Pizza Pizza

Today was one of those crappy days. It started off crappy, and it's ending crappy.

See, Livie woke up this morning, crying. She had a fever, a cold, and was just generally very unhappy.

While children's ibuprofen seemed to take the edge off her malaise, she still wasn't 100%. By the time Daddy got home around 5 PM, the ibuprofen had worn off, and she was back to being a very unhappy 4-year-old.

Well, by this time, we'd called the pediatrician's office to see what we needed to do. The nurse had us come in right away. Good thing they were opened until 7 PM today, right?

Guess what? On our way out the door, I saw that I had a text message. It was from my mom, stating that the family's Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Caesar, had died. I was shocked!

But I didn't have time to dwell on it because we had to hurry up and get to the pediatrician's office - the lab closed at 6:45 PM, and we needed to get a urine sample from Livie.

When we got there and Livie's pediatrician came in to check her out, we found out Liv has an ear infection. No fun!

And then she had to pee in a cup - normally something she finds to be very funny - and fun. Not today.

She has a UTI.

No wonder she's been miserable today. 

So on the way back, I called my mom to see what was up with Caesar. But she wouldn't talk to me, due to sadness. I tried my dad, who ended up telling me what had happened.

Bad, sad news. Apparently Caesar had gone into shock today, and when they got him to the vet's office, the doc thought Caesar had some sort of internal bleed. And according to my dad, the vet said Caesar "wasn't salvageable" and was put down.

I was somehow able to cry silently, thereby avoiding Livie's probing questions. However, my tears clung to my eyelashes, making my vision blurry. Not a good thing when you're driving, especially at night. So I wiped my eyes, and continued on.

But we had to get to the pharmacy to get her antibiotics. I was gonna go through the drive-thru, but Liv wanted to go in. Of course, that meant I had to face the pharmacist face-to-face, with red, swollen, teary eyes which gave me away, regardless of how hard I tried to sound cheery.

Ah, well. Maybe he thought I had a cold.

Anyway, we got back, and I immediately ran down to the guest bathroom where I burst into tears, and listened to my sobs actually echoing in the bathroom.

The funny thing is that I suddenly thought of a quote from the movie Gladiator: "I knew a man who once said, 'Death smiles at us all.' . . . All a man can do is smile back." Okay, so what I actually thought was, "All a dog can do is smile back."

Isn't it surprising, sometimes, what the mind comes up with upon hearing sad news?

So now, it's about half an hour past Livie's bedtime, and she's downstairs watching a movie while I type away on the computer. I really need to get her to bed. The last thing she needs while sick is for me to allow her to stay up late.

She still doesn't know about Caesar, though. I have to think of a way to tell her, but I don't want to do it now, not before bedtime. Hopefully I can think of a way to tell her tomorrow. Or before we head back to my parents' house, that house that now lacks our dear 4-legged companion.

But, first thing's first. Gotta get her to bed.

And let's start the clock - you know, because "time heals all wounds" and all.

Now, here are a couple photos of dear Caesar, whom I sometimes called Pizza Pizza (you know, like those old Li'l Caesar's pizza commercials). Or sometimes I'd call him Old Man, because he'd turned into one as the years went on.

This was taken earlier this year. He was on the patio out in front of my parents' house.

Here is Livie as she poses with Caesar over Thanksgiving weekend 2008.

She sometimes called him Sar-Sar. He loved her, and loved sitting next to her chair as she ate meals, because we all know how little kids accidentally drop food on the floor as they eat, right?

Sleep tight, Caesar. I'm so glad you're not in pain any more. Now, go run off and frolic with Foxy. And eat all the treats you want.

However, I miss you, old man.

Sir Rafa lives in us

Circa early May 1993.

Sir Rafa, I miss you. When we saw Broadway stage version of The Lion King in January, I thought of you immediately when they sang "They Live in Us." And when Mufasa shows up in the stars to guide Simba, I almost cried because it reminded me of you.

You are gone, but I remember something important; you have not left me. Like Mufasa, you're the guiding force who has not left for those who continue to remember you.

You live in me, Sir Rafa. As long as I live, you live in me. As long as Livie lives, you live in us.


(Video clip is from Disney's beautiful hit stage version of The Lion King - this particular cast is from the London show.)

Happy Birthday, Sir Rafa. I think of you often.

Strength and honor, Sir Rafa. Strength and honor. To paraphrase the line by the Gladiator character, Juba: I will see you again, my grandfather -  but not yet . . . not yet.



This is Gloria Estefan's song "Reach."

I *will* see you again, but not yet . . . not yet

I had the weirdest sensation a little earlier this afternoon. I was upstairs in the kitchen. It was . . . oh . . . maybe around 2:15 PM. Hadn't eaten lunch and was just noticing the grumbling stomach, and the sensation that I was actually kinda hungry. Imagine that, huh? But just to clarify: the hunger wasn't the "weirdest sensation." ;)

As I was poking and prodding whatever was in the fridge and rummaging through the stuff in the pantry to see what looked tasty, it occurred to me. Not only did I realize I needed to go grocery shopping, I felt I needed to stop what I was currently doing for something much more important.

See, I'd suddenly felt like making an important phone call, and I had to do it right at that very moment. Without even thinking about it, I turned toward the counter where a cordless phone is keeping its post in the kitchen. As I walked to the phone, I was thinking about how nice it would be to talk to Sir Rafa today, as it's been way too long since I last heard his voice. The thought of having a conversation with him brought a smile to my face on my way to the phone. I walked, wondering what kind of funny thing he'd say today - what Sir Rafa-ism would come out of his mouth to grace my ears. This instinct I had, this impulse to call - it was my missing the sound of his voice, his humor; this urge to call him was incredibly strong - I had to call him now.

Then reality hit me in the gut. Sir Rafa passed away on 9 Oct 2008. If I were to have called, I would've been calling an empty house. I stood there on the verge of tears at remembering the loss - it was as though it'd happened last week - yet at the same time, I had a smile on my face, nearly laughing at the idea that I'd been moments away from actually trying to call him, even though he'd left our physical world over a year ago.

Can you believe that?! I could almost hear his voice as I went for the phone. It was kinda like going to the airport and waiting in the baggage claim area for a friend or loved one - someone you haven't seen for a while, and you are just so excited, you can barely wait to see that person, whether it's been weeks or months, or even years. And at any moment, you'll see that familiar face, hear that familiar voice, and you know it'll be just like old times. You're just waiting for that "ahhhh" moment.

I was going to say it was like going to your favorite restaurant and ordering some dish that you love - and as you see the server carrying your plate to your table, your mouth is salivating at the thought that you're going to bite into something tasty in just one moment . . . this analogy came to mind because I'm actually still hungry. Toasted corn tortillas didn't quite hit the spot like I'd hoped they would. Nor did the analogy quite hit the literary spot like I expected it would.

Anyway, there it is. The feeling came, and then it went.

And I can't overlook the fact that today is Oma's birthday, and feeling sure of the fact that there is no such thing as coincidence.

As I sit here at the computer, looking at an old photo of Sir Rafa, I'd like close by paraphrasing that line from the Russell Crowe "Gladiator" movie: I will see you again, but not yet . . . not yet.