Who Am I to Complain?

I’m just a fox named Steve. I walk the beach, wearing a stringed jacket with pockets for my black paws. The waves crash against the sand, my bare feet wet under my pocketed, ripped jeans. My bushy white and orange tail pokes out, staying behind me like a friend stays with you through thick and thin. Like my dad and me. Especially before the cancer rocked our worlds.          

Another night I walk the beach. Its sunsets and sunrises rise for me, for my family, for the fox setting his beach chair on the hot sand ready to tan and then run a mile. It rises and sets for everyone. Especially my father.                 

I’m glad it doesn’t just rise and set for us. I’m glad I live in a populated city, a lot of whom walk Florida’s shores. Hawaii was great, but Miami Beach is a city all its own. My father’s favorite city. Where he raised me.  

I decided that I’d live a grateful life. I’d notice others’ poor, scabbed paws outstretched, desperate eyes wide with hunger. I work at a local bouquet shop, but I always lend money to those eaten by poverty, their tattered clothes proof that the hungry beasts of starvation and homelessness have stripped them of life’s necessities. They should be wrapped in a warm towel after a hot bath, sit down to a good meal every night and wake up to a great day at school or work. More money should be lent to the poor.  

My job is more than just selling flowers, cleaning the counter, windows, front door, bathrooms and maintaining the bouquets. I beautify the world—this place is so full of life nothing can be too cherished and relished, right? Dad would agree.

I smile as the sand warms my drenched paws. The waves come like hands stretching for something. Like a swimmer stretching ahead of himself or herself to be first. This vast mass of water stretches and stretches, never reaching, exactly. That’s why the waves crash again and again—they’re always trying. Struggling. Never quenching their thirst. Like my dad and me. Because of bone cancer, neither of us enjoy the bright sunny days of yore anymore. It’s just stupid hospitals and even uglier needles plunged into an innocent fox’s body, trying to heal him but never able to. He’s only weakening, so why even try to help?

I welcome my relatives and friends into my small but cozy apartment and then close it at night to enjoy a good movie or show. I always enjoy a relaxing weekend with family or friends in Tampa. I always eat the moistest, juiciest apples or pick a yellow, fresh banana from the bunch, smiling gratefully as I thank my sister or mother for buying such yummy goodness. I love bananas, but before I snack, I see whether my siblings want one. I don’t want them going without food. We don’t have much money in the family anyway. Mom’s always saying one of us could be evicted soon. Though I wake up with a bright smile on my red and white face, my black paws outstretched to welcome a new day as the risen sun says good morning, tears of despair form, threatening to slide down my face like rain does on a window.   

But I don’t take advantage of anything. Not that that’s important—nothing is special about me. I’m just me.

At the store, my siblings always want crackers or pretzels or pizza. While shopping, I check on Dad. He croaks an answer, but I encourage him, never wasting a phone call. Money is tight. I make just enough at the shop. I need another job. Maybe I can train other foxes to be healthier. Become a fitness guru. I don’t know.

I guess I can expand my horizons. Why not stretch a little farther into the world by extending even more kindness? I can meet new faces, befriend other foxes and venture into other cities. Hawaii was the farthest I’ve been. Pensacola sounds nice. Maybe Tallahassee. My dad would say so. He’s always encouraging me to climb higher, go faster and see farther than I think I can. I always nod.

I make small trips memorable and worthwhile. Whenever I’m called to manage boutiques down the road from L.L.C. Flowers and Buds, I strive to leave these shops cleaner and more beautiful than when I had walked their dusty floors and swiped a paw on the counters grey with dust. Their owners are grateful for my services. I always thank them for thanking me, willing to let them know I’m always ready to help. I can always hear a smile in their voice.  

My boutique shop is not all there is in the work world. My siblings are not all there are in relationships. My father, dying old fox, is not the only male figure in my life. My mother, aging vixen, is not the only female figure in my life. I sympathize with others, encouraging them to see that the sun always rises and shines even when they don’t. Depression and cancer and death are real. Storms gather and then leave, resulting in floods, tornadoes and earthquakes. Newscasters tell us of hurricanes rampaging across our beloved state. These stupid things leave a black, empty hole in our hearts. They leave footprints that, when stepped in, can emotionally sink you.  

But I determined never to become a brooding fox. That angry tom fox. That dreaded dog fox. Smiles are for the cheerful, the optimistic and the positive. Some foxes walk with their heads down and tails drooping. Other foxes’ shoulders slump with the pressures of life. And then there are foxes I enjoy hanging out with. They don’t always look for the next big thing. They’re content with their lives. They’re right at home.

