Month: April 2012
The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 6, Days 4-7
Day 4
My mom visits and gives her foster granddog a present: a soft blanky (“because she’s so snuggly”) with a picture of a doggy and a kitty on it. The doggy on the blanket is not a pit bull. We discuss the fact that they probably don’t make blankets with pit bulls on them. A quick google search proves us so very wrong.
My eyes!
Day 5
I awake at 5:20 to the familiar backwards-gulp sound (uh-ggg, uh-ggg, uh-ggg) of a dog fixin’ to thow up. I jump out of bed and flip on lights. Redford’s fine; Violet’s fine. Tulip has yorked a big pile of grassy mess onto her new blanky. I let her outside for a while, clean up the mess, and open the window to air out the room. Then I settle down on the couch, hoping to go back to sleep for half an hour. Tulip curls up in the crook of my knees and shnores. I lie there listening to the birds shriek at each other until my alarm goes off.
When I go out in the evening, Tulip goes in her crate with no padding over the plastic tray because it’s in the wash from the barfing. While I’m gone, she eats the damn crate tray.
Later, I will be walking through the kitchen barefoot in the dark and kick that jagged part, slicing open the ball of my left foot.
Day 6
Tulip is outside. When I go out to check on her, this is hanging out of her mouth.
In the previous few days, I have wrestled this
and this
from Redford and Violet.
I get emotional like always. And then I go to the farmers’ market and buy chicken. I feel ridiculous.
Day 7
I buy Tulip a new pink tennis ball to play with. Within five minutes,
The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 6, Days 1-3
Day 1
I send an email to the president of the foster organization:
Tulip is as sweet as can be with humans of all ages, very snuggly and lovely, but she’s still having trouble with dog-aggression. On Thursday, she got into a spat with one of my dogs and left her with several small but bleeding wounds. She wants to meet other dogs very badly, strains and wags, but the moment they don’t return her enthusiasm, she gets nasty with them.
It’s possible she’ll need to go to a one-dog household, but I thought I’d check with you about training opportunities. I’d like to take her to a class; however, she gets so riled up by other dogs that maybe one-on-one would be better…? Are there any volunteers who do this kind of thing or any funds out of which to pay for it?
Day 2
The president emails back and says that the organization has had success previously with a class called Feisty Fido and that funds will be provided. Sounds good. The only drawbacks are (1) it doesn’t start until the end of May, (2) it’s in Raleigh, and (3) I may be on vacation for two of the four sessions. Something to consider anyway.
Day 3
I let Tulip out in the yard for her morning business. Usually, she goes and then comes right back to the door and scratches. After a few minutes, I open the door to check on her
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature poodle and my foster dog exchanging pleasantries, and something that rhymes with ‘appear’As soon as mini-poodle catches a whiff of me, he shloops through the deck railing slats and bolts. I jump back inside in hopes, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, that the little asshole will come back. Seriously, Tulip and he seemed to be having a perfectly good time!
Hope for Tulip’s having doggy friends! My heart wags.
Gone Through Purbity
A few kids turned in their “Looking Back, Looking Forward” papers late.
Matthew: wow! 6th grade I use to think sixth graders were sooo biganstrong.when I Pass someone that’s about five they say gaint giant!! And new that Ima 6th garderI reallyize how small we are or to the big kids but there are benefits I got new friends and very nice teachers unless if there’s a substitute then well…I lose it and usually argue with them. And that effected my grade sometime
Jeremy: When I came 6th grade I was scared. I didn’t know what to be aware of. I thought there where going to be bullies and fights and nothing nice. I thought the teachers were going to yell, I thought it was going to be a living hell. It was the opposite though, I was surprised I couldn’t belive what I was seeing in my two eyes. I got friends the past and now anew. Some had gone through purbity too. […] When I get to 7th grade I won’t be the youngest any more. To me it’ll be like taking another step in humanity.
Protected: Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps
Protected: Put the Lotion in the Basket
The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 5, Days 4-7
Day 4
I’m so tired and so sore, from work and from workouts. I decide to take the dogs on the shorter loop.
As I leash up Redford and Violet, Tulip worries (as usual) that I might not take her this time (even though I always take her).
Half an hour later, at the back door, I must zone out for a second because, for some incomprehensible reason, I untether Tulip first. Then Redford, but by the time I go for Violet, Tulip and she are already at it. Snarling. Teeth. Jumping. Clashing.
All the articles online say don’t yell—it makes it worse—but I’m yelling. “Stop! Stop! Stop! Goddammit!” Though Violet’s still on the leash, she’s attempting to fight Tulip off, and Redford is trying to defend his sister as well. We’re all going around in circles on the deck.
The articles also say, to break up a dogfight, you need as many people as there are dogs involved. Each person picks up the hind legs of a dog and walks backward. I’m by myself, and I literally, at one point, yell, “Oh, god! Help!” Who I expect to help me is unclear, but I am so scared.
I finally wrestle Redford and Violet into the yard and close the gate, shutting Tulip on the deck by herself. I don’t know if her heart rate’s up, but mine sure as shit is. I sit on the steps and pet Redford and Violet. When I glance back at Tulip, she’s wagging. It’s been five seconds since the fight. A rage boils inside me. For the first (and, I hope, only) time, I feel violent towards my foster dog.
I don’t act on my feeling. I breathe and pet my babies, then I take Tulip inside and put her unceremoniously in her kennel. She whines. I tell her to be quiet.
Violet is licking her right haunch. I flip on the light and take a look. She’s bleeding, there on her hip, and above and below her left eye. I wash her wounds and feel very, very sad.
