In the past three weeks I have endured: a pap smear, a mammogram, and a colonosopcy. Confusingly, my husband cannot understand why I am “a little irritable” and have no interest in sex. DUH!

And, it being December, I cannot think of a better way to enhance my holiday spirit, can you?

My God, all I need is an emergency root canal to send me out to the streets caroling, dragging the four poor attitude infested teenagers that live in my house with me.

The pap smear and mammogram are pretty standard and expected at my age but the colonospcy brings forth the statement, “Wow, you don’t look bad for 50.”

I am not FIFTY for Christ sake! I am early. As I was for menopause.

Being early for the train or a plane is a good thing; but for life’s passages, I’d rather be late. The only sign a have managed not to stop at is grey hair. As everything else begins to sag and sink south its the only thing I have left to brag about. This truly amazes me and my hairdresser, considering the members of my family, most of whom he has met. “Are you sure you are not seeing someone else for touch ups?” he always asks.

The day of my procedure I apprehensively approached the nurses station and asked “I am here to see Dr. Ullman, am I in the correct place? (desperately hoping the answer was no). The nurse asked “Do you have an appointment?”

“Why no.” I replied. “I just awoke this morning and said to my (very embarrassed husband) Honey, I feel like a colonospocy, would you mind skipping me down to Emerson Hospital? Maybe they can squeeze me in.”

“Tootsie Roll, this is no time to be a smart ass?” my husband whispered in my ear.

I am in no mood for pet names and am desperately trying not to think about my ass right now or anything brown.

In the last 36 hours I digested nothing except jell-o, clear liquids (technically white wine is a clear liquid) and a concoction that even Grey Goose could not make palatable. Said concoction enabled me the pleasure of spending a considerable amount of time in my bathroom, which I now realize is in desperate need of re-decorating. I think this totally JUSTFIES me being a smart or dumb or whatever type of ASS I want to be. Add a HOLE at the end of it and, as they saying goes, if the shoe fits wear it. Or better yet, buy one in every color.

According to everyone I know the prep is worse than the procedure which I am now praying is true; at this point I am only in this for the drugs. Somehow my nurse knew this, “Oh you must be here for a colonospocy, I can tell by the scowl look on your face. If you are a good girl and put this johnny on , I’ll get you hooked up to some nice relaxing substances. You look young for 50, who does your hair?”

OMG, apparently I have become a lesbian; at that moment I love HER more than my husband, children and the best bottle of chardonnay money can buy. Who knew colonospocy could cause this? All along I thought it was genetic.

“I am not, I don’t know, I don’t care.” was the last thing I remember before awakening to eating a big blueberry muffin and the best cup of coffee I have ever had. Starvation will even make hospital food seem fabulous.

“Can I have another?” I asked.

“Muffin?“, asked the nurse.

“No, a colonospocy. That was the best trip I have ever taken without having to drive to Logan. How many frequent flyer miles did I rack up?

“None, and the good news is you are clean. See you in 10 years.” she smirked.

Crap, I thought, 10 years until I fly again.

“Could you check my bladder? It feels a little low. How about a by-pass? Come to think of it, my arteries are feeling a little clogged!” I screamed as she pushed my wheel chair out the door.

Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out and have a happy holiday!

What some people won’t do for a good blueberry muffin.

(My wonderful on duty nurse asked me to write this spread the word. If you are approaching fifty have no fear, it is not a big deal and may save your life. Suck it up and Just Do It! The drugs are great and you might just loose a couple of pounds.)

Don't Ask Me

For the most part, I am a law-abiding citizen. I pay my taxes on time, stop at crosswalks, and curb my dog. Unlike ALL of my brothers, I have never been arrested. I have not quite mastered the speed limit thing, but, all and all, I am a fairly decent person who has worked hard at going “UP” instead of “DOWN” at my demise.

My husband, on the other hand, must be aiming for a warmer resting place and insists on dragging me down with him. For he and his shenanigans somehow always end up involving me. To think we are both Catholic (bad ones, at best), the guilt has (somewhat) kept me on the straight and narrow so far, but not him.

