Thanks for nothing, Nature

All is fine here in the Finslippy household. Unlike so many other people, we have power. We didn't have any flooding or serious damage. We are so very lucky. But holy cow, was that ever not a thing that we enjoyed. Never in my life did I imagine I'd worry about the roof over our heads tearing right off. Turns out I didn't like it. I do not recommend it even a little.

You know, natural disasters are not a thing you expect when you live in the city of New York. We live here specifically because we do not prefer to consort with Nature. We don't live in the Midwest because of the whole tornado thing. We don't live on the West Coast because of when the Big One hits and that whole section of the country slides into the sea. (Sorry, guys.) We don't live in the South because, I don't know, scorpions and shit. I mean, yes, there are other reasons for us to live here, like our jobs and our families and whatever, but mostly we're avoiding the rattlesnakes and the mudslides and the awesome powers of dangerous, terrible Nature. Nature and her many spiders, most of which want to kill us. (I think.) (I may not be right about that.)

So instead of living in God's country, where we could stand in awe of Gaia and her bounty/wrath, we live in God-has-forsaken-us country, where we don't have natural vistas but we *do* have the assurance that we'll never look upon our vista and see an avalanche bearing down on us. In the summer it smells like garbage, sure, but as recompense we don't get forest fires.That was the deal. We had a deal, Nature! (I think I was wrong about the deal. Granted, it was sort of an unspoken thing.)

I hope that from now on we only have to deal with rats and religious pamphleteers, but all signs point to "nope." I think we might need to find someplace less disaster-prone, like the Earth's core. Is that an option? Anyone looking into that?

At any rate, we're okay. I'm so thankful we ended up okay. I hope with all my heart that you're okay, as well. If you can help out, please join me in donating to the Red Cross.

The Mysterious Case of the Dog with the Chicken

A few days ago I was walking Charlie in the early morning--which, for the record, is my least favorite time of day to be outside. I don't mind being awake, as long as I can be in my jammies (that word was just auto-corrected to "jambes"--how dare you, auto-correct) and holding a steaming mug of coffee. Those are my terms. Sadly my dog does not care about my terms. He cares about peeing as soon as daylight breaks through the bedroom blinds. He used to sleep until I chose to walk him because he is the best ever, but now he is elderly and everything's changed.

On the weekends Scott walks him, but weekdays, it's Scott's job to get Henry to school, which leaves me with the dog and his elderly bathroom needs. I definitely have the better deal, but I still whine about it. It is my way.

On this particular day I was stumbling around the block when I spotted a neighbor's dog, rooting through another neighbor's trash. This was unusual--for this dog, at least. We have a couple of neighbors who, if I saw their dogs rooting around unaccompanied, I would not be surprised. Frustrated, annoyed, sure. Those are my favorite emotions. But not surprised. This dog, however, is owned by a family who seems to have their shit together. They appear to know enough not to loose their dog on a city sidewalk with instructions to return when he's done.

This dog is also elderly, and I think either a beagle or basset or some combination thereof, and he was really enthusiastic about the garbage he had gotten into. He was standing in the street, between a couple of cars, where he had gnawed through a garbage bag to get to some garbagey treats. I tried to get closer, but Charlie, being blind and deaf, wanted to continue past him to pee on some things. We had some words, Charlie and I. He didn't hear them. I looked crazy to the people walking by, all of whom probably thought this second dog snarfling through the trash was also mine.

When I got closer to the dog I saw that he had in his possession a meaty chicken carcass. I felt a) sad that someone would throw away so much chicken (I mean, think of the soup that could have been made! THINK OF IT) and also b) sad that the dog could be flattened by a passing car if he moved .5 inches away from the curb.

"I will save this dog!" I said to myself. Not out loud, because I am not that crazy. I called to the dog, which for the record is stupid if you don't know the dog's name. I actually called out, "Here, pooch!" As if this dog would think in its little nut-sized brains, "Why, 'pooch' means 'dog,' and 'dog' is me! She means ME!" Even if I knew the dog's name, dog had a chicken. Everyone knows, when it comes to dogs, if it's you against a chicken carcass, you're going to lose. That's science.

