It’s been quite the summer for mosquitoes. A wet spring assured a robust early hatch, and we haven’t run low on them since. As prey animals, we find ourselves speculating that the sheer numbers of mosquitoes have sharpened their hunting skills and the speed of their attacks: there are just not enough of us to go around.
Furthermore, we’re seeing other vampire varmints because the conditions have been so favorable for them. Having foolishly stood in one place for a couple seconds this morning, I spied two mosquitoes on my arm and am now sporting their bites. Which don’t look like regular mozzie bites—they itch like them but don’t look like them. It must be that these are mozzie relations in town for a visit. Some other small biting insects are in the area now, too, a kind we haven’t seen before. Who knew there was so much variety?
The dog’s laser treatments for his knee injury continue. We hope we’re doing right by him. After each session with the vet, he has a pretty miserable couple of days. This last time, he couldn’t even go down the stairs on his own, and that’s an activity that scarcely uses the injured leg. Rascal routinely tucks up a hind leg while rushing headlong down the stairs, as if operating all four legs at once would only slow him down.
Today was a different story. I’ve been turning us back toward home at the first flicker of a limp, which means our walks haven’t just been short, they’ve been abortive. This morning, we walked halfway around the block, and he never limped. This is the first time that’s happened for months. Dog and I have both been missing our miles-long perambulations. I can go walking without him, of course, but I don’t see as much on my own. We hustle along when we’re together, but he likes to stop and check things out. And when he does, so do I. It works out well.
Wednesday, while out with my husband, the dog came to a complete stop in front of a tree in a neighbors’ yard. Usually under these circumstances, the dog would be peering up into the branches, trying to follow the course of whatever pesky squirrel had just eluded him. This time, he was staring at the trunk of the tree. Where a great large moth was fluttering away. My husband said it wasn’t quite the size of a luna, but it was big. Having checked out our Audubon field guide, he believes it was a tobacco hornworm moth. I wish I’d seen it, too.
On Tuesday, I spent another day with cousins and cousins-in-law, packing up Aunt Norah’s effects. My executor cousin had made all the decisions about what items were going where. All that remained was to implement the decisions. So we packed china and crystal. We carried off what was portable. My middle cousin disassembled the base of the small dining table and fitted it in his car, along with the chairs; he’d make another trip for the glass top. Movers came and took away a lot of the heavy furniture. A representative of a local nonprofit was on hand to take anything that none of the family had requested—there wasn’t much of that. Another set of movers was due in on Wednesday.
The place was starting to echo by the time I left. It no longer held much of Norah’s touch, and we were feeling pretty grim. I sat for a while in Norah’s petite rocking armchair. It was the only item left that spoke of the woman whose abiding presence had so shaped our lives, whose absence so affects them now. To look on the chair is to see Norah sitting in it. My cousin-in-law decided to take it after all. I’m so glad. It will have another happy home.
By now, the apartment is empty. I won’t see my cousins and their families for the memorial service until the end of October. That was the first time Norah and Jack’s church had available, due to the backlog of services that couldn’t happen earlier due to CoVid restrictions. Perhaps the timing is a blessing. Perhaps by then, our grief won’t be so raw.
27 August 2021