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.