God-Dog and Grand-Dog

Dogs are always very much on my mind, but especially so today.

We just bid farewell to my god-dog, Molly. She was a brave, strong, gentle, wonderful girl who fought with her whole big golden heart against cancer, but it was time for her to be released from that battle. She was accompanied by her mom, her mom’s friend, and her golden-brothers Red and Sky. Never naughty, always patient, Molly touched everyone she met and was a wise teacher for her younger brothers. She will be missed. Be free, be happy, be at peace, Miss Molly.

I also have my grand-dog, Odin, here at the clinic with me today. He’s enjoying being with Dr. Vet-Friend One’s big boy, Tonka (over 100 pounds), but doesn’t understand why our technician’s bulldogs are not quivering in terror at his fierceness.

While at our house, he hangs out mostly downstairs with Ozark, unless Brody and Darwin are outside. As roughly as they play, with the snarly lips and snappy teeth, I’m just not comfortable enough to risk an intentional or accidental chomp. It’s probably best for family relations to return him to The Boy on Wednesday in his original undamaged condition.

It’s strange for me to have such a tiny dog in my house, though! Big dogs can be bumped out of the way with your knee, but these little guys are underfoot and getting stepped on before you even know they’re there. Odin also is pretty high-energy, and likes walking on the back of the Sofur, which takes some getting used to. I know how to protect myself from frontal, floor-based canine assaults, but pounces from behind or above are a new thing for me.

So, in my dog-filled world, my canine-centric brain, those are the two pups who are especially on my mind today.

Falling For... Some Reason

Before I proceed with today’s installment of Fermented Fur, allow me to direct your attention to the date shown directly above this post’s title. You will notice that it says, very clearly, “Saturday, April 26, 2008.” Late April is known for its showers (check, the last two days, non-stop), budding trees, greening lawns, birdies all a-twitter, and tulips and other springtime wonders emerging from the soil and reaching toward the sun. It involves locating your short-sleeve tops and Capri pants in the bottom of the laundry hamper (where they have resided since last October), running them through the washer, then trying them all on to see if any of them still fit. It includes moisturizing winter-weary feet and painting toenails purple, so as to appear fresh and festive in jeweled high-heeled sandals (assuming you can locate two matching sandals in the bottom of the closet).

April 26, 2008 – or any other year – is not supposed to include 32 degrees and two inches of snow. Yet that is exactly what is happening outside my sliding glass door right this minute. When I rolled out of bed at 7:45 AM and shuffled to the door to let Sprocket out on the Poop Deck, it took a second or two for me to comprehend what I was seeing. Then it sunk in and I let out a shriek of disbelief.

I am. So. Not even. Remotely. Amused.

And now, on with our regularly scheduled blog.

You have already heard, in great detail and with considerable redundancy, the story of my fall down the stairs which resulted in the Gaping Bloody Head Wound. (If you missed it, visit the January archives and read “Wake-Up Call.”) I wish I could report that falling down was a rare occurrence in my life, but the sad truth is that I actually fall down quite a lot.

Sure, some of the more spectacular falls were due to the fact that all the brain cells devoted to balance were, at the time, pickled. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fallen backwards into the tub, sometimes pulling the shower curtain down on my head, while trying to restore my pantaloons to their customary position. And when I say, “I can’t tell you,” I mean I really, truly can’t. Sometimes I don’t even know about it myself until I get up the next morning and discover the shower curtain rod lying in the tub. Then I realize I have an impressive new bruise somewhere on my body. The connection suddenly seems obvious.

A variation on that theme includes poor aim and zero sense of direction, resulting in becoming wedged between the toilet and the sink. Quite uncomfortable. The very condition that puts you in that undesirable position in the first place also makes it incredibly difficult to extricate yourself.

Then there was the memorable occasion (well, I remember parts of it) when I fell down the lower stairs between the entry way and the family room backwards, smashing a wine glass and putting my butt through the wall at the bottom of the stairs. We have a picture of the resulting “butt hole,” but none of the numerous bruises and scrapes that went from the middle of my back down to my knees.

The only good thing about falling down while under the influence is that you don’t feel it till much, much later.

OK, those are all foolish and horrible. They are also something that shouldn’t happen so much anymore, since I’m concentrating on the whole “not being a drunken idiot” thing. But I don’t have to be drunk to fall down.

All it takes is a rambunctious (or napping) dog, damp wooden stairs, high heels, uneven ground or pavement, a baby gate, an icy sidewalk, a couple of bags of whatnot hanging on my arm, a moment’s distraction, a loud noise, a dog bed or blanket on the floor, heavy shadows, a stray shoe, an electrical cord, or any combination of the above and I am likely to end up on my ass.

This is somewhat surprising, because as a former gymnast and cheerleader (admittedly a loooooong time ago), I do not lack coordination. No, no, no, no, no, I’m not athletic. Not by a long shot. Most sports require some sort of hand-eye coordination, and I am completely without that trait. I’m farsighted in one eye and nearsighted in the other, and am unable to track an object as it approaches, making the transition from “far away” to “getting pretty close now.” This is immediately followed by the object in question either sailing tauntingly past me or smashing me in the face. I dare not participate in a sport involving a ball or any kind of projectile. When you factor in that I abhor all physical exertion that doesn’t involve a beverage, a Ragweed DVD, a day off, and my super-cute husband, you’ll see why nobody will ever mistake me for an athlete.

None of which explains why I fall down so much. I am not truly a klutz. I don’t think. I possess a certain amount of grace and flexibility, which might be the only reason I haven’t yet managed to kill myself.

Upon further reflection, I think the reason for my frequently-bruised knees and backside must be due to my lack of focus on the world around me. I am often so involved in whatever is going on inside my head – and the quantity and complexity of that activity might surprise you – at any given moment that inconsequential things like holes in the ground or discarded shoes fail to register. Only as I’m on the ground going, “Oooooooooowwwwwww” do these objects regain their proper place in the “important things to which I should probably pay attention” hierarchy.

Since I rarely leave my house when I can avoid it, most of my falls take place in privacy, sparing me any public humiliation. Oddly, I have a lifelong dream of learning to ice skate, but I suspect it would turn out to be more like “exercise” and less like “gliding along effortlessly and gracefully while wearing an incredibly adorable little fluttery skirt.” Add that to the fact that I have an utter phobia of falling down and making an idiot of myself in front of a bunch of six year olds who would then skate circles around my crumpled form, and you’ll understand why my ice skating fantasy will never become a reality.

I would also really like to try skydiving, the actual point of which is to fall in a downward direction. You are, however, supposed to attempt to land without bodily injury, and this is the part that causes me some concern.

We’ve stated in no uncertain terms that our next house must be all on one level. We determined this in order to make life easier for aging dogs. But being able to navigate my own house without having one of the major ingredients in painful, uncontrolled impact with the floor removed (stairs) is sure to make my life easier as well.

I’m really not a clumsy oaf. I’m just very, very busy. In my head.

To be on the safe side, I should probably think about investing in one of those Life Alert things from the “Help, I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up” commercials and start taking my calcium supplements, because I don’t see my head getting any less busy in the immediate future.

The good thing is that this part of Minnesota does not contain a significant number of cliffs.

Gray Days

You are all going to start hating me pretty soon. I’d apologize in advance, but I don’t know if it would do any good. It won't stop me from complaining, so a pre-apology would be rather disingenuous.

I’ve been distracted, unfocused and anxious lately, due to an uncomfortable number of professional, social and appointment-related commitments. I know most people work all these obligations into their lives without much angst, but my stress threshold is lower than that of normal people. (Yes, I’m abnormal, and I admit it; but you already knew that!) Work and the occasional errand are about all I can handle. When you start throwing in chiropractor, vision center and dog grooming appointments, the work party thing, and visitors, I’m way outside my comfort zone. I need all that downtime alone at home to decompress from the necessity of spending about 35 hours a week at work, dealing with people. I’m not getting sufficient decompression, so I’m all weird and jittery.

