If my two get a walk three days in a row, we can often skip the fourth. Not so with ‘Nita. That’s the difference between 4 to 6 years old and under 2 years old.
Day 2
I once again guilt myself into leaving her loose in the spare bedroom for the hour I’ll be at the gym. She yanks down the curtain and rod while I’m gone.
Day 3
My dogs are in; ‘Nita’s out. Like the nun in Madeline, I get a feeling that something is not right. I go out to investigate, and ‘Nita’s not in the yard. I run back inside, equip myself, and go scouting.
Day 4
‘Nita trots outside at 6:00am and goes batshit about a person walking by. I try to teach her about inside vs. outside voice etiquette.
I’m not sure I got through to her.
After the long neighborhood loop, I put Violet inside, keep ‘Nita on the leash, and let Redford loose. My boy does five goofy laps around the shed (‘Nita’s dying to join him) and then stands on the porch. I stalk around the yard with ‘Nita, encouraging Redford to come closer. He’s not interested.
I put him inside and let Violet out, but she won’t come within 20 feet of me and ‘Nita.
I tether ‘Nita to the fence, put Violet on the leash and attempt to do some walk-bys. Violet’s OK on the first couple but tenses up pretty quick. The fur on the top of her butt stands on end, and she keeps looking askance at ‘Nita.
I switch out Redford for Violet, and he does great! Walks by about six times and then stands near her while I pet both of them.
Progress!
A little bit of progress.
Day 5
While we’re on our walk, I pledge to do more walk-bys once we get home. Instead, I sit on the couch and watch about ten episodes of 30 Rock. Side note: I am Liz Lemon.
‘Nita makes the masks of the theatre. She’s so dramatic.
Day 6
More walk-bys after our walk! Redford’s fine but uninterested. Violet plants herself and won’t go near. Sigh.
‘Nita and I head to Cary for her photoshoot… It does not go well because SQUIRRELS and DUCKS and BICYCLLLLLLLLLLLLES. She’s pretty much bananas the whole time and nearly tears my arms out of their sockets. The photographer gets a few good shots though.
Note the sure-we-can-call-it-a-hug-if-you-want to keep her from taking down an innocent cyclist.
Day 7
Up to this point, ‘Nita has still resisted the crate. Not as vehemently as before, but when I tell her to get in, she’ll jump on the couch and wag wag wag and slither toward one end, like if she didn’t Cute me into forgetting what I was doing, maybe she could make herself slip through the couch cushions and hide. It’s pretty adorable, actually, so I decided to videotape it… but then!
I will admit, I am one of those people that says “Feb-roo-ary” and flinches an eensy bit when people say “Feb-you-ary”. I know that makes me an asshole because EVERYBODY says “Feb-you-ary”, just like everybody says “laying down” when they mean “lying down”.
[“Lay” requires a direct object. You can lay your keys down on the counter or lay your baby in a crib or even lay your body down, but when you head to the couch to take a nap, you’re actually going to lie down. Even more confusing, the past tense of “lie” is “lay”. (The past tense of “lay” is “laid”.) So you can say, “I lay down for a nap”, but that would mean you did it before right now. I KNOW. I’M AN ASSHOLE.]
I further know it’s only a matter of time before we reach the tipping point and the Grammar Mavens say, “Well, language evolves, and now ‘Feb-you-ary’ and ‘laying down’ are considered correct.” But that day has not yet come, so if you notice that I have a tiny facial tic this month, there you go.
You can blame my parents for the above (see my dad’s comment on this post from three years ago, which also explains why I use quotation marks the way I do).
Two years ago, I shared with you my magical pit-stank cure. Still using it. Still giving myself Alzheimer’s. But the ‘heimer’s hasn’t hit yet! Still sharp as a marble! Now where in the world did I lie my keys? I’m confused—I need to go lay down.
I “competed” in an Olympic weightlifting meeta year ago. I hit 79.2 lbs on the snatch and 107.8 on the clean & jerk. I’m proud to say that my clean & jerk is now 128 pounds, and I snatch 103. That’s right: I have a 103-lb snatch.
Sweater from Ann Taylor Loft and Gap orange slacks! I was also wearing my tall boots.See? Tall boots. Also, Redford’s tall boots.
What a waste though because you couldn’t see them, and they were super-sweaty on my calves. But the only other black shoes I have are Danskos, and I thought Kate the Ginger Menace would tsk at me if I wore clogs with my sassy orange pants. KATE, YOU’RE IN MY HEAD.
