Plus Ça Change…

I went to the park on Sunday for the first time in months. Life has changed so much in the past year, I almost don’t recognize it as my own. There have been some wonderful improvements, some (okay, lots of) horrific stress, and a dramatic shift in day-to-day priorities. When I started this blog almost three years ago, I had nothing to do but walk the dog and write about it. Now I’m commuting to school, single-parenting, and was, for a bit, working part-time as well. The dog? Other than loving him to death, his needs were not being met. Heck, I hardly feed the kids.

Both of us need to get out of the kitchen more often.

Sunday was gorgeous– about 21° (70° F) and sunny. The Ex took the kids out for the day, and I decided it was time for me and Our Best Friend to spend some quality time.

I sat at a picnic table, reading, a book, while Our Best Friend bounded about in pure joy. I marvelled at the fact that I knew he wouldn’t get into a fight, that he came every time I called, and we revelled in the spring-at-last weather.

But something was different. There wasn’t a soul I knew, and not only that, I didn’t feel like  walking around and making new acquaintances. Something had shifted, and a little sadness crept into my day. The place didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt public, the way I feel at City Park– beautiful, and familiar, and full of strangers.

Then Robert walked in. I last saw him in December, when we ran into other in the supermarket,  a bizarre, out-of-context meeting, but nice. “Hey!” I greeted him, glad to see a familiar face. “Where’s Happy?”

“Oh, I had to put him to sleep in February.”

I just looked at him in shock. “What happened?”

Happy had cancer. And his lungs looked “milky” in the x-rays. Wasn’t always eating. Didn’t want to go for walks much. Treatment wasn’t working. I knew it wasn’t a matter of money– Robert had spent thousands fixing Happy’s knees just a few years ago. Happy was twelve, and it was his time.

“So what dog are you here with?” I asked him.

“Oh, I didn’t get another dog yet,” he said. “Not ready. Have to process this first. I just came to visit. Second time I’ve come since Happy was put to sleep.”

I just shook my head and smiled sadly. “Robert– you have to get another dog. You know you do. You’ll never be happy without a dog in the house.”

“Yeah, well, I have to get a few things straightened out, then I will. I will, don’t worry.” And Robert said good-bye and went for a stroll around the park.

A few minutes later Blanche came in. Her dog, Princess, had also died within the last year, but unlike Robert, she’d gotten another dog immediately. In fact, she now had two. I knew Princess had died because Blanche had affixed a memorial poem to the bus shelter wall, but I had no idea what had happened.

“I just saw Robert,” I told her.

“Did he get a new dog?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “Said he isn’t ready. But he has to. He’s not going to be happy until he has another dog.”

“For sure!” she exclaimed. “He must! You know Princess is gone–”

“I know,” I said, “I saw the poem, but what happened?”

“She ate oleander leaves. The vet had her in intensive care for three days, but it was no use. By then I had Katie here”– she indicated a husky nearby– “and I had it in my head that I was going to have two dogs, so I searched all the rescue sites until I found Kiwi.”

Kiwi is an absolutely gorgeous and sweet-natured Australian shepherd mix. She looks nothing like her predecessor Princess, but she’s very like her in temperament.

Blanche and I chatted a bit, then she went off to find Robert and put in her two cents about him getting a new dog.

Even though I don’t even know their last names, I find I care about these near-strangers, no matter how rarely I see them. Something brings me back to that park, the park where everything has changed but my friends remain the same. And even though I’m barely a blogger anymore, there is some part of me that won’t let go of that either.  There’s this feeling that if I skip a month, if the blog archives move from March to May with no April in between, something has ended, something has gone wrong, something is missing.

It’s April 30, 11:00 p.m.. I have a two-hour drive tomorrow at 10:00 a.m., but something is making me sit here and write my one post per month, so in spite of the changes, the new responsibilities, the new priorities, I still have this one thing that was suppressed and suffocated for years…. so I can say I still write, if only occasionally.

Maybe that something is me.

