Category: Animules

Wherein I talk mostly about dogs.

Dear Redford, Part 6

In some ways, you’re the same little puppy you always were, and in others, you’ve changed so much.

The sameness:

  • You still love hoomin beings like whoa.
  • You frequently execute your signature move.
  • You remain hungry all the time, and you don’t hesitate to let me know.
  • You bark that big houndy bark.
  • I often have to shoo you off the picnic table.
  • That drinking problem has not resolved itself.
  • You still love CrossFit (though maybe a little less now that Coach Phil has moved on). The other day, I tied you to the 70-lb. kettlebell, a.k.a. the Yellow Submarine, a.k.a. Kristen’s Bitch, and you started dragging it around like, fun! sled-pulls!
That says 16 kg, but it's actually 32, a.k.a. 70.4 lbs.

(Alas, as of yesterday, you’re not allowed to go to the gym anymore. New policy: no dogs allowed. I haz a sad.)

  • I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this before, but you have the same snacking protocol you’ve always had. That is, you have one little requirement. When we were at Cuttyhunk this summer, Margo gave you and Violet each a beef-basted bone. Violet went to town on hers, while you jogged repeatedly to one end of the porch and back. Margo finally said, “Redford! Eat your bone!” and I had to explain that you need something soft to lie on in order to eat snacks. She scoffed… but draped a beach towel on the planks, and you plopped down on it and started gnawing away.

As for the changes, there are two main ones. First, you weigh 82 pounds now, little man, and second, well, you’ve gotten a bit squirrelly. You get aggressive on the leash when we walk by other dogs, and even a visit to the dog park a few weeks ago ended badly, with you scaring the shit out of a shepherdy-mutt-dog. She was nervous, hovering, getting up in your business, but you most definitely over-reacted. It made me sad because I remember the days when you never met a dog you didn’t want to make out with. During all this time spent trying to let Violet recuperate from her surgeries, we haven’t been as social, and I think you’ve forgotten how to be with other dogs. And that makes me feel guilty and angry and frustrated.

But the other thing that has stayed the same is I love you like always. Madly and forever.

You're my best boy.

Love,

Amy

Photos by Kate “The Ginger Menace” and ATD.

Very Superstitious-UPDATED

A bird shat on my head at lunch today. Twice. One bird, twice, or two birds, once each. Either way, I got shat on two times.

Then, on our walk just now, Redford came this close to getting bitten by a snake.

After that, an owl started out of a tree ten feet from us and flew away.

A little while later, Violet nearly tore my arm off because a cat streaked across our path. It was dark so I couldn’t see it very well, but I’m 1,000% it was a black cat.

If anybody needs me, I’ll be under my bed.

UPDATED: At 11:00pm, my car’s panic alarm started going off intermittently and wouldn’t stop when I pressed the button on the fob. Until it did, and then after a random interval (three seconds to four minutes), it would start again. I finally got in and started the car. That made it stop. Except that it would start again when I turned the engine off. I finally drove down to the pawn shop on the corner—I figured my neighbors might be a little perturbed by it—and called Durham PD. Four officers showed up, witnessed the poltergeist, and removed the horn fuse. If it starts up again, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

(I came home, not having locked the dogs up in the spare bedroom like I usually do because I went running out of here so fast. Violet had clearly collected a bunch of my shoes and cuddled with them at different spots around the house. I think she was nervous. Me too, mama.)

Ol’ Boone

No kid who reads makes it to middle school without boo-hooing through Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows. And there are a million more boy-and-his-dog-who-eats-it-at-the-end stories out there. In fact, a few years ago, Gordon Korman published a young-adult novel called No More Dead Dogs, in which the main character laments having to do a book report on yet another tearjerker in which Ol’ Shep meets his maker.

I get that. It’s cliché.

But there’s something about it. The death of a dog. It’s a pain like no other I’ve felt.

I was having dinner Saturday night at my sister’s house. And when Wa’s computer goes to sleep, it scrolls through and displays the photos in the archives. A new, random picture every four seconds. Mostly they’re of chubby babies and birthday cakes, of course, but halfway through my turkey burger, I looked up to see

me and my boy.

And it was so sharp in my throat just then.

I wish the quality were better, but this was one of the crappy pictures I took in the few months I had my Blackberry, before I decided I didn’t really want to pay for the data plan and gave it to Wa. Later, she saved the photos to her computer and emailed them to me.

