Coming home to roost

I have a lot to learn about chickens. And dogs. And not mixing chickens and dogs.

The boys and I brought home our first two chickens yesterday. We drove out to Pittsboro to Hickory Chickery and purchased two Buff Orpington pullets. They are about four months old, but aren't laying yet. However, they are both most definitely hens, and that's what I wanted to start with since we can't have roosters in the city limits. And I don't want roosters. Even though they are gorgeous.

I digress.

Even with trying to keep the chicken cost down as much as possible, I still ended up buying a little carrier to bring them home. I was going to just use a box or a laundry basket, but since we are going to get some chicks in a month or so, I went ahead and bought a small crate.

I think they were pretty cozy.

Meet Mrs. Weasly and Professor McGonagall

Let me stop here and say, I have the nicest dogs. Two of them are bird dogs, granted, but they are old and incredibly sweet. The third is little and a feisty when it comes to squirrels, so I was planning on keeping a good eye on her. But the others? They are such nice dogs.

Nice dogs eat chickens too.

I brought the chickens through the house and let Gibby, the Lab, and Macy, the little dog, sniff and say hello. They wagged their tails and completely fooled me into thinking that they happy to have new friends.

We ventured out into the backyard, and I let the girls out, sending Gibby into some kind of primal hunting dog frenzy. Poor Mrs. Weasly became the target, and Gibby was going to have chicken for dinner. 

Macy Moo and I joined in the chase, Macy just to have fun, and me, screaming, "NO! GIBBY! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I caught up to him just as he got a half a mouthful of feathers. Nearly tackling him, I grabbed his collar and started dragging him to the backdoor, yelling to Christopher to go get Macy Moo away from poor Mrs. Weasly.

On the deck, Macy had chased Mrs. Weasly into a corner, and Gibby had slipped out of his collar right at the back door. I managed to scoop Macy up with one hand and tuck her under my arm. Then, with my knees and my body, I corralled Gibby inside while issuing the dreaded, "Bad Boy. Bad Boy, Gibby."

I gently picked up Mrs. Weasly from the corner of the deck, where she was willing herself to be way smaller so she could fit through the railings. We sat down together, and I checked her for any wounds (there were none) while I sang her one of my boys' lullabies. 

Then, we went to the back corner of the yard where Professor McGonagall had her head shoved through the chain link fence, simultaneously delighted that she wasn't being chased by a 100 pound dog and horrified that she had been brought to such a savage new home. 

She's still kind of pissed at me.

Other than that, they are settling in nicely. We will have to split backyard time instead of having the Utopian dog and chicken playground that I made up in my ridiculous head. But that's alright. I finally have my chickens, and I already love them.

Because, let's face it, I'm more than a little bit crazy.

Mrs. Weasly after a soothing lullaby.

Professor McGonagall snuggling in right on top.

Two months

I can't do this.

Every time I come to write, it's because I can't do the happy anymore. Then, when I get a chance to write, I can't stop thinking about the people whose feelings are hurt because I miss Susan so much. As if that makes them less important to me. It's stifling me.

I can't do it. I can't not write about it. I can't carry it with me. I can't hold it in and keep acting like it's alright now.

Yesterday, we were at a birthday party and someone that I've met several times before but don't really know (yet) said, "I'm sorry about your friend." She knew the news because she read Susan's blog.

I was so happy to have Susan come up in a conversation. It felt amazing to run into someone who was thinking about her too.

I think that's why I still go to Twitter and do a search on @whymommy. I still stop by her blog and see if there are new comments. I still check the Whymommy Love Fest page on Facebook. It helps to know that people still think about her. Because I still think about her everyday. Time after time everyday.

***************************************************************
The house is almost finished. About a week after Susan's service, we started a major remodel on our house. Walls came out, and steel beams went in the ceiling. Floors came up, and new ones went down. There was so much painting. I thought the painter was going to just go all Murphy Brown on us.

The painter commented one day about how often Colin says, "Why?" Because, believe me, it is often. He then commented that I always seemed to have an answer for him. I don't, but I certainly try.

"Why, Mommy?"

