House of Straw

“You make a list of your must-haves,” I said to my husband the other day, referring to what each of us wanted to have in our future house. “And I’ll make mine.”

An hour later, he sent me an email. Number one on his list: Plenty of land to contemplate life.

* * * 

The doorbell rang in the middle of the day last week. It was my neighbor. “Do you want some grapefruit?” She held up a bulging plastic grocery bag. My aunt sent it to us for Christmas and we don’t eat it.”

We chatted for a bit and she made to leave. Then she turned back. “Hey, are you having trouble with…”

She looked behind her. She leaned in towards me. She lowered her voice. “…dog doo on your lawn?”

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Goodbye, Friend

In the end, Destructo lived up to his name.

Every day, he tried to get into the trash to find something to satisfy his insatiable hunger.  He tore up the  basement carpeting.  He chased the cats.  He pulled the blankets from Squints’ bed to cover himself.  He tore holes in clothing.  He destroyed the acorn tree I’d grown from seed.

But we forgave him.  He was just a pup, after all.

And I say lived here, because this morning, Destructo was killed.  Correction: my husband and I had him killed.  Put to sleep.  Put down. 

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