DOG THAT I AM: guest post by amy iddings

I’m okay with admitting I’ve been kinda hard on dogs and their people most of my life. Probably kinda like a lot of folks are kinda hard on cat people. Despite being (generally) genuinely filled with love for all living animals, including the human ones, more often than not, dogs-as-people’s-pets have gotten on my damn nerves. When I lived in Chile, I was a huge fan of the perros callejeros (street dogs)-- loved their camaraderie, their pack-ness, their rugged self-reliance, their dreadlocks, their cunning. They seemed content in their own right, focused on survival and brotherhood. These guys were cool! They were not annoying at all! I also loved frequently seeing some tired and dirty laborer come out of a butcher shop with a bag of bones, to leave them gingerly near a pack of streetworn perros, or an old lady gift a wet and shivering street dog with a multicolored handknit winter wool sweater vest.

But indoor pet dogs in the U.S.A?  I’ve seen them as needy, insecure, often obnoxious to my ears and nose, and generally a tedious aberration of a ‘natural animal.’ Their owners I have judged as being needy, insecure, often obnoxious, (and, ha!, possibly even tedious aberrations of natural animals). I’ve looked scathingly at city-dog-people with their perfect pooches, the modern-day bourgeois standard. How undignified!-- to stick one’s hand, inside-out into a plastic bag to pick up dog poo from other people’s yards, and not just for the owner!; for the dog, for the onlooker, for society as a whole! Like seriously, my thinking has gone, How have we done this, created these totally fragile, dependent, frequently adorable, though occasionally vicious little beasts who can’t be left alone, who we can’t accidentally forget to let be around one of the incredibly common 60-or-so Fatally Freaking Poisonous Foods to Dogs, whose feet and fur and teeth we have to protect from nature, who apparently need every manner of expensive purchased item in order for us to feel proud of ourselves for taking good care of a creature who we just want around to help us feel special?? What have we done?*

Sometimes when I’ve identified myself as “not a dog person” to a dog person, they counter by asking if I am a cat person. I resent that line of questioning because it seems way too simple and, to my judgmental mind, lets the Dog Person off the hook: Oh, she’s a neurotic cat lady so of course she can’t possibly understand the obvious superiority of dogs. I try not to go there, but sometimes I do say that I prefer cats but that I don’t, you know, like have a cat. Or I’ll quote my all-animal-loving friend Justine and say as aloofly and felinely as possible “Cats just know who they are.” Now if we’ve gotten this far in the tiresome Dog vs. Cat Debate, there is around an 85% chance I will get served my most/least favorite Dogs Over Cats argument: “They love you no matter what and every time I walk through the door, it’s like the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to {dog’s name here}!!” Which, to me, has always been like, yeah, dude--exactly, case-in-point. Because apparently I’ve seen that as a weakness, the need for this blind unconditional love creature that treats one’s arrival home as the most exciting thing to have ever happened ever. It’s felt hollow to me, like seriously what the hell happened to you that you need this element in  your life? Can’t you just come in and make yourself some tea? (Uhh, like I said, I’ve been kind of hard on dog people).

So living this summer not just with A Dog Person, but quite possibly The Most Dog Person anyone might ever run into, and her dog, really challenged me in some core ways. The fact that Kelly is also my oldest (as in longevity of friendship) best friend, who I love incredibly dearly, and that her dog is a Very Cool Dog (almost cat-like, could I say?) made the situation: a) at all possible; b) motivating for a new perspective and c) still pretty challenging.

They arrived in the middle of the night on June 1. I had worked a long catering event (involving a power outage in the middle of a 300-guest college basketball coach wedding, and a coworker getting trapped in an elevator for around an hour) and simply could not keep my eyes open any longer. I fell asleep in soft anticipation of The Summer Experiment (living with my BFF for the first time, her living in Kentucky and not working, me living with a dog). Not too worried about Bela’s arrival. I had shared a bed with Bela for a night in Chicago in January and determined she does not a) bark or b) smell bad. And Kelly assured me she would not be all up in my personal space all the time, “cause she just doesn’t care.” So around 1 a.m., I awoke and found a text on my phone, from Kel: Ames, you got a garden hose? Bela rolled in some shiiit today.

Oh. They arrived soon thereafter and so there we were at 2 a.m. using my neighbor’s garden hose and some Dr. Bronner’s to get the shiiit off Bela before she moved into my rather smallish apartment for 3 months. We settled down around 3:00, tired but happy to be together. A little after 4, we were awakened violently by Bela’s barking sharply out the window facing downtown Murray. Must have seen some country wildlife she was interested in. (Yep, living a block from downtown, I have seen possums, raccoon families, and even a red fox strolling down my street). After being awakened by the barking, and the subsequent fear my neighbors/landlords would have been awakened and resent me, and also that the barking would be a constant companion all summer and I would resent everything, I had to pee. The bathroom smelled strongly of wet dog. There were a lot of wet-dog-smelling hairs around, sticking to the floor, the wall, the sink. So I’m sitting there kind of doing a mental review… Barking: Check. Bad dog smells: Check. And then: the third Dreaded Dog Factor: Bela nuzzles open the bathroom door and bounds right in to spend some time with me while I urinate. Did I mention I’ve lived alone for the last 5 years? During which time all the sounds, smells and company in my home has been completely and thoroughly related to my own biology, habits, desires and sense of control? Yikes.