That's where Susan got her handle. She loved loved loved that her children asked, "Why?" and she strove to always outlast them. She wanted them to be completely done with the chain of "Why" without her ever having to say, "Because I said so."

I try to live up to that. I fail. A lot. But I try.

**************************************************************
We have a new dog. Every time there is loss in my life, I tend to prowl around Petfinder, looking for the perfect pup to fill the hole in my heart. Yes, I know. It won't work. But dogs were just another thing that Susan and I had in common. We both love dogs and have been foster homes to English Setters and Beagles, and have adopted needy pups into our homes to become loving members of our families.

However, I really have been wanting a small dog, and the boys have too. They need to learn that not every dog is a 100 pound docile Labrador who will let them poke, push, ride, and sit on him. They need to learn to be gentle with animals, and Christopher really wants a dog that will sleep with him.

I found a tri-colored Dachshund through a rescue group in Wake Forest called A New Leash on Life (who were fabulous, by the way). After a couple of weeks, Kevin finally agreed to let me submit an application to adopt him. The only problem was that he turned out to not be good with small children, only older ones. So, they suggested Macy.

"She's a wonderful dog. A Chihuahua mix."

Um, no thank you. No Chihuahuas for me, please. But, I knew not to just turn her down flat, so I went to the website to check out Macy.

It's like my Chelsea come back in Dachshund form. I don't think there's a lick of Chihuahua in her - I think she is American Eskimo and Dachshund. It doesn't matter though. Just check out these babies.

First is Chelsea:

And here is little Macy Moo:

Not identical, but enough alike that it's really eerie.

She's fitting in very nicely. She and Gibby like to chase the squirrels together. She likes to sleep in the bed, but with me and Kevin and not Christopher (yet). She is a big cuddle pup, and it's doing wonders for my heart right now.

Between all the blogging, life still goes on

I love how Colin is giving turn signals in the cart.


While blogging my way through the 30 Days of Truth, I find myself having little time left to write about my actual life. My love life. My life loves.

Colin has teeth. Lots of teeth. He likes to bite me and laugh when I wince. It's not one of his more endearing qualities, except that when he laughs, the sky opens up and jellybeans fall down while choirs of bunnies sing scat songs. In other words, his laugh is awesome. Wicked funny, and a little bit weird. Kind of throaty. Heh heh like.

He's moving. Crawling. Trying his best to pull up, but the girth on that boy has him firmly rooted to the ground. I can't say that I'm all that sorry about that. He's already making straight shots to whatever he shouldn't have. Electrical cords. Dog bowls. Trash cans. Toilet brushes. Shoes. And all of it, everything he touches, goes right into the mouth. Nasty.

That boy loves his family. For a little bit, it was just, "that boy loves his mama." Now? He claps when Kevin walks in the door. He crawls around after Christopher like a little puppy. And Mallory is the only other person beside Mama and Daddy that Colin ever reaches out for. He started this special head bobbing thing just for her at the dinner table. She smiles at him, and then he cocks his head over to the side and "heh heh's" at her while looking so stinking adorable that you want to sell him on Etsy.

Christopher is about to grow again. Rather, is growing already. His pants are getting shorter and I'm letting the adjustable waists out weekly. He finally out grew his sneakers. We bought new ones three months ago because I was sure he was about to out grow his, but he didn't. He just plateaued right where he was for awhile. Now it's game on. Boyfriend is going to sprout, I'm afraid. Just please don't out grow your winter clothes, Bird. I can't afford to buy you new ones, and I like the ones you have already.

The main battle with Christopher right now is the dinner table. He just won't eat what I cook for dinner. I feel like I've tried everything, and what I really want to settle into is that it's not a battle. Just let go, Mama. But some nights I get so frustrated that he isn't going to eat anything again, and I know he will wake up in the morning and eat a huge breakfast, and I lose it. I mean what kid doesn't like sweet potatoes? He used to love them. He used to love lots of things. Which makes me think that it's not about taste at all. That it's either about power or it's about texture. I'm leaning more towards power. Whatever it is, I know it's a phase. Deep breath, and this too will pass.

