Skeletons in My Closet

Just sharing a personal narrative about the role of clutter in my life.  Thanks for reading! 

SKELETONS IN MY CLOSET by Sara Etgen-Baker

            When I retired my clothes closet became dormant and insignificant—cluttered with useless fabric skeletons.  For a while, these fabric skeletons remained silent, but there’s something about closets, though, that make skeletons restless.  And these skeletons were no different.  Soon they began haunting me. 

“Set us free!” they moaned from the cluttered darkness. 

“Be quiet!” I shouted whenever I walked by. 

“You’ll never wear us again,” they demanded.  “Besides we’re aging and becoming worthless here in the shadows.”

 “What if I return to the workplace?  I’ll need you then.  You just never know.”  I reassured them.  “Let’s wait and see.”

But in the middle of the night their shrill voices woke me.  “Please, set us free.  We don’t need you anymore.” 

I pulled back the covers, flung open the closet doors, and flipped on the light.  “You don’t understand.  You may not need me,” tears trickled down my face, “but I don’t think I can live without you!” 

“Don’t you see?” The skeletons persisted.  “You don’t need us anymore either!”   Then one of them whispered, “I believe you’re procrastinating and keeping us here out of fear.”

“No I’m not!” I insisted as I turned around, slammed the door, and crawled back into bed.  Unable to sleep, I stood up and paced around the bedroom.  What if the fabric skeletons were right?  Why wouldn’t I let them go?  What was I afraid of?  After a restless, soul-searching night, I realized my retirement frightened me.  But why? 

Let’s face it.  Main stream culture doesn’t necessarily value retirees.  So, my retirement seemed like a one-way ticket to insignificance and disenfranchisement from the culture as a whole.  I was afraid of being useless—like the cluttered fabric skeletons in my closet.  Eliminating them somehow meant I, too, was useless. 

One by one, I freed most of the fabric skeletons and began embracing my retirement.  In the process I learned that clutter is a postponed decision and is always about feelings—whatever those feelings might be.

Runt of the Litter

Here's a story about my family's loving Doxie named Fritz von Etgen.  Some of this is a wee bit fictionalized to capture the essence of the family dachshund who lived with us for about 12 years.

RUNT OF THE LITTER

By Sara Etgen-Baker

I stepped off the back porch and approached Fritz’ house, nestled beneath the shade of a sprawling pecan tree.  Using our shared German language, I commanded Fritz to dinner:   “Fritz!  Kommen Sie hier—Abendessen!” 

            Yet, Fritz didn’t come when called to dinner.    I knelt down, peered inside his doghouse, caught a glimpse of his shiny dark little nose, and found him snuggled in the back corner of his doghouse, shivering and whining.  He tried to stand up but whimpered then immediately collapsed.

            “What’s the matter old boy?  Why are you shaking?”  I reached inside, hoping to pull him into my arms, but he yelped even louder.  His doghouse had no floor, so I lifted up Fritz’ house, placed him in my arms, and put him in the softest blanket I could find.  I sat on the back porch with him in my lap. “Fritz, you’re gonna be okay.”  I gently stroked his back.  “Just go to sleep.  When you wake up, you’ll be okay.”  As I waited for him to drift off to sleep, I remembered the day Fritz came into my life. 

I was lying on the back porch that hot Labor Day afternoon when I heard ol’ man Davis proclaim, “Hilda’s gone into labor!”  I leaped down the back porch steps, ran next door, and watched Hilda strain as each one of her five pups slowly wriggled its way from her belly.  Fritz was a runt and the first of Hilda’s litter of five milk-chocolate colored dachshunds. 

I giggled as I watched five bundles of energy squirming beneath their mother’s tummy, all begging for lunch at the same time.  The magical moment ended all too quickly when Hilda nudged her runt puppy away from her.  Although the runt inched its way back to Hilda’s stomach, she shoved the runt away, growled at it, pouncing on its tiny back and tail.  It yelped. I screeched in horror as ol’ man Davis—the neighborhood dachshund aficionado—ran to my side.   

            “She’s hurting him . . . make her stop!” I waved my hands in front of Hilda’s growling face. 

             Ol’ man Davis scooped up the injured pup away from its snarling mother and placed it in my hands.  “Run, kiddo.  Find a shoe box and put that pup in it!  Hurry back!”

I darted for the Davis’ house, gingerly holding the wounded pup in my hands.  When I placed the pup in the shoe box, it stretched and twisted its tiny body ever so slightly.  Relieved, I returned to ol’ man Davis’ side. 

“Hilda’s a mean dog . . . I don’t like her!” My voice trembled.  “Why would a mama dog kill its own puppy?”

 “Kiddo, ya gotta understand that Hilda’s not mean; she loves her runt but believes that it’s too weak to survive and thinks that killing it is the merciful thing to do.”

Ol’ man Davis patted me on the back. “Hey, kiddo, if ya have a doll blanket and baby bottle back home, go get ‘em. I believe we can save this pup.  Whatcha think about that?”