 

Psychology Today has pointed out recently that in an online survey of over 4,500 people, those who self-identified as dog people were more “extroverted, agreeable, and conscientious” compared with cat people who were “more open to experience and more neurotic” than dog people. Damn. Again with the neurotic.

My quick-and-dirty dabble into dog ownership this summer has brought a lot out of my subconscious. For example, I now remember saying to my mom when I was around 13, and really discovering for the first time the ways humans could mess with each other’s minds, that I “wished we all just had tails like dogs and get it over with”, that way I could actually know if someone genuinely liked me or just liked messing with my mind. I recognized then, I guess, that with dogs, it’s all right there. Really freaking happy to see you? Ok, you’re definitely gonna know about that. Dog-tired? Not gonna pretend he’s anything but. Just attacked an entire loaf of bread you were planning on making the perfect French toast out of? It’s written all over her face. It reminds me of one of the themes from the book Mutant Message Down Under, about the Australian aborigines, who have no problem hearing other’s thoughts (communicating telepathically) because they have no intention to deceive. So what the hell is up with my idolatry of the cat’s mysterious ways? Is it because I’ve always wanted to be more reserved than I have ever been able to muster? I’ve had enough training to realize that usually what we feel strongly compelled to hate in another is just an outward representation of some part of ourselves we haven’t yet brought to light and accepted. Yikes again. Life this summer with Bela certainly showed me some parts of myself I hadn’t cared to look at. Like really, truly, what was it about the simple love of dogs that got under my skin, that seemed false or weak or unworthy? Why did their devotion make me squirm? What was it about the open-book-ness of dogs that I couldn’t stand? Have I recognized myself in the spirit of the dog, and therefore felt critical, almost (ugh) neurotically so?

Looking at my own way of interacting with those I care about (particularly through the lens of the mutual therapy Kelly and I did on ourselves practically every summer night over some combination of wine, beer, popcorn, pizza and this killer salad we made up), I have been shocked to realize I have quite a bit of the dog spirit in me—like cannot, try as I might, keep hidden from people my love/appreciation/admiration of them. My tail wags wildly. Sometimes it gets me into sticky situations. But I just keep doing it. Putting it all out there.

Living with my best friend and her best dog this summer was a lot like a functional, happy family. We teamed it. Make no mistake: Kelly is the very best dogmom I can ever imagine. (Sometimes even neurotically so! J) But Bela won me over, no doubt about it. The three of us worked out a color coded tab system on her collar so Kelly would know each morning if I’d had time to take her out before leaving for work. We all made decisions together. Balanced each other out a bit. Kelly won’t cuddle with me (though she is warming up to hugs), but she and Bela do this freely. Bela and I

developed a special ball technique with my feet and her nose that is ours alone. I loved throwing sticks and balls with Kelly and Bela in an empty lot near my house, and I loved throwing sticks and balls with just Bela when Kelly went out of town a few weekends. I didn’t let Bela sleep in my bed but I did give her licks of ice cream off my spoon. I even let her lick my face! I nuzzled my face in her sweet, dog-smelling fur! And they both (after Bela’s first night) were incredibly graceful with respecting my personal space. I was able to give and receive love from an exemplar of a species I have judged. I observed Kelly (who is possibly more cat-like in her interactions with people) get good practice at open-book-ness in the safe, loving arms of her dog.

And I’ve noticed that I look at dogs way differently now. Like, I literally look at them differently; my eyes move differently across the landscape when a dog enters it. I notice a dog’s carriage (and know to call it that, cause Kelly taught me), its tail movement, whether it likes eye contact or no, the relationship it seems to have with its person. I don’t think I’ll ever be “into dogs” the way Kelly is into dogs. I don’t think she’ll ever wait on the phone for me as I greet each and every canine I come into contact with, in the most personal, energetic, and loving way. I don’t think I’ll ever adopt a dog into my home permanently. But if Kelly moved to Italy for a season, I’d consider Bela as a roommate. And my level of judgment towards dogs and dog people has gotten a serious beat-down. It isn’t gone completely, but I’m onto it. I know it’s a lot more about me than it is them.

 

*Thank you, Dog People, for helping take care of the millions of dogs we have created to be dependent upon our care.    Thank God I’m enough of a cat person and “open to new experiences” to take all this in. I am grateful for things learned. Thank you, Kel. Thank you, Bela.

 

 

 

 

 

Castaway

Sometimes, I think of getting rid of Bela.

You read that right, and I know that 'it's wrong'...but... sometimes I think of getting rid of her. I have nowhere to send her, no one to ship her off to and no plan in place, but it does cross my mind.

When I want to stay out all night and not worry about how many hours have passed since I left, I think about it. When I want to take a weekend trip and I have to ask friends - or strangers - to help, I think of it. When a friend asks if I want to live with her in Italy, I think of it. (Alot alot alot.)

In this time of transition and change, from one state line to the next, I have thought about it more than usual. I haven't provided her a white-picket fence, two-story home with a dog entrance. She's yet to have a yard of her own. I've given her little more than a small apartment and park trips.

