Eva-Diva-Hoover-Doover
1987 – July 4, 2003
What I don’t miss is taking Eva for a walk
on a leash into a fenced-in park.
I don’t miss getting up at 2 AM in December,
lifting her off the bed, throwing a sweater on over my head,
stepping into my boots, wrapping a scarf around my neck,
putting on my wool coat, pulling my hat down over my ears,
finding my keys, putting on my gloves,
following her downstairs to the street for a very short pee,
coming back into the building,
carrying her up the stairs, lifting her back onto the bed,
and dressing down.
I don’t miss watching her being sick.
What I do miss is looking into her eyes
and knowing she adored me.
I miss tending to her and loving her.
I miss walking behind her doggie dance
whenever we left to go somewhere together.
I still cry when I think about her.
This is why it has taken me so long
to see my elves,
Nisme Gwyan and Eenu Phenur,
and to write to you.
I was standing in the kitchen. I thought, "Nisme has her now."
Tears blubbered down my cheeks.
My heart opened like a clam in cool water,
and I saw them then: Eva-Diva-Hoover-Doover, Nisme and Eenu.
They are all happy. They see me. They are in my world
but not of it. Nisme says nothing. Eenu waits.
Eva does the dance and we all begin to walk.
Nisme takes my right hand, Eenu walks next to her.
Eva looks back at us every few seconds,
wags her happy butt, and trots on.
I never loved a human the way I love this dog.
Dig that.
I found her in L.A., on the street, 1997.
She was 10. My cousin in San Diego named her Eva.
We were California girls together
until she rode back with me and the cats to New York City.
In New York, I had two speeds of walking.
One was fast and purposeful.
New Yorkers walk because we have to.
The other was Eva speed.
Everything had to be smelled and assessed,
and she was never in a hurry.
Now I have only one speed.
One night after Eva was gone, I was walking home.
I said to her,
"I want you here with me when I'm walking this fast."
I heard her say, "I am."
Oh. Right.
On another night, as I was walking home and crying,
I heard her say, "You don't need me now."
Fine.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
The messages keep coming.
Eva is with the elves. I still cry.
So. What have I learned here?
I'm walking into 2004 with a messy, broken heart.
As the Tin Man would say, “It means I have a heart.”
En route in ‘04 I will not slam the door
in the face of "I don't know who I am,"
or on the fingers of "I wish I were talking to someone,"
or on the foot of "I don't know if I can do this."
I will love who I was, the person Eva adored,
and make that person my foundation.
Dig that.
© 2004 Tulis McCall
January 1, 2004
1987 – July 4, 2003
What I don’t miss is taking Eva for a walk
on a leash into a fenced-in park.
I don’t miss getting up at 2 AM in December,
lifting her off the bed, throwing a sweater on over my head,
stepping into my boots, wrapping a scarf around my neck,
putting on my wool coat, pulling my hat down over my ears,
finding my keys, putting on my gloves,
following her downstairs to the street for a very short pee,
coming back into the building,
carrying her up the stairs, lifting her back onto the bed,
and dressing down.
I don’t miss watching her being sick.
What I do miss is looking into her eyes
and knowing she adored me.
I miss tending to her and loving her.
I miss walking behind her doggie dance
whenever we left to go somewhere together.
I still cry when I think about her.
This is why it has taken me so long
to see my elves,
Nisme Gwyan and Eenu Phenur,
and to write to you.
I was standing in the kitchen. I thought, "Nisme has her now."
Tears blubbered down my cheeks.
My heart opened like a clam in cool water,
and I saw them then: Eva-Diva-Hoover-Doover, Nisme and Eenu.
They are all happy. They see me. They are in my world
but not of it. Nisme says nothing. Eenu waits.
Eva does the dance and we all begin to walk.
Nisme takes my right hand, Eenu walks next to her.
Eva looks back at us every few seconds,
wags her happy butt, and trots on.
I never loved a human the way I love this dog.
Dig that.
I found her in L.A., on the street, 1997.
She was 10. My cousin in San Diego named her Eva.
We were California girls together
until she rode back with me and the cats to New York City.
In New York, I had two speeds of walking.
One was fast and purposeful.
New Yorkers walk because we have to.
The other was Eva speed.
Everything had to be smelled and assessed,
and she was never in a hurry.
Now I have only one speed.
One night after Eva was gone, I was walking home.
I said to her,
"I want you here with me when I'm walking this fast."
I heard her say, "I am."
Oh. Right.
On another night, as I was walking home and crying,
I heard her say, "You don't need me now."
Fine.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
The messages keep coming.
Eva is with the elves. I still cry.
So. What have I learned here?
I'm walking into 2004 with a messy, broken heart.
As the Tin Man would say, “It means I have a heart.”
En route in ‘04 I will not slam the door
in the face of "I don't know who I am,"
or on the fingers of "I wish I were talking to someone,"
or on the foot of "I don't know if I can do this."
I will love who I was, the person Eva adored,
and make that person my foundation.
Dig that.
© 2004 Tulis McCall
January 1, 2004
