To Mia

My mom FINALLY said we could get a dog.  After being screened by big adoption agencies that made us feel like we weren't good enough for the dogs they were trying to place, we decided to go to the local shelter that sat off the highway.  It would be our luck that on the day we went, there was one lonely dog in the kennel - the rest, the guy behind the desk told us, had been taken to an adoption fair in the town over.  They'd be back, he assured us, but of course, only the ones that hadn't gotten adopted would be left.

One dog came back.  She was a puppy, with paws that definitely had room to grow in to.  Her kennel-given name was Megan and she looked like a Siberian husky who had been rolled in Moab-red dirt a few times over.  She was perfect. 

Thirteen years later and on a Wednesday, my mom called to tell me that our Mia had died in the backyard sun, just beyond the door to my parent's bedroom.  It was at this door that she had always waited in the morning darkness for my dad so they could go on their daily run.  Those two were true buddies.  It could be said that you never know someone until you run in winter mornings along frozen trails that line dead corn fields.  These two had. 

Mia was a runner from the beginning.  In the cool evening between summer and fall on the day we brought her home, we took her up to the high school track and let her loose.  Part Siberian husky, part red heeler, she moved in a manner that would make Shalane Flanagan jealous.  Her love of it was contagious - soon we were all running around the track.  Were we chasing her or was she chasing us?  In the fall, she traveled with us to my middle school cross country meets, lolling around in her hot pink collar and matching leash.  She was the cutest.

She grew, we grew.  We moved, made new friends and started new jobs.  The line is familiar and the next one will be too.  She was loyal as any dog is expected to be. 

But her love for running never, ever, ever decreased.  As my mom cried in the background that Wednesday night, my dad reminisced on the memory of 13-mile-Saturdays, with Mia by his side. She was running half-marathons before I ever finished a 10k.  Tears dripped down my face onto my comforter as we laughed about how dad always brought water for himself, but never thought to bring any for Mia; she never complained.

She never made a peep, either, when the vet found tumors in her.  Not just one tumor.  But the next one.  And the one after that.  And those that continued to grow, those that my parents decided not to go after because they had had enough.  Mia had had enough.

Lucky for me, I never saw her as a dog I wouldn't want to remember.  I didn't have to see her splayed legs when she tried to get up to greet you as you walked out the back door.  I didn't have to see the huge chunk of her hindquarter gone as the one last attempt to give her more time.  I get to remember the hot pink collar.  And the long walks.  The way her hair used to come out in chunks in the summer because she had so much of it to shed; we used to say we should knit all of her hair into a sweater.  I get to remember what an amazing runner she was - a true running partner.

If Heaven Wasn't so Far Away

As I was driving home the other day, I heard this song on the radio and it made me think of my grandpa.

My grandpa, Jose Vigil, was never able to see any of his granddaughters graduate from high school, much less college.  He won't get to watch any of us get married or have babies.  He was barely a tangible presence in my younger cousin's life, as he died when she was still young; she has a few memories of him, but not too many.  My sister and I were lucky enough to have a solid childhood of experiences with him.

• Going to the shed to get the air compressor to pump up the old, worn-out-to-the-point-where-the-leather-was-smooth basketball.
• Drinking from the outside water spigot.
• Going tubing down the small stream on their property.  We'd enter the property, hop into the bed of the truck (the only place we could ride in the bed), and drive up to the stream.  There, we'd cruise down the stream for a bit, but usually it was too cold to stay in too long.  Once it was lunchtime, my grandma would feed us Vienna Sausages & potted meat on saltine crackers.  We'd drink it down with the barrel juice drinks (you know the kind).  Those were sweet, sweet times when life was wrapped up in that one afternoon.  Nothing could get better than that.
• Riding horses.
• Playing in the hay loft (which was usually cut short by my sneezes and runny noses...dang allergies).
• Watching baseball on TV with the sound off (the announcers never said anything worth anything).
• Making carne seca (beef jerky)...a little bit of salt, a little bit of pepper.

Remembering these times with Grumpy makes me smile and warms my insides.  Here's a little prayer up to you, Grampito:

We all miss you so much down here.  The family is not the same without you and while we somehow figured out how to on in your absence, there is definitely a big void.  I was lucky enough to grow up with you in my life.  I worry that Nieves' memories of you are brief & fuzzy - I wish she could have known & loved you like Pilar, Sierra & I did.

Gramita is doing ok.  Things are getting harder for her - maintaining the house and land, taking care of the animals, worrying about all of us ... please help her to stay strong and not give up.  Because without her ... I don't know what this family would do.

I think that you would be proud of the people your granddaughters have grown up to be.  Pilar is so bright and talented and with focus, could do so many things.  Sierra is a very smart girl who finds interest in new, surprising things.  She has huge potential now as she graduates from high school - I hope that she sees her potential as we do.  And then there's Nieves, who is probably the most caring, sensitive, loving child I know.  She is the definition of sweetness and I can't wait to see who she grows up to be.

Grumpy, I hope you are proud of me.  I've stumbled sometimes and I have tried my hardest to be a good person.  Please continue to watch over me and guide me to do what is right.

See Ya Later, Buddy

My friend Matt is leaving California for good this weekend.  I only met him about a year and a half ago when he came to work at Creators Syndicate.  His college buddy (who hired me) urged him to come out and join the company.  Matt drove cross-country in his little red Jeep Liberty all by himself.  He was going to make a new life for himself in the sunny state.

Matt is one of those people who is really, really easy to get along with.  He literally doesn't have a dramatic bone in his body and probably wouldn't hurt a fly.  It is with these amazing qualities that we became friends over invoice lunches and staff meetings, and even more so, over dinners and drinks.  His super-sharp wit and dorky sense of humor would make everyone at the table chuckle...it was hard not to.

Sadly, Matt's family experienced a huge, unexpected loss in the last two months.  Although he didn't talk about it much when he got back, I could tell that it forever changed him and affected him each day.  With family ties weighing on his mind, Matt decided he needed to move back to New Hampshire.  I understand it is something he feels he needs to do, but it is always hard to say goodbye to a good friend.

We're throwing Matt a going-away party this weekend and it will for sure be filled with lots of laughs.  Because, how else can we send someone all the way across the country? It's the least we can do.