Opposite Day

When my twin sister and I were very young, we named March 5 Opposite Day.  Begun to commemorate the loss of a family friend, who had passed on March 5, we declared that all things that happen on March 5 should be the opposite.  As young girls, this was our way of dealing with loss.  As we got older, we would occasionally commemorate the holiday by convincing mom and dad to let us have ice cream for breakfast, and one year I recall us walking to school backwards.  We continued to mature and the concept of Opposite Day faded into a mere childhood memory.  

I woke up today without a thought to the date.  But the morning was soon not any other morning when I got the heart-wrenching and sudden news that my childhood black lab Caffie was experiencing a dramatic change in strength and personality, and my parents made the tough call to put her down peacefully. 

I panicked.  I called my mom and overwhelmed her with questions, because the last time I was home with Caffie she was just fine (besides her frequent and eventually expected "surprises" she would leave for us in the house ... ha).  I begged her to wait a few days. I wanted to drive the 7 hours up north and say goodbye.  But they could not wait.  She did not want her to suffer any more, and I hesitantly accepted the fact.

The vet appointment was at 11am.  In desperation, I looked down at my watch to see how much time Caffie had--and how much time I had before I had to say "I had a dog"--and my stomach dropped when I saw the date, shared conveniently in the box that replaced the 6.

5.  March 5.  Opposite Day. I was shaken by the eerie coincidence.  I called my sister to tell her the news and, after some time of tears and mourning, I asked her, "do you realize what today is?"
Long seconds passed.  "Opposite Day."

I could sense her stomach tightening at the realization, and a somber silence filled between us as we marveled at the irony in strange reflection.  A holiday we created to deal with death when we didn't understand it came back to us in this event of significant loss--one of the biggest for our family.  For a moment I reverted back to the days when we just made up our own naive ways of accepting the realities of life.  And in that moment, everything made a little bit more sense.  Maybe we weren't so foolish after all.

___

She's the sweetest dog in the world, many friends and visitors would tell us.  I have no doubts that she was.  She really was the best dog a family could ask for, and she certainly was a big part of mine.  A short commemoration, here are my favorite memories of the hairiest, happiest, hungriest member of the Waldman family:

I remember the day my parents told us that, after months of my begging, they agreed to get a family dog.  My sisters and I jumped for joy, our dreams of a cuddly puppy coming true.  I also remember the day we went to visit her at the breeder's.  She was 8 months old, timid, and a little scared, but she warmed up to us in just a few minutes.  And her tail didn't stop wagging for 14 years after that.

It was the last day of second grade when she came to us (already a very happy day--I had just opened my 3rd grade information packet to find out that I was assigned to Mrs. Atkinson, the best teacher in school, for next year).  As my sister and I started on our route home, I looked up and saw my mom waiting for us next to the school's sandbox.  She was holding a leash attached to a jet-black, floppy-eared pup sniffing out her scenery.  We squealed and ran up to our new dog and she immediately received us with millions of chin-kisses.  Sis and I fought over the red leash as we bounded up the hill, and we played with her for hours. 

'Caffie' was her name at the breeder's, and it stuck. It was short for Caffeine, we were told, since she was a hyper little puppy in her first few months.  However, after a run-in with a bigger dog, her leg was broken and she had since taken a much more laid-back personality (hence 'Decaf', a nickname we often teased her with).  Due to her laziness, fetch was a common failure in dog games with Caffie.  She would fetch a tennis ball or frisbee once or twice.  Then, on the third try, she would watch us throw the object, watch it land, look back at us, and plop down on the grass.  No more fetch for her.

Her calmness was a good match for our loud, crazy family.  Caffie soon adjusted to the constant motion of the house and, after a few minutes of interrupting our dance routines in the family room with demands for tummy rubs or walking right on top of our board games, she would settle herself in the corner and watch the action.

She learned quickly that I was the one who had offered myself to feed her dinner every day, and, to no avail, always found me at 4:30pm with eager kisses and that tail wagging, saying, "it's time!"

Appropriate for our geographical location, she also loved the wintertime.  When we would let her out into the back yard covered in 2 feet of snow, she would bound through the yard like an antelope, leaping over the tall snow.  She would stick her head down into the snow and zig-zag around the yard, then lifting head to sport a decently-sized pile of snow sitting on her snout.  Watching her play was really one of the only things I loved about winter.

As she got older, friends and visitors giggled at her "eyebrows", "beard", and "socks"--her greying gave her amusing humanistic facial hair and patterns.

Of course, all dogs are dog-dogs--she loved to play with her dog friends--but I think of all things, Caffie was a people-dog.  She just loved to be around her family.  Her tail constantly wagged and, though her sharp bark could fool a trespasser, as soon as someone got close enough for her to sniff, you knew she was a big softie.  Everyone was greeted with licks on the hand or wherever else she could access--she got me on the back molar once.  Impressive, right?  'Atta girl, Caff.  Thanks for the love.