Wherein I talk mostly about dogs.
If you’re new, Tulip’s story starts here.
Days 1-13
My friend Nelly keeps Tulip while I go on vacation. Tulip’s “mostly good”. Except for chewing up that one bra. I offer to pay for the bra on top of the babysitting fee, but Nelly says, nah, it’s still wearable. Haha! I’ve totally done that!
Day 14
Nelly drops her off at my house, and Tulip TOTALLY GOT CUTER WHILE I WAS GONE.
And she’s real happy to see me.
I missed her.
You may remember last year when I took a road trip with my father, my two dogs, and a 14′ canoe. Guess what I did recently (hold the canoe)!
Dad didn’t disappoint this year either. Before we even left, he was trying to carry hot coffee through the house, while the dogs made figure-eights around his legs. “Behave!” he told them. “This is the living room!”
Then we got on the road…
Dad, finger in the air: To tweet is to stupidify. I have spoken.
…
Dad, trying to explain his recent orthodontic procedures: …pinion, implant… I’m searching for a one-syllable word. Like a good American.
…
Dad, as a car passed by with “Just Married” painted in the rear window: Idiots.
…
Dad, gesturing at a bunch of idle construction equipment, as we drove through a downpour: Why aren’t these guys working?
…
Dad, post-Taco Bell: …Mexican-type reverberations up through my solar plexus.
…
Dad, at a freeway dragonfly: You corrupt, suntanned, white-Mercedes, lane-skipping…!
…
Dad, in Middleborough, Massachusetts: This is “The Cranberry Capital of the World”, it says. Not “Southern New England’s Garbage Dump”.
…
Dad, to a crotch rocket rider who nearly tagged my fender: You’re a statistic waiting to happen, you little twat!
Here’s the beginning of Tulip’s story.
Day 1
Her Royal Worminess seems to have recovered. (Oh please, oh please, oh please.)
Day 2
After my second day of professional development (WHY ON EARTH WOULD MY DISTRICT DO THIS AT THE END OF THE SCHOOL YEAR INSTEAD OF THE BEGINNING?), I’m fucking zonked. I head home, throw Violet and Redford in the house, pitch Tulip out—she hasn’t vaulted the fence lately—and pass out on my bed.
Tulip’s so mad
Yes, that’s one of the ones she chewed through before and my brother-in-law fixed once already. Grrrrr.
But three minutes later when I’m changing the sheets on my bed, and Tulip won’t stop looking at me and wagging her tail—just sitting there wagging—I’m forced to coo at her and scratch her silly jaws. She’s so goddamn cute.
Day 3
The family tells the organization that they like Tulip but they’re still going to meet other dogs.
Tulip proves herself kinda useless as an attack dog.
Day 4
Still doing the give-m’self-rope-burns-behind-the-knees technique™ on walks. It works. But it gives me rope burns.
Day 5
Every day, I tell myself, “Today is the day I’ll introduce the dogs again.” And then I don’t.
We go to Auntie Wa’s house for the afternoon. Tulip makes friends at the wire fence with the neighbor dogs and has words at the privacy fence with the other-side neighbor dogs. But she runs back and forth 75 times trying to git them mouthy bastards and thus wears herself out, so that’s OK by me.
Day 6
Now that her gastrointestinal issues are resolved, she gets so excited about breakfast.
(And look at how she waits for the signal now! Remember how she couldn’t do that? Now she can.)
(Ring around the collar provided by the cheap jewelry she wears.)
Day 7
Still haven’t introduced the dogs. I’m the worst.
I was snuggling on the couch with Tulip tonight, reading a book, when somebody knocked at my front door. It was 9:15, so I couldn’t imagine who it would be. There are two doors on the front of my house, a wooden dead-bolted door and a glass one to the outside that I also keep locked. I opened the main door a crack to find a guy saying, “My pit bull got out my fence. He’s tiger-striped with a white chest, and they told me you have him. I’m gonna call the police. You better give me back my dog.”
I said, “Sorry, I don’t have your dog.”
He yelled, “I’m gonna call the police!”
I said, “Do it. I have three dogs, a red-nose pit and two pit mixes. I’ll show them to you if it’ll make you feel better, but I don’t have your damn dog.”
