DW


Look what I saw walking down the street yesterday.

I made a U-ey and parked about forty feet away from him. I said, “Hey!” and squatted down. When he turned around, I put my hands out to the sides. He broke into a slow gallop and flopped himself into my arms.

He was a little shorter and thinner than Violet, maybe 50 pounds; his head, however, was like a damn double-wide mobile home. He wore no collar, but he wasn’t dirty or too skinny. I gave him some stale crackers that a friend had left in my car a couple months ago and looked around. Nobody was out looking for a lost dog. In fact, no one was out on foot at all. That street is really trafficky, and people drive way too fast down it so I hoisted him into the Outback and took him home.

I was a little worried about introducing him to the pack. Redford has been less-than-mellow at times lately, and Violet’s knee is still all jacked up. Plus, Double-Wide was intact, or unaltered, as they say…whatever, he still had his balls, which can translate into aggression.

But I let Redford into the backyard with him anyway. They scampered and cavorted. Redford fussed at him a little bit, but DW quickly submitted, and the pecking order was established.

"Handsome-off," said my buddy Phil.

I switched out Redford and Violet, and

guess who got along like gangbusters.

I reluctantly—reluctantly because I was already wicked fond of the little guy—sent a message to my neighborhood listserv, left a voicemail with Animal Control (they were closed for the holiday), put a post up on Craig’s List, tacked a “Found” notice on the neighborhood grocery store’s bulletin board, and uploaded photos to Facebook. I asked everyone who walked by my house if they’d heard of anybody missing a dog. One girl said, “Oh, he’s been out for a minute. I seen him yesterday.”

The little guy didn’t know any commands, not even “Sit”, and when we headed out for our two-and-a-half-mile neighborhood loop, he acted like he’d never been on-leash. He jumped around, snatching the lead in his mouth, and criss-crossed a million times, wrapping me up in a nylon boa.

He wasn’t totally housebroken either. I kept hearing Violet do her Enforcer Bark, the one she uses on Redford when he’s about to take something off the counter or he’s standing too close to me while I’m cooking bacon. I’d turn around and find everybody staring at each other, and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Later, I found little yellow drips on the floor and the bookcase and the chaise and realized Violet was being the big sister.

I got a response from Craig’s List, but it seemed spammy, and the pics they sent of their “missing dog” looked nothing like DW. Indeed, a second email came in this morning from a different address but with the same pictures of “Cowboy”.

Late last night, I spoke to somebody who knows about these things, and that person said, by law, strays have to be turned in to the shelter in case somebody’s looking for him. They keep him there for five days and then do temperament testing to see if he can be adopted.

So, I just went to the Animal Protection Society of Durham. DW tried to make a girlfriend first thing. Balls. But he was really nice about it. If he’d had the ability or know-how, I think he would’ve sweet-talked her a little first.

They scanned him for a microchip. I wasn’t surprised to find out he didn’t have one.

I have a friend who works at the shelter, and she said she’ll keep an eye on him. She even said she’d consider fostering him if it came to that.

And then I said goodbye to DW, and they took him in the back. And I boo-hooed.

I loved him already.

 

Impermanence

I can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s squirrel. Thich Nhat Hanh says we must surrender to impermanence. I’m trying. I just wish this lesson would stop presenting itself to me in such a violent way.

Like one day last May, my friend Erika looked in a bush beside her deck to find a nest, lovingly and painstakingly constructed by, she would discover, a mama robin. And the next day, resting inside the nest was an egg, about an inch long, turquoise.

Twenty-four hours later, she looked in the nest and found two eggs.

The third day, three.

A few days passed. She spread the branches and found three tiny, ugly-ass animals, with feathers and everything, eyes open, all smooshed together.

She shared each development photographically on Facebook, but I, as the mother of her dog Barley’s favorite playmates, got to witness in person the tiny miracle unfolding.

Each day, those little dudes became more and more undeniably birdlike. They chirped. They flapped. They opened their beaks in anticipation of morsels.

Their mom would scold Erika and me from another bush every time we came too close to her treasures.

Then one day in mid-June, as I was about to hitch up the dogs to take them home from their playdate, my friend and I peeked through the leaves one last time to ogle Mother Nature’s work.

