So the other day, I was purging the final remants of our roadtrip from the Jeep—popcorn and doghair, soda cans and water bottles, gum wrappers and maps of what to do in North Dakota—seriously, they exist. Maps of what to do in ND, I mean—not actual things to do in North Dakota . . . anyhow, I had my back turned for a mere second, I swear, when suddenly, the unmistakable, shrill Stand Back Sucka! bark of Rocco sliced the midmorning air. It wasn't coming from our yard; rather, it was from a few houses down, so I dropped the vacuum cleaner hose and tore up the driveway and down the road, fingers in my mouth, whistling like my dad used to back in the day, when he wanted us us five kids home for dinner, now, goddammit! If he had to whistle more than once, we were in big trouble.
Where IS Rocco, and why is he barking like a banshee?! I wondered frantically, imagining all the things he could possibly be terrorizing: a chipmunk? A skunk? A poor, unsuspecting neighbor minding their own business in their own yard??? The latter had to be the case, as I heard a voice in the distance and am pretty sure Rocco's name was mixed in with the jumble of words. I whistled a few more times (he was now in big trouble) and suddenly, Rocco came loping through a stand of pines, pausing to looking up at me like, "What's your problem, woman—I was just protecting the neighborhood . . ." before trotting right past me toward home. As though there were absolutely nothing wrong with fighting crime. On someone else's property. When the only criminal is the neighbor himself.
I quickly herded him home and into the house, all the while gently trying to explain why it wasn't okay to wander off our yard into someone else's yard and scare the livin' bejeezus out of them (yes, I talk to my dog as though he's a child. Sadly, I have become that person . . .). As we were having our little human-to-dog discussion, I heard a woman's voice calling my name outside. I went outside to find my sweet neighbor, Mrs. D from down the road, who just happens to live in the very house that Rocco was trespassing on moments before, coming down my driveway. At the sight of her, I realized, with glaring clarity, that my my Get out of Jail Free card, issued on my first day of widowhood, had just expired . . . I started apologizing profusely for not keeping better tabs on my li'l mutt and immediately, she put a hand on my shoulder and hushed me with, "Jenni, now stop that!" (I love it that she calls me Jenni—no one does, except my youngest of nieces and nephews, and the errant high school classmate whom I haven't seen in 25+ years, who still thinks I go by "Jenni With an 'I!'" and am still in love with John Taylor from Duran Duran.) "Rocco was just being a good dog—he was protecting me from Dom!" Mrs. D said. Dom is her husband . . .
"Oh, my God, I am so sorry," I continued to babble, "we were just outside, cleaning the car, and I had gone into the garage, and I guess that was his cue to take off—but I really can't allow him to do that any more—"
Mrs. D cut me off again with a wave of her hand. "Jenni, I said stop it right now—he's just doing what he does best, being a dog! No harm done, he's a good boy—oh, look at him in the window there, barking like crazy, he wants to come out and see me again, isn't that sweet!" She laughed as she pointed to the kitchen patio door, where Rocco was hysterically barking, and jumping back and forth like a dog with a worm burrowing into his brain. I rolled my eyes. It wasn't sweet, it was annoying as hell. Three years into this, as much as I love Rocco with all my life, I am still not used to a barking dog. Gaia and Liddy never barked. Their only guard-dog quality was their size and menacing wolfish appearance. Guess there's always a trade-off . .
"Anyhow," Mrs. D continued, "I've been meaning to give you this." She reached over, pulled my hand into hers, and pressed a small object into my palm. "It's St. Joseph, the patron saint of homes and family—he's my patron saint," she said with a smile. I looked down at the tiny gray plastic figurine in my hand. "Now, what you do is, you take him and bury him in your front yard, and he's supposed to help sell your house. I'm not saying I want you to move, because when the day comes, I'll be so sad, but I know how hard it is for you out here. I know your Bob loved it out here, but it has to be hard, being alone, far from your family and friends. You're young—you need to be back in the city, closer to the action. I really do understand, and I just want to help. I'm not saying this'll work, because we tried it with our house, and God knows that didn't go over so well—"
God bless this awesome woman, I just adore her and her thoughtfulness and perceptive insights. Still, I couldn't help but burst out laughing. "So you're giving me a defective Joseph?!" I had to ask.
"Well, don't take our experience as an example," Mrs. D said with a wave of a hand, "take it for what it's worth. If it helps, it helps, if not, it won't hurt now, will it?" I was getting a slight headache, pondering the odd logic/faith/sense? of burying a holy statue in the dirt with the hopes to sell my house. What if I bury him wrong? What if it's the wrong saint? Maybe there's another saint who cold do a better job? What if St. Joseph isn't okay with this at all?! Does he know or care that I'm a fallen Catholic (and I can't get up)?! Do saints cast curses?
"And don't ask me how to bury him—you'll have to look that up online," Mrs. D advised me as she headed back up the driveway.
After she left, I Googled "bury St. Joseph statue to sell house" online and came up with endless references to the practice. And of course, none of them concurred. One site said to bury him in the back yard, another said no, definitely front. And head down, facing the street. No, on his back, head toward the house. Or was it to the southeast, on his side . . . I thought maybe I should make a bumper sticker to go along with this little ritual, along the lines of "Jesus is my copilot," only mine would say, "St. Joseph is my Realtor . . " One site said it really doesn't matter where or how you bury the statue; it's your faith and prayers that matter most. hmmm, being I'm still kinda short on both, this could be a huge waste of both St. Joseph's and my time . . .
At any rate, I waited till dark to take the spade and statue to the yard, and began digging . . .
