A few things.
I. This story is in no way familiar to me. No part of it made me think, "Wow, that's just like me." I'm probably not at all like this man, Scott Glover, who writes for the Los Angeles Times. I still think anyone who reads my words should read his words. It's about his decision to meet his biological parents, almost forty years after he was given up for adoption.
II. My company is now officially owned by another company. Our now former CEO is named Dave. Every time I would run into him, even if it was in the bathroom, he would say hi and ask how I was doing. Our new CEO, Julia, is also very nice, and a former president of this very company from years back, so she knows how we work and is genuinely interested in us. That's good. I'm still going to miss Dave. I can't say how big a lift it is to work for a well-known international company and have the CEO know who you are and be genuinely interested in how you are.
III. In 1999 or 2000, grandma Pat needed nursing care. Alzheimer's had claimed her ability to care for herself, There was the matter of her little dog, Maggie, to consider, though. Maggie was somewhere between five and seven years old with the body of a lean, scruffy Welsh Corgi and the head of something like a floppy-eared, short-haired Pomeranian. She'd been adopted from an animal shelter, so we knew nothing about her, including how long ago or why she'd taken a hit to her left side. Whatever it was, it left a palpable knot on one of her ribs that hurt if you weren't careful rubbing her little belly. She and Shelby never got along, because though Shelby is bigger, she's a beta and a coward to boot, so she was afraid of Maggie. They both prefer people to other dogs.
Grandma and Papa (mom's parents) took her in; they hadn't had a dog since old Banjo died some thirteen years before. Maggie became Papa's dog pretty much instantly. She would frolic across the back yard, tearing circles around Papa as he walked down to get the mail or up over the rise to see to the pond. In the last two years she became all but stone deaf, which didn't seem to bother her, since she didn't like listening to people anyway. Last weekend, for no reason we know, the spry little lady couldn't walk anymore. It took most of the day and a lot of work from Mom to make Papa realize how much she was suffering from whatever had gotten hold of her. He hadn't even considered what ended up being the most humane next step.
I'd known Maggie almost ten years, and it wasn't until I told Cimmy and she began to cry that I did, too. It had all been flat facts from Mom on the phone; I needed the reaction of a girl who loves dogs even more than I do before I could get my head fully around it. She was a good dog and we loved her.
II. My company is now officially owned by another company. Our now former CEO is named Dave. Every time I would run into him, even if it was in the bathroom, he would say hi and ask how I was doing. Our new CEO, Julia, is also very nice, and a former president of this very company from years back, so she knows how we work and is genuinely interested in us. That's good. I'm still going to miss Dave. I can't say how big a lift it is to work for a well-known international company and have the CEO know who you are and be genuinely interested in how you are.
III. In 1999 or 2000, grandma Pat needed nursing care. Alzheimer's had claimed her ability to care for herself, There was the matter of her little dog, Maggie, to consider, though. Maggie was somewhere between five and seven years old with the body of a lean, scruffy Welsh Corgi and the head of something like a floppy-eared, short-haired Pomeranian. She'd been adopted from an animal shelter, so we knew nothing about her, including how long ago or why she'd taken a hit to her left side. Whatever it was, it left a palpable knot on one of her ribs that hurt if you weren't careful rubbing her little belly. She and Shelby never got along, because though Shelby is bigger, she's a beta and a coward to boot, so she was afraid of Maggie. They both prefer people to other dogs.
Grandma and Papa (mom's parents) took her in; they hadn't had a dog since old Banjo died some thirteen years before. Maggie became Papa's dog pretty much instantly. She would frolic across the back yard, tearing circles around Papa as he walked down to get the mail or up over the rise to see to the pond. In the last two years she became all but stone deaf, which didn't seem to bother her, since she didn't like listening to people anyway. Last weekend, for no reason we know, the spry little lady couldn't walk anymore. It took most of the day and a lot of work from Mom to make Papa realize how much she was suffering from whatever had gotten hold of her. He hadn't even considered what ended up being the most humane next step.
I'd known Maggie almost ten years, and it wasn't until I told Cimmy and she began to cry that I did, too. It had all been flat facts from Mom on the phone; I needed the reaction of a girl who loves dogs even more than I do before I could get my head fully around it. She was a good dog and we loved her.