People: Let Me Tell You 'Bout My Best Friend.

The moment I first met you, you looked me square in the eye and promptly shat on the floor.  It would have been rude of me to not notice that your efforts looked precisely like The Blob.  Honestly, Steve McQueen would have led dozens of teenagers shrieking in the opposite direction if they'd watched it spread and creep towards the wall as I did.  While the overwhelming stench of your accomplishment brought tears to my eyes, no one else in the room even seemed to notice.  Everyone’s tails just kept wagging, including mine I suppose.

Your fetid fecal triumph didn’t even register a look of relief across your adorable puppy face.  Your four tiny paws tracked through your own butt sick in a scramble to vault over the half door to greet me on the other side.  The other dogs in your litter were awarded shimmering brown clumps in their fur as you utilized them as a step stool, trying to reach far enough to kiss me on the lips.  That was when I knew you were mine: any dog that was willing to slap his sister across the face with his own shit was the kind of dog for me.

As soon as I could find a shelter volunteer in the maze of barking also-rans, I called her over to introduce me to you, my intended.  Leaning her mop against an indentation in the cinderblock wall, she wiped at her face with the back of her hand, which implied contamination.  After Jan Brady-ing her way to you holding pen, her ponytail a-sway, she asked which dog I was looking at.  “Crème Brulee,” I muttered.  Even she looked embarrassed that they’d named you that.  Obviously that would have to change immediately; I couldn’t have a dog that was named after dessert on a cruise ship.

She picked you up by your armpits to lift you over the gate; you looked like Aladdin on his magic carpet until your paws met the floor and a leash was looped around your neck.  We were dragged in tandem to an approved mulch pit surrounded by a high fence wall.   The volunteer palmed me a few puppy treats that smelled like the flame-broiled leftovers in a hotdog factory to assure that you would maintain some shred of interest in me before she quietly took her leave to allow us to get better acquainted.

Not knowing exactly what to say, I reached out a hand for you to sniff and took a seat on the overly warm cement stairs.  I could tell you were scared, your ears were pulled back to your skull and your little beagle tail was tucked between your little white sock feet.  You took two steps away as I tried to contort my frame to make myself appear smaller.

I offered you a treat to bribe you closer, which, tentatively, you came, leading with your cold nose snorting against my knuckles and your tongue probing at my clenched fist.

 “Sit,” I commanded.

You titled your head to the side before moving in still closer, your nose brushing against my cheek.

“Sit,” I laughed emphatically.

I don’t know if you remember this, but that’s when you pushed your way under my knee.  You used your head as a battering ram and pressed between my legs before planting your furry ass down on my foot. That’s the first time you ever let me pet you.  I gave you the treat and you swallowed it without chewing. 

In stillness, I inquired, “How do you like the name Zeke.” In fairness, I’d had that name picked out several months before you were even born.  By now, it had basically replaced the world “dog” in my vocabulary.  I, instead, was trying to find a pet “Zeke”.

I could tell that we might be moving a little too fast when the sound of my voice caused you to tilt your head all the way back until our eyes met. You looked at me as though you didn’t know this was an audition; your agent never sent you the sides and you maintained a proud air about you that read very “offer only”.

“Look, puppy- I have a big bed that has plenty of room for you and my neighborhood has a lot of acorn trees which means that there are a lot of squirrels.”  I quickly remembered that you were a baby and probably had no idea what a squirrel was having never seen one before. “I’m in tight with that community.  I can’t wait to introduce you.”

He sniffed at the air as the wind changed course and we sat together in silence for what felt like a season.

Eventually, the door opened a crack and the resident Jan Brady of the volunteer brigade stood, chompers gleaming.  “So?  How did you two get along?”

“Well, he’s a man of few words, but I think he’s going to be my best friend.”

She smiled so hard her eyes looked like she had spent her time away from us staring directly into the sun.  I wanted to walk out the door with you like a new pair of shoes, but I knew that I would need a day to get ready.  They were having an adoption the next day, which is why they had to separate you from all your brothers and sisters (I’m really super sorry about that, by the way) so no one else would try to stake claim.  When she took you from my arms, I could tell that we had both aimed to evoke Sophie’s Choice until your paw got caught in the crook of my elbow, which left us looking more like a parapalegic juggling a marinated turkey.

She carried you out of site and I went immediately to Target to buy you the finest of beddings, toys and shampoos.  I couldn’t sleep that night and stayed up reading the entirety of the canine equivalent of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”  I buried the wires around the apartment and set up your new crate.  I was ready for you, as I hoped you’d be ready for me.

When I arrived the next day, your eyes were a bit red as if you hadn’t slept either.  I led you out to the car and grabbed you by the scruff and placed you on a blanket in the passenger seat as my co-pilot.  You seemed blissfully unaware that this would be your responsibility from now on.  We made it about 4 blocks before the undulation of the car caused a rhythmic sound to emanate from your intestines.  By block 5, the entire car interior was covered with your lunch and you had permanently developed a fear of all automobiles.

