I also need an animal—a fact I learned about myself at six when Tuffy, a terrier mix, followed my brother home from school. During the ten years he lived with us, he taught me that there were creatures on Earth besides my human parents upon whom I could rely to love me unconditionally. After Tuffy came a parade of dogs and cats, each of whom filled, to one extent or another, the void that exists in all of us—the need for reciprocal love.

When we lived in Chicago, Fred and I adopted Beau, a poodle/fox terrier mix who lived (and sailed) with us for thirteen years. Since moving to Savannah, we have offered our home to a succession of rescue cats—Hobie, Bête Noire, Harlequin, Tomochichi, Willow, Calliope, Pie, and Sam—and we have loved them all. Then last August we became petless, a whole new experience.

“Now we can travel,” we said to each other. “Now the house will be fur-free. No more trips to the vet; no more shelf space sacrificed to cat food, cat meds, and cat treats. And won’t it be wonderful to have our whole bed to ourselves?”

As it turned out, not so much.

We couldn’t break the habit of glancing down to avoid stepping on a tail. We missed the warmth of a furry, purring bundle in our lap. We reminisced about Callie’s odd sleeping preferences—an open drawer, a flower pot, a shoe box. We got misty-eyed remembering how Sam raised Pie, the five-week-old kitten he brought home  over our high board fence. The house seemed empty with only our own four feet instead of eight or twelve or even sixteen. We discovered that the freedom of not having an animal was way overrated.

Enter, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

Now, instead of ridding the couch of Sam’s orange hair we’re vacuuming up Lucy’s black fuzz. Instead of regaining a foot of kitchen shelf space, we have given over much of the laundry room to food-and-water bowls, bags of kibbles, dog treats, harnesses and leashes, a cold-weather dog jacket, and a collection of plastic pick-up bags. The small, single ball with a bell has been exchanged for a growing collection of stuffed animals and chew toys. The basket that two cats once shared has now been claimed by one smallish, rescue Shih/Poo who digs holes in my garden and piles up our socks in the middle of the living room floor.

Lucy makes us laugh at her antics, distracts us from TV and computer, gets us outside and moving, and reminds us with her own joi de vivre that life is wonderful and fleeting and that we are very, very lucky to be sharing it with her.

Now I have everything I need.

My mind spins back to childhood autumns in the Midwest when my brothers and I raked leaves into piles and took turns igniting them under our father’s watchful eye.  I am reminded of campfires on the beach with roasted marshmallows and someone’s guitar accompanying us as we sang “My Gal Sal” and “I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.” I remember the scent of our neighbor farmers burning off their fields to clear them of old stalks in readiness for planting.

But these pleasant images quickly dissipate when I realize that today’s smoke comes from a forest fire in Florida, and I picture firefighters risking their lives to battle eighty-foot flames. Rabbits and foxes fleeing side by side in terror. Old pine forests sacrificed to the combined whimsy of wind and lightning.

On the six o’clock news a weeping woman hugs a blackened sauce pan amid the rubble that was once her home. “All my lovely things,” she says.  “My piano, my new loveseat, my dishes.  Gone.”

Dishes?  Loveseat?

“If we suddenly had to evacuate,” I ask my husband, “what would you grab?”

“This is a trick question, right?”

“No trick.  Assuming the dog is okay, what would you take?”

“Guns,” he says immediately. “Cameras.  Credit cards.  And the strong box with our insurance policies.” Fred plays these “what if” games as a small concession to me.  But he isn’t engaged enough to ask me the same question, doesn’t really care what I think. I tell him anyway.

“I’d take the second drawer from the little chest in the powder room. You know, the one with the family photographs.”  I recognize the look. It says There’s a chest of drawers in the powder room?  “And my eight gig flash drive with back-ups of all my manuscripts.”

For the thousandth time I am reminded that we are opposites, that we share little common ground when it comes to what is “valuable.”  For Fred that word is defined by convenience and economy.  What a nuisance to have to replace the .357 magnum and the snub-nose .38.

For me “valuable” means unique and irreplaceable.  My journals, for example, and my great grandmother’s handmade quilt.  Oh, and the box of poems and letters Fred wrote to me when we were just beginning to be us.  These treasures ground me.  Without them I’d be adrift, disconnected, rooted in air.