Surprise Visitor

As mentioned previously, I was recently forced to renovate my basement. And it’s 98% complete– they just have to come back to 1) attach the bathroom heater to the wall, 2) put a strip of baseboard inside the bathroom cupboard, and 3) put a piece of something between the bathroom door and the hallway.

So when the phone rang last Friday and call display told it me it was my reno guy, Ray, I was all set to hear that he was coming by to finish the job.

“I’m sorry I haven’t had time to come by and finish the bathroom,” he began. “And I won’t be able to come now for about a week and a half, because we’re taking the kids away for March break.”

“Fine,” I said, having heard worse in my life. “Call me when you get back.”

“Well,” he said, “I was wondering if I could ask you a favour. Would you mind taking care of the dog while we’re away?”

Friday, Sabbath eve, not a lot of notice… “When are you leaving?”

“4:00 today…”

So Ray brought Chestnut to meet Our Best Friend, and while Chestnut trembled and shook, Our Best Friend sniffed, wagged his tail gently, and lay down on his bed. Chestnut was clearly anxious and submissive, and I was quite sure of one thing– the girls would hate her. But I said yes anyway. Because I love boxers, and because if I said no, she’d be home by herself for 12 days, with someone “popping by” to walk her twice a day. Besides, it never hurts to have a renovator in your debt.

Sure enough, the minute they came home from school, there was shrieking and demands to know “where this ugly dog came from.” 

The Oldest and the Middle Child hate the shedding. “Her fur is on my iPad– and she doesn’t even come near my iPad!” The Youngest One didn’t mind her so much until she found her favourite stuffed animal slightly chewed and missing an eye. Meanwhile, this insecure purebred kept jumping into their beds, winding herself around their legs, and crying every time she felt ignored. Yes, she’s a needy little bitch.

I don’t care. I love her. Look at that face. Who wouldn’t love that face?

Okay, it hasn’t been perfect. Yesterday she got out and we chased her through three back yards before we caught her. When I was away at school last Wednesday, Chestnut apparently took a dislike to Kate, my lady who “does,” and growled so fiercely The Middle One had to shut her in a bedroom. The same thing happened when my friend Glory came by today, but it was obvious to me that this was pure fear, not aggression. She was growling, but her whole body was shaking, and she was trying to disappear into my legs. I brought Chestnut over to Glory, talking softly and patting her gently, until finally she sniffed enough to decide Glory was okay. Then she covered her in kisses and tried to climb in her lap.  Aggressive? She’s such a chicken she won’t go down the stairs.

And she reminds me of Cocoa, the most maladjusted yet loving foster dog one could meet. Again, I have 55  pounds of dead weight spread across my bed every night. And unlike Our Best Friend, who likes to cuddle for a few minutes then go sleep on the floor, Chestnut stays the night.

She leaves next Wednesday, and I’ll have lots of laundry and vacuuming to do… but she’s brought the girls a new appreciation of Our Best Friend, who sheds in easy-to-remove clumps and is, as the Oldest puts it, “fluffier.”

Maybe I should have said no. Maybe I have enough on my plate right now, with renovations and school and Passover coming. But when it comes to animals, I’m just a sucker for punishment.

And really, who could say no to that face?

This blog is part of the Saturday Pet Blogger Hop. Hop on here!

Wordless Wednesday # 6

It’s a blizzard out– again. I should be on my way home from school right now. Instead I left this morning to beat the weather. Otherwise who knows when I would have gotten back. This is the first time the weather interfered with school since I started in 2011.

I took Our Best Friend to the park on Monday, for the first time in… never mind. And this is what it looked like:

Can you spot the dog in this one?

One good thing about the snow: it covers up the poo.

These pictures were taken with the crappy 3 mega-pixel camera in my lousy phone. Hence the sucky quality. Now you all know what to get me for my birthday.

 

 

A New Challenge

First there were critters.

Around the end of November, Our Best Friend started going mad barking and pawing at the walls. That always means one thing: critters have invaded our home. In the past, we caught a few in traps, and after a week or so OBF’s barking and scratching drove them away. This time, they kept a’coming. I was woken repeatedly at night by OBF attacking the lazy susan under the counter in the kitchen. There’s a hole for the plumbing right next to it, and the critters were marching upstairs and straight into the paws (and, on one memorable occasion, the jaws) of Our Best Friend. The numbers killed reached an all-time high of four or five.