Then there’s the fact that it’s 41 degrees and raining. And it’s going to continue to be that way, sometimes including wet snow, for the foreseeable future. It was 75 and sunny on Tuesday, which was lovely, but made the crash back to dismal weather all that much more traumatic.

We did follow through with our plan to create a mid-week weekend from Wednesday night until this morning, and that may have salvaged what little sanity I have left. Nothing like settling in with my honey-bunny and ignoring everything outside our own four walls for a while. There was the brief intermission during which I had to handle taking Brody to the groomer and myself to the chiropractor, and make a pit-stop at the library, but I got that out of the way and got back to the serious business of absolute relaxation as quickly as possible.

The other thing looming on the horizon, though, is the month of May. Every year I find myself getting this free-floating anxiety thing, and it always comes as a surprise until I realize why that is. May is a bad month for me. My dad died on May 7, 2000. My mom died on May 14, 1984 (the day after Mother’s Day, which has blown Mother’s Day for me for life). My parents’ anniversary was May 22. My grandfather died May 13, 1977, which was the first close family death I ever experienced. So there are lots of emotionally draining “anniversaries” in May.

This is doubly disturbing because back when we lived in Indianapolis, May was a crazy, fun month. It managed to overshadow all the sorrowful milestones to some extent. The Speedway opened for Indy 500 practice on the first Saturday of the month, and there was stuff going on almost every day until the running of the race on the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend. With my press credentials, I was in the thick of things every minute. I was interviewing, writing, enjoying the press room and the Championship Auto Racing Auxiliary lounge, schmoozing, and loving everything about it.

I’ve always made Memorial Day sort of my own private special holiday, though, as a way to celebrate the end of a difficult, troubling month. I take a few days off around the holiday weekend and make a mini-vacation out of it. Our goal is always to have our pool up and running and beautiful by then, and if the weather cooperates, that’s where I spend it. Minnesota being what it is, weather-wise, this only goes according to plan about 50% of the time… but at least I have something to look forward to as these grim anniversaries come one after the other.

Hang in there, if you dare, and I’ll try to stop being such a soul-sucking energy drain. I’m sure the dogs will do something amusing sooner or later. Or maybe I just need to go get a new tattoo. That’s always exciting. I’m feeling like I need to indulge in more of these nice little treats, like going to lunch or having a romantic evening at home, and it’s better if I don’t have to instigate them all myself (there I go again, putting more than his fair share of the burden on Tom).

In the meantime, I’ll probably continue to whine about my gloom.

Dog Days

I have been experiencing a dearth of profound thoughts and insights this week, hence the lack of new material. I haven’t stumbled upon any so far this morning, but to prove that I’m not actually dead I thought I’d just tell you what the dogs have been up to over the last few days.

As planned, Darwin spent the day at work with me on Tuesday. He behaved very well, provided that I kept other dogs out of the office. Not that he’d have started a fight, but he’s just so darned energetic and exuberant, and I have a difficult time controlling him in such situations. Dr. Vet-Friend One, who wasn’t scheduled to work that day, came in to pick up some dog food and was accompanied by her little white terrier-type-dog, Ariel. Ariel is the most neurotic dog on the planet, feisty and jittery at the same time. Darwin took one look at her, barked, and charged toward her. While his intent was (probably) to introduce himself and launch a puppy-play marathon, Ariel wasn’t taking any chances. She screamed and burrowed under Dr. Vet-Friend One’s desk. I leashed Darwin, and his plan was thwarted.

I did learn that Mr. Pudgy-Britches is up to 72 pounds, from the 52 pounds he was when we got him. Considering the twenty pound gain, and the fact that he’s definitely filled out into a very solid boy, his extra weight-gain rations are hereby discontinued. He shall not be pleased. But there’s nothing sadder than an overweight golden, and despite his high energy level he doesn’t need to be getting all that extra food anymore. (I fully expect him to lodge a formal protest at any moment, or begin gnawing on the Sofur.)

Yesterday it was Sprocket’s turn. He hung out with me all day, and had his acupuncture treatment as well as a chiropractic adjustment. The acupuncture went so well that Associate Vet-Friend said he’d been relaxed into a golden puddle of pudding for her chiropractic treatment. He always seems so bright and active afterwards, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the treatments or from all the attention he gets at the clinic. Also, my office is on the lower (basement) level, but it’s a walk-out – no steps – so I’m able to take him outside into the grass frequently throughout the day, and he loves that. It was beautiful yesterday, sunny and 75, and he spent a lot of time sauntering around the property enjoying the breeze and the sunshine.

Today, whole different story. 52 degrees and pouring rain. Repeat tomorrow. Over the next week, it’s going to be below normal temperatures, and they keep saying “occasional snow showers.” This is not something I want to hear. I refuse to accept it. It is almost May!

It’s kind of like washing your car, though. I scheduled Brody for grooming today, so it’s a soggy mess out. I dropped him off at 9:30, and he’s at least a four-hour job. He always looks fabulous after a good grooming… all the undercoat blown out, soft and fluffy, with neatly trimmed feet… a big, glorious white bear of a dog. Then I will bring him home, he’ll have to go outside to potty, Darwin will tackle him, and he’ll come in looking like the loser in a mud wrestling battle. But at least he won’t be matted. Sigh.

I have my chiropractic appointment at 1:00. I love my chiropractor! It’s wonderful to actually be able to turn my head again, and sleep without feeling as if my shoulder is trying to migrate under my scapula. After the appointment, though, Tom and I plan to hole up here at home and shift into “relaxation mode,” which sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in ages. It’s so gray and rainy, and we’ll just ignore the rest of the world until we have to go to work tomorrow. True, that’s what we do with most of our days off, but since the weekend is going to involve a lot of non-relaxing activities, we are going to make the most of it today.

Barkin' in the Rain

Thank goodness it’s not snowing.

This evening we are enjoying our first real spring rain. It is a lovely cluster of showers, with the occasional rumble of thunder – just what I’ve been waiting for since about last September. I love rainy days. First of all, it makes my hair super-curly, and nothing cheers a girl like a good hair day. I’m home alone with the dogs at the moment, though, so there’s nobody here to appreciate it. It is one of dogs’ most endearing characteristics that they don’t care if you’re wearing a holey t-shirt and baggy sweatpants, or if you are retaining enough water to fill a king-size waterbed. But the tradeoff is that they don’t appreciate a spectacularly good curly hair day.

I got home from work just before the rain began, and got the boys out for a quick potty break while I assembled their dinners. Brody and Ozark have to go out again right after they eat, not only for biological purposes, but so that Sprocket can finish his meal unmolested, and then Darwin can be released to polish the bottom of the bowl when the old guy is finally done. They’d been outside for a few minutes when I heard an unfamiliar “white noise.” It took me a moment to realize that it was the sound of a heavy rain shower. I scooted over to the sliding glass doors to call them, and Ozark (such a good boy!) came running right away. Brody also ran. Sort of. And mostly in the general direction of the house. This turned out to be just a coincidence. I guess there was something that he felt might need to be barked away along this side of the fence. More “white noise,” but this time it was the bark issuing from Brody’s muzzle. (Get it? He’s a Great Pyrenees. He’s white. He was making noise. Oh, never mind.)

Watching him get soggier by the minute, I continued to call for him in an increasingly insistent (and explicit) manner. His response? Lie down under his favorite tree and roll in the wet grass. After about ten minutes it stopped raining, so I stopped yelling. Hey, I wasn’t going out there! I’m having a good hair day, remember? Sheesh.

Of course, right after the rain let up, he decided to come in. Yeah, yeah, good boy.

I took advantage of the lull in the rain to put Darwin on the Flexi-Leash and take him outside just in case he had any of his own calls of nature demanding attention. He did. But he felt it was important to take care of them in the furthest corner of our two-acre yard, and to time his activities so that he was right in the midst of the uninterruptable just as the next downpour reached us.

