Ali Wentworth - Alis Well That Ends Well: Tales of Desperation and a Little Inspiration

Most of these stories are true. Okay, maybe I embellished a little. But at least I gave everyone better names!

If youre reading this book, its dedicated to you.

Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse.

Lily Tomlin

Cooper, my rescue hound mix, has a habit of running away. All hounds are ruled by scent. If he caught a whiff of hot dog, he would run through a plateglass doorlike a cheetah, he would keep going for thousands of miles regardless of cars, tar pits, or frozen terrain. His DNA kicks in at the thought of a wounded woodland creature hopping nearby. Or steak. And like all hound dogs and most hormonal teenage boys, he makes bad decisions.

One frigid March afternoon, I took Cooper to the beach to exhaust him. An impossible feat. As I stated, this dog could sprint from Cape Cod to San Francisco, stopping only to pee on a trash can or a strangers leg. And then he would jump up and down like a winner on The Price Is Right to do it all again. He brings me an incredible amount of unconditional love (when I feed him) and emotional support (when hes in an enclosed environment). But when his soundtrack is Fly Like an Eagle, he can cause me a tremendous amount of distress.

We had just made it down the sandy path to the dunes when Cooper froze. Right paw up. Gaze straight ahead. A statue. Beat. Beat. Beat. And then he took off, spraying sand in his wake. In a matter of seconds, he was a black speck in the distance racing a seagull one hundred feet in the air above him.

My ears ached, and my cheeks burned in the bitter wind. Cooper! I screamed into a chilly vacuum. I trudged toward him. My Ugg boots were so heavy. I felt like Ninoshka of the North.

Cooooooopppppeerrrr! I yelled again.

I was suddenly aware of my breath, or lack thereof. I could not take in a full, deep breath. Not that I ever climbed Everest (or the stairs in the subway, for that matter), but I was conscious of a lack of oxygen. I assumed it was the weather. Or that bully in my head who whispers, Youre old and out of shape. I pushed away that ridiculous thought as I marched on. Was it possible the sand had gotten thicker?

I felt like a ninety-year-old woman with emphysema. Okay, Im not a skeletal New Yorker who lives on skinned green apples and SoulCycle, but the fact that I couldnt hoist my ass up a two-foot dune was upsetting.

Cooper!!!!!! Come... My voice trailed off.

Damnit. I felt weak. Like the beloved Beth in Little Women. The beach was empty. Why wouldnt it be? It was a wretched afternoon that felt like the prologue to the film Fargo. A day that only stoned teenagers or heartbroken widows come out for. I suddenly had the frightening thought that I had become so winded I would pass out. The rising tide would pull me into the surf, and I would disappear into the crashing waves, swept out to sea. Gone forever without a trace. Because my fucking dog had decided that a seagull, which was impossible to catch, was worth chasing for five miles. They would have to punch that up for my obituary.

So I sank down into the wet, gritty sand and prayed Cooper would make his way back to me before I became shark chum. I hoisted my down coat over my head and buried my face in my hands. Even when I was motionless, my breathing was labored. I was the soundtrack to the antismoking commercials with sad people hooked up to oxygen machines, gasping for air. Which wasnt such a far-fetched image given that I smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for twenty years.

A slimy nose nudged my back. I jumped. Not that serial killers scour abandoned beaches in late winter... but I had just watched the Ted Bundy tapes on Netflix.

Cooper! He was soaked, slimy, and had that fetid stink which could only mean he had rolled in dead fish. Someday I would like to meet a scientist or biological behaviorist who can explain two things about the animal kingdom that I just cant fathom. Onehow a boa constrictor can swallow a deer whole. And twowhy my dog feels the need to baste himself in anything dead, rotting, or defecated. What other dog is going to take a whiff of that and want to make puppies?

Thank God, we could go home. I untied the leash from my waist and secured it on his collar. I couldnt risk Cooper taking flight after another bird. It was freezing. I was starving. Id only had a glop of raw cookie dough and a cinnamon doughnut for breakfast (maybe thats why I couldnt walk far?) and the wheezing was becoming louder. Could a piece of doughnut have gotten lodged in my lung? Is that even possible?

As I staggered up the path to the parking lot, I promised myself I was going to start eating mostly plantsno more sugar!and join a Broadway musical dance class. Sure, I was middle-aged on paper, but I was convinced I could turn back time with a healthy new regime of green smoothies. I wished I was more obsessed with my looks. I wish I were born with that chip that makes one cry at the mere sight of cellulite or go on spirulina-and-bone-broth fasts that allow me to shit twenty pounds in a single hour. My husband probably wishes he could buy that chip on Amazon for me.

There was something about my labored breathing that had me concerned, though. Ego aside, it just didnt feel normal.

Cooper pluckily jumped into the car, no doubt anticipating his next adventure in the grassy backyard, where the squirrels declared war on him every single day, throwing nuts and Cirque du Soleiling through the pine trees to taunt him. But he loves it. And runs, frothing at the mouth, secure in the knowledge that someday a squirrel will lose its grip and tumble into his jaws.

I blasted the heat and turned on NPR. I couldnt tell which of us was breathing (or barking) harder. At least he had an excuse, having run five miles in less than twenty minutes. Starting Monday I would embark on a rigorous workout regimen. I would row or climb or run and pick up huge kettleballs or -bells and lunge. Every woman I know who has an enviable body does lunges.

My mind quickly meandered to its favorite distraction: dinner. In cold weather, food needed to be draped in a blanket of sauce. Tonight felt like a roast-chicken-with-parsnips kind of night. It was healthy. Except for the part where I boiled the parsnips in heavy cream.

When we reached the house Cooper started scratching at the car window. Just in case there was a deer or a basket of baby rabbits waiting for him in the backyard. He has a habit of jumping over me before the car has completely stopped, digging his nails into my thighs as he vaults across my lap. But this time he just sat panting in the passenger seat. I sat too. Trying to find air. I couldnt muster the fortitude to skip into the house like a hypercaffeinated Mary Poppins and whip up a magical evening as usual. I still couldnt breathe properly. So there Cooper and I sat. In a muddy Mini Cooper, listening to the chirping of birds as dusk settled in.

It didnt even occur to me that I had contracted the deadly virus that was making its way around the world and bringing the global economy to its knees. At that point, it was just this deviant thing you read about in the news that seemed unfathomable. Like fascism.

I called my husband and left a message. I cant breathe very well... I think I might be getting bronchitis. Perhaps this was my punishment for smoking Kool menthol cigarettes in boarding school so as not to be bullied by the mean girls, but since Id quit smoking twenty years ago, my relationship with my lungs has been fraught. Ive had pneumonia a few times and am on an annual bronchitis cycle. On my birthday in January, I usually fall prey to a week in bed hocking up green phlegm and pleading for Mucinex and chicken soup. Extra matzo balls. But this was March! I hoped my husband wouldnt play the