happy Birthday

I haven't seen my mother in, oh shit, four years. I remember I had gotten up early that morning. It was my birthday, and momma always put out my presents on the kitchen counter for me to find when I got up.

When I woke up, something just wasn't right. I went to pee and then wash my face, thinking that maybe she had planned something really special since this was an important birthday for me, but I wasn't hearing noise, no voices, not a sound from anything.

I walked into the kitchen and saw the envelope. My name was scrawled across the face of it, like it had been done in a hurry. I ripped it open. It was one of those pull out cards that announced what a wonderful day the recipient would have. I started pulling out the message, seeing my message:

H A P P Y A N N I V E R S A R Y

That was the day I turned 13.

That was the first day I started raising myself.

I think of that day often. I think of it every time I get up on the pole. I see it behind my closed eyes every time a john is licking my face and telling me how beautiful I am. I think of it every time some Christian minister walks in the club, trying to put his "Jesus is coming and you're going to hell" pamphlet in my hand and saying girl you can do better for yourself than this.

I want to yell, "I have already been to hell, but someone else sent me there, and nothin else can be worse than that."
But I don't. Because that same minister, that shepherd of lost lambs, that emissary of a so called higher being, comes back in two hours with dark sunglasses on his face, and makes my rent for a month. And sometimes, if he has gotten an especially full plate of tithes the week before, two month's.

Today is my birthday. I am not old enough to vote. I cannot legally drink, and I cannot sign any type of contract without a parent, but I am alive without having one.

This is the day I turn seventeen.

Broken

I walked into the coffee shop and sat down. I don't know why. I'm not a coffee girl.

The guy was there before me. And had obviously been on the phone for awhile. "I don't need a girlfriend, " he said. "Why would you say that?

"If you think that, then you don't know me like I thought you did.

"I don't need a girlfriend!"

He slowly removed the phone from his ear, looked at it in disbelief, and laid it on his table. "I need you." 

Then he put his face in his hands and wept.

I sat there, one table removed, one life separated from another by a piece of furniture, and shared his grief, his pain. He didn't know I was there. I didn't care.

02.20.02

He hadn't spoken in days. He couldn't.

I hadn't spoken in hours. I couldn't.

I was going to be the last witness to my Daddy's life. I was the one to see him off on his next journey, wherever that may be.

I was to bid him bon voyage and Godspeed.

Before he quit speaking, he was talking to my dead Mother, which brought a certain amount of comfort to me. He also thanked Charlie for the hearing aides Dorothy gave him after Charlie died. Then there was the old cat that seemed to be always jumping into the clothes dryer. My dear old Dad asked a kitty to give him back his shorts.

He chattered, I listened, I laughed.

I held his right hand with my own. I didn't want to squeeze too hard for fear I would bruise him. I cupped his face with both hands. I told him that I would be all right. I told him my brother would be all right. I told him that we loved him and that he did a good job as a Daddy, as a Friend, as a Man.

I told him he had suffered for one second longer than was too long.

I told him that it was ok for him to go.

He looked at me, his hand relaxed, and one single tear fell from his eye.

Rest in eternal peace, Hugh Lang Pettit.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzz

Shutter Shock

"Lay down with me. God you look so good. I want to take some pictures of you. Open your legs a little. Touch yourself. A little more, babe. Ohhh, that makes me hot. Honey, no one is gonna see these but me, don't worry, I promise. We're married, after all. Trust me.

Trust me.

Trust me.

I am your husband."

I heard what he said. Each and every word. And I believed each and every word. What a turn on, what an aphrodisiac, to hear someone voice their desire for you. How erotic to hear someone you love wants to take photos of you, wants to look at you like that, remember you like that, forever.

Those were the days before smart phones, before cameras with USB drives. The days even before the internet. The images were Polaroids because you would not want to send film to the drugstore to be developed. After all, it was to be private. Only between a husband and wife. Only between partners. Only between trusted lovers.

Then, one day I said to him, "You hit me. It will not happen again. I am leaving you. Do you understand what I have just told you?"
He said to me, "If you leave me, I will nail those pictures to every telephone pole in town."
I said to him, "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?"

The next day, there was an envelope containing my intimate pictures under my Welcome mat.

I have come to know that a lovely young woman in my community has been the victim of a similar situation, albeit with a modern, twenty first century twist.

