Puppy Hater

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Turkey Required

Bela, so hound-ly

sleeps, so soundly

her quiet the call of cease fire.

The peace of the year

churned itself into cheer

and spills over, out from my heart.

Contentment came slowly,

as I became homely

the cup appeared rather full.

Thus, in gratitude's name,

to the day, says this dame,

I thank Thanksgiving itself for what it gave me.

The Culinary Adventures of Miss Bela Green

She's had tofu.

Meringues.

Curried tuna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Letter to B

I'm sorry for any time you feel alone.

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

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

I'm sorry for making you live indoors.

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

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

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

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

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

I'm so happy you trust me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

B -- I don't believe them.

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

I get it. I get it. I get it.

I finally get L O V E.

The Sweet Songs of Bela G.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"WOW", he said.

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

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

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