Take What Wags Your Tail

It’s after bedtime on a school night, but my neighbor just left and I have to pack for a work trip. We became really good friends about six weeks ago amidst a whirlwind of other people’s stuff that was beyond either of our control but making us crazy all the same.  I became her immediate dedicated sounding board and she became mine because that’s the way that it was.

The day things went from “let’s have a glass of wine” to “let’s stay up until midnight and watch the entire series of Downton Abbey and drink bottles of wine” was the day the old man across the street rang the bell which set my two dogs, Sweet-Georgia-Brown and Cali-Surfer-Girl, in motion to bark really loud before lots of wagging and retreating.  I hobbled to the door.  I had—just a few minutes before—fallen off of a 16-foot extension ladder and landed on my ankle and then on my back.

“Oh god, what have I done now?”

When the neighbor—who had never once before ever waved or crossed the street—rang the bell, I had only secured the bag of frozen shrimp from the freezer and landed on the couch.

               “There’s a stray dog.”

               “Yeah, I saw it earlier, before I...”

               “I heard you calling for your dogs. Is that one yours?”

               “No they’re here.” I looked down at the ridiculous show of protection and then looked up. “I think I broke my foot.”  I waved the bag of frozen shrimp in the air.
              
The neighbor-stranger turned to face the street, looking for the black pug that would defy death on our cut-through street—a practice strip for every Nascar wannabe who lives in Tara “Estates”—for a full week before the senile neighbors would respond to the multiple requests from neighbors (or their children would drive back to wherever-people-live without dog restraints).

              “Do you want a treat?” 

I waited for the poor old guy to turn around but he was really worried about the little black spot of terror.  “I think I broke my foot.” I gave up, set my frozen shrimp on the stoop, and hobbled into the kitchen to get a treat. 

              
            “Here. Try this,” I offered it.  He wouldn’t turn around.  The guy didn’t seem to hear me, so I phoned my happy hour neighbor.  For the sake of anonymity, let’s call her Mic-Monk. “Mic-Monk, can you come help the old guy who lives across the street catch this stray and I think I broke my foot.”  

I heard her say “I’m comi…” before I hung up and grabbed the frozen shrimp pack so that I could lie on the concrete walk. By the time Mic-Monk arrived, the old man had walked away and disappeared into a vapor.  I was on my back, waiting and hyperventilating. 

               
           “That old guy has Alzheimer’s,” Mic-Monk explained that he couldn’t possibly care about the purple cantaloupe that was growing around my ankle bone.

Mic-Monk grabbed my arm, helped me up and drove me to the emergency room.  After she found a pair of crutches and an air cast from a secret cubby that only moms have, we went for margaritas and fajitas.   She stayed with me until midnight and checked on me throughout the week, as if I was her child, even though we are the same age.

Over the next six weeks, her husband was out of town for a month, dealing with the death of his mother; their son wrecked the family car; and then, a tree caved in the upstairs bedroom which busted the roof and a water heater.  With it spewing and hurricane Isaac dropping Lake Pontchartrain, their kitchen, dining, and living room must be gutted to the studs.  Now, the four Mic-Monks live in a one-room guest house on the other side of the garage. 

So, I go to lock up the house and Georgia is watching Mic-Monk walk away with the basket of clean clothes.  Georgia is on her honches, thoughtlessly wagging her tail against the tile, and I realize that Georgia loves Mic-Monk. 

               
I guess I love her too. It’s funny that we have all of these division and departments for love, but it bleeds over and announces itself for what it is.  I’ll have to remember that when I start dating and then start doing that hyper-attentive search for “Are you really into me?” investigation—love is love.  Take what wags your tail and leave the rest.