This year, after hosting a Toys For Tots holiday party with my three eighth-grade daughters (that in and of itself should be a free pass through the Pearly Gates with a reserved seat next to the good Lord himself, if not on his lap), I had the job of delivering the gifts collected. While the girls slept off their Diet Coke, “I can’t believe she wore the same dress as me and he didn’t ask me to dance“ hangovers, I headed for the police station.

Upon arriving, I recruited a couple of handsome, nice, (OMG when did they become young enough to be my sons?) officers to help me unload my truck. As we grabbed bag after bag, they were in total amazement as to the amount of toys. The best surprise came at the end when the last bag was lifted which revealed something that left them (and myself) speechless. As we ALL peered into the back of my Jeep, finally someone (not me) dared to speak, “Ma’am, is that a fire hydrant in the back of your car? “ (not to be mistaken with an extinguisher, this was a HYDRANT!)

I am now sweating profusely, thinking my brothers are going to wet themselves laughing at the thought of me spending Christmas Eve in jail for receiving stolen property. And of all things, a fire hydrant! I doubt anyone would believe I got it on e-Bay.

I paused for a moment, looked right, then left, and decided it would not make sense to make a run for it. Instead, I offered, “I have no idea why there is a fire hydrant in the back of my car.” To further insure I was a total ass, I asked, “You don‘t have a fire hydrant in the back of your car? “

“No, Ma’am, I don’t.” I really wish he’d stop calling me Ma’am, it was starting to annoy me; for I am still young enough to remember when I was called Miss.

Dead silence from both officers made me a little uneasy. I wasn’t quite sure if it was illegal to be carrying such a possession, and by the dumbfounded expressions coming from them, I don’t think they did either. I figured I probably should, at the very least, try and explain.

“It’s a Christmas gift for the dog. What did you get yours?” was the only marginally intelligent thing I could think to say while slamming the hatch shut and thinking…”I am going to kill that son-of-a-bitch husband of mine.”

“Great idea, got any for the Little Miss? Apparently, the nice young officer thought I needed to know that not only was his wife still a Miss but was little, too? Now I am passed annoyed…I am pissed.

“Something not as heavy and bright (let’s face it, flaming red does not go with many decors). How about something smaller, crystal clear and that could hang from each of her lobes?”

As I “screeched out of the police station, I called my husband at the fire station, where he works, to give him some holiday cheer, “Can YOU please tell me why there is a fire hydrant in the back of my Jeep?“

Silence…a sure indication that he is “thinking” of what to tell his “Little (big) Miss (ma’am)”. I could almost smell his brain cells burning.

His alter boy reply was…”I found it.”

“You found It! Mike, its not like there are fire hydrants HIDING all over the streets of America. My God, they can be FOUND every 30 feet . Given the fact that they are usually bright red or screaming yellow it makes it rather difficult for them to hide. Considering your occupation, one would think you have an unfair advantage on the poor little “hiding” hydrants.

“Loretta, do you have to wreck everything? The dog and I searched high and low for the perfect gift, and now you have ruined the surprise. The dog will be so upset. We thought it would look nice in the entry, don’t you?”

“NO. Whose idea was it, yours or the dog? And how would I explain to him that it is not okay to pee in the house despite the fact that YOU have provided the perfect spot?”

“You’d better have a back-up, and it better fit in my lobes.”

I ended up with earrings shaped like fire hydrants.

I wonder what Little Miss got?

I can read his mind, “Are you kidding me? Need I remind you that I am a DAWG; and in my world, this is Thanksgiving dinner. Please pass the gravy.”
 

What was I thinking?

Going topless at my age, call it a mid-life crisis, but if that is so than I am not slated to expire until I’m ninety, which I suppose is good news, for some.

Thinking I was still perky enough but not being totally confident, I called my sister Jen. She had been doing it for years and made it seem so exhilarating. Jen is also the one person on earth that will tell me EXACTLY what I want to hear when I have the impulse to do something naughty.

“Jen, I am thinking of buying a convertible. Do you think I am being ridiculous, or is it fear of old age setting in?”

