Sunday

THE SAD STATE OF OUR MARKETPLACE

“Inflation,” and “recession” are, for most of us, words we hear on a newscast or read in headlines. We understand only that things are not good, and “not good” means different things, depending on whether we earn over six figures or are struggling to survive on a small, fixed income.

So I went to the mall for a lesson in economics. America’s bad times were palpable there, and the national discomfort made itself known with every step.

I had a gift certificate for $250 from Christmas, and the semi-annual women’s sale was just beginning. A criminal lawyer might say I had means, motive, and opportunity to make a killing at the cash registers. Three hours later I had spent only about $10 having found little worth buying. Quality goods marked down were replaced with shabby “special purchases” manufactured in China or countries I can hardly pronounce. The price tags, however, were equal to those on designer goods tailor-made in Paris. The scam was obvious and I was not about to fall victim to blatant profiteering.

The store was also disarmingly empty with none of the usual “Big Sale” crowd buzzing with the excitement of a great item found at a bargain price. Several shoppers sorting through leather goods on a sale table seemed unenthusiastic (as well they should: the offerings were uninspiring.)

The store’s staff, did its best to “meet and greet,” as they were taught in Retail 101. There was something of desperation in their voices, however. My sense is they’ve been doing a lot more meeting and greeting lately, than closing the deal. Like me, shoppers often walked away empty-handed.

Disappointed but not deterred, I headed for the mall exit to spend my money in some other store. The depressing mood of the cavernous walkway-- almost empty except for a handful of shoppers-- chilled me. No pairs of shoppers squealing with delight, no buyer overloaded with shopping bags. The mall music was overwhelming with no consumer din to mask it.

Bored salespeople stared into space or chatted on cell phones. Some busied themselves with rearranging merchandise in the desperate hope of catching a buyer’s eye with a new display.
No shop I entered was busy. I did note that boutiques with big-ticket items seemed busier than department store chains that have been showering consumers with endless mail and newspaper coupons for double-digit discounts. Still, their aisles are sparsely populated.

No less determined, I went to the men’s department thinking I’d buy a new raincoat for my husband, but struck out there as well. No crisp, classic trench coats with zip-out linings, only overpriced “microfiber” numbers made in… you guessed it.

I headed for the garage and, on the way out, bought myself a new lipstick with one of those coupons I mentioned.

Hours after I had left for the mall an enthusiastic shopper, I was self-serving gas at $3.89 a gallon, grounded in brutal reality. I was headed home with only my lipstick and a more graphic understanding of America’s economic woes-- darker and heavier than I realized before my trip to the deserted, dying marketplace.
_____END_____

Saturday

MY DOG WHO SPOKE TO MY SOUL




Last week I had a total meltdown, in my car, in the garage, sobbing uncontrollably. I had just returned from doing a few errands when I realized—again—that my faithful companion of the last 16 years was forever gone from the back seat.

Joachim—or more officially, “Joachim the Good Dog” as we liked to clarify—was no ordinary beagle: he was, simply, a very special dog. Sweet and serene, he never growled, bit, or threatened. He loved people of all ages, other dogs, and even cats.

And he also loved me: his adoptive “mother” of the past decade and a half.

That I adored him goes without saying. I rescued him from the SPCA and he became my pet. I took him everywhere with me, nursed him when he was ill, fed him scraps from my dinner, walked him in rain, sleet and snow-- at all hours-- and tried to attend to his every need.

In exchange, he gave me unquestioned devotion and a quiet and comforting companionship too precious to lose.

Now it is lost.

Books are written about dogs and dog-lovers: Hollywood makes movies about dogs, their owners and the special bonds between them. Poems and essays also abound about the loss of faithful pets and the humans left behind to mourn them.

There was a time when I might have pooh-poohed the sadness people described upon the death of their dogs. Sure, I would have thought, they’re sad, but they’ll get over it. After all, in the end, it’s a dog.

I had no idea, before Joachim.

When my rational side kicks in, I focus on the “important things” and on my many “blessings.” I am grateful for my good health, and for my loving family. I live a decent life and have much to be thankful for, in fact.

But I miss my friend.

I miss the sound of his steady breathing as he slept next to my bed, his wagging tail whenever he saw me, and the warmth of his body at my feet as we watched TV or read together in the evening.

I miss his bark from the back seat, signaling me to open his window so he could drive with the breezes blowing back his velvet ears.

I miss his constancy and, yes, the unquestioning love people talk about when they talk about great dogs.

Our vet suggests another dog to fill the void. Despite his good intentions, the suggestion seems a bit like telling a parent who loses a child that, “It’s a good thing you have other children.” No living being can replace another that was loved and lost.

For the moment, the idea feels like investing again in certain heartache.
I don’t want. “another dog:” I want my Joachim back.

And that can never be.
_________________END________________

Mary Ann Sorrentino

Mary Ann Sorrentino
Italy Series of articles runs Aug./Sept/Oct 2015

Hope for the Future: Uruguay 2007

Hope for the Future: Uruguay 2007
Happy New Year!

About Me

Hillsboro Beach, FL/ Cranston, RI, United States

"JOACHIM" - Oct. '92-March '08

"JOACHIM"  - Oct. '92-March '08
We Miss You, and Love You, Good Dog

Castel Del Monte

Castel Del Monte