I managed to find three things for which to be grateful. 1) I did not get struck by lightning. 2) I’d had the sense not to just let him out on his own, because his bog is bound to be completely rehydrated by now. He’s supposed to spend the day at work with me tomorrow, and I am not at all interested in doing a full Darwin-Bath at 7:00 PM. 3) I did not get wet enough to ruin my hair. Not that it matters to anybody but me; by the time Tom gets home, I’ll be very close to bed-head territory. But still.

Thunder usually makes Sprocket a little bit anxious. He’s not all-out scared, but he tends to pace and be on the restless side. At the moment he seems OK, though. This is the first storm we’ve had since Darwin joined the family, but as predicted, it’s not bothering him one bit. So far, nothing does.

The house definitely smells like wet dog. But since my nasal stench-receptors were shorted out by dog odors long ago, it’s not causing any serious discomfort. What is slightly more annoying is the fact that the Three Canine Stooges are in “too full of beans to settle down” mode. They keep playing in various combinations, and then all three together, which results in too much noise and seismic disturbance (260 pounds of dogs’ worth) to lend itself to a peaceful evening of reading and blogging. Plus I must remain vigilant so that Sprocket doesn’t inadvertently wander into the line of fire.

Aha! Surprise! Tom is home early! At last, someone to help me manage my unruly dogs! And, perhaps most importantly, someone to appreciate my oh-so-curly hair!

This is Dog-Mom, signing off.

Did I Miss a Weekend?

This weekend really wasn’t much of a weekend. To begin with, Tom had to work, which is a new thing. In his current store, he is scheduled to work every third weekend, and that is taking some getting used to.

There also was no Sprint Cup race. That series, the “major league” of NASCAR, had the weekend off, so there was a Nationwise Series (their “minor league”) race in – of all places – Mexico City, and that’s a road course. I just can’t get into the concept of stock cars on a road course.

The Indy Racing League event, being in Japan this week, was televised overnight Saturday. I hadn’t been paying attention to the schedule that closely, so this was news to me on Sunday morning when I learned it had been a historic event, with Danica Patrick winning, becoming the first woman ever to win a race in a major open-wheel series. I’m not somebody who gets all heated up about how we need more women in racing. I certainly have no objections – it’s just not a big deal to me. A driver is a driver, and I don’t select favorite drivers by gender. Still, it would have been kind of nice to have seen it. She does drive for Michael Andretti (one of my former crushes), so that would have been the important part for me.

On the plus side, Shaun of the Dead and Cheech & Chong’s Nice Dreams were on back to back on the Comedy Channel midday on Sunday, both of which are always great for a mindless chuckle.

The main thing that made this a very un-weekend-ish weekend, though, was that I had actual people in my house on both days! Other than when my in-laws have come for a visit, I am fairly certain that this is completely unprecedented.

I already mentioned that The Boy, Beautimous Girlfriend and Granddog Odin came up on Saturday to get an idea of how we would have to manage the pack for Odin’s stay with us next week. (It’s going to be a bit of a challenge.) Then yesterday I got a call from Dr. Vet-Friend One, reminding me that she and Samtastic Vet Tech were at a Healing Touch for Animals ™ training seminar at an equine therapy center only about a mile from my house. I had known this, but hadn’t given it much thought. She suggested meeting at a local restaurant following their class, which made perfect sense. I don’t live near many of the rest of the staff and I hate to drive, so when someone is that nearby, we should take advantage of the opportunity to get together outside of work. Plus, Samtastic Vet Tech is one of the very few people with whom I feel comfortable enough to actually considering inviting (“permitting”) them to stop by the house.

The best part was that since I’d done some cleaning (at least as much as I am capable of doing) on Saturday, the house wasn’t too much of a disaster. Always nice not to humiliate yourself when someone sees your house for the first time.

Still, it was all quite stressful. I know, I know. The Boy lived with us for 18 years, not to mention the fact that he is my son. I love Beautimous Girlfriend and Granddog Odin to pieces. But I’m not a good hostess. I communicate best by email, when I can fire off a humorous or profound thought, or ask an important question when it enters my brain, and the rest of the time I can do something else without the pressure of putting others at ease. (Seriously, if I’m not at ease, how am I supposed to accomplish that for anyone else???) Sitting and having an ongoing conversation is not one of my talents. I’m much better at “sit quietly and watch TV and fuss with the dogs.” At least I’m aware that it’s bad manners to sit and read throughout the duration of the visit, however tempting that might be.

I like Samtastic Vet Tech a real, whole bunch… but because it was the first time she’d been to my house, it was a bit worrisome. Dr. Vet-Friend One, despite being one of my best friends on the planet, hadn’t been there since she came to euthanize my Ripley (11/27/06), because I’m just not a “social drop-by” kind of person. I’m not sure, but I think Sprocket was scrutinizing her for suspicious syringes before he came over to greet her! (Just kidding! But, honestly, at least half of her visits result in our pack being down a member before she departs. Sad but true.)

I actually went over to the restaurant to meet them, but then Samtastic called and said that they both smelled strongly of horses (it was the equine day at the Healing Touch thing) and would just as soon skip going out in public. So I scooted back to the house and met them there. (I didn’t smell any horses, though.) We had a nice time sitting around chatting and watching Darwin demonstrate his Yuppy Puppy prowess. It’s all very pleasant once someone is actually there and settled in, and I almost always have a good time and enjoy their company, but it’s just the whole idea of anyone other than me or Tom in “our space” that frazzles me.

As glad as I am to have any of my very few trusted family or friends over, I’m always relieved when the visit reaches its end. I am such a hermit! I think I was out of my jeans and “Obey the Golden Retriever” t-shirt, into my furry mulberry sweat suit, and on the Sofur reading about eighteen seconds after their cars pulled away from the house on Sunday.

As for the coming week…

Darwin is coming to work with me tomorrow. Whether that will be fun or a total disaster remains to be seen. The plan is that if the weather is good and golden-mom Linda is free, he will spend part of the day at her house playing with my goddogs. I also want to check his weight, which Dr. Vet-Friend One verified yesterday is absolutely perfect. (Just like the rest of him, possibly minus the Ornery Factor.) I need to know exactly where he is so I can monitor him and make sure his chow-hound tendencies don’t lead to my cute Mr. Puppy-Britches being a roly-poly golden. And I never pass up an opportunity to allow someone else the distinct “pleasure” of trimming any of my dogs’ toenails. Depending on his behavior in my office, he might or might not get to come with me more often. I’m already planning to get him in the next obedience class that starts at the clinic on Tuesday nights, so it will be good to start getting him used to behaving like a civilized canine away from home.

I see my chiropractor again tomorrow and Thursday, and Brody-Bear goes to see Tara at Little Suzie’s Pet Parlor for his bath and de-fluffifying on Thursday. Once he’s safely home, though, I’m hoping that Tom and I can work in a little mid-week weekend for ourselves! Since it feels like about a thousand years since our last one, I could definitely use it! Our clinic party is Saturday, and Odin will arrive on Sunday, so the actual weekend will be pretty much nonexistent. I really need to figure out how to get onboard with the Minnesota concept of moving mountains to set up your schedule so you never work on Fridays, assuring a three day weekend for going to the cabin. I don’t have a cabin, but that’s irrelevant. I still need way more weekends than I seem to have been getting lately!

Play Date

In preparation for spending three days with us next week, we had a visit from my granddog, Odin, yesterday. The Boy and Beautimous Girlfriend will be enjoying a getaway to celebrate a Very Special Occasion, and who better to keep an eye on Odin than us, with our dog-intensive household?

I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, though!