Other than the squeeziness on my calves, I liked this outfit OK. I’d wear it again.
I’d definitely wear the next get-up.
Dark Gap jeans, top from Banana Republic, and short boots short boots I love my short boots comfy comfy cute cute I love my short boots.
(Sorry about the shmutz on the mirror. Sixth graders.)
I love this outfit and will definitely wear the shit out of it… as soon as I get the shirt fixed. I pulled on a stray thread, and the whole hem came out of the back. Bullshit. I’m taking it back to BR, and they’re going to sew it up, or I’ma put a world of hurt on them.
OK. So. I promised Kate I would wear a skirt once every two weeks (wah!). Well, the school district called a delayed opening on Monday because of inclement weather—that meant I’d have to wear the skirt for three fewer hours than other days (woohooooooooooo!)—so I went for it.
Now, I built the outfit around the tall boots. I was really psyched about showing them off. But when I got dressed, I realized the skirt came down to mid-knee, and the boots came up to mid-knee, and the result was that nary a bit o’ leg showed betwixt, aaaaaand it looked like I had prosthetic legs.
So I switched to my pointy flats.
Skirt from Banana Republic, old blouse from god-knows-where, and pointy flats from Nine West. You can’t really see the shoes. Wait a minute.There. I didn’t think the pointy flats, which are greenish gray, looked very good with the black tights, but once I sausage-casing-ed myself with them, fuck if I was going to peel them off and shimmy into a different pair, so there you go.
[Side note: On our shopping trip, Kate kept trying to get me to buy heels.
Kate: What about these?
Me: Those are heels.
Kate: But they’d look so good!
Me: Kate! I told you I can’t wear heels*!
Kate: But they’d look so gooooooooooood.
Me: Kate! It’s a medical issue! After I wore those strappy blue sandals with the wedge heel to Craig and Michelle’s party last summer, my toes were numb until Wednesday. The party was on a Saturday, and I couldn’t feel my feet until Wednesday.
Kate: …What about a kitten heel?
Me: Bah!
*It looks like the tall boots have a heel, but it’s, like, an inch, and besides, they’re Aerosoles, thus they’re pretty cushy. Even so, my toes tingle by the end of the day.]
Kate wanted me to buy a girdle to wear with this skirt. (Nowadays, people say “Spanx”, but let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?) I felt like I was going above and beyond the call of duty by wearing not only the skirt but the tights too, so
y’all just get to deal with the fact that I have a belly.
Verdict: I felt totally uncomfortable the entire (albeit shortened) day. Kate said, “You look great! What would we have to do to make you comfortable in this?”
We walk 4 miles. Everybody’s hot and tired by the end because it’s 64 degrees and sunny. Everybody’s thirsty and gets a drink of water when we get home. Everybody’s loosey-goosey from the exercise and fresh air.
‘Nita’s on the deck. I nonchalantly invite Violet outside—no big. ‘Nita’s ecstatic; Violet tenses immediately. I walk around the yard and say encouraging words. When ‘Nita approaches Violet, Violet arfs at her. ‘Nita throws her own neck to the ground. Whew!
‘Nita takes a lap around the yard and greets Violet again. Violet arfs again. ‘Nita submits again. Good… but Violet’s hackles are still up.
One more shuttle run from ‘Nita then another attempt to play with Violet. Violet arfs. ‘Nita decides she’s had enough of Violet’s shit and arfs back. They have words.
Godmotherfuckingdammit.
OK, breathe.
This doesn’t mean the same thing will happen with Redford.
This doesn’t mean ‘Nita and Violet will never get along.
Doesn’t mean I’ll have to crate and rotate them for the entire foster period.
Doesn’t mean that I fucked up taking in another foster dog.
That I’m bad at fostering.
That I’m incompetent.
Stupid.
So fucking stupid.
This doesn’t mean any of those things.
Except it does right now. In my mind, it means all those things right now.
Day 2
I think about all the things I’m going to have to do to fix this situation, and the most important, clearly, is getting help. I will need help from people who know about these things.
And I always kind of knew it in the back of my mind, but on our walk, it hits me like a bolt from the blue that my dogs are the problem. They need work. Last week, Violet was undeniably jealous. A couple times, I came out of the spare bedroom after a snuggle session with ‘Nita to find a piece of installation art like this—
Dog Bed, Eviscerated.
It’s not like she can use her words.
And when I introduced them, Violet was so tense. Threatened, she looked threatened. She’s threatened. I need someone to teach me how to teach her not to be threatened.
