Month: March 2012
The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 2, Days 1-3
Day 1
Tulip goes to a mobile spay & neuter clinic a couple miles from my house. I pick her up after work. The vet tech tells me she doesn’t have mange. My head immediately stops itching. The hair loss on her ears is probably from poor nutrition. Once she’s on a steady diet of good food, it may or may not grow back.
She does have heartworm. :( (Public Service Announcement: Do not search Google Images for ‘heartworm’.) The doctor even found one “in her abdomen”. Tulip will have to go to Greensboro for treatment because there’s a place there that does it way cheaper for the foster organization. She’ll spend the night in the facility and then need to remain calm (read: crated) for six weeks. See, if her heart rate gets raised, she could “develop severe pulmonary thromboembolism”. That is, the dead worms could break off in a big pack and clog her arteries up. Grossest, most horrifying thing ever? Pretty sure yes.
Tulip’s dopey and sweet after her surgery. I actually let Violet and Redford interact with her because she’s so stoned. It mostly goes well, but at one point, when Tulip frog-dogs on the floor and Violet goes to sniff her butt, Tulip rrrrs at her a little bit. Maybe too close to the sensitive parts. I separate the dogs, just to be on the safe side.
Tulip won’t take her pain pills, even when I smear them in peanut butter.
I think about the two-week shutdown, and now the six weeks of keeping her heart rate low. It makes me sad.
I put her in the spare bedroom but don’t have the heart to lock her in her kennel for the night.
Day 2
I have insomnia again. Up at 5:00 after tossing for an hour. I check on Tulip and find she has peed, pooped, and spit up. I clean everything up and offer her breakfast. She’s still dopey and completely uninterested in eating. She drinks some water; that’s a good sign. I lie down with her on the couch. She grunts and squirms for ten minutes, jumps off the couch and spits up the water she drank.
By evening, she still hasn’t even eaten the biscuit I put in her crate when I went out. I try to get her to lick up her peanut buttery pain pills. She slurps at them and spits them out.
I have a visitor after supper. Tulip gives the visitor as much love as is dog-ly possible for an hour.
Then she eats about 1/8 of a cup of food. I rejoice.
Day 3
Still not eating. Still kind of lethargic. But is it possible she’s gotten cuter since I got her? I think so.
In the afternoon, I have another visitor. Again, Tulip pours sugar. Even does a little shnurffly hump-monkey on her. No, Tulip. Shnurffles, yes. Hump-monkey, no.
About 7:00, Tulip and I head to a dog-friendly beer garden to meet my friends. She’s a little nervous, but six people come over at different times and pet her. Sweet as pie. She sees other dogs and strains against the leash, wagging, wagging. She wants to make friends so bad.
So, 90% of my prophylactic eating is to numb feelings, but 10% is to avoid blood-sugar crashes like the one I have when I arrive at the restaurant. I haven’t had any meat all day, which is usually when it happens: I get woozy and sweaty and shaky. I feel like I can barely pick up my water glass.
The food comes, and while I’m palsy-ing fish into my mouth, Tulip’s leash slips away from me, and she heads over to another table to make friends with two dogs she’s been dying to meet. When she gets to the little black and white one, there’s a similar interaction to when she met my dogs. Something like,
Tulip: Hiiiiii! Oh my god, I love you. Do you want to be friends?
Little dog: Ew, scary. Mom! Get it away from me!
Tulip: Oh yeah? Well, fuck you then.
It was literally one second of snarling, nothing injurious, but still. I snatch Tulip away, saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” and take her back to our table. After I get her secured and get a drink of water, I go back to the other dog’s people and say, “I just wanted to say sorry again. She’s my foster dog. She was a cruelty confiscation. I’ve only had her nine days, so I’m still getting to know her quirks. Anyway, my apologies.”
The people give me close-lipped, condescending smiles. I walk away, my face burning.
It was my bad. I probably shouldn’t have had her out yet. But I want her to get socialized, and I want her adoptability to be advertised, and I want people to know that pit bulls are wonderful dogs. And then shit like this happens.
Protected: Control the Controllables
The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 1
Day 1
The transport and I plan to meet in Burlington, about a 40 minute drive for each of us. She pulls Tulip from the shelter, which takes much longer than it should have, and then gets stuck in traffic. I wait in the Barnes & Noble parking lot for an hour and a half.
When Tulip jumps out of the truck, she’s nervous. She pulls and pulls against the nylon lead, nearly asphyxiating herself. She is, you might say, a hoss: low and beefy and strong as shit. I take her to go potty on the grass and try to lure her into the car with some leftover turkey from my lunch bag. She enjoys the lunch meat but won’t load up, so the transport heaves her into the Outback.