I carried your back to the apartment, your mouth dripping with vomit residue and my shirt soaked in bits of kibbles and kibbles of bits.  Your warm puppy fur pressed against me so tight that I didn’t notice the smell.  You were shaking.  From that moment on, you robbed me of my ability to ever be completely mad at you.  In your moment of digestional compromise, I accepted my responsibility to love you unconditionally.

In the months that have followed, we’ve both grown considerably. Your teeth fell out and I kept them in a small wooden box so I could remember what you’d used to destroy my area rug. You learned not to pee in the house (often) and I’ve learned not to take it personally when you do.  I have developed a complete inability to watch more than 30 seconds of Animal Cops and I can now see both sides to the arguments in any given episode of Animal Hoarders.  Every song I've ever known has been rewritten as an ode to you.  But, most importantly, we have nursed each other back to health with little more than affection and sincere consideration for the creatures that nature intends us each to be.

Last night when I went to bed, I thought it might not be such a tragedy to sleep through the next few decades.  But, this morning when I woke up, you were tucked under my arm like a pocketbook.  You kissed my face and yawned a cloud of puppy breath deep into my nostrils that made my eyes water.  It was time to rise; to walk forward together, and to explore.

Personal Error 404

I am to be remembered as nothing more than wallpaper on your desktop. 

Initially, you were quite pleased with your selection.  My aesthetic was complimentary, perhaps; I seemed bold and iconic.  Nevertheless, I was far more defined than the factory settings, which ultimately led to the marriage of copy and paste.  That cemented my achievement in your world as a proclamation of who you saw yourself to be. 

Several thousand glances later, and I remain.  The chaos of cluttered icons have begun to dot our landscape.   Our shared experience becomes routine; eventually, altogether ignored.   Instead of looking to me or at me, you’re merely looking through. 

Inevitably, you will look up from your keyboard and minimize the world of distractions that have long since covered my image.  You’re bound to discover that my pixilation has begun to show. While all the other pictures in your life have changed, I have been hidden, but remained the same.  When the question of my existence arises, you will be unsure of whether you have comfort or complacency to blame.

It is undeniable that you will forget what you ever saw in the first place.  I won’t blame you.  It is impossible for one to observe the same image for every day in their life with the same regard to its brilliance and sheen. 

When you get around to it, the image will change.  It is our destiny that I will be neither observed nor ignored.  I will simply cease to be.  Until then, I remain; only one click away from a blank screen. 

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The first time I kissed you, I thought I’d never catch my breath.  I could taste the magic on your tongue and you graciously denied the taste of acid on mine. 

The last time I kissed you, you were already asleep.  I hoped that you might stir, but you let me walk out the room, gently mourning our collective loss.  

The Day The Laughter Divorced

March 2, 1960 marked the final day of filming for The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour, an occasionally produced version of I Love Lucy.  It would also mark the last time that the beloved couple would appear onscreen together. 

If you recall, the Ricardos had since relocated to suburban Connecticut where they'd spent the past three and a half seasons tending to chickens, plowing down their neighbor’s garden with a lawnmower, and haphazardly building a backyard barbeque.  This move kept Lucy and Ricky as an everyman ideal as their move worked to emulate the suburban migration of the late 1950’s.  And since there would be no hijinks without the Mertzes, Fred tucked his nipples under his belt and grabbed Ethel by the short curlies to drag her out for a reunion.

"You would have hit her too, Ricky.  You would have hit her too..."

In this specific episode, their series finale, Ricky is depressed because he has not been getting any TV offers, so the gang, along with the help of Special Guest Star Ernie Kovacs and his wife, the (then) popular (and now completely forgotten- and dead) singer, Edie Adams, try to cheer him up.  Ethel takes to the piano (one of the greatest suspensions of disbelief I have ever encountered- apparently, she couldn’t make chocolates on an assembly line if she’d had a gun to her head, but sit her down at the piano and she can tickle ivories like Liberace).  Edie Adams clings gingerly to the balustrade and delivers a song that she selected with no emotional delicacy whatsoever- “That’s All”, a tune popularized by Frank Sinatra.  The lyrics are as follows:

I can only give you love that lasts forever

And a promise to be near each time you call

And the only heart I own

For you and you alone

That's all

That's all

During the serenade, Lucy was seated with her back to Ricky, which only made it easier for them to ignore each other’s tears. At that time, their marital discourse had led to so much bickering that even the critics began to take notice. On the set, they had stopped speaking altogether and had begun to communicate through an exhausting series of “Would you tell Ms. Ball…” and “Kindly let Mr. Arnaz know…” The live studio audience that once used to roar with delight when Lucy didn't freeze to death in a meat locker had to be replaced by a laugh track.  That decision was entirely appropriate; only a machine would find their disintegration amusing. 

The next day, divorce proceedings began.  It was truly the end of an era. 

Regretfully, Lucy didn’t let the dissolution of her 20-year marriage stand in the way of getting some severely sub-par entertainment on the air.  In 1962, Arnaz was unable to determine a way for Desilu Studios to regain the traction it once had, so he offered Lucy the opportunity to return to television. The Lucy Show was born, wherein she would be reunited with former co-star Vivian Vance who demanded more pay and equal billing.  (Vance also demanded a more flattering wardrobe and for her character’s name to be changed to “Vivian” so assholes would stop calling her “Ethel” on the street.) 

