The Tao of Martha (21 page)

D
espite the triple-digit temperatures, the party’s a rousing success. No one seemed to mind that it was less white-tablecloth and more red-Solo-cup. Actually, the gathering was so informal that everyone was able to really kick back and relax. I loved seeing my friends’ kids have such a wonderful time. The best part of a successful party is bringing people together who’d never yet met, like when I found Laurie and Mike having a rollicking conversation with Julia and Finch.

I credit a portion of the party’s success with Angie’s insisting I create a signature cocktail. I blended coconut Cîroc with pineapple juice
and club soda, and by the end of the day, we were pretty much drinking it right out of the tap.

Naturally, I made sure kids stayed out of it.

Fletch was a total champ, too. He spent three hours working the grill in the blazing hundred-degree sun and never once complained. It’s possible that’s because he was swilling Dew Drivers—the whitetrash version of a screwdriver, wherein Mountain Dew is substituted for orange juice. Regardless, he was nothing short of rock-star.

With the party out of the way and Maisy still not home, this was normally when I’d ruminate. But I’m so thankful that Julia and Finch are staying with us until the morning of the sixth. After we see them off tomorrow, we’ll pick her up.

“It’s funny how you guys always seem to appear just when we need you most,” I tell Julia. “Here we have the shitshow that was 2011, yet you show up at the end of it to make sure we have fun. And now, the most stressful time of my life, you’re here with Apples to Apples and Catch Phrase to make sure we’re duly distracted. Thank you.”

She shrugs. “We’re all about good timing.”

I spoke with the vets and Maisy is now definitely coming home tomorrow. They had to give her a transfusion and there was an issue, so now her entire front leg is purple. Her nurse promised this would clear up in a week, but all I could hear was, “You’re going to have your dog at least another week.” Bring on the purple leg.

Julia and I are sitting on the screened back porch, having gotten out
of the pool. Looks like we’re about to get the first rain of the entire summer. We’re eating leftover party fruit; she’s topping her watermelon with Splenda and I’m giving mine a couple of shakes of salt.

“How are you feeling about everything?” she asks.

I poke at a watermelon rind with a plastic fork. “Honestly, I’m scared about bringing her home. What if we can’t give her what she needs? Her doctor said we have to administer subcutaneous fluids twice a day. We used to do this with our old cat Bones, but he was little and I could hold him. Maisy’s not exactly cooperative.” Dr. Thornhill told me she kept trying to French-kiss the vet techs when they’d give her fluids.

Julia opens another Splenda and begins to sprinkle right as the wind picks up. All the little crystals go flying out across the tabletop. “Should we go inside?”

I shrug. “Eh, we’re okay for now. It’s actually nice to feel the temperature drop like this.” In five minutes, it’s gone from the high nineties out here to the mid-eighties.

“Then what I was about to say was that whatever happens, this is your new normal. As I parent, I’ve learned that you do whatever it is you need to do. You don’t hesitate. You’re going to be the same way with Maisy. If you have to hydrate her twice a day, you’ll figure out how to build your day around her. You’ll make it work and you won’t think twice about the process.”

I mull this over and realize she’s making perfect sense. We’ll adapt to anything Maisy needs. Period. I give Julia a squeeze. “Of all the stalkers who walked into my book signings, I’m sure glad it was you.”

Four years ago I had a book event in Atlanta and someone asked if anyone had ever stalked me and I’d said no. Then Julia raised her hand and asked if I was interested in having a stalker, as she’d like to volunteer. I replied that I wasn’t sure. But the whole nature of her question made me laugh, so I gave her my e-mail address and I told her she was welcome to try. She sent me such funny notes about her job as a pharmaceutical
rep that we started to correspond with some frequency. Eventually our pen-pal relationship culminated in our hanging out each time I came to Atlanta, and now here we are.

We’re up and ready in the morning when Julia and Finch leave this time, because we’re headed to pick up Maisy. I don’t know what to expect and I’m so nervous. Will she be the same dog as when she went in? Are we providing hospice for her next few days or might she actually have more life left in her? Will we truly be able to manage the day-to-day of the IV and the meds and getting her to eat?

When we arrive at the clinic, there’s another couple picking up their dog. They’re ashen-faced and somber as the clerk gently hands them the package of their cherished pet, wrapped in purple velvet with the inscription. “When we meet again on the rainbow bridge.”

Fletch and I exchange glances, and at that moment I realize that every single second we have with Maisy from here on out is a gift, whether it’s a day, a week, a month, or a year. Whatever it is we have to do, we’ll do, and we’ll be thankful for the privilege of having done it. I’m not scared anymore, and I don’t care when I pay for services rendered, because my beautiful dog is coming home on a leash and not in an urn.

