But there are a few perennial flowers that catch my eyes, that I can identify by name. Among them are rubekia, bee balm, foxglove, meadow sage (which really is an herb, but I see it more often as an ornamental), shasta daisies, echinacea and, best of all, hollyhocks.
Many years ago, when Bard was very young, she and I strolled through the kitchen garden of a local historical society. It was there that I first recognized the difference between a teacher and a mentor. While most of the presenters at the operating historical farm were short-tempered and hurried children along, the keeper of the kitchen garden was gentle, kind and informative. I can still remember watching her pull a flower and a bud off of a hollyhock stalk that towered high above Bard's little brown head, and strip the leaves from the bud to expose two tiny "eyes." She turned the flower upside down, inserted the stem into the base of the bud, and presented Bard with a magical little hollyhock maiden. Bard and I became hooked then and there on cottage gardens in general, and hollyhocks in particular.
A couple of weeks ago, Bard, Monet, Sweetheart and I entered the dangerous territory of the local greenhouse during a clearance sale. It was with much serious contemplation that we selected a wagonful of perennials, a few annuals, and bunches of herbs to fill our cottage garden. There were little root-bound plastic pots of chives, sage, chocolate mint and bronze fennel. There were thirty-nine cent packs of johnny-jump-ups and eager-faced pansies. Monet chose a miniature rose while Sweetheart selected a bright pink hydrangea. Bard selected balloon flowers and daylilies. I, of course, kept my eye out for a good deal on hollyhocks. In the end, I found one stalk, not on sale, and it was a double strain. I know that I could most likely plant them from seed very easily, but I didn't want to wait. I'm an impatient gardener.
While that double-strain hollyhock is growing nicely and is lovely to look at, it's not the old-fashioned, make-a-hollyhock-doll flower I had wanted in my garden. Later, I thought, I'll try to grow some from seeds. I even have a seed packet just waiting for the right time and place.
Snoopy the beagle-bassett came to us on a rainy day in early winter. She didn't want to come; it was clear by the way she sat in the middle of the gravel footpath and refused to move. No amount of encouraging, pulling, tempting or prodding would convince her to take the walk to her new home. Eventually, Bo had to lift the wet 60-pound dog up in his arms and carry her into the cabin.
She'd been the spoiled lap dog of one of Bo's coworkers. They were looking for a new home for her and had asked me if I knew of anyone who would like to take her. It wasn't that they didn't want her. It was just that she was living in a small yard in the city when she really wanted to run around chasing rabbits in the country. We had two dogs. I didn't want any more. But I agreed to babysit her for a weekend and shop her around to some neighbors to help find her a new place to stay.
It continued to rain, but Snoopy sat near the door begging to go outside. I knew that she really wanted to go, because she'd only ventured from her hiding place under the kitchen table once before. So I let her out, and that was the last I saw of her for the rest of the day. By evening, the kids and I were placing posters all over town looking for a lost bassett. By nightfall, she arrived back on the porch, soaked and muddy, but seemed resigned that she had a new home. She warmed up to each of the kids in turn and reestablished herself as the lap dog she'd been for her former owners.
We decided to keep her.
Our dogs are very important to us. For some people, dogs are merely another accessory or an animal they tie to a doghouse and feed once a day. Our dogs, however, live along with us. They go with us on walks, on vacations, and accompany the kids on every excursion. We talk to them and cuddle with them, teach them tricks and include them in our family photos. They're welcome inside, and the comfort that my kids get from having their little dog curled up on their feet under the covers is a comfort that will be remembered long into their adulthoods. Our dogs are treated well, fed well, never hit nor mistreated in any way, and are loved with a love more uninhibited than some people love human beings.
Snoopy quickly became a friend to our family. Visitors have often commented on her big jowls and her long, velvety ears. My mother-in-law has said she's the perfect porch dog, lying with her legs sticking out behind her. And those ears! Hanging off the edge of the porch! She has always been around for a cuddle, whimpering and nudging her nose under your hand if you fail to give her the attention she feels she deserves.
Yesterday didn't start out very well. After I wrote my long post about welcoming people into my home, I began to prepare for yesterday's portrait class. In less than two hours, we would welcome five other families into our home for several hours of visiting and art instruction, but I couldn't get my kids to cooperate. One child had a bad attitude. One child couldn't get motivated. One child simply wanted to play on the computer while the rest of us did work. It was this last child who played the role of the proverbial straw. I was the camel. You get the picture.
I felt badly for losing my temper, but I also felt very frustrated by my children's behaviors. I was fearing the judgment of the families who'd be coming to our home, and I was looking to my kids to do their chores without complaint or fuss. Why, oh why do I fall into this trap? Preparing for visits is one of my biggest stress points, aside from dealing with my dad and getting to appointments on time.
