We’ve watched a nest become inhabited over the course of the last few weeks, trying our best not to disturb the little bird warming whatever eggs she was sitting on. With two dogs in and out of the backyard and my camera lens sometimes invading her space, I’m surprised she made a nest so close in proximity to our porch door. I learned quickly she didn’t like the 35mm lens I first tried to use, flying off and leaving me with my camera and a few measures of remorse for having scared her off.

Yesterday afternoon I checked in on our little friend, and found the nest to have been raided. It was no longer perched in the crook of the rain gutter, having been knocked to the ground. Around it lay the remains of one or more bright blue eggs, broken and presumably eaten.

Eilene and I stood around the nest, searching for something to say. For a minute I tried to think about the incident from a purely intellectual standpoint, chaulking up the attack to the natural, self-regulating cycle of animal population control. But that quickly passed, as it’s ultimately just really, really sad.

Burt’s death has lead me into a six month period of disinterest in writing or taking photos, which I’m only just now coming out of. At the time I refused to accept the possibility of his mortality, but as his hips locked up more frequently, as his troubles holding his bladder moved beyond being an occasional mishap, my wife knew he wouldn’t live through the winter. At the risk of becoming one of those poor saps finding meaning in anthropomorphism, I’m going to believe Burt stayed around as long as he did so as to love our two year old son, as he very quietly and unassumingly became the first irreplaceable dog in our son’s life.

Having worked with sick animals on and off for some time, I’ve grown accustomed to the occasional need for euthanasia. I’ve come across people who were holding on for dear life to the life of their pet, flippantly muttering to myself of their selfishness in allowing their animal to experience dreadful suffering in an effort to avoid letting go themselves.

Yet as I talked with the vet about Burt’s cancer that afternoon in February and requested we take him home for just one more evening before we carried out the inevitable, I found myself in just that position. Expecting him to hobble over to me after getting checked out as he had done the prior few days, and nuzzle himself into my arms while I situated him back in the car for the short ride home, my stomach bottomed out when three techs accompanied the vet in carrying out a stretcher containing our dying family dog. He was barely able to lift his head. He looked up at me a few times, panting the slightly more intense pant he developed the day before, while I fumbled him into the back seat of the car next to our son’s car seat. I struggled in positioning his mostly limp body, and questioned down to my bones whether leaving the vet for one last night with him was even remotely within the realm of the appropriate.

Burton, a lanky, shiny coated Golden Retriever, was deep red in color, with a narrow head and long snout, and a set of ears he’d perch up on his head when he sensed cookies. My wife, originally looking for a traditional stocky, blockheaded Golden, stumbled upon Burt at a retriever rescue. Having undergone hip surgery after being hit by a car, he was nicknamed “Chance” by the employees (short for “Second Chance”, or really “Last Chance”). He strolled into the front office of the rescue, and on seeing him my wife instantly knew she was going to lose her self control and be suckered into taking this wonky scrap of a dog, despite her desires to the contrary.

That was over 14 years ago.

Residences and addresses have changed, boyfriends and friends have come and gone, other dogs and random cats have arrived and left or been put down. But always, there was Burt. When we knew I would become a lot more than just a passing mile marker in my wife’s timeline, Burt began to regularly walk over and nuzzle his nose in my lap, completely uncharacteristic of him in his behavior with other males of any species. Many a night I would look at him while I rubbed his head, and he’d look back with those eyes, those endless black pools of experience. A poor sap prone to anthropomorphism, I fancied him an old soul wise beyond his years, perhaps incarnated to eventually protect our growing little family.

These memories welled up in me as I lay next to Burt by the fireplace that evening, flanked on either side by my wife and son, all of us stroking his fur while he looked around, panting. Having long lost the ability to hold his bladder, he lay on frequently-changed extra bath towels we put on top of a large set of couch cushions.

My wife fell asleep on Burt and held that position deep into the next morning, her head still laying on his chest when I came into the living room to wake her.