He said he wanted to see them. Keeping the glass door locked, I opened the solid door wider so he could see Tulip, who was making love to a raw hide. “That’s one,” I said and put her in the spare bedroom.
And then I let Violet and Redford out.
You should’ve seen them go Kujo on that motherfucker, hurling themselves at the door, raising hell.
He recoiled and scurried off the stoop yelling, “You’re hiding my dog! I’m calling the police!”
I said, “Call them, you fuckwad. I don’t have your fucking dog!”
And he jumped in his car and sped off. I called 911 and tearfully explained the situation—stupid leaky tear ducts. The dispatcher sent a patrol out. The officer told me to keep the doors locked, and they’d keep patrolling the area.
I wish I could go back and deal with the dude calmly because now I’m scared he’s going to come back and key my car or something. But at least now I know how my babies react when their mama’s threatened.
If you’re new, the Tulip Chronicles start here.
Day 1
Tulip stays in the crate all day and then again when I go out for a date. I feel guilty so I take her into my bedroom for the night. She craps on the floor at 2:00am.
Day 2
In the morning, she eats a bunch of doggy salad in the yard and barfs it up/shits blood. How long is this dewormer supposed to take?
During our 25-minute walk, I make approximately 4.7 brazilian corrections.
Day 3
Tulip wakes me up at 4:00am reverse-gulping. I sprint to her crate and try to shoo her out the door. We make it to the living room.
But it’s just spit-up, nothing solid. I clean it up, and we go back to bed.
She won’t eat her breakfast. I email the org with the update and ask for help.
Oh, the funk, when I get in the house after work! Tulip has escaped from her (NEW) crate and, because I forgot to close the bedroom door, blown mud all over the living room. The org tells me to take her back to the vet, which I do, along with a grocery bag full of diarrhea. (What has my life become?) They peek at it under the microscope, give me some special food and a scrip for Metronidazole. Twice daily, ten days. And I’m to continue the Fortiflora powder I’ve been sprinkling over her dinner, which helps build up the healthy bacteria in her gut.
We do the 2.5-mile loop for the first time in forever. I quickly tire of making corrections, so with Tulip on my right, I wrap her leash behind my knees around in front of my pelvis and hold it at my right side. She’s forced to be in the heel position. I give myself minor rope burns in the process, but it’s so much easier.
Day 4
Tulip does not escape her kennel, and she does have a mostly solid poop in the afternoon! Wheeeeee!
Then my foster baby goes to have a sleepover at prospective parent Nelly’s house.
Day 5
Nelly drops Tulip off at my house while I’m at work, so I don’t have a chance to debrief and see how the slumber party went.
Day 6
A family is scheduled to meet her tomorrow at 4:00. Nelly tells me she’s in love with Tulip, but she worries about the long hours she works/studies and if there’s a family who loves her, then they should take her.
Day 7
The family who comes to visit is RAD. I want them to want her. She’s her cute, friendly self. My fingers are crossed.
At the fourth and final Feisty Fido class session, we’re still working on leash-walking and Generally Being the Boss of Your Dog. We’ve done no work on introducing dogs to each other. So I ask the trainer what to do. He tells me to have Tulip on the shortest of short leashes, so all three dogs know that I’m in fucking charge here.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be in fucking charge. Tonight I’m in a fucking funk.
If you’re new, here‘s the beginning of the Tulip chronicles.
Day 1
Tulip is back on her food. I consider canceling tomorrow’s vet appointment, but I know the moment I do, she’ll vomit in my shoes so I keep it.
A professional photographer who volunteers with the organization comes and does a shoot with Tulip for an hour.
Tulip and I go to my sister’s house for a cookout. She really is a perfect family dog. Or a perfect single-dog family dog. She loves chasing the ball. She’s gentle with the children. She’s interested in your supper but backs off when you tell her no. And she hoovers up all the chips and corn and whatnot that three kids drop on the kitchen floor. Like a Roomba that loves you.
I break my one-day-old promise to walk every day, but Tulip got the romp at my sister’s, and Redford, Violet, and I go to Auntie Erika’s house for a run-around-the-yard playdate for the doggies/So You Think You Can Dance-on-the-DVR playdate for the hoomins, so everybody’s happy.
Day 2
Tulip and I go to the vet. They determine her to be normal in every way, but I couldn’t get a stool sample beforehand and they can’t get one either so they send me home with a cup with a spork attached to its lid.
