Puppy Hater

It has come to my attention that Bela...um, er....hates...puppies.

This is not easy for me to admit. This is not what anyone wants. This is just the truth. Cold, hard facts.

Puppies. Love, squared. Jesus incarnate. The breath of life.

I have tried to place my finger on what it is about them that repels her. And it's a lot. The way they throw their paws around with little visible control is the first thing that ticks her off. And they go right for the face, you know? Paw her tail! That likely won't do a thing. But no -- they claw her eyes out upon introduction.

The way they lick her face, that is another turn-off for her. She licks MY face. No one licks her face.

The jumping about really throws her off, too. Jumping six feet in the air, to retrieve a ball  -- that, she understands. Jumping in place on the sidewalk, for no apparent reason? She can't get down with that.

So it would appear that she doesn't really care so much for their general aura of....JOY.

Now, let's be clear: Bela isn't tearing out of the house, looking for dogs, aged one and under, to put the smack on. But there have been a couple instances lately that have left me embarrassed. We went into a shop where the owner had their tiny black female pug, poised on the counter. 'Can she meet your dog?', the shopkeeper asked. 'Why, of course!,' I replied. Bela was cool for about a whole 60 seconds. Then, a low, garbled growl, that told of deathwishes and threats, began to come from her. The tiny pug seemed taken aback. As it well should have been! We were in her home! And she had done nothing! The owner retrieved her dog and placed her back on the counter. She didn't seem angry with me, but I would have understood if she would have been. Thing is, I had not: a) realized how far Bela was taking this puppy hate thing and b) not known the pug was a puppy, for it was super laid-back.

The fact that I hadn't noticed this hatred until recently suggests it wasn't ever as strong as it is now. Could it be that she's much older (at least on the inside) than approximated? Is she just a cranky ass old woman in the body of a lithe, athletic canine?

I found a chart that attempted to explain dog years vs. human years. It stated that a dog's lifespan is but a fraction of the average human's lifespan, meaning that dogs age more quickly in the same amount of time. It also stated that aging in dogs 'slows down', meaning they age a ton in their first year, and then average out to about 4 years for every 1 human year afterward. It approximated a 6-month-old puppy's age comparable to that of a 5-year-old human, an 8-month-old puppy to a 9-year- old, and a 1-year-old puppy that of a 15-year-old teen.

At 4 dog years, Bela comes out at age 32, human years.
(Hey!, that's my age! - I mean, I'm older by 1 year, but we're basically twin sisters! )

You know what? No wonder she hates them. They're just....too. damn. young.

No Turkey Required

Bela, so hound-ly

sleeps, so soundly

her quiet the call of cease fire.

The peace of the year

churned itself into cheer

and spills over, out from my heart.

Contentment came slowly,

as I became homely

the cup appeared rather full.

Thus, in gratitude's name,

to the day, says this dame,

I thank Thanksgiving itself for what it gave me.

The Culinary Adventures of Miss Bela Green

She's had tofu.

Meringues.

Curried tuna.

A taste of every Ben & Jerry's on the market.

Don't-matter-that-she-just-ate-hers, my breakfast. That whole "leggo my eggo" phrase don't mean shit around here.

She can hear me chewing RAW ALMONDS from like 50 feet away. They are possibly her favorite snack. (and definitely mine)

In her first training class, we were taught that cheese was a high-value reward -- meaning you could get the dogs to do things for it that they wouldn't do say, for, a Milk Bone. The teacher used Kraft singles and Easy Cheese...not the highest quality cheeses, but yes ,the students loved them. Today, I sliced off a rather large chunk of a $14 per pound cheese I picked up at Whole Foods. I shook my head in shame as I handed it to her.

I have limits, obviously. When I dropped a $3 caramel the other day, she came running. I screeched like a wild animal when I heard it hit the floor! She was so freaked out by my reaction she halted herself from the retrieval. Thank God. I brushed that bitch off and ate it minutes later.

But I do revel in feeding her. Whereas it used to be a rarity that she got a bite of my dinner, it is now the norm.  She doesn't even bother begging anymore. She sits. Quietly, in the vicinity of my eating, and just waits. She knows what's coming.

The first time I noticed my ability to attain selflessness in satiety, I was feeding tiny Olivia some pumpkin ice cream. It was years ago, on a rather warm fall day. We were perched on the porch swing. I had only purchased a SCOOP, people. In a cup. Old lady style. When she climbed up next to me, I felt I was supposed to ask (as an aunt) if she'd like a taste. Well, the little gal liked it. Such that she stayed there, poised, mouth open, just waiting for me to contine spooning it in. She was so polite in her open-mouthed state, that I couldn't even be annoyed with her. She was gentle, my kin, and just really loving the ice cream! So I shoveled bites in my mouth as fast as I could, hoping I'd run out before I had too much more to offer the little darling. As the ice cream melted, though, so did my heart. I began taking smaller bites. I offered her tidbits every 20 seconds instead of 45. And so we sat there, and shared one small scoop of pumpkin ice cream.

Thus, life has taught me how love can be expressed through feeding.

I like to embolden taste buds, to present new textures and tooth-worthy experiences.

For a dog that is as food-obsessed as Bela, it seems only right.

Am I disappointed in myself for this development? Yes; I won't lie. I feel a little bit wierd, a little bit wasteful.

I reflect on a woman who may have inspired my recoil. I used to work at a drive-through coffee shop. We were a tiny hut of coffee creation, and the cars would line up outside tenfold. We could see into entire vehicles from our to-go window, and it seemed pretty personal. Cars are like people's portable homes. There was a lady who drove through with a german sheperd. She got a large mocha each and every day, topped with a mountain of whip. She would take the cup from us and then lose no time. Still in line, whether the cars were backed up or not, she would peel off the lid and offer the top of the mountainous whip to the dog. He would lean over, lap it up, and offer it back to her. She would then take a biiiiggggass sip. I was horrified. Daily.

I try to keep her 'human food' consumption hidden behind the doors of our home. That said, things may derail, for sure. In the present, when I pop over to the bakery and get a croissant for myself, I get dog biscuit for her. If one day, I skip the biscuit and I split the croissant (one bite me, one bite her), then we may have a problem.

(For the record - though - she didn't get any of that cinnamon roll.)

A Letter to B

I'm sorry for any time you feel alone.

I'm sorry for every time you're dreaming of ball-chasing and you're on the couch instead. 

I'm sorry for not letting you chew rawhides around-the-clock.

I'm sorry for making you live indoors.

I'm sorry for adopting you in 2, and reducing you to a 1-parent household.

I'm sorry I haven't written a post in more than two months. I've been obsessed with myself.

I'm so happy you have the disposition you have.

I'm so happy when I wake up and remember you exist!

I'm so happy every single time I walk through the door and find you there.