I guess the birdies had developed enough to feel fear and to do something about it, because before we could blink, one baby robin had flopped itself out of the nest in a whole-hearted, yet thoroughly ill-advised, attempt at flight. It made a large arc but plummeted very soon to the ground, where to our horror, Redford plucked the shrieking thing up in his mouth. I started screaming. Erika started screaming. Redford dropped the flitting bird on the ground, and he and Barley barked emphatically at it. I ran at my dog and smacked his big head, and the robin limped through the air over behind a bush.

And for the second time in a few weeks, I stood there, watching a bird draw its last breath.

Its leg was broken. I don’t know if a broken leg kills a baby bird, or if it sustained internal injuries, or if it had a heart attack from terror. I picked up the dead body, no saran wrap this time, realizing in that moment that Redford had killed the one at my house too.

I spent awhile trying to process the simultaneous red-orange rage and steadfast love I felt toward my dog. It remains hard for me to fathom that those two emotions can exist at the same time in one psyche, but they say it’s true for parents of children who do terrible things. They love the child but hate the act. Love the sinner but hate the sin.

I was also mad at myself for scaring that bird out of its asylum.

But the fact is, as my brother told me after Boonie died, each animal acted according to its nature. Humans are curious about the wonder of life. Birds try to fly. Dogs kill birds.

Squirrels run in front of trucks.

It’s all nature, and the nature of nature is that everything’s impermanent.

Goddammit

On my way to work this morning, a squirrel sprinted across the road toward the car in front of me. It missed the little guy by a hair, but when he got across to the other lane, a truck tagged him. He ran to the edge of the road where he launched himself in the air, cartwheeling toward the bus stop, as if he could fling the pain away. I was going, “Oh no! Oh no! No no no!”, and blood pumped through the veins inside my elbows making me feel nauseated and weak. I had trouble gripping the steering wheel. By the time I looked in my rearview mirror, he was nowhere in sight.

I hope he died. I hope he died fast.

And I wish the Universe would stop trying to teach me this lesson. I hate it.

57 Things, or Rules, to Stop or Start Doing in the New Year for Your Life to Be Better and to Make You More Happier

Lately, I’ve seen a lot of lists floating around the internet. Things like Three Rules for Life, Five Things to Stop Doing in the New Year, and 12 Things Happy People Do Differently. I started thinking about that last article and, since I have a terrible memory, decided to do some research on myself via my blog.

1. Express gratitude. I searched for the terms ‘thankful’ and ‘grateful’, both resulted in “No posts found”. Hm.

2. Cultivate optimism. Ditto, ‘optimism’ and ‘optimistic’. Yikes.

3. Avoid overthinking and social comparison. I do the former with help. I do not do the latter.

4. Practice acts of kindness. A little, itty-bitty bit.

5. Nurture social relationships. Ever since I learned about the importance of appreciating my friends, I think I’ve done a good job of nurturing social relationships.

6. Develop strategies for coping. In my fashion.

7. Learn to forgive. I simply don’t do this, especially with myself.

8. Increase flow experiences. The author describes this as “completely engaged in the activity that you’re doing”. I’m working on it.

9. Savor life’s joys. When I’m not clinically depressed, I can.

10. Commit to your goals. Yes. But I don’t set goals nearly enough.

11. Practice spirituality. No results for ‘spirituality’, but apparently I say ‘god’ in nearly every goddamn post. Usually within the word ‘goddammit’.

12. Take care of your body. Cleanin’ and jerkin’ since August 2010.

So what did I learn from this little exercise? Maybe 2012 should be the year I learn to:

  • be thankful;
  • look on the bright side;
  • stop being jealous;
  • let shit go;
  • set some goals; and
  • pray.
  • And stop saying goddammit.

Luddite No More

It’s time, folks. Amy is going to trade in her DumbPhone. The other day a friend of mine said, “What do you DO without a SmartPhone?” I told him I have to look up directions to a place before I leave the house. And if a question pops into my mind, I just have to sit there and be curious about it. Honestly, how do I live like this? It’s barbaric.

But seriously, I’m thinking of going paperless-calendar for the first time in my life. I’ve had a daily planner for as long as I can remember, and I’ve resisted the digital calendar for years, but it seems a little ridiculous now that it could be available so promptly and easily. Also, I dig those bitchin photography programs where you can make your pictures all sepia and whatnot. Not to mention GPS and indulging my curiosity at every whim.