The big news is that we got a new fence across the front of the backyard today. It's not pretty, but at least the dogs won't get out now. I swear that Setter wants a new family something awful. Our leather sofa just isn't good enough for her anymore. I can't say that I blame her really. I shave her myself now instead of letting her show coat grow out and get groomed. It is so beneath her.

There is more. A baptism has finally happened. My parents have been here. My brother even. But that is a post for another day. I'm still savoring the visit for myself.

Hump day, dump day

This was first thing this morning. The City of Raleigh said on our last bill, which was e-freaking-normous, that we were using 625 gallons of water a day. No way.

Kevin checked the meter while all the water was shut off in the house, and it wasn't spinning. There were no signs of water in our front yard. We assumed our meter was whacked and asked them to come check it.

They declared our meter to be working fine and then slapped us with a "leak notice" that came with 48 hours to fix it. Today, in the cold and rain, Kevin and Mr. Rob rented a backhoe and went at it. They replaced the main water line to the house, so there is no more leak. However, in the meantime, they also cut right through the AT&T trunk line for the street.

The "no cuts" people didn't mark that one. Oops.

Our yard, which had such lovely lovely grass, is now a mudhole. Our DIY plumbers are finished and the AT&T crew are finished. We have phone, internet, and water again. It's a trade off for the grass, but what are you going to do?

But wait, there's more.

Here's how happy Little Bird was all day. If it weren't for his big sister being here to play with him, this look would have permanently frozen on his face. His teeth are torturing him. He has top molars that have been coming in for MONTHS. Now, his bottom canines have stalled out in a position where they are close enough to be able to be seen right below the gum, but the gum hasn't broken yet. Add on some awful seasonal allergies that he inherited from both his daddy and his mama, and you have one miserable little boy this week.

Mama ain't happy either.

To top the whole day off, it turns out that the SPCA here is not a no-kill shelter after all. I talked the the adoption center today because a sweet old chihuahua has taken up residence in our kitchen, but he can't stay. If we can't find his family, we are going to have to take him somewhere.

Back to the SPCA though. The adoption center told me that they were no-kill, but that I would have to take the little guy to the lost and found pet center where he might get cleared to go to the adoption center. I feel really deceived, but perhaps I had just been misunderstanding all along. Either way, I can't take him there. He is so old; he will never get cleared for the adoption center.

Poor little dude. He's sleeping soundly on Kevin's lap right now. He can't stay here though. Bird has already tried to sit on him and pet him WAY too enthusiastically. Plus, Aja and Gibson are about 100 times bigger than him and are not excited about the possibility of a new pack member. Plus, plus, the little chihuahua has been growling at the big dogs as though he could take them on at the same time, when in reality, Gibson could eat him in one bite. We are not a good home for this little guy.

Besides, he has a home. It's pretty obvious. He wants to be with people. His fur is evident of long time collar wear. He doesn't stink. He isn't thin. And I don't know how to describe it, but you can tell that he really really wants to go home. It's breaking my heart.

Tomorrow doesn't have to be much better to beat out today. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

Best friends

After my oldest dog, Chelsea, died in December, Bird seemed to lose interest in dogs for awhile. The other dogs are so much bigger than Chelsea was, and with Bird just learning to walk, he was leary of them.

I can't say that I blame him. Gibson and his big chocolate lab tail can still knock him down with one exuberant wag.

This summer, he has become inseparable from the two big dummies, as we affectionately call them. "Dog" is constantly coming out of his mouth.

He hears them in the backyard, barking, and he runs to the door to help let them in.

He likes to help feed them by carrying their bowls to the utility room where we keep their food.

He also like to help them eat by squatting next to their bowls and putting the little pieces of kibble that they drop back into the bowl for them.

This week, Bird learned how to give them cookies. Now, he will go into the kitchen and put both arms up towards the cookie jar and say "dogdogdogdogdog" until I get two dog biscuits for him to share with his best friends.

I think I love it best when he sits with them on the dog beds. Just one of the pups.

I think the Setter loves him too.

Snowed in. Figuratively.