We’re brought back to another exam room, but this time it’s so we can have a crash course on how to administer meds and fluids. When we’re finally reunited with Maisy, it’s all I can do not to cry. She’s walking a little slowly because of the hematoma all over her leg, but otherwise, she’s the same dog who’s been by my side for the past ten years.

As we load her up into the car, she gives me a look as if to say, “Well, it’s about goddamned time.”

Funny, but our new normal seems an awful lot like our old normal.

When we arrive home, she trots into the great room and positions herself on the love seat, allowing all the other pets to come up to her and pay homage. Regal as a queen, she lets the cats sniff around her while
Libby runs circles in excitement and Loki wags his tail hard enough to knock the remote controls off the coffee table.

Maisy’s happy to be home; ergo I’m happy.

And in this moment, that’s everything.

I
’m not mad at Martha anymore.

In fact, I’m ready to hit this project even harder than before. What’s so ironic is that I’ve spent seven months looking for the Tao of Martha, yet I’ve found something even more powerful.

In many ways, Maisy’s illness has been a gift, because it’s made me take stock of how much I love her every day when we give her treatment. I hug her while I hold her steady for the IV and I tell her how perfect she is. I always knew this dog had a piece of my heart, but it wasn’t until I had to muster up my own strength and determination to keep her alive that I figured out exactly how much.

Like in
The
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
, I’ve discovered my own number forty-two through caring for her. I’ve uncovered my ultimate answer to the ultimate question of how to be happy, and that all boils down to what I’ve learned from my dog.

I’ve discovered the Tao of Maisy, which entails three steps:

Be awesome.

Give awesome.

Get awesome.

Maisy started her life Being Awesome. She was rescued by animal control from an abandoned apartment in the projects and brought to Anti-Cruelty, a massive city shelter. Because she was a pit bull, she was automatically slated to be euthanized if no one claimed or adopted her
within a week. And honestly, that would have been better than the life she’d have had if she’d not been found. Maisy would have been bred, fought, or used as bait, possibly all three.

The thing is, Maisy was special and she knew it. She paraded herself around Anti-Cruelty in such a way that one of the clerks called the rescue I used to volunteer for and said, “This puppy is too awesome to not get a second shot. Please, please, if you have space, take her.”

So Maisy altered the course of the miserable life she was slated for by Being Awesome.

In turn, she’s spent the last ten years being a roly-poly ball of unconditional love, giving us the full benefit of her awesomeness. Without her, I’d have never had the push to change my own circumstances. I’d likely still be working some god-awful sales job. And would I have insisted Fletch and I get married if we didn’t have the impetus of dogs to keep us together? Who knows?

In turn, our love for her is why she Gets Awesome in return. She’s why we wanted a house with a yard. She’s why I decided to double my workload and write fiction so I could afford a house with a pool, knowing her predilection for swimming.

In so many ways, what Martha Stewart does can be broken down into the Tao of Maisy, too. Clearly, she’s already nailed the Be Awesome part. You don’t become a household name without those credentials. In teaching everyone the best way to handmake a wreath or needlepoint a tea towel or cook the perfect vanilla-bean cupcake, she’s giving her awesome
to the masses, which she gets back by way of wealth, power, and recognition.

Those following Martha’s way of life are part of the whole cycle, too. For example, when I made my first Thanksgiving dinner, it was because I was at a particularly high point in my life. I’d achieved Being Awesome, so much so that I wanted to share it by hosting a dinner and Giving Awesome. In return, I Got Awesome back from friends who’d enjoyed being a part of the celebration. The Tao of Maisy is whatever the opposite of a vicious circle is, as the more one Bes, Gives, and Gets, the more it perpetuates itself into happiness.

In order for Maisy to receive the maximum amount of awesome between now and the inevitable, I have to give her back awesome, because she deserves it. Her favorite thing in the world is to go for a walk, and honestly, we’ve not done that so much since we moved here, assuming the acre of fenced yard would be plenty.

For the first time in her life, I don’t have to put Maisy on a pinch collar to walk. It’s taken two kinds of cancer and kidney failure to instill proper leash manners. What’s ironic is that people
still
cross the street to avoid what’s surely a vicious pit bull. Argh.

We walk only to the end of the block and back, which would normally take about ten minutes. But Maisy’s very much into looking around and taking everything in, so we follow her pace. Sometimes it takes half an hour, and that’s just fine.

When I was on my book tour, I found myself running through airports in stupid shoes, and I’ve since given myself a case of plantar fasciitis. Almost every step I take feels like my heel’s pressing down on a knife, but my foot will eventually get better and Maisy will not.

So I hobble along beside her, wincing with every step I take.

Because there’s no place I’d rather be.