Sometimes our dissimilarities loom large, requiring nimble footwork to hop-scotch past the obstacles they create, such as last week when we took separate paths to meet friends for dinner and converged at their front door—he wearing jeans and I in a new silk dress.  But even during these awkward moments, I’m glad our differences exist.  Because of them I know we’ll be okay when hurricane Zelda forces us to head for the hills.

With what Fred packs we’ll be housed, fed, defended, and insured—while my carton of valuables will keep us connected to our hearts.

[First published on Women's Voices for Change: http://womensvoicesforchange.org]

No way, Jose.

The vender’s name and 800 phone number were listed next to the charge, so I made the call. A nice man named “Junior” checked his sales records and verified what I feared: Two expensive faucets had been charged to my card and shipped to my address (!) by a man I do not know named Keith Ellsworth. Junior gave me Mr. Ellsworth’s email address as well as his own extension in case I wished to contact him again.

What to do?

I plugged Mr. Ellsworth’s email address into Intelius and hit search. No such email address could be located. This scammer was good.

I took a printout of my bank statement and what little relevant information I had to an officer at my bank. He rolled his eyes at my story.

“It’s getting worse and worse, this problem,” he said. “In London it’s against the law for restaurants to carry a customer’s credit card away. Instead, the machine must be brought to the table and the card swiped in plain sight of the customer.” He added, “Some American credit card companies are now issuing cards with a built-in security code that changes after each swipe.” Unfortunately, not Wells Fargo.

We spent a half hour on the phone cancelling my card and initiating a fraud claim. No, my card had not been stolen. No, nobody uses the card except me. Yes, if necessary I’ll prosecute.

I was informed that in two or three days, $697.47 will be returned to my account provisionally, pending the outcome of the claim. I asked from whose pocket it would come.

“Ours,” said my banker, handing me a temporary card to use until my new one arrives. “Since we guarantee the safety of your money, we eat the loss. It’s one of our biggest costs of doing business.”

I wanted to ask so why don’t you issue the cards with the single-use security code? But just then my iPhone informed me my meter was about to expire. On top of everything else, a parking ticket I didn’t need.

While his pedagogical methods may have rattled my confidence, they also alerted me to the concept of Null–a theory I constantly confirm by looking above, beside, and beyond what is obviously there.

The British do it well. Observing our boat’s heavy mooring rope frayed to a thread, a friend from London once commented, “I say, old dear, your stern line is not what it once was!”

Every navigator recognizes “the null” as the exact position at which no radio signal is received. Every employee understands it is the work he does not do that gets the boss’ attention. Every bird watcher appreciates the lack of fabric that makes for a three-star bikini.

As artist Andrew Wyeth once explained, “It’s not what you put in but what you leave out that counts.” How cacophonous “The Emperor Concerto” would be had Beethoven not included rests–the places without music. “Less is more” shaped the poetry of Robert Browning and later the architecture of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Centuries after Shakespeare crafted Much Ado About Nothing by selectively omitting certain words, Robert Frost recognized that “The Road Not Taken” had made all the difference. Isn’t Michelangelo’s David simply what was left over once the rest of the marble was chiseled away? What is a moon crater but a place where something is not–an eclipse but an absence of light?

And what does the Null Theory have to do with me? Where I do not go determines where I am; what I opt not to eat shapes my body. Absense, I find, is the key to being a good mother-in-law, and in my own marriage, it is often what remains unsaid that keeps the peace.

As for writer’s block–it’s nothing more than the Null Theory gone amok.  The lack of an acceptance from a publisher for my latest novel, the dearth of ideas for a new short story, the blank screen in front of me all seem to verify the yawning void of my talent. At such times drawing on both sides of the line seems like a matter of life or death.

Today the old concept of a neighborhood as a support system has nearly disappeared. If one is willing to risk the urban dangers of an after-dark walk around the block, one invariably sees the flickering eye of the TV staring back at families hypnotized into immobility. Once part of a gregarious community, the American family has  become an assemblage of quasi-alienated beings living in climate-controlled isolation.

During his lifetime my father tended to blame the ills of the world on overpopulation, and maybe he was right. Perhaps it’s the threat of too many others trespassing upon our personal space that makes us overprotective of it.

