Debbie Weaver: HOMER • Cleaver Magazine

Flash Nonfiction by Debbie Weaver
HOMER

On a Sunday morning, I shuffle from the family room where I’m reading to the kitchen and pour a second cup of coffee, stepping over my oldest daughter’s ten-year-old dog who is suffering from cancer. My daughter has asked me to babysit him while she and her husband are away for the weekend, like I have over the years. She’s afraid boarding him would be cruel; the stress might speed up his death. I agreed.

After returning the creamer to the refrigerator, I look over at him, sit my mug on the counter and decide to get down on the floor and lie next to him. A feat that is not easy for me these days. Stroking the back of his ears, his favorite spot, I watch him sleep as his white eyelashes twitch. Usually, he spends most of the day on my porch, enjoying the freedom of being outside without having to wear a leash, stretching out along the small loveseat, his throne. This weekend he wants to be near me inside, on the bed I purchased for him years ago, barely eating and only getting up to go outside.

Glancing up, I notice the yellow roses on the kitchen counter that I bought two days ago and placed in a blue vase, how their sweetness overpowers the scent of fried okra from the night before. I wish their beauty could last for months, accenting what is otherwise an ordinary space, like a strand of pearls on a plain red dress. I dread when their petals turn brown and curl, their silkiness becomes brittle.

I listen to him breathe and sigh tiny whimpers of pain. My hand feels the rise and fall of his stomach, and as I close my eyes, I silence my phone, not wanting any text or call to interrupt. I chuckle and remember when my daughter told me she had rescued a puppy from a shelter, a black lab she said looked like Beau, the last dog our family loved, who was yellow, not black. But I didn’t bring that to her attention, relieved she couldn’t see me shake my head in disapproval, wondering how getting an eight-week-old puppy the same week she started her first job as a kindergarten teacher was a good choice.

She visited the next weekend, determined for me to meet Homer. I cradled him in my arms as he licked my face, his puppy breath sweet, and I buried my nose in his soft fur along his back. When I finally let him down to scurry and jump around on the porch, I realized then why she couldn’t leave the shelter without him, how he filled a void in her life when all her friends were engaged or having babies. I became a dog grandma that day and offered to babysit as often as she needed me, rearranging my plans to be available. He chewed the base of my rocking chair and unraveled a roll of toilet paper, leaving a trail throughout the house, and pouted like a toddler whenever I needed to lure him into his crate. When he was older and close to seventy pounds, he managed to pull me down in the middle of a street, leaving me to chase a squirrel, but I easily forgave him. He followed me everywhere, curious and protective. The mornings we spent on my porch were my favorite, when we both sat on the loveseat with his head in my lap, as I drank coffee and watched the birds.

I sync my breath with his, delaying the moment when I will get up—when I will lift myself from the floor to go on with my day—wishing the energy between us could be captured in a mason jar, the lid tight, left to open and replay after he is gone. Glancing again at the flowers, I wonder if next time lilies or carnations, even sunflowers, would be a better choice; they will not die so quickly. Then it occurs to me how I’m drawn to the fragile nature of roses, their loveliness and grace enchant me unlike other floral species, which is worth having them around, for however long they last. A tear rolls down my face and lands on his collar, and I stroke the top of his head. He opens his eyes and looks at me, and when he’s sure I’m not moving, when he’s sure I am not leaving, he closes his eyes again and nuzzles his nose deep into my side.

Recently retired as a Writing Center Director and teacher from the University of Central Florida, Debbie Weaver’s non-fiction flash essays have been published in Litbreak Magazine, Bending Genres, and Citron Review. She lives in Orlando, Florida and heads frequently to North Carolina where she likes to hike, explore waterfalls, and spend time with her daughters.