We already knew from previous visits that Ozark loves Odin. Despite outweighing the little guy by a factor of ten, Ozark is a really good playmate. He isn’t freaked out by Odin’s high-speed, high-decibel playing style, and seems to understand that Odin is small and smushable. Sprocket will investigate and snuffle the curly, white, itty-bitty “nephew” in a curious and protective way and then go about his business (soliciting handouts).

I’ve never allowed Brody too much access to Odin, because he is a territorial, protective Great Pyrenees with a minimal sense of humor, and there is a high likelihood that his verdict would be that small, fluffy, fast-moving creatures are most effectively subdued if they are eaten. The milliseconds of contact that took place yesterday seemed to confirm this fact, so Brody will not be permitted to have any control over the logistics of the upcoming visit.

Darwin was the unknown factor. (Or, as I call him – appropriately – the “wild card”) I figured it could go one of two ways; either he and Odin would immediately become best buddies, the only dogs in the house capable of keeping up with each other’s high energy levels, or he would swallow him whole. The jury is still out.

The problem is that they are both so rambunctious, and they both bark hysterically when they’re excited. Their brief play-session was hyperactive chaos with a soundtrack cranked up to eardrum-bursting levels. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It could be that giving them some time to be insane would have led to a more sedate relationship. Just blowing off some of that excited energy and getting a bit used to each other generally takes a while.

But the other possibility caused me some concern. Given how wound up Darwin was, and his wild, snarky-barky style of play, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to tell the subtle difference between “wow, this is really fun” and “I must know if little white dogs taste more like vanilla or coconut.” The situation can move from the former to the latter in an instant, and since Darwin could easily get Odin’s entire head in his mouth, this doesn’t leave any margin for error. The fact that Darwin, our smallest dog, is still six times Odin’s size means we must consider the “accidental damage” possibility as well.

The result was that Brody remained outside for the duration of the visit, and Darwin stayed in the hall behind a baby gate (reinforced with the vacuum cleaner braced against it). We took Odin and Ozark downstairs, and all was well.

On a side note, Darwin was also behind the baby gate because he went outside and took a dip on the pool cover and then went running through his semi-arid bog. See, I told you. Once he figured out how to transport his own abundant water supply to the increasingly dry bog, I didn’t have a chance. In addition, one of the heavy outdoor flowerpots that was securing part of the pool cover seems to have vanished. Three guesses where it most likely is. At any rate, Darwin was forced to make an immediate detour to the tub upon his return, and I didn’t imagine The Boy and Beautimous Girlfriend would much appreciate being leapt upon by an overly enthusiastic, soggy (albeit clean) golden retriever.

I’d had an idealized – and apparently unrealistic – vision of Odin and my boys zooming happily around the yard, returning tired and contented to nap in a peaceful doggy heap around me. Clearly this is not going to be the case.

Odin will be spending all day next Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday at the clinic with me, where he will be safe from over-enthusiastic or hostile breakage. On Sunday afternoon and in the evenings, he’ll hang out downstairs with Uncle Ozark. One of us will sleep in the downstairs bedroom with the little guy, to avoid any middle of the night unpleasantness. I’m pretty sure this will work out fine.

And, who knows? Maybe once they get used to having him around, things will stabilize enough to allow less restricted interaction. Time will tell!

One thing I know for sure is that I will learn a whole bunch of new dog management skills. This is good. And since The Boy knows that should human children ever join the family there is no way I’m going to babysit, it’s important that I support my side (the canine side) of the family!

Whine-Fest

Brace yourself for an approximately 1500 word whine-fest. No, not a “wine-fest.” I’m currently doing fine in that area, thankfully, but at the moment drinking myself senseless does have a certain appeal. I’ll try to slip in something uplifting or humorous, but I can’t make any promises. I’m feeling extremely down and sorry for myself today, quite overwhelmed, and of course I feel the need to drag as many people along with me as possible. Read on at your own risk.

Remember all the complaining I did last month about the hiring we were doing at the clinic? And my relief at having it all behind me? It turns out that some of the new employees simply are not living up to our expectations, despite getting great feedback about them following their working interviews. I got to start my day off yesterday with an emergency meeting with the doctors and senior technicians, followed by firing one of the poor, unfortunate girls. No, she wasn’t coming up to speed or showing any signs of doing so, but I still felt awful for her.

Tomorrow will begin with a meeting with another of the new-hires, spelling out exactly what she needs to do in the very near future in order to continue working with us. Then I will get to completely re-do the schedule that I just spent the last month fine-tuning, including our separate Saturday schedule. We’d hoped to keep our “weekday” technicians off the Saturday schedule, because it keeps throwing them into overtime, but apparently we need at least one of them on the schedule each Saturday. Oh, and we’re planning our client and staff appreciation party for April 26, and I hate parties. I would typically rather dig out my own eyeballs with a white-hot fork than attend one, and I hate planning them even more.

One of the dogs – most likely Ozark – has diarrhea. I learned this as I was having dinner last night. Tom told me he’d cleaned up several areas of overwhelming offensiveness in the living room when he got home, but there were several more awaiting me downstairs. And just as I was sitting here typing the last paragraph, Tom came in from outside and pointed out the large liquid mess not three feet from me. Yeah, I smelled something, but foolishly assumed it was residual stench from the two messes I cleaned up immediately after stumbling out of bed at 6:15 AM. So my Spot Bot is whirring away beside me at this very moment.

On an additional doggie note, other than Sprocket, all my dogs are disgusting. Brody apparently was on the receiving end of lots of play-tackles this morning, and his white coat is tipped head to toe in yard-crud. He looks like someone air-brushed him with damp dirt. He is beginning to get matted, and his plumey tail is full of debris. Ozark doesn’t look much better. Other than his eyebrows and nose, Darwin is currently soaking wet. He was out on the pool cover again, absorbing gallons of stagnant water reeking of decomposing leaves, insects, and probably a mouse or two.

Back to the 6:30 AM thing, the time I got up on my day off. My neck, shoulder and back were simply too uncomfortable for me to have any chance of getting back to sleep. Yesterday at work we had a presentation by Associate Vet-Friend’s chiropractor about trigger points. When he evaluated my neck and shoulder, which haven’t been right since my head-first trip down the stairs in January, he explained exactly what was going on. When you have muscle injury and don’t heal it properly, actual scar tissue forms in the belly of the muscle. This tightens it up, restricting your range of movement, and it is progressive. The less you move, the more scar tissue, the more tightening, etc. To top it off, my sciatica started twinging later in the day. My neck has weakened to the point that my head feels too heavy. He was able to prevent me from moving my head in certain directions with the pressure of just one finger. When he left, I immediately called my chiropractor and have an appointment this afternoon. Now that I’ve decided to do that, I realize how painful I’ve been for months. I just kept telling myself it would get better. The thought of getting some relief is overwhelming. I’m so incredibly tired of hurting that I could sit here and cry right now.

A little while ago, before he went outside, Tom walked into the room and announced, “This house is a fucking disaster.” Thanks for that, honey. That also made me want to cry. Despite my pain, I have been on my hands and knees cleaning diarrhea off the carpet. I am aware that the house needs cleaning in a frightful way. I simply don’t care. OK, I don’t care much about housecleaning most of the time, but today I care even less than usual. I already had all our bedding in the wash, because as I was lying there at 5 AM, having just awoken with night sweats, unable to get back to sleep, I realized they were much more aromatic – not in a good way – than is desirable.

I know a clean house is far more important to him than it is to me, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “Then why don’t you do something about it?” That would have been a very bad move, because he would have then been compelled to point out that he does his fair share of housework, while I avoid it as much as possible. And he would have proceeded to make me feel like absolute shit. Not that it would have been hard, because I’m essentially there already. But that “disaster” remark will accomplish nothing but to make me feel guilty and inadequate, because right now the thought of endeavoring to de-clutter, dust, wash and scrub this hell-hole into a pleasant dwelling makes me want to sit in the corner and cry. He made me feel awful, yet no good will come of it because I simply can’t bear to do what he wants me to do. And if he does it, I’ll be torn between relief and even more guilt.

