Yesterday was Saint Patrick’s Day, a Sunday this year. We’ve been spending every last free moment of every single day getting ready to move. My military orders came over a week ago. We knew they were coming. It was no surprise and at the same time, it still is a heavy feeling. Packing, prepping, talking to our realtor, staging our home–it’s overwhelming. Our kids have the same mixed feelings about it that we do. It’s exciting and sad all at the same time. We’ve lived in this home 6 years and in this area for 9. This is not the typical military kid experience, but it’s been my kids’ experiences and now it’s about to end. Their hopes of staying in one place with long-term friends must come to an end this summer. In our lives, as in every military family’s life, the only thing certain is change.

I spent the day before St. Patrick’s day taking down our pictures and wall decorations. That’s hard, too, as this is our oldest daughter’s senior year. Her beautiful senior pictures have to be packed up so someone else can envision themselves in our home now. That fills my heart with sadness. Then when packing up one particular framed picture, tears started to flow. It was the picture my Dad gave me when we all met for the first time as adults. The picture’s of a special place in Philadelphia where Dad would take me and my brother when it was ‘his’ weekend and he’d actually come for us. That place is ‘back the creek’ as we liked to call it. A part of the large Fairmount Park system in Philly. It was touching when Dad gave a picture each to me and to my brother so long ago and yet not so long ago as both my brother and me were in our 30s when we finally reconnected. The picture had special meaning then–Dad remembered the good times we’d had ‘back the creek’ when my brother and I were just little kids. The picture had more than special meaning now–my Dad died 3 months ago. There’s a big hole in my heart and in my laughter from how we’d talk about absolutely nothing, but mostly dog stuff together. Our mutual love of dogs was how we connected throughout our lives. So I bubble wrapped the special picture knowing that it would come out again in our new home whenever and wherever that may be. Even so, it felt like goodbye.

Packing also had given me the unfortunate duty of dealing with our dead pets’ ashes. After more than 25 years of marriage, always with a dog, we’ve accumulated quite a graveyard of ashes. On top of my most beloved dog’s ashes sat a tiny box filled with my Dad’s ashes. I held the box and wondered if I should pack Dad with the dogs (he wouldn’t mind at all) or hold him out separately. It seemed right to hold him separately just in case my plan to have jewelry made or some other memento of him happened before we settled in and unpacked on the other end of this journey. So I left Dad in his tiny box on top of an end table to come back and address later.

The next morning my husband and I were talking about different options for our new neighborhood, our new home, new schools, new commutes. These conversations stress me out terribly and when stressed I resort to an activity that calms me down–cleaning. Our 8 month old goldendoodle , Phoebe, gives me daily reasons to clean. She’s constantly pulling things from the house, through the dog door, down the outside stairs and into the grass in our yard to chew and shred and basically just destroy. Our yard looks like a homeless shelter. There are blankets, food items, boxes, shoes, plastic bags, and an assortment of chewed sticks and dog toys strewn about thanks to Phoebe. Don’t ask me how she does all this unnoticed when there are 5 people living here. She has Ninja skills. There is no other explanation. Except maybe Netflix and its ability to stop my kids from noticing all other life around them.

Stressed out by the conversation on moving, I grabbed a trash bag, put on my muck boots and gloves and headed to Phoebe’s wasteland. There was the cute paw print blanket my mother-in-law gave us years ago, still in one piece but strewn through the grass. There were Nylabone chews, stuffed animal dog toys, rope toys, sour gummi worm candy wrappers, fluffing from the inside of various toys, and oh wait, what’s this–a small white box. A small white box that’s chewed all up and looks an awful lot like the box I just held yesterday with my Dad in it??? And over to the right, what’s that small chewed up plastic bag with gray powder in it? And what’s that gray powder strewn about in the grass? Are you kidding me? Is this my Dad? The dog ate my Dad? My Dad is lying about, some of him in the plastic bag and some sprinkled in the yard? Is this even possible? Phoebe bounced around me as if the say, hell yeah! I did that and it was awesome! I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I was angry beyond words at this happy bouncy puppy. This happy, bouncy puppy who ATE MY DAD!!! I was mad at myself for not putting Dad somewhere safe yesterday. But hand’t he been on the opposite side of the dog gate? Somewhere Phoebe can’t get to? Oh right, my oldest daughter had left Phoebe out this morning AND made the serious mistake of leaving the gate open, too. And while our home was quiet with sleep, Phoebe got to work.

As I looked again at Phoebe with my emotions somewhere between rage and love and grief, I looked towards the sky, looking for answers and for forgiveness. I knew then the only thing to do was laugh. My Dad would have thought this event hilarious. He’d have laughed his ass off if I were to tell him about the unlikely series of events that led to cremains being carefully taken from an end table, run outside in the mouth of a mischievous puppy, chewed, and strewn about by a dog that looks like a large blonde mop. I looked up at the bright blue sunny sky and laughed out loud though there were, for certain, tears of sadness in my eyes, too. It was St. Patrick’s Day. Dad’s last name was McMahon. I started as McMahon. Pretty much about as Irish as names can be. It felt like Dad was laughing with me, knowing that I’ve been crazy stressed out and needed something funny in my life on a day when so many other people were drinking and celebrating and enjoying being alive. Dad and I always connected over dogs and here we were again, 3 months after his death, still connecting over dogs. I picked up the little package of him, put the box back together as best I could though it was misshapen by tooth marks and wondered what to do about the sprinklings in the grass. There was no way to get them all. It was decided then, some of Dad would stay in the grass, out here in the sunshine on a beautiful St. Patrick’s Day, forever a part of this home I’ve loved. Forever a part of this home that Dad and the rest of our family had enjoyed together. Thank you for the gift of the love of dogs, Dad, and thank you especially for the gift of knowing when to laugh and know that any day above ground is a good day.

The Guilty Dog