The posts lie unfinished in draft form. That is so not like me. I just can't seem to finish anything I start online lately. I owe someone a review, but it's going to be a bad review, so I can't get motivated to write it. I have posts about new mamas, posts about nursing, posts about reading, all in the hopper - unfinished.

Since I never got around to posting pictures of our snow day in January (at least, not that I can remember), I'm going to brighten this page with a few shots from today. Little Bird is a Snow Bird. He loves it. Poor old Gibson - it just made him nervous. He kept trying to nose Bird up out of the snow and clean off his little hands for him. That dog worries way too much about the baby.

Poop from Beyond

I can't believe 2009 is here. It's the first year I finally feel grounded in a long time. Little Bird is here. Kevin has a job that he loves. Mallory is safely navigating her way through middle school. It feels like I finally might be able to move forward on some of my own goals that have been on the back burner. Songs. CD's. Music that has been playing in my head for only me.

That made me sound a little crazy. Which is probably pretty accurate.

We picked up the two big dummies from the kennel today. Aja, the English Setter, was aloof as usual. She had been given a bath today and was much more interested in being admired than she was showing us any hint that she had missed us.

Gibson, on the other hand, was a bouncing 90 pound bundle of nervous joy. Kevin said that when they removed his collar at the kennel last week, Gibson leaned into his leg and looked up as if to ask, "What did I do? I promise to be good." It was just a little over a year ago that we adopted him from the Wilson County Animal Shelter. A big beautiful Chocolate Lab, just sitting in a cage with no family. I might have been 36 weeks pregnant, but I didn't even consider saying "no" when Kevin suggested that Gibson come home with us.

The Setter has been Mallory's dog since the day they met. She loves that little girl. Or, perhaps she loves the little girl's bed. Either way, when Mallory comes home to us, the Setter actually gets off the couch to greet her. That's way more than me or Kevin ever get from her.

Gibson is Kevin's dog, although I'm working on staking a claim now too. For the first couple of months he lived with us, he would lay at the front door and whine when Kevin would leave for work. He has some pretty severe separation anxiety issues that we have finally worked through, but I still called the kennel multiple times to check on him while we were gone.

Chelsea, my sweet girl, was of course my dog. For 14 years, she and I were completely inseparable. This Christmas, there were so many times when I looked for her. I couldn't be in the kitchen without looking down to see if Chelsea just "cleaned the floor" for me. The stocking for the pups was missing the annual pink spikey football toy that I always found for Chelsea. It was all just a little sad for me.

Today, we were taking down the tree in the dining room. If just for a moment, my Chelsea was right back with me. For in the corner of the dining room, behind the tree, where only Chelsea could have squeezed, was a little pile of dried up dog poop.

I wasn't sure if I should be completely grossed out or so very sad that I would never clean up after Chelsea ever again. So I cried as I picked up the pile of shit.

That's my girl. Sending little gifts from beyond, just to let me know she's alright. Or, I suppose you could just look at it as a pile of petrified poo. Poo from across the Rainbow Bridge.

Someone is going to think this is funny with me. At least one person. I hope.

Little stitches

Kevin is very understanding of my "online friends." He doesn't give me any crap about going to BlogHer. He doesn't bat an eye when I run off to the Post Office to send a package to a NMD friend. When I quote Girl eighteen times in one day, he doesn't let out a single sigh. He knows they have supported me and carried me through some of my darkest times.

Last Saturday, the doorbell rang. We were in the bedroom getting dressed. I am pretty sure I was crying. I did a lot of that last weekend.

Kevin came back upstairs with a box from ProFlowers. I have to be honest; I assumed it was from my parents, but it wasn't.

The card read, "I'm sorry for your loss," and it was from my friend Amy. My online friend, Amy. A woman who I haven't even been so lucky to sit down with in person managed to wrap her arms around me from miles and miles away and put the first stitch in my broken heart. Amazing.

This is what they look like today. Everyday this week, this is what I see when I leave the house. I put them by the front door on purpose. It used to be that the last thing I would see when I left the house was Chelsea. She would follow me to the front door and look up at me as I said, every time, "I'll be back soon. Be a sweet girl." Every time. Until the past couple of months, when she stopped getting up to follow me to the door.

