Winnie the Pooch

Hank was never what you would call a classically good dog.  Or even remotely good, for that matter.  He was, in fact, downright naughty.  He barked and he chewed.  I watched the Dog Whisperer for years, noting all my shortcomings as a dog owner and making mental notes of what to do next time around (after all you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks and Hank had started to mellow into an old man).

Before Hank died I swore I wouldn’t get another dog.  Why would anyone want the extra responsibility, work and aggravation?  But 16 years of having a constant companion left an empty feeling in the house.  I was trolling the shelters before weeks end. 

And there she was.  A dachshund mix with those deep, brown puppy dog eyes that just melt you.  MELT.  I fell pretty hard for her, but decided to watch her behavior with the other dogs and people that came by to make sure she would be a good companion.  She was still a puppy, but she had a mellowness to her.  She didn’t bark as the other dogs went by her cage.  She was perfect.  I was proud of myself.  I felt Cesar Millan would’ve been proud of me too. 

We couldn’t bring her home right away due to her necessary spay surgery, so I came home and readied the house and myself for the new addition.  I pored over Cesar’s instructions for introducing the dog to their new home and establishing yourself as the pack leader.  The first thing he said was not to get a dog while you were still grieving, that dogs could sense that.  A week, I reasoned, was plenty of time.

There were a series of other things you were to do to establish your dominance from the get go.  The walk.  You weren’t supposed to bring the dog directly in the house, but rather, take a long walk first.  That was followed by a defining moment at the front door.  The entrance is of the utmost importance.  You must enter first.  Only when the dog is submissive and exhibiting the right energy do you invite them into the home.  Then you feed them.  I had this.

Pick up day came.  I had indoctrinated the kids into the No Touch, No Talk, No Eye Contact methodology.  The were wary but would’ve gone along with anything in order to get a puppy.  My cat had a tooth infection that had rapidly gotten worse and moved into her eye.  I thought, lets kill two birds with one stone.  I will make an appointment for her at the same vet we are picking up the pooch at.. 

Turns out it was cancer. 

We were recommended to put her down.  I struggled with the decision but ultimately felt it was the humane thing to do,  I was sobbing uncontrollably, both girls witnessing my breakdown.  It was then that they announced that our dog was ready to go home.  I scoffed as I realized I was picking up this new member while actively grieving my brains out.  I felt Cesar’s disapproval at the situation but reckoned I could bounce back from this one minor infraction if I was really diligent about the rest of the sequence.

That’s when they came out carrying my dog like a baby, informing me that she was unable to walk from her surgery and anesthesia.  Oh, and I shouldn’t feed her until morning.  All my Cesar training was flying out the window!  No walk? No food?  I clutched to the front door as the last straw to grasp at.  I would do that part to perfection.  It would make up for everything else that had gone terribly wrong. 

I packed up my dead cat and headed home with a new puppy. 

We came to the front door.  I placed her on the welcome mat.  We all walked into the house.  She sat calmly.  I invited her in.  She didn’t come.  I more enthusiastically invited her in.  She refused to budge.  I cajoled.  I touched, talked AND made eye contact.  I pleaded.  But she sat, unmoving on the stoop.  I finally walked outside, scooped up the dog and carried her over the threshold like the submissive bitch that I am.  I am certain that I let Cesar down.  The dog barks, chews and is naughty as can be.  I did it wrong again.  God willing, I’ll get another shot to make a first impression in another 16 years.

Things I Love

Rarely does something on the pages of a magazine strike my fancy enough for me to bring the magazine down from the side of the bath and search for it on the internet. But in last months (maybe the month before) Met Home, there was a piece of artwork on the homeowners wall that made me realize that my life would never be complete unless I owned it.

Paul Villinski's Beer Can Butterflies is my one true love.

My bedroom layout has always been difficult due to two oddly sized and placed windows on the only wall long enough for the bed and night stands. In an effort to camouflage this outpoint, I put curtains all along the one wall. But it lacks. And what it lacks is Beer Can Butterflies gently floating over my head as a sort of headboard.

Gardening: It's Just Not Natural

Ever since I was old enough to pine for a place of mine, I began dreaming of the garden that would go with it. When I finally got my first place, I was told by the landlord that I couldn't plant anything. And so began my potted plant collection. Or should I say mortuary. As my mother was fond of telling me, plants need water. She happens to be a garden landscaper, so I tend to trust her advice in these matters. The problem was I never remembered to water them.

Finally the day came, a place that I owned. I could plant whatever I want! I turned to my mother with my wishlist in hand, only to be told "no". I could have no plants. I couldn't be trusted. Until there was an irrigation system in place that would ensure the livelihood of the plants, I was forbidden from planting. But I was sure I could do it. I would be better. I would be so faithful about watering my plants. So I forged ahead and bought and planted my first bed. It is here that I would like to make a formal apology for the massacre that ensued.

So, time went by. Finally the day came that I could afford sprinklers! My mother gave me the planting green light and we began scouring the wholesale nurseries for the perfect color daylilies, the best agaves and the most vibrant cannas. And we planted. And planted. And planted. (A 15,000 sq ft lot may seem like a blessing, but it is really just a lot more work)

Here it was, my garden! Nature at it's best. Flowers and foliage and beauty. And my first weeds. Teeny tiny little green sprouts everywhere. Apparently they were benefiting from the regular waterings as well. I labored for hours on my hands and knees pulling out each and every stem until it was perfect. Mission accomplished.

My mother came over the next morning and announced to me that my beds needed mulching. I'm sorry, they need what? What about the very expensive irrigation system I had just installed for them? And the hours of weeding? And what the hell is mulch anyway?

Which led me to this thought as I spent the last 3 hours "mulching". Gardening is just not natural. Correct me if I am wrong, but I can't remember ever seeing any depictions of Mother Nature loading 8 heavy bags of mulch from the Home Depot into her compact SUV. Or obsessively yanking any stray bit of green that doesn't "belong". I mean, I thought this was a cathartic activity. Don't old people garden? I guess I always envisioned enjoying my garden whilst sipping a cup of morning coffee, but every time I go out there now I see more work. The spots I missed when I mulched. The new sprouts that pop up every day. The sprouts that still haven't popped up from my new bamboo but should have. The dry area that my very expensive irrigation system seems to be missing.

People say it gets easier and I can only hope and pray that it does. Especially for the sake of my lower back. And my fingernails.

If Everyone Else Jumped Off a Bridge...

And the answer must be yes as I now am the proud owner of my very first blog.

I can't even imagine what I will ever blog about but I am sure it will be filled with awesomeness.
You are seriously in for a treat!