Then, at the beginning of December, I came downstairs and heard a funny hissing noise coming from the powder room tucked into the large room we called “the office.” In the five years we’ve owned this house, I think we’ve actually used that powder room twice, as it was old and decrepit and there was a much nicer bathroom down the hall. So I had to shift the boxes blocking the door to open it and see what was happening.

It was raining. A pinhole leak had formed in a pipe in the ceiling, and it had been spraying the bathroom for quite some time. I called the plumber; I called the insurance company. The plumber fixed the leak, and the insurance company sent a demolition team to take apart everything affected by the water damage.

Meanwhile, I still had critters, which I believed were mice. So while the floors in the basement were open, I called Kelvin the Exterminator to survey the situation.

“These aren’t mice,” he told me. “These are rats.” And to prove it, he found a dead one on the floor of the furnace room, nestled against the wall. What I had mistaken for mice, because of their size, were actually baby rats. And they’d left a hell of a mess under the floors and the crawl space under the stairs, ’cause baby rats don’t wear diapers.

The destruction of the powder room was actually serendipitous timing. The exterminator told me to I needed a plumber to snake a camera through the plumbing to make sure the backflow valves were working. Normally they would need to remove the toilet and replace it for this job, so that was one step out of the way. Turns out I had two backflow valves, both of which were broken, allowing the rats entry through the sewers. One valve, located under the office floor, connected to the now-defunct powder room. The other, under the hall floor, connected to the washing machine, the sink in the other bathroom, and the shower.

The toilet in the big bathroom was connected to…. nothing. It had simply been placed on the floor, improperly connected to the plumbing, and over the course of 2o+ years, had rotted out the entire floor.

I could either sell the house as is or fix it. Again, by serendipitous timing (I like that word), we were transferring our mortgage from one bank to another, and took out extra to cover the work. I saved a bit by not rebuilding the powder room, removing the need to repair that valve. To repair the second, the entire bathroom floor as well as a great chunk of hallway needed to go. Once the floor went, so did the rest of the bathroom, which always smacked of 1973, even though it was built in the ’80s. Now I have an enlarged, open space to act as a family room and personal office, a new bathroom, a new ceramic floor in the hallway from beginning to end (covering the holes under the washing machine where the rats used to play hide’n’ go seek [guess who was It]), and fresh, light beige paint over what used to be hideous Pepto-Bismol pink. It looks beautiful, cozy, clean, and new.

What do you think this looks like to a dog?

Naturally, there’s a problem. And here it is:

What used to be hidden in the wall of the powder room now lies exposed: a support beam. Alone in a big open space. Imagine the temptation this poses to a dog who hasn’t been allowed downstairs in almost a year, after he started treating the office (and guest room!) as his personal latrine. The evening after the carpet was laid and the renovation basically complete, I cautiously brought him down, on his training leash. He literally wet himself with excitement– fortunately on the tile and not the carpet, but also, not so fortunately, on my foot.

Last Saturday night, the kids and I all came down to the finally-finished family room, me at my desk writing an essay, them on the carpet, playing on their iPads. And upstairs, alone, Our Best Friend howled like a wolf. Wasn’t even a full moon.

“Leave him upstairs,” said the Eldest. “Can’t we have one room in the house without dog fur?”

Even the Middle Child, usually OBF’s BFF, agreed. “There should be a place in the house the dog isn’t allowed.” Then she added, “He’s getting annoying.”

Who raised these children? Wasn’t me.

Only the Youngest couldn’t stand the sounds of sadness emanating from above. So she brought him down. And the floor was wet again. But less so.

But all week, it was just me and him . On Monday, I came down alone, listened to the crying, then went and rescued him from his loneliness. I have restricted him to the floor by the door to the garage. Doesn’t he look sad?

So hence the new challenge. On one hand, the dog is part of the family, and thus deserves access to the family room. On the other hand, this carpet was a lot of money, and I really don’t feel like scrubbing dog pee (and worse) out of it on a constant basis.