All this is before I even consider the financial stress I am experiencing. My clinic account is in excess of what I would like, my credit card is downright dismal, and three of the four dogs desperately need grooming. I’m on my last pair of contacts, my hair is overgrown, I haven’t had my nails fixed since before I went to Las Vegas, the 12 pounds I’ve gained over the winter mean that I will soon have to locate several new spring/summer outfits for work (little from last year fits comfortably), I want to order us new rings for our 25^th anniversary, and I will soon have to come up with my share of tuition and expenses for my upcoming Veterinary Management School. Yet after covering only basic expenses, I rarely have more than $10 left at the end of the week. I’ve put any personal grooming needs such as haircuts or nail fills on hold, because I will now be paying a chiropractor to fix whatever the hell it is I’ve messed up.

Have I mentioned that I’m exhausted? I feel l’m spinning my wheels at work, with all the hiring, firing and party-planning. I’m broke. I am in pain. My dogs need an awful lot right now (I don’t begrudge them anything, but it’s just one more thing on my list). My house is a mess. I am just so very, very tired in every sense of the word. I hate feeling this way. I know it will eventually pass, but that doesn’t help right this minute. If Tom walks in the door and says one more negative thing, I am going to scream (the kind with tears). I know that’s just a manifestation of the stress he’s feeling, but that doesn’t help me right now.

That’s it. I’m done. Somewhat under 1500 words, so consider yourself a wee bit spared. My plan for the day consists of finishing this blog, making up the bed with clean, unsweaty sheets, going to the chiropractor, resisting the urge to buy a bottle of wine and drink it on the way home (two blocks), and evaluating whether or not a nap is a possibility. (It won’t be. I have too much on my mind to relax that much.) I’m physically and emotionally drained and need to figure out what I need to do to recharge.

Can’t even snuggle with Darwin till he dries. Hopefully he will smell better then.

3PM Update: I've been to see the magical Dr. Jen, and my neck is moving better and is less tight. I go back on Tuesday and next Thursday. Darwin wound up needing an entire bath after another dip in the pool (cover) and some running in the dirt, but he's clean now. No additional doggy diarrhea, or at least none that I've found. I just ate four soft pretzels with mustard, so I just might survive today after all.

Genius At Work

What really needs to be said??? He's brilliant AND too cute for words!

Slumberland

I miss sleep.

Yes, I sleep every night – more or less – but at some point I seem to have lost the talent for it that I used to have. No cracks about how the elderly need less sleep than the young, please. My ancient heart can’t take it.

I know teenagers sleep a lot. They could snooze for 22 hours a day, given a lack of any pressing social engagements. I rarely had any of those, so I slept a lot. Of course sometimes the reason I stayed in bed until 11:00 AM was because I’d been up till the wee hours reading, writing, talking on the phone, plotting an overthrow of the parental hierarchy, or fretting over an impending nervous breakdown. But sometimes it was simply because sleeping was so, so wonderful.

This wasn’t always easy, since I lived in a trailer, and the majority of family life took place within fifteen feet of my bedroom. The primary factor that limited my ability to sleep the day away, though, was the crows. I lived “way out,” with dirt roads, fields, and trees in abundance, and the row of locust trees just outside my bedroom window was a favorite gathering spot for about eleven thousand raucous, obnoxious crows. They’d get in a shouting match with a rival crow-clan on the opposite side of the field, and even burying my head under multiple pillows failed to muffle their insults. Crawling out of bed and stumbling out to the driveway, gathering handfuls of rocks and hurling them at the trees proved to be equally ineffective. They’d look at me, disdain and perhaps pity in their beady black eyes, flap to the next tree, and continue the cacophony. They should just be glad I never had any interest in learning to handle my dad’s guns.

There were also the years that I had a young child to raise, but once The Boy was old enough to get himself out of bed and pour a bowl of cereal or unwrap a Pop Tart and turn on the TV I was able to sleep in on my days off. One morning when he was about seven he dialed 9-1-1 and I was awakened by a county sheriff’s deputy at my door, but I managed to go back to bed even after that. Really, I’m sure he’d been hearing about 9-1-1 at school and on TV all the time, and it sounded like magic. Perfectly reasonable that he’d need to be sure it truly worked, since he was in an anxious phase at the time. He hung up right away, but they have to check out all calls (as he discovered). He was somewhat hysterical – very – and convinced that we were going to murder him, but other than being slightly annoyed and embarrassed, I was more interested in getting back to sleep.

I have to get up for work at 5:00 AM, because I am a slow waker-upper (as well as being high-maintenance) and require nearly two hours to become functional and get out the door. But even when I don’t have to go to work, I am now almost always up by 7:00 AM. Yes, I sit on the couch for several hours, drinking enormous amounts of coffee, but I’m not asleep. Technically. On the rare occasions that I sleep past 8, I am plagued for hours by a fuzzy headache.

I don’t know exactly when I lost this ability to dream away half the morning. I do recall that on 9/11, which was my day off, I was sound asleep when the phone rang at about 9:20 - which would be very late for me now - and the answering machine kicked on. (Hey, when we had a land line I almost never answered it, and definitely not when I had been asleep.) It was my mother-in-law, wanting to know if we were watching what was happening in New York. I sat up and turned on the TV, and I think I was still there when Tom came home from work. By that night, I had to force myself to stop watching and turn on a Three’s Company marathon on TV Land, because any more reality at that point was going to send me right over the edge.

Another problem that prevents recreational sleeping is my old bones. Excessive bed-time makes my lower back ache, despite the purchase of a really spectacular mattress. And now, ever since my fall down the stairs in January, my neck and right shoulder have joined my back as rivals for the most pressing reason to haul my decrepit old carcass out of bed. Occasionally Brody gets all barky, but a few bellows of, “Brody, shut the hell UP!” generally distract him enough to allow me to go back to sleep, so I can’t blame him.

There are those rare mornings when I wake up, realize it’s not a workday, and am still in that pleasant bleary state that allows me to snuggle back in under my blankie and drift back to whatever convoluted dream I’d been having. I wish there were more of those.

I love a good nap, but I’m not a good napper. I’ll be sitting on the Sofur, thinking how tired I am and how marvelous a nap would be, but things keep interfering. What time is it? Do I have time for a really good nap before Tom gets home? How long till the dogs will begin demanding dinner? What’s happening in the book I’m reading? Can I truly bear to put it down at this point? If I take a nap now, will I be able to sleep tonight? All these things must be considered, because since I’m such a slow waker-upper, nothing much can be expected to happen for an hour or two after a nap. I hear about people who take 15-minute “power naps” and wake feeling refreshed, but I am pretty sure that those people are either liars or freaks.

I can’t sleep in the car, on a plane, at my desk, or even on my couch (without near-lethal doses of alcohol – and then I always wake up with the most horrendous crick in my neck). I’m strictly a full-comfort, favorite blanket, careful arrangement of at least three pillows kind of girl.

If only I could shut down my brain as easily as I shut down my computer. Take a Tylenol, shut down, and wait for something to drag me back to consciousness. Speaking of “somethings,” I stopped using an alarm clock years ago. I had to learn to program my brain to just wake up at a predetermined time, because being startled awake by any sort of alarm (or even music) was just too traumatic. Getting up is bad enough, without starting out terrified and pissed. Alarm. Alarming. The connection is not lost on me.

I suppose it’s probably another aspect of my multi-tasking brain, requiring numerous sorts of sensory input at all times. I have too many things going on in there to just stop them all simultaneously and go to sleep.

Maybe I just need more practice.

Demise of the Yuppy Puppy

I suppose I should've gotten pictures and video of Adorable, Brilliant Darwin using the Yuppy Puppy treat machine while I could. We were just practicing, and he had it down to a science. He never missed a direct hit on the handle. He totally had it down. I'd noticed a corner of the black facing behind the lever was loose, but hey, the thing is somewhere in the area of 18 years old. I wasn't worried. But then...

