“I can’t get that dog out of my nose.” My mother was making short sniffs of air in and out. The sound was grating on me. We had just left a birthday party full of interesting people and one small, well-intentioned dog. I knew that was the dog she was referring to, but I asked anyway.
“What dog?”
“That little one, inside.”
“Really? But that dog didn’t even have a smell.”
“Ohh, yes he did. I could smell it the minute he walked in the door.”
It was a compressed moment. She had to air one judgement, even if it was veiled. It was a dear friend of mine’s birthday, and my mother was also visiting. I’m trying to be more comfortable when two worlds collide. I brought my mother to the party. We made small talk. I considered everyone there to be more successful than me, more cool than me. I hoped my mother would be impressed. She seemed to be having a good time, even when I left her side, she maintained conversations with strangers. How mature I’ve become. I’m not worried about how out of place she looks here, or that she might say something others will find confusing or ridiculous. I don’t have to look after her. We are both enjoying ourselves. The little dog roamed around the room, rubbing his nose on people’s ankles, staring up with a face that resembled George Burns. There was a punch bowl, charcuterie and cheese plates, 60s rock n roll and travel stories bouncing off of book-lined walls. It was the kind of party I’d always hoped to be invited to. A kind my mother had probably only seen in movies.
When we got into the car, I anxiously awaited to hear how wonderful of a time it was. But all I heard was sniffing.
The Private Lives of Pigeons 
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