I'm so happy you trust me.

I'm so grateful to every friend or family member that has babysat you.

I'm so grateful to Jimmy, who runs you with care.

I'm so grateful for a job that provides me with the ability to provide for you.

I'm so grateful for the other dog-mothers I've met because of you.

I'm so grateful for the way you care about me.

I'm so grateful Tennessee shipped you to Chicago, to Anti-Cruelty, and that life found me there when you were.

Women tell me, "When you have a baby, they replace the dog. They just do. The love not only gets transferred, but much bigger."

B -- I don't believe them.

My relationship with you is thus far the most defining of my life. Caring for you is essential to my heart. Buying you things helps. Feeding you, exhibition. Petting you, the payoff.

I get it. I get it. I get it.

I finally get L O V E.

The Sweet Songs of Bela G.

I am a bit of a performer. Always have been. My mom enrolled me in dance at age 4. Recitals were yearly. I would dance my way through class, month after month - but when the curtain came up - that's when I really came alive.

There is a marked difference in the way I feel when the spotlight is on me. I shine. I shine from the inside. My moves may not differ entirely, but the emotion behind them does. I feel completely and utterly alive.

Now, I did not go into a performing profession. I sit at a desk all day. The desk cannot contain me, however. My co-workers would attest to my [work-upsetting] performances throughout each and every day.

When I am home, I perform as well. I make up songs, oodles of songs! I sing, I dance, I create an environment fit for the stage.

Many songs are nothing more than moments in time. I think them up, spat them out - and move on. Occasionally, though, one has sticking power. It's so good that I can't bear to do away with it, so I let it stay on. I keep it alive through repetitive solitary performance.

My songs don't really have a central theme. Cilantro....the weather...the passing of time...a pen. They refer to the object in my vision when the need for creating strikes.

Bela is often in the room when these creative hazes take over. She usually just stares at me, habituated to my voice raising and my feet shuffling. Sometimes she becomes more than the observer; she becomes my inspiration.

After two years with her, I've written enough top hits to fill a Pandora station.

A few of the greats, by name:
LMB (i.e. Little Miss B) [a spoken-word rap]
BDB (i.e. Brown Dog Brigade) [also, a rap]
Come and See Your Mom
Little Brown Dog
Superior Lovin'

My family and friends are privy to private performances, that they may or may not enjoy. And though I tell a lot of Bela stories out and about, I have managed to keep my songs under wraps.
For the most part.

BDB (possibly my fave) has been on the backburner for a bit, as we moved, thereby braking up the brigade. But would that stop me from performing the rap for a group of people I barely knew at a party a couple of months ago? Oh no. I even waited until the birds had quieted until I began. Then I hunched over a bit (I find rapping is done better with the legs in a loose lunge) and let it fly.

I can't say much for the reaction of the observers. They seemed....confused. Amused. And thankfully, most were, at least partially, drunk. (Too bad I can't say the same for myself.)

Their reactions were amost preferable to that of my first performance of the same song. I speak of our old neighbor, the father of the remaining two brigade members. The song was offered up in his very honor!

I certainly caught him off guard, as we would normally run into eachother in the early morning...
When I spotted him on the sidewalk, I practically galloped up to him, eager to share the ode to our brood.

"Hey, I wrote a RAP about our DOGS!!!", I exclaimed.

"Uh............okay......" (Still likely not knowing he was about to HEAR said rap, at 7:45 in the morning.)

Then -- and bear in mind, this was one of the last times I saw him --
I closed my eyes for a split second before letting him into my world.
I rapped, the excitement audible, and then threw my hands up at the finale.

"WOW", he said.

Not 'wow' in the way I wanted; not 'wow' in the way I'd hoped.

I walked away sufficiently embarrassed, from the look on his face.

But about 5 minutes later, as I continued down the street, I replayed the rap in my head...
And I'll be damned if I didn't light up again, thinking just HOW GOOD it was....

Summer Lovin

Sandra B had Danny. Bela has Zico.

They met months back. They were easy acquaintances, if not fast friends. Zico was usually attached at the hip with a small black-and-white creature named Zena. I never actually saw one without the other. Every single evening I ran into a double date: Zico & Zena, Carla & Kathy (the mothers). Bela would 'play' with them, in the sense that she played fetch with me while the two of them romped together, in our vicinity. There was an ease, however, to her with Z & Z. She normally gets possessive when she has a ball in the presence of other dogs. Not with these two. There was a naturalness to the trio.

I enjoyed our 3-man pack and looked forward to running into them, even though Bela never actually played with Zico & Zena. Carla and Kathy knew that I dreamt that Bela would one day run with the Z's, but the odds didn't look good. She's just not the rollicking type, I'd tell them and myself repeatedly, in an attempt to accept it.

I thought Bela had done us in one day when she found smashed birthday cake on the cement. She was lapping it up, happily, when Zico came over to see what it was all about. Bela immediately turned into one of the hyenas from the Lion King. Her head flew up, her teeth bared, and she snarled. Zico (rightly) snapped back at her for a moment and I went ballistic, reprimanding her. The two of them heeded my voice and (seemingly, bregrudgingly on Bela's part) gave up the fight. I totally lost it. In that one greedy move, she had smashed my dreams of the 6 of us playing while the sun set, while the birds sang...hell - on a yacht! I apologized to both Zico and Carla, then grabbed her leash and tore out of the park. I shamed her - first with words ..."Nevermind that Zico is one of your only true dog friends; nevermind that that wasn't your effing cake in the first place!"..., then with silence - all the way home. When I arrived home, I sat in a chair and cried. Well, I didn't cry. I wailed. I wailed for all my lost dreams, all my missed chances, all I'd ever feared I'd fucked up. Bela had done nothing but be a dog. I let her little sass act give rise to all my anxieties, and all my incompetencies.

Needless to say, no relationships were harmed due to the cake. Carla is a rational person -- and Zico is A DOG. He forgot (and/or, forgave) the fight about 15 seconds later. And so we all remained friends.

This summer, Zena has been absent. And in her wake, Bela has given herself to Zico in ways we never thought she would. She plays! She runs, she chases, she rolls and grazes!

Multiple nights a week, Carla and I send off texts, organizing meetups. The location never changes, the time only slightly. We meet in the heat and we chat while our dogs play.

July was so hot, sometimes they would just sit and stare at each other.

Summer has never been a bright spot for me. I'm usually pretty pissed off for the affected months. All activity is deemed unbearable, save the spooning of sherbert into my mouth.

But this summer was different. Bela had Zico, which gave me something I needed. A place to go and sit under the stars, while my dog ran about. A person to talk to. A joy in the summer that I had not previously had.

And while I look forward to the coming of fall, I will always look back to this summer as one of the finest.











