Flooded With Blood

“I could write a blog?” I thought to myself, settling into a big comfy chair in a coffee shop. Tess and Lou, my usual Friday morning colleagues, were in a supervised childcare situation—where they even change diapers!—and I was pretty anxious to have a few hours alone to write. 

“About what?” I replied to myself, opening up my laptop.

“Well, there was the incident last night with all the blood.”

“Ahh, yes, the blood.”

My memory flicked back to the image to Tighe on his hands and knees mopping up the pools of dark red blood with handfuls of paper towels while I fetched new Swiffer pads and plastic bags to deposit the saturated rags. Which sounds more gruesome than it was. 

But perfect for Halloween weekend.

Somehow, impossibly, the stench of iron hit my nostrils again as I typed in my password and pensively opened a new Microsoft Word document.

It was a lot of blood, though. Dark red blood. In puddles on the hardwoods, all throughout the first floor. And then spritzing and flickering onto the cabinets in the kitchen as Wally galloped, trying his best to meet Tighe at the back door. 

Tighe had just arrived home from the airport, where he picked up my brother Kyle who was visiting for four days and nights. He likes seeing the kids’ costumes and helping Tess and Lou trick-or-treat.  I think he just likes candy. 

Back to the blood and gore, though.

As I sat on the sofa that Thursday night, alternating my attention between my book and the football game on TV, both dogs slept soundly on the carpet in front of me. In fact, Wally was snoring. Loudly.

But as Tighe’s headlights shined light into the house and his car rumbled up the driveway, they jumped up, startled and excited.

Wally was excited because he understood that a car means a person has arrived. And Rocket, with less brains than Wally, simply understood that Wally’s excited and so he should be excited.

It’s almost as if Rocket tries to learn from Wally, who, in response, ignores him. Just like he does with our kids. Like he’s a grumpy old man. Every other living being in our house is a nuisance. Outsiders are preferable because they give him the attention he craves. Until they tire of his neediness and stop petting him. 

Some people even push his paw away from them and then quickly glance to Tighe or me to see if we’ve noticed their dismissal. Yes, we’ve likely noticed, but we’re sympathetic. One can only pet a dog for so long. And poor Wally just doesn’t understand that his desperation can be a turn-off. 

If judges issued restraining orders to dogs, Wally wouldn’t be allowed within 100 yards of most people. 

And he underestimates his size.

Once, when we had just moved to Kansas City and wanted people to like us, our elderly neighbor on 73rdStreet came to the door to chat about a new fence between our yards. He was difficult to understand and I don’t even know what his name was because his French accent was so thick. The language barrier made all interactions a bit more awkward and tense. And frustrating. 

A gregarious, 80-pound Golden Doodle didn’t help.

As the man entered the house, Wally came charging through the dining room and leapt into the man, as if he expected the man to catch him in his arms and embrace him like a long lost relative. Unfortunately, the man, already frail and walking with a noticeable, if not debilitating limp, didn’t expect such a warm welcome. 

Startled, he jumped back, and the collision with Wally sent him into the air, to the point that he was parallel to the ground and he just dropped.

With a thud.

But never fear—Wally was there to lick his face and console him.

I dragged the dog off of him, pulling him to the kitchen where I shut the door. I could not possibly apologize enough times. The man—embarrassed and kind, as though he was the one at fault—truly struggled to get to his feet again, one knee, then one hip at a time. I can’t even imagine how sore he was the next day.

I feared a lawsuit, but the only thing he ever “served” to us was a little red toy car and an art set that had belonged to his grandchildren. It was way more than we deserved. 

So when a visitor arrives, Wally puts every ounce of energy and girth into his greeting. 

And that night that Kyle arrived, Wally galloped around the house, tongue out, tail wagging, while Kyle rolled his suitcase across the driveway. And Rocket dumbly followed suit, trotting alongside him and periodically nipping at his ears as if to ask, “Where are we going? What’s going on? Why are we so happy?”

And somehow, in all the commotion, Wally must have bumped into a table or chair and his tumor—remember his tumor? Giant, grapefruit-like thing that kind of resembles a human brain and seems to grow and shrink as the seasons change?—ruptured. 

Again.

But instead of puss oozing out in a steady drip as it normally does, this time it was blood. And it exploded and gushed. And in addition to the pools on the floor, it also speckled and dotted the kitchen cabinets and the white stool Lou uses to “help” me when I cook.

Welcome, Kyle. Wally hasn’t seen you in six months. Allow him to make your arrival most memorable. 

Fast forward a few weeks and the wound on the tumor has healed, mostly overnight, though it remains massive—softball sized. We’ve had a few mornings when Wally’s needed one of us to help him get up out of his giant dog bed. His hips just won’t cooperate. 

And he doesn’t gobble up his food quite as greedily as he has in the past. In fact, sometimes he doesn’t even finish it and nods to Rocket, who’s waiting nearby in case there are leftovers. 

But he’s still the first one to the door anytime there’s a visitor! And the vet assures us that he’s otherwise very healthy. 

Still, at thirteen and a half people years, we know his days our numbered. And we’ll be ready.