My brown dog, part one

Here's a story from when I first adopted my pibble, in 2012. I am still working on part two, about how I had to make the decision to help him transition peacefully over "the rainbow bridge," (which occurred just yesterday.)

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"What kind of dog is he?"

"A brown one."

This is the answer I started to give people when they asked me about my dog, Niles.

I got tired of them recoiling in horror when I told them he's a pit bull, mere moments after they've pet him and told me how cute and well mannered he is. It's what I told the nanny that works down the street who wrinkled her nose, sniffed, and pursed her lips when she commented in her exotic Slavic accent, "Heez ed. Eet iss soh beeg. Vy eez heez ed soh beeg? Vuht kindoff dohg eez e?" (When I really wanted to tell her, "Your mouth. It is so big. Why is your mouth so big? What kind of person are you?").

Most people don't even know what a pit bull is. That is because a “pit bull” is not a breed, but a term used to describe three different breeds with similar characteristics: American PitBull Terrier, American Staffordshire Terrier, and Staffordshire Bull Terriers.

People have asked, "Why would you get a dog like that!?" Implying that I must be stupid for putting my children at risk for being mauled and eaten alive by this brutal, savage monster that the media portrays him and "his kind" to be.

"Pit bulls are good family dogs," I tell people. "Did you know Petey from the Little Rascals was an American Pit Bull Terrier?" or "The Pit Bull was so respected in the early 1900's that the US Military chose an image of a Pit Bull to represent our country on war posters." or "The Pit Bull is the only dog to have ever graced the cover of  Life Magazine three times." or "Pit Bulls were also used in advertising campaigns for Buster Brown shoes. Remember those?"

People did not know that. Most people only know what they've heard about dog fighting. Before the pit bull, it was Rottweilers that were the bad guys. Before that, Doberman Pincers or German Shepherds. But people, you're looking at the wrong end of the leash. Dogs are the way they are because of the way they are socialized (or not). How many parents would expect their children to know how to behave appropriately without guidance? It is the same for dogs. They are a responsibility and they need to be educated.

I wouldn't have picked a dog like this if I hadn't done my homework. When you agree to adopt a pit bull (and there are just so many of them that need homes), you are educated first. You sleep on the decision. You know you will be facing discrimination. You commit to training the dog. You commit to treating it as one of the family. The only history I had about Niles is the blog his foster mother kept. After several conversations and an introduction, I knew he was good with cats and I knew he was good with kids.

When we first brought him home, he did not know how to use the stairs. He still won't go into the basement. Even though he looks like a he-man type dog (yes, he does have that big head as well as broad shoulders and a big chest), he has a voice like a squeak-toy, when he chooses to use it, which is not often -- usually when he is protesting being alone or inviting the cat to play with him, but rarely when someone comes to the door.

When my veterinarian asked me why I chose a dog like this, I knew she was genuinely curious and not scornful.

"To tell you the truth," I said, "and you can call me shallow...but it was his picture. Oh, and after I read his story..."

"You got a good one," she told me.

The luxury of time

“I’m in no rush,” the woman at the end of the supermarket aisle said to me. 

We had almost crashed our carts: the aisles are narrow and one of us was making a wide right turn and the other of us might have been speeding a bit towards the intersection. We both stopped and smiled and paused before she offered to let me go ahead.

I made my tight right turn down the bread aisle. It was Saturday morning. I had come from a “lite” gym session, which was more about being social than working out since I was saving my legs for my hockey game that night. I just wanted to pick up a few food prep items.

“Thank you,” I smiled. “See you at the end of the next aisle!”

I’m in no rush, either, I thought to myself, breathing in deeply. What is the hurry? I had four unstructured hours before I had to leave for my game and it was a long weekend. I exhaled slowly, shifting into not-hurry mode.

How often do I find myself

• Rushing to the gym?

• Squeezing in one more errand?

• Running late to roller derby practice?

• Hoping my Teams meeting logs in before the minute changes to late?

• Eating too fast or on the fly?

