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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Mom spam
The cyber-scourge of families everywhere.
By Phaedra Hise
[12/20/99]

Foreskin and several years from now
My husband has dedicated himself to the proposition that he can form a more perfect penis.
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[12/17/99]

O Tin-nenbaum
This year, we welded our holiday totem; maybe next year we'll get it chromed.
By Gayle Brandeis
[12/16/99]

Die Santa! Die!
As I see it, lying about Santa is like covering for a friend who's having an affair with a jerk.
By Elizabeth Bobrick
[12/16/99]

A swine in Harvard Yard
David Mamet's children's book puts Ivy League angst in the heads of babes.
By Alexandra Jacobs
[12/15/99]

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By the time the vet called with the test results, I had convinced myself that Jane was going to pull through. "Jane went through the anesthesia and the MRI just fine," she assured me. My shoulders collapsed with relief. "But I'm afraid the MRI results aren't good."

I shut my eyes and started seeing glaring red swirls. The test showed that a cancerous tumor had worked its way into Jane's spine and had spread to her rib cage. Communicating in a code of choked sobs and mms, I agreed that to attempt treatment would only cause Jane more suffering, and that Chris and I would come that afternoon to be with her when she was put to sleep.

The boys were devastated by the news, Tommy especially. We all cried and tried valiantly to remind each other of the happiness Jane had brought us. We knew she was now in a better place, out of misery. I told the kids -- and myself -- that it was OK to be really, really sad, and that in time the pain would diminish.

Within a week, we began receiving bulletins via the Jane-o-phone from Dog Heaven. Jane told us that she slept on clouds, ate chocolate cake every day and was getting acquainted with all the dogs I'd grown up with who had passed on long before. I found these communications oddly comforting. They not only reflected how well Tommy was coping with his grief; they also made me feel as if Jane weren't really dead.

We soon adopted a dog from the animal shelter, a black-and-white spaniel mix named Henry. He is an unmade bed of a dog, as floppy and disorganized as Jane was tidy and fastidious. Despite Henry's lively presence, in the months following Jane's death I still cried whenever I thought of her. I couldn't believe I'd never again stroke her velvety brown ears or smell the buttered-toast aroma of her tiny terrier feet.

When I found the Christmas package addressed to Jane Russell, I went into a tailspin. I was still not ready to face the fact of her death. Chris scrawled "RETURN TO SENDER" on the box, and I took it to Mail Boxes Etc. to arrange for its return to the mail-order company.

Waiting in line with the other people transacting their post-holiday business, I wondered how best to explain my predicament to the clerk. When my turn came I just started talking.

"You see, this woman who used to own our dog sent her a Christmas present."

"That's so nice," said the earnest-faced young man.

"Actually, it isn't nice at all," I snapped. "She was a horrible woman who neglected the dog all her life."

By this time, other people in the store were curious to hear more. "Well, she must have really wanted to get the present here before Christmas, because she sent it special overnight," said the clerk. "That must have set her back about 25 bucks."

"So, why don't you just give the dog the present?" asked the woman behind me. I started laughing. "Because she's dead!" I exclaimed. A chorus of mms and oohs rose around me. Suddenly it hit me: Jane is gone and I can laugh about it.

"Wow, I've never heard of anything like that before," said the clerk.

"Maybe you should tell the lady the dog keeled over at the mention of her name," suggested a young woman at the next counter.

When I learned how much it would cost to return the package -- surely more than the value of the contents -- I decided to keep it after all. I apologized for wasting the clerk's time and he just smiled and said, "Hey, no problem."

I told the boys about the package when I picked them up at school that afternoon. We decided that Lulu would want Henry to have the gift. She certainly would have no use for it, and she'd sent it for a dog to enjoy.

The kids tore open the box as soon as we got home, revealing a basket of gaudy Christmas dog biscuits -- green rosettes with red sparkles, striped candy canes, gingerbread pups. Jane would have turned up her delicate black nose at these vulgarities, but Henry -- no food snob, he -- gobbled them up as rewards for his sporadic outbreaks of good behavior.

Another Christmas is just days away, and I still haven't told Lulu that Jane is no longer with us. If our friends back in Virginia haven't told her yet, maybe I'll just let it go.

Henry, for one, doesn't think there's any hurry.
salon.com | Dec. 21, 1999

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