I think it’s the first photographic evidence of myself I ever put on the blog. I was finally like, fuck all this semi-anonymous bullshit: you already know this is my dog, who died; well, here’s me—I’m the asshole who let it happen.

Anyway, when this pic popped up on my sister’s monitor, a sob welled up. My nephew was asking me to watch Spongebob Squarepants with him though, so I blinked and blinked and the tears crawled back into their ducts. But I’ve been thinking about that moment—when Boonie piled into my lap in the big blue chair at Nana’s—for four days now. I can feel the weight of his chest on my chest and his silky ear against my chin.

I just can’t believe I still miss him this much.

And I just cry.

Hail to the Brightest Star of All

I made my entrance to this bright world in a little hospital in Blowing Rock and grew up listening to Cove Creek gurgle by.

I rode Old Highway 421 to Boone to take ballet, tap, and jazz weekly at the Dancer’s Corner and made out with Robbie in his Volvo in Foscoe every chance I could get.

I attended the University of National Champions in Chapel Hill, camping out on the hard sidewalk outside the Dean Dome for basketball tickets, ordering Greek grilled cheese at Hector’s at 2:00am, and sweating my way through eight shows in the Lab! Theatre.

I flew away to Italy, Mexico, and New York Fuckin City, but I kept finding my way back to the Tar Heel State.

For five years, I taught fourth graders how to lose at tetherball on Seawell School Road, then wended my way out to my little mill house in Hillsborough and ran my dogs all over Occoneechee Mountain.

These days, I work out, go out, and tell stories in Bull City. I drive up Roxboro, down Mangum, and across Club Boulevard.

I’ve been to Asheville and Kure Beach and a lot of places in between, and I love. This. State.

I love North Carolina.

But today my state government voted to put hate on the ballot and bigotry on the map on May 8, 2012, and I just couldn’t be more ashamed.

Worry

Some people are champion worriers. My dad and my sister are two that spring to mind, but I’m no slouch. My sister and I like to talk about how, if we worry enough about a thing, it can’t possibly happen. And so to control our destiny, we worry enough about many things. The only problem is that other things happen, of course, things that we can’t fathom. When Boonie died, she said, “I never thought to worry about your dog getting shot.” I hadn’t either.

Naturally, when an unexpected event occurs, that realm of possibility opens itself up, and like a cold sore, it’ll subside, but it can and will erupt in your face at inopportune times. Like your wedding day. Or a Thursday.

A couple months ago, my friend told me that one of her neighbor’s two dogs was strangled to death accidentally while they were wrestling with each other. Somehow their collars got caught, and when the woman realized what was happening, she tried to cut the collar off, but she couldn’t. And the dog died.

So for two months, my dogs accidentally strangling each other has been another worry-cold-sore for me. It couldn’t possibly happen though because I worried about it.

Except it did.

On Friday night, Redford and Violet were wrestling on the living room floor, when I noticed that the noises they were making sounded different from their usual grunts and sung notes. They sounded desperate.

I turned around and found them locked together at the muzzle, bucking and pulling against each other. It was pretty dark in the room. I sprinted over and knelt down, trying to get a read on what was happening. Of course, both dogs were panicked, so this was a flurry of teeth, ears, hands, paws.

My blood pressure shot through the roof, and I realized only later that I was shouting, “Wait! Wait! Wait!” I don’t know why that’s the word I chose; I just kept saying, “Wait!”

When I got in there with my hands, I realized that Redford’s bottom canine teeth had hooked on Violet’s collar, and then his whole chin must’ve gotten shoved under it. Violet had probably been lying on the floor at the start, and when she stood up, her collar had flipped, or doubled over, and was now strangling her.

I searched for the release, but the nylon was pulled so tight, I couldn’t even push in on the plastic clasp. Redford was yanking violently, emitting confused snorts. Violet was pulling too, but I could see that she was getting weaker, and the only noises she was getting out through her nearly-closed airway were terrified whines.

I was still yelling, “Wait!” I thought about running to the kitchen for some scissors, but I was afraid I wouldn’t find them in time. In what was a moment of unadulterated fight-or-flight, I made a move that I knew would either save her life or break her neck. Gambling on which way the collar was flipped, I reached underneath Violet, grabbed the legs on the right side of her body, and pulled them toward myself, flipping her onto her side, like I’ve seen people do after they lasso livestock but before binding the animal’s hooves.