• Taking a one-minute shower?

I couldn’t remember having more than two other days off all year due to an unusual and extremely undesirable employment scenario, which had been the status quo for the first almost nine months of the year. Plus, as a contractor, I don’t get any personal days. And when you work remotely, which I now do, is there such a thing as a sick day?

Plus, in a society that begins broadcasting Christmas music the day after Halloween, “the holidays” are generally a season of overwhelm for working moms. During an exchange with one of my friends we were appreciating the opportunity to have one extra day off and wondering if we could assume the less frenzied pace and attitude with us when we resumed our normal schedules, she commented that she needed to slow down. “I don’t have to make decisions right away. I don’t have to tackle more problems. I have enough.”

“Right,” I agreed. “One thing at a time.”

Multitasking, while often a necessity, isn’t always efficient. Breathe. Chew. Linger. Appreciate. Stop being in a hurry.

But no one will see it

I set up the nativity in the back yard again this year. In the past it has been out front near the fire hydrant that is on our property, and possibly near the turnaround – I don’t exactly recall. (This year I decorated the turnaround with the large, outdoor ornaments instead of putting them on the trees out by the street – and fire hydrant – because one of my boys parks there.)

Back to the nativity: I was informed, “But no one can see it out there.”

I thought for a moment, and pondered…

…No one can see it when they are up at 6 a.m. making the morning pot of coffee?

…No one can see it when they’re putting away groceries or food prepping?

…No one can see it when they are standing at the sink doing all the dishes?

…No one can see it when they’re doling out the dogs’ medicine or letting them out the back door and watching for them to come straight back in after they’ve pottied?

I replied, “I can see it when I am standing at the kitchen window.”

I guess I am “no one”?

But I am not.

I am someone.

I am the someone who makes the coffee, buys the food, puts it away, prepares it, serves it, and cleans it up for the people in the house as well as the pets.

“I spend a lot of time in the kitchen, at the sink,” I continued and thus concluded the conversation.

Similarly, it doesn’t matter to me if the only person who appreciates the turnaround décor is my youngest son. He is also someone.

Thanksgiving for one

Thanksgiving hasn't been my favorite holiday since my mother passed away at this time of year 15 years ago. Although I tried to carry on or create new traditions, it didn't really work. It involved traveling to distant relatives' houses or going out to eat with three little kids who only cared about chicken nuggets and rolls. It was such a dark and hard time for me back then and it was all a blur. That is why I didn't remember that today -- Thanksgiving Day -- is the actual anniversary of her passing until someone sent me a message about it. (The year it happened, it was the Sunday before.) I just usually associate Thanksgiving with my mother's passing. So whenever it's that week, it's the anniversary.

The best part of Thanksgiving was always getting together with family, not so much the gluttony part of it. This year, although I was white-knuckling it to get to my eating window, I couldn't finish the plate. I'll save it for later. I'm not really feeling 100% and have been taking cold meds.

Why am I alone? It is because all of my boys are with their girlfriends' families. This is fine with me. My husband is holed up in the bedroom, convalescing from a routine, elective surgery that he scheduled two days prior to Thanksgiving. Initially, he told me he wouldn't be hungry for three to five days so we had no specific meal plans. I had all the vegetables on hand because I eat them regularly anyway; just last night I ran out to get a small rotisserie chicken, cranberry sauce, gravy, and an apple pie. My husband ate the chicken last night, so when I bring him a plate, it won't include chicken. (I'm not eating meat these days; I had a pumpkin protein smoothie.)

I got an invite to join my work family today and much as I would like to, I am going to remain at home and have a quiet day, except for a scheduled trip to do the evening dog-sitting shift at our neighbor's house for my youngest. Aside from getting over a cold, I have a knee injury -- in addition to the need to take care of my husband (because what kind of person would leave their spouse alone on a holiday?). I'm fine with all of this, though --  I had a wonderful friendsgiving on Saturday after the annual Pass the Biscuits roller derby scrimmage (before I hurt my knee playing hockey that night) where I tried tofurkey for the first time.