 

How Stella Got Her Groove Back

My boss has a 'little white dog'. You know the kind. She's little, she's white. A maltese, or malti-poo, or shih tzu... She was purchased from a wierd little pet store where we can assume the dogs within came from puppy mills. She's actually quite cute, but a dog...well, a 'dog' she is not.

Her name is Kiki. Well, it's Blake, but they call her Kiki. They got her just a few months before Stan's wife gave birth to a baby girl. The baby girl's name? Tei Tei. Well...it's Blake, but they call her Tei Tei. That's right, folks. If we can pinpoint one of this dog's problems right off the bat -- it's in the lack of a solid identity.

And so - when Kiki is here, she's Stella.
A neighborhood dog mother/friend had thought that I called Kiki 'Stella' one night, and so began referring to her as such. It took a minute for me to realize the mistake, but by that point, she was Stella. It made sense! She is so right as a Stella! The stars up above felt the same. For the very night she bacame known as Stella, as she sat in my lap in the park, I looked up and saw shooting star.
It was a sign. (Just in case, I will spell this out: 'star' is 'stella' in Italian!!)

Amongst Stella's other problems:
She hates to/doesn't walk well.
She hates to/doesn't eat well.
She hates/doesn't like dogs.
She is both racist and ageist. 
She barks/growls unendingly.
She is pad-trained but not pad-centric. She refuses to use the outdoors for a bathroom facility, period. Only the pad. Or - my laundry. Or - my kitchen rug. (And so begs the question then, is she pad-trained at all?....)

We're ending three weekends of Stella at Kelly's. My house smells like urine and my patience is worn.

But I have done my best to give this dog what her adoptive parents didn't.
I walk her endlessly, hoping that a special fire hydrant here or pee-stained tree trunk there will be just enough to do the trick.
I throw her at Bela. Yep - I toss her into Bela's face, just to see what will happen. (Nothing ever does.)
I let all sidewalk dogs sniff her. She runs in circles, desperate to get away, but there I let them stay.
I take her to the park. Most recently, this resulted in her crawling into a park-goers lap, where she stayed quite satisfactorily, while I tossed the ball to Bela.
I hide her hoity toity rotisserie chicken way the fuck under her kibble. You can have the chicken, girlfriend - but not without eating your required fare. Little kids must eat their broccoli to get the cake. You're no different.
I shush her to no end. She's not allowed to make so much as an engine purr on my turf. Her intimidation tactics are no good here.
I yank on her leash with vigor when she decides she can rule the sidewalk. She honestly doesn't seem to notice or care about other people, i.e. the general public. Much like her father...

But these three long weekends have not been without progress. Changes are in the air. I swear I saw her dribble some urine outside and it appeared she was okay with the beagle half-mounting her today. She has been eating nearly all her kibble, instead of spitting every piece out until she uncovers the chicken underneath. At this current moment in time, she has been silent for a solid 25 minutes.

Stella will certainly return home and forget all of my teachings. She will piss freely indoors, eat only the finest-seasoned chickens rotisserie, bark and growl until she forms polyps on her vocal cords.

But if Kiki comes back, I will re-introduce her to the ways of the canine world. And maybe next time, she'll ease back into her groove....

Doe, A Deer.

Bela's genetic makeup is a mystery.  A few breeds are suspected, the ones that seem most obvious. Lab. Beagle. Coonhound (Basically, any type of hound).

Daily, people ask what she 'is'. I can't explain the need to know a dog's breed, but I often partake in the game as well. I don't think it's quite the 'How are you?' question [something people habitually ask that they don't actually care to know] for dogs; it seems like those that ask are genuinely intrigued. Answering with "I don't know" only fuels the quest for the truth. Body parts are broken down, hair color commented on, fur texture investigated.

Many have remarked that she is cervine in likeness. I've heard reference to 'Santa's Little Helper' from The Simpsons. (That scrawny dog was but a hungry and humbled fawn, in my opinion.) Her color, body shape and most especially her little rump give way to this train of thought.

It's perfect that she is so , as I have always had a thing for deer. I grew up in the country, where our backyard was the woods - and they were chock-full of them.

We didn't hunt, though neighboring countryfolk did. Oh!, did our family get up in arms when we'd hear shots being fired, for no one was allowed to hunt on our property without permission. I wanted to believe the deer were safe in our woods, where they could birth babies and grow large and prosper. But the men with their shotguns took my dreams of being a real life Snow White away from me.

I spoke of my future as a deer farm owner. I had no idea what this entailed, but I wanted whole bunch of deer, under my care, my protection. I wanted to tend to their needs. But let's be honest - I wanted them to love me back. I wanted a canine connection with a family of fawn.

Both deer and dogs are almost ubiquitous so...why couldn't they cross-breed? (For the record, I googled 'Can a dog breed with a deer?'; and the resounding response is no. But these are people talking, let's bear in mind. Not deer; and not dogs. I'm just saying.

Now, I don't know if she could possibly be a hybrid, but from wherever she came, she is the product of love. Okay -- maybe lust. Or, well...maybe needs meeting needs underneath the moon.

I was outside of a hotel one night, walking her. We were on the outskirts of a town and the property was sitting very near a wooded area. It was very dark out there, but I noticed Bela react to something. Her body went rigid and she stared into the abyss, wanting to go to something. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust and see what she saw. And there they were. A whole pack of deer! I counted 13, as they bounded off. Bela was shaking with desire to go to them/run after them/with them/for them/around them. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I considered letting her go, letting her be the deer she was born to be. Certain I'd never see her again, I was also certain she would adore her newfound existence. It would likely mirror that of her dreams.

I kept her on the leash. I walked her back inside the HOTEL, let her crawl into the BED and kissed her on the head. She may be reminiscent of a roe, and she may long their life to know -- but...no matter how deer-like she may be, she is a dog, at the end of the day. A DOMESTICATED dog.

I have a fairly nonexistent relationship with my younger brother. Time and substance abuse have put a wall between us.  In an odd turn of things, a couple of years ago, we were in the same place, at the same time. He was not facing, nor speaking to me - but I was in the room - when someone passed around the pointless-and-tortuous 'What-would-you-do-if-you-had-a-million-dollars' question. My ears strained to catch his response, and then hurt, along with my heart, when I heard: "Well, first...I'd buy Kelly's deer farm for her."

I likely won't buy one; and he likely won't bestow one upon me. But just knowing my little brother kept that dream alive for me is enough.

My deer farm isn't needed now, anyway. I have a beautiful doe-like dog. My tamed -- but wild -- beast.

To Catch a Predator

Last week, Bela sniffed out some illegal activity. She alerted me to the presence of a guy outside our building long before I was aware he was there. (She didn't bark; she doesn't 'do' barking. She simply stared at the door like a psycho, until I realized something had put her at unease.) Turns out, this guy was part of a larger group of guys that were casing the joint. Casing. That sounds very CSI of me to put it that way, but that is just the way it was.

