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.