I intend to go to the gym. Instead I settle on the couch for the World’s Least Satisfactory Nap. When I arise, I feed the dogs and then follow Tulip around the yard, cup in hand. She delivers, and I get to collect the sample, which I must store in my fridge overnight. Gross.
Violet and Redford have a fast and furious playdate with Buffy(!!) and her sister-dog Stella. It’s wonderful. I walk Tulip five blocks to and from my neighbor’s house—I’m feeding her kittehs while she’s away. We have to stop and walk in circles eight or nine times because she’s fired up about some other dogs being out there. I do not introduce Tulip to the kittehs. I don’t know what would happen, and I’m not interested in telling my neighbor that my foster dog hoovered up her cats. “Like a Roomba? That loves you?” No.
Day 3
Tulip won’t eat her breakfast. Wah!
She has a super-runny poop in the afternoon, so I collect that one too and take both over to the vet. She finally eats her breakfast at 4:15pm.
The pics from Monday’s shoot get posted on Facebook!
Tulip and I walk to feed the kittehs in the nighttime. Poor Redford and Violet. No walk. I’m a bad parent.
Day 4
The vet calls to tell me Tulip has hookworm and whipworm. He recommends two deworming treatments two weeks apart. CCB says they have tons of dewormer and will put some in the mail tomorrow.
I finally make good on my promise to walk Redford and Violet. Tulip got a big visit at Auntie Wa’s house, so she stays home.
Day 5
The house smells funky when I get home from work. I go to the spare bedroom to find that Tulip has escaped her crate and pooped a tiny, bloody poop on the floor. Really? Those three tablespoons stank up the whole joint? I gather lysol wipes and paper towels, clean it up, and turn around to find a giant cowpie of a mess tucked between the sofa and the closet door. Oh. Thur’s yer trouble.
Later, I come home from my date to find it has happened again. I can’t blame her for escaping. If I were about to crap my pants, I wouldn’t want to sit around in it either. And this way, I only have to clean up the floor, not the floor, the crate, and the dog. But I vow to buy a new crate in the morning.
I hereby kindly request that the universe give Tulip a fucking break. She’s had her share of hardship, and probably some other dog’s too. Leave her be.
Please let the deworming medication show up tomorrow.
Day 6
I volunteer at the Walk for the Animals at the ass-crack of dawn. When I return, Tulip has freed herself from her prison once again and left three piles of scarlet gelatin in the bedroom.
The dewormer arrives. Whew.
Day 7
Tulip has a spring in her step that I haven’t seen in a long time. Knock wood.
Feisty Fido class is good but hard. My Fido is so feisty. At one point, the trainer says, “Honey, you’re gonna be walkin’ in circles for months.”
Sigh.
If you’re new, the Tulip Chronicles start here.
Day 1
Tulip whines to go out at 3:30am. At 6:00, she turns her nose away from her breakfast and yorks twice on the door mat.
While I’m at work, she escapes from her kennel, natch, but she’s real sheepish—she won’t even look at me when I let her outside. She didn’t act guilty the other times she’s gotten out of the kennel…? I go back inside and find a red, gelatinous poop on the floor of the spare bedroom. I email the foster organization to see if I should take her to the vet.
Day 2
The org emails me back to say they’re sending me some medicine and I should let them know if it gets worse.
Day 3
Tulip upchucks on my bedroom floor at 3:30am. I can’t get back to sleep. I’m getting a tiny peep into what it’s like to have an infant.
The medicine arrives, or I should say, the medicines arrive—three of them: an antibiotic, an anti-diarrheal, and one for upset tummy. I shoot the pink liquid down her throat. She’s not super-stoked about that. But I give her the other ones smeared in peanut butter. Those go down easier.
We walk in circles. I give treats for sitting. She really does not want to sit unless she’s pretty goddamn positive I’m about to give her a treat.
Day 4
Tulip asks to go out at 4:00am. I sort of go back to sleep after.
When I arise at 6:00, I discover that my tell-tale “you’re about to get a cold” sore throat has revved itself up in the night. When Amy doesn’t get enough sleep, Amy gets a cold. Every goddamn time. Boo. I’m irritable. I don’t want to go to work. I can’t go to the gym. And I may have to cancel the date I have scheduled for tomorrow night.
