rats living in the first floor space.

At first we heard little scraping sounds coming from our kitchen floorboards. Then we heard “movements” in the walls of our bedroom. Then we noticed holes chewed into the wood trim near the dishwasher. We knew what was happening. We dreaded what these signs meant. We lived in fear for weeks.

Then, it started. First one rat scampered across our hallway, and disappeared into some unknown crevice that we never found. Then morning after morning, I would send Brinton out to the kitchen to “deal with” the rats. Morning after morning, I tell you! For MONTHS I lived on edge, disgusted by my life.

My job at the time took me to schools all around the city. Often I had to get up at dawn to catch a train or bus to begin my journey across the five boroughs. I would wake up, listen closely. And sure enough I’d hear a squeak or a scratching. Then, the more I listened, the more the sounds would become clearer, and I’d become convinced that a rat was in the room, just about to scurry into our bed, so I would run to the bathroom and slam the door, praying that there wasn’t already a rat in the bathroom.

Our landlord did everything. It’s rare to have a good landlord, but we were lucky. Exterminator after exterminator. Traps everywhere. Our landlord gave us the option to break our lease and move out. We looked at other apartments. By that time the prices in our neighborhood had already started to climb, and we experienced what many in the neighborhood were facing: the gentrification that we had been part of was now preventing us from being able to afford to move. We had to stay.

Eventually, the exterminators resorted to the worst solution ever: rat poison.

Don’t get me wrong. I was all for getting rid of those rats by any means. It didn’t bother me at all that the rats would die. But what did matter was that they were going to die in our floorboards, in our walls, in our ceiling. And they were going to stay there, and rot, and smell. For a long time.

The smell was putrid, unbearable. We couldn’t sleep in the bedroom, where it was the worst, so for six months or so we slept on an inflatable mattress in the living room where the smell wasn’t as bad. And there were still rats scurrying around. It wasn’t working. For every rat that died, another took it’s place.

We stopped having people over. No more parties with bicycles. I didn’t tell anyone about the rats. It was top secret. It was humiliating, disgusting to admit to having rats — even though everyone knows rats are out of control in the city.

So. This is where Indie came in. While all this had been going on, I had been obsessed with getting a dog. I visited the local shelter and walked dogs. I spent a LOT of time online researching dogs. And then one day a lightbulb went off.

Terriers hunt rats.

We needed to get a terrier. And thus, Indie came into our lives.

Although our landlord had initially had a firm NO PETS rule (like most NYC landlords), when I proposed this solution he said HELL YES.

And from the day Indie came home, the disgusting scritching and scratching in the walls, squeaking and skittering in the kitchen, “movements” in the ceiling stopped. As far as we know, Indie never even caught a rat. He would sniff around a lot, but it seemed that his presence was all that was needed. The rats moved on, I guess, to some space where there was no dog to deal with. We never saw one again. We smelled them for a while, like sickening rat ghosts left behind to haunt us for the next several months. But we never saw them again.

SOLC Day 16: Achieving Lift Off

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

Indie was a very good boy on his leash. We never really had to train him. He was the kind of dog who you could loosely hang the leash around your wrist, leisurely walking along with him just walking along next to you. For as long as he was alive, I always loved that about him. (My childhood dog would tug and pull us along on his leash, jerking us to try and escape).

However, when Indie was off his leash he was not such a good boy at all. For all the years we lived in Brooklyn he never escaped — minus that one time in McCarren Park when he simply walked away with his leash dragging while I was distracted—changing a diaper. He walked right back, thank god.

When we moved to Vermont, we took him to my in-laws house all the time. They live on a dirt road, without a lot of houses nearby, and plenty of space for a dog to run. Whenever we were there, Indie would jump out of the car and run free, his little ears flapping in the wind. He could fly.

Occasionally, if I was skiing in the backcountry, in places where dogs were allowed, I would bring him along. The conditions had to be just right - he was too little for deep snow. But if the trail was a little bit skied out (smooshed or scraped by previous skiers), then it was perfect for little Indie to run along with me.

In particular, he loved coming to a peak named Dewey with me. On the downhill, I always worried that I was skiing too fast for him to keep up, but everytime I looked over my shoulder, he was just behind me. He ran so fast his little legs became a blur, his tongue hanging out, leaping over obstacles. He achieved lift off.