I've been trying to map the course of my life. My life has been but a dance of longing. I love to land; I love to leave. I like to enter and exit other's lives, my own intricate weave.

I tend to believe things happen *for a reason*, so I question Bela's permanent place in my life. Maybe it's so that I could grasp the concept of solidity; of a constant anchor of sorts. I don't really feel like I have a home, I suppose - a place where I belong. Maybe it was because I needed to learn to ask for help. Because I fucking hate to ask for help. I am obsessed with being self-sufficient, not needing anyone for anything. But I have been forced to ask favors left and right, and sometimes straight-up beg someone to help me out...(because her bladder has a timeline and it doesn't always line up with mine.)

Last month in a thrift store, I plunked down money I likely shouldn't have for 2 vintage hats. Waiting for the native Swiss shopowner to process the payment, I noticed 2 small gray poodles. A 'toy' and a 'teacup' - 3 and 7 pounds. They were in a bag below the register. There isn't anywhere the woman can't go with bagdogs -- they're allowed to fly, shop and even eat in restaurants, as long as their extremities remain inside the sack. I sat back, thinking how easy her life must be with these little rats. Then she mentioned she had 5 dogs in total (and some cats), her favorite being a German Shepherd. She verbally drew me a family tree, when they'd come along and then departed this world. I drew a breath in, and stammered out a "Wow". She could probably hear me thinking about the work, the money, the house! And so she responded to my thought -- by throwing her chin way up in the air -- and then -- (as if she could see inside my fickle soul) -- stated to the universe:

"AND I KEEP THEM TIL THEY DIE!!

I'M NOT ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE THAT GET RID OF PETS!!

[she paused for effect]

NOOOOO.  WAYYY!!!!!"




Footnote:
I have often compared my dog to a [human] child, and countered a friend's child-centered story with one about her. Sometimes it just doesn't seem like an entirely different ballgame... But I'm going to use this moment here to really step back and admit -- well , yes -- yes of course -- I know that it is. Because while you, parents, never ever think about 'getting rid' of your kids -- I think about getting rid of Bela. I don't intend to and don't want to. BUT -- IF ANYONE -- AND I MEAN ANYONE -- wants to watch her so that I can live abroad for a short time, please let me know. :)

What's Montague?

Bela is not my dog.

She's a dog. One that, as of 9:09 pm on July 7, 2013, I have the honor of taking care of.

The labeling game has taken us too far, confused us and convinced us too much. Made us blind to bigger truths. Our labels make 'sense' and make us feel 'safe' -- but they're just that -- labels. They don't have any meaning but the meaning we give them.

I could wax on all day long about Bela being mine and mine and oh-so-mine...
But present-day scenery shakes me, as I'm a mere 10 minutes from the state line of Bela's former home. Bela was shipped in van with god-knows-how-many-other country dogs a couple of years back. Tennessee to Chicago was their route. Greener pastures, in the poetic sense of the phrase. (And really...likely not for all of them. Some may have accidentally plucked themselves from a really sweet situation by running off and not finding their way back before apprehension.)

She has transitioned, from one human host to another. So she's this amazing just-shy of 40 lbs. brown supposed-lab mix that was once shipped from TN to IL. I don't know more than that. I don't know who taught her to sit and put out her paw. (They may still refer to her as 'their' dog. ) I don't know what she looked like as a baby and if she had brothers or sisters. She's her ma's dog, for sure. That's the only soul that can really lay claim to her.

A few months ago, my niece Olivia's cat named for her favorite food ("Butter") ran off. We spent many teary nights trying to make her accept/be cool with the situation. We urged her to consider that death was not the most likely scenario; that Butter was likely hanging out with another family somewhere, probably not even terribly far away. To try to imagine her shrouded in love. To allllllmost.....be happy for her. (There are middle-aged adults that aren't capable of this. We tried to convince a 7-yr old to see the beauty in letting her dove go. And you know what? Though the tears streamed, I have the feeling that as a child, she was much more capable -- of freeing Butter from the chains of her love.)

I've been struggling with anxiety lately. The kind that, well, to be honest, makes it hard to breathe.  Talking to my mom the other night, she threw out a little wisdom pearl. She suggested I try to do more like dogs and children. Live in the moment. They don't dwell in the past or think about the future. Don't have the attention span for such undertakings....tending to eradicate anxieties of the adult kind.

She's right. I don't need  to have such a deathgrip on all things. What I think will happen vs. what I hope will. I have today. Today, Bela is in my care, so I'll take care of her. I'll walk her, feed her, and take her to the park. I don't know shiiiit about tomorrow. She may be here, I may be there, or she and I may both be elsewhere.

I took a solo trip to DQ a few days after my arrival here in Murray. I bought a small vanilla cone. The teenage boy in front of me bought an even smaller vanilla cone. It was so small, in fact, that I had to ask about it. "What is that you got?", I inquired. "It's a baby cone", he replied, and then headed to his black SUV. When I walked past his vehicle on my way to a bench, I saw a tiny face peeking out of the back seat, gently licking the baby cone. I had to get closer. The image was delightful. It was a dachshund, sized like the cone, coyly working on its treat. "Oh, HOW cute!", I squealed! His country drawl came back. "Yeah. She's our new dog. I mean, she's not a new dog but she's new-to-us. She just came to us. And we feel so blessed that she came." And then, "She's a puppy. And her name is Lucy."
"Happiness to you and Lucy," I said, planting a pat on her little head.