...JACKPOT! A hook of claw, a tug of the lever, and the facing came off, and treats poured from the front of the Yuppy Puppy like coins out of a winning slot machine (not that I've ever encountered one of those personally).

Talk about a completely delighted dog! I tried to fully appreciate his rapture over this spectacular stroke of luck, but unlike him, I know that this means there won't be any more Yuppy Puppy Treat-Fests until either a) Tom figures out how to fix this, or b) we get a new one.

That's my Darwin. Over-achiever. Not only did he learn how to get at those treats faster than any other dog I've known, he figured out how to get them all at once! He's definitely brilliant in the moment, but clearly isn't much for long-term planning.

UPDATE: Tom rocks! It's fixed! But Bog-Dog doesn't need any more treats tonight...

Darwin: Doggie Over-Achiever

Besides being the cutest golden in the whole wide world, Darwin is very clearly the smartest. Totally objective dog-mom opinion, here.

About a thousand years ago, back in the Cocker Days, we got a Yuppy Puppy treat machine. Our very first dog, a buff cocker named Porsche, is the only dog we've every had who learned to use it. We made some attempts to teach other dogs how to whack the bone-shaped lever with their paw and dispense tasty treats. I'm sure some of them would have caught on eventually, but my attention span is shorter than the average canine, and I'm not all that patient. Theoretically, though, you just need a smart dog who is treat-motivated.

Darwin is nothing if not food-motivated. Having been starved before coming into rescue, the mere thought of food makes him deliriously gleeful. And when he comes in off the deck to discover a full supper dish, he begins whirling in dizzying clockwise circles until the bowl hits the floor, then he buries his snout in it and hoovers it all up in about ten seconds, accompanied by gobbling sounds, like some Looney Tunes character. So I figured he'd catch on to the Yuppy Puppy pretty fast.

It took him less than five minutes. After being shown, he tried to stick his tongue up the dispensing chute, but soon determined that wasn't the best technique. He's got these adorable oversized paws, slightly disproportionate to his petite frame, and he knows how to use them. Whether as a plea for maternal attention or to manipulate a tennis ball out from under the two steps leading up to his bay window, he's a very dexterous dog. It was so fascinating, watching his rumpled brow as he worked out how to make the goodies come popping out of the machine. He had it emptied in no time. Rather than fill him up with nasty, not-good-for-you treats, I'd put some of his dry kibble in there, so he was getting nutritious food and not junk.

The current plan is to let him out just before his dinner, then after he eats, it's bath-time. He got pretty muddy last night and I wasn't in the mood to deal with the whole de-mucking, so we'll take care of that later today. Then we'll refill the Yuppy Puppy and let Tom take some pictures and video clips so you can see my Genius Dog in action. (I have mentioned how adorable he is, right?) I bet you can hardly wait!

Irrigation, Darwin-Style

It’s official. I have absolutely no chance to outwit or otherwise thwart the wishes of Darwin the Adorable. Because he’s way smarter and more inventive than I am.

I just hustled all the dogs outside so I could vacuum. Yes, I know, this is a monumental event and they should all want to stay and bear witness, but it’s best accomplished without 16 doggie-feet in my way. By the time I was done, they were all on the deck waiting to come back in.

Except Darwin.

He, of course, was out running his fence and directing traffic. I watched for a few minutes in a mix of affection and irritation before determining that the bog must have a low moisture content at the moment, because he didn’t look at all muddy. It’s very blustery today, ahead of the approaching snowstorm. Not in a “gusty April breeze, let’s all go fly a kite” way, but more of a “cold, angry, you’re going to need to check for roof and tree limb damage later,” way. Darwin appeared to be enjoying himself, though, and wasn’t getting all filthy and drippy, so I figured I’d let him burn off some energy while I went to straighten the bedroom.

Emerging from my room several minutes later, I wandered by the sliding glass doors, intending to check on Darwin and see if he was ready to rejoin the pack indoors. To my surprise, he was down in the patio area rather than still out deepening his trench. Then I noticed the wet trail leading from the pool to my soaked, grinning golden.

My first thought was, “Well, he’s just going to have to stay out there till he stops dripping,” but then I had another thought altogether. The only thing that had prevented him from becoming Bog Dog when I checked on him the first time was the fact that the bog had dried out slightly. His fur now contained gallons of the one substance that was missing from his recipe for the perfect muck. Stagnant, leaf-filled, pool-cover water. I’m sure this had been his plan all along. “Heeeeeey, my feet don’t go ‘splash’ when I run! There’s no delightful ‘smush’ of ooze between my toes! My fur is nearly sludge-free! This cannot be allowed to continue! I must rehydrate my bog! I lack opposable thumbs and a bucket, but fortunately I am quite absorbent. To the pool!”

He must have been feeling magnanimous in his stunning achievement, however, because I was able to persuade him to stop before he reached the bog and come back inside, where I met him with a towel. It’s also possible that it wasn’t magnanimity at all, but simply that I had interrupted him mid-plan, completely ruining the surprise.

But now that he’s figured it out, it’s only a matter of time.

Clearly, I never stood a chance.

While Walking... Darwin?

I am obligated to mention right up front that this does not reflect well on me as a dog-mom. I have reasons (translation: excuses) for my lax behavior, but I intend to do better. Probably.

Tom has recently started taking Ozark for walks on the days he gets finished with work at 3 PM, as well as on weekends. He chose Ozark because at 8 or 9 years old, and being a basically non-obnoxious dog, he is easy to handle. Wrangling him doesn’t detract from the walk experience. Ozark is so polite, and he often gets shoved aside in the competition for attention by Brody’s pushiness and Darwin’s “manipulation by cuteness,” so he deserves some special time.

I am less energetic in general, and have a definite aversion to the cold (or any form of discomfort), so I hadn’t joined them on any of these walks. Last Saturday morning, Tom donned a hooded sweatshirt, and he and Ozark set off through the neighborhood to a nearby park. Meanwhile I was right here, at my dining room table, handling important internet business (blogging) with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, wearing one of my fur-covered track suits. This very clearly defines not only our vastly different approaches to the concept of “morning,” but our overall views regarding exercise. He enjoys it; I avoid it with the same determination as I would a room full of snot-producing, screaming, hyperactive toddlers.

Yesterday I was clearly not in my right mind. I got home from work at 6:00 PM, and the weather was relatively mild. Facing the news that later today and throughout tomorrow we will be experiencing yet another “significant snow event,” I got the ridiculous notion that Tom and I should take Ozark and Darwin for a walk. Knowing that I could - and probably would - change my mind at any minute, Tom quickly took me up on my offer.

I chose Darwin for several reasons.

Obviously, Sprocket isn’t able to amble more than a hundred yards or so before one or the other of us – and we all know it would not be me – would have to hoist his sweet 80-pound body onto our shoulders and piggyback him home. We (he) would, of course, do this gladly if it ever became necessary, but it would be foolish to put Sprocket through that indignity. When the weather improves, Sprocket will be driven to the park, and allowed to saunter along in the trees as long as he wants, with frequent rest stops and treats, and then he will be driven home.

Brody was currently out in the yard and not present to lobby for the position of “second walker,” and he is likely to respond with Extremely Bad Behavior when encountering another dog. Plus, Tom arrived home to several impressive new slashes in the screens in the bay window, indicating that Brody saw something really exciting outside during the day, so he was on our Shit List.

And finally, I’m developing a wildly adoring attachment to Darwin. I decided it would be fun to get out and about with him, sharing his joy in exploring our neighborhood, further strengthening our deepening bond.

One of these days I really must get my head examined. (Again.)