She circles, circles, circles in the front seat and tries to jump out the passenger window. I’m attempting to do three things, hold her lead, steer, and shift gears, with two hands. It takes some doing. Eventually, she climbs into the back seat and curls up in an adorable little ball until we get home.
She enters the house nearly flat. Boonie did that once, flattened himself to the ground, when I made him ride on a ferryboat, and Violet’s been taking that stance on bridges lately. Tulip is terrified.
Carolina Care Bullies advocates something called The Two-Week Shutdown. Basically, you don’t train the dog, walk the dog, give the dog any freedom, or introduce the dog to other household pets for two weeks. It allows the dog to become comfortable, learn rules, and understand pecking order.
I did not do The Two-Week Shutdown with Buffy, and it was fine.
When I introduce Tulip to Redford, she is delighted, wants to play immediately, but the little bastard bares his teeth and arfs at her. I am perplexed.
Maybe the Violet thing will go better. Again, Tulip is ecstatic; Violet is absolutely not. They have words. It is scary.
When Redford and Violet set boundaries with Buffy, she dropped to a crouch and waited for the moment to pass. Tulip does not believe in that sort of your-house-your-rules diplomacy.
I shut her in the spare bedroom with me. She wags and curls up next to me on the couch, covering my arms and chin with kisses. She’s really cute.
Day 2
I go to work, and worry. What if she escapes like Buffy did? She doesn’t.
I want everybody to get some wiggles out before I try any meetings again so I walk Tulip for a half-hour, lock her in the crate, and take the others for a loop too.
I let Redford and Tulip out into the yard together. She wants to play; he keeps avoiding her. She doesn’t let up. They have words. It is scary.
I resign myself to the shutdown. I don’t exactly live in Windsor Palace; it requires a mad shuffling of dogs in order for them not to interact. It’s going to be a long two weeks.
Twice she gets a shoe from my room. Twice I rescue it.
As I sit at my desk and work at my computer, she begins to give my knee kisses. After a minute, I realize they’re becoming more amorous. She puts her paws on my knee and starts making sweet love to my leg. I tell her no ma’am.
Day 3
I’m stressing out about tomorrow’s storytelling gig. This is the real deal, a curated show, not a put-your-name-in-the-hat shindig. My story is not coming together. I need some time to think. Tulip keeps absconding with my flip-flops. I lock her in her crate, with Redford and Violet outside. She whines nonstop, and they keep banging on the door to come back in. I let Redford and Violet in, close them in my room, put Tulip outside, let Redford and Violet out of my room, sit in the green chair, and breathe. Violet noses my elbow up, like a seal with a beach ball, one of her cues that she will be requiring some affection now, thank you. I clamp my arms to the chair. She starts a wrestle-battle with Redford at my feet. I JUST NEED A MINUTE TO MYSELF.
I don’t know how people with children do it.
Nobody gets walked. I get nothing done on my story. Instead, in an attempt to create order out of chaos, I clean the house and mow the lawn. It does make me feel better.
Day 4
Tulip doesn’t want her breakfast, as usual. I pour chicken broth on it. Nope. I microwave it for ten seconds. Still no. I stir peanut butter into it. Two licks. I take her on the 2.5-mile neighborhood loop.
We run into the next-door neighbor kid, who is a total delinquent. Been in juvy a coupla/three times. He’s walking down the street with two other boys, smoking a cigarette.
“You got another dog?” he says.
“This is my foster dog.”
“You gon keep her?”
“Nope, trying to find her a good home.”
“How much you gon sell her for?”
“I’m not selling her.”
“You giving her away? Can I keep her?”
Absolutely no fucking way in hell would I ever let this dog into your home, with your crazy-ass mother who has semi-weekly screaming fits and you who smokes and skips school and does god knows what else.
I don’t say that out loud.
“Your little dog? She’s female, right?” I ask him, and he responds in the affirmative. “The organization won’t put two female dogs together.” (Lie.)
Tulip is better on the leash than she was last time. We get home, and she eats her food, a third at a time, checking in to make sure I still love her at each break.
Day 5
The never-ending dog shuffles are tiresome, and I feel like I’m neglecting Redford and Violet.
When my friends ask how Tulip is doing, I tell them she’s a grunty pig. She roots around me and the couch while we’re snuggling. She grunts and groans and moans when I pet her or when she’s just, you know, existing. She snorts when she eats.
Erin: So she shnurffles?
Me: She totally shnurffles! She’s a shnurffly monkey!
Erin: She’s a shnurffly hump-monkey!
That’s my Tulip.
Day 6
As I rub Tulip’s ears during one of our couch snuggle sessions, I notice that some of her fur falls out. I google ‘mange’, and peruse the images. I think my foster dog is a shnurffly, mangey hump-monkey.
As in the past, when any student of mine has gotten lice, my head begins to itch. I google ‘can humans get mange?’. The answer: Yes, but the parasites cannot reproduce on humans, so you’ll only itch for a couple of weeks until they die out. Only a couple of weeks?!