As Bela and I made our way past the culprit, I gave him a cheerful hello, and she looked up at him, tail wagging, eager to make another friend. Yes, in terms of being a deterrant, we're screwed. We are together - the single most inviting pair of tenants a buglar could hope for. I practically asked the guy if he'd like to grab a drink, and I think I saw her actually slip him her phone number when I looked away.

This particular hoodlum slinked off into the night, as I had failed to put 2 + 2 together at that point. A buddy of his returned the following night; and a couple nights later they broke into my downstair's neighbor's apartment.

Now, I don't know if dudes like these return to the scene of a crime. I only know that they have pegged me and my neighbors as single lady dwellers that are often out and about and that they have had massive success in the hood. (They got a friend of mine down the block, as well as many other homes in the vicinity.)

If they were to attempt a breaking and entering while I were in the home, I can only imagine the scene. I would likely usher them in and just ask that they not take any good books I still want to read. Bela would wait for them to pet her, while they carried out any pricey items. (It would be over fairly quick, as I own virtually nothing of value.)

I have thought to take things a step further. I considered just taking my t.v. out and leaving it in front of my apartment door. That way, if they get into the outside door of the building - they can just grab that flat screen and be on their way. I realize, however, that they may not 'get it'. Like, they may not realize I set it there to just save them the hassle (me the horror) of them entering my actual apartment. So I think I would leave a note.

We, the housemates, are concerened. Taking extra safety meausres. There are the easier ones, like leaving lights on. We can all do that. We've been trying to think outside of the box, too. A friend and I entertained recording her husband's voice and playing it back from the window. (Home Alone may have helped out with this idea.) My coworkers asked if I could install a fake dog bark apparatus by the door. And the answer, I suppose - is, yes, I certainly could. But I'm pretty sure the fake bark apparatus target market is NON-DOG OWNERS.

For now, both Bela and I are on high alert. I'm going to trust that what we lack for in intimidation, we can make up for in attentiveness.

The Lost Toys

Olivia visited Bela and me last weekend. As she always does, when she unpacks her bags, she took out the various stuffed animals she brought along and placed them around my apartment, high up, out of Bela's mouthreach. There was a unicorn on top of the fridge, a dalmation on my desk, and a bird on the bookshelf.

Long story short, Olivia headed back to Springfield without the bird. And I didn't miss a beat. I didn't even consider sending that bird back to her.The minute I found it, I threw it to Bela. It's such a cool toy! It sings when you press it's belly! Olivia will never know, I told myself. (I called her about 2 hrs. later to confess. The sound of its graceful voice urged me to divulge the truth.)

So far, the bird is doing well in Bela's possession. It is spit-stained, and a little worn, but still sings like fowl it was meant to imitate. Soon, though, the pitch will go. Then the song altogether. And then it will lose its one upright feather.

The sheer number of toys Bela has ruined is astounding. On one hand, thinking about it conjures up heartbreaking images of dollar signs floating by or being flushed down the toilet. On the other hand, it's almost impressive; how many creatures she has taken down.

For a while, I was saving the abused toys and passing them onto my mother for sewing. This was just a means of putting off the inevitable. It was life support for the dearly departed. If she can get through them fresh off the assembly line, a little bit of reinforced thread isn't going to keep her teeth at bay. I experimented with duct tape as well. A makeshift surgeon, closing a mouth here, an armpit there.

Now because I am aware of her prowess, I know to be thrifty with the toys. Expensive toys with marketing mesaures like 'indestructable' mean nothing to me. Indestructable? Maybe for a teacup chihuahua.

But there once was this sheep. She had seen it on the way out of a dog store one day. She grabbed it off the rack with her mouth. I took at look at the price tag. $18, I scoffed!!?? How could they even think that it would be purchased at that price?? Dream on, B!, I told her, as I put the sheep back on the shelf.

But the next week, she saw it again. And the week after that. And as we came upon the month's end, I put my need for toiletries on hold and bought the damn sheep. Sure enough, it was good buy. She LOVED it. I couldn't bring it out without her going crazy. I actually didn't even have to act that interested. I can't explain the how or the why, but that sheep deemed itself worth the exorbitant eighteen-dollar price tag.

The sheep was shoddily made, however. Said sheep now sits in 6 different pieces in her toy cabinet. The ears. The muzzle. The middle. The legs. And in the various stages of sheeps's destruction, she ingested a bit of stuffing, which is super dangerous. (I had to hear only one stuffing horror story for me to fear it for all time.)

So when I leave, I pick up any toys and hide them in her cabinets. Someone asked me one day, "Why can't she have any toys out while you're gone?" I looked at her with disgust and retorted, "Well, why shouldn't I leave a deathly substance around for her to chew...mhmmm??" "Maybe I should sprinkle some rat poison around the house too, huh? That way she has something to snack on while I'm gone."

The truth is, if I left them out, she wouldn't play with them anyway. This dog will only play if YOU act interested in playing. And not mildly interested. More like...you would rather do nothing else in the world. I have to do a lot of eyebrow-raising, fakeouts, hooting & hollering to get her engaged. I am not allowed to be in a reclined position - it reeks of disinterest. This reminds me of babysitting. No matter how much I like the kid with which I am interacting, I could care less about this lego train and the direction it runs or these Polly Pockets and their agendas. But for the love of the game, I can pretend that I do.

Runner's High

Last week, I hired a dog runner.
I put my angry joints and injured ego aside, and handed Bela's leash to someone who could properly tire her out.

The owner of the company said he had his fastest runner already working in my neighborhood, and though they were fairly booked, there was a small possibility that we could piggyback onto a current run. Bela would have to be fast, however -- there was a 6-minute per mile Vizsla named Maggie who had the 9:30am slot on Mondays and Thursdays, and if Bela wanted in on that, she'd need to keep up. He let me know he wasn't bluffing when he told me of the neighborhood dog they'd tried out recently that -- no joke -- didn't 'make the cut'.

He took my name down, noted that I deem Bela very fast, and told me the dog and runner would be by in the morning.

Excitement was in the air. I live in a near-constant state of anxiety and longing to prove worth. I went into a zone, in an attempt to put Bela into one.

I talked about the impending trial run to all those who would listen. I thought there may be some karma or something of the sort in that. I put it out there in the universe -- Bela and her impending victory -- so that it was there to taste, feel and touch.

I took her out on an extra walk that morning, to make sure she would empty the tank, so as to avoid slowing up the trial run with potty breaks.

I tried to create an environment of calm, while a storm swirled about within me.

I decided to be straight with her. "We need this slot, Bela. We. need. this. This is your chance to run with the bold and the beautfiul. Now stand here with me and picture it: you and a Viszla, side by side, running with a long, lanky marathoner. You see it? Now go live it."