I sat near the wooded area in the back and slowly consumed my cone. About 20 minutes later, an older man in a golf cart came speeding into the parking lot and approached a table, hurriedly asking something of them. He had started to speed off when I overhead a customer saying, "No, we haven't seen no dog."

My eyes and my heart fluttered. I clasped my hand to my chest and ran after the man, saying, "Sir!!?? Were you talking about a dog??"

"I'm looking for my little brown dog. She's a dachshund and her name is Hazel and she's just run off and......" His voice trailed, in angst, knowing that the longer the explanation time, the less time on the search.   Oh God. Oh God, I thought. Oh my god. The dachshund named Hazel, that belong[s/ed] to this man, now operates under the alias of Lucy and just ate a cone in the back of a black SUV and is being referred to as a teenager's 'new puppy'.   oh      god.

I tried to explain to him the scene I'd come upon moments earlier, and to relay that I think I'd seen her and that she was with a young boy and that he called her 'Lucy'...................... in angst, this too....

He listened, he did. But then he reared his head back and SPAT OUT AT ME, "MY DAWG'S NAME IS HAZEL!!!"

Then he sped off on his golf cart.

Two days later, I was walking 'my' dog when I saw the gentleman cruise by in his golf cart again, combing the streets. Eyes focused, body upright, tuning out irrelevant sights and sounds, in the quest for his Hazel.

Later, I wondered,
with his loss so lucid and drive so very focused
that
if he were to cruise right past Lucy,
if he would even know it was Hazel.

But then again, Hazel may just now BE Lucy. And would he want to rob her of that chance? To be a puppy again?



"The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost."
G.K. Chesterton




*(this post has been in the works for WEEKS now. as you can see from the timestamp I inserted in it above, I sat down to it at 9:09pm this night.

at 9:36pm, my sister called.             Butter has been FOUND.)

A Southern Sabbatical

On the 3rd anniversary of Bela's adoption date, we packed up the car and headed to Kentucky for a summer stay. We packed patience and sunhats. We have eyes wide open and an appetite for all things country. She has settled in quite nicely. The porch is her perch; she sits and/or sleeps up there all the day long....

We're eating fine, too. There are eggs from a friend's chicken. Honey from my roomate's parent's bees, fresh-from-the-garden sugar snap peas, and just-picked mint for our water. (And homemade moonshine in the fridge, but I'm going to do my best to avoid that.      For.....now.)

On our first evening here, we walked to the 60-year old Dairy Queen. As we passed a family sitting on the white bench out front, the mother looked at Bela wistfully and said, "Swayt little dawg." Swayt. As in 'sweet' but with a serious southern accent. This morning, an older gentleman stopped in the middle of the road to roll down his van window and tell me "I lock your dawg." Again, 'like' but with a southern touch.

We're just over 72 hours in and I, too, appear to be altering my speech. While exiting a store today, I struggled with the door. The shop owner gave me a gentle nudge. "You have to push it, dear," she said. "Oh.........I was pollin'", I replied. Yes.... 'Pulling' but with a twang.

It seems right. There is a husband of a friend of mine that could have just sworn that my last name was Grain. She and I were simply baffled how he would arrived at that conclusion until he explained that that was exactly how I pronounced it: 'Green', you know -- as in, "Grain."

If Bela wrote about me...

...the things I think she'd say:

1. She builds little forts and comfort 'shelves' out of blankets when I nap. She'll tuck them behind my butt, under my chin, around my head and over my ears....to ensure I am (look) warm and cozy. It does make me warm, and yes, cozy...but it's certainly not needed.

2. Her OCD has gotten pretty bad, especially since we've been living on our own.
She checks the burners and the outlets and the fire alarm like 20,000 times every single time before she walks out the door. Then once she's outside the door, she locks it and re-locks it and checks the lock on it another 20,000 times. Her friends want to know why she's late occasionally? That's WHY.

3. She puts a LOT OF peanut butter in my kong when she goes.
(Yes, I think we're seeing a theme here and it's called: Kelly's guilt. The guilt of my mother.
It really does pay off sometimes, but I guess I feel bad that she feels bad. I'm really just hanging out when she's gone...)

4. She has a weak-ass arm. She pretty much can't excercise me without the aid of a Chuck-it. She looks a little dumb, always standing in the park with it at her side -- her arm extender. But it's necessary. It's just necessary.

5. She sings a lot. That's often soothing but can occasionally be just ridiculous. I think I'm the subject of most of her songs. Which is also soothing but kind of ridiculous.

6. She cries more than what I would say the average human does, but she cries less now than she used to. So there's that.

7. I love her.    Lovelovelovelovelove her. Love, outside the confines of loyalty. Love her.
She doesn't even know how much.

Rats, Cats and Babies -- Oh My!

Bela's inclination to hunt amuses me, exhausts me...and occasionally embarrases me.
The embarrassment is silly; I can't do anything about her natural instinct.  But I'm attempting to live with  her...in a city....around, like a TON of other living things -- things she would like to make extinct.

