Like sands through the hour glass.....

After you lose your dad, the strangest things will set you off.

I went to my girlfriend's first volleyball game of the season. It's at a local bar that has two sand v-ball courts. The wind was icy cold and I wasn't envying them at all for having to play in the wet, chilly sand. I was sure there would be blue toes before the first match was through.

There was a table near their court that the sun was shining on. I decided that might be my only hope for warmth. I parked it on the attached, metal seat and dug the soles of my sneakers into the sand. The familiar give, even as fine and wet as it was, sent me hurtling into a maelstrom of sadness.

I was 3000 miles from the beach I use to go to growing up. In times of stress or contemplation I would walk out and plop down into the cool, coarse sand of the west coast. The sun, extinguishing in the Pacific. The sky painted with brush strokes of oranges and pinks.

The beach was my 'happy place'. It's where I would go to work my shit out. I got a LOT of shit right now. And being in that v-ball court, so far from home, only exacerbated my woes into a giant hill of shit. I held back the welling tears that threatened to spill over. I could always blame it on the wind, kicking sand up.

You would think that there is nothing worse than suddenly losing your dad. But you know what's worse....walking away from your hurting family to get on a plane. Knowing that you're not going to be able to make a drive to see them next weekend.

Oh no......if I want to get to my family, it's a 7 hour plane ride and at least $400 every time I have the urge to visit. And don't forget I'm completely ham stringed by vacation days. There are only so many. I can't just take off "unpaid". I have to have time allotted.

Did I mention I was an artist with an out of work writer for a girlfriend?

Ya...Rockefeller we ain't.

For as long as I can remember, I wake up every morning, a sheen of sweat on my back, fighting through a dream of frustration and anger. Now I'm living the frustration of being held back from those that need me, from those I want to be with right now.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I'm hoping that's true with my faithful blog readers.

And I'm hoping that's true of my father. I had to rush to his side April 10th before he slipped away from us.

While I'm not quite ready to put it into words, I just wanted to let you all know...I'm here. With a bandage on my heart and a headfull of questions.

But I'm here.

And when I'm ready to put the words into cyberspace....I know you will be here, to read them.

All things must come to an end.

When we got our puppy, Roxy, I would take her to the end of our block to a small park. In that park was a fenced little league field that was perfect for a new puppy to run.

Roxy LOVES to run! You know canine happiness when you see her lower her head and kick her feet in a blur across a field of green. Her tongue hanging from the side of her mouth, brilliant pink against her black and tan coat. A look in her eye that is sheer joy, tapping into something primal.

As we played a trio of folks found us and started to come early on the weekends to socialize our pooches and give them an hour of exercise. Cooper's mom, Seamus' dad and Spike's mom. (cuz you don't know people's names until MUCH later)

That was six years ago. In those six years we held PPD (puppy play date) in a few locations. It was like a puppy rave; messages going out where to meet from one weekend to the next. Wherever we went, we were diligent about cleaning up and minding our dogs.

The newest installment of PPD is close to 20 dogs, sometimes. The people that come there are more interested in the coffee they sip and the neighborhood gossip that flows. Dogs escape out and wander to the trash across the road, take dumps that go unnoticed and therefore un-scooped, or attack other peoples dogs.

And while all of those problems make me bristle with anger...it's the last one that has sent me packing from the 'pack' I originated.

Roxy was attacked twice by a husky while it's owner just stood there, with the other 'old coots', hands in pockets, jawing about this and that, letting everyone else mind their dogs.

I don't know if I ever used this blog to tell the story of the Good Dog Park where Roxy, as a small puppy, was attacked by two pit bulls and a greatdane. I had to reach in and pull her out of the pile, punching pit bulls in the head to get to her. When she emerged, and I started yelling at the owners of the other dogs, another woman noticed my hand, red with blood. My instant panic was that Roxy, with her black coat, had been injured, and I couldn't see it. I ran her, shaking and practically wrapped around my neck in shock, to the car and carefully checked her out....she was fine. It seemed it was me bleeding! My finger had been ripped open while trying to get to her.

We never went back again.

I'm not saying Roxy is an angel.....she lets the other dogs know she's there for an hour of fetch. It's her ball and her terms and if you know what's good for you - keep a wide berth. So when the new husky came up, she let him know this was her gig and she was top bitch. Instead of scurrying away, like most, the husky came back. This time the two clashed. I yelled at her to stop, she paused, the husky came at her again.

There were two things wrong with this: #1 the owner of the husky never once bothered to come over and pull his dog off. #2 the owner of the husky insists on keeping a 40 foot lead on the dog, which was wrapping around Roxy's neck as they went Cujo on each other.

If the husky didn't bite her, he might just break her neck with the lead.'

I let it go and almost forgot about it, till the husky came back after a short absence of a few weeks. As soon as the husky got wind of Roxy....it was on again. Again I got Roxy to pause and start to walk away and the husky, once again, came at her.

I went to grab the husky, boiling anger taking over. Others standing around started yelling for the dogs to stop. The owner, still standing in his lil clique, oblivious. The lead wrapped around my feet and around Roxy, tangling as the dogs wrestled. I used my 'demon' voice, a loud, guttural blast, that got the owners attention.

He came running, arm flailing. He scolded the husky like a new age mom, telling a kid he would be on the naughty mat till he could figure out what he did wrong. I picked up Roxy's ball and started to walk to the gate.

"No.....no....I'll go." said the husky's dad.

"Eeeeeeyaaaaa.....I'll go." I said. "I have an appointment with a client this morning anyway."

And that was it. A six year tradition, gone in the snap of a jaw and the sear of rope burn from the lead.