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.