Pink Slips, Bad Boots, and a Dead Dog in My Kitchen

As a single woman raising two kids there are a few things that worry me: Losing my job, losing my sense of style, and losing my dog.

To put it in perspective, my job maintains this household. And I am concerned--as most of us are--about the recession and the way it wields its heavy evenhanded hatchet. No one is safe, especially me, a 20-year veteran of the publishing industry which is in a bit of turmoil these days. I know I've escaped the pink slip on more than one occasion. But every time I get called to New York for a "meeting with the boss", I pack up my bags with my best power suit and pray for the best.

I got called to New York this week. And, wouldn't you know it, I had no shoes. Well, let me rephrase. I have an abundance of shoes spilling out of my closet. I'm a shoe addict. But because of my responsibilities to pay bills and put food on the table, when it comes to purchasing kicks these days its usually Mootsies Tootsies not Jimmy Choo. My cheap shoes have worn heels, scuffed tips, and split soles. Not stylish at all, and brings the power suit down just a notch. Nevertheless, I threw an old pair of boots into my bag and didn't think about it again....until I got to New York and watched all of the high-fashion footwear walking by me. New boots that make a statement---I must have them, I thought.

On my first day in midtown Manhattan I sucked it up and wore the old tired shoes. After all, if I was going to get the boot from my job, no sense in splurging on a new pair of boots. I had a full day of meetings and left with my self-respect (and my job) intact. But then again, I knew deep down even if I wasn't spared from corporate cuts, I'd be okay. That's because a week earlier I had dinner with an old friend, Rob--who happens to be my old boss. I told him my concerns and he walked me through the various scenarios. What were the signs that my job was in jeopardy? And what was my plan in the event I was canned? I left dinner knowing that I had options even if I suddenly found myself unemployed. I felt empowered in a helpless situation.

So, with a renewed sense of financial security I stormed into the Payless shoe store on 36^th and 8^th and bought myself a pair of black boots. (Payless, yikes, I know, but I still have a budget, remember?) When I got back to my hotel, however, I realized I really didn't' like the boots I bought. Truthfully, I don't have an eye for style. Never did. For that, I count on my friend Tracy. She's been dressing me since high school. And I still need her approval when it comes to what's in and what looks good. She's always there to save me in a last minute pinch, with a shirt, a pair of jeans, or a cool pair of boots when I need them the most. I just show up on her doorstep and there it is...an accessory that saves the outfit, or a smashing jacket that covers a coffee-stained blouse. But this time--when I needed her--I was in NY and she was in Boston.

I fell asleep wondering what to wear, and what Tracy would do in this bootless situation, awaking at midnight to a text from my friend Jenna who was home watching my kids and my old hound dog. The dog was sick. Really really sick, she said. And this leads me to my third worry. My dog, Mae, is an 11-year old, 140 pound bloodhound with bad eyesight and bad hips. Over the last few months her health had deteriorated to the point that I knew she didn't have much longer to live. I worried what I would do if she 'expired' in my house. How would I ever get her out? The vet told me not to worry, "There are people for that".  Well, now I know who the "people" are: Me and Jenna!

That morning when my son called to say, "Uhhh, mom, I think Mae is dead." I took the early train home. I was hustling down 8^th Ave in my old tattered boots talking to Jenna. "So, is she really dead?" I had to ask.

"Yes, Stephanie, she's dead," Jenna quipped in her classic deadpan tone. "What do you want me to do?"

That was the $60 million question. We called animal control--nope, won't help. We called the vet--sorry, no can do. Where are all these "people" that are supposed to help? And, now what? Because, there in my house was a mammoth dog in rigor mortis mode.

The initial sight was startling. My friend-- my best friend of 11 years-- the dog that loved me unconditionally and kept me company every day, was dead on my kitchen floor. I leaned over and whispered in her ear that I was sorry I wasn't there to comfort her in the end. She had always been there for me--especially in the really tough times.

Jenna hugged me as the reality sunk in, and then we realized we had work to do. We stood over the dog with our hands on our hips and thought of our options. A few calls to a couple of guys, one of which said he would be there 'soon', and we decided 'soon' was not soon enough. We would do it ourselves.

We managed to lift her little by little and scoot a blanket under her body.  Then, with Jenna on one side and me on the other, we carried that heavy bitch out in her blanket body bag, placing her in the back of my SUV. Off to the animal hospital we drove where they came out with a stretcher to take my Mae away. Once again, Jenna and I looked at each other bewildered. Everything that just happened seemed slightly surreal. Now what do we do?

Well, we went home, poured a glass of wine (followed by many more) and made a toast to Mae: "To good friends."

And in that moment, I realized all of my fears-- everything that makes me question whether or not I'm going to be okay, be it money, kids, or growing old, unfashionable, and lonely-- all of that is moot. There is nothing I can't do when I have good friends by my side.

Thank you Jenna, Tracy, and Rob!

And thank you, my dear friend, MaeBelle. R.I.P.