Rats. Cats. and Babies.

I'm pretty sure Chicago would be cool with Bela eradicating the rat. (If I let her free, this would likely happen sooner than later, as she has twice caught a rat in her mouth while walking.)
And as a race, we are divided on cats. But there ain't a person around that would be comfortable if they knew...that her ears perking up just now, and that shake in her back legs....: that's for your baby, Yo.

While she enjoys catching rats with her teeth, I can't really stomach the thought of one ending up in her stomach....so I have made her release both of her previous catches. I struggle with 'allowing' her to hunt street cats. The cat is often interested in her and/or taunting her, seeing that she is well-restrained by a leash. And I keep thinking that I can convince her through dialogue that...you know, the cat is like a super cool animal that you could even consider respecting....

Her relationship with felines has me straight up baffled. She hunts them like crazy, both outside and in. But I'm committed to letting her know that if she could play it cool, we'd be invited into more homes. My friends could stop feeling conflicted about liking her, because the threat of her eating their cats would be gone. It would just be really nice.
(*It should be noted that there is a cat that she has actually NUZZLED. Face to face. Lovingly. On multiple occasions. I've been able to make no sense of this, thus far.)

I'll address the baby-hunting, I will. But bear in mind, it's not real...as in, she doesn't know it's a baby when her ears perk up and she tries to paw at the door to get out and get. it. In all honesty, she's probably thinking it's a cat or a rat. It's just that the sound of a baby wailing can be quite sharp. High-pitched. Kind of tortuous. Prompting Bela to think of...well...torture?? So while the baby-tracking requires mentioning, my neighbor's babies are in no way in harm's way.

The rat and cat shit is real, though. And one night, while we were out walking, this hate triangle came to a head like I literally could not believe. We were crossing by a school that had a gated area in front, and Bela kept tugging to get closer. I had no reason to not give her this courtesy, so I moved myself in a little and let her sniff about. Her body went rigid, and I saw a gleam in her eyes, so I thought maybe there was a little something in there. It was hard to perceive the picture; it was dark and so silent that my senses were straining to pick up on anything. Then, I saw it. I gasped, then chuckled aloud. It was like Jesus orchestrated the scenario for my sheer delight. Because Bela was hunting a cat that was hunting a rat.

I know for a fact that Bela did not commit murder that night, but I am not at will to speak for that cat.

Viva El Perro; Commemorating Cinco De Mayo

One year ago, I almost lost Bela. And when I say 'lost her', I mean in that big, sweeping sense. As in completely. We were playing fetch in an unfenced area when she got in in her guns to take off.  She first ran to a tree where she'd spotted a squirrel. After the squirrel ran up the tree, Bela ran again --  this time, seemingly for the the sake of running, for the feeling in her legs. It wasn't an accident; it was intentional. She ran into traffic with the wind at her back.

Ever the extremist, she didn't run into the intersection of Hermitage and Haddon, where we live -- or even Division and Paulina -- this death naysayer ran into the 3-way intersection of AUGUSTA, MILWAUKEE AND I-94.

"BelAAAAAAAAAAA! Beeeelllllaaaaaaaa!!, I screamed, running full speed, down a sidewalk, after her. A car stopped and pulled over to the side of the road. A man in his mid-thirties jumped out of the driver seat and ran interference. He put both hands on my shoulders, as if to shake or ground me. "You CAN'T go over there," he said, firmly. My heart was pumping, my mind racing, my dog out of my line of sight and I shook my head at him in wonder. "She's my dog and I'm GOING TO HER," I replied. He put me up against a wall in order to restrain me. The need to protect me then so strong that his pretty young wife got out of her seat, leaving their infant unattended in the back. She tried a more womanly approach, softly saying that I just 'couldn't see that.' That I should 'just stay back.' I remember being called 'honey'. I remember feeling that I was being confined, talked down to and denied my rights as a mother. I got ANGRY. I shook the two of them off with fervor and finished my sprint into the intersection, terrified at what I believed I was to find there. Her body mangled. I had the image already in my mind. They had given that to me. That was what their impositions and so-called allegiances to me had conveyed.

But when I actually arrived at the intersection, there wasn't a lot going on. A car had pulled over to the side and the driver had exited. He was the one who had hit her. I barely looked at him, my eyes searching for her body next to his wheel. He threw his hands up, exasperated, and seemed to be voicing something about her running into his car and where did she go.........????

Once I understood that he truly didn't know, that's when real panic set in. Because if he didn't know where Bela's body was....then how could I sit next to it while it died? How could I offer a sense of calm, a hand for her palm? How could I comfort her in her final (likely scared) moments before she drifted away from this world?   

And so my search began. I ran, screaming her name in a blood-curdling fashion, from block to block, coming back to the scene of the crime and then heading out again. I was wild. I was no longer worried that Bela 'could be hurt' --- I was ONLY intent on holding her face and letting her know I was with her while she passed. I only wanted to be a piece of peace. And I couldn't make it happen. I couldn't find my baby to be with her. There was no 'but Lord, I don't want her to go...' It was only, 'as she goes, Lord, may I PLEASE LORD PLEASE just get to stroke her back and look into her eyes and sing to her.....PLEASE LORD PLEASE. PLEASE. I begged God.

