Sinking in

I cried last night. Long and hard. I think I'd been pushing so hard, going from one thing to the next so quickly that I really hadn't allowed myself time to let things sink in. Last Friday was my last day at work. There was little fanfare, as my going-away party had been held the week before and several of my co-workers were on vacation. No biggie--after all, I had a cover story to write. (See http://www.newsreview.com/chico/fighting-for-their-families/content?oid=5513249, my shameless plug.) The next day, however, I had to pack up and drive our two Boston terriers to San Francisco, board a plane and head to St. Louis. So, did I have time to mourn the loss of the best job I've ever had? In a word, no.

The trip to St. Louis was traumatic enough on its own. I rode to the airport (a 3 1/2-hour drive), listening to Tina Fey's Bossypants on audiobook, holding baby Oliver the majority of the way. I had my coffee, but couldn't bring myself to eat. When we got to the airport, I pulled in to short-term parking and thought I was all smart picking a spot by the elevator. Little did I know I was a good 15-minute walk to the United Airlines terminal. More than halfway there (after finding a luggage carrier, loading on the crates and my small duffel and grabbing the boys' leashes with my left hand) I realized I'd forgotten the bags of food that were supposed to be affixed to their crates in case of a disaster. Damn. We turned around, ditched the $5 luggage cart, and drove to the "F" terminal. I spied an abandoned cart and, upon parking again next to the elevator, snagged it, reloaded, and headed in the general direction of where I thought I had to go. After one tiny disaster (the crate on top of the pile fell over in the elevator), a very nice young man offered to push the cart while I led Arthur and Oliver through by far the strangest place they'd ever been. The man (I never even got his name) was so nice he endured several wrong turns and eventually dropped us where we needed to be, at a small office for United cargo. I paid the $400-some fee for the two dogs to fly, let them tape the dog-food bags to the crates, tried to allow the boys to pee in a concrete jungle outside and put them in their tiny dungeons.

Please know, we've prepared for this. Oliver has been crate-trained since birth. Arthur had had his for the past few months, to get used to the idea (and so he wouldn't be too nervous in this exact situation). Still, putting them in their crates and watching the man zip-tie them shut, I felt an overwhelming sense of doom. I was a horrible puppy-mother. Oliver looked at me with pleading eyes and cried, scratching at the door. There was nothing I could do. Arthur just cowered. I wasn't sure what was worse!

After signing the paperwork and watching them being taken away, there was little left for me to do but hope for the best. Every bump in the flight from SFO to STL, I thought of my babies underneath, scared beyond belief. At the other end, Oliver was delivered first. He was shaking in the back of the crate, but when he was let free he kissed me with wild abandon, as if to say, "Mommy! It's you! You saved me!" Arthur cowered and took a minute to readjust to freedom.

The short weekend went well and I was beyond glad for the opportunity to ease my Boston buddies into life at my parents' house. I know they'll love it. I know they'll have more fun in the back yard, in the dog run, in the large pool area, than they even expect. I know my parents will love them and they will be well-fed, cared for and played with.

But I won't be with them. I hope they don't feel abandoned. I hope they remember us when we pick them up at the end of our journey. I hope my parents don't fall so hopelessly in love they can't bear to part with them (a distinct possibility since they are, in fact, the most lovable puppies in the world).

So, last night I cried. I finally allowed myself a minute to stop from the go-go-go of the past few months and take stock of my emotional state and admit I was hurting. Don't get me wrong--I'm excited as hell to go to France. But with every new adventure comes a great deal of good things left behind. So I cried about my babies. And I cried about work (I loved my job). And I cried about the friends and family I'll be leaving behind.

Now I must concentrate on other things, but tribute had to be paid to the ones I love. Thanks, Mom and Dad--the fact you're taking care of our babies while we're gone means more than you know. I don't think I need to ask you to take pictures!