“Old? Your husband rides a Harley at HIS age; now that is ridiculous. If Mike wants the wind whipping through his freakin' hair, he should ride in the new car with you. You'll both love it. Look how much fun Eamon and I have.”

“Jen, need I remind you Eamon is a dog and has been much easier to train than my husband.”

Mike was not too happy at the thought of being stuffed into my tangerine colored Audi convertible. The color alone would shame even the most sensitive of men and my husband is not the sensitive type.  Since my adolescent children currently have no use for me, and I no longer have a dog, I decided to take the cat for a ride. Cruising alone just didn’t seem like much fun, what would you do?

What was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn’t. Simply put…cats DO NOT like convertibles!

Not a minute after I buckled him into the front seat, he wiggled himself out, running into the back seat, making his way over the trunk and into the driveway, leaving four claw marks down the back of the car. I damn near ran the poor thing over. I figured that if he didn't like the short ride down the driveway, he was never going to make it the 70-mile trip to my summer home.

This required another call to my naughty impulse consultant.

“Jen, how long did it take to get Eamon used to the convertible?”

“Why, doesn't Mike like the hot new wheels? He'll get used to it; having four instead of two.”

“Jen, now you are being ridiculous. If Mike wanted to feel the wind in his hair he would ride his Harley or put the windows down in his F 250? 

“Loretta, I know you no longer have a dog, please don't tell me you tried to take your cat for a ride.”

“Well, sort of. It wasn't much of a ride. He climbed out over the trunk and is hiding under a bush in somewhere in my yard. Apparently, he doesn't want to go to New Hampshire this weekend.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn't make it onto the interstate. Imagine just how happy he would have been to fly out and land on the windshield of a tractor-trailer, not to mention the mess he would have made. How many squirts of washer fluid would it take to clean that up? “

Maybe it’s my sick sense of humor but the thought of that made me laugh out loud. Picturing the cat flying out of the back seat and me glancing in the rear view mirror thinking, “Gee I wonder what that was?” gives a whole new meaning to; don’t let the cat out of the bag - or the back seat in my case.

During my fit of inappropriate laughter I was reminded of another stupid cat trick, like the time I was on my way to the vet to have my last cat put down and I stopped at a yard sale. Again, what was I thinking? It was an antique chair that caught my eye, and heck I was about 20 minutes early for the appointment. Either way the cat was going to have to wait, I might as well make use of my time and his while still here.

Let's face it; cats are not nearly as adventurous as dogs. Mine is just as happy to be snoozing sprawled across my living room couch catching some afternoon rays, usually only arising to eat or pee. Come to think of it, cats have much in common with some men I know and divorced for less. 

Do they really need nine lives? 

Mine has one down and eight to go.

As we packed the kids in the car to head to our lake house in New Hampshire, after having attended three sporting events, which took up most of our weekend, one of them took off their earphones long enough to ask, “Mom, what is foliage anyway? “

If Norman Rockwell had a painting of what a New England fall foliage weekend would look like, my family was about to color, outside the lines, all over his beautiful vision, and mine.

To think some folks spend thousands of dollars to tour this part of the country to see it, and the nitwits in my backseat have not a clue as to what it is!

“Girls, it is when the leaves on the trees turn the most beautiful colors. Like the landscape is on fire, it brings in the warmth of fall and prepares us for the long cold winter.”

“Mom, I have to pee. Can we stop at the next gas station?”

In an attempt to entertain our four very deprived girls, my husband Mike rented a boat for the day. There is a very reasonable explanation as to why we did not take our own boat. Because we live in the ever-so-unpredictable part of the world, the northeast, on the advice of our local weather reporter, which under no circumstance can he be trusted, we had our boat put in storage just four days before.

Again, my girls were bored to death with the colors of nature and were more interested in whatever male species under the age of 18 happened to be brave enough to dare the waters on Lake Winnipesaukee. And they, more importantly, were wondering if we were going to the Nasawa Beach Bar for lunch.

