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. :)
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Sunday, July 7, 2013
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
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....
.JPG)
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."
.JPG)
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."
Monday, May 27, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
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.
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.
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