Category: Animules

Wherein I talk mostly about dogs.

Like a Skipping Hippo

Every week, a couple times a week, I text my friend, Erika, to see if she wants to have a doggy play-date. Her dog, Barley, is my dogs’ best good friend. Today’s text conversation:

Me: Dogs?

Erika: Yesh!

Me: yippo!

Erika: Like a skipping hippo

Me: who got a big tippo so he did a back flippo.

If you don’t think she’s awesome, based solely on this interaction, I don’t think you and I can be friends.

Dear Redford, Part 4

It’s late, and I’m tired, so this will be short. But you know how you run over to people when they’re standing, say, at the dog park or in a back yard? And if they reach down to give you a little scratch, you about-face and sit on their feet? On your right butt-cheek? And then how you tilt your head up and look straight at them and smile and pant? And if they lean close enough, you give ’em a big smooch on the face?

Yeah.

Love,

Amy

A Dog-Shaped Space

Remember my old roommate, Dan? In April 2004, he took one look at the twin bed I was about to move into the spare bedroom of his apartment and said, “Um. No. If you don’t have room in your bed for a man, you don’t have room in your life for a man. You want a man? Go get a real bed.” I understood what he was saying. Create a metaphysical space in your life for the things you want.

Here’s the thing about that puppy I found last week. (Stay with me, these two things are related.) I feel like the man I’m going to end up with will probably be a dog person and will probably have a dog. I’m trying to leave a dog-shaped space in my house in case Mr. Wonderful and his Mastiff walk in.

Now, chances are he won’t have a Mastiff, which is good because the one I know from the dog park weighs 180 pounds. But let’s say I find a chihuahua running around the neighborhood, well, he’s only going to take up 9 pounds worth of my dog-shaped space. There would totally be room for a pit bull up in there. Or a lab, or a shepherd.

Whatever, my point is, that puppy was under 20 pounds, and he wasn’t going to grow up to be a huge dog, but he wasn’t going to grow up to be small dog, and what if he took up too much of my dog-shaped metaphysical space and Mr. Wonderful and his Rottweiler couldn’t fit?

Why, Universe, Why?

I’ve been suffering some seasonal allergies lately—stuffy nose, scratchy throat. Two days ago, I started shooting saline up my nose, which has helped, but at 3:30 this morning, when my ibuprofen wore off, my throat was undeniably sore, and I couldn’t get warm, I had to admit to myself I had developed a cold.

I called in sick to work, which I never do, and turned my alarm off. I would spend this day resting, no stress please and thank you.

At about 9:00, I roused myself and fed the dogs. They went outside and started arfing their heads off, so I took a peek, and

look what I found.

Again. Really?

He was running across the street. Collar, but no tags. I headed towards him, at which point he darted under a car and started woofing at me. His distrust was no match for his hunger, though—he was nothing but ribs!—and I distracted him long enough with treats to grab him. He bucked and barked, but I wrestled him back to my yard and fed him. He was sitting in my lap in under five minutes. Redford and Violet were pretty excited. Violet took on a reluctantly mothering demeanor, while

Redford tried to show the little guy who was boss.

Little dude was so hungry. I gave him wet food, dry food, and more treats. Even after that,

he sensed there was one more biscuit on the picnic table.
He was right. The biscuit made him thirsty, so then he drank my tea.

I had called Animal Control the moment I got him into my yard, but an hour went by and nobody showed. At that point, everybody was getting along great.

Redford and Violet even started showing off their WWE moves for him.

And he just got

cuter
and cuter
and cuter. (Put your lipstick away, Little Man!)

And I started to think maybe he’d be mine.

And then Animal Control showed up.

I cried.

Dear Neighbors

Where I’m from, on that winding stretch of Old Highway 421 between Boone and Mountain City, we lift a finger. Or rather, lift a fanger.

I don’t mean we help other people, thought we do that too. I’m referring to the gesture we make in our car as another car passes in the opposite direction. We lift a fanger. That is, we pick one or two fingers up off the steering wheel in a modified wave, to greet the other driver.

Old habits die hard. I would lift a fanger at the folks traveling down my country road when I lived in Hillsborough. Often, they would wave back.

Now I live in your neighborhood in downtown Durham, and as I walk the dogs, my impulse is still to wave. But it’s hard. Wrangling 140 pounds of pit bull, and simultaneously acknowledging my neighbors’ existence is hard.

I say all this because I want you to know that if it looks like I’m hoisting a bag of dog poop and slinging it in your direction, that’s just my attempt to be friendly. Sorry if there’s been any confusion.

Your neighbor,

Amy