As their arrival approached, I swear I could her 'The Final Countdown' in my ears...and yet she was acting so cool. She was just chiiiilling on her little brown stool. I, on the other hand, was looking at her with a wild eyes - I needed to convey to her, 'It's GO time!' but I didn't know how.

In preparation, I tended to her paws and appendages like a boxer's corner man, ringside. I lowered my forehead to hers and locked eyes. I grabbed her leash and headed for the door. We would await fate outside.

I saw them the moment they rounded the corner. I threw my hand up as if to say, 'Here we are! Here we are!' My wave appeared confident and did not give way to the nervousness in my arm. I felt like a housewife in the 50's, waving as her husband comes home with a new car. The possibility in that car. The changes that will occur with its coming. The promise of a better life.

The time that she was out was glorious. I practically skipped to Starbucks, and then ate my lemon loaf without her salivating in front of me.

Upon return, she flopped on the sidewalk immediately, winded and wondrous and tired. He filled me in on their water stops, and general course taken. He did note that outside of a nail salon,  she had showcased some serious innovation. She had stopped at a water bowl, and instead of drinking from it, she put her paw in, and started sloshing the water about until it formed a pool on the ground, then beached herself in it.

Later that day, Jimmy's WATCH emailed me the route/pace/time of her run. They will all be logged and sent home. Her report card. When I spoke to the owner later, to solidify our placement in the rotation (and make a noteable payment, yes) - he told me that Jimmy's email to Maggie's mom had included the words 'lightning fast'. I'm pretty sure my voice got choked up, as I tried to swallow a fast-swelling pride.

Going Green

Bela has a need for green. Not the kind you and I usually refer to, but a more natural kind, that which covers dirt like a lush carpet.

From inside, she looks longingly out the window onto the yard. When walking, I alternate between  pleading with her to pass that well-groomed lawn and promising her that there's a place for her right around the corner. Traveling by car appears to be torturous for her, because of all the green that gets bypassed. Each time she sees a field, her eyes bug out of her head, her tail starts to wag -- her excitement is palpable. She knows how her feet can trample it, her body can fly above it, her limbs can roll amongst it. And then we pass it.

I temper her with a park trip every day. The 'park' however, can mean many things. It is most certainly not a Chicago Park District Dog Park, the gated off gravel areas where packs of up to 40 dogs gather to chase each other and fight. These both entice and terrify me. There are so many cuties in there at any given time, it can really blow your mind. But there are also usually 1 or 2 real meanies, and then a slew of other non-remarkable canines. Bela goes in these joints, and then turns around and heads back for the gate out. If I make her stay in there for a bit, in hopes that she'll find a friend, one of these three things actually happens 1) She molests all of the humans in the area 2) She takes an unclaimed ball and then tries to kick some dog's ass when he or she attempts to take it from her 3) She stands by me, peering into my eyes, as to ask, 'Why, mom, why?' So I don't bother anymore. (Before Bela was in my life, I would go into these dog parks all the time, just to watch the show. Now that I have a dog, I no longer enter. The damned irony.)

We hang out in the non-dog sections of parks, school playgrounds, and sometimes merely more than a small patch of grass. What this means is that pretty much wherever we play is illegal. If you know me well, you know that I am terrified of doing anything 'wrong'. I am sooo scared of being 'bad'...yet, every day, in an effort to excercise the B, I engage in illegal activities.

Depending on the area we're in, I spend half of the time playing with her and half of the time on the lookout for cops. While she stands in front of me, anticipating the throw, I attempt to hide the ball deep in my hands, for fear that the man over there is actually an undercover cop, whose job is not to bust drug rings, but to penalize girls playing with their dogs in parks. I have actually gone so far as to go undercover a bit, myself. If I go to a certain park more than once in a week, I will make sure to wear a different coat and/or head gear. That way, if a cop is patrolling the place, he will not have me down as a repeat offender.

A couple of months ago, my moment of truth came. I was at a park we played in weekly during the winter. It was almost always barren of other life forms, and perfect for our purposes. But the sun had come out that day, and children were out to play. I walked past the sectioned-off dog park area, past the playground, and went into a far-off corner, where we wouldn't bother anyone. About 10 minutes went by. Then, not only did a cop car drive by, but it stopped. Then a cop exited. Then the cop CAME UP TO ME. I swear, my cheeks were inflamed and my legs were shaking. I had feared this moment for so long. He asks if I know that I am not allowed to be here. "No", I lied. (My insides turned to mush. Not to mention this was the Sabbath Day! And here I was, blatantly lying!) Then, he asked, "Have you ever been here before?" "No", I lied, AGAIN! "Well, you can't be in this section of the park with a dog off leash. We were given a call by the parents in the playground. And, technically, I am supposed to fine you - $500 - but since you didn't know, I'm going to let you off with a warning. Please leash your dog now. You can go to the dog section over there." "Wait! What? Where? There's a special dog section???" LIAR LIAR LIAR LIAR "Yes, ma'am." "Oh. Okay. Thank you so much, officer."

Then - in a non-verbal attempt to LIE YET AGAIN...I walked like a blind man without a stick across the park, looking/searching/seeking the dog park area. I feigned confusion, acting like I didn't know where it was -- for such a long time that I fear I nearly gave myself away.

My guilt stayed with me long after leaving. In this re-telling, I find it still remains. I don't necessarily think I should have told him the truth, as it would have only solidified my defiance and resulted in a hefty fine, but I'm not completely at peace with my behavior.

We're coming up on two years, however, of illegal grass-grazing with no financial consequence. She has benefited immensely. And at this rate, even if I were to end up spending a grand every 4 years, it would be worth it.

Evolutionary Theory

When Bela came home, I took her in - her behaviors and quirks and thought, 'Alright. This is what we're working with.' She does (A) if (B), and always (C) and (D)...and becomes quite unhappy in the absence of (E).

I didn't consider that she could be ever-changing, like a person.

I have never thought of myself as very pliable, nor enjoyed the idea much.  If I am in a constant state of change, how can I get to 'know thyself'? How can I predict my behaviors? But watching Bela change in front of my eyes has given me a new appreciation for the evolution of a soul.

Her changes have been both grandiose and minute. Some I've barely even noticed, they were so gradual. Some have made me step back, aghast.

She is a "people--not-a-dog--dog", I say. But every now and then (and more often now than then), she finds a friend on the sidewalk and becomes just plain giddy. She peed only in squat position for the longest time -- now she throws up one back leg and sprays buildings. She recently began snoring. She 'got over' rawhides.

Her changes are not inconvenient, nor annoying, they are just what they are. They are her, on her path, at least for the present.

