hoofing it into february
It was 5 p.m., Groundhog Day, when--abuzz with excitement--we walked into an unfamiliar hospital to sign the requisite papers and finalize the adoption of our little girl, an arrangement that had been approved two weeks earlier. The newest member of our family was two-and-a-half years old and had just come out of surgery earlier that afternoon. She would be groggy from the anesthesia for many more hours to come.
That was in 2018, and our primary concern for one German Shepherd-Beagle was nurturing her through her convalescence and the separation from her nine weaned-and-adopted puppies, as well as helping her adapt to new people and new surroundings after four months with a foster family.
It was 5 p.m., Groundhog Day--eight years later--when our individual workdays ended and Maisie's Gotcha Day Gala commenced. The tentative steps and explorations she'd made as a pup are now so far in the past, it is hard to believe she had not always been ours, had not always considered this her happy place, her true home.
That celebration was Monday, and our primary concern this February 2nd was Maisie's happiness amid ongoing health worries. Though her digestive woes had very recently returned after a trouble-free month, she beamed with a level of joy we had never anticipated. Dennie and I relished every second of it, from her eager grins at the mention of presents to the blissed-out chomping of special maple-glazed-ham-flavored treats and the playful antics she shared with a shaggy Highland steer called Al. (If you were wondering--which seems highly unlikely--the name is short for Albert Einstein, because, obviously, they had one very important thing in common: their barber. As an aside, cows are also very smart.)
Dinnertime was fast approaching, but, until then, we played. We shared Adoption Day stories. We hugged and kissed our special girl. A lot.
It was not a party that raged on late into the night. It was modest and quiet and exactly what we needed. November, December, and January had not been overwhelmingly benevolent. Fear that Maisie might be slipping away from us consumed our thoughts for months, finally lessening when we noticed great improvements early in January. Floodwaters ravaged this region for weeks in December--the most catastrophic floods in the state's history. Then the new year came around, and we went from having far too much water to no running water at all after an excavator hit the main. For eight long, disgusting days, dirty dishes overflowed onto the countertops, unwashed clothes spilled over the tops of two hampers, and proper showers existed only as the kind of wistful dream a Disney princess might croon about before her life takes a turn for the better. Feel free to sing along. For a truly impassioned, evocative rendition, imagine an overall feeling of repulsion to be forced to suffer your own company.
Some day my rinse will come…
Now lather, rinse, repeat about a bajillion times.
Once clean, clear, and safe water had been restored to our taps, it required another week of lost work time to battle my way through the backlog of chores while also getting the last of the holiday decorations from the first floor packed away and out of the house. (I'm currently pretending the second floor isn't still 100% Santa ready. That'll be an endeavor for a weekend soon but not today.)
Today, I will immerse myself in the dire circumstances of the next chapter of my next book on this, the second glorious week (in many, many months) that I've been able to rededicate myself to writing full-time. And, when I am done for the day, I will eagerly upload the remaining photos from the eighth anniversary of our ten-and-a-half-year-old girl's adoption. After a prolonged season of turmoil, beneath endlessly cloudy skies, the occasion was, after all, something altogether different and wholeheartedly welcome. Much like the first time Maisie ever smiled at us, it was pure, radiant sunlight--warm, bright, and full of promise.