We left our son home with our friend, and took Burt in the very back of the station wagon to the vet’s office. I lay my hand on the side of his chest. After two vials of strong sedatives and a syringe of pentobarbital, his heart stopped beating under my fingertips. I moved my forehead away from the bridge of his snout where it had been resting, his eyes glazed over amidst one last long, sighing exhalation. His body exhibited slight postmortem twitches, and now relaxed, his bowels emptied some of their contents onto the cool stainless steel veterinary table. Death surely be not proud.

I’m not sure I could quantify how long we stayed in the vet office sitting next to him. My wife asked to save a lock of his fur, which she has since kept next to his ashes on the shelf above her computer desk in the family room. I sat petting his lifeless body, most likely more for my own comfort than for his.

The severity of my grief reaction surprised even me. At several points over the next few days, I was suddenly but privately emotional to the point of nearly vomiting. That level of loss has occurred only one other time in my life, connected with the unexpected and tragic death of my father. It was the only other time in my life I was slammed with the consciousness that never seeing someone again really meant never again, and that really, truly meant never again. It overwhelmed me to an unfathomable depth.

But that feeling faded, as has the vividness of that experience, as has the gut-wrenching quality to the grief over Burt’s death. At some point during that trip to the vet we snapped back into our space-time position, realized our son is home with our friend, dinner must be cooked, the other dogs must be fed, jobs required our presence.

Last I noticed, his food and water bowls are still on the floor next to the cabinet in the kitchen where the dog food is kept. His collar is still in the bathroom next to our son’s bucket of bath toys. I suppose it’s telling we haven’t boxed them up yet, but I’m sure that time will come.

It’s the worst part of death, really, the idea of moving on. There is the temptation to hold onto every shred of denial we can afford ourselves. In the end, we are only left with our memories and a few physical belongings, none of which can reverse what happened.

We were two hours late to the first class. And although we could choose any variety of projects separately, we focused on starting a single project together. Our donor piece was a ratty, threadbare $20 deceased-old-lady Craigslist project chair we’d stored in our family room for a few years in hopes of just such an opportunity.

We set out to deconstruct the existing upholstery in sections and label each piece, the goal being simply to recreate the old pattern identically with newer, more modern fabric.

After marveling at the unbelievable number of tacks and staples that needed to come out in order to clean up this chair, we were then squarely confronted with the long and winding history this piece of furniture brought with it. The gaudy blue fabric we saw on the outside covered two prior upholstery jobs, the original being a disgusting dark gold 1970s fabric, followed by an odd light-colored almost-carpet substance. On the inside of the frame, in very faint pencil, were the words “To Caroline”.

We were indeed a bit taken by the inscription and obvious intention and emotion that went into the work. But on further deconstruction, our romantic wonderings were replaced with the realization that Caroline’s thoughtful upholsterer did one of the most fantastically horrible reconstruction jobs we could have asked for. We were forced to ditch the old pattern, and a few weeks into the semester it was apparent we needed to create an entirely new pattern completely from scratch. Having thus far worked together on the same piece successfully and not yet murdered each other, Eilene and I added our own little inscription.

We also made rightfully sure, once we got the ball rolling, we stayed super-serious and stuck to the task at hand.

The next ten weeks saw a lot of cutting, re-cutting, stapling, re-stapling, and even a few acknowledgements when about to leave home at 6:30pm that we’d never make it in time to make progress (and either staying home or playing hooky to go hit the movies).

Beginning the class brought with it a host of fears and insecurities related to the possibility of trying and failing. Some weeks saw us procrastinating or stuck in stagnation, sometimes almost paralyzed for fear of screwing up the next phase in the reconstruction of something beautiful out of the drastically imperfect bits and pieces with which we began. We were at times disgruntled and argumentative, especially when progress was poor, or a roadblock proved difficult or intimidating. It’s easier to risk failing when we just avoid trying or can blame some external circumstance like lack of time, rather than face the risk of failure after truly exerting some honest effort.