Naturally, the dog ignored me. Charlie peed on a tree while I stood a foot or so away, wondering what to do. I called to him again. I tried different words, like "doggie" and "hey you" because I am extra smart in the early morning, with no coffee in me. Then I looked around some more.

Finally I managed to get over to the dog (Charlie resisted but was then intrigued by chicken smell) and tried to shoo him away from the chicken. The dog regarded me with his wounded bassety eyes and went back to his snack. I feigned anger and shooed him with increased vigor. He then scooped up the entire carcass in his chops, walked past me, and trotted toward his home. This was good because I was not 100% sure which house was his. I followed, and watched him walk right through an open gate and into the open door of a garden apartment in a house a few doors down.

The apartment door was wide open, which was weird. This is not a thing you see in Brooklyn, especially when no one seems to be around. I waited for the people inside to exhibit some sort of confusion--where did this chicken come from?--but there was silence.

I immediately assumed, as one does, that they were all dead. I was going to knock on the front door and call out, "Hello?" and peer in and then I would scream and WHAM cut to me being interviewed by two detectives, one of whom eyes the dog and says to the other, "That's one way to get take-out."

No thank you. I stood around for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do, wondering why the dog would venture outside for food when surely he could feast on their corpses--we all know that's what our dogs are itching to do, afer all--when Scott walked up. He was walking Henry to school and he gently inquired as to what I was doing, as it appeared I was standing on the sidewalk with a confused look on my face. I explained the situation and he volunteered to be the one to spot their dead bodies (or I think he said he was going to "knock"), which he did--so brave!--but there was no answer. He agreed with me that they were all dead. Or maybe he said it was weird and we should call the police.

Which I did! And did you know? They were more interested in what the dog had in his mouth than anything else. "He had a what in his mouth?" the operator asked me more than once. "That is not the important part!" I said to her, but I don't think she was convinced.

I waited around and fully expected some wise-cracking detectives to come to my door that day, but none did. I heard no sirens. Not even a police radio. I walked by and the door was closed, which was good, I guess? It was all terribly disappointing. Of course I didn't want them to be dead but someone could at least have filled me in. Me, the dog saver!

Yesterday I ran into the man who always walks the dog, and we exchanged hellos and our dogs were like "durrrh" and that was that. His arm was in a cast (mysterious!) but otherwise seemed fine. I considered asking what happened, but really, why would I be asking? Out of concern? Of course not. At this point I'm only DYING TO KNOW what happened. Also how would I start that conversation? "Say, did you notice your dog eating some Mystery Chicken? Heh heh, I suppose I'm to blame! Or maybe take the credit!" Too weird, even for me.

About a bird

Anxiety is high around here. August always seems to ratchet up the nerves. Summer has lost its charm, but not its edge. The humidity and the heat and the smells and strangers barking at each other in the street. Hurricanes and tropical storms are coming this way, they keep saying. One after another. Who can say what's next?

I've had conversations with not one, not two, but three loved ones who were beset with (they knew) irrational fears. I feel like I spend most of my time in Reassurance Mode. I'm glad I can be the one who's relatively calm (for once), but then I worry about their worry, because worry is bad for the health.

No one is sleeping. And when we manage it, our dreams are weird.

A few days ago I found a dying baby sparrow on the sidewalk. He blinked fast, flapped his wings, toppled over. His claws were mangled. There was nothing I could do, but I couldn't leave it. My downstairs neighbor came by. We sat down by the bird, in the middle of the sidewalk. Other passersby stopped and weighed in on what could be done. The baby bird kept blinking. I made some phone calls. No one asked why I was bothering with a baby sparrow, which I appreciated, but there was no real help to be found. We murmured to it. The blinks stopped. Mostly we were relieved. We wondered whether we helped the baby bird as it died, or terrified it. We did the best we could. We knew it wasn't much.

