The Rug Doctor

You can rent one at the grocery store for twenty dollars.

A bargain if your dog, like mine, is frightened of thunderstorms,
and you happen to leave Austin during the single two-week period in which
it rains ten days out of fourteen, never mind that the rest of the year
is dry as toast, and it just so happens that your otherwise beautifully
house-trained dog's favorite mode of expressing his fear is to pee,
emphatically, on your bedroom's most absorbent surfaces,
read: duvet cover, plush pillow, and at least nine different spots on the carpet.

The pillow and duvet you can toss in the wash, but the carpet is a different issue.

Your roommate, bless her heart, will have sprayed some of that
pet stain-remover on the carpet the morning before your return,
but this job is bigger than a spray.
This was two weeks of what appears to be your dog's entire body weight
in fear-induced urination, and it will require a whole bottle of white vinegar,
a family-sized box of baking soda, the lavender water you got from your
hippie neighbor, and yes, the Rug Doctor.

At first you will be irritated: irritated that your obviously neglectful roommate
was not home every minute of the day to comfort your poor, terrified pooch.
Irritated with the aforementioned terrified pooch for not having a more
constructive coping mechanism for what most people would consider
arguably harmless weather. Irritated with the weight of the
Rug Doctor itself, as you lug the machine by its red plastic handle
across the parking lot of the H-E-B, into your house, and clunkingly
up the stairs to your bedroom, where every moveable object
has been stacked into precarious towers atop the bed or dresser.

You will cuss after misreading the fully-illustrated instructions that come
with the Rug Doctor, because you will have, with almost comic inevitability,
managed to fill the wrong tank with hot, soapy water.
When the man at H-E-B had laughed and said that the Rug Doctor
was idiot-proof, he evidently was not thinking very creatively.

But once you turn the machine on, and slowly pull it backwards
across the carpet, you will find a sort of meditative rhythm:
the rock-step-pull, the rising smell of soap, and the realization
that you have been wanting for a long time to feel really clean.
As you pour out the tank of dirty water into the tub,
you will take pleasure in having removed that dirt
from your bedroom sanctuary. You will wish that all stains
were so easily rendered innocuous.

It will storm again, the night after you clean the carpet,
but this time you will be home. You will hold your dog,
press his shaking body to your chest, and remind him
that he is safe. But even if he forgets, gets scared,
and pees on whatever is handy, it's okay.

You can call for the Rug Doctor in the morning.

Rapture

Yesterday I was doing some earnest procrastinating on the interwebs.
It started with looking for a synonym for the word torture--
don't ask me why--but that led to one link, which led
to another, which led to a website called
After the Rapture: Pet Care.
It's a site where a network of Christians has organized
a network of non-Christians who have volunteered
to care for the pets of the recently-raptured.
So, for a small fee, you can have peace of mind knowing
when all of a sudden the believers disappear,
somebody at this organization will basically start the
Atheist phone tree.

Hello, Patty? Denise here. Yes, it's happened. 
Can you pick up Coco and Peanut on Thursday? 
Great, I'll just give a ring to my buddies
At the Ladies Tuesday Book Club and Agnostic Society. 

It makes sense, if you think about it.
I mean, if you believe in the rapture, and you're not a total jackass
You would want your dog to be in good hands
After you quite literally go with God.
And it seems that the Bible, while saturate with
lurid imagery of teeth-gnashing and just punishments for the wicked,
is a little sparse when it comes to how to plan for poor Mittens,
trapped in your 5th floor apartment, with
all of her hunting instincts bred out of her
and no opposable thumbs to work the can opener.

I had heard before, from Pentecostal friends, that
the sinks would run with blood and the rivers would boil.
I had heard that once the rapture happened
the unbelievers would lay awake,
unable to sleep because the skies would be thick
with the wailing of those left behind for the time of Tribulation.
There would be massive confusion, pestilence,
and violence from our own hands.
Any day now, they said,
the rapture would happen. Be ready.

But here's the thing:
I already can't sleep. Long after the clock
has trudged back into single digits
I lay awake staring at the popcorn ceiling,
looking for constellations, stars to wish on.