She didn't seem to mind that as much.

The premise of the show was simple; Ball and Vance were, in fact, not a lesbian couple living together in a bungalow.  Rather, they portrayed a widow and a divorcee respectively.  While The Lucy Show even secured the same time-slot as I Love Lucy's original run (Mondays at 8:30 on CBS), it was clear to viewers that something was amiss.  Quality of the scripts was in decline and, without Desi around, Lucy generally had a lot less ‘splainin to do.   

Several seasons later, she bought Desi out of his shares in the company and ultimately went on to lead the studio in the production of Mission Impossible and Star Trek.  Because of her newly acquired power, she began to constantly worry what potential harm that role might bring to her comedic image.  It is said that if she would grant an interview about her position as President of Desilu, she would spend her time with the reporter dusting the table between them to be sure her press would invoke her “just a regular gal that bakes 25 foot bread loaves” image.  The eventual sale of Desilu Studios to Gulf-Western put the merciful nail in the coffin for The Lucy Show, then in its sixth season (Vance had already walked several seasons prior). 

In 1968, Ball made yet another attempt at paying the bills with her beloved character in Here’s Lucy.  It’s opening credits featured a terrifying marionette that will likely haunt your dreams, as well as the names of her actual children who would now serve as her co-stars. 

See?  I wasn't kidding.  Seriously, would Raid kill that thing?

The scripts went from bad to worse and in its sixth (and final) season, the show ranked #29 in the ratings (and if everything old people tell me is true about TV in those days, that would be a 29 out of a possible 30). 

In 1986, the chain-smoking wax figure formerly known as Lucille Ball dusted off her pearls once again to shoot 13 episodes of Life With Lucy, of which only 8 episodes were aired.  

The redheaded ashtray standing in the back is what's left of Lucy.  Not pictured: the Grim Reaper.

This final attempt at reviving her beloved character was quite unsettling to audiences.  At this point, she was a not-so-spry 75 year-old, yet the audience’s expectations were that she would perform with the same gusto as she had when stomping grapes in I Love Lucy some 34 years prior.  This effort essentially proved that it’s much harder to take a pratfall when you have osteoporosis.  The year that marked the unceremonious death of her career was also the very same year that Desi was taken to play Babalu on the big bongo drums in the sky.  

The two, who had remained in-touch, spoke on what would have been their 46th wedding anniversary.  He was dead two days later.  

St. Peter Had Those Sleeves Waiting for Him. 

Edie Adams, the aforementioned songstress-with-seriously-bad-timing, recounted seeing Lucy appear a few years later at a charity event.  She stood at the podium and took her introduction. “My name is Lucille Ball,” she said, “and I used to be on television.”

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The real reason that I’m writing this is that, for the past week, I’ve have had one or fifteen thousand reasons to cry but had to keep consistently smiling throughout.  That frustrating emotion (known as life) kept leading me back to a picture I saw as a kid of Lucille Ball.  She was all done up as a Geisha for the filming of the penultimate episode of The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour titled “The Ricardos Go To Japan”.  But, in this photo, it was clear that she had been crying, and not that fake squinched-face cry that made her famous.  No, these were real, honest-to-God tears that had cracked her foundation makeup and left rolling streaks drawn down her face that looked like fault lines.  Her bright blue eyes were puffed out and swollen and her mouth soured in a frown that would have made Canio proud.

Because You Didn't Understand That Reference

What struck me about this particular image of Lucy was what my recollection of that very episode had always been- nothing more than your average romp with Lucy and Desi, as blissfully in love as they had always been.  I remember her cutting through a shoji screen to spy on some movie star of yesteryear whose career went the way of the dodo. It was, as always, hilarious.  

But upon returning to that episode in a recent youtube binge, it’s quite clear what unhappy goings-on were truly afoot.  In the first scene, we see Ricky, Ethel and Fred walking with suitcases, as was typical in those later years where the couples spent all of their time traveling (presumably to other soundstages within the same lot).  But here, when Ricky asks, “Where is Lucy?” Ethel makes an excuse for her by saying that “She went with her mother to buy Little Ricky an ice cream bar.”  Lucy makes an entrance and sits in the airport until Ethel and Fred approach her; again, Ricky appears to be elsewhere.  When Ricky and Lucy finally do play a scene together, the warmest components onscreen seem to be their throats, which had been fried from emotionally chain-smoking countless cigarettes.  They seem to barely make eye contact and, when physical interaction is called for, they turn away from each other altogether. 

I mean, I guess the moral of all of this is that I’m not the first person who has ever had to suck it up and play make-believe with my emotions.  Everyone does it to some degree every day, some to monumental proportion as Lucy did here.  Sometimes the clown gets sad, and that’s okay, as long as the clown knows when it’s okay to laugh again.  And, thankfully, it appears that when I learn to laugh again, the network just might offer me a spin-off.