Goodbye, old friend.

My dad took these pictures yesterday after he sold our 12 year-old mini-van. It kind of feels like we just sent a cranky, half-there uncle to a home with no visiting hours. 

If sentiment weren't a factor, we wouldn't miss the old guy. Though its exterior survived relatively unscratched, the van's age was obvious to anyone lucky enough to be a passenger. By year six, among its numerous charms, the van boasted a broken radio and a ride so turbulent that we kids nick-named it "Rickety."

More recently, however, my dad—out of some unexplained sense of solidarity—has insisted on calling him "Ricky."

Despite our many disputes regarding the correct nomenclature, one designation we could all agree on was that the van was undeniably "the Bailey car."

Goodbye, Rickety.

...or as my dad put it,

You ain't never caught a rabbit, but you are a friend of mine.

Left: My muse. Right: Claude Monet by John Singer Sargent

Ho ho...my. 'Tis the first post of November. Why? Well, because it's time to put something-- anything--down here, and I'm tired of a cats video being top dog on this site. I hate looking at my archives and seeing months during which I only eked out a measly 3 or 4 entries (yeah, I'm calling you out, June and September.)

So here I type without much of a plan, just a vague two-thirds-hearted desire to write, to verify that my head is full of thoughts instead of gas, to see what my fingers can pull from my messy mind.

I've been wondering lately how many words I say each day, or at least how much less (much less? Does that work?) speaking I do now than I did this time last year. My daytime involves minimal verbal interaction with others, as my sister is at school and my parents are busy working. I'll run errands and attend the occasional yoga class, but even then my talking just covers manners and conversational necessities. You know, "please, thank you, excuse me, debit, it's just a rash, hope you have a good day," the basics.

My most consistent companion is Bailey, hands/paws down. He’s my little shadow, following me wherever I go, always trying to sneak his head underneath my hand.

I’ve never been one for pet (ha!) names, but lately I’ve been calling him “Baby.” It’s hard not to treat Bailey like a person sometimes. He has such a wide range of emotions, spanning from happy, to yearning, to begging, to sleepy. I have moments when I look at him and feel like I’m gazing into a mirror.

I love how, when he gets really excited, his tail wags so hard that his whole body shakes as he walks. Like the one time he crossed the forbidden line between the top of our staircase and the second floor, he was practically shimmying as he moved slowly toward us, so thrilled by the brave new world he had discovered (and from which he was immediately evicted.)

On the way to yoga the other day, I walked by a woman pushing two babies in a stroller. She noticed my yoga mat, and as she passed me I heard her say to her two pint-sized charges,

“Momma doesn’t do yoga, Momma does piiiih-laaah-teees.”

She sounded it out, like “pilates” might just be their first word, lest “antioxidant” or “jojoba” be too complicated. I almost wanted to catch up to her and say,

“Hey, loud lady. We’re not so different, you and I. You talk to these adorable bundles of drool, and I talk to my dog.”

But then I realized that one day her audience will respond with actual words. I, on the other hand, could talk to Bailey till I’m blue--nay, indigo--in the face and the best response I can ever hope for is his inquisitive head-cocked-to-the-side “is that food in your mouth?” look.

So I said nothing and kept walking. Someone else can bridge the gap between the Yogis and Pilatis(?) and until then, gangs will be gangs.

That night my dad and I were chatting while I got ready to go to a friend’s house. As our conversation wrapped up, he glanced at Bailey and asked me,

“What’s that black stuff on his face?”

I looked at the dog and saw nothing, but my father insisted.

“The black stuff! Right there.”

He flailed a hand in the dog’s general direction, then told me to "wash his face," and headed off to take a shower. I dismissed his command as silly old Dad ‘pretending to be crazy' again, chuckled, and started to say goodbye.

"Hold it!”

Dad paused in the doorway and explained (in so many words) that I was the only one in on the ‘crazy’ joke.

“Wash his face, then you can go.”

Slightly puzzled, I walked over to the sink with Bailey in tow. Wash his face. Like a human's?

As I knelt down and began to gently caress Bailey's face with a wet towel, he seemed confused at first, then slid his legs down to lie on the floor.

“Good boy,” I murmured. “Make yourself comfortable, Baby.”

Had I followed by flossing his teeth, he probably would’ve gone along with it.

However, I was sobered mid-stroke when I pictured how we might look to an outsider.

On the hardwood floor of a kitchen, a large blond dog lies in the lap of a twenty-two year-old woman. The two share a moment, the dog closing his eyes as the young woman coos to him, gently wiping away the invisible black marks that sully his face. 

He yawns loudly and she wonders, “did he just say 'Mom'?” He stares back at her then licks her hand, and she knows she must leave right away. 

Rainy Thursday