So I’m going to get an iPhone. (Some of  you will exclaim, “No! Get a Droid!” to which I will respond, “What is that I don’t even.” But go ahead, do your worst to convince me of your heathen ways.)

The question is, do I pay the extra $100 to get a 4S? From what I understand, the only major difference between it and the plain old 4 is Siri, a $15 app that’s been around for two-and-a-half years but recently got bought up by Apple so they could make a brazillion dollars on it. (I know a guy who knows this stuff.) And as cool as it is that when you say, “Tar,” Siri replies, “Heels,” she and I also seem to have political differences.

Are there other magical things I’d be missing out on if I didn’t get the 4S?

(Also, I just looked it up, and I’m eligible for an upgrade on February 17… I don’t think I’m going to last that long.)

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And Now for a Different Amy Altogether

Everywhere I’ve ever been, there’s always been at least one other Amy. Elementary school: 1, high school: 3, student-run theatre scene at Carolina: 5. That’s right. Long about ’94/’95 (why did I just want to write that ‘niney-fo/niney-fi’?), there were five of us Amys treading the tiny, crappy boards in the basement of Graham Memorial. And I must say, every last one of ’em: awesome. I was honored to be amongst that fine group o’ thespians.

I reconnected a couple years ago with one of these Amys, and I promptly co-opted her as my dating guru. This particular Amy is single as well (inexplicably, IMHO), but she just looks at everything with an eye I wish I had. For example, last night when I shared an article on Facebook called “Why You’re Not Married” and posited that I was reasons 2, 5, and 6, she commented, “this article is so full of shit. i know plenty of married women who are 1-6.”

So, without further ado, for your dating edgumucation, I present to you a post by sometimes commenter, always badass, and now guest-blogger amy a (a.k.a. Shot-of-Tequila-and-a-High-Five).

DATING IN ONE’S 30’S: A GUIDE FOR THOSE WHO DON’T FUCKING HAVE TO DO IT.

1. decide if you want to date a guy or sleep with him. the minute you fool yourself into thinking you can do both right away, you are doomed. dating in your 30’s is NOT, i repeat NOT, a john hughes movie. the dudes do NOT decide they’re really all about you later even though they originally wanted to just have sex with you because they need to get over their ex-wife. mostly, they have no idea they need to get over their ex-wife in the first place. if he is so evolved, BELIEVE HIM when he says he isn’t over her and doesn’t want a relationship. he will still act like he’s in a relationship with you, because he has no idea how to NOT be in one, because he’s been in one for the past ten years, but he is not in one with YOU. he just has no idea how to exist outside of a relationship, so then when he stops being your “boyfriend”, which he swears he wasn’t in the first place, you will be crushed, and he will just start sleeping with college girls, which he should have been doing in the first place and not wasting your damn time.

2. decide if you want to teach a new dog old tricks. basically, do you want to date a younger dude? because they are fucking fun. they have stamina, great outlooks on life, they aren’t divorced, they don’t have kids. they have learned just enough sexually to be really enthusiastic about showing these things to you, and also they love that you don’t care about fucking with the lights on, because their past girlfriends are young enough to think they have body issues they haven’t BEGUN to have and only do it with the lights off. most of them also have never had a proper blow job, so you can imagine the ego boost that is. BUT it’s also really hard to take them seriously. it can make you feel even older than you are. at a certain point, you’re going to turn to this dude with the awesome abs and the “i can change the WORLD!” attitude, and you’re going to think: “for fuck’s sake, you can’t even talk to me about 80’s tv shows without it being a hipster punchline. and i’m sorry, honey…i’m tired, and your ideas aren’t as original as you want them to be.” and then, you will just want to leave him drinking his pbr at the bar, go to the bathroom, and walk out the back door. 