I’m right at home. Something inside nudges me, though. I study the sun, its gold turning red and then fading to orange as the clouds swallow it whole. Foxes’ feelings, like the sun, can pull them into the quicksand of depression, despair, regret, anger or other negative worlds. But I’m glad no quicksand is pulling anyone down tonight—I turn to see small kits tumble and roll down the sand until the vixen sitting on their towel barks at them to play close to their beach blanket. Seagulls cry in the sky, hungry for a worm or bread. I search my pockets. Nothing. I bite my lip—I should’ve brought something for them. I sigh, disappointed. Maybe next time. I’ll remember.    

My phone rings. It’s my father. His weak voice makes me blink back tears of sadness but also frustration. I can’t heal him! I clench my free fist—his cancer should disappear. The stupid monitor beeps in the background as I stomp towards my apartment. I burst inside, grab a few things with my head tilted and my left shoulder up to hold the phone. As we talk, I shut my suitcase and dash out the door with my car keys, heading to the hospital. My father is in the bed behind the third door to the right as I walk between the sliding glass doors.

His raspy voice welcomes me as I drop my stuff to the floor and then clutch his left paw. Cancer has attacked his very bones, eating at him. His soft blue eyes look at me, love shining through them. I try to smile, my mouth quivering. I blink back threatening tears, nodding as he tells me story after story of when he’s picked me up as a little kit and swung me around, my excited squeals filling the living room and sending my mother running into the room only to shake her head as she watches us play and chase each other. After we talk, I instantly grab my phone, inviting Rudolf and Courtney and my mother. Three foxes soon enter the doorway, and I greet them all, hugs and kisses all around. My father inhales a surprisingly deep breath and wishes them well. Then we see him exhale and just rest in the bed.   

The harshness of his guttural voice goes ignored. The lame taps of the frail paws are fine. My father’s eyes stay on my mother’s own as they clutch each other’s paws. My siblings and I put our arms and paws around each other, reveling in the beauty of this precious moment.     

One Sunday before heading out to walk alongside the ocean’s covetous waves, my father calls.   

“Dad!” I shut myself in the bathroom, locking it. Shutting the world out for a moment.

“Son…please, remember to keep running your beautiful shop.”

“I will! I have. And I help others with their shops, too!”

A throaty cough. And then he told me he was too weak to hold the phone. I clutched mine ever tighter.

“Dad.” I pressed gently.

“Yes—I’m here.”

“I’m coming over.”

“Hurry—I’m about to go to sleep!”

I laughed, and heard a dry chuckle in return.

“Dad?” I whispered.

“Yes, son?” He turned his head to face me, straining his eyes. I told him he didn’t need to stretch or move; just my voice should be enough. He shooed those words away with a wimpy wave.   

I rubbed his head between his ears, him closing his eyes and smiling. He said that the nurse was supposed to come in a minute and give him some medicine. We waited; then I went to go check for her. She wasn’t around. I told the receptionist my father was dying, and I needed the nurse to care for my father while I slept in the waiting room. She looked at me like I just spoke another language and then cocked her head, squinting her eyes.      

“Ma’am,” I curled my paws, “My father is dying of bone cancer. He needs help eating and sitting and…he just needs care.”

“Well,” the vixen took a breath and then exhaled impatiently, looking around probably for paperwork, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. She’s supposed—”

“Ma’am!” I slammed my fists on the counter, and she stared at me in frustration and confusion. “Why must bad things happen to good foxes—”

“Complaining isn’t going to do anything!”

I stormed away, dog foxes and vixens all staring at me. I headed outside the hospital, and then heard steps heading in my direction. I stopped and turned around.  

“Yes, Doc?”

He stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry Nurse—”

“Look,” I motioned, “my father is in that room. He can’t get up and at ‘em anymore. He’s suffering miserably. Can we just have some nurses or doctors see whether that nurse will come back? Where is she?” I started to panic. Sweat beaded my forehead. My paws were clammy.

“Son—” The doctor tried to calm me, but I snapped that he wasn’t Dad. I ran home, though it was miles away from the hospital. One more step, and I, huffing and puffing, fell flat on my face. The watery drips of the gutter in front of me started blurring, and then all went black.

I scratched my eyes. I blinked, weary, and then got up. The gutter was still there, and it was still raining. I had to get to work! I dashed back to my apartment after borrowing a previous owner’s old keys and then dressed. I couldn’t believe I had blacked out from running all that way. I thought of nothing else as I wiped the counter clean of dust and germs, sold a hundred or so flowers and scrubbed some toilets. My boss stopped me as I was walking out the door.

“Steve?”

I turned.

He waved me over, and I sighed, dragging my feet. He looked at me with raised eyebrows. I sighed inwardly. Interrogations weren’t appropriate right now. Mr. Reds was known to question his employees regardless of the reason. He also threw his paws on his hips, tapping one of his feet. I looked down and then told him the problem.  