Fifteen minutes later, I realize my thigh stings. I look down. My pants are torn, and my leg is bleeding.
Looking back, the skirmish lasted probably thirty to forty-five seconds, but in dog years, what is that?, like a fortnight or something. It certainly felt like it.
Day 5
I notice Tulip has a scratch on her right cheek. (I guess Violet got one jab in.) I wash her wound and feel very, very sad.
No walk today.
Day 6
My thighs are covered in bruises from the spat.
I realize Tulip may have to go to a one-dog household. That, or to an owner who’s willing to do some hard work.
No walk today.
I sprint out the door to make it my friend’s birthday dinner on time, realizing on the way there that my dark purple shirt is now fur-trimmed and I don’t have a lint roller. Ah, the perils of taking snuggly naps on the couch with one’s foster dog prior to social engagements.
Day 7
Between thundershowers, I gird my loins and talk the doggies for a walk. It’s amazing to me that they can walk on the leash with their sides touching, no problem, but the unstructured meetings explode into rage-fests.
Tulip poops and pees on the walk!
Protected: Looking Back, Looking Forward
The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 5, Days 1-3
Day 1
Cousin-dog Barley comes over for a playdate. She, Redford, and Violet are in the yard. I let Tulip onto the deck. She waaaaaaaags and runs to stick her nose through the slats to greet Barley. Barley wags too, then there’s a moment, a hesitation, which Tulip interprets as Barley challenging her innate worth, and there are teeth and snarling and barking from both sides.
Tulip goes in her crate.
(sigh)
I need help with this.
Day 2
Tulip and I are chilling on the deck in the afternoon when, what ho!, a squirrel!, running up the big oak in the back yard. Tulip catapults herself off the steps and sprints the 20 feet to the tree, then begins circling the trunk, leaping and barking. It isn’t a hunnert-yard-dash, but I’m freaking out. I call her back, take her inside, and shut her up with me in the spare bedroom. She’s panting. I lie down on the couch, pull her onto my chest, pet her, shush her. She won’t stop panting. Is this what a pulmonary thromboembolism looks like? Do I get her to the emergency vet? Is there anything they can do for her if I do?
For twenty minutes, I try to stop her from panting, when finally I realize it’s 90 degrees outside, my air is off, and I’ve got this pit bull pressed up against my warm body. Maybe she’s just hot.
I set her to my side and pet her head gently. Within three minutes, she stops panting.
Christ on a cross. I can’t feel my legs.
Day 3
We do the neighborhood loop real slow, as I have legdo from Monday’s and Tuesday’s workouts. Takes us almost an hour. As usual, Tulip doesn’t go #1 OR #2.
Nelly comes over to meet Tulip. She’s just put down a deposit on a place that allows dogs, and she’s been wanting a dog since she was six. Tulip shnurffles and kisses Nelly and luxuriates on her lap. Nelly says she loves her and she’ll let me know if the apartment deal goes through.
Later, while I’m on the phone with my sister, Tulip squats on the doormat and pees?!
I take her out to the yard, where she pees some more and poops. I guess she really had to go, and I wasn’t reading the signs. I think back; she might have been pacing while I was on the phone. I suppose I need to pay closer attention. I wish she’d just go on our walks.
Stop It
Here’s the thing about compulsive eating, and if you’re an alcoholic, addict, or other type of self-destructor, you can sing along with the bouncing ball: I swear to god I want to change. I want it so, so bad. I would compromise my morals if I knew that it would take away the impulse to do damage to myself.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I had a conversation on Saturday with a friend of mine that went something like this:
Me: I need to start running, but I’m slower than [our mutual friends who run].
Him: You can keep up with them.
Me: I’m way shorter, and my BMI is way higher.
Him: You can change your BMI.
Me: Well, see, I eat too much.
Him: Do you drink enough water? Water will make you feel full.
Me: Doesn’t matter. I eat when I’m not hungry. I’ve developed some pretty messed-up coping strategies to deal with my emotions.
Him: Well, now that you know that, do you want to continue doing it?
Me: No. I’ve been working on it for about eleven years.
Him: What do you eat during a day?
I recited a list, explained that I eat, for the most part, healthy stuff, but just too much of it because it helps me suppress feelings.
Him: If you take out 350 calories a day—just substitute a big glass of water for one of those snacks—you’ll lose a pound every ten days.
Me: (sigh)
I know this. I know it. I understand the math. I get how calories work. I grasp the concept of energy out versus energy in.
I just can’t stop it. And don’t think I’m not trying. I’ve read books, seen therapists, been in groups, taken skills classes, meditated—shit, I even went to eight sessions of hypnosis. I’m trying. I really, really am.
But some people seem to think this is the solution:
When somebody offers me the “stop it” therapy approach, it actually makes the problem worse. Since that conversation with my friend, I’ve been shoving food in my face like it’s performance art.
And not to blame him; his is a perfectly reasonable solution. I just have an unreasonable reaction to it.
I’d bet most people have something they wish they could just stop doing. Maybe it’s too much food, drugs, sex, gambling, surfing the internet, or watching TV. Maybe it’s being passive-aggressive or getting themselves into unhealthy relationships. Maybe it’s sniping at their significant other. Something that they know is bad for themselves and their relationships but they just feel compelled to do.
I guess, if you don’t have any self-destructive behaviors, there’s no way you could empathize with the struggle of someone who does. But if you don’t have any self-destructive behaviors, then god love ya. Be thankful. And when it comes to offering advice to those with addictions or compulsions, kindly just stop it.
P.S. This post is dedicated my friend, M, who shares my struggle and was told today by another male friend of ours to stop it.