3. decide if you want to try internet dating. BECAUSE WHERE ELSE ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO MEET ANYONE? ahem, sorry, but it’s true. if you really were meeting guys to date at the gym, or through a friend, or through but not at work, or at the grocery store in the produce section, YOU WOULD BE MEETING THEM THERE. but at some point, you gotta just go for broke, admit it ain’t happenin’, and go to the world wide web. there are tons of sites. some of them make you pay, which seems like it would screen out the weirdos, but it doesn’t. they are everywhere. sometimes you do meet someone awesome: for every horror story, there’s someone who meets her future husband/partner. it’s a huge crap shoot, but so is going on any date, really. and i look at it like this: once you go on one date with a dude you’ve met online, if there’s a second date, it doesn’t matter how you met him. could’ve just as easily had a second date with a dude you met at the gym or the deli.

4. decide when you’re going to decide when you’re going to be offended by him not communicating with you, which of course means he’s met someone else or just decided he doesn’t like you, and doesn’t want to see you anymore goddammit why does this always happen when i think i actually like a guy what am i a fucking schoolgirl, i have a life a FULL LIFE, i don’t need you to DEFINE IT FOR ME, i just met you a few weeks ago, and here i am a grown ass woman on pins and needles for a fucking text message because the thought of actually going on more than a few dates with a guy whom i find interesting is something i have not allowed myself to EVEN THINK ABOUT because i just can’t get on that emotional roller coaster AGAIN. sorry. GODDAMMIT.

[5. text message vs. phone calls. a brief synopsis: dude, nobody calls anybody anymore. seriously, let’s just admit it. you call your family and you call your friends you’ve had since before texting. anyone else, you text. a good male friend of mine,  whom i’ve only known about a year and a half, announced that he knows i’m upset and really need to talk because it is then and only then that the phone actually RINGS instead of DINGS (by the way, he does the same thing). so…..texting is what happens with dating as well, until you get to the point where you’ve been dating a while and you move into the phone call status…usually that means boyfriend. even then, texting will usually rule the day. and it is nice to get those “hi! how’s your day so far?” texts. it’s sweet. like a post-it on the mirror.]

6. decide when you’re going to talk about kids. his kids. cause you don’t have any.  the big difference in dating in your 30’s vs. 20’s is the kids situation: do you have any? does he have any? do you want more or any at all? does he? by the time you’re in your mid 30’s, the answers to all these questions are usually immediate, firm, and unwavering. no more “well, if i meet the right guy…” or “i MAYBE could be a stepmom…” NO. you know. you know if you care and if you don’t. and he does too. so THAT is nice. at least it’s something solid that you can base dating further or not on. cause if a guy wants to have kids, we’re not going to make it. if a dude already has a kid, i’m cool with that. if a dude already has a kid who is close to college age, or doesn’t have nor want them at all, BINGO.

7. decide when you’re going to get tested. yep. usually this happens when you both decide you’re not going to use condoms anymore. i’m a hypochondriac, so i get tested for everythingunderthesun every year anyway. you’d be surprised at the dudes that don’t. or can’t remember the last time they got tested. and oh geez: the guys who were in long-term monogamous relationships (marriage or otherwise) who are now having to use condoms for the first time in YEARS. yeah, you can imagine how fun that is. you feel like a total hooker. or actually, no. cause the point of a hooker is to not use condoms? i don’t know. all i know is i am on team condom, and it’s interesting how many guys don’t care if you don’t insist. scary.

8. decide when you’re going to tell your family you’re dating someone. ohfortheloveofgod. seriously, it’s almost embarrassing. they have watched you get on that bicycle so many times, and every time it looks like you may make it to the end of the block, and round the corner out of sight…. BAM. nope. you’re on the pavement because of some stupid rock or twig named “crazy ex-wife” or “ohmygod you have a parole officer?!” or “serious anger management issues”. so you stop telling them about all the bike rides you go on. because most just last a pedal or two. and you really just hate the look on their faces when you get up after taking that nasty spill AGAIN.  they just look so….sad. or disappointed. or something. 

…..this was the amazon preview of this dating guide. but i’m sure you can gather what the rest of the book is like. basically, dating in your 30’s is well, let’s put it this way: everyone who is dating in their 30’s never thought they would be dating in their 30’s. those who are divorced didn’t ever see themselves dating again, because they didn’t ever see themselves divorced. those of us who’ve never been married didn’t expect to not be married “by now”, or for those of us who don’t really want to get married necessarily, didn’t think they wouldn’t be in a serious relationship. so, it’s just a bunch of us, kinda standing around, checking each other out, and trying not to get too excited, but trying not to be too defeated, either.