our buster

Oh, Buster. Who knew we could cry so long or hurt so much over a dog? After all, you were just a little black and white Boston Terrier with watery brown eyes, a crinkled left ear, and ridiculously short tail. Based on looks alone you wouldn’t have won best of cul de sac, much less best of show; but oh, baby, were you the man around here. With your own proprietary blend of cuteness, lovability, and waggish charm, you kept three beautiful women wrapped around your dew claw for ten years.

What was it about you that made us love you so? It wasn’t exceptional intelligence- for instance, you never did figure out that Suzie had no front claws. All those years you could have kicked her scrawny cat butt when she swatted at you, but you never had a clue, did you? And after we had the door into the kitchen removed and the outside wall bricked over where the opening once was, you still stood there, nose to the bricks, waiting to be let in sometimes, remember? It couldn’t have been your bravery either because, let’s face it, you had none. I’ve see lint balls bigger than some of the dogs you tucked tail from on our walks on the perilous streets of the westside. Looks? As I’ve said before, you weren’t exactly Westminster material, but you never met a human who didn’t “get” your special Buster vibe and love you for it. At least the really cool humans did. The others? Forgettaboutem.

Whatever the reasons, you were beyond special to us, Mr. Buster, Bussy, Bussiter, Babeesh, Baby, Babe… No matter what the name, you put the 6 in our D5- a very exclusive club of which you will forever remain the beloved mascot. Your death has left a ragged empty hole in our hearts this week- as empty as your bed in the corner. I tried to move it today, puppy, since you won’t be needing it anymore. I tried, I really did. But I just couldn’t do it, Captain. I haven’t got the power.

But in true DeLany form, we’re going to celebrate you this weekend with a family gathering in your honor. It will be a black and white affair (with just a touch of pink for that dear, speckled belly of yours) but casual and, I expect, full of laughter as well as tears- ‘cause that’s the way we roll around here.

I think you should know Bonnie posted a wonderful picture of you on Facebook. You’re riding in the backseat of her green jag, and you look so happy it hurts. I think it captures your special Buster essence and joie de vivre. I’ll place it in this blog so anyone reading can smile along with you. I think for you it never was about the destination, it was always about the joy of the ride. I just wish your ride could have lasted longer.

I don’t know exactly how God feels about animals. I know He made some of them with a great capacity to love humans and forgive them without so much as a backward glance or second guess. And He gave humans a heart that can love a dog or a cat or even a bird, hamster or lizard instead of just seeing them as something to eat, use or wear. I’m glad He did both. And I’m glad for the Chiefs, the Shortys, the Gingers, Caseys, Suzies and Busters who add a texture to our lives that wouldn’t exist without them. Some rise above others in their ability to wriggle their way up into your life and heart to the point you’ll never regret for one day that you had them. Not even if it was a day that came with carpet stains, or scratches on the new floor, or even the heartbreaking news that you’ve lost them forever. Buster, that was you. You were our faithful friend, beloved little brother, and all-around good boy. One of your girls said, “I think I will miss him forever.” To that I can only add a quiet amen.

the fuzz

Dear Ralph,

Ralph Rueben Lifshitz, I have a bone to pick with you! And just because you changed your last name to Lauren and made 3 billion dollars selling suits, don’t think you’re too big to listen to me. You can run but you cannot hide from the wrath of a woman covered in Chili Pepper Red fuzz. The problem is, Ralph, ever since last month when I finally broke down and bought new towels for my bathroom, my body ( as well as that of my dearly beloved) has been coated each and every single morning with a layer of luxurious Egyptian cotton fuzz from your Ralph Lauren Bath Collection. I cannot express to you the full extent of my disappointment at this, but that won’t stop me from trying.

First off, I’d just like to say that some of us women out here in the real live world use our towels for a long time. We use them until it’s hard to tell what color they started out and they get all thin in the middle. We use them even when we leave the house with the bathroom wallpaper we bought them to match. And when they don’t match the wallpaper in the next house do replace them? No, we hang on to them a little longer. Because sometimes, Ralph, we’re too busy paying bills, fixing things that are broke, and handing out money to teenage daughters to fret over things like new towels and washcloths. But when we finally get our kids mostly paid for, and our house looking spiffy after a ten year’s wait, we want us some nice, beautiful towels to hang in our redone bathroom. Towels with a thick, soft nap that stays attached to the towel instead of falling off all over the shower stall, the bathroom floor, or the person using them. Ralph, I’ve removed your red fuzz from my eyelashes, my ears, my nose, and places I will not mention in this letter. It’s on the bathroom floor, in the bedroom carpet, on the stairs, and in the cracks of the sofa. We find it in our sheets, our drawers (both kinds) and the toes of our socks. When I use my facial products, my cotton ball turns pink from the tiny fuzz particles your towels leave on my face. I can feel the lint rolling into little balls on my shoulders and legs when I apply my body lotion. This just isn’t right, Ralph. No girl should have to use a pet hair roller on herself as part of her morning toilette.

In an effort to stem this crimson tide of fuzz, I have washed and dried your products numerous times. And although I could make a small red lamb from the fluff left in my dryer, they just keep producing more. At least, one would think, with all that pile and billowy cotton plushness, those little puppies would dry like crazy. But Ralph, they don’t dry. Not one bitty bit. It doesn’t matter if I rub, pat, wipe or blot, I always remain moist. Moist and fuzzy. It’s enough to make a girl want to sit down on the edge of the bathtub and cry. Which I almost did, until my teary eyes were drawn to all the red towel debris wedged up under the baseboards. Then I got mad again.

Ralph, have you or anyone you know used one of your towels? ‘Cause I think if you put your name on a product and expect folks to spend their hard earned money on it, you ought to personally make sure it’s worth every penny they plunk down. So just to let you know, I’m going to publish this letter so no dreamy-eyed housewife clutching her birthday money in her eager little hand will have to endure what I have endured. And one more thing- if I ever want to wear a Ralph stinkin’ Lauren sweater, I will bypass the clothing department and head for bath accessories instead. The towels come in a variety of colors- I’ll just add water and be wearing one in no time!

Signed,

Seeing Red