In appreciating her change, I think about my own. Most notably, possibly, my feelings about onions. I have hated onions my whole life. Raw, cooked, dried, fried...even just hanging around...hated them. Now I layer white with red, raw with cooked; I fill up my nose and sting my eyes.

There are other things. I finally understand flowers. I enjoy a cup of tea, sans sugar. I make to-do lists to manage every step of a day.

Is this changing or aging? Well, are they any different? For in the process of life, which runs parallel to the process of aging, we change. We change the things that change us. We react. We adapt. We thrive.

The Animal Advantage

Bela has a lot of power over me and you could say that she knows how to pull my strings. But I straight up use her. While I love her deeply, and she's my fave all-around animal, she has also become my bait. I can get closer now to all the other hounds around this city than ever before.

(Most) dogs love to greet other dogs. They get excited the minute they become aware of a fellow fleabag approaching. Some spin, some crouch down, some just sit -- waiting until the introductions are made.

Bela is an exception to this. She could care less if she meets the dog down the block. She is interested in people, places and things - not other dogs. However, since that is a rarity in the canine world, I am able to pull the wool over others' eyes. I first let them know with a look that we are game for the greeting. Then I start caressing their dog while she avoids it like the plague. Occasionally, I make excuses. "I don't know what's wrong with her today", I say, all while keeping my hands firmly planted on their pooch. I only have a few moments before the pet and parent realize that she's not into it, and take off.

While many owners seem to revel in a street exhibition, there are the occasional walking hermits. I know a dog is man's best friend, but just because you replaced the humans in your life with a mutt does take said dog's desire to interact with other life forms away.
When a pet owner ignores my pleading eyes, or speeds up, so as to bypass the interaction, I furrow my brow.  I have been known to say some varietal of the statement, 'Some people don't understand joy and love', sometimes loud enough to be heard. (I do not say this if the owner and/or dog look to be of a violent nature.)

Now, I know people have places to go...but a dog's walk is its special time. It's their daily Quinceañera, their time to shine. The sidewalk their runway, the public their audience.

When I spot a dog whose body shape I admire, I quicken my pace. If the dog stops and sniffs at least a couple times, and I tug a little on Bela's leash, I can usually make it in time to at least swipe my hand down their back. I don't always ask for permission, though I do gauge the owner and dog's vibe, to see if this seems like a safe move. Will I be bit anyway, some day? Likely.

I do, of course, have some favorites. The breeds that bring to mind the call of the wild -- the fox dog, the husky. I like a regal dog too -- Great Danes and weimaraners make me weak in the knees. A few little dudes light me up as well -- namely, mini pinschers and chihuahuas.

I like thin dogs. Fatties don't catch my eye. Rather, they catch it but I then look away, disgusted. I shouldn't act this way. God knows they aren't feeding themselves. There is a black chow that I see around...his middle is so large (and the afro isn't helping anything), he appears to be just barely balancing his weight on his fluffy feet.

I am surely influenced in my idea of beauty by Bela. I call her middle her carriage. She has a beautiful carriage. It is taught, while not too thin, and full, while not overflowing. It swings from side to side with her gait. Some dogs prance, some strut, some hunker. Now, be it known that a prancer's owner delights in their dance being called out. But the hunkering shepard's owner probably doesn't want you remarking on their dog's lackluster stature.

Last week, Bela and I encountered a real looker. A brindle greyhound, accompanied by a young couple. We met, we're moving, we're walking, we're talking...and then I lean over and plant one on their dog's head. Neither of them reacted, but I quickly stated the obvious: "I just kissed your dog on the head." Then they giggled a bit. "Yes. Yes you did", they said, to which I replied, "I'm sorry. I do that sometimes. I know maybe I shouldn't. But sometimes I just can't help myself..." They both reassured me that not only is it okay; but that they wholeheartedly approve...and if the opportunity presents itself again, that I should go for it. (Obviously, I will scour the neighborhood for these 2 and that long-legged beauty of a dog they have from now on...)

So the meet & greet is for me, not her. I'm sure some people can see through me, or rather see Bela's dead eyes and the sparkle in mine. I don't care. If you'd stand here just a little while longer, I could really get some quality time in with your dog.

You can take the girl of the the country...

Bela hails from Tennessee. She's a southern lady with some southernish traits. She is gentle and loving, yet tough as nails. She appreciates her fine food, but would be pleased to catch herself a rabbit just as well. She is wild and cunning, yet couth. She's a real beauty, and able-bodied to boot.

I like to muse on her past life and what it may have been. I wish I knew, so I could in a sense, know her better. She could have run through the Great Smoky Mountains, warmed herself by fires and toasted her latest kill with a pack. I bet she could catch low-flying birds in flight, and turkeys in the night.

I would be lying if I didn't admit to feeling, at times, quite tortured for her, in her lack of access to the great wide open nowadays. It is because of this, that I took her goosehunting last weekend.

What is goosehunting, you ask? Well, it's me and a leashed Bela, traversing through the ponds of Lincoln Park, finding and taking out packs of geese. Well, we took on stragglers as well, but the packs were definately more fun. Seeing our prey from a distance, her body stance would change into huntmode. I'd allow her to move like this for a bit, as we quietly approached. Then - BAM! - I would run with her, full speed, towards the geese!! We got so close a few times that I swear both she and I came up with tiny feathers in our mouths. It's not like running them into the water was enough for her. She attempted to jump in a couple of times and actually did get her front paws in a section of shallow water once. I was so worn out from running like a psycho all the way to the waterfront, that I released my deathgrip on her leash for one second and there she was, wading her way in.

Many parkgoers stopped in their tracks. Some laughed, almost approvingly, some scowled and some looked geniunely dumbfounded. A midget and a medium sized dog running violently through the park, scaring the geese into the freezing water? Cute? No. Interesting? Yes.

I sacrificed my vanity for this expedition. Not just the vanity surrounding my physical appearance; that was obviously out the door, as my pants were falling down, shoes untied, hair flailing, and chest heaving. My arthritic knees (that are NOT supposed to be running) also gave out every now and then mid-stride, which really gave the geese an unfair advantage.)

I sacrificed also my image as a non-crazy dog owner. I want to look sane. I long to be 'normal'. But hell - she's worth throwing caution to the wind and allowing myself to look deranged. Her legs were shaking in hunter's joy! Her neck was rigid with attention. Her whole being was tuned into its natural frequency.

When all the geese were safely floating away, I walked her back to the car. I felt terrible taking her home, to pass the rest of her day (i.e. lifetime) in an apartment. But, she was heavy with fatigue and rested peacefully. I gave her a taste of the old, so that she can appreciate the new.

I am sorry for Tennessee's loss, but glad for Chicago's gain. We got a good one. She may have not come here willingly, but here she is and I will do my best to make sure she's content in this big city life. She's a country girl, like myself. We should stick together.