Goddammit.
Later, I take her to my sister’s house. Good news: Tulip shows no fear around the older kids (the little one’s napping). My sister tosses a tennis ball. Tulip sprints after it, picks it up, and runs back. She doesn’t drop it—I have to wrestle it from her jaws—but when I throw it again, she runs after it again. My sister’s yard is Magical Fetchland.
Tulip sniffs, and snorts, and cavorts around the whole yard. Watching my foster dog frolic, my sister says, “If everybody could see this, they’d have a different opinion about pit bulls.” Preach, Wa.
Day 7
I supervise the eating of breakfast, as usual. Tulip’s not interested, as usual. I once met a dog at the dog park whose owner was trying to train her but was struggling because the dog was “not food-motivated”. What is that I don’t even.
During one of our seventeen daily dog shuffles (Tulip outside, Redford and Violet inside), Violet takes two shoes from my room and starts to chew them. Somebody’s not getting enough attention. Guilt.
Tulip will go tomorrow to get spayed. I commence fretting.
And My Scramble Games Are Taking Forever to Load
Struggling here at Avid Bruxist headquarters, friends.
I’ve been ordering my amino acids online for maybe a year now in attempt to save a little bit of money. They’re still ridiculously expensive, but they help me. They really help me. Whether it’s the placebo effect or not makes little difference to me at this point.
Last week’s shipment got stolen off my stoop. Or so I’m inferring since the P.O. said they delivered it but it wasn’t there when I got home. (By the way, fuck you, thief. And haha, I hope you were crossing your fingers that it was an iPod, when all you got was l-tyrosine and mucuna pruriens. Motherfucker.)
I called the company, and they replaced the shipment free. (Note to business owners: Vitacost bought my never-ending loyalty for $65.)
The replacements arrived on Tuesday, but I missed probably eight doses of one of the more important ones. I know it’s important because I’ve tried to reduce the dose before with negative results.
And I don’t feel good.
Probably doesn’t help that I’m stressed out from various first-world problems, e.g., an upcoming storytelling event; the new foster dog (who is a sugar booger, but there are challenges); a persistent cold which could I suppose be a sinus infection at this point; 500 bucks in tree limb removal so my ancient pin oaks don’t drop them and crush my car, which I hate and want to replace but don’t know if I can afford to, now that I’ve given so much money to the tree man.
I know I need to STFU, but I just wanted to let you know, if the blog doesn’t get updated, it’s because my robot-vacuum doesn’t get the corners of the rooms and I have to sweep them! Wah!
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Epilogue
Day 1
I pee by myself for the first time in six and a half weeks. It’s lonely.
When I bring them inside, Redford and Violet run to the spare bedroom to see if Buffy‘s there. (They will continue the practice for three days, at which point they resign themselves to the facts.)
I sit on my hands all day, trying not to email Jane to find out how Buffy’s doing. Jane emails me in the evening, letting me know that Buffy is settling in, although she does “spend the first few hours staring at the door” waiting for me to come back. She thanks me for my sacrifice, in the time it took to foster her and the “selflessness it took to give her up”. She says they’re really grateful and look forward to doggie play dates in the future.
I write back and thank her profusely for the update.
I feel guilty for loving the part about her staring at the door.
Day 2
Carolina Care Bullies posts a plea for foster families for two full-grown pits, one male and one female.
I ignore the post.
Day 3
I get an email from a CCB rep with the subject line, “Fostering again?” The rep explains that the two dogs from the prior day’s post, both two to three years old, had been confiscated in a cruelty case. They were taken to the shelter along with a dead puppy that was found with them. The female had had a prolapsed uterus but, after undergoing medical treatment, was recovering well. Would I consider fostering her?
I ignore the email.
Day 4
I run into Buffy and her two mommies at the Marry Durham street festival. Buffy is nervous and at first doesn’t realize it’s me. When I squat down and speak to her, she begins to wag. Wag, wag, wag. Her whole body wags. And then she presses herself into me. I start to cry. I’m so happy to see her. Jane and her partner tell me she’s doing great. Going for runs, totally fine in the kennel, no going potty in the house, no chasing the cat. We exchange promises about future play dates and say goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye.
I send a message to CCB and say I can’t foster again right now. I’m too emotional. The rep responds that she understands.
Day 5
My friend, Kate K., emails me in the morning to see if I can do lunch. That reminds me I’m supposed to be trying a new modus operandi: Say yes and see what happens.
I email the CCB rep six words: I’ll do it. I’ll take her.
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 7
Day 4
I drop Buffy at her fur-ever home.
And cry.