Day 3
‘Nita still won’t get in her crate. I get a treat and tell her to come with me. She wags and runs into the spare bedroom and jumps on the couch. Then she looks at me and raises her eyebrows like, “What if I just stayed here instead? Good idea, right?”
It’s really cute. But I tell her no, not a good idea, and once I lead her to the crate, she walks in; I no longer have to wheel barrow her.
Day 4
We do a measly mile before I head off to the gym. I vow to take them on another walk after my workout, but Monday’s weather was a lie—it’s now cold, and dark. We opt for snuggling instead.
Day 5
To make up for my broken promise to them yesterday, I put on two pairs of pants, a thermal shirt, and a hoodie and take the kids on the 4-mile route. The wintry mix begins to come down 1/3 of the way in. We all get soaked through.
As we cross Roxboro, ‘Nita gets agitated (FOUR LANES OF VROOM-SQUIRRELS!) and nips at Redford’s jowls. He air-nips back. Fortunately, that’s the end of it. He doesn’t even look that perturbed.
I rub the dogs down with a towel at home. The fabric at the crooks of my elbows is frozen, and the dogs’ tails are coated with ice.
I rotate the dogs for snuggling purposes. They are very warm.
Day 6
‘Nita and I go to Phydeaux Raleigh for her first adoption event. SHE IS SO EXCITED. She meets several other fosters, including Layla who is a puppyyyyyyyyy aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh! She wrestles with Layla and then gets testy when other dogs come near her puppy. Overall, there are a handful too many stimuli for ‘Nita, and she has to have several time-outs for using her outside voice in the store.
I’m having major déjà vu. I tried to get a different dog from Tulip. I asked for a different dog from Tulip. But I think I got Tulip again.
Back when I lived in New York, I used to see this therapist. Susie. She was great. Tall, blond, late 40s. Voice like Stevie Nicks. Always wore Asian-inspired clothing and gave big hugs at the beginning and end of every session. In the waiting area, she had posted a list of Big Truths. I can’t remember all of them, but the first two stick in my mind after all these years:
(1) You’re here to learn lessons, which the Universe will present to you.
(2) The Universe will keep presenting a lesson to you until you’ve learned it.
And it’s true. I didn’t learn the lesson of how to get Tulip to integrate with my dogs, and I didn’t learn the lesson of how to get her to chill out at adoption events.
Stupid Universe.
But ‘Nita got a Valentine’s Day collar.
Be hers.
And the president of CCB says a woman who previously adopted from the organization has already been asking about adopting ‘Nita.
And like Tulip
she is oh so very cute and snuggly!
Day 7
I make ‘Nita a Facebook page in the morning. By evening, she already has 60 friends.
Three years ago I had twenty-one readers. Not sure how many I have now, but I’d say it’s at least twenty-nine. If you’ve never commented, leave your girl a comment! Let your voice be heard! (Seriously, if you don’t know me, and you don’t mind saying, I’d love to know how you arrived at my little corner of the internet.)
I went on a second date with Billy Joeltwo years ago, which led to a discussion of poontang management in the comments section.
Nowadays, if he insists, I do let the dude pay, but I tell him I’m treating the next time. And when I say ‘nowadays’, I mean ‘in the last year but not since the Dutchman debacle’, because actual-nowadays I’m avoiding every thought of dating, filling all emotional holes with dogs, and seriously contemplating single motherhood.
I was irrationala year ago. I KNOW. HUGE SURPRISE.
The rescuer and I make arrangements. I meet Bonita in a Food Lion parking lot. She wags. She tosses her head. And she shnurffles. Squee!
We ride home in the rain. I pull into a Shell, and while my gas is pumping, I get in the back seat and snuggle with her. Sweetness doesn’t begin to describe.
Redford and Violet are anxious to meet her, and she them, but I’m following the rules (some of them) this time: two-week shutdown. Not just because the kinks never got worked out with Tulip and it was probably my fault for not doing the shutdown, but also because my foster is recovering from an upper respiratory infection. Don’t need to be giving my dogs kennel cough if I can help it.
She goes potty in the yard and does a few shuttle runs, and then ‘Nita and I chill on the couch and watch Netflix.
Day 2
No house accidents; still pottying perfectly in the yard. (She’s one of those dogs that walks while pooping as if to get away from it. I understand the impulse—it’s like giving yourself a courtesy flush.)
‘Nita does not enjoy her kennel and refuses to get in. I have a meaty treat in my hand, but she runs into the other room and peeks back at me. I’m going to be late for work, so I have to lead her by the collar and give her a little push inside.