So I can't give her the Smoky Mountains. But I can give her a Lincoln Park goosehunt every now and then. And in between, we'll turn tennis balls into birds and stuffed animals into the real thing.

The Log Log

Foreword: This post is about poop. So as to not use the word too much, I tried to use synonyms in  places. There are some synonyms I refuse to use however, such as 'doo doo', 'poo poo' and '#2'. One can only be so creative. Please excuse the overuse of the word poop. Please also excuse the decision to write an entire post about poop.

The rules:
Do no walk on non tree-lined streets.
Do not walk less than 20 minutes.
Do not go anywhere without the 'diaper bag'. Bags are not optional. (Let me tell you, a used kleenex doesn't really cut it. It will work, but it's not a pretty sight.)

There is good even in the process of poop. Her body is letting me know it is functioning properly. When she is forced to wait while I collect the feces, she has to practice patience. And when it is colder than comfort allows, and you forgot your gloves....well...putting the *sealed bag in your pocket...not the worst idea that has ever come to me. (I have told only a couple people of this. It has been met with disgust, disgust, and then approval. The disgust from a stranger and a 'friend'. The approval from my dad.)

When I am tired, I beg her at every dirt patch to squat. She pretends not to hear me. The picking of a poop post cannot be rushed. When the deed is done, we scour the sidewalks for a garbage can. Alleys are home to most refuse, along with most rats. I have encountered so many rodents while chucking her shit. The rat is pleased to see me dropping off a midnight snack, and Bela is pleased to hunt the rat, even at a leash's distance. Such a win-win. My pleasure at said situation is really off the charts, as well.

I often walk deep into the night, fearful that should I go home without providing her with the proper 'warm-up' time, she wiill not go and then will have unsatisfactory sleep. But she may actually know that the sooner she goes, the sooner she is heading inside. There may be a method to her madness! Now yes -- I know, I know, dogs actually EAT poop, a questionable move, indeed. But their decision to occasionally indulge in common rat fare themselves need not discredit their ability to manipulate.

Lady B is also quite demure, and as such, prefers to be discreet about her duties. If I so much as look her way, she will pop up, ending the process right there. She will not even consider going if there is a sign of life on the same block. She will only poop in isolation.This is especially enjoyable at night, when I am fearful of being mugged, since she ups my chances of becoming prey.

As I mentioned, I have picked up her stools with some shoddy objects. Used kleenexes. Leaves. Discarded poop bags, found nearby, of which I am able to use a small section of. (The use of these actually appeals to my thrifty side, and were I to reveal this to my cheapskate father, I think he would actually beam with pride.) A Starbucks cup, that had contained another brown concontion only minutes earlier. (This was, what I thought a genius move, reducing, reusing and recycling to the utmost degree. And the contaniments were so concealed in the cup. But this genius move really got to me. I gagged on my way to the garbage can. The cup that I had lifted to my lips only seconds earlier...)

I now see plastic bags as gold. Bronze, rather, since most of mine come from Jewel and are tinted brown.
I horde them. When running low, I will buy a pack of gum and quadruple-bag it. I ask friends for their extras, take them out of the garbage can at work.  If I see one blowing in the wind, I'll pick it up. They are the equivalent of street pennies. You acknowledge they are tainted, but they still have tangible worth. And so, even in the face of an observer, you pick it up (be it penny or poop bag); and the momentary shame you feel is replaced with a sortof proud humility, if that can exist. You hold your head up, as you humble yourself to the offerings of the street.

Despite the occasional scavenger hunt for a means to pick up things, I have never once left her remains on one inch of this fair city. I would walk home and circle back if I had to. (Although, let's be honest - with my low expectations for pooper scoopers, that would seemingly never be needed.)

That said, I am always shocked to see how often I find the fecal matter of other dogs just lying around. I cannot imagine having the audacity to leave it. Apparently, there are many dog owners who do not take pride in wiping the earth clean of their animal's exrcrement.

I am no such soul. As long as I have a canine companion, I will respectfully tend to her toiletries.

It's my birthday.  It's my birthday! It's my birthday.

I have always loved my birthday - no matter the age I gain. Each year, I say thanks for what I have gained, along with the age. Every year, I am given the chance to become a better version of myself.

I look back at this past year as the year I understood myself to be capable.

I have always hypothesized that I was, and thought it even likely - but in my core, there was serious doubt. That doubt is dead now.

This year, I truly became a mother. (This is where I cringe and fear the wrath of 'real' mothers, i.e., females who have given birth to a human baby...but I forge ahead nonetheless.)

My movements are dictated by another's need. My mornings cut short, my nights extended, my meals interrupted, my pocketbook emptied.

I am repayed with unquestioned trust and unconditional love.

There are, of course, moments when I curse my path. They are the sad moments when I fail to recognize that gratitude is the only feeling I should know. When selfishness temporarily blurs my vision.

My role as this dog's 'mother' has given me purpose. Allowed my life to become truly about someone else. Allowed me to daily, hourly - dedicate myself to something other than....myself. And it is in this, that I have found actual happiness.

When she is anxious, I am anxious. When she is in physical pain, I feel something akin to physical pain myself. And when she is sleeping...when I am witness to her peace - that is the closest thing to peace I have known.

I don't want to freak out the world with my declaration; I only intend to state my truth. This undertaking has defined me in a way I couldn't have guessed, and will never regret. I am so grateful.

Size Matters

I consider Bela to be little. I always tell people, 'She's a little dog!'. What I mean when I say that, however, is that she is a little BIG dog. There are small, medium and large dogs...and then there are little big dogs, or big little dogs. I am referring to the fact that her features are reminscent of a larger breed, but that her size is diminished. In order to help you understand my guidelines, I offer this: I would consider a whippet to be a little big dog, and poodle to be a big little dog.

People are often thrown by my description. I should just state the obvious - she is a medium sized dog. But size can be subjective. Children think she is huge. Owners of Great Danes find her miniscule.

I was trying to cross a high-traffic street one day. The cars were moving quickly in both directions and any give at all on Bela's leash terrified me. I picked her up. When I saw a bit of a break, I ran for it. There were some kids on the other side of the street. They watched me run across, one of the girls exclaiming, "Man, that is a BIG DOG!!". She repeated it, apparently quite taken with how gargantuan my 37-lb. dog was. When I was safely on her side of the street, I said to her, 'You think she's big?' She looked at me, eyes still wide and said..."YOU little. That is a BIG dog for how little you are."

Little dogs are different creatures, and there are many benefits to having one. They can't put their paws on the table, no matter how they try. They don't cost much to feed. Their bark really IS larger than their bite. Most notably, they're portable. And it is this major convenience, for which so many are grateful they do have a small dog - I am grateful I do not.