The collar slackened. Redford slid his jaw out from underneath. Violet stood up and shook herself off. I stayed on my knees on the floor, chest heaving, “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

I had recently gotten the dogs new collars, and before they’re all stiffened up with dirt and dander, they lose their shape easily—Violet’s must’ve gotten too loose without my realizing it. I tightened it and put it back on her neck.

Of course, now I can’t stop worrying it’s too tight and might hurt her.

But because I’m worrying about it, it means it can’t happen, right?

Goddammit.

What Did the Angel Moroni Say About This Situation?

You may not know this about me, but I love dogs. I know! We all have our secrets.

Last weekend I had my two babies, plus Barley, their best friend who is sorta transgender AND Katie the Beagle Dog, who weighs about 15 pounds and has Cleopatra eyeliner. Barley had to go home, but for this weekend, I still have Katie the Beagle Dog AND Moby, a skinny, neurotic Shepherd mess who belongs to a former student of mine. He’s so sweet and crazy! I yub him!

My student and her mom and brother dropped Moby off this afternoon, and for about fifteen minutes, it was a cacophonous tumble of canine greetings. When the family left, I was pretty sure I could still make it to the gym by 5:00, so I quickly peeled off my work clothes. I had my workout pants and socks on when I heard a knock at the door. I figured Moby’s family had forgotten to give me his leash or something.

Now there are women in this world who can go braless. Alas, I am not one of them. It’s really unpleasant for all involved parties. But I thought, I’ll just sorta hide behind the door, and threw on the first thing I could get my hands on: a holey, old, too-tight, no-longer-totally-opaque T-shirt. I turned the locks and peeked around the door to find two Mormon missionaries smiling at me from the stoop.

I said, “I’m just running out to the gym,” but then one of them proffered a card, which I had to reach around the door to take. That was the moment Redford decided he needed a better look at his new friends so he bashed the door open with his body. I stood there in all my braless, partially see-through glory.

Those poor boys. I wonder if they reconsidered the whole “mission from God” thing at that point.

What Violet and Redford Did on Summer Vacation

Violet and Redford (or, as my 19-month-old niece calls them, Bye-dit and Redbud) just got back from a big journey. Wanna hear about it? I don’t care! I’m going to tell you anyway!

They rode in the car.
They stayed in a motel. (Redford nibbles on blankets when he's nervous.)
Redford romped on the beach.
Because of her bum knee, Violet had to stay on the leash, so she contented herself with digging holes...
...which gave her a sandy nose.
They chilled on the beach and watched the sun set.
But mostly, they rode in the car.
Which Redford did not enjoy.
At all.
Not even a little bit.
Poor little Redford. I hope the romps on the beach made up for it.

I Wish the Gum Trick Worked in Other Situations

I took Violet to the vet school this morning. She’s so sweet and scared when she goes in there. The student examined her, then called in the doc. Could be a number of things, she said.

1. She might have tendonitis. The other anti-inflammatory I had been giving her might not work for her, so if it’s tendonitis, we could try a different one.

2. She might have an inflammation caused by her immune system, called synovitis. That could be treated with steroid injections to the joint.

3. It could be an infection around the plate and screws. I thought this would be the best-case scenario; antibiotics and poof! infection gone. Turns out, if it’s an infection, the antibiotics will work, but when I stop giving them to her, the infection will come back.

I remember, before I had my wisdom teeth out, the orthodontist said something about how a spot will develop a biofilm and just keep getting re-infected. Guessing that’s the same thing.

Anyway, if that’s the case, if the antibiotics work, they’ll need to take the plate and screws out.

I failed at the second one.

Will she be OK?, I sniffled. They said she would; she doesn’t need the plate and screws anymore.

How much? $1,200.

Wah.

So this morning, they were going to sedate and x-ray her. Again. To see if it was an infection or tendonitis. How much? About two-fifty.

WAH BUT OK, DO IT.

I had actually left the hospital when the vet called me back and said she had consulted with another doctor, and they could try a course of antibiotics first and see.

So I went back and picked up a bunch of pills which were $3.50 each. I want them to work. Because I want my baby girl to stop limping. I want her to feel better. Yet if they work, I’m fucked.

Boo hoo hoo.