Despite the constant rolling of eight eyeballs in the bow of the boat, it was a glorious day, up until my Husband took an unexpected swim. He will readily admit he needs a little fine-tuning when docking a boat, and many a docks would agree. When returning to shore to drop us off before he returned the rented boat, he once again overshot the dock and slammed into it. With a chuckle he picked up the tie rope and headed backwards towards the bow. Apparently, he was to busy talking to realize the distance that his “bump” had placed between the boat and the dock. He quickly turned to make his leap and must have thought he had become superman, able to jump over high waters in a single bound, only to land himself in the chilly waters of the lake.

While we all stood in the vessel in disbelief waiting for him to pop up out of the water, I am sure we all had the same thought, What the hell was he thinking?

Being the loving, caring wife that I am, concerned about my husband, who was then floating in a lake fully dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, work boots, and a Harley Davidson belt buckle that weighed at least 27 pounds, I yelled to him, "You stupid son-of-a-bitch; my cell phone is in your pocket!"

Just then I heard a faint voice behind me, “Loretta, we should probably help him.”

It, in fact, was me that needed help. As he was pulling himself to shore, he ever so quietly reminded me that we are connected “Til Death Do Us Part“.

One of the most argued issues in my family is, whose turn is it to sit in the front. There was not a bribe great enough to convince either of my children to take my place as co-pilot on the way home. Therefore, I was forced to sit next to him, in silence, hoping he would not deposit me in the tollbooth basket instead of a token. Finally, after about an hour of brooding, he turns to me and offers, “Five years ago I would have made it.“

Just then the radio played “Leave a Tender Moment Alone” by Billy Joel and I replied, “Yes, Dear, you probably would have.”

While thinking, try forty years ago and three less feet in between you and the dock.

“So, Honey, how was it, swimming in size 12 work boots?”

“Probably easier than cement shoes, Loretta”

Just another tender moment in a marriage.

Victoria's True Secret

Written by: Loretta Mosca 

I am sure we can all agree, eleven-year-olds have no constitutional right to be shopping at Victoria’s Secret for undergarments. Frankly, I think it should be against the law.

When mine came home from a recent trip from to the most dreaded place on earth, as a mother of a teenager, no not the local “parking spot,” but rather the MALL, and bragged; “Look, 5 pairs for $25.00,” I immediately thought, heck, I was twenty-seven before I would dare to walk into such a place, not without a trench coat, dark glasses, and a big floppy hat, just in case anyone I knew, or worse yet, my mother happened to see me. My next was…let me see those.

Apparently the labels they are wearing do not stop with the designers name plastered across their jeans, shirts, bags, shoes, sweat pants, cell phones and T-shirts. It now includes undergarments. They, the simple minded adolescents who live in my house, offer the following explanation; “We have to dress for gym.”

“Who the heck is looking at your underwear?” I stupidly asked.

“EVERYONE, MOM!”

At least they are only showing off to the other girls, this is assuming they don’t have co-ed locker rooms in middle school.

I don’t know about you, but when I was eleven, my choices were NOT: low cut, bikini, hip hugger, or God forbid THONG. We had simple choices: pink or white, cotton BRIEFS, from Sears or K-Mart. This was the good old days when bras had no underwire and boobs were, well, not so big! And let me tell you, the first time I hear, “Mom, I found this really great bra at Victoria’s Secret, can you buy me some boobs to fit in it, ” I will call my local officials and insist on a new bill prohibiting anyone under the age of 35 from being allowed in such stores. I might as well toss in a cell phone curfew too, just to insure my children NEVER speak to me again.

We grown up girls discovered a long time ago what Victoria’s true secret is; no one actually wears half of what hangs in her closet. Most of Victoria’s secrets do not fit, nor is comfortable on us mere mortals with average bodies. These are completely useless items given as gifts by hopeful desperate men and obligated bridesmaids (knowing damn well you will never wear it, the bridesmaids, not the men.)

When I stupidly explained this is my daughters the all had the same reply, “Mom, Paris Hilton wears it.”

“Girls, Paris Hilton doesn’t count. She is not a mere mortal and may not even be human.  Besides, she doesn‘t have the good sense that God gave her. If you are going to drink margaritas on a empty stomach and only weigh 87lbs, you should not attempt to drive."