For I have already taken this 'dog thing' about as far as I can, and still like myself. I build my entire social schedule around her, spend every dime of 'extraneous' (extraneous often being not even so -- forgoing my own meal budget) income on pig ears, talk about her endlessly...and not to state the obvious, but....WRITE A BLOG ABOUT HER.

(And, in a horrific move about 48 hours ago, I subscribed to Modern Dog. When I look in the mirror, I do not know this person anymore.)

If Bela were portable, I would be a most loathesome soul. I'm afraid I would try to take her everywhere. I would enter stores and such with my head held high. I have seen women with dogs in bags take them into bakeries -- even movie theaters, and have thought, 'Such flagrant disregard for the rules!' But these women are no different than me. If I could get Bela into a five-star restaurant (nevermind, myself!), I would try. The challenge appeals to both the dog-obsessed and the rebel sides of me. Life would become a game. Reprimand would mean little. Oh, I will have to leave the store? That's cool -- my best friend here and I will head somewhere else.

So...traveling with her is hard. She's tall enough to take dishes out of the sink. She can accidentally claw me in the face easily if I am bending down. But her medium size has saved what little dignity I still have left. And for that, I am glad.

Bela vs. Olivia

Let's throw the covers off the truth, here, people; let's get honest.

My cute stories, my daily anecdotes -- they used to be about Olivia. Nowadays, she may sneak her way in every once in a while, but for the most part, it's Bela, Bela and more Bela.

My co-workers pretend to perk up when I say, 'You have got to hear this!' and my mom and sister take my status calls as well. But I know that they ask themselves the same question I ask my very self:
Has Bela ousted Olivia??

The answer is not so easy; not so black-and-white.

Olivia used to be my eyebrow-raiser, the tiny friend that I got to play a part in taking care of.

That source is now Bela. I'm with her all the time! Bela is on the couch, next to the table, outside the shower curtain. She is my constant companion. Olivia, on the other hand, is a train or car ride away. I can often get her on the phone, but I have to fight for her attention, as there is usually a riveting episode of
The Smurfs on in the background, that she has seen only four or five times before...

I do try to withhold my stories from those without a child or a pet in their life (because I remember listening to such stories when I was in that place...) That said, Olivia stories may be especially endearing to mothers and Bela's to pet-owners, but they probably suck regardless. I'm going to have to say that the Olivia stories, in general, possibly have more content. Quotes that point out the absurdity of social life or give insight into acquisition of knowledge. Bela's quite often refer to...poop. Or how she's just a 'really really good dog'. Not a lot of substance there. I can turn the events of an average walk into a 15-minute storytime, much to the chagrin of my tortured co-workers and friends.

The obvious truth is that neither is more important then the other. They are my salt and pepper; I need them both in this life. And some of my happiest moments have been when the two beings that have taught me so much about love - are close together, loving each other.

So...these days I talk much more about Bela. But I still call Olivia a couple times a week, in hopes she'll take my call - and give me some substance with which to spin a story.

A Professional Dog

Béla does not know fatigue; it is not compatible with her muscles and bones.

At the first vet visit, she was given a good once-over, and then was declared to be 'the size of dog that cannot get enough exercise'.

That sounded daunting and soon proved to be. I used to take her out for 3-mile runs in the morning before work. I thought they were good enough to put her to sleep for the day. The evening we ran 8 miles showed me what a fool I'd been. We returned - me so tired I could barely find the strength to shower and eat...she, on the other hand, wolfed her dinner, sat on the couch for about 45 min. and then got up, like 'So....what are we going to do tonight?' She insults me.

It is useless to impose my tiredness upon her. A couple walks per day won't do; a jaunt around the block may as well be nothing. So it is back and forth to the park, rain or shine. Run her, jump her, wear her out. Go home and pray that it was enough for her to rest comfortably; and to allow you to do the same.
If you shorted her, you will pay. She will rise from her chair and stand in front of you, staring you down, tail waving wildly! behind her. It actually is intimidating. She looks rabid.

She is always ready for play, always looking just a liiittle tooo alert. My niece decided to re-introduce Bela to me one day. She ushered Bela towards me, and said, much like an emcee: "HERE'S BELA!...YOUR TRUSTY, EXCITED DOG!" She really did nail it with those adjectives.

In order for maximum efficiency in her workout, there is a park programme. Throwing a ball, waiting for her to return it to me and throwing it again would be a waste of time. So: Throw Ball #1 long, prep Ball #2 for pop-fly on return...and if a Ball #3 is available, grab that and give a second pop-fly in opposite direction. Keep her on her toes. If she lays down to rest, allow her that, but remember that rest here means confrontation at home.

No matter how annoyed I am, putting on my shoes to stand in a park and juggle balls like a magician, every time I'm there, I am happy to see her happy. I delight in her dogness.

A passerby in a park paid her her highest compliment one day. He paused, observing her, and then said, "Now THAT is a professional dog.

She is a wonderful dog...a trusty, excited dog -- she is A Professional Dog.

Feeding the Beast

People often remark that Béla is too skinny. I'm not talking strangers, coming up to me on the sidewalk - but close friends and family. "She's too thin!," they exclaim - as if their weighing in on the matter will make me feed her more.

She's not too thin; I think we are just used to seeing a lot of fat dogs. She looks like a fine-tuned athlete. She is the Jillian Michaels of dogs.

When we adopted her, she was apparently 'heavy'. I thought she looked great; but both the adoption center and the vet recommended weight loss. She was at 42 lbs. and she was to lose 'a couple'. After fixing her new food regimen and adding excercise to her daily routine, she did start losing. We realized she had gone too far in the other direction when she stepped on the scale and came up at 34 lbs. So then we upped the food and added even more treats, none of which displeased her in the least.

When she eats, she does seem a little savage. She eats in 30 seconds or less, each and every time. She barely comes up for breath. The proponents of her gaining more say this, too, is an example of her being starved. Nah. She likes food. I can take down a 6-inch sub in like 2 minutes, so I think we're on par. It's exciting to eat; that's that.

The holiday season proved very fruitful this year. She ate her regular meals, along with a plethora of 'special treats for a special day'. She also managed to steal cat food from 3 seperate houses, and a couple lbs. of dog food from a friend's back porch. She had a bit of ham on Christmas Day, and then rounded things out by eating a plastic candy-cane tube filled with foil-covered rolos on New Year's Eve. Her poop has been glittering red and green ever since.

I too, overate - sugar cookies thrown down the hatch so quickly I often couldn't remember if I'd eaten two...or seven?.. But the holidays are over. No more of this one pig ear per night. No more string cheese appetizers. No more entire dog biscuits. (I usually break them in half...hell, sometimes, even into thirds!)

The good news is that she hasn't tipped the scales. She's still at her healthy 37-lb. weight and loving life.