The
red light on my old landline was blinking when I returned from a heart
wrenching trip to the vet's. It was Cejas's last Pupmobile ride. I
stared at the light.
People like me save everything: swizzle sticks from famous places,
keys to houses and old bicycles; landline messages from people no
longer living. It was my way of holding onto them, when a simpler
way would've been to keep a journal. The light was still blinking.
I hit Play.
A male voice. "Woof. Woof. Woof." Then a hang up. "Woof" had been
the name of Cejas's column.
What?? I hit Play again. Or thought I had. Frenzied by strong emotions,
I'd unintentionally hit "Delete."
What "fresh hell" is this? Was I losing my mind? Wait. Perhaps the
caller also left a message on my cell. Yes, there it was again in
Voice Mail. "Woof. Woof. Woof.," but this time, a Denver number appeared
on the screen. I know only one person in Denver, and the number was
not his.
I called the number anyway, and my friend answered. "Yes," he chuckled,
"I was responding to the message you left on your phone."
"What message?" I said, "What are you talking about?"
"Your message said you were out walking the dog and that I could also
leave a message for Cejas."
I vaguely remembered recording that "greeting" on the cell, not the
landline. Yet, it was the landline's blinking light that caught my
attention, leading me to the cell. Stressed out by the loss of Cejas,
it's highly unlikely that I would have otherwise checked Voice Mail.
Horrified to learn that Cejas had just passed away hours ago, my friend
apologized profusely at his gaffe. He'd intended only to make me laugh
when I heard his message "for the dog." - and I hadn't recognized
the phone number because he'd finally stopped resisting modernity,
and bought a cell.
Was that "Woof" message really my high-spirited Cejas, sending a signal
from somewhere over the Rainbow? Could be - after all, Cejas always
had a way with word. |
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