Grover

Nope, nope nope. No dogs. I am a cat person. I have no interest in a slobbery, filthy, idiot bark machine.

When we were first married, Diana desperately wanted a dog as a trial run for raising children. I was firmly against it. But like all wonderful things in my life, she eventually wore me down. I had two conditions: He had to be called Grover and we had to become the greatest friends in the history of the world. 

If you want to read about our Grover “Meet Cute,” be sure to check out Diana’s beautiful essay here: https://mailchi.mp/56bb29a1571e/the-summer-of-fro-s-1160829

We had a rocky start. Grover famously peed all over our dog training book. He also spent an entire day distributing the contents of a gigantic potted plant to every corner of our apartment. Our friends would find excuses not to come over for fear of being attacked by our little furry monster.

But then…balls. Tennis balls became life. It mellowed him out and gave him purpose. I’d chuck the ball high into the air and he would leap majestically to catch the bounce. Thock. Thock. Thock. Hundreds, thousands, millions of throws. Thock. Thock. Thock.

Somewhere in there we became best friends. We loved each other fiercely. Late at night, I would creep downstairs, spoon him on the floor and tell him all my fears and doubts, sometimes crying into his black fur. Grover would always assure me with one of his patented sighs. 

As our family grew, we stayed close. No matter how many times a baby pulled his tail or dumped stewed carrots on his head, he knew the next morning we’d be at the park rain or shine. Thock. Thock Thock. 

A couple quick Grover facts: He was a terrible watch dog. The time we got robbed the thief essentially had to step over him to get our TV. Dancing of any kind made him hump uncontrollably. He also loved to lick blue jeans, especially of the jeans wearer was not a dog person.

Five years turned to ten and then sixteen. I used to joke that Grover and I made an agreement that he would never die. He held up his end of the bargain, even though his hips went years ago. He went deaf and almost blind and dementia sent him on late night missions all over our house, click clacking in search of something he never found.

We stopped playing ball.

Last week, Grover fell down the stairs and cried out for me in the middle of the night. It was the most heart breaking sound I’ve ever heard. He was scared and broken and tired. So very tired. 

We decided to let him out of the deal

In the days leading up, I slept on the couch downstairs to be near him. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone on his last nights on Earth. The morning the nice lady came over to put him to sleep he hobbled over and licked my hand as if to say, “It’s okay man. I’m ready.”

We made a fire and played John Prine songs and told him we loved him over and over. And then he was gone. 

 There will never be another dog like you, G-Money, Gobi, Gilbert, Gobert, Grove Stand. You’ll always be my special little guy. I love you, Grover. 

Football Domination

Spring is doing that thing where it delights in messing with you. Oh, do you like gorgeous days? Maybe I’ll drum up a perfect afternoon. Or maybe I’ll just dumb a foot of snow on your head. Ain’t I a stinker?

A week or so ago it was absolutely perfect outside. So much so, I was able to pry Luca’s fingers off his keyboard for some time…what do you call it? Outside. 

I voted baseball, but Luca filibustered his way into throwing the football around. I dressed like pro athlete: desert boots, camo pants, a striped shirt and jaunty bandana. Plus, a mask because of the whole pandemic thing. Despite it being in the low 50’s, Luca insisted on a t-shirt and shorts because he’s insane. 

We arrived at the park and immediately ran into our sport-o neighbor boy (I’m not sure I have permission to use his name). And soon our other neighbors, Chris daughter Callie, arrived (I totally have their permission). 

Luca suggested a good old fashioned game of touch football. Chris chose the teams: Luca and sport-o neighbor boy against the him, Callie and me. Seemed a little lopsided but it was all in good fun, right?

Wrong. Chris decided to put on a clinic of dad-style domination.

He used every trick play in the book. The Statue of Liberty. The Ball In the Sweatshirt. The dreaded Flea Flicker. He would send me into the end zone and just toss the ball into the air for me to use my 1.5 feet height advantage. He seemed less like nice, poet dad and more of a 1970’s older brother. Me may have been working some things out. 

Soon, Luca and sport-o neighbor boy were covered in mud and down two touchdowns. I could tell frustration was setting in when Luca punched me in the stomach. So Chris and I declared the next touchdown would be worth 3 touchdowns. 

I was fully ready to throw the game, but make it look like we were really trying. Oh no! You kids pulled it out in the last minute! You truly are the football champions.

Not Chris. He immediately intercepted the ball and said he had to go teach a poetry class. 

Luca and sport-o neighbor boy reacted by calling us dirty dirty cheaters who cheat and are jerks and dummies. I consider them the true winners because they weren’t secretly crippled by running in desert boots.

Mattress

The cabin has been a godsend over the last year. A pandemic-free place of peace and board games and late-night bawdy R rated comedies with Elijah. 

At just a couple hours away, it’s an easy Saturday/Sunday vacation. The only bummer is the occasional snowstorm. There is a stretch along 94 that acts as our nation’s snow magnet. If Chicago gets half an inch, they’ll get 45. 

I’ve white knuckled it more than once, passing giant twisted abstract art pieces made of SUVs while Diana and the kids gleefully scroll Twitter and TikTok in their protective passenger bubbles. 

We even had to cancel our last few trips because the weather report said, “Might get a teensy bit of the white stuff (wink wink).” But last weekend was gloriously melty, so we packed up the van and headed north for some mud stomping. I made my secret spaghetti, we drank wine and whisky and the mud covered dogs fought over the best spot in front of the fireplace. Normal Rockwell, eat your heart out. 

The next morning, we hit the road on the early side, as Diana’s alcohol purveyor status puts her just behind nurses and ER doctors on the COVID vaccine list and she had an appointment. 

After an unnecessarily vicious fight over what fast food to get, we cruised Evanston-ward. We happily listened to zero political podcasts and I tuned in to The Beatles satellite radio station, with their seemingly endless configurations of top ten songs. 

Just as we hit the tangled knot of Chicago’s highway superstructure, the sun hit some chrome in such a way to nail me right in the eyeball. My left eye turned into a gaseous ball of fire. But that’s why they invented two eyes. And who was I going to complain to? The blind lady riding shotgun?

Just ahead I saw a weird pile of snow in the road. Must have fallen off a truck. Why slow down? It’s just snow. In fact, why not speed up a bit?

The snow kept looking weirder and weird until I realized it was not snow. It was a big old mattress in the middle of the road. Why someone thought sleeping in the middle of a highway was a good idea, I’ll never know.

I immediately slammed on the brakes. Say what you want about the suburban sadness that is the Chrysler Pacifica, the thing stops. We came to a rest right before the filthy bed. After the screaming ended, someone (I assume Luca) said, “Dad! There is a mattress in the middle of the road.”

Before moving again, I requested that all car occupants, including the dogs, praise me for my fast thinking and Mario Andretti-esc skills behind the wheel. But then I looked in the rearview mirror. A giant semi was barreling down on us, the driver thinking, “Why slow down? It’s just snow. In fact, why not speed up a bit?”

I slammed the car into gear and cut in front of some poor schmuck in the middle lane, barely missing the mattress, the truck and about twenty angry drivers. My heart rate didn’t lower to normal levels until we crawled into the garage.

I collapsed onto the couch and watched all the Fast and Furious movies for research.