Any training tips greatly appreciated.

This post of part of the Pet Blogger Hop! Hop on here!

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(Almost) Wordless Wednesday # 5

My area of the continent was in a deep freeze for the last few weeks… and then Monday and yesterday I was obsessing over reports of freezing rain coming my way on the drive to and from school. (I would have skipped class, but I was part of group presentation, and missing that wouldn’t have been a great idea– or fair to my group members.) The freezing rain didn’t materialize, thank goodness, but it is all wet and soggy. And tonight, I drove home in dense fog the whole way.

You’d think the rise in temperature would be a good thing, but it’s not. By Friday it will be -11° (12° F) again. The yo-yo temperatures lead to icy conditions and lowered immune response. “Everybody knows” you’re more likely to get sick with wild fluctuations in temperature. (Go ahead, ask anybody. Anybody knows that too.)

So I’m tuning out winter and looking ahead to summer, when days at the dog park look like this:

Grass… no snow… and no parkas

Wake me when summer comes.

Happy New Year

To all those who follow my nonsense, especially those who have been by my side, both physically and virtually, in the last, most difficult year… Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions; they always get broken, and then there’s guilt on top of poor behaviour. I don’t need more guilt.

So instead I have hopes for the new year. I hope I blog more often. I hope I can get back to reading and commenting on other blogs. And I hope I continue to build a better future for myself and my girls.

And what would this blog be without acknowledgement of the embodiment of what every man should be: loving, loyal, and brave.

Everyone’s Best Friend

Here’s to Our Best Friend. I hope his year is full of good treats, long walks, and time at the dog park with his friends.

Dog-Sitting Joys

Ever since Kate, my lady who does, had another grandchild and could no longer dogsit, I’ve been scrambling to find a sitter every time I go out of town. As Our Best Friend is loaded with issues, it takes someone special to deal with the disruption he’ll bring to his/her life.

This time I turned to Facebook to find a sitter, and two friends stepped up to the plate. I chose Glory, the one who actually knows the dog, though the other one will get her turn one day.

Although she has to work Christmas week not far from where she lives, Glory decided to spend the week with her parents, who live in a small town about half an hour away. This means almost constant company for Our Best Friends, and lot of walks in the snow.

This is what they’re doing to my dog:

See the smile on his face?

He’s not going to want to come home.

A very happy and joyous season to all my dear blogger buddies. May the holidays be filled with love, laughter, food, family, friends, and dog kisses.

Confessions

In my last post, I wrote about how Our Best Friend is a part of the family. And he is. He’s the most beautiful, loving, protective dog I could ask for.

That doesn’t mean I don’t think of giving him away. Every. Single. Day.

It was hard enough when I wasn’t alone. The Ex-Spouse worked long hours and was seldom home. Still, he sometimes took Our Best Friend out when he got in late at night, for that last pre-bedtime pee. Now it’s me. Every night. The Eldest has lost interest in the dog (she wants a cat), and the Middle Child, who adores him, is in bed by then (or at least she should be). It’s me at 6:50 every morning too, and when I get home from my new part-time job at 5:00. I take him out Wednesdays before I leave for school, and I’m the one who takes him out when I get back at 10:30 at night, after a two-hour drive home.

“I think I smell squirrel…”

I wouldn’t mind any of this if he was obedient. If I could open the door, let him out to pee, and he would come back when he’s done. Like Blackie does. If he didn’t chase after squirrels, and poop in the neighbour’s yard, or voom out of sight and end up a block away.

When I walk him, he pulls like a maniac. Sometimes he looks like he’s pulling a sled, he’s tugging so hard. I don’t know how to fix this. I’ve put treats in my pocket to try to entice him to stay by my side. He grabs the treat and goes back to pulling. I make him sit. He lunges forward. He still almost pulls me off my feet out the door, even though I make him sit and wait to leave on command. At least I’ve finally gotten him to stop barking insanely when he sees the leash in my hand. Now he just whimpers madly.

How can you get mad at this face?