 I dashed home, found the two items, and returned to ol’ man Davis’ side.  We placed the runt on the blanket, heated some milk, added syrup to it, and poured the mixture into the baby bottle.  The runt sucked on it and wiggled contentedly.  While I caressed its tiny body with my fingers, the runt fell asleep—serene and out of harm’s way.   

 “Ya know, kiddo, many runts die before they ever open their eyes.  If we can keep this runt alive ‘til its eyes open, it’ll prob’ly survive.  Supposin’ it pulls through, you can have this pup. I bet it’ll be the most energetic pup of the litter.”  

So for 14 days we hand-fed the runt, waiting for its eyes to open and watching it develop into an energetic, mischievous but loving, satiny dachshund puppy with a slightly broken tail.   

“Hey, kiddo, at some point ya gotta give your puppy a proper German name,” suggested ol’ man Davis.

“Well, for some reason I like the name Fritz.  It suits him!”

            “Fritz is a right and proper name.   I kinda like it.”

So for 12 years, Fritz and I shared the back porch most afternoons.  Whenever I sat on the porch, Fritz always jumped into my lap. As I petted his elongated back and belly, I’d sometimes share my deepest thoughts, secrets, and fears. 

 “Fritz, I want to go to the dance, but I’m afraid no one will ask me.  Should I go anyway?”  He’d tilt his head side-to-side as if to nod affirmatively and look at me with those encouraging doe-like eyes.  “You know, I’m not very pretty, and I’m not a popular girl.  What if my acne flairs up the day before the dance?  What then?  Should I go?”   He’d lick my face, wag his tail, and bark leaving me to interpret his doxie advice. 

As Fritz matured, he embraced his German heritage, for he loved sausage, sauerkraut, pretzels, and even an occasional beer.  At some point, Fritz even acquired a bit of the German wanderlust—escaping from my yard and roaming the neighborhood.  I never worried about his wanderings, though. I always found Fritz—he was the only neighborhood dachshund whose tail was broken.  As soon as I spotted him, I’d yell in German, “Fritz, kommen Sie hier. Schlechter Hund!”  As commanded, Fritz came to my side with his head down and his broken tail between his legs, pretending to be my bad dog. 

            I suppose his mother’s early rejection made Fritz a bit arrogant, which was all too evident when he haughtily turned his head toward me and trotted home.   Once inside the house, Fritz sounded like Fred Astaire tap dancing—his tiny little toenails clickedy-clicked on mother’s linoleum floor.  However, Fritz was half-a-dog high and a dog-and-a-half long with short stubby legs and tiny feet.  So, he lacked Astaire’s coordination and grace—running down the hallway and sliding out of control with the back of him always going in front of him. 

Today, though, Fritz looked listless, fragile, and feeble.  “What do you need, old boy?”  I stroked his head and muttered to myself.  “What should I do, Fritz?  Please tell me.  I’ll get you whatever you need.” 

Ol’ man Davis must’ve seen us on the back porch and said, “Hey, kiddo.  Looks as if old Fritz is in some pain. Let’s take him to the vet.  How does that sound?” 

            I silently boarded ol’ man Davis’ truck, resting Fritz comfortably in my lap. When we arrived at the vet’s office, he immediately took Fritz from me, disappearing from view.  When the vet reappeared, he said, “Fritz has arthritis and he’s also had a severe heart attack.  He’s an old dog and too weak to survive.”  He took my hand in his and said, “The strong and merciful thing to do would be to put Fritz to sleep.”

 “Are you sure?  Maybe all Fritz needs is some rest.”

“Yes, I’m sure.  I know letting go of your beloved Fritz is a hard decision, but…..” the vet’s voice trailed off. 

I gulped hard and nodded “Okay.”

 “Would you like to see him one last time?” the vet asked.

“Go ahead, kiddo.”  Ol’ man Davis squeezed my hand and stroked my forearm.  “I’ll wait for ya right here.”

I entered the back room and approached the examination table.  Fritz lifted his head and wagged his broken tail.  I stroked Fritz’ belly, patted his head, choking back the tears.  “Fritz, you’re weak and sick, old boy, and not going to get any better.  I don’t want to see you suffer, so, I’m…I’m… putting you to sleep.”

I hugged Fritz one last time. “I’m going to miss you, old boy!”

Fritz looked at me with those familiar doe-like, understanding eyes and nodded his head as if to say, “I’ll be okay.  Thanks for being strong and merciful.” 

The vet handed me a box of tissues and pulled me against his shoulder.   “Putting Fritz to sleep is safe and harmless.  Fritz will receive two shots. The first will render him unconscious.  The second will put him to sleep quickly and painlessly, usually within about 30 seconds.”

After Fritz received the first shot, I waited until unconsciousness washed over him like a soothing rain.  Then, with the second shot, Fritz slipped away quickly and peacefully, just as the vet promised.   I lingered by Fritz’ side for quite some time, remembering what my childhood dog had taught me about tenacity, friendship, loyalty, and now death. 

The next day ol’ man Davis and I buried Fritz in his favorite spot—beneath the cool shade of the pecan tree.  I found myself thinking back to the day Hilda tried to kill her runt puppy.  As I did, my perspective shifted, for I now better understood and even respected Hilda’s instinct to be merciful and strong.