As the course progressed, so did the level of setbacks we experienced in this first time working side by side on a creative endeavor. The more we attempted to make progress toward the overall goal, the more it seemed we were plagued by mismatched expectations of each other, communication breakdowns, unfair needs for mind-reading, and issues of leading versus following, amongst a host of other problems. There were moments when our hope was renewed with small bursts of progress and connectedness, but mostly we were landsliding toward the question of whether or not we’d ever be able to even work together on anything, or whether all our efforts were just going to fall apart at the seams.

Things tend to be darkest before the dawn. Our complications reached a crescendo just near the end of the course, and it became painfully obvious our issues and stumbling blocks in the project were less about the project and more about the issues and stumbling blocks we had with ourselves and each other.

Sometimes things need to be deconstructed in order to be put back together in a way that looks beautiful. Occasionally, the original pattern can’t even be used, everything needs to be reconstructed from scratch. But in reworking what’s salvageable and discarding what’s broken, the end result can eclipse even the brightest and most generous expectations.

I wish we could say that after sixteen weeks, we knew all there is to know about upholstering furniture. Hell, I wish we could even say that after sixteen weeks, we finished our chair. But neither is true. What we learned from our own project and watching the projects around us in class was that pieces of furniture are individual, as are the processes by which they are reconstructed. Only continued practice and dedication will bring different and specific challenges to light, and bring exposure to the ability to work through them.

When we made the drive out to the hangar for our last date with the chair, we arrived having moved past all our prior working difficulties. We were not only completely comfortable with each other, we were comfortable with ourselves and our own walk through the process of giving something a good try without having to reach perfection. In the end, giving it a shot was all that really mattered. We had a great last class, and enjoyed our stopping point of being halfway through the chair’s upholstery job.

As for the chair and its fate, we also realized at some point during the course that everything that anyone ever wanted to know about upholstery or anything else for that matter, it’s all available in some random instructional video somewhere on Youtube. But that’s another post, for another time.

Our bustling, midgeted human has blazed through his second year of life, turning two at the end of this past October. He was born just in time for Halloween.

Among his many recent discoveries is that the volume at which he yells my name is in direct proportion to the likelihood I’ll interrupt E mid-sentence to respond. Generally, the progression goes from “daddy?” to “Daddy?” to “DADDY!!!” I’ll answer “Yes, munchkin?” and he’ll point out the window at a passing vehicle and very matter-of-factly say, “Truck.”

And a truck it is. He should know, he’s absolutely obsessed with them. And airplanes. And trains. And cars. And pigs, and cows, and elephants, and giraffes, and dogs, and cats. And he can name them all, and make their noises. He can also identify “cupcakes”, and knows that the answer to “What does the cupcake say?” is “Yummmmmmm.”

Unfortunately, while he is also good at pointing out and identifying our neighbors’ animals, the response to our pointing toward a particular black and white cat from the next block and questioning, “What is that, L?” has shifted to “MINE!” coupled with a “gimme” beckoning hand motion.

And every once in awhile, he slows down enough for us to snap some photos. Whether he’s sneaking through drawers…

… or playing “ghost”…

… or picking out pumpkins…

… or telling Daddy “shhhhhhh”…

… or shopping for groceries (that we’ve already bought)…

… or Swiffering the hell out of the kitchen…

… or attending airplane shows…

… or bowling (who doesn’t love bowling?)…

… he’s always getting into something. And whatever he’s getting into, he gets into it knee deep.

And no, no we’re not yet cutting his hair.

In late July, I packed up the car and headed down through San Marcos to Sattler, Texas to meet up with friends I’ve known for the better part of fifteen years. The plan was simple: grill a ton of food, drink a ton of beer (most of us), talk as much shit as possible, and make the seven hour float trip down the Guadalupe River. Having long been nicknamed “Brofest” or the “Sattler Swordfest”, this gentlemen’s gathering has become tradition, and I was happy to make the trek to lower Texas and take part in my first such retreat.

I’ve known for years now that staying entrenched in my own daily life causes my focus to become terribly narrow, small issues and experiences to seem overwhelming, and it’s only by getting away and stepping outside the routine that some shred of perspective is restored.