And, did you know you cannot wear gray with gray, or black with black? To think, according to my fourteen-year-old I could have ended up on the Don’t pages of Vogue, why, mostly everyday of my life. I should start looking through the back issues; I wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone. This also means I should eliminate most of my wardrobe, which, incidentally, comes from TJ MAXX where $25.00 will by you a trunk load of underwear! I wonder if Paris knows about the new no same colors on the same day rule.

Where will it end?

With me, secretly looking for 5 pairs for 25 bucks!

If you can’t beat 'em, join 'em. I should look just as good as they do in the locker room.

I'm Bored

Written by: Loretta Mosca

Word count: 577

I finally make it to the shore…after having made the beds, cleaned the breakfast dishes, mowed the lawn, and prepared a lake-side lunch for six.

As I plop my exhausted butt into my lounge chair, I glance at my four daughters who are lined up in a neat row at my feet. Each one is on their own colorful beach towel. This is an indication it may be a good day. Having four teenage girls living in the same home (this is not a choice but rather a necessity due to the fact that my husband and I cannot afford to buy them their own condominiums) allows for ridiculous territorial rights to mundane items such as towels. Something as simple as taking someone else’s beach towel could set off a hormonal war. So far everyone seems to be getting along, for the moment anyway.

There is one blonde, one red, one brunette, and one brown, not an ugly one in the bunch, unless of course one of them gets a visit from the zit fairy. This would indicate the world must be coming to an end, or at the very least, one of them will be getting their period. If the zit fairy should ever visit all four of them at the same time, the world might as well come to an end for my husband and I me.

There is no real need for them to communicate with each other at this given moment; each one has an i-Pod plugged into her ears, some double-pierced, some triple-pierced, another boundary pushed to the limit as my husband and I learn which battles to fight. We compromised on this issue, deciding it was ears only and three was the limit. If no one's battery should die in the next 20 minutes, they will have no reason to speak to each other, and I may get through the first chapter of my book without having to referee a fight. Oh, maybe there is a God!!!

At this point they have barely noticed that I am there, which is a good thing. They are too engrossed in their trashy tabloid magazines and worrying if their tan lines will show in the new tank tops my husband dropped half a car payment on for them the day before. Just then, daughter #1 calls daughter #4 on her cell phone and asks if she will pass her the sun-block. Mind you they are only six feet away from each other, but weekend minutes are free. God forbid they leave any un-used! "And I want the 15, not the 30", she demands.

Just then, dawn breaks on marble heads, and they notice I am there. It starts with;

#1: "Mom, what’s for lunch?"

#2: "Is there any gas in the jet ski?"

#3: "Can we go shopping?"

#4: "I’m bored."

"Oh, hi, I’m Loretta, nice to meet you, no, yes, tuna on wheat."

"How could you be bored? It’s the first day of summer vacation. Do you know how many kids would love to be sitting lakeside with nothing to worry about but their tan lines? You know, contrary to popular belief, it does not SUCK being you."

"But, Mom, what do youdo when you get bored?"

"Bored? If ever have time to get bored I’ll let you know!"

Pass the sun block, please. It looks like it’s going to be a long summer.

May He Rest In Peace

Written by: Loretta Mosca

As I scanned the room, desperate for a familiar face to relieve my nervousness, I tried to avoid looking at the casket.

Thankfully, my sister Jen entered. She is always a ray of sunshine, even on the cloudiest days. When the sight of our father caught her eye, she gasped and said, "Oh, Jesus, I forgot he was going to be here."

"Jen, given the fact that it is his funeral, I felt it necessary to invite him!"

"I suppose you are right. He looks pretty good, considering the last time we saw him, he was hooked up to a breathing machine," she said as she leaned a little closer to the casket.

"Yes, he cleaned up nicely, although I don’t think he usually wore quite that much make-up."

"I guess I do look a little like him, on a much better day of course," she commented more so to herself. "I didn’t know he wore glasses. Do you think he really needs them right now?"

"He may want to see where he is going when he gets “up there“, of course, that’s assuming he’s going up."