When I get home from work, she’s leaping off my bed. I have forgotten to put the carabiner on the side gate. She’s clearly been reading my library book during the day. I tape the cover back.
Good as new.
The shutdown rules say no walks, but that feels cruel, especially considering she’s only 1-2 years old. With ‘Nita on my right side and Redford and Violet on my left, we do the 2.5-mile loop around the neighborhood. Ah, yes, I remember this.
Did you know that you have a set of muscles that you use only for walking three dogs between 55 and 85 pounds? It’s true. The tri-caninus dorsi. They cover the area of your mid- and upper-back, lats, shoulders, neck, and triceps. And biceps. Also forearms, and sometimes glutes. It’s a large muscle group.
After the excitement of the first five minutes, ‘Nita does pretty well on the leash. She does lunge at a squirrel. And at a meow-squirrel who’s luxuriating in the crazy meow-squirrel lady’s yard. And then at one of those squirrels with wings that flies and goes tweet. But her favorite kind of squirrel is the mutant metal squirrels with round legs that run down the road and go vroom. Oh, man, she wants those vroom-squirrels so bad.
Other than that, she’s a gem.
Day 3
‘Nita chews on a tube of conditioner that was sitting on the edge of the bathtub.
I remember to put the carabiner on the side gate of the kennel before I head to work.
Upon my return home, I find Bonita still in the kennel, yes, but the tray, which now has bite marks on one end, shot out across the floor, the old sheet I put in there for her comfort shredded and strewn about, and
five feet of divots in my bedroom wall which she must have accomplished by bucking like a bronco.
I literally say, “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
Ah, well. I’ve been meaning to paint my bedroom anyway.
Another 2.5 miles. My tri-caninus dorsi are super-jacked.
Day 4
‘Nita chews on her food bowl a little bit. I tell her no, and she stops.
I start ringing the bell when we go out to the yard to teach her to ask to go out.
She still doesn’t want to get in the kennel, and she’s pretty serious about it. She’s developed a resistance technique whereby she flattens herself against the floor and, when I try to pick up her front paws to put them in the kennel, she lifts her chin higher than the height of the kennel. It’s a good strategy. But there are two reasons my species has survived and dominated, and they are opposable thumbs and cunning. I lift up her back feet like we’re playing wheel barrow, which brings her head down, and walk her right in.
2.5 miles. No big. I’m strong like bull.
She almost sits when I give her her supper.
Day 5
I keep ringing the bell every time we go out.
My friend lends me a bigger, plasticker crate. Magic impenetrable comfy jail cell. No more prison breaks/crate tornadoes.
The hard part is not the 2.5 miles a day. The hard part is the dog shuffle in the house. How did I do this for seven months with Tulip?! Plus the dogs really want to meet, and I really want them to meet. I want us all to make a pile on the couch and watch Netflix like we used to do with Buffy.
Nothing like a dog high-five to make you realize how dusty your TV screen is.
Day 6
No walk. I’m out for several big chunks of the day. I feel bad putting her back in the kennel when I head out in the evening so I just close her in the spare bedroom. She’ll be fine.
We do 4 miles to make up for yesterday. As we pass the dog park, I’m tempted to put them all in there and just get it over with. Neutral territory. They’ve already walked for 45 minutes when we pass by the second time so they’re tired. What damage could it do?… NO. I must be strong.
I don’t think I’m going to last two weeks though.
At 6:37pm, Bonita rings the bell to ask to go out.
Oh, here’s a good story from three years ago. I still have that chair. It still has a pillow on it.
Two years ago I thought aboutgoing paleo. That’s as far as it got.
A year ago I had a bad feeling about the stray that I found. Indeed, that feeling was an omen. But that whole debacle was the thing that brought fostering into my life, and it has really been something, hasn’t it?
I’m sure you’re all dying to know how my fashion endeavors are going. I’ll let you be the judge.
I eased out of the gate, starting with an ensemble I knew I’d be comfortable in (pic taken in the 6th grade girls’ bathroom omg whatever u so stupid!!1!):
Brownish-gray–does anybody say ‘slacks’ anymore? I think I shall–*slacks* with a jewel-tone sweater and short boots.
I liked this outfit. I felt good in it, though it struck me as kind of plain. Needed some baubles or something, but Kate hasn’t given me the accessories lesson yet. More anon.
That was my first work outfit. Here’s my first going-out outfit:
Dark jeans, patterned camisole, turquoise cardigan, and purple pleather jacket. Not pictured: short boots.