While what happens at Brofest proverbially stays at Brofest, I will say that in addition to the expected change in perspective, I gained an awareness that in the age of the Internet as a communication medium and the ease with which friends can become text on a screen, with the comfort of having a wife and the addition of a child to my family with all his attendant needs, it had become even easier to stay physically isolated in my tiny, daily bubble. I had, at some point, thrown face-to-face human socialization on the back burner.

Much later, on the morning of September 12th, E and I woke to our Sunday ritual of sitting in bed next to each other while L jumped around and threw pillows at us. E checked her email on the mini laptop, and received a single message stating that one of her best friends succumbed that weekend to a fifteen year battle with cancer. E was devastated beyond words. We booked her a plane ticket, and tried to pack a suitcase. Her friend had been only 38.

Less than twenty four hours later, we both sat in the airport lobby waiting for her delayed flight to begin boarding. We didn’t say a whole lot, she put her head on my shoulder a few times, and mostly talked about how she would miss me and L. But in the midst of one particular stretch of silence, I verbalized an understanding we both had arrived at independently that morning, that of the overwhelmingly temporary nature of our lives.

E and I routinely discuss life goals, changes we’d like to make, possible career moves, the pursuit of various trades and hobbies, the eventual sale of our house after the completion of its remaining projects. We talk of plans for L’s childhood, parts of the world we’d love him to see, oceans we’d love him to swim in, “firsts” we’d like him to experience. We even talk about what part of the country we’d like him to grow up in, throwing around the idea of possibly moving back to the East Coast. We’ve spoken of these things as if they’re reserved for some future time period that exists after some particular life circumstance magically changes.

In the hours that elapsed between receiving the news the previous morning and passing the pre-flight moments at the airport, it became strikingly evident that most of us walk around feeling as if we have a limitless amount of time to make our dreams happen. We think that “someday” we will travel, or rekindle some friendship, or make that career change, or reconcile with that loved one, or build that new house. In reality, that time runs out, and possibly far sooner than expected.

In the days following E’s plane departure and this change in perspective, I was again confronted with my tendencies toward isolation and myopic immersion in the daily grind, and the exclusion of almost all else. I started making small changes, first just simply making sure L and I got to playgrounds on a regular basis. This has since grown into making sure E and I make the effort to cultivate the friendships we value, and that we make time to pursue the hobbies we’ve always hoped will turn into careers.

On the afternoon that I sat with E at the airport and wished her goodbye, I later returned to work and spoke with my friend Sean. I was still overwhelmed with the weird consciousness of life’s ever-shrinking duration, while heavily overcome with a secondary grief reaction to E’s friend’s death. I proceeded to vomit all this on him in the hopes of some shred of relief.

When my outpouring finally came to a close and there was room for him to talk, he waited a minute, and simply said, “I know, B. This is why Brofest is so important.”

Ten months have passed since we lost Bella, and the reality that she’s no longer sitting in the dog room throwing everyone her creepy side-glances hits me on and off.

Only a few months after that, I found myself wide awake at five in the morning during one of my rampant stretches of insomnia. While I thought about how Cheerios undoubtedly taste better in the middle of the night, I heard wild commotion outside our bedroom window followed by a bone-chilling shriek I doubted could have come from a living creature. By the time I landed at the porch door, our 18 year old anger-ball of a cat Zoet was dead on the floor.

I had affectionately nicknamed her “Church” when E and I first met, after the buried and reincarnated cat from Pet Cemetary . My first introduction to this little furball came in the dead dark of E’s apartment kitchen, where I was jolted by a wraith-like drawn out guttural attempt at a meow. I turned to find this cat standing motionless on the kitchen table boring holes in me with her completely deadpan, unflinching stare. Since she died during the winter when the soil was frozen, she was retired to a black Hefty bag in our second freezer to wait out the cold months next to a few boxes of fried rice.

Just as we dug her hole on the side of the house, our sixteen year old cat Sebastian found himself about to give up the ghost. His hopelessly obvious nickname “Fatty” came from a giant gut he swung beneath his body when he waddled anywhere and that, along with his black and white sectioned fur, led to even more obvious cow-resemblance comments.