My parents divorced when I was 14 and Jen was 5. We, along with our four other siblings, did not have much contact with Vinny after the divorce. Since his parents passed years ago and my Mother, his only surviving ex-wife, suggested I bury him in my yard, I guessed it was up to us six to host his final farewell. I was quite sure my town had an ordinance against yard burials, and I didn’t want to chance my neighbor’s dog digging him up. That would probably freak my kids out, given the fact they had never met him.

The past couple of days have been a blur of events and emotions, starting with the dreadful phone call from his doctor while I was vacationing in New Hampshire to inform me that he had a heart attack earlier that day and was basically brain dead. They were keeping him alive with a respirator and needed a family member to make the decision to continue with life support or not. My first thought was, Why do these things always happen at an inconvenient time? I’d be home Monday. Couldn’t it wait? My next was, This is so not fair; I had to put my dog down three months ago, now I have to do Dad in, too? Realizing I must have had too much sun and margaritas, I called my brother Dan to explain the situation; maybe a second opinion would be helpful.

Dan’s words snapped me back to reality, "Loretta, I’ll call the others and make arrangements to meet at the ICU. In the meantime, please get your butt off your boat and had it towards Boston. And do me a favor, shower first; showing up smelling like a bucket of tropical suntan lotion would not be cool."

The hours it took to get to the ICU gave us all time to process just how we would handle this situation, although I am not sure anyone can be fully prepared for having to make such a decision. Once we were gathered in his small room, the reality of his grave state began to sink in. No matter what our current relationships were with Vinny, we needed to send him to a better place.

That lead us to the question of, which one of us was going to walk up to the nurses’ station and announce, "Okay, were ready, you can unplug him now!"

Ted was in a mess of tears. When I tried to explain that Elvis had already left the building and this was merely formality, he spit the Coke he was drinking out of his nose and told me to shut up. This is not the first time this has happened.

Bob, who received the brunt of Vinny’s bad moods and backhands, was busy trying to find the circuit breaker he was attached to, figuring if he flipped it soon there would be no chance of him "coming back."

Jen, the attorney, was conducting her closing arguments on behalf of all of us.

Julie was in the bathroom with diarrhea, where she can usually be found during all family crises.

Dan and I were standing in the hall bucking up to determine just who would be the one to ask for the check and wondered if we should leave a tip.

I guess I lost; I had to give the order, although I am still convinced Dan cheated.

They didn’t actually "unplug him." They decreased the medications that were keeping his vital signs regulated, and he passed peacefully in about an hour. We made Dan stay with him, given his bad sportsmanship and the fact that he was the only one who was holding it together.

We met up for dinner later that night at one of Vinny’s favorite restaurants, in his honor of course, to "make the arrangements" a.k.a. figure out what the hell we were supposed to do next. I had already called the funeral home earlier that day, not knowing if I needed to make a reservation. The director was kind enough to explain in his most gentle voice, "Loretta, I really need him to be dead before I get involved." Good point, I thought.

Now, being a woman, the most important thing for me was, Just what was he going to wear? This is when Bob came up with the GREAT suggestion that he had a suit coat that Vinny could "borrow." Ted, once again, spit his drink out of his nose and yelled, "Who the hell is going to pull it off of him before they shut the casket?" Julie ran to the bathroom while Jen called her office to see if that was, in fact, legal.

Vinny would have been proud, as he looked down (or up), on how nicely we all had cleaned up and how many folks came to pay their respects. It became clear to us that there was large circle of friends that had adopted him, in the absence of us, that cared deeply about him.

At the end of the evening and the service, as we all sat and prayed for our forgiveness and for his, it became apparent that Vinny was going to leave us all with one last laugh. While administering the closing prayer, the Chaplin started his sermon with, "Victor was a great man." I leaned over to my brother Bob and asked, "Is there a Saint Victor?"

"There must be, because he couldn’t possibly be talking about Dad."

After the third time (while Bob and I are trying desperately not to wet our pants laughing), Dan finally stood up and screamed, "For Christ’s sake, stop calling him Victor. His name is Vincent!"

Thank goodness Ted wasn’t drinking anything. Julie ran to the bathroom, and Jen was deciding if we should sue.