SOLSC Day 15: Perma-Puppy

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

We always joked that Indie was a perma-puppy. A permanent puppy. And now that he’s gone, looking back, he really was. All the way to the end.

Indie had this funny thing he would do all the time. He would just pick up a dog toy, throw it up in the air to himself, and just play. Toss it up. Let it land. Grab it, shake it, roll on it. Toss it in the air again. It was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.

As a young dog, we figured it was a vestige of puppyhood, and he’s probably grow out of it. In his middle years, we were so happy each time he did it, expecting that it would probably stop any time now. “Awww look! He still plays like a puppy!” As an old dog, we realized that he was simply a playful dog. “He’s a perma-puppy!”

As he got older, Indie’s legs got stiffer and stiffer. In his last two or three years, he walked a little funny because his hind legs just didn’t bend much. But he still hopped around and played. Instead of running and chasing, he did a funny little bunny hop - his font legs clambering for the ball, while his hind legs kicked behind him.

He did other funny little playful things right to the end - carrying giant sticks around that were way too big for his size, rolling over on his back and swishing his butt from side to side, and wriggling on his backside down the hill in our backyard, like a fuzzy upside down snake.

If only I can stay that playful right to the end. I’ll certainly try my best.

SOLSC Day 14: Frisbee Dog

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

This isn’t a specific story, but Indie never learned to catch a Frisbee or a ball. When he was a young dog, I tried and tried to teach him to do it, but the Frisbee (or ball) would just bounce off his face. The worst part was that he loved playing fetch and running after toys, sticks, balls, anything. So he would see my hold up the toy, thinking I was just going to throw it further out for him to chase, but instead he’d get clonked in the face. He was such a smart little athletic dog in every other way, it just didn’t make sense. Every year or so, I’d give it another try with the same results.

I guess he just wasn’t a Frisbee dog. Or a ball dog.

But he was a cute dog.

SOLSC Day 13: I Haven't Seen You Walking Him

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and I can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

It was a bitter cold morning, in January of 2014. Jackson was just a newborn, and Lily was only four year old. Indie, our dog, was seven years old. It was time for Indie’s annual check-up, at the vet’s office just two houses down from our house.

When you have a baby and a toddler, nothing is easy. You can’t bundle up the baby first — they’ll get too hot and probably need a diaper change or to be fed by the time you get the toddler dressed and ready to go. If you bundle up the toddler first, they’ll fuss, and cry, and will defiantly take everything back off again by the time the baby is ready. This is a really sucky thing about being responsible for two tiny humans.

If you are chuckling at the thought of this, please don't. I think moms probably laugh at the experience of other moms, not because it’s actually funny — but because if we didn’t laugh, we’d cry. But nothing I just said was funny. For someone like me, going anywhere outside of the house was stressful and draining, not in a funny-ha-ha way. But in a way that took a toll on my mental and physical health. I love comedy, but I think people laugh too much at the struggle facing new parents, especially moms. Even with a relatively healthy pregnancy and childbirth (and many are not), my life was upended in every way by becoming a new mother. Post-partem depression, sleep deprivation, previous underlying mental health conditions, physical injuries, body dysmorphia, career setbacks, complications with prescription medications, lack of childcare, lack of familial support, isolation from friends, and the unending, unsolicited, landslide of judgement, advice, and yes, jokes.

Anyway. With all this on my mind, I managed to exit the house with Jackson strapped to my front in a baby carrier so he wouldn’t freeze in the below-zero temps, (Why was he so heavy?), squeezed Lily by one hand, and Indie by the dog leash in the other. We made it across the icy cul de sac and to the vet. All the chairs in the waiting area were taken, and nobody stood up to offer me or my squirming daughter a seat. So I stood there, desperately whispering bribes to my daughter for her to hold still and stop screaming, while Indie tugged at his leash to sniff all the new scents, and Jackson wailed. I was hot and sweaty under my puffy coat and I knew my kids were overheated too.

We had just moved a year ago from an incredibly diverse neighborhood in Brooklyn, to a 99% white town in rural Vermont. I was aware of my privilege as a white lady, and in that moment, and I was thinking hard about that, turning it over and over in my mind.

