Ode To The Mad Dog

My plan is to periodically highlight special people in my life, and I’m thrilled to start, on her birthday, with my beloved cousin, Mad Dog. She is an inspiration, an anchor, and a hell of a lot of fun.

Three years my senior, she features in my earliest memories. I worshipped her. As a child, learning that I would be spending time with her felt like Christmas and my birthday combined. I would escape the insanity of life with three brothers and catch a glimpse of what it was to be a feisty, outspoken girl. Among my most treasured memories are our periodic sojourns at our grandmother’s farm, where we caught up, explored, stirred up minor trouble, and laughed long into the night.

A true friendship began with our increased independence and mobility as teens and our 12 hours shifts in the kitchen of a nursing home. Our attendance at different colleges was a minor inconvenience which we made up for in the summers. After her graduation, in perhaps the greatest scam of all time, we signed on for a semester in Rome together, where our exploits were too numerous to share here, and where the moniker Mad Dog was coined by our wildest classmates.

The Mad Dog Rufino Tamayo, Mexican, 1899 – 1991

While the name originated with her celebratory antics (yes, she was a party animal), its true appropriateness was in her rabid enthusiasm for life. Palaces, dolci, shopping, her friends: all were met with an unparalleled level of zeal. She did nothing half way; even her decision to blow off formal schooling in exchange for experience was epic.

Our paths began to diverge in our twenties, as I began roaming the world while the Mad Dog settled in to marriage and motherhood. Always a late bloomer, when I took up that path ten years or so later, my cousin was there to encourage and lead me and the nickname was a distant memory. And then, a disaster of our own making: we allowed miles and the exigencies of our family lives to create distance between us and for a while we drifted apart. During these years I dreamed of her often (we were always reconciled) and always woke disappointed.

While apart, we each endured our seasons in purgatory. At various times, one or the other (or both) of us was dealing with a loved one’s death, serious mental and physical illness, unruly children, and learning disabilities. These were the crucibles in which our compassion and tolerance were formed, and our hearts were softened. So that when we reconnected several years ago, it was on a profound, heartfelt level that washed away the years in between.

I’d like to say that we provide each other mutual support, but the truth is that, especially these last few years, I’m not sure I’d have survived without my cousin’s loving admiration and practical assistance. Who else would act as an educational ambassador for my daughter’s chronic illness, always let us know she was thinking of us, or travel over 1400 miles just to help us move into our new home?

Recently, her two sons were in town, and I astounded them by revealing that their classy, reserved, conservative mother’s post-adolescent nickname was Mad Dog. Some hilarious texting followed, including one from Mad Dog to me threatening serious bodily harm if I told any stories. The guys just couldn’t get over it. And it got me thinking.

A mad dog is still the perfect alter ego for my cherished cousin and friend. Because while her truly wild days are over, she still has that glint in her eye. She is fierce in her loyalty to and love for her people. She still has a fervent zest for life. And God help you if you get near her dessert.

Happy Birthday, Mad Dog. I love you.