These are the days of smart phones, devices that can "bump" each other to transfer high res pictures. One click, one bump, and your face and every before now publicly unseen part of you is out in the world to look at, forever.

Forever.

This young woman's husband has broken the spousal trust. He has released intimate photos of his wife. A wife who loved her husband enough to trust him to take intimate pictures of her.

Trust me

Trust me

He put those pictures on the internet to hurt her, to shame her, to humiliate her. To possibly lose her job. No reason justifies this action. It has only shamed him.

Unfortunately, she can't tell him "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?" because we do have smartphones, recording devices, and internet, and she is a public figure. The images are already out there.

But her friends, family, and I will stand beside her. We will champion her. We will defend her, no matter what.

Forever.

Sam

My friend Mike is a lover of dog. Not just a dog lover, because a lot of us are, but a Lover of DOG! A Friend of Dog. He has loved dogs from childhood, but when he became a man, it became part of his life's mission. That mission was, when one came into his path, when it was in his power to do everything in said power, he would enrich, support, protect, and save DOG.

The first was Bert, the loving, big boy, Bert. But this is not Bert's story. This story is Bert's Dog's story. Bert found Sam, a starving, poor, damaged shell of a dog. What someone might call a cadaver of a puppy. Mike's motto for Sam has always been "Sam, Sam, the Happy Hound", but what some do not know, there is an ending to that limerick, "who was almost dead when he was found."

We all fall in love with puppies, sweet smelling little bundles. We all fall in love with dogs who like to run and play, snuggle when WE want them to, understand our language even when we've taught them naught, expect them to poop and pee when and where they're supposed to. But what happens when a dog comes into our path who is not cute and cuddly?

What happens when your animal has found another animal whose sole existence is the basics? Eat, because the body says. Shit, because the body says. Sleep, because the body can do no more. That pup knew nothing else. Hunger, pain, hide, sleep. Who knows what that puppy went through in his early life. Bert found that puppy, and he knew his Dad would help. And Bert's Dad did, Mike did. How many of us would have passed on by? How many of us would have called an authority, "Come get this animal!", or not? How many of us would have just looked away from that damaged soul?

Bert found Sam because Bert knew Sam needed to be found.

Sam thrived. Sam thrived because Bert's Dad saw to it, Mike saw to it. Sam grew because Bert's Dad fed, nurtured, loved, and brought that poor damaged soul back from the brink.

Sam has lived through the death of his savior and friend, Bert. Sam has lived though the introduction of a younger brother, Lucas. Sam has lived through the introduction of the Girl Dog, Lilith, and a Pibble Princess, Tyger Linn. Sam lived because of the love and protection, through various times, of all five, but most of all his doggy Dad, Mike Firesmith.

But Sam was old. Sam was tired. He watched Dog Dad introduce younger dogs into the pack as fosters. He didn't understand they are temporary. He just wanted to eat, sleep, and to be loved by his Dog Dad.

And, I believe in his heart of hearts, he knew he was loved, he knew he was safe.

Rest in peace, old man. You were loved.

http://mikefiresmith.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-dozen-years-of-dog-happy-rescue-day.html

Ride 'Em Cowboy

I get home late today. As usual, I go to my bedroom, strip off the day's work uniform, and put on my comfies. Then I go into the adjourning bathroom to hang up my clothes. I notice Moby sitting next to the toilet, and with a very impatient look on his face, says "Maaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!" I realize, damn! I left the toilet lid closed when I left for work this morning. My big cat, my big boy Moby drinks out of the commode. The term "toilet water" has a real meaning for my handsome man.

So, of course I apologize to him, and immediately lift the lid, whereupon he proceeds to lean into the bowl and drink as if he had just crossed the Gobi. Side note here to all you PETA people: my cats have fresh water at their easy access in my kitchen, so don't even go there with me.

I finish the hanging of my duds. Moby has finished his camel concession, and saunters over to sit on the bathroom rug and gaze through the door into the bedroom. I means he is just kind of do doodly doing it, lah de dahhing it, when BAM! Out from behind the shower curtain, hidden like the stealthy ninja kitty that he is, Bosco flies down, and lands just behind Moby's butt. Moby looks at me with the "oh, shit" face and jumps into the air one foot and starts to run out of the room. Bosco, not missing a beat, wraps his arms around Moby's neck, and rides him out of the bathroom like a monkey on a dog.

I laughed for thirty minutes. Moby has not looked at me since.