I was standing there as traffic whizzed by me, my plight unimportant to the world around me. And I kept wondering, 'how long do I wait here before I make my feet walk....[away]'? Aware that she could very well be miles from where I now stood, as it is a well-known fact that injured animals often flee and find a place to die in solitude. I did not think I could live, not knowing where she'd gone. Not knowing if she'd died immediately, lived through hellatious moments of suffering, or been spared, and simply moved on to a new chapter in her life.

The driver now gone, I stood near where he had been. I looked up to the skies and cried, my vocal cords still sputtering her name. And then, just like that, as I whimpered...my eyes led my head to a row of bushes, where a little brown dog stood, having just emerged from them.

It was a very quiet moment. She looked shell-shocked. I felt the same. I slowly walked over to her. She was whole. She was standing. She was brown, not red, and had two ears and four legs and a middle body. My dog. Alive. In front of me; not miles down the road or on the side of the highway or in the otherworlds. She was right there for me to lean down and touch. And so I did. I noticed her head was bleeding, so I gently picked her up, unsure of bleeding that I possibly couldn't see.

A boy that had seen me running offered to act as an ambulence. You could see a touch of concern for the interior of his little black sportscar, as we climbed in. "I'll hold her on my lap," I said. We drove up Milwaukee to North Avenue and turned left. Bela was breathing, so we felt relieved enough to talk. He had gone to U of I like myself. His parents lived in the suburbs and he was living in the city now. He couldn't have been more than 22. I think his name was Kyle --- or Kevin -- or Ken. Something with a K. Something that intimated a quietude.

He let me out on the north side of North Avenue and I had to cross the street. There was no crosswalk. Normally crossing without a crosswalk would have me tuned into every bumper in the vicinity, but I just Took The Street. She had ALREADY been hit by a car. What was one of these stop-and-go vehicles going to do to us?

As I neared the front door to the vet's office, I remember thinking, 'Oh shit...I'm not going to be able to open the door. I have my dog here - in my arms - and she's a little big for the hoisting and I'm really worried about her organs right now and I can't risk dropping her by releasing one arm from under her body...so...what the HELLLLLL AM I GOING TO DO ONCE IT'S ME AND THAT DOOR HANDLE, facing off!???'

Well, I suppose my wild-eyes and hair and tear-streaked face and blood-stained jeans walking through a busy street may have called the attention of those inside. Because one vet technician ran to open the doors for me, as another stood behind her, waiting to transport my dog to the emergency room. I spurt out the only thing I knew at that time: "she. got. hit. by. a. car."

My legs shook under my seat. I wanted to call anyone - or everyone -- to make someone live through this with me, because doing it alone felt like too much. Then I looked up. The Boy K was coming through the doors. He came in to sit by me in a cold plastic chair, just to comfort me a minute longer.

Bela later left with some staples in her leg and some bandaging on her head, but besides that -- she was fine. She was going to heal and I needed to give them $800...but she was fine.

She dozed in and out of sleep all afternoon on her fainting couch. It was HOURS after finding her outside those bushes that I saw her actually see me. She woke up, looked over and then seemed to realize who I was and where she was. Her eyes got all fluttery and excited and she waited for me to bring my face to hers so she could lick it.

That's when I realized that even after I found her, she'd been gone. Her mind had heeded her ears when they heard me, but her body didn't know she'd made it until that moment. And it was that same moment, that I truly knew she was home as well. That it was over. I laid back on the couch to relish in watching her recover, and thanked God.

The Caring Game

I remember listening to a lecture in college where the professor outlined the basic human needs. I believe he mentioned only four. Shelter and food were the big ones; the other two have slipped my mind. They focused on the human being itself; nothing was mentioned about a need to care for [other objects].

There are times I muse as to whether this need affects us all, or only certain parties of the human race -- but then my eyes are pried open, so that they can see.

I was in the area known as 1/2 ghetto, 1/2 Gold Coast one afternoon when I spotted something of note. A woman of about 65. She appeared both elegant and deranged at the same time. She was in animal print. Taking up too much of the sidewalk. Wearing shades on a shady day. And when I thought I was passing her and a load of her grandchildren in a sporty stroller, I was really passing her and her 2 teacup chihuauhas. Tiny snouts were behind that soft, plexi-glass like substance used as a safety screen on strollers. She was toting them around. They were free from strain, traffic and possible rain. Kings on a lifted throne. This absurd image was her personal rendition of care.

She may have never had kids, or they may simply have flown the coop. She may have lost a husband -- or 3. The stroller told me these canines were her family. An extension of herself, and an outlet for her love. If there is one thing I have observed, it is that without the chance to care for some other thing, the esssence of being human dies.

And so I have come to life, in caring for Bela. I may not have the stroller (and believe me, she DOES NOT WANT IT) -- but I've bought more dog novelties than I thought I ever would. Each new purchase represents my eagerness to care for her needs. All of the absurd dog products cleverly tap into our need to take care. I'm not exactly sure how this dog-Gatorade is going to enhance her life, but it is my duty and joy to try for that...so....here's my $10 -- thank you for the opportunity to Add More.