Remember for a moment how Darwin spent the first three years of his life. He was neglected, starved, filthy, matted, and kept in a garage. Dogs don’t learn a lot of manners and behavior skills in such situations. But being a golden, his sunny personality and ability to see the wonder in the world somehow remained intact. (One of the many reasons I love the little goober.) In addition, we’ve been ass-deep in snow since he found us, so “how to be a good dog on a walk” has not been a priority. Bad, bad, dog-mom.

I put on my barn jacket and a thick layer of optimism, located a second Flexi-Leash, and off we went. I’m not entirely delusional, so I didn’t expect our walk in the park to be, well, a walk in the park. It wasn’t. When we used to walk more regularly, it was in the “Ripley and Sprocket” days. I had put a lot of effort into training them. Ripley had his AKC Companion Dog obedience title, Sprocket won the blue ribbon in his obedience class shortly after coming to us at age 4, and both served as Therapy Dogs for years. Walking them was always a pleasure… except the time I had them back in my childhood neighborhood and Sprocket slipped his leash. The entire family spent hours trying to guess which road, ridge or hollow he had followed while discovering the glories of rural West Virginia, only to find him about two miles away at the home of a number of toy poodles.

Since the Ripley/Sprocket duo had been essentially problem-free, I’d forgotten how entertaining (chaotic) it can be to walk two dogs on Flexi-Leashes. Particularly when one of them is untrained and rambunctious. It took us a while to develop a plan to minimize leash-crossing and mayhem. This involved making sure Darwin always got to be in front, so Ozark could be maneuvered into less tangle-prone positions. Tom has been teaching Ozark to come and sit for a treat whenever a car approaches, which is a wise and responsible thing to do. Darwin wasn’t great at the “come” part (he required reeling-in), what with all the delicious scents to be found only near the end of the 26-foot Flexi, but he got better at it, and his “sit” is immediate and free of resentment once you finally get his attention.

He was actually very funny. While all dogs enjoy checking out the smells along the way, goldens don’t tend to be as obsessive about it as some breeds. Goldens are also fairly visual in their explorations, spotting squirrels, other dogs, and potentially ear-skritching humans at 75 yards. But Darwin had his nose to the ground most of the time, zipping through the grassy ditches along our neighborhood streets. (We don’t have sidewalks) Yet he completely missed Ozark’s dead possum at first. Ozark “discovered” it about a week ago, and it’s still there. It was lying about two feet off the road, and Tom alerted me to its presence so I could be prepared to hit the lock button on the Flexi and avoid any unauthorized taste-testing or carcass-rolling. Darwin whizzed by, and about fifteen feet further along came to a dead stop. It was a classic doggie double-take. He stopped, his head and ears came up, his nose quivered, then he pivoted and zeroed in on the possum. I declined to let him visit it just then, but on the way home I allowed him to get in “nose close enough to get a good whiff, but not close enough to grab” range. I’m sure he appreciated this.

I’m really out of prime dog-walking condition. Every time Darwin hit the end of the Flexi, either the actual end or the “mom just hit the lock button” end, my shoulder protested. My hand was soon red from the pressure of the large plastic handle in my palm. This was never an issue with Ripley. He would zoom out near the end of the line, then look at me and realize he was too far from his mama and circle back, often looping around me as I executed my perfected “twirl the leash over my head” maneuver so as not to either get tangled or slow his progress. I figure that for every mile I walked, Ripley walked three, considering all his forging ahead and circling back.

Ozark apparently has about 47 trees, fences, bushes and light poles on his “pee message” circuit, as he stopped and anointed each and every one of them. Darwin didn’t have time for that. He was too busy discovering all the scents in the park. We took the trail through the woods on the north side of the park and near (but not too near) the river. Having Darwin bolt and pull the leash from my hands and go diving into the Mississippi was not an experience I wanted to have. The river is running high, there is still ice along the edges, and I sincerely did not want to have to call my sister in Louisiana and ask her to go stand on some levee and watch for my idiot dog to come floating by in a week or two.

Darwin was so intensely excited to be out and about that he soon had long, white, slimy drool strands dangling from his flews. Tom attempted to give him a drink by pouring a trickle of water from the bottle as he’d been doing for Ozark (who lapped at the water as it fell, which was the idea), but the technique escaped him. The water dribbled onto his head and muzzle, none of it reaching his mouth. Darwin didn’t seem bothered by this; he had running to do and things to sniff. I wiped the slime from his face with my hand and wiped it on my coat. This is what dog-moms do. (Note to self: Bring drool rag next time.)

My goal had been to get Darwin some meaningful exercise that did not involve coming in looking like the Swamp Thing. This was successful. He normally collapses, boneless and semi-comatose, on the Sofur by around 8:30 or 9:00, but did so by around 7:30 after his walk.

On the way home, we had the following conversation:

Me: You know, there is a dog park over in Elk River.
Tom: We don’t like dog parks.
Me: Yeah, I know, I never trust other people’s dogs. But maybe if we went and were the only ones there…??? They could run and be all wild and play.
Tom: They have that in our yard.

(This is true. We have two securely fenced acres featuring numerous trees, a pool, the occasional squirrel, and – of course – the bog.)

Me: Yeah, but it’d be different.
Tom: (Silence)
Me: OK, dumb idea.

We will go for more walks, though. Having trained plenty of dogs in the past, I know how to transform Darwin into a more appealing walking partner. Plus, when it’s not such an overwhelmingly novel experience he will be less insane and easier to control. I also have a Gentle Leader Head Collar downstairs, and I know how to use it.

We have a long way to go before we achieve the harmonious Zen enjoyed by Curt and Duncan, but spring is almost here (allegedly), so we have time to learn.

Things It Took Me At Least 40 Years to Learn

I admit that some of these are things that I most likely knew before, but since 40 is 3 years in the rearview mirror I feel I’ve earned the right to state them as facts instead of opinions. I can now resist the urge to qualify or apologize for my thoughts on a wide variety of subjects, because if people don’t agree with me (and I acknowledge that there will be people who won’t) I’m OK with that.

I can never have a truly deep friendship with anyone who doesn’t like dogs.

It’s OK to have a deep aversion to urban areas, despite their alleged culture and sophistication. I am neither cultured nor sophisticated. That is also OK.

Never give up your own bed to overnight houseguests. (In fact, avoid having overnight houseguests as much as possible.)

If it comes off or out of a dog, I can clean it up. If it comes off or out of a person – no way in hell.

Everything tastes better if it is cooked by someone else.

There is nothing more important or more gut-wrenching than holding someone you love as he dies, and in your own eyes you will never do this perfectly.

I like spiders quite a lot, as long as they stay both outside and out of my hair.

No matter how polite and accommodating you are, you can’t please everyone; but that’s about them, not you.

I might enjoy your immaculate house for a short time, but if I’m there very long it will make me uncomfortable.

The most affectionate creature in the world is a wet dog. (OK, I stole that from a refrigerator magnet. That doesn’t make it less true. Plus, I bought the magnet, so I get to quote it if I want.)

I am a better, more peaceful, compassionate and balanced person without the influence of organized religion.

Marriage isn’t about “equality;” it’s about “balance.” This refers to the balance of one person’s strengths and weaknesses with the other’s.

Every girl needs a tiara.

Just because someone has money and is standing in front of you with a sick dog doesn’t mean they will spend that money on the dog.

The line between “just enough” and “one too many” is razor thin.

The morning you most need some extra sleep is the morning your dogs will most adamantly insist that they need to go out.

Trust can be lost in an instant, and can take forever to regain.

The right dog will always find you at the right time.

Stop-smoking commercials just remind me to light a cigarette.

Lots of people might say they support you no matter what, but most of them don’t mean it.

You have to stitch up head wounds within 12 hours; otherwise you can’t close it completely because of the bacteria. It will take a long time to heal and will itch like hell.

No woman is ever too old to wear a cheerleader uniform – in the privacy of her own home.