Perhaps it's time to finish reading the condolence cards that have been sitting in this basket for nearly 15 years, The year my mother passed was such a dark and hard time for me as a single mom with three kids ages 8 and under, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Or perhaps I will just take a nap on the couch with the dogs.

Thanks, Mom, for teaching me to be "crunchy"

I wrote on social media that I would be honoring my late mother on her birthday by eating tofu and sprouts (that I had cooked and grown myself, though I didn’t share that detail), which I was subjected to as a kid when all I really wanted in my lunchbox was a Fluffernutter.

For those of you who don't know, a Fluffernutter is Marshmallow Fluff and peanut butter (probably creamy Jif) on Wonder Bread.

I knew about these because kids in school ate them, and also because the recipe was on the jar of Fluff, alongside the recipe for "Never-Fail Fudge," which we made as gifts for the holidays (because you could source all the ingredients with food stamps, therefore it didn't cost anything other than the sacrifice of not eating the food we could have bought).

But we ate brown bread and natural peanut butter. We never had Fluff except at Christmas time when we were making our wreath-shaped fudge gifts, and there wasn't enough left over to make a Fluffernutter. (At most, we could enjoy the scrapings of the jar.)

I just wanted to be like other kids, to fit in. What kid doesn't?

(And when do we grow out of the desire to fit in, if ever?)

But this isn't really about fitting in (or not) or the fudge recipe (which I still use) or how crappy for us processed foods and animal products can be (and my lingering sugar addiction).

It's about reframing some experiences from my childhood that were super awkward and sometimes painful then, but are extremely valuable and useful today. Thank you, Mom.

Disposing of the sharps

I finally got rid of the sharps that had been sitting in my garage for how long? Six years?

I had them because I used to have a special-needs cat. She had diabetes and hyperthyroidism and weighed less than seven pounds. She was once feral (and had always been small), but when we moved into the house where we currently live, she chose not to go outside much.

Getting rid of the sharps was one of those things on my to-do list that I wrote over and over again, intermittently.

I gave up trying to figure out what to do with them during the pandemic. The vet I used retired. The police station said no. I heard you could drop them off at the Board of Health, but I never remembered to put them in my car when I was in that neighborhood, which was every six months or so (because the dentist's office is right around the corner). But who really wants to go into a board of health during a pandemic? I'm sure they had bigger things to worry about.

The needles were in their boxes in the garage, out of sight, mostly out of mind.

But I had started Marie Kondo-ing. I thought we were on the fast-track to downsizing, and though our timeline is now uncertain, it still doesn't hurt to purge.

So today was the day. My youngest son had a dentist appointment -- probably the last I'll ever attend since he'll be 18 next time he's due for a cleaning). After I did all the confirming and signing, I left the dentist's office and drove around the corner and down a couple of streets to the Board of Health.

I traipsed in with my dusty supermarket bags containing the two boxes of sharps (and a mask, just in case) and the woman pointed out where to put them and informed me that it was going to be $5. 

"Five dollars!" I exclaimed and then proceeded to (over)share about how the needles had been sitting in my garage for so long, how the vet retired, and how hard it was to inject my cat twice a day, but how much I loved her, and how awful it was the time I dropped the bottle of insulin and it shattered...

...culminated with how I had to run back out to the car because I "didn't have any money" (I had only brought my cards in.)

I think she was on the verge of letting me off the hook for the money, after agreeing with me about how unfortunate it was to have to pay full price for insulin, but I skipped out and back in with a $5.00 bill.

The whole exchange took less than 10 minutes, didn't affect my budget the way I had imagined, and the relief I felt with being able to cross that off my list and not avoid looking at the boxes in the garage every time I got in and out of my car is invaluable.

 

 

 

Frayed and coming apart at the seams

My nails represent January.

December was a blur because I had to squeeze in  trip to Florida for my son's graduation the week before Christmas. (I love Florida!) That meant a lot of orchestrating with other people and dogs. Fortunately my middle son and his GF stayed at the house and took care of things and made sure my youngest was on track with hockey and school.