Consider, for example, the varieties of solitaire available for download on computers, iPhones, and iPads–Fan, Pyramid, Baker’s Dozen, Klondike, Spider, Montecarlo–games popular for their ability to be played solo. And although Facebook and Twitter purport to be “social networks,” they are in fact anti-social in the sense that they encourage members to exchange thoughts from a safe, electronic distance instead of seeking out friends to engage in lively, face-to-face conversation.

Unfortunately, on the altar of electronic communication we are sacrificing the art of human sharing. Neighborliness, it seems, is a luxury we can no longer afford.

Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations credits Cyril Northcote Parkinson as having said, “Work expands to fill the time available for its completion.” There is no truth to the rumor that it took him seventeen years to formulate his hypothesis. I take credit for proving it on a daily basis.

In an attempt to organize myself, I have made an inventory of other rules that seem to influence my behavior. Why, for instance, after carefully coiling the power cord for my laptop and stowing it in the computer case, does it reappear with all the order of a plate of spaghetti? There must be a rule about cords and ropes and garden hoses that I haven’t yet put into words.

Although the Library of Congress won’t acknowledge it, somewhere it is written that “wire coat hangers will tangle,” that “elevator occupants will face forward, eyes up,” and that “rain will fall on car-washing day.”

Another rule I’ve noticed seems applicable to all cities–Savannah included. It is not my fault that my holiday and birthday cards frequently arrive several days late. It’s because of the rule that states, “When driving in search of a mailbox, you will find it located on the wrong side of the street.”

I’ve come to understand that the solution to dealing with disorganization is to recognize these immutable laws in order to anticipate them. Then, when chaos reigns anyhow, it’s comforting to remember Universal Rule Number One: “If anything can go wrong, it will.”

On a visit to the National Railway Museum in York, England, Prince Charles revealed a facet of his personality heretofore unknown: In fourth place, after God, the Queen, and Camilla, His Majesty loves old toilets. Collecting antique loos is his hobby.

At first glance his preoccupation with this underappreciated art form seems frivolous. Perhaps even–kinky. Why can’t England’s future monarch indulge in a respectable pastime such as collecting stamps? A stamp at least you can lick.

But upon further consideration, I realize His Royal Highness is performing a public service in keeping with his station. By elevating the loo to a position of royal importance, His Majesty encourages his subjects to improve the quality of British plumbing to the point where every Englishman can be flushed with national pride.

His interest in loos no doubt stems from his concern for the state of the British economy. Consider the number of jobs his hobby provides: He must employ experts to authenticate, polish, and restore his collection; a crew to swab and disinfect the “commodious” rooms in which they are displayed; another team (perhaps pub patrons) to test them on a rotating basis to ensure their proper functioning; and a security force to maintain crowd control and to prevent theft.

Prince Charles, whose royal ancestry spans centuries, is a living symbol of Britain’s colorful history. It is only fitting that his chosen hobby reflects his sensitivity to the past, for “old” is the the operative word to describe his collection. His highness dismisses the hip, color-coordinated models of today. He cares not for racing stripes or stenciling. The decadence of chrome controls and padded seats is contrary to his taste. Any old loo that was good enough for King George III in 1800 is good enough for the Prince of Wales and Edinburgh in 2011.

In addition to wiping out unemployment and lifting the lid on national pride, Prince Charles has demonstrated an admirable empathy with his subjects. He who will one day wear the crown of England does not eschew the thrones of lesser men.

After his coronation, I shouldn’t be surprised to see other influences upon Great Britain resulting from his patriotic preservation of chamber pots. Perhaps even “God save the King” will give way to “Skip to My Loo.”

It won’t be the first time Brittania waives the rules.

Let me begin with the ladies’ room at an upscale restaurant where the uniformed “attendant” sits in a comfortable chair all day not reading anything in order to be on her toes when I come in to indulge in a private moment. I then rinse my fingers, give her a smile, and opt for a duty free paper towel—despite the fact that she offers me a freshly laundered terrycloth square that will cost me money to use.  If, I hear you ask, preferring  a paper towel is a social faux pas, why even make it available?  To reveal just what a cheap, déclassé clod you are, of course. Don’t you know anything?