After the class, my dad, who lives with us, made preparations to leave for the library and take a bicycle ride. When he's readying to leave, it's a stress point for me. He needs a cell phone. He needs money. He needs his keys. Do I have library books to take back? Is there gas in the car? Where's my coffee? Where's my water bottle? It's like having a very disorganized kid who has no patience and can't see that you're in the middle of something that doesn't put him in the center of your universe.
Five minutes after the last person left art class, my dad came running into the house, yelling my name repeatedly.
"I think I killed Snoopy!"
I lost my patience immediately. This wasn't something I was even remotely prepared to handle.
"What do you mean, you think you killed Snoopy? What happened?"
"I never even seen her! She was in front of the van, and I think I ran over her chest! Come out here and see."
The last thing I wanted to see was my beautiful dog lying lifeless in the drive.
"I can't," I said, knowing that I was in avoidance. But I was serious I couldn't. I couldn't even bring myself to pick my feet up and force them toward the door. "I can't go out there. You go. You go and tell me if she's really dead." Monet and Sweetheart were drawn to the door, but I insisted that they stay back. I didn't know how much blood there was, how badly she was damaged, and I didn't want them to remember her that way. My dad returned to the door.
"She seems like she's okay. Me and Houdin can get her in the van and you can take her to the vet. She mighta broke her leg. I don't know. Jeez. I never even seen her..." he trailed off.
You weren't even looking, I thought. You were in too much of a hurry, doing your own thing. My resentment was running deep. I decided to put my energy into calling the vet instead of hating my father. While I was explaining the accident to Connie, our veterinarian, my dad returned again, calling my name continually like an annoying child.
"I'm on the phone with the vet!" My impatience was dangerous.
"I don't know if she even needs to go," he answered. "I think she's okay." But I don't trust my dad's judgment, so I told Connie I'd see her in fifteen minutes, and we loaded a panting, pain-filled dog into the back of my van, Houdin and Sweetheart in tow.
The X-rays showed no real damage to her bones. "She may have a broken pelvis, but I don't know," Connie explained as she gave Snoopy a shot for pain. "It looks like she has some damage to her right leg, but it might just be torn ligaments. Her pain response is not great, but it's there, so her spinal cord is intact. Her color return is good and her tongue looks normal, so I don't think there's any internal bleeding. I'll keep her overnight and watch her and let you know how she's doing." Connie can do that, because her office is in her house. She made Snoopy as comfortable as she could, but as we stood there visiting, I could tell that she was still in a lot of pain. Still, I thought, I've heard her howl for minutes over a cat paw's swap to her nose. It was getting late, the kids were getting hungry, and Connie's husband was getting her dinner on the table. We headed out to the van.
When I got home, there was a call on my voicemail from Connie. I called her back and she told me that Snoopy was gone. She'd had a pneumothorax, a collection of air between the outside surface of the lung and the inside surface of the chest wall. The surface of her lung had ruptured, allowing air to exit from the lung into the pleural space. Connie had tried to evacuate the air, but she said she just couldn't keep up. Did I want her to put Snoopy in the freezer, or did I want to pick her up tonight?
After comforting Sweetheart ("She was our only girl dog! I played with her on the porch every day!") and Monet, who put his head on my chest and cried silently, Bo and I took one of my favorite chenille blankets and drove to Connie's house, where Bo and Connie wrapped our canine friend in the softness of the blanket. Bo and I stroked her silky ears, told her we were sorry, and carried her to the car. All along Connie's house and into her yard and parking area grew tall heirloom hollyhocks, bursting with red, purple, pink, and yellow flowers. "You don't want to dig up a few of these to take home, do ya?" She'd felt badly about having to hand me a $239 bill in exchange for a dead dog. I think the hollyhocks were her way of expressing sympathy.
"Yeah," I said. "I think I would like that. "
Our neighbor's big backhoe pulled a plug of earth from the ground below the three large silver maples that have been growing there for over twenty years. Sweetheart and Monet said their goodbyes, scratching Snoopy's ears just like I had. They cried openly. I hid behind the leaves of the silver maple, somehow ashamed to let my tears be seen by the man operating the backhoe. As Bo oversaw Snoopy's burial, Sweetheart, Bard and the Baby watched as I plunged my fingers into the fertile dirt of my garden that runs along the porch, formed deep, round holes, and planted four blooming hollyhock stalks.
This is a season for planting. For me, that means digging holes. Into those holes, I've dropped nasturtium seeds, placed basil and parsley seedlings, transplanted mints and fennel, shimmied begonias and marigolds into the ground. And now, I've planted the body of a good friend at the foot of three large maples and marked the day with brightly colored hollyhock flowers.
Rest in peace, sweet Snoopy. We loved you deeply. Our porch will never be the same without you.