We finally got called into the exam room for Indie. It was the first time that I was the one bring Indie to the vet and not Brinton. I will remember this experience vividly, probably for the rest of my life. Dr. Barningham was a heavy-set imposing figure with pale, doughy skin, and a comb-over. He shook my hand, hard. He introduced himself to me and greeted Indie, which I thought was nice. I replied that it was nice to have a vet so close, just a few houses a way. But then he gave me a stern look and the first thing he said to me, in a voice dripping with judgement, “Well, I haven’t seen you walking him.”

I felt something break inside of me. As if something inside me had been propped up by a stick, and it had just snapped. I mumbled something about having a fenced in yard (we did) and about taking him hiking frequently (we did) and that he was off leash at my in-laws several times a week (he was).

If you’ve read this far and stuck with me, I think you’ll agree that I should have responded differently. With some four letter words. And none of those words would be WALK.

SOLSC DAY 12: Party Dog

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

Our friends all loved Indie. They had nicknames for him. His fur was very wiry, so they called him, “Our little Brillo pad.” His tail had a funny thick shape to it, so he was, “Sausage Tail.” His full name was Indiana Jones, so he was called, “Itty Bitty Indiana,” or “Harrison Ford.” He was also known as, “Bear Hunter,” “He’s a Killer,” and, “The Legend.”

Indie loved it when friends came over. He would go from person to person looking for pats (and food). He loved being held. When he was picked up, he would just stay in that person’s arms all night if they let him (and they often did). Sometimes he’d even fall asleep in their arms as they walked around, or sat at our kitchen island.

If Indie were on the floor when someone was sitting at the kitchen island, he would whine and cry until someone picked him up. It wasn’t until a few months ago, just before he died, that I realized that he may not have been crying to be picked up. Instead, I think was crying for crumbs. So much fell from the counter when my kids ate, that another nickname he had was, “Our Little Vacuum Cleaner.” I am 100% positive he thought they were intentionally giving him treats. I think he had come to expect the treats, and when he didn’t get them, he genuinely thought he should cry to remind us. In other words, he had trained the humans to either drop crumbs, or pick him up.

During parties, Indie would roam the crowd, getting pats from everyone. He liked to be right in the center of the action. He was not one of those dogs that goes and rests in another room, or hides out when there’s a lot of people. He wanted to be right underfoot.

Because of that, he had one last nickname — Party Dog.

SOLSC Day 11: Cinnamon Bun

My Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I are hosting the 16th Annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge, in which teachers from around the world participate by posting a story per day.

This year, the SOLSC gives me a chance to record memories of our little dog, Indie, who died in January. I want to write these down while they are still fresh, so that my family and can read them later and remember not only Indie, but little slices of life across the years.  

Often, but not all the time, Indie would do the thing that dogs do when they turn around and around to find the perfect spot to curl up. Sometimes Indie would go round and round, settle down, then do it again, and again.

Once he found the perfect spot, he would curl up into a little fuzzy ball. I called him a”my little cinnamon bun.”

My favorite was when he would go into a “trance.” A look would come over him and he would paw at the blankets in between turning around, gently tugging them into just the right place, to make a little nest of blankets to surround himself in. Once it was perfect, he’d do the turning thing again.

He always loved soft things. If we left a blanket folded up or laying out somewhere, that would be the place he went to. If there were pillows, he would surround himself in them. If Indie were curled up on our bed, and my husband stood up, Indie would immediately move to the pillow curl himself up on top .

At night, Indie would usually sleep in my bed, with Brinton and I. But often he would move around in the night, taking turns on each bed — my son’s, my daughter’s, ours, and his own little dog bed.

Whenever we went camping, he would do find the perfect spot, but more. Partly, I think, because of the hard ground he was sleeping on—and partly, I think, because he liked the feel of the soft silky sleeping bags.

After years of Indie slept on the hard ground while camping, we finally gave him his own little camping pad — a child size pad that the kids had grown out of. We made sure to bring him his own little silky blanket. Indie liked being in the middle when we camped. He slept, floating on top of silky blankets, kids, and pillows, all his favorite things surrounding him, puffed together like a cloud. Curled up, like a little cinnamon bed.