Yesterday that same neighbor texted me: "I am not kidding, there's another dead sparrow in our driveway," she wrote.

"Don't worry," I wrote back. "It's just Zombie Sparrow, come to exact revenge."

She was sure there was a bird epidemic. It would just figure, wouldn't it? The heat is rising, birds are dropping from the sky. What's next?

There's no question there's plenty to worry about. There's always a crisis. But I keep thinking how, on one of the hottest days of the year, people came upon two goofballs crouched over a baby bird, and they stopped to see what could be done. I don't know, I guess what I'm trying to say is we have each other, which is so cloying, but I mean it. Everything's scary, but we can be pretty great. Even in the middle of August, and everything dying around us.

Rule breaker

A few months ago, Scott and I had a particularly spirited fight, the kind where you start out politely requesting that your partner empty out the vacuum canister after each use and you end up perched on top of a bookcase, hurling hardcovers and braying. (No? Just me?) Such arguments have become increasingly rare in our marriage, as we have mellowed with age (read: are tired and broken); besides, we would rather not traumatize our child more than is completely necessary.

But the kid was at school, some "issues" needed to be "discussed," and before we knew it we were letting things fly out of our mouths. Loudly. Angry, rude things!

The regret after such a fight is amplified when you live in an apartment building, because on top of wondering how the hell that happened and feeling like an idiot, you worry that your neighbors HEARD you being an idiot. In Scott's case, he knew they did. Because just as he yelled something particularly unfortunate at me, his beloved, our neighbors were in the hallway, leaving for work.

Now, this was just a luck of the draw--a second before that I was shouting stuff that was equally terrible--but they heard him, therefore he is a monster. Scott was mortified, because actually he is a Nice Guy who is loved by everyone. He couldn't stand it. So one day, in the hallway, he apologized to them. To the guy, specifically. I heard them talking in the hallway, all "dude, you know how it is," and "totally, bro," and then they probably high-fived or kissed or something. And I was upstairs, quietly dying.

You never do this. This is the implicit understanding in all tenant/tenant relationships: barring something worrisome or catastrophic, you don't acknowledge the private noises that are ensuing in the neighbor's apartment.  (Emphasis on private. Television? Not private. Party? Public. Super sexy moans? Privateprivateprivate.) You must also pretend that you haven't been heard. It's in the lease! (It's not in the lease. It should be in the lease.) This is how you maintain your sanity and also your personal boundaries. If you discuss each other's personal goings-on, pretty soon you're going to start confiding in each other and then you're going to have a building-friend, which is the worst kind of friend because what if you realize you're not that crazy about him after all? Then where do you go? Where, SCOTT?

But no, he had to be the good guy. And where does it end? Next he's going to start leaving memos in the hallway.

"Dear neighbors: As you undoubtedly know by now, sound travels from bathroom to bathroom. I realize now that I should not have eaten that week-old burrito. My apologies. In case you're wondering, God did not answer my cries."

"Dear friends downstairs: my wife just returned from a week-long trip, which is why you heard all that banging coming from the room above your bedroom, which happens to be our bedroom. The noise you heard was marital intercourse. I thought it best to get this out in the open, as we are adults. p.s. you'll hear more noise over the weekend, when our son is at a sleepover. Do not be alarmed."

"Yo, guys: just so you know, Alice is not clinically depressed. She's just having a rough premenstrual time and she was watching Youtube videos of soldiers coming home and reuniting with their dogs. I thought I should explain all the wailing. I told her to can it because you guys don't need to worry even more but she just threw things at me. Women! Did you notice how I didn't curse that time?"

By the way, now that he's opened up to our neighbors they're perfectly friendly to him, and they treat ME strangely. Scott insists it's in my imagination, but I can see it in their eyes. They're wondering what kind of a person would marry a lunatic who overshares with his neighbors. I'm going to tell them all about it in my next memo.