The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 11

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!

Chewing on a hoof/being cute.
Looking in the mirror/being cute.

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.

I go tickle, tickle, tickle, and my foster dog go hahahahahaha.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 12

There It Was, With a Broom, Sweepin

A week ago, my buddy Kathleen called and asked if I wanted to be in a video she was thinking of making. She gave me the run-down, and I said yes, absolutely.

After reading the script, I thought through my costume options and decided on jean shorts and white tank top. Also, as luck would have it, I had just done my once-every-three-years bra shopping at Target and replaced the blue one (that Redford had chewed on in 2010 but I continued to wear) with a leopard-print number. (Hahahahaha. Leopard-print.) Perfect for under the white tank top.

I picked up a soda from Burger King, piled my hair on top of my head, and met Kathleen on the “set” Monday afternoon.

I had someplace to be 45 minutes later (a date!), so we needed to get it done, but the other actor, who was going to film my part and vice-versa was late. Kathleen, who is not at all scared of strangers which I don’t understand because I’m scared of all strangers and also most of the people I know, saw a guy coming out of a house a few doors down and said, “Would you mind filming this for us?”

And, naturally, the guy was like, “Sure! I’d love to.”

He was cute. His name was Alejandro. Kathleen asked him later and he said he was straight and single.

I digress! Anyway, here’s Kathleen’s Sal Roker’s breaking report that homosexuals might actually be human beings:

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 10

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.

Sweet baby monkey.

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.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 11

The Collapsation of the Sensation of the Mirror of the Memories in Which We Are Living

This is why, when people ask what “my type” is, I say funny and smart.

If Reggie Watts asked me to marry him today, I’d be all, “Siri! What time does city hall close?!” And then I’d remember I don’t have an iPhone 4S. Hopefully, he’d have one, or else I’d have to look it up on Google, and that would take a minute, and maybe in that time he’d change his mind. :(

Also, I just remembered it’s Sunday, and city hall isn’t open on Sunday, so I need all of you to get ordained right now, and keep your phones set to loud on evenings, weekends, and holidays, on the chance that I meet Reggie Watts and hornswoggle him into marrying me.

Then he married Dpanie and Shaved

Cleaning up my desktop and just found comics (remember Peguses and Athena’s Birth?) that I never posted. Sorry about that. Remedying the situation now. The first is Oliver‘s (click for bigger):

In case you can’t read his handwriting, and Zeus knows I often sure as Hades can’t, following is the transcript.

Zeus and hera had a baby had named hermes (PUSH!!!!)

But the baby escaped (COME BACK here)

and stole apollo’s cows (moo!)

apollo got mad and went looking for them (MOO!)

he got mad at hermes for stealing the cows (wait. I have a Idea)

he traded a musical instrument for not getting hit (awesome; strum strum)

then he traded more music for the godness of herdsmen (staff for music?; deal!)

then, for his slyness, zeus promoted him to be the 12th olympan god (you [???] go to olympus; your true talent will be realized; you shall be the 12th olympian god)

Then here’s Daria’s:

Apollo was the son of zuea and he was god of the sun.

A lot of people love Apollo four who he was.

Apollo thogth he wa better then ever one.

Apollo’s symbol was a snake.

At least one Roman writer. Horace in his Carmen Saeculare. 

Apollo saw a grl name Dpanie and fell in love with her [She misspells ‘girl’ but not ‘Carmen Saeculare’.]

Then he married Dpanie and shaved

 

 

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 9

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.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 10

Racket

I got my pie-hole looked at the other day. You know, scraped, flossed, buffed. My teeth look good, the dentist said, except for those chips and hairline cracks in my incisors and the divots in a handful of molars from my spectacular bruxercising.

I asked once again how much a mouthguard would be. A real one, not the $12 jobby I got at Target.

Five hundred bucks.

We’ve never checked with my insurance company whether they’d cover it because my dentist has always said it wouldn’t unless I have gum disease, but I ask him to send a “determination” this time anyway.

He was right. I got the letter. They’ll pay $0 toward a mouthguard for me.

I don’t get it. I’m actively grinding my teeth out of my head, and they won’t pay, but somebody with gingivitis gets half a thou. Maybe I should stop brushing and flossing, and in a year or two, I’ll get what I need.