After work, it seems Tulip is responding to the medicine! Her poops are of a reasonable viscosity.
We don’t walk in circles. I’m too goddamn tired.
Please, oh please, let her sleep through the night.
Day 5
She doesn’t sleep through the night. But she does escape her crate during the day and sleep all day in my bed again.
I’m officially sick. I cancel my date.
Day 6
I do a dog shuffle at 6:00 (everybody outside and back in, in turns) and go back to bed until 9:30. Tulip’s been in the crate all night, so I leave her loose in the spare bedroom. She craps on the floor during that time. Totally worth it. I needed the sleep.
Even though it’s sunny and Saturday, Tulip and I are lounging on the couch in the late afternoon watching Game of Thrones. Out of nowhere, she starts uh-ggging. I pitch her off the couch, but I know we’re not going to make it outside. Gaaaak, right on the floor.
Man. I thought the meds were working. Poor little Tulip. I wonder at what point I give up on the meds and take her to the vet.
Day 7
Tulip won’t eat her breakfast; she won’t even lick up the peanut butter I’ve smothered her pills in.
Enough. I email the organization. They say to take her to the vet. If it’s open tomorrow (holiday), I’ll go; if not, Tuesday.
In the evening, she snarfs down her supper with gusto…?
Ever since I started the training classes three weeks ago, I’ve felt tremendously guilty because my dogs have gotten only tiny walks. I realize that it’s because the longer the walk, the more every muscle in my back is pulled tight as a drum at the end. Walks used to be pleasant: 53 minutes, nearly every day, during which I could zone out and not think about anything in particular. But now they’re different. First, summer has come to Durham, and even meandering causes floods of perspiration. And second, I have to make corrections every ten to thirty seconds, and it’s wearing on me.
I vow to take them on the short loop, about 25 minutes, every day, regardless of the heat and the stress. We do the first real walk in a long time. It’s hot (at 9:30pm) and stressful.
But the dogs are really happy.
If you’re new, here’s the beginning of the Tulip chronicles.
Day 1
Circles. Not sitting.
Day 2
CIRCLES. NOT SITTING.
Day 3
Redford must have a bellyache because he asks to go out five times in the night. Which means I’m up ten times, letting him out and letting him in.
I come home after work intending to walk in circles but instead lie down on my bed for two hours. It’s the Wednesday of EOGs, after all.
When I check on Tulip outside, she has barfed a huge pile of dog food and dirt (she’s taken to eating the soil out of my potted plants) onto the deck. She won’t eat her supper. Her stomach is gurgling and sloshing.
Day 4
The plague has entered its second day. I go out to the yard and find it punctuated with runny piles of mess. Neither Tulip nor Redford have any interest in their breakfast. Violet remains unafflicted.
Nelly comes over. Her situation has changed again, and adoption of Tulip is once again a possibility. Despite her gastrointestinal woes, Tulip luxuriates all over our guest. I show Nelly how we walk in circles. Tulip even sits once or twice! (But that may just be because she’s exhausted from the scourge.)
Tulip eats her supper begrudgingly, Redford only when I pull apart pieces of poached chicken and stir them into his food.
Day 5
The plague has lifted! Everybody’s back on his or her food! Yay! No vet trips!
I go out to see the Durham Bulls game in the evening. When I come home, I walk into my dark house and sense that something is off. To the best of my ability, I’ll recreate Tulip’s diary from the hours I was gone.
6:15 Aw for god dog dog! In the kennel again?
6:20 Amy secured the front wall of the kennel, but what if I yank on the back wall? Victory! I’m free! I can do anything! I’ll look out the living room window! and sniff in the kitchen! and run around the house all by myself!
Or.
Or.
Or this bed looks nice with all these pillows. K, I’m good.
10:45 Hark! Amy returns from her excursion.
Later, when I get in bed, she tries to climb up there with me. When I push her off, she’s like, “No, really, it’s OK. I was up here earlier, and it was totally fine.”
Day 6
The plague has not lifted. Tulip blargs her dog-food-and-dirt special onto my bedroom floor.
Guess who greets me at the door when I get home from the Carolina Phoenix game. I’ve got to invest in a new crate.
Day 7
Tulip hurls twice on the deck, but then she eats her breakfast. Hm.