The barking. Oh man, the barking. Every time the doorbell rings. Every time someone opens the front door. When the tenants come home. If I come in through the garage so I can put groceries in the basement fridge, he howls and barks until I make my way upstairs. Someone suggested I spray water in his face when he barks. I tried– it made it worse.

He used to run down the stairs to meet me, but he’s not allowed downstairs any more. Ever since the last time Duke and Blackie stayed, he pees in the office, or poops in the guest room, any time he gets downstairs. I can’t even go down with him. If I take my eyes off him for two seconds, he sneaks into whichever room I’m not in and does something bad.

I don’t mind the fur so much, except when it gets embarrassing. I returned some clothing to WalMart a few weeks ago. When the clerk pulled it out of the bag, I saw, to my horror, dog fur clinging to it. They took it back without a word, and now I live in fear of some poor unsuspecting person being exposed to those leggings and going into anaphylactic shock.

And I’m sick of the guilt. With my schedule, when am I supposed to walk him? I’m not Kristine; I can’t drag my carcass out of bed any early than I already do, and I have three kids to yell at to hurry up or we’ll be late for school. Get up at 6:00, in the pitch dark and cold, to walk the dog? Not happening. I started working part-time, so afternoons are out. And after dinner, I’m doing homework with someone– or three someones, sequentially. Once the younger two are in bed, I usually drop dead. Or decide that watching Once Upon A Time beats walking the dog.

So he’s wild with pent-up energy, which is exacerbated by taking his role of man of the house too seriously. When the kids play too boisterously, or shriek at each other, as sisters are wont to do, he rushes forward, barking furiously. More barking, in addition to the door and the garage and seeing the leash and being offered a treat.

The Goofball Pose

Every time the barking starts, I think, “I can’t handle this any more.” When guests are here, his barking makes them jump too, and I’m embarrassed by my out-of-control animal. Every time he pulls on the leash, I think, “I need a professional trainer, and I can’t afford one.” I live in fear of catastrophic illness or injury. Simply put, he frays my nerves.

But every time I threaten to get rid of him, The Middle Child cries. If I walk him once a week, it’s one walk more  than I would take if I didn’t have him to force me out. And when I drive up at 10:3o at night, get out of the car, and hear that crazy, insane, mind-numbing barking, I don’t mind it at all, because I know my girls are safer with their over-zealous protector around. We’re not the right home for him, and he’s not the right dog for us… but if I tried to tell him that, I doubt he’d agree. And who am I giving him to? Who would I ever trust to take care of my baby? So the frustration, annoyance, and fur will continue, and we’ll just have to make the best of it.

This post is part of the Saturday Pet Blogger Hop.  Hop aboard here!

 

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Part of the Family

I had lunch with My Dearest Friend a few weeks ago.

“Did I tell you that Duke had surgery?” she asked.

Seriously– who couldn’t love that face?

No, she hadn’t. Duke and Blackie were rough-housing, and somehow Duke twisted his leg in a funny way. He limped around for a few days in his usual good spirits, eating and seemingly not in pain. But when the limp didn’t go away, My Dearest Friend took him to the vet. X-rays revealed a cracked bone and torn ligaments. Cost of repair: $3,000.

“I was going to put him to sleep,” she said. “I don’t have $3,000 to spend on vet bills, I just don’t. But Teddy wouldn’t let me.”

Teddy is My Dearest Friend’s new husband. They had been conducting an east coast/west coast long-distance relationship for 10 years, and finally made it official in July.

“Teddy said Duke is part of the family, it would upset the kids, and you can’t put a perfectly healthy three-year-old dog to sleep for a broken leg,” she said. “So he paid for the operation. I think he’s crazy.”

I don’t think Teddy’s crazy. I think he’s a dog-lover. And I don’t think MDF thinks he’s crazy either; her statement was accompanied by a hint of a smile, and I know generosity and kind-heartedness are the stellar features that make her love him. Plus he’s a great stepfather, wanting to spare her kids emotional distress.

I told the story to my kids and their father when he came to see them that night.

“He’s crazy,” said the Ex. “If Our Best Friend breaks a leg, put him to sleep. You can’t spend money like that on a dog.”