And there is wailing, too. When I turn on the news
there is some turgid politician or overpainted news anchor,
giving me more reasons to howl, to keen, to tear out my hair.
Every day in Damascus, Kabul, St. Petersburg,
Detroit,  New Orleans, Austin,
someone's sink does run with blood.
There is enough wailing and gnashing of teeth,
to send chills up any listening spine.

The very idea that the worst isn't already happening seems silly.
I think the Tribulation is here, and we have made it ourselves
with no help from the Anti-Christ.

It's not that I don't have hope.
But if it gets any worse, and you disappear
I just want you to know,
I will take care of your dog in the aftermath.
I could use the extra warmth.

Whale Bones

Did you know that whales have hip bones?
They do.

The hip bones of whales are vestigial structures: evolutionary
leftovers. Some creature wiggled out of the ocean
and became an amphibian, and became a reptile,
and became a bird, and became a mammal,
and looked around at the land where it walked
and breathed and gave live birth
and decided it would rather be rocked by waves
So it slid back into the sea

The hip bones are still there.
Remnants from a time when
legs were required for jumping, dancing
They don't serve a purpose now,
but I guess they don't do any harm either.
Nature is replete with vestigial structures--we humans are no exception
Our tonsils, tailbone, appendix and wisdom teeth
are all vestigial.
They're our parts we don't use anymore
Leftovers from a time when the world was different
Or we were different in the world.

And I wonder, how long does it take
for a structure to become vestigial?
Is it possible that it happen the moment we evolve past its use?
If I have not been in love for five years
does my heart become vestigial?

I have adapted.
I have a sweet dog for snuggles
and dear friends and caring family.
I have purpose in my work.
And if it has been half a decade
since I have been wanted by a partner,
maybe that ache is just appendicitis
A flareup from a part of me that hasn't been useful in a long time.
Some days I would rather be rocked by waves.

I would trade in my own hip bones for a tail,
Let the ache fade into a fossilized memory
for scientists to puzzle over.
And if, in the meantime, someone
comes questing for me, searching out my heart,
all she will hear is a baleen sigh.

I have gone back to the sea.
I am swimming away.

A Love Song to Carmen Sandiego [Expanded]

I fell in love with a woman who was addicted to leaving.
We met at a museum.
I was staring at a piece of modern art, feeling stupid,
my head tilted quizzically like I was a dog that had just been given an unfamiliar command.
Ghost-quiet, she appeared beside me and said, "You couldn't pay me to steal that shit."

I said, "People pay you to steal things?"
She grinned.

Maybe it should have been a red flag when I asked where she was from, and she said, "I'm from everywhere." Maybe it should have been a red flag when she took note of all the emergency exits.
Maybe so many things should have been red flags, but maybe I'm the kind of person
who sees red flags and thinks, "Oh look! A parade!"

She was very interested in my stories about the stage makeup classes I took in college.
"Wouldn't it be fun," she said, "to take a train out of the country
and pretend to be somebody else?"
So we adopted fake Scottish accents and declared ourselves to be
Mary Maceachran and Sorcha Lilliputz.  Her wanderlust
fueled us from Reykjavik to Buenos Aires, from capitol city
to capitol city, a delirium of hotel rooms I could never have afforded.

I woke up one morning to a note that said,
"If I could see your smile, I would never need to steal the Mona Lisa."
The echo of her laughter resounded in the empty hotel room
like the bells of Les Saintes Maries de la Mer.

Carmen,
Where you going next?
I've got my suitcase packed and I'm ready to leave with you.
And there's nowhere in the world I wouldn't go,
So don't leave me here so lonely in Cairo.

I would meet you in Minsk and kiss you in Kiev
And hold your hand on the banks of the Thames
I would fly from the Mojave all the way to Skopje
And never look back

You have ten different passports, I know
Hidden in the pockets of that beautiful red trench coat
But since you're on the lam, let me run awhile with you
Carmen, where you going next?
'Cause I've got pesos by the purseful
And this handy Finnish phrasebook
And two pairs of dark sunglasses
And a box of fake mustaches
And no one will know our faces.
I just need to know, where are you?
Where in the world are you?