This is what our family, like many others, has always done…hide behind our laughter, in order to avoid what we are really feeling. But we all felt it, in our own way.

Some months later in late September while sitting at a football game, my friend Judy asked me how I was doing since my father had passed.

"Loretta, he died in July! He’s still there?" she said while holding her breath.

"He was cremated. It’s not like he’s still laying there in the box," I replied, trying not to sound insensitive.

After speaking with the funeral director, he assured me Victor was not being a problem at all; he was just sitting on his desk waiting for one of us to bring him to his resting place. I couldn’t live with myself knowing he had become a paperweight.

As I stood in there cemetery on that brisk October morning, I remembered my ray of sunshine’s final words to Victor on his deathbed. No one could have said it more eloquently than Jen: "Dad, you did the best you could."

And I said out loud, "And we forgive you for the rest," knowing it was it was the only way for him to go in peace, as well as the rest of us that he left behind.

May we all rest in peace.

He Was a Good Dog

Written by:  Loretta Mosca

Human strength can never be measured or predicted; it somehow rises to the occasion whenever needed.

The passing of Indy.

Upon returning home with my four girls, I went out to the deck to see how my "beloved" dog Indy was doing. He hadn’t been feeling well since we picked him up from the kennel where we had to board him while we were away. Now, yes, I have written about my adventures with Indy many times, but this time I do so with a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat. Not doing well would be an understatement.  He was bleeding from his rectum and could not put any weight on his hind legs. As he looked up at me with a glossy glaze in his eyes as if to say, "Retta help me," I knew the end was near.

Then I thought to myself, "Oh, crap, why on my shift?" It’s going to be a hard time convincing the jury on this one. With my husband not due home for 18 hours from the fire station, I was somehow going to have to get Indy in my truck to take him for help, not an easy feat considering he weighs about 10 pounds less than I do.

"Think, think, think," I chanted to myself as Indy barked for help.

"Mom, is Indy going to be okay?" My girls asked.

"I don’t know." Then it hit me, I had to do something so they don’t see him die. Should I wait for my ex-husband to arrive? He was on his way over to pick up my daughters for dinner. Asking him to carry a huge bleeding dog to my car was probably above and beyond the call of being a good Ex or a good sport. Should I call 911? My husband has never mentioned anyone calling his station for a sick dog.  Not that I would use my garden hose to if my house were in flames, but really, was this a 911 call?

I made a sling out of a towel, wrapped it around his belly near his back legs and hoisted him up. "Come on, Indy, you can make it," I yelled to him as we walked wheelbarrow style through the house. Every couple of feet he would have to rest.  My daughters took turns placing towels under his behind in an effort to save what was left of our wall-to-wall carpeting.

We reached the truck but I could not lift him, fearing I would hurt him more. It was my daughter Maddie who saved the day. "Mom, get a board, we’ll make a ramp, quick!"

Somehow, myself and Maddie, who weighs all of 70 pounds, hoisted Indy up the makeshift ramp into the back of the truck. Indy just looked at us in disbelief, probably thinking, "Wow, I must be in pretty tough shape."

I had driven this road only six months before with our family cat. I looked down at my jeans and very expensive sweater which I hadn’t thought to change that was now covered in waste and blood and thought to myself, "God, Damit! How did I get elected to be the killer of our pets?"

I called my friend Mickey.  She is a rock; she will help me. Her words got me through it, "Loretta, it’s just our job. You are strong enough to let him go."

It was pretty clear after speaking to the vet that this would be his last day on this earth. I stayed with him and rubbed his ears like my husband had always done. I don’t know if he was still "here" when I left the small examining room. He may have already crossed over the rainbow bridge, but nonetheless he looked peaceful.

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; his eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

Author unknown...

Looking back, it was my daughters strength and encouragement that got Indy in the truck that day, not mine.

For anyone that has to be strong enough to know when to let a pet go just remember; Now Indy’s pretty white fur is soft and fluffy, he’s eating all the bones and table scraps he wants and he can raise his hind legs pain free.

He o longer barks at his imaginary enemies, for there are none in Heaven.

He was a good dog.

And he will be missed.