We had a wood toilet growing up. I’d sit on it in our jungle themed bathroom for too long because it made me feel like royalty, the heir to a one of a kind throne. I’d lock my first dog Charlie in with me until I felt he had learned the lesson I was teaching for the day: one plus one equals two, Charlie. Hold your paws up and let me see what you’ve learned from school today. That’s right, one plus one equals two.
Charlie passed and the grief shook me. I spent the spring crying before my parents promised we’d have a new addition to the family. In the wake of his death was the 2008 Flood, something that ravaged Cedar Rapids and destroyed the downtown area. It was so bad, Obama addressed the destruction on national TV.
It’s never good when Iowa is on the news.
I was quiet about my town but not quiet about my dog. I volunteered and passed out clothes to the people affected by the flood but did not consider it anything else than a job: show up, help out, get picked up at 3:00 PM, take a quick drive over the bridge back home, scan the area downtown. At that point, the Iowa River reached all the way from the west side cemetery to the peak of the Taco Bell on 1st avenue. I was most sad about Theater Cedar Rapids being flooded despite having never been cast in anything. I would never, and will never, be cast in a play at TCR, but I lost a place for people I thought could be my group of people if I tried hard enough.
I was kicked out of choir my freshman year.
We picked up our new dog Tucker as the town fell apart, hoping to rebuild something lost in a home that no longer felt like home. He buried himself in his bowl as water splashed around him, the smallest of the litter. We took him home and he whined the whole way back, a thunderstorm that night didn’t help the situation, either. Dad insisted we take him back, this was a bad idea, and I wrote poetry on an old laptop about how everybody needed to shut up because we were not taking him back. He was mine. Once I settled on a name, he was mine.
The background on my pink Razr quickly changed from Charlie to Tanner <3 then Gus <3 then finally Tucker <3. I discarded the week I spent crying to friends over one dog and invited them to meet another. The pain was replenished and replaced, one home fell apart while another was rebuilt slowly, going through potty training and leash training as a ball of fur grew into a beast. My parents spent days sandbagging downtown in preparation for another flood. Legislation was passed for higher walls to protect against the next flood. Tucker passed from swimming in water bowls to running around after baths.
We grew and with us, so did time.
I didn’t expect anyone to take my first dog’s place. Now, if you ask, I couldn’t tell you what color his collar was, but at the time, no one could fill the shape I wrapped myself around on the floor, ears I pulled as a third grader with too much to learn. He nipped at me once and I had a scar on my face for two weeks. I picked at it, which didn’t help the healing, but the scar went away on its own. The cells grow back together fast and eventually, your skin regenerates cells after seven years, a completely new person. I learned that in college, when I’d come back to visit Tucker on weekends.
I learned scars the hard way and love the soft way.
Tucker was a force of nature. He wasn’t something he was someone to me, a best friend who held me in hard times. I grew up very alone, often isolating myself from others for fear of being unloved. When I came home in the evenings, my parents weren’t there. I learned how to cook scrambled eggs on my own and over time dropped a few pieces or two on the ground for the dog to eat. I watched Avatar for the first time and was underwhelmed but let it play anyways because Tucker fell asleep on my arm. I moved to Chicago and heard stories my dad told me of my dog whining in my bed when I left, feeling the sadness I felt from miles away, a connection unstoppable over time and space.
I came home in August in the middle of a pandemic. The end hung everywhere for everyone and in that pocket, was another pocket. The world fought a disease, my dog fought a disease, my entire hometown fought a disease bigger than man, another tragedy enforced by mother nature. Unheard of in history, Cedar Rapids faced a hurricane in July 2020, a “derecho” in Midwest terms. More than half the trees in the state were ripped out of their roots and branches lined the streets for garbage men to pick up, a tragedy untouched by the news. Iowa was too small for the perils the world was facing. We suffered silently and broadcasted “Iowa Strong” online when we could.
From Chicago, I watched videos of my neighborhood being torn apart and booked a trip home as soon as possible. I had a Get Around car that only played Christian music in God’s land and NPR occasionally if I turned the knob correctly. On the turnoff from Iowa City, the air stunk of death, the crops were brown, not golden and the trees bent sideways trying to escape where they grew up. I drove down my neighborhood and got out in the cul-de-sac, screaming and crying at what had become of Green Valley.
“We’re thinking of renaming it to sunset valley,” my mom said, sadly. “The trees are what made it Green Valley.”
My dog laid near the door when I came in more out of necessity than anything. He made it longer than Charlie (10) and was coming up on his fourteenth birthday. A lump had formed on his chest in the past two years and he was bumpy to pet, something I ridiculed myself for cringing at when I touched him. He was white in his face and slept too long. He had trouble breathing but still ran after me when I baited him. We like to think he held on out of pure love for us. I still like to think he did.
Tucker passed the same way everything does, with time. A wound was opened and we healed publicly, a scratch was dug at and we dealt behind closed doors. For a month, I held off crying to people over my dog’s death, a humorous parallel considering I was a mess over Charlie at age 13. I could do so little for my hometown when it was ruined this time around except cry at drone shots of my yard in shambles, so little for my dog except listen about how he suffered until he didn’t. How we did the best for him and the best for him was to be with us.
I come home for Christmas a stranger in a strange land, an empty person to an empty house that is too quiet at night. I instinctively call out for someone that isn’t there anymore, look to a backyard where a tree is bent the same way the Grinch’s is in A Grinch Stole Christmas. At some point, we move on. The world keeps spinning and we start spinning, too. It’s unreasonable to ask for it to stop.
I just wish it would slow down for a while.
An Ode to the Wood Toilet
I miss the wood toilet. How you’d wait expectantly for me to lift the lid, a trophy worthy prize laying behind a porcelain plated bowl.
I miss the loud thud, an indication you were ready for me to come home. Bring a tennis ball or two, it doesn’t matter. I lost count of how many you carry, too many is too few for you.
I can’t believe you’ve been reduced to a box, another blotch on a blurred nightstand.
The mythical creatures of the woods close in now.
They’re calling you home.