I am a person who should never, ever, for any reason be trusted with a credit card of any kind.

Feelings are neither good nor bad; they just are, and everyone is entitled to their feelings. Nobody should make you feel guilty about them, or try to tell you how you should feel.

Writing a book is the easiest thing in the world to start, but the hardest thing to finish.

Tattoos are awesome!

You can respect someone you don’t love, but you can’t love someone you don’t respect.

In life, only the rich really have significant choices.

Giving your kids everything turns them into useless adults. (Lucky The Boy never had to worry about that! Not a lot of cash laying around to give him.)

Stretch marks are nothing to be ashamed of, but that doesn’t mean you need to share them with the world.

Bangs are a good option when you have forehead wrinkles and badly-tweezed eyebrows.

I’d rather have a spectacular bathroom (complete with oversized whirlpool tub and separate dual-head shower) than even a moderately fancy kitchen. (This should surprise nobody.) (I currently have neither of these.)

My only responsibility when I do have houseguests is to provide clean sheets and a reasonably clean toilet and bathtub. Other than that, they take their chances.

If your dog doesn’t trust somebody, you shouldn’t either.

And that’s all the wisdom I can come up with for today. But it was kind of fun, so maybe I’ll keep a list and post things like this from time to time. Also, some of these would be interesting to expand into full-length blogs.

You can disagree with me if you want; that’s your prerogative. You cannot, however, change my mind.

Bizarre, Disturbing Dream

I had the most bizarre dream this morning. That, in itself, is not unusual. I have a lot of very strange, epic, convoluted dreams. Tom has learned to dread the words, “Guess what I dreamed last night.” He rolls his eyes and finds pressing duties elsewhere. But this one is kind of odd, even for me.

At the beginning, I was getting on a plane to Las Vegas as part of a large family group. When I got there I realized I had no shoes and my feet were getting very dirty. I wondered how I’d managed to get so far without my shoes, and having nobody say anything to me about it. I started searching for a cheap pair of flip-flops.

Then I was living in a large duplex in the country and had a whole bunch of exotic animals, which were shared with the residents of the other side of the duplex. When I say “exotic,” I don’t mean things like chinchillas or sugar gliders; it was more like imaginary mammalian creatures and big, toothy reptiles. But some of them were quite dog-like, and those were the ones I kept. One of them dug a hole in the deck. They had very impressive claws.

I went out in the yard to scoop poo (apparently these imaginary creatures produced an impressive quantity of poo) and was cranky because I didn’t think the other owners – a girl about my age and several slightly younger brothers – were doing their fair share of cleaning up. The girl informed me that they had a schedule, and I just happened to be out there right before their established time. Shovels in hand, we started to work, and then what appeared to be a large skunk ambled by. I asked if that was a skunk, and the girl said it was. I wanted to know if it was de-scented, and she said probably not because it smelled like butt. I told her that wasn’t the same thing, and I was fairly sure it was de-scented. One of her brothers picked up one of the giant monitor lizards and took it back to their house.

Meanwhile, I determined that the “skunk” walked just like a small mountain gorilla, using its arms as forelegs and was, in fact, some sort of primate. The foot-tall white, skeletal humanoid creature (which could talk) sitting on my shoulder informed me that I was correct, so I escorted the animal over a hill to a large enclosed net structure like an outdoor aviary and tried to find its cage. It informed me (because it could also talk) that it didn’t want to go back in. Fine. I found the largest enclosure in the aviary, which was also housing some of these animals, and asked him if he wanted to go back in there. He said no, so I said how about if I just left them all loose inside the aviary, and they could have the run of the place. He agreed; crisis averted.

When I got back to the poo-scooping girl, I suddenly realized I had to go to my ballroom dancing recital, though I had never attended a single class. I put on my outfit, a gorgeous pink and black satin number with a wide belt, and told her that she should get dressed up, too, and we could hit the town and impress a whole bunch of guys. She changed (I looked cuter) and we departed.

At this point I was back in Las Vegas, at a very, very large hotel. For some reason, her brothers were following me around adoringly, like my own little entourage of body guards. We ran into my younger sister, and we started chatting.

This is where it all goes horribly wrong.

During the course of our conversation, I got the feeling that my sister was trying to tell me something. She finally admitted she had written and published a novel, and it turned out to be a chick-lit horror type book I had recently read and enjoyed so much I’d ordered the second book. It was more substantial than many books in that genre, and I had liked it despite the fact that the heroine had several kids.

I wanted to be happy for her, but was outraged. She had written a novel???? And she hadn’t even told me??? That was my dream, and she’d stolen it! She was in Las Vegas to meet with a fan group. She had fans!!!!! I couldn’t understand why she had never told me, because finding out this way was a million times worse. When I was trying to write my book, I’d sent her the early chapters, very eager for her feedback. I asked how much she got for the book, and she said it was too soon to tell, as it was still selling. It could be anywhere from $50,000 to $200,000.

By now I was sobbing, that sob that rips out of your chest and throat so painfully that you can’t really make a sound or generate a tear, you can't get your breath, and you think you might die. I was devastated, crushed, and I had to get away from her.

I started to run, and she was standing there with her husband (who was, oddly, her first husband, not the one she has now) who thought he should talk some sense into me, but I was moving. I was running so fast that at times I was literally flying or vaulting down stairways from landing to landing, bits of my outfit catching on passing objects and being ripped away. My entourage raced behind me, trying to pick up the dress remnants and repairing the damage to the things I was wrecking in my wild flight. I was still sobbing. My anguish was so intense that I thought I would lose my mind.

This hotel was so enormous that there were vehicles in there, and I threw someone out of a dark blue Hummer in an attempt to get farther away from her, to get back to my room full of my doglike exotic pets. It soon became too crowded for me to drive, so I abandoned the Hummer and kept running, now wearing only a few scant tatters of my originally beautiful ballroom dancing dress.

I paused in a crowd, and Dr. Vet-Friend One was there. She told me that at a nearby table were some people who wanted to talk to me. She had seen my name on a placard. I approached the table to find a group of elementary school girls from my hometown. I tried to be nice, but I couldn’t figure out why they wanted to talk to me. After all, I wasn’t the novelist; all I had was my stupid little blog. I gave Dr. Vet-Friend One a tearful look that said, “This is the worst day of my life and I am devastated, so meet me in my room later so we can talk about it.” I looked back and saw my sister with a bunch of fans wearing clothes that mirrored the theme of her book.

I was running again, frantic to escape, and I saw a computer station. I thought I should check her oldest son’s blog and see if he knew anything about all this. When I started reading, it was all about his mom and her book. There were many, many photos of her as “the author,” and in most she was wearing a black shirt with the picture from her book jacket on the front.

Then I woke myself up.

Obviously, I have a lot to think about. I’ve been feeling guilty for spending so much time writing Fermented Fur when I am supposed to be writing my novel. But I enjoy writing FF, even though it’s just a silly, obscure blog. It keeps me creative and engaged. It is not, however, my novel. Yet when I think about writing the book, I feel overwhelmed, inadequate. How will I know if I can do it, though, if I don’t really, really try? (Again.) Blogs suit my short attention span, so I’ve been thinking about writing the book in more of a blog-type format, or at least from a blog mindset.

This is all the more strange when you consider the email that was waiting for me this morning from FFFan1. She provided a link to an aspiring author who has listed herself on eBay. Apparently she has written 60 pages of a chick-lit book, and is seeking someone willing to endow her efforts to the tune of $50,000 so she can take a year off work and write her book. In return, she promises to return the favor to another aspiring writer within 10 years. Rather brilliant, actually, but I doubt she’ll succeed. On another note, this reminds me of the false-hope offer from the cyber-creep to fund my own time off work so I could write my novel. In some ways I hope this woman gets her 50K, and in others I will be insanely, bitterly resentful if she does.

I wish I’d woken up after the part with the skunk-monkey.