Coming home just three days before Christmas means a lot of scrambling to get the house festive and the gifts sorted (and bought) and wrapped. My oldest came home and I was also managing a big surprise for my husband...his daughter was flying in from Spain for the holidays! (Fortunately, he hadn't noticed that I had set up the small bedroom as a guest room. (I had been using it as an office until my computer refused to work without Ethernet. Hello 1996.)

Hockey doesn't end for the holidays. The only days off were Christmas and New Year's Day.

I barely decorated so cleanup was...non existent really. I have all the bins and decor in that small bedroom, waiting to go up to the attic because the door to the attic is in that bedroom. The small bedroom is cold and the attic is even colder. (I was the last person to sleep in there during the few days I thought my husband might have COVID.)

My tree is still up. There are maybe four ornaments on it. Each of the boys looked through their box of special ornaments but didn't feel like putting them on the tree. No one watched The Polar Express because my middle had brought it the disc to his apartment and left it there.

I haven't sent out too many New Year's cards yet. I should have just got Valentines. (I did send out most of the graduation announcements I planned to, though.) Every year I say I am going to stop doing this. Maybe next year...and instead I will make a donation to an organization that plants trees. (Except, my older relatives...)

I can't get that nail polish off because I have too many hangnails and split skin, both from work stress (my contract didn't get renewed at my primary gig until mid-January and there was a massive leadership change and reorg where I contract and that is all I will say, other than it is a challenge for me not to roll my eyes on many Webexes and I often have to shut my camera off) and using so much sanitizer and disinfectant when my husband was sick.

Then my youngest had COVID, and at that point I just gave up worrying about sanitizing and disinfecting (as much as I had before, mainly to prevent my husband's possible COVID from further disrupting my son's hockey season). The first time he came downstairs wearing a mask (to protect me, he said), I told him, "Please don't worry. If I'm gonna get sick, the wheels are already in motion." (We spend a lot of time together in the car.) "Give me a hug."

The frayed cuff on my shirt? That is actually a shirt I bought as a souvenir in Clearwater, FL (just a month ago) at a 24-hour Walgreens. I liked the saying, Stay Salty, on the front. But it's coming apart at the seams, in addition to fraying. 

What an apt metaphor (I think that is the right word, and I'm a writer, and I just Googled it, and I still don't know for sure) for what my life could be like: "frayed and coming apart at the seams," if I didn't work out regularly.

I haven't posted during the pandemic. It has been a wretched time. This will possibly be the 3rd roller derby season lost (2020, 2021, 2022). In 2020, I began "rage-skating" on our local rail trail. My skating buddy and I did the whole trail a couple of times -- it's the equivalent of skating a marathon. In August of that year, I joined a boxing gym. Do not underestimate the importance of hitting and kicking things. Skating and boxing have kept me on a mostly even keel. But I'm not gonna lie, I destroyed my teeth during the pandemic by grinding and clenching and am now wearing Invisalign. (I know this because my roller derby mouthguard no longer fit after our forced nearly 18-month hiatus, during which time our rink was sold and converted to a U-Haul storage facility😭). I'm also taking an anti-anxiety med, which I had declined the first time my doctor suggested it, but the discovery that I needed braces, even after rage-skating and boxing workouts, prompted me to reconsider. My stress level as indicated by my fitness tracker was too high. (Stress = cortisol = belly fat = other health problems.)

Why do I have time to write today? I got up at 3:50 a.m. to help my son get out the door for before-school hockey practice. His ride came at 4:30. It's still dark out and I have taken care of the dogs (one has a medical issue that necessitates bloodletting) and cleaned up the kitchen. Now I am going to get shit done so I don't feel bad about taking off midday to pick up the cats I am adopting. They came from Arkansas and they're finishing their mandated quarantine at a human society far, far away.

(Life is better with pets. I love my dogs and I have missed having a cat since our dryer kitty, "Ditty," passed away five years ago.)

So byeeeeeee for now!