In the evening, we head out for session 2 of Feisty Fido class. Tulip’s nervous tooting problem is exacerbated by this week’s bubble guts. The drive is unpleasant.
Though the first session was held in the parking lot of a vet’s office, the rest are to be at a lake in Raleigh “for real life effect”, according to the literature. More interactions, more chances for correction and learning, I suppose.
I park in the wrong parking lot, and by the time I figure it out, I’m 15 minutes late. I drive to the right one and ask various strangers if they’ve seen a dog training class. They all indicate the direction the pack had gone. A boy says, “It’s gonna take you a while to catch up to them though.” We walk fast. Tulip stays right at my heel. A while later, a dude says, “If you run, you might catch ’em.” So I run. Probably a mile, all told. Neither Tulip nor I are built for speed, and it appears she enjoys running about as much as I do; she drags behind me the whole time.
We finally come upon the pack because they’re working on a stay drill. I’m pouring sweat. Tulip’s tired, but she’s also EXCITED about the other doggies. She stays pretty well, but when the group turns to walk back to the parking lot, she’s too keyed up. I have to walk her in circles a bunch of times and do 87,000 tugs on her leash.
New lessons: (1) The trainer tells me to tug toward myself (essentially bumping her into my leg), not back, which is what I had been doing. And (2) I ask him about the sitting problem, that she’ll sit with the treat inside but not on the leash outside. “So take some treats outside. I’m not against cheating to win,” he replies. “Just make sure you wean her off the treats as soon as it’s nailed down.”
Only two noxious farts on the drive home. She must’ve worked most of it out during the run.
If you’re new, here’s the beginning of the Tulip Chronicles.
Day 1
The previous day’s Feisty Fido class had been taught by an ex-Navy man with blue eyes and a lot of sun damage. He had worn a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Smiled and smoked and cursed for the whole class. He had told us to walk in small circles, essentially herding our dogs, and make short, sharp tugs on the leash to keep the dogs focused.
Tulip and I go out in the driveway and walk in circles. Tulip does well, though she doesn’t sit on command. I have to “tell her once and then make it happen”, like the guy’s assistant had told me to do.
I put her inside and bring Redford and Violet out. Violet goes first and is a goddamn champ. She tries to sniff around at first, but once she realizes there’s a new sheriff in town, she’s all business.
Guess who’s uh asshole. Redford. That punk wants to walk me, and I’m all, ‘Nuh-uh,’ and he’s all, ‘Yeah-huh.’ And I’m all, ‘NUH-UH,’ and he’s all, ‘Awww, man.’
Day 2
We walk in circles. Tulip still won’t sit on command when we’re training. (She will when we’re inside and/or when she knows I have a treat.) I keep making it happen.
It’s been four weeks! Tulip is off restriction from her heartworm shut-down. I throw the plastic monkey with the rope tail around the yard for her. She gallops and cavorts. It’s the picture of happiness.
Day 3
We walk in circles. Still not sitting.
Tulip and I are shut up in the spare room. She’s chewing on something. I’m playing Scramble on my iPhone. She paces once across the room and squats to pee on the floor! I go, “Nonononononono,” but she’s going. I run out to get paper towels, and she slips through the door behind me. “NONONONONONONO.” I shuffle dogs faster than a Three-Card Monti dealer in Washington Square. They’re all surprised as shit, so they have no time to get into it with each other.
I put Tulip outside for a potty break. I wish I knew why, once in a blue moon, she thinks it’s kosher to piss on the floor.
I have now had Tulip longer than I had Buffy. That seems crazy.
Day 4
We walk in circles. Still not sitting. But we go around the block, and she does well.
Day 5
Day 6
We walk in circles. I’m getting frustrated with making the sitting happen.
Violet and Redford are doing well individually, so I we loop around the block together. It’s so much less frustrating that our usual walks, where my shoulders get regularly dislocated! I yike it!
Day 7
Tulip wakes me up whining. I think she’s just bored in the kennel, but when I take her out, she won’t eat her breakfast. Then the backwards gulp starts. I toss Redford and Violet into my room and flap Tulip to the kitchen door. She’s still uh-ggging, and it looks like she’s going to upchuck right there on the deck. I run outside and shoo her into the yard where she barfs. Then I slink back inside.
If Alfred happened to be looking out his window at 7:36am, then he got a hellified action shot of me in my underpants and camisole.
