They Waited for Spring

This week, three friends had to tell me they lost their four-legged, much loved pets. Why suddenly now, I wondered. Then I realized: They all had waited for spring for them to cross over the Rainbow Bridge.

Squeaky, born and raised in Egypt before moving to the US, surely is an

"Old Soul."

I know they will always be fondly remembered, just as I often think of my first Himalayan, Bombo (who flew all alone from Denver to Boston at eight weeks old--and then joined me via American Airlines six months after I had moved to San Diego. At that time, he was nine years old and lived in all that sunshine until he was eighteen).

One day, I scooped a little starving tuxedo urchin off the rocks at the Redondo Beach Pier while visiting a friend.

I named her "Samantha (Sammy for short),"

because her fur was like black velvet ("Samt" in German).

My San Diego Himalayan, Tiffany, was seemingly glad to get a friend after Bombo had passed away.

Lastly, after driving with an already ailing seventeen-year old Tiffany all the way to Arkansas, rescued Turkish Van "NickNack" eased Tiffy's loss the very day after I played "It's Time to Say Goodbye" to Tiffy (bad idea actually, just prior to the final appointment with the vet - because it'll make you late due to a severe crying fit).

And so, as they pass through our lives, they stay in our hearts.

My poem, excerpted from "Memories of the Heart," is to remember all these loyal companions:

                A Last Wish

Spring, you joyous youthful knave,

touch me, smile at me, lend me your strength

to brace myself, and to be brave

against the icy winter’s length.

Spring, don’t waste the time, come quick, I pray.

I want to greet you just once more

before my breaking spirit goes its way

to pass eternity’s awaiting door.

Spring, I waited. Hoped so much to catch,

through my slowly closing, tired lid,

your first triumphant thawing patch

to tell me that you’d come.

            And Spring just did ...

Death by Toilet Tank

 When you get to a certain age – and live alone – invariably you ponder 'how will they find me one day.’ While I certainly hope it won’t be half-eaten by my two cats (being a writing hermit, nobody might miss me for weeks), the following scenario had not entered even my inventive mind.

Every couple of years, I look into my toilet tanks. Not just for something better to do, mind you, but to check on the bolts. Even though they are made of brass, they seem to disintegrate into mushy blobs after a while. It was time to change them.

Trip #1 to the hardware store. It may have been my accent, or the clerk’s perception...but I came home with bolts that (I found out after the tank leaked like a sieve) anchor the toilet to the floor! No wing-nuts, no rubber washers.                     

Wrong

Trip #2: Getting the right bolts – and while I was at it, also the big new seal between the tank and the toilet.

So, where does death come into all this, you ask?

Getting the old disintegrated bolts off, I forgot the nut between the tank and the toilet top – and used pliers on the bolt thread, naturally flattening it. Then, once I discovered the nut, no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get it off over the mangled threads.

Hacksaw! After thirty years of use, it took a while. I straddled the closed toilet seat, sawing away until my tongue hung out of my mouth.

Not only was the toilet seat slick, so was the seat of my pants. As I slid backwards, I didn’t want to rip the tank off by holding on to it. Within a split second, I was ignobly deposited onto my tailbone. As if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, my head whipped back and hit the tile floor rather hard.


Damn, I thought, that’s all I need. Being found on the bathroom floor with an old hacksaw in my hand ...

gnawed over by Pasha and Lilliput.
Not the scenario I had envisioned which often included lying in bed, a blissful smile on my lips, sexy nightgown on a recently-toned body (darn, I missed gym again this morning).

To add insult to injury, it took days of on-and-off tweaking the leak from the intake valve (that had never leaked before), and the flapper that also had not leaked before.

Trip #3: Bought new flapper – didn’t fit; leaked.

Trip #4: Another flapper. It fit, but still leaks, just less.

Apparently, Oprah has fixed a leaky toilet or two in her time.

Still, I think, I’ll wait a while before I tackle the perfectly functioning toilet in my guest bathroom...

Or, I might just call the plumber.



PS - The kitchen faucet has been dripping for a while - and I just happen to have a little repair kit handy...don't worry, I'll be standing up for that one.