Eeyore
After the last StorySLAM I hosted, Jeff and I planned to get together and debrief, but we never got around to it. So a couple days ago, I sent him my thoughts, namely:
- Even though no host likes to do the “How’s everybody doing tonight?… I said, How’s everybody doing tonight?!” thing, and no audience member enjoys answering the former with a “Wooo” and the latter with a “Woooooooo!“, it serves a purpose. It raises the energy in the room. It gets people feeling. It opens the audience up to the possibility of enthusiasm. So it needs to be done. I needed to give the listeners the space to get excited, early. (They got there. It’s just took a minute.)
- The evening is about the storytellers. I was so nervous about getting my bits right that I forgot to highlight the people who had put their name in the hat. I would go up, do my piece, get the scores, and announce the next storyteller, which on paper is what I was supposed to do, but at the end of the evening, it felt disjointed, like two separate events, my part and their part. Jeff is very good about listening to a story and, for his next bit, riffing off it, whereas I sit in the front row looking at the storyteller and working up some serious butt-sweat. I can’t possibly pick anything up and run with it because the story is completely drowned out by the freight train that’s barreling through my head. Plus, even if I could quiet the locomotive, I have precisely zero improv chops. I cannot come up with stuff on the fly. The few lines I tried to do off the cuff that night, I flubbed. Thinking about improvising a whole three-minute segment—oh god, I just dry-heaved. So I need to either work on that or figure out another way to showcase the storytellers better.
When we spoke on the phone the next day, Jeff told me about an email he received when he sent out the promotion for the upcoming event. Apparently, a woman wrote something like, “We’re going to try this again. We’ve been there twice when the blond woman [I’m blond apparently?] has hosted, and she made it all about herself. We like it better when you’re hosting.”
Here’s what’s true:
- It was only my second time hosting.
- Hosting is hard.
- I worked my ass off to prepare.
- Lots of people told Jeff I did a great job.
- Lots of people told me I did a great job.
- One woman didn’t like what I did.
- Jeff said he disagreed with the woman, thinks I’m awesome, and wants me to host more shows.
- This woman and I are saying essentially the same thing, though my view of it is a little more forgiving and generous. (Hers: she made it all about her; mine: I was so goddamn nervous I couldn’t see straight.)
But, man, this kind of thing sends my day right into the shitter. Why does one random woman’s negative opinion trump all the positive?
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 6
Day 1
I email with a woman, Jane, who has seen photos of Buffy online and been in contact with the rescue organization. She lives in the neighborhood adjacent to mine. We set up a meeting for the next evening at my house.
Day 2
Buffy and I attend an adoption event at Woof Gang Bakery in Raleigh. She trembles mightily for the first ten minutes, then stands very alert for the next hour and a half. Two brown 9-week-old puppies get most of the attention, though a giant, corn-fed-looking guy and his wife, who has a perfect French manicure, come in, ask a lot of questions, and, when she lets them get close enough, scratch Buffy’s neck.
Later in the evening, Jane and her partner come over to meet Buffy. I put Redford, the big oaf, out in the back. He objects, loudly, for their entire visit. I decide to keep Violet in because I think it might help Buffy’s nerves. Indeed, she’s slightly nervous but allows petting and even gives kisses.
They ask lots of questions. None of her issues seem insurmountable to them. They get their little hound out of the car, and the two dogs sniff butts. Everybody’s fine.
Jane declares that she’s in love with her; she’ll go home, put in an application, and pay a deposit.
Day 3
The manicured woman posts on Buffy’s Facebook album that she and her husband
loved her! hopefully we’ll be seeing you both again soon! :)
I email Jane and let her know that the other couple is very interested and she should get that application in if she didn’t already.
I don’t know why I’m rooting for them, rather than the other couple, to get Buffy. Maybe because I love lesbians? Or because that means Buffy would be a mile and a half away and it’s possible I could still see her. Probably both.
I don’t hear from Jane.
Day 4
On the way home from work, I begin to worry. I left the rope toy, the two hollow bones, and the Kong in the spare bedroom for Buffy, but suddenly I’m overcome by the fear that she has chewed the TV cord and electrocuted herself. I imagine her lifeless body sprawled on the floor. Why can’t I have normal worries like normal people? Why does my mind have to spin these sick, paranoid daydreams?
I get home. She’s fine.
Jane emails to say thanks for the heads-up.
Day 5
I receive a contract by email. Jane and her partner are ready to adopt Buffy. The only question that remains is how Buffy will do with their cat. We set up a time for them to meet. If it goes well, I will deliver Buffy to them on the 13th. Jane has a week off starting then, so she can help Buffy get acclimated.
Day 7
My foster dog and I visit her prospective fur-ever home. Buffy is nervous. She shakes for a few minutes. The cat comes right up to her face. Buffy doesn’t even seem to notice. Eventually, there’s some sniffing.
No problem with the cat. Buffy will be adopted on Tuesday.
Feelings.
