Month: August 2010

Is It My Perfume?

OK, I’m in. I closed on my 747-square-foot manse on Friday afternoon. Signed, sealed, delivered, it’s mine.

I was walking the dogs around my new neighborhood in the afternoon rain on Saturday, and guess what I found. A stray dog. He was a big, black, Shepherd/Scaredy-dog mix, skinny, faded collar but no tags, not fixed. He and Redford got along swimmingly. (See what I did there, with the rain and the swimmingly.) The stray followed us a couple blocks back to our house and into the back yard. He took a biscuit but only at ten paces from me.

I called Animal Control, but of course, they were closed for the weekend. The message said for animal emergencies to call 911. I figured that my temptation to adopt yet another dog was an emergency. If I kept him until Monday when the office opened again, I wasn’t gonna call. I was going to have three dogs. In my might-as-well-be-a-mobile-home. The four of us would have had 186.75 square feet each.

When the animal control officer came, the poor monkey kept circling the shed and darting away from her. At one point, he ran up onto the deck and poised himself to jump over the railing! I managed to grab his collar, and the officer got that loop-on-a-pole around his neck and rassled him into the truck.

I wanted to call out, “Wait! No! Forget it, I’ll take him,” but I bit my tongue. The officer called me about 20 minutes later—between you and me, I think she might have had a little crush on me—and told me he was fine and calm once he got to the shelter.

Man, I hope he finds a home. Him and my gentle beast from a couple weeks ago. (I haven’t had the balls to call the shelter and check on that little guy.)

I’m not a praying person, but if I were, I’d be on my knees tonight.

Dear Violet, Part 4

Dear Violet,

You are a booger. You are made entirely of boogers. I just love you.

I love it when you sit up, prairie-dog style. You look so regal. And beautiful. Not many people comment on your beauty. They’re too busy ogling your brother. Believe me, I know what it feels like to have a brother who’s better-looking than you. But you are so, so beautiful. Your face is so solemn, and you have those eyes, those dark eyes that blend into your face in photos, but up close in person—uh, in dog?—they’re deep and brown and soulful.

I love it when you start breathing heavily with the anticipation of petting, “Hol hol hol,” which shifts into a light, stoned-eyed panting as I rub your cleavage.

I love that you don’t pee on yourself, which is more than I can say for your brother. Redford has decided that sometimes he likes to lift a leg, others he’ll crouch, and most of the time, he wants to do something about halfway in between, which results in his pissing directly on his front foot. No, you’re always careful in your bathroom habits. You have a bladder and bowels of steel, sometimes waiting 20 hours to go, just because you hadn’t found a spot that suited you, or because you’d been on leash. You really prefer to have privacy. I don’t blame you. I’ve never been one of those bathroom-door-wide-open kind of girls.

I hated to start crating you again a few months ago, but after years of not chewing, you ate the shit out of my L.L.Bean clogs. All of ’em. So now you’re in the kennel when I’m not home. I kind of miss coming home to find a warm, furry indentation in my bed, sometimes decorated with a bra or flip-flop, and you, wide-eyed, feigning innocence.

I hate that you’re still terrified of your Uncle Erik. I have no idea why. You’re even more scared of Erik than you are of Nate. Nate was the one that I found, at age three, kneeling in front of you, you who were pinned up against the kitchen cabinet, quaking, and when I asked Nate what he was doing, he said, “I wath petting huh eyebaw.” Why is Erik the one that makes you tuck your tail and run off to the far side of the yard? He’s never petted your eyeball. Wa says it’s his manic energy. Maybe it’s that; maybe he reminds you of whoever earned you the Cruelty/Confiscation label at the shelter. I don’t know.

I hate that you limp A LOT these days. And it’s not your hips this time. I think you’ve got some shoulder funk, mama. A few hours after hiking or other off-leash adventures, you walk around and your little head jounces up and down. You look like a carousel horse. The months of glucosamine have done nothing. I’ve got to take you in to get x-rayed. Please, god, let it be easily treatable. I need it to be easily treatable. For one thing, I can’t afford an expensive procedure, but mostly I need you to be healthy.  I need you to be healthy for a long time. I need you to be healthy for at least ten more years, because I can imagine my life up to about ten years out, and if that life doesn’t include you, I’ll just hate it.

Because I love you. Booger.

Love,

Amy