“Ever since his first treatment, I’ve done what my siblings and I always do—use armless chairs and sheets as beds to spend the night. We’d come after work and then leave early the next day while my dad slept all day. We’d always ask him what he needs, never saying I or me or my unless we helped him. His wide smile and sparkling eyes never lost their shine. We never gave up on him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Steve, but you can’t just—”

“Get angry because someone doesn’t care?” I threw my paws all around, lashing out. Shocked faces stared at each other for a second, and then he jabbed me with a paw.

“Look, son. You—”

“You’re not Dad!”

I exited the shop faster than a rabbit shot from its hiding place when the hungry fox spotted it. And then headed home, desperate for someone to lift me from this sinking sand of angst. I couldn’t believe I had treated not one but two dog foxes with such…

I wasn’t being disrespectful. I don’t take anything for granted—even conversation.  

My dad should see how other foxes were treating him. He deserved better. He used to take me ice skating, snowboarding and out to ice cream at an indoor winter sports arena every weekend and winter break. We went to Courtney’s neighborhood sledding contests and then ice skating competitions way up in Montana. He was the fox I trusted. And who trusted me.

As I looked at myself in a puddle of oil, I saw my reflection jabbing his paw at me, a nasty glint in his deceptive eyes. Maybe you did ditch him, I was saying. Your father had been alone, abandoned by his oldest kit. You abandoned the hospital and the boutique, your anger causing you to avoid confrontation. You left him alone because impatience had intervened.

I frowned, mulling over his words. Then I thought, I was just angry. Everyone does this. When I blinked, the oily puddle returned to my reflection. I shrugged. Those are lies!

I guess I just have to hold on stronger to the truth. I sighed. The unwanted truth of death. But how? Can’t Dad just be cured?              

When I entered the hospital, I met and then asked the doctor to forgive my ugliness. But he just clapped paws with me, recalling his reaction to a lazy nurse who had forgotten about his sick mother. When I called my boss, he wanted to meet Saturday. I agreed.

Sipping coffee by the ocean outside a crab restaurant, I started with my dying father. Mr. Reds cut in, explaining his struggle to be there for his ill mother because of three jobs to pay rent. After listening to such a heart-wrenching tale, I told Mr. Reds I guess we all are the same—in some way.     

“Yeah. We all experience something we don’t want.”

I planned for Dr. Teals and Mr. Reds to meet Courtney, Rudolf and my mother before my father passed away. Tears flowed from Rudolf and Courtney’s eyes. My mother consistently wiped her nose and eyes as she sat opposite me at my father’s side.  

“Dad?”   

“Yes, son.” My father turned to me and coughed, covering his mouth. Then he looked up at me. “What is it?”    

“I will expand my friend circle one day, enlarge the boutique shop and expand my horizons other ways. Dad, I want to be special. I don’t want to just do stuff anymore. I want to mean something.”   

Another cough, dry and painful, and then my dad stretched a paw to clasp it with my own. “You already do special things, you know that? Don’t doubt yourself. No need to prove yourself.” Then he inhaled and exhaled. “Don’t let me leave you knowing you want to be special; let me go knowing you already are special, no matter what.”     

I lunged, hugging my terribly sick father. His paws wrapped around my back and shoulders. We held each other for such a long time. I forgot everything—who was in the room, who had walked in and even work. It was just Dad and me.     

“Dad?” I whispered.

“Yes?”

“I love you. Don’t go. Please—I won’t be special without you!”

“I love you, too, son!” I forced myself to let go. “You know why the sun rises and falls every day? So we can spend more time with each other, every day.”  

I nodded, wishing I could save my father. He held my paw, squeezing it with as much strength as he could muster, saying he didn’t want to be held forever. He had to go. We all would have to go. I would too. I knew I would see my father again, anew. He wouldn’t be sick, dying or in the hospital anymore. He would be well. Well enough to wrap me in his paws and hold me tight without any pain or weariness. But I didn’t want to know I would. I wanted him well now—

He cut in, saying I didn’t have to yell or get angry anymore, either.

“What?” I crinkled my face, confused. “You—”     

“Yes—I was angry, too. Penelope lied to us.”

I stared at my father. Then I nodded sincerely.    

My father and I had both been angry.

While working that weekend, I noticed I was leaving my paw prints of ingenuity and creativity all around just like my dad had left his paw prints of joy and laughter in my life. Fox News reporters interviewed me after I launched my interior design career. This lifestyle provided more than enough financial and emotional satisfaction for my mother, siblings and me.    

But I didn’t become famous for Dad. I was just glad I had a dad like Dad.

Like father like son.    

Special dad, special son.