He was also an amazingly sweet cat, so the decision to put him down when he became constantly lethargic, half immobile, and completely incontinent was expected but unbelievably sad. He’s been more “one of the dogs” than anything, and spent the evenings head-butting our golden retriever and grooming him as best he could with such a height difference. We’re thankfully a maximum one-cat-per-freezer household, so Fatty is taking up Church’s vacancy while we clear room to bury him outside next to her.

In the end there’s a bit of poetic justice, as instead of butting up against some fried rice, Fatty is surrounded by stacks of frozen Angus burgers and some gorgeously marbled strip steaks. I honestly can’t think of anything he’d want more.

With every good intention imaginable, we’ve had some flavor of table and chairs in this corner of the family room since we moved into this house. Though instead of a consistent place to either eat dinner or sit and make fun of drug-addled celebrities when we have company over, ninety-five percent of the time our table and chairs functioned as a mail bin or coat rack.

So, our Saarinen repros got thrown on craigslist (reaping an assload of money), and Munchkin Corner breathed its waking breath. At least now I don’t have to cringe every time one of our friends called our table and chairs “Jetsons furniture”.

The first order of business in furnishing any young boy’s fantastic toy extravaganza: find a LEGO table. A quick glance at the hundreds of dollars some places wanted for what amounted to a little short stack table with plastic plates on it immediately violated any notion I had of buying one.

Coincidentally, my eBay trolling wife almost immediately found a Pottery Barn Activity Table in perfect condition and snagged it for 39 bucks. With the table retailing for almost $350, somebody lost their shirt on that one.

The next step is to prime and paint it, and epoxy enough building plates to the top surface to create a nice, sturdy LEGO wonderland for our little midget.

We’ve already had to pull up the red area rug we covered the floor with, as he would run his metal shopping cart up to the edge of the rug and scream at the top of his lungs when it stopped dead in its tracks. But add in a hand me down IKEA bookcase, a whacked out scary, nightmarish painting E found at a tag sale, and the first iteration of L’s play area revisions has begun.

My son, however, knows exactly what time of year it is. While I tend to have grown up worries about things like the pipes under the house, the tree that needs to be taken down, the shifts in the foundation from Texas weather fluctuations, he is conscious only of how long we let him stay in the pool, or how wet he can get us if he manages to get ahold of the hose.

As a parent, I fall into the trap of hovering and being too restrictive. Underneath that is simply the desire to protect my son from mishaps that can unwittingly cause harm (or cost a lot of money). Despite those intentions, a major early lesson staring me in the face is the need to let go, and let out the leash. It’s more difficult than it sounds, I’ve discovered it takes practice on a conscious level. The payoff is the expression on his face when he discovers something wonderful or experiences something new.

Though I’m sure every parent has had well-meaning rules they’ve enacted for themselves related to their parenting style (that probably last about as long as “I won’t become my parents”), I’m resolving now that if I succeed at nothing else, I would hope I just don’t grow him up too quickly.

The problem with joint compound is that with any sanding down, it immediately goes airborne and covers everything. The solution is a makeshift sanding “tent”.

The enclosed space helps catch all the dust and keep it isolated to the plastic-contained portion of the room. As long as I head straight for the shower afterward, I don’t seem to get plaster dust anywhere. Well, almost.

Now things are calming down, and we can stop and smell the roses (and hopefully the sawdust and lacquer).

In an effort to get rid of a lot of what hasn’t worked, we began trolling craigslist and eBay for things that would. E made some incredible finds. We paid obscenely low prices for our favorite 1950s and 1960s dressers and credenzas (or as our friend Wes refers to them, “that boring Mad Men shit”).

Our front room is starting to resemble a furniture warehouse, as we try to make room elsewhere for some of these great scores.

First stop on the project train? A room-by-room, whole house purge of items. I’d love to go through with big black trash bags. I’ll settle for E’s stock of Rubbermaids.