Rachel Cohn - The Twelve Days of Dash and Lily

“Heel!” I commanded Boris. As a breed, bullmastiffs are surprisingly good apartment dwellers for their size because they’re not very active. But they are essentially guard dogs, if compassionate ones – they pin intruders down instead of trying to hurt them. Boomer probably didn’t know that. I’d look as terrified as Boomer, too, if I had a 130-pound dog pinning me to the ground. “Heel!” I repeated.

Boris got off Boomer and came and sat at my feet, satisfied that I was safe. But the commotion had also coaxed the smallest fur member of the family out of his own sleep and, typically lazy, he arrived late into the living room to assess the situation and secure the area. Grandpa lives with us now that he can’t live on his own anymore, and his cat, Grunt, came along with him. True to his name, the cat grunted at Boris, who standing upright is the size of an adult woman but is abjectly terrified of Grandpa’s twelve-pound cat. Poor Boris went from a heeling posture to standing up and draping his front paws over my shoulders, whimpering, his dear, wrinkled face looking into mine like, Protect me, Mama! I gave Boris’s wet nose a kiss and said, “Down, boy. You’re fine.”

Our apartment is really too small for all these people and animals. It’s a bloody zoo at my home. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I mean, maybe I’d like for Grandpa, who used to be so robust and such a man-about-town, not to be so confined to our third-floor apartment because he can’t do the stairs more than once per day, and some days not at all. But if having a stream of family members and healthcare workers come in and out to help him and visit with him averts Grandpa’s worst fear – being moved to a nursing home – I’m all for the zoo situation. The alternative scenario is bleak. Grandpa often proclaims that the only way he’ll allow himself to be moved out of his home is lying flat, in a box.

Langston came into the living room from the kitchen and asked, “What happened in here?” and that was Dash’s cue to finally leave.

Dash told Langston, “Thanks for the tea and cookies you didn’t offer.”

Langston said, “You’re welcome. Leaving so soon? Wonderful!” Langston stepped to the front door in the foyer to open it. Bewildered Boomer stood up to step out while Dash hesitated for a moment. He looked like he was about to kiss me goodbye, then thought better of it, and instead he patted Boris’s head. Boris the traitor licked Dash’s hand.

I was sore, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t melt when this impossibly handsome guy in the pea coat was sweet to my dog. “We’ll have a tree lighting tomorrow night,” I said to Dash. “Will you come?” Tomorrow was the fourteenth of December! Tree-lighting day! How had I managed to completely ignore this most important date until Dash literally plopped a tree into my living room? Was it that maybe this year the ceremony felt more like a chore than a reason for cheer?

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Dash. Grunt couldn’t have cared less about Dash’s acceptance of my invitation. Grunt took chase of Boris again, causing Boris to run – directly into a tall pile of books propped up against the living room wall.

This caused Grandpa to yell, “Grunt, come back here!” and Boris to start barking, and Langston to admonish Dash, “Go, already!”

Boomer and Dash left.

I knew Dash was relieved to leave.

My house is always busy. Loud. Boisterous. Pet hairy. Lots of people around.

Dash likes quiet, and order, and would prefer to be alone with his books than hang out with his own family. He’s allergic to cats. Sometimes I wonder if he is to me, too.

Sunday, December 14th

A year ago my life was so different. My Grandpa was in such good shape that he went back and forth to Florida, where he had a girlfriend in his senior-citizen apartment complex. I had no pets and no boyfriend. I didn’t really understand sadness.

Grandpa’s girlfriend died from cancer this past spring, and soon after that, his heart gave out. I knew Grandpa’s fall was serious, but in the panic of the moment I didn’t take it all in, because I was too preoccupied with the interminable wait for the ambulance, then the ride to the hospital, then calling all the family to let them know what had happened. It wasn’t until the next day, when he was stabilized, that I understood how bad it really had been. I’d gone to the hospital cafeteria to pick up some lunch, and when I returned, I saw through the window to his room that Mrs Basil E., Grandpa’s sister and my favorite aunt, had arrived. She’s a tall lady and normally a larger-than-life presence, wearing impeccably tailored suits with expensive jewelry, and perfect makeup on her face. But in that moment before she saw me, she was sitting at sleeping Grandpa’s bedside, holding his hand, heavy tears causing mascara to streak down into her lipstick.

I’ve never, ever seen Mrs Basil E. cry. She looked so small. I felt a sharp gnawing in my stomach and a choking of my heart. I am a glass-half-full kind of gal – I try to always look on the bright side of things – but I couldn’t deny the sharp crest of sadness invading my body and soul at the sight of her grief and worry. Suddenly Grandpa’s mortality was too real, and how it would feel when he did eventually die felt too alive with possibility.

Mrs Basil E. placed Grandpa’s hand against her face and wept harder, and for a second, I feared Grandpa was dead. Then his hand came to life and gave her a gentle slap, and she laughed. I knew then everything would be okay, for now – but never the same.

That was my entry into sadness, stage one.

Stage two came the next day, and it was so much worse.

How can such a simple kindness change everything?

Dash came to visit me at the hospital. I had bought food at the cafeteria, but wasn’t really eating it – I was too distracted by the situation and didn’t have an appetite for stale cheese sandwiches or kale chips, what the hospital offered in lieu of potato chips in a mean attempt at being health conscious. Dash must have heard the fatigue – and hunger – in my voice over the phone, because he arrived carrying a pizza from my favorite place, John’s. (The John’s location in the Village, not the one in midtown. Come on !) A John’s pizza is my ultimate comfort food, and even if the pie had gone cold during its trek from the restaurant to the hospital, my heart could not have been warmer at the sight of it – and of Dash carrying it to me.

Impulsively, I blurted out, “I love you so much.” I wrapped my arms around his back and buried my head in his neck, covering it in kisses. He laughed, and said, “If I’d known a pizza would get this response, I’d have brought it a lot earlier.”

He didn’t say I love you back.

I hadn’t realized I felt it until I said it. I hadn’t been talking just about him bringing me the pizza.

When I told Dash I love you so much, I meant: I love you for your kindness and your snarliness. I love you for grossly over-tipping waitstaff when using your dad’s credit card to “pay it forward.” I love the way you look when reading a book – content and dreamy, off in another world. I love how you suggested I never read a Nicholas Sparks book, and when I did read one because I was curious, and then read some more, I love you for how confused and offended and downright angry you were. Not that I’d read them, but that I adored them. I love debating literary snobbery with you, and that you can at least recognize that even if you don’t like “pandering, insincere, faux romantic garbage,” that lots of other people – including your girlfriend – do. I love you for loving my great-aunt almost as much as I do. I love how much brighter and sweeter and more interesting my life has been since you’ve been a part of it. I love you for answering the call of a red notebook once upon a time.