There is always—not a saucer, which invites change—a brandy snifter containing a dollar bill, strategically placed for maximum embarrassment should I opt not to contribute.

Now I know this woman has had a hard life. She grew up in Columbia, where thieves would snatch her dentures if they could realize a profit. But here she is, with or without documentation, “working” in the USA—meaning she gets to sit all day in a clean environment wearing a uniform for which she has not paid–to panhandle me when I have to forgodsakes pee. Give me a break.

In about 1855, when I went to Europe with a college tour, I discovered that public toilet facilities in Italy (a civilized society that should have known better) and France (which knew better, but didn’t give a damn) were often little more than reeking holes in a wet cement floor. These became popular well before women wore slacks, which, before letting fly, had to be removed in order for one’s feet to be placed in the appropriate footprints—to the right and left of the pee hole. If their aim was Gallic (or Italic), they didn’t spray their ankles. Mine wasn’t, therefore I did.

Somewhere in an old journal I kept a collection of European public toilet paper. The Germans may have given it away for free, but in the (a-hem) end I’d gladly pay for something better. Reynolds markets the same thing in this country as “wax paper.”  In my second most compromising position (right after the gynecology chair), I tried valiantly to employ this product as a wipe—only to find it creatively and malevolently non-absorbent. From then on, I always carried tissues in my purse.

Part of my resentment about public facilities, whatever the country, stems from high school, when I had a temporary friend whose father had made millions. Since my father had not, this was a mark in her favor with me, a person always curious about how “they” lived.  She had a room with a pink telephone, a back yard with a swimming pool, and a cavernous house with a private screening room.  Mummy and Daddy possessed all the right memberships and occasionally included me in their family jaunts “to the club for buffet night.” Nothing wrong with that.

What was wrong, I would soon discover, was that her father made his millions by locking desperate mothers with toddlers, over-beered teens, and weary travelers out of the toilet unless they paid for the privilege. Yes, this man invented “Nickelock” (later “dimelock” and now, if it still exists, probably “dollarlock.”) Nobody in that family—my friend especially—had ever considered the basic inhumanity of this device. Remembering the times I crawled beneath the door because I couldn’t afford to pee, I dropped her like a stone.

Every women using a public toilet assumes that at any given moment someone will reach over (or under) the door to swipe her purse while she’s in that “Ahhhhhh, thank God” stage of urination. Thoughtfully, some male (who no doubt never peed while clutching his purse protectively) designed special purse hooks that prevent an easy snatch. But they are always anchored so high on the door that the emergency tissues in my purse can’t be reached while assuming the classic hover squat mandated by my mother. (“Imagine the HIV, the leprosy, the genital warts you could bring home to this family!”)

The most offensive public facility has to be the Port-o-let, which never has toilet paper and smells so vile that wetting one’s pants quickly becomes, um, the solution of choice.

I, who grew up amid a bevy of brothers, have never envied males in any other way. But I must admit that when nature calls, their anatomical design makes life a lot easier.

Lately, however, my planning hasn’t been working out. Case in point: When my seventeen-year-old cat, Sam, succumbed to gravity last August, my plan was to wait an appropriate mourning period, then return to the Humane Society and adopt two senior cats, young enough to keep each other company but old enough not to outlive me. Then fate intervened.

It was definitely not my plan for my husband of forty-four years to fall in love with another woman–a secret he managed to keep from me for about two months. When the truth of his affair surfaced, he did the honorable thing and introduced her to me, and in an instant I understood why he was so smitten.

His inamorata now lives with us–a combination of shihtzu and poodle, which makes her either a Pooshitz or a Shitzpoo, we can’t decide which. We named her “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” a ten-month-old rescue puppy who has now been spayed, inoculated, chipped, clipped, and laundered–not necessarily in that order.

She has come to us housebroken, presumably by the same person who abandoned her. (The first fills me with gratitude, the second makes me crazy.) Shy at first, Lucy has now assumed responsibility for all furry or feathered critters in our fenced-in backyard.  Everything makes Lucy happy: kibbles, her chew toy, riding in the car, tickle games, and any sentence that includes the word “go.”

As Robert Burns once cautioned, “the best laid schemes ‘o mice an’ men gang aft agley,” but in this case, I couldn’t be more pleased.