Logistically, he’s right. Running two households on one salary is a huge stretch, and there’s barely money for toilet paper and tuition, never mind exorbitant vet bills. I’m piling up student loan debt as I type. Still, I couldn’t do it. It would mean $3,000 more debt, and I would curse every time interest for the credit line is debited from my chequing account. But, like Teddy, I don’t want my kids to suffer an avoidable loss. Our Best Friend is a nuisance and makes me crazy half the time, but he keeps out intruders and cuddles the girls on the couch. He’s my walking partner, our guardian, the rat-catcher, and my dog park companion. Let’s pray he stays healthy, and hope that I always have room on the credit line for emergencies. Failing that, maybe Teddy would lend me a few bucks.

This post is part of the Saturday Pet Blogger Hop.  Hop aboard here!

Canine Connections

This story taught me that sometimes apples fall very far from their trees indeed.

* * * * *

In 2003 my brother’s family moved to our city. In what seemed like good fortune at the time, there was a house for rent just down the street from me. At that time rental properties were scarce, especially for large families (my brother has seven children), and prices were well above market value. The house was old and run down but it was almost big enough for all of them, and it was close to us, so they took it.

The people who owned it had a growing family of their own, and their intention was to save up enough money to do a thorough renovation and move in themselves in a few years. Thus, they saw little point in maintaining the house or fixing any problems. The hot water didn’t work properly, no one was cutting the grass and the back yard was a jungle (my brother was not going to invest in a lawn mower when who knew where he’d be living in a few years). Finally the pipes froze and burst one winter because the garage door would not close properly. The owners expected my brother to pay  for the repair; they blamed him for not closing the door, when in fact he had brought the broken door to their attention several times, with no result.

An ugly legal battle ensued. I don’t even remember who paid in the end. In the interests of privacy, I won’t disclose the full consequences of this event. Suffice to say they were severe. Once my family was out, the owners evicted the older couple who had lived in the upper duplex for over twenty-five years, fixed the place up like a palace, and moved in. Every time I walked by I hoped they would never a know a moment’s peace in there, and never spoke a word to them when we met.

* * * * *

A few years after this, we acquired Our Best Friend. As I have stated previously, this brought every animal-loving child in the neighbourhood out of the woodwork and to my front door. Most were children of friends. Then one day, the doorbell rang and who should be there but Tom, the son of the former landlords, with two of his sisters. I just stood there speechless.

“Can we play with your dog?” he asked shyly.

My first instinct was to say no and shut the door firmly in his face, with a very threatening glare. Then I looked at him. His eyes were pleading. His whole demeanour radiated eagerness. And the kid was only ten. It wasn’t his fault who his parents are.

“Sure,” I said.

He and his sisters went in the back and spent a good half an hour throwing a ball for Our Best Friend. They all had a terrific time, and thanked me very politely when they left.

After that, Tom was a frequent visitor to our house. His sisters found Our Best Friend too big and scary, but Tom loved to come and throw balls for OBF to chase up the back yard hill. If we ran into Tom on the street, OBF would jump on him– and OBF doesn’t jump on anyone.

That was over three years ago. My nickname for Tom is Our Best Friend’s Best Friend. When I went away in June, Tom came over and walked OBF every day, as The Oldest refused and I was afraid to let the The Middle Child walk him alone (he can pull me off my feet). Tom’s even been to the dog park with us. And he’s considerate, sweet, and unfailingly polite; in other words, absolutely nothing like his selfish, hostile, and aggressive parents.

Out of consideration for Tom, I am now civil to his mother when we run into each other. And the punch line? She thinks we’re friends. In fact, she recently invited me and the girls to her home for a Saturday lunch. I declined, blaming my children, explaining that they are only willing to go where they know the people really well. She accepted the excuse. When I told my brother about the invitation, he exploded in laughter, then said, “Ask her if I can come too.”

I’m never going to like Tom’s parents, and I’m never going to forgive them the damage they did to my brother and his family.  But I’m always going to love Tom. He’s a good kid– and proof that even the worst tree can bear good fruit.