As you can see, I was a little unsure. Was it too much? I texted this photo to Kate, and she assured me that it was all good. So, OK. I’d probably wear this again.
The second week at work I wore
the same *slacks* with a saturated(!) orange top and cream cardigan. Also short boots.
I liked this one too and didn’t feel like it needed accessories because of the tie on the shirt? Maybe? What the fuck do I know though.
So… I had been feeling real proud of myself for my efforts, and I told Kate all about my progress. She said, “I’m not hearing about any skirts.”
Daw. What a task-master.
I promised I would wear one skirt every two weeks. The first attempt:
Navy patterned/textured skirt with buttons, white t-shirt, same turquoise cardigan as above (I’m MIXING, I’m MATCHING), and navy tights. Also, short boots (Finally! You can kind of see the short boots!).
But I messed up, I guess. I showed Kate this picture, and she was sufficiently proud that I had put on a skirt, but apparently, the neckline of the t-shirt is too high.
I think I get bonus points that override my gaffe, however, because
(a) this was the first time I had worn a skirt to work, maybe ever; and
(b) look at my face—you can see how physically and emotionally uncomfortable I was. All day; and
(c) one of the (male) custodians said, “That is a lovely outfit”; and
(d) did you miss it? I SAID TIGHTS. I’M WEARING TIGHTS. TIGHTS.
There’s a story behind the next outfit. On our shopping expedition, I had basically been eating everything Kate and Michelle fed me. If they said something looked good, I bought it, regardless of how I felt in it. But then we got to the Gap, and they pulled this… article of clothing off the rack. I call it an article of clothing because it was a biker jacket, but it was a sweatshirt, but it was a biker jacket, but it was orange, but it was kinda closer to red maybe, and it had an asymmetrical zipper, and whoa, it was so weird, you guys.
Both Kate and Michelle went, “Oooooooooooooh.”
So I said, “Oooooh what?” thinking they were going to say, “What Oompa Loompa on acid designed this thing?” But no.
They both insisted that I try it on because it was awesome, so I did just to humor them, and they both gasped. For real, they gasped, and said things like “HOT”.
At that point, the notion occurred to me that the whole day had been a big practical joke. I’d just been taking everything on faith, and they’d been seeing exactly how gullible I was. But I contemplated it for a while and realized they were my friends, and I’d never know them to be cruel, and maybe they were once again seeing something I wasn’t. So I bought it.
It only took me a month to get up the courage to wear it!
Red-orange biker sweatshirt(?) with trouser jeans and white shirt that I already owned. And short boots. And foster dog.
I got about ten “Ms. Scott, I like your jacket”s at school, and just as many compliments that night at the Monti.
It’s safe to say that victorious is not what’s happening in most areas of my life right now, but I can take care of a dog. I can do that. So last week, when CCB posted that a dog named Brandi needed a foster, I didn’t think too much. I emailed, asked if she was submissive, and said, if so, I’d take her. (I let them know I couldn’t do another 7 months of crate-and-rotate.) They said she’d be fine, so I made plans to get her.
From there, it got confusing. What I figured out by the end was that Brandi had been adopted, but the family wanted to return her because she had nipped the dad twice on the leg. Somebody at CCB talked them down—let them know that’s a behavior that can be corrected—and they decided to keep the dog. My services were not needed.
But by then, I kinda had my heart set on fostering again. The president of CCB said she and the VP would be going to some shelters soon to see who they could pull. After work Monday, I opened my email to find a message saying they had found me the perfect dog, and could I pick her up in the evening?
Yes, yes I could.
Right before I headed out, I saw that the prez had posted about my foster on Facebook. Two things: (1) she had been scheduled to be put to sleep on Monday—whew!, and (2) during the temperament testing, she submitted to and wanted to play with another female dog.
[Prez listed her as Bonita, which I’m not psyched about. If you pronounce Bonita the way it’s supposed to be pronounced, you sound pretentious as shit; if you don’t, Bonita sounds like some fat redneck woman. BowNEEDuh. In the shelter, the dog was Bonnie, but I had a dog named Bonnie growing up, and she looked about as opposite as possible to this dog. I thought maybe ‘Nita. Then, on her Facebook page, she could post, “I ‘Nita fur-ever home!” Get it? Har har. I asked my friends for help. Meg threw out Bonbon, or Easter Bonnet. Shiv suggested Lisa Bonet… I might be calling my foster dog Lisa Bonet.]
Prez also posted a photo.
Clipped ears, nipples for days, but look at that face!
