Anecdotal Mojo #2

“The Witness”
Last week I was talking to an ex-lover about Mojo, and how his health was failing. I think to cheer me, he reminded me of when we made love; Mo would be on the other side of the door howling like a mad dog, unable to see if his mistress was being killed or what. If only he would have been okay with having Mo in the room – others can attest to the fact that he (what a sense of humor!) would grab one of his squeaky toys and start squeaking it, well, um, rhythmically. You try and keep a straight face. Anyway, it got me rethinking about all the moments of my life that only one singular little being, the Mo-man has witnessed.

As my friend noted, “He’s seen them come and go! All of them!” But really the lovers are the least of it. Oh the secrets! The things no one would admit publicly: watching “The Bachelor” and “Survivor”, those middle of the night eating crackers in bed sessions, reading old love letters when feeling blue, the endless talking to myself (although he always thought I was talking to him), the singing, the dancing by myself in the living room, the days when I was in the midst of my divorce and would wake up at 3am and go out on the deck and smoke and cry, the hours spent gardening, the long drives to Stinson, or Sonoma or Big Sur or San Luis Obispo, the cranky, bitchy Claudia, dying my hair, cutting my toenails, doing the dishes, propping up a chair under a motel door to keep us safe on our road trips, driving in circles while being lost on those road trips, eating cherry pie for dinner, falling flat on my ass walking out the front door, arguing with men, drinking with my friends, conspiring over the phone with my attorney, barfing, shitting, pissing, farting, burping, and sometimes going to bed without brushing my teeth.

Oh, and how he watched me. From the first day he came to live with me, I called him the shadow. This dog was not going to let me out of his sight. Mojo was a herding dog, and god dammit, if he couldn’t round up sheep, he was going to make sure he watched my every move. He stayed true to his vigilant pastime up to the time of his death.

And then, we switched roles. I got to watch. So I held him, and stroked him, and spoke to him, and looked into his eyes until his ragged breaths stopped, and the energy floated out of him and into my bedroom and swirled about the room like some sort of magical bird, and then dissipated like the morning fog burning off.