We don't all go the same route in our care, for sure. We can choose inanimate objects or ones that breathe, but our paths run a parallel course. Desire, acquire, then obsess, acting as curator.

It would be easy to dismiss that Chihauhua-woman and call her crazed. But she's me. She's you. She's him with-his-fiftythousanddollar-car and her with-her-ornate-jewelry-collection. Our boundaries differ, but always fall just outside the lines we initally drew.

And last night, ((I dreamt)) I booked Bela on a cruise.

Spring Sweeps

Bela hit it kinda big this spring. She gained a part-time mother, known for short as a PTM. My dear friend Amber is living between two cities, and the days she's here, she sleeps on my couch. With her own dog a painstaking 800 miles away, she has adopted mine.

About 48 hours after her arrival, Amber asked if Bela knew how to spin. Well, she naturally does a little happy spin when I am putting her food down, but beyond that, no. Two days later, while I was out, I received a video on my phone. Bela spinning. Over and over and over again. On command.

One morning I awoke to find them both gone. It was 5:30 a.m. Still dark outside. I rose, noted that there was no dog in my bed and no girl on the couch -- and immediately figured that they'd been abducted. (Abduction implies alien, yes.) Where else could they be?; I racked my damn brain. Now, while the hour was early enough to call things into question, the answer was really quite obvious. They were on a walk. Amber took Bela on a walk. That's it. That's all, folks. No show to see here.

Dance parties are commonplace, and Bela's participation is required. We lift her Dirty Dancing-style, hold her paws, and have successfully manipulated her into 'backing that ass up'. She doesn't even seem that annoyed (anymore). She seems to understand that 'when they run into the kitchen and pull out a coffee mug to insert their Iphones (thereby creating a really shitty but awesome speaker), they're going to start gyrating and within minutes I will be hoisted into the air while being told that "all we all do is win win win no matter what"

We're a good group with an intrinsic joy. My Two Dads became My Two Mothers and it works just as well.

And oh, does B love her. The creature that hates to be confined by walls shortened a walk and ran up the stairs when I mentioned her name near our return. On an Amber-less evening, Bela entered the apartment giddy, ran immediately to the bedroom, found her not there, ran to the bathroom, then did a repeat of those same rooms just to make sure. Nowhere. She was no where. And so dejected, she sat. No spinning. Just the hollow silence of missing a momma.

Feline v. Fido

I nearly idolized the cat of my youth, Cricket. She was seriously SO cool. She was freaking clawless (not our doing) - and still ran through the woods like a jaguar. She'd return when she was ready. She would choose the windowsill instead of my bed, and I would sit there longing for her.

I am extremely attracted to independence, which is why the cat so appeals to me. The cat doesn't need you. Occasionally likes you, but doesn't need you. Doesn't need your input, your approval, to be who they are. The more a cat runs from room to room, the more I follow. I've missed entire parties, my time spent trying to trap a host's cat in a corner.

The cat seems more refined. Cleans itself. Keeps its excrement assigned to one area. And is a famously finicky eater. I used to say, 'My god, maybe I could looove a dog, but who could ever RESPECT a dog?!! They EAT POOP! They. eat. poop.  A cat would never eat poop. Wouldn't be caught dead. Wouldn't sink to that level. 

My dad said (disturbingly, not too long ago), "Women are too much like cats. They have a mind of their own." Yes. Strong minds, strong personalities. Which I found the dog to be lacking. But this was before I had a dog. And now I can see things I couldn't see before. For it is not a lack of a personality that a dog has, it is that they are so personable. Friendship is not just possible with a dog, but indisputable. They want to do everything with you. They want to please you. Good luck not becoming friends with a being that lives to make you happy.

Dog is no dumber than the cat. The dog's smarts are simply attuned to people. They have figured out how to work with us, in order to not be eradicated from evolution's outstretched hand. The poop-eating thing? Well....as hard as it is for me to say it, it's just plain smart. Animal instinct = get calories where calories are good for the getting.

I find dogpeople creepier than catpeople, in general. (Though some would vehemently argue the opposite of this). Dogpeople feel they are filling a hole in a dog's life. Hell- they are a dog's life. If you disappear, he likely prefers to die, as well. Will sit by the door you used to walk through in silent vigil, may refuse to eat. Your cat? Next available applicant, please. I like my food wet and my water tepid.

Dogs care so much. Bela is squeaking the shit out of a toy and she thinks I care. She's coming over here to show me because she thinks I care. Maybe that's the grandest difference in cats and dogs. Not only do cats not think you care, they don't care. It's awesome. You are held in high respect without being held to be anything. But there is a beauty in the easier acquisition of affection. The simplicity in garnering a dog's love. Feed them, walk them, let them near you on the couch. It feels good to have a magic equation. When pleasing others can be so tough, this one you've got in the can.

I like a dog who's a bit unruly. Because our ability to command them bothers me. It bothers me that an animal will listen to what I tell it to do.  No one likes a mindless order-taker. I want to be questioned, so that I can further question myself.

So then...it would seem that my preference lies in outliers. I like the cats who will act like I'm their bitch (but come round and love on me endlessly, every now and then) - and the dogs who will live up to their reputation, with an occasional wrestling of the wills.

Alterations we love to make in life. 'If I could just tweak this', we say. 'If I could just change that.'

