Jombi N. Weber: November 5, 2001-May 5, 2017
Sunday afternoon, as Jim was getting ready to leave for work, he hugged me then pulled back, looked me over and asked gently: "When was the last time you showered?"
Proper and expected responses to such a rude inquiry regarding my hygiene include, but are not limited to, a junk punch and loud name-calling likely to be heard in three states.
You might be surprised, then, that I answered honestly and simply: "I don't know."
I've thought I've been doing a pretty good job of handling the job loss and not getting too discouraged by the lack of interest shown so far by any potential employers. I work at looking for work every day. I exercise. I (try to) cook. I clean. I bathe fairly regularly. Well, actually, I shower. I cannot stand the idea of sitting in a tub of detritus soup. After a "relaxing" soak, I get up and shower.
At any rate, I've been keeping myself occupied. One of the constant chores has been tending to and cleaning up after my 15+-year-old dog whose health had declined significantly over the last year and rapidly in the last 6 months. Bless her heart, Jombi just shat where she stood. Like, it just fell out of her and she may or may not have been aware of it. She'd step all in it, then wander the house. She was pretty lame and unsteady, stumbling around until she happened upon her bed, her "spot" we called it. She'd whine as she tried to settle into a comfortable position, then sleep for hours. We had to pay close attention, because when she finally got up we would need to carry her outside or down to the box so she could go to the bathroom. Or you'd be stepping in it.
Jombi. Jombalaya. Jombelushi. The sweet-faced little Jack Russell who came to live with us on Christmas Day in 2001.
Until then, my only pets had been cats. Jim was (allegedly) allergic to cats and fairly ambivalent about having a pet. But our daughter wanted a puppy so we picked the one with the best spot placement of the litter and Santa delivered her on Christmas morning. Never mind we lived in a rental with no fenced yard while we were house hunting. We'd teach her to POO IN A BOX! No kidding. We taught Jombi to use a litter box.
She was a strange little dog. Liked to chew up my underwear and humped stuffed animals. For some reason, somebody started calling her Nipples. Neeeppulszhhhh! Little Jombi Neeeppulszhhhh! Her crate was labeled Jombi N. Weber. Evidently she was cool with it, because she always responded. Hell, you probably could have called her Paper Plate and she would have come. Jombi wasn't brilliant, but she was sweet and good.
She wasn't a lick-y dog nor much of a barker. She bounced. She cuddled. She chased sticks. She moused. She learned the few commands we got around to teaching her: Outside. Treat. Kennel. Sit. Where's your toy? Floor food! Spot.
The best trick was the one where she'd snake a paw under a closed door to get the treat we put on the floor just on the other side. Paw shoots out and she snatches the treat back under the door. I guess it wasn't a trick; it was just entertaining.
Jombi was scrawny yet healthy, but as she aged seemed to become a bit neurotic. We have hardwood floors in our nearly 100-year-old bungalow and she'd trot trot trot - the nails I was afraid to trim after making them bleed click click clicking as she made the circuit around the house over and over and over. She'd get really ramped up when Jim went out of town. One day I started counting the trips around the house; I stopped counting after she trotted past me 70 times. She wore a path in the yard, too. I called it "patrolling the perimeter." What it really was, though, was my failure as a dog parent.
Pets we had growing up didn't go to the vet for checkups, didn't get expensive food, cool toys, plush beds, sweaters and coats. We did that for Jombi, and I thought we were doing good. She was our pet and was loved but she wasn't my "furbaby." I didn't dote on her. I had a real kid. But I wish I had done better by that lil' doggie.
I'd get so annoyed and snap about the poo. I quit cuddling because she seemed so fragile I was afraid of hurting her. It didn't help, either, that a ginger asshole cat moved in and basically took over. I fawned over cute fluffy Dr. Mondo. Jim suddenly could deal with his "allergies." Shiny! New! Fun! Self-cleaning (for the most part). They managed to co-exist, though, and sometimes actually seemed to get along. I thought maybe the cat was good for Jombi, keeping her company and keeping her on her toes.
As her health declined - gimpy leg, hearing issues and a bit of doggie dementia - we talked about how sad it would be for Jombi to die, but she seemed to be so miserable it would be for the best when she did. She lingered, though. For about 6 months we watched her stumble, walk into walls, walk into corners and seem to forget how to back up. Our vet gave us meds to help alleviate some of her pains. She still had an appetite, but had trouble bracing herself to get enough food down. Her legs would just splay out beneath her. Face in bowl. And yet, like Elizabeth Warren, she persisted. Chomp chomp *splat*
Then I lost my job. We spoke to our vet about Jombi's health, admitting that with the loss of income we weren't in a position financially to have expensive tests run and to administer expensive treatments to prolong her life. And it almost seemed cruel to do so. She was over 15 years old. Her quality of life seemed poor. Every time I saw her struggle it pained me. It was clear what was going to have to happen.
Our vet was incredible. He said all the right things, and Jombi slipped away so quietly and so very peacefully and for that I am grateful. I thought I was prepared, but it broke my heart. And Jim's. We sobbed and stroked her head and kissed her gray muzzle. And we let her go.
It's only been a few days and I catch myself heading downstairs to carry her out to pad around in the grass. I look for her. I listen for her little sighs. There's no more click click clicking on the hardwood floors. No more wondering if that thud was Jombi falling or running into something. That sweet-faced little girl is snatching treats under doors and eating underwear in doggie heaven now. But I feel so sad and so guilty.
Jim has always been good about getting his shit together and moving on, looking ahead, finding the bright spot in a dark moment. Me? I wallow. I dwell. I punish myself.
"When was the last time you showered?" It wasn't a dig. It wasn't even a suggestion. I think it was just a nudge to give myself permission to carry on.
