‘whatever internal event’

Bev, our elderly and sassy neighbor, died.

She died three weeks ago tomorrow, alone in her house, found stone-cold between her couch and coffee table by her neighbor across the street. It looks like she went to stand from her usual spot on the couch, then —*whatever internal event*— and, down she went, off to greet the angels.

There won’t be any service, and her house has remained untouched by her out-of-state daughter. The day after Bev was removed, animal control went in to remove the ancient, feral cat presumably to be euthanized; the back of the house still presumably packed to the gills with cat piss and shit.

It’s odd to see her car just sitting in the driveway; on her driver’s side window there remains some strong adhesive from the tape and a plastic sheet she had my husband set up when her window wouldn’t roll up a few weeks ago. There’s still a brand new bottle of ‘Goo-Gone’ sitting in my kitchen, purchased with the express intent of getting the rest of that damn glue off.

He patiently rolled the tape down to try to remove it ‘Better Call Saul’-style, trying not to damage the paint job. She stood in her doorframe, apologizing for the wrong tape she used, she didn’t think it was that strong!

The blisters he got from carefully rolling that adhesive away only came off his fingertips yesterday. Interesting to watch these souvenirs slip away or sit as time marches on.

When we moved into our odd house five months ago, site unseen, in the most panicked state of our adult lives with nowhere else to go, we noticed near immediately that there was a very thin, older blond Labrador just hanging out behind a chainlink fence across the street every moment of every day. Within a week we gathered our introverted selves up to meet the neighbor housing this animal after hearing whispers about an old lady who lives there alone and sometimes forgets to feed her dog, Bianca.

Bev had lived in her house for fifty-plus years, she had purchased it with her husband who was tragically shot by his friend after a gun went off due to a faulty trigger. The young husband died near immediately, and Bev successfully sued the gun manufacturer for his wrongful death and won. I believe for the time (I want to guess.. the 50’s? 60’s?) it was a serious chunk of money, but by the looks of it the money has been gone a long time. Bev never remarried.

Bev also has smoked cigarettes inside for those same fifty years, and the scent wafting from her porch alone is enough to make the most seasoned smoker bargain anything for some fresh air.

Prior to three weeks ago, each time my Jeep would roll down the block I would see a flurry of blond fur running down the line of the chainlink fence, and then sit patiently waiting for me to get out of the car and come see her.

I started keeping dog snacks and treats with me in the car, and then eventually buying her rotisserie chickens I’d pick and douse in cold chicken broth (low-sodium!) to keep her hydrated for those hot summer days. My husband would also get in on the fun and guerrilla-sneak her tennis balls to play with or the occasional pizzle for her to go ape on. He would call up Bev to ask if we could steal her dog for a nice walk in the neighborhood with our dog, the end of which would mean a warm dinner for Bianca and maybe a brush, maybe a hurried toe-clipping, plenty of hugs and cuddles to a deeply grateful dog.

Now, I sit and gaze into her eyes as she nestles onto my feet. My little shadow. She is ours with no one contesting our ownership, and all that needed to happen for this thing that I most furtively and desperately wished for. . . was for Bev to die.

What a mindfuck.