With animals, we can't. We can do our damndest, but the results are out of our hands. So we attempt to love them as they are. Which is the greatest battle of all.

Turn, Turn, Turn

To everything, there is a season.

The summer gave us sun, sweat and saliva.

The fall, a heavenly breeze.

And the one in which we're currently knee-deep? The one so many fear, lament and loathe?

Well, winter brings the joy of the snow romp. The frisk from the brisk.

Dogs in snow. It is a FABULOUS thing. Their bodies bounce in the fluff. Bela buries balls, just to snowplow them out. Snow angels are made. And when it's just a walk we're taking, the quiet white surrounds us, and offers a background like no other.

The seasons give me so much. They give me chapters and bookmarks, certainty of change, neverending new beginnings.

I am so grateful for them. For their constant coming and going. For the chance to see the impermanence of things and to appreciate it.

It's a lesson, not just an occurence.
It's a gift; not a disturbance.

If This Dog Could Talk

Last night, I asked Béla if she had a bobby pin.

This morning, I told her to 'Take care' as I walked out the door for work.

A friend recently asked if I talk to Béla while I'm walking her. "What do you mean?", I responded. At first, I didn't know to what she was referring...like, of course I tell her to move it along, give it up, leave it, and so on, but...besides that?

Later I realized the extent of my one-way verbal communication. I excuse myself when I burp and she's the only one around to hear it. I commiserate over the general state of society. I occasionally ask for outfit critique. Being sick recently clued to me into how very much I talk to her. I literally begged her to make me a cup of tea and pass me a cough drop. Nothing.

I don't stop with requests or lamentations. I like to fill the space with my voice....and so....I spoke to her in FAKE FRENCH (and by this I don't mean with a Pepe Le Pew-like 'French' accent -- I mean I spoke in non-English words that had no meaning behind them)  for about 4 minutes straight one night. She had her head cocked in a nearly 90-degree angle the entire time.

While I do not speak French, I do speak Italian. And so it has come to be that Bela does a little bit, too. She knows the basic commands in Italian as thoroughly as she does in English. "Come here" isn't so much the sound of the words as it is the command in my voice. I could say any combination of syllables; if she's found a piece of meat on the street, she's not coming. Period. That said - I do like to think of her as bilingual. To imagine ourselves in Florence someday, and how effortlessly she'll blend with the locals.

While on some level, I think it's healthy - for her, for me -- hell, she's more alive than a plant!, and we're supposed to talk to them!...I do wonder what this discourse has done to my brain. I think I may think that she's more a capable person than a...you know.....a...a...(I just don't want to say it. ok?....) Because: I actually had the thought one day while my family was in town, 'Maybe Bela could babysit Olivia while Kori and I go to the gym.' I did manage to catch myself before I PRESENTED MY SISTER WITH THE THOUGHT THAT MY DOG COULD BABYSIT HER DAUGHTER. But let's just say I'm a little uncomfortable with how long it took me to reach the conclusion that this was not an appropriate course of action.

And so it seems talking to her both keeps me sane and lends itself to insanity. I'll continue to tread that fine line.

Wild Ones

I was nuzzling Bela's face recently, just cooing...when I realized a rather large part of the reason nuzzling her means so much to me. Because: it shouldn't be.

A canine...curled up in my bed, looking more like a teddy bear than a beast...that allows me total control?

Yes; it means so much to me because it shouldn't be.

Avid animal lovers often acquire many types of animals in their home, though there are limitations on what we can own. Bela is your run-of-the-mill pet, 1 of the 2 most commonly cared for.
I have often pondered what it would be like to own a ferret, a monkey, a sugarglider. Things that don't seem to belong in a home. Things that seem like a bit more of a challenge. Let's take the big cats, for instance. I'd MUCH rather own a lion than a dog. Why? Because it shouldn't be.

There is certain appeal in loving something you shouldn't. My God -- it's the stuff on which books are written, and lives torn apart. It's the reason for potions and poems, polygamy and prison.

We love to tame the wild. We love to fight rationale, and forge ahead, emotions running deep, into the abyss of the uknown. It is an escapade, a ride - we're guaranteed more.

What feels better than something/or someone loving you against all odds?? Nothing. You are the exception to the rule, the straw that broke the camel's back.

The dog, though now known as 'man's best friend', certainly didn't start out that way. I occasionally feel overwhelming sympathy for them. We domesticated them, pushed their natural instincts down and demanded they be our butlers -- and bouncers.

They don't complain, instead, give back exactly what we commanded. Love unabridged. Loyalty unending.

A pitbull and its owner passed me by today. The pit was glaringly strong, muscles rippled underneath taut, taupe skin. It wasn't walking so much as kicking, one leg at a time. Pulling it's owner from the lead, desperately trying to get somewhere. Where? Sad was the leash that ran behind it, and the muzzle on its face. What was this animal meant for? It resembled a circus act more than a sidewalk convention. It pained me. 

When I got home, I did kiss Bela on the head and sing her a little song, but I also made a concerted effort the rest of the evening to allow her her space. To let her jump on me. To give her the raw meat dinner without adding flax seed oil. To try not to quelch every last ounce of [wild]life           she has in her.