from wikipedia.com:Blood Brothers: Refers to two or more men, not related by birth parents, who swear loyalty to one another. This is usually done in a ceremony where the blood of each man is mingled together. In simple terms, this is an extension of fraternization.
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"You know that your couch is a piece of crap when Goodwill won't even take it."
The Dashing Litigator sold his house. It is moving day and he has taken the day off from work to finish packing and meet with the movers. He has been calling me at the office as he boxes up the last remnants of his life in that house.
"The couch in the basement? What are you going to do with it, then?" I ask.
"Well," he says, "it won't fit out the side door with that new fence there, so I'm going to take my Louisville Slugger and just attack it - bash it to pieces, then have the movers put it in a dumpster. It actually might be quite therapeutic."
I laugh. "Ok, then. You knock yourself out!"
He and Duncan will now live in a two bedroom loft just one El stop south of my studio.
Over the weekend, we packed the easy stuff and loaded up the car: dishes, glassware, artwork, towels, sheets, cookware, etc. We made runs to Target for fluffy new towels and Menard's for colorful area rugs and bar stools. We had Duncan at day care for much of the weekend to keep him occupied and exercised and out of our way. This new place is gorgeous, with far too much space than my boys need. Duncan will even have his own bedroom complete with a new 'big boy bed' and various treats and toys stowed in the closet.
Sunday was our last night in the soon-to-be 'old house'. We ordered Chinese food, ate in the dining room surrounded by boxes - and sighed alot. And we talked about all the memories that were created under that roof. The spot where we had our first make-out session. The living room where we slow danced to Sinatra. The kitchen floor, where my Dashing Litigator slept by Duncan's crate on his first night home. The meals he cooked for me. That basement couch where I spent many an evening flanked by 'my boys' watching a movie in the dark. The cozy, familiar smells and sounds and routines that have nestled and nurtured our little threesome over this last year.
"It's a tad sad to leave here...but I'm ready for chapter two. Aren't you?", he asks.
I am indeed.
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I leave work that day and head directly to the Dashing Litigators new digs - stopping first at Trader Joes for a housewarming bottle of red and bouquet of flowers. He greets me looking a little worse for wear, but adorable. His face sports three days worth of scruff, his clothes are sweatstained, dusty and grungy and his hands look mangled and raw. The middle finger of his left hand is wrapped haphazardly in paper towel that has been bound gruffly with gray duct tape.
I pick up his hand and inspect the make-shift bandage. "What happened here?"
Apparently, while he was working out some aggression - smashing his couch to bits with a baseball bat and pulling off the upholstery, his hand came down on a small nail that punctured his middle finger fairly deeply.
"It bled like hell when I first did it, but it seems to have stopped now." I take a peek at the wound and after confirming that his Tetnus shots are up to date, make a mental note to clean and dress it properly for him later.
We hit the road to pick up Duncan and I can't wait to show him his new home. He is a little unsure at first, reluctant on his leash and splaying his paws as he fights crossing the threshold into the lobby. The elevator freaks him out even more, but when we finally get inside the loft, his curious and energetic nature return.
He sniffs around his bedroom, recognizing the familiar crate and blanket. He puts two brown paws on his new bed as though testing for firmness and notices the small stuffed 'bee' toy that I had bought him, complete with twisted rope-like legs for chewing. He picks up the toy and runs out the door with it, looking for his daddy, who is at the other end of the loft.
I hear the click click click of his nails on the wood and then my Dashing Litigator's voice, "Hi buddy...what's this? Oh...hey...you're bleeding. Carrie? I think he cut his paw on something. Oh, wow. He's really bleeding badly."
I come around the corner and see the trail of dark red splotches on the wood floor. The trail starts near a large black plastic garbage bag that is propped up against the island in the kitchen.
"Dammit", he says, "My glass decanter broke during the move and I put all the broken glass in this bag. I meant to take it out. He must've cut his paw on it."
I grab paper towel and press it to Duncan's rear right paw. Instantly it is soaked with blood. I drop the paper towel and look up at my dashing litigator. I am scared. We have a moment as our eyes meet and then in an instant he takes charge. He picks up our bleeding baby and his jaw is set. "Let's go. We're taking him in." I grab his wallet and we are out the door.
We are frantic as we place a very confused, yet very calm Duncan in the back seat and head off to the Animal Urgent Care center. The Dashing Litigator is upset and blaming himself for leaving the garbage bag in the kitchen. I can hardly blame him as he's had a tremendous amount on his plate this past week. He wonders if we should be putting pressure on Duncan's paw, and I agree, climbing into the back of the SUV to be with our boy. I grab a thin blanket and gingerly wrap it around his paw before squeezing it. Duncan not only complies, but rests his head in my lap. It's not long before the blanket is soaked. I split my time between comforting our dog and calming my boyfriend, who is banging the steering wheel and yelling at red lights - ordering them to turn green. We can't get there fast enough.
We do arrive and he carries our baby into the stark white flourescent lobby of the animal clinic. We are met by calm assitants who lead the three of us to a room. A trail of blood follows us. My Dashing Litigator's khaki pants are now a deep rust color, and I notice that my black and white flower printed skirt now has a few red flowers as well. After a bit we are led out of the room and told to wait in the lobby while they tend to our Duncan.
We are shell shocked. We lean on each other and fill the quiet by squeezing hands and rubbing thighs. In a few moments we learn that Duncan has a small, but deep cut that will need to be sutured, but that he will be ok.
We can breathe again. I am so proud of my Dashing Litigator and how quickly he assessed and took charge of the situation, and I tell him this. He corrects me, saying he is so proud of us and he is grateful for my calm demeanor. But it was his strength that allowed me to be calm. And we are struck by how deeply we love that furry brown guy. How much he has affected us and how terrible it would be if anything happened to him.
The doors open and we rush to greet our boy who is groggy in his Elizabethan collar, and sporting a bright purple bandage on his injured paw.
We bring him home and try and make him as comfortable as possible, nestling him into his bed in his new bedroom. And we clean up and get ourselves ready for bed in this new and strange place. I help wash and dress the Dashing Litigator’s deeply cut finger - both of my boys suffering injuries in this tumultuous move - a move to a new home that is ironically only a mile away from the old one.
My Dashing Litigator turns to me and says, “I know this isn’t the only crisis we’ll endure together, and when the time comes to face another one - there is no one I’d rather be with, than you. We’re a great team.”
Indeed we are.