Nonetheless, the last thing I saw leaving the house were these flowers. Reminding me that I'm a lucky woman to have friends like Amy.

Little stitches in a broken heart. I bet she has no idea how much she helped, but Kevin and I do. Now you do too.

Complete lack of human compassion

Chelsea and I were at peace with each other when she left this past Friday. Although I miss her more than you possibly want to hear about, I know that it was time for her to go, and it was my responsibility to help her leave this life. I promised to be her guardian and caretaker, and I was for 14 years. All the way up to the very end.

There was a part of the story I didn't tell on Friday. I didn't want to mar saying goodbye to my pup anymore than had been done for me that day. The experience we had at the vet was unbelievable, and I wavered on whether to share it at all. However, if anyone is searching for this vet online, I think it is important that they hear how we were treated.

Quail Corners Animal Hospital, where I had trusted the care of my dogs for close to eight years now, will no longer be our vet. There was a girl who was supposed to be scheduling it to be done at home for us. Two days went by without her calling me back, only to find out that the vet who was supposed to do it had gone into labor. While I certainly understood that labor and birth took priority, I didn't understand why I hadn't been extended the courtesy of a phone call to give me this information. Instead I had to keep calling back, trying to find out what time I would say goodbye to my pup. I needed to find someone to watch Bird and really wanted Kevin to be off work to be with us. I needed to prepare myself mentally and emotionally.

After two days of not letting me know anything except how little she knew, I finally told her that I would just bring Chelsea in to have it done. She told me the vets who were available, and after I chose one, she asked me if I wanted morning or afternoon. I told her afternoon. She offered me 1:30, and I said that would be fine. I repeated back the time to her, and she said yes 1:30 was the time.

I called Kevin and let him know. Then I called Boo who had offered to be with me, and I asked her to watch Little Bird. I set the whole thing up for 1:30. I did not get the time wrong of the death of my dog.

When we arrived at the vet, we were told by the front desk that our appointment wasn't until 4:30. The woman at the front told us there was nothing she could do to change it.

Seriously?

I'm sitting there in the waiting room, bawling already. Chelsea is just standing there because she can't lay down without just falling over anymore. Kevin is standing with his mouth agape. It was all I could do to get there once. There was no way I could go home and bring her back again.

Seriously? Nothing she could do?

I told her through my tears that she didn't need to change anything; that our appointment was at 1:30, and we were there at the right time. I wasn't going to even entertain this discussion.

She just repeated herself.

I start sobbing. I can't help it. I tell her that I had been working with Rachel for three days to get this taken care of, and that I had been extremely patient with her. I told her that our appointment was at 1:30.

She went to get Rachel.

We have to believe that something else was going on in the office because Rachel approached us swinging. She came out and immediately told me we were wrong. I was wrong. Our appointment was at 4:30 and that she had confirmed it on the phone with me for 4:00. Um, okay. I'm not sure how that made any sense, but whatever.

I have to admit. I lost it. I actually yelled. In public. At that girl. I yelled at her and told her she was incompetent. I yelled at her and told her that she was completely unable to engage another adult in an intelligent conversation that resulted in effective communication. I yelled at her and told her to quit talking to me and just get me all of my dogs' records so I could get out of there and never have to see her again.

The whole time, she was yelling back at me, telling me that I was wrong. Telling me that the circumstances were out of her control. I'm not sure what circumstances kept her from inputting the correct time of my appointment into the computer, but whatever.

Kevin stepped in between us and told us both to stop. He looked at Rachel and asked her what she was going to do to fix this. She said that she couldn't do anything right then, that we could be worked in at 2:30.

I told her to get our records and she yelled over Kevin's shoulder that she would be glad to do that and then stormed out of the little office cubby.

After she was gone, another office worker came out into the waiting room and leaned over to me. She said that there was a vet who could help us then. Kevin took my arm and nodded at me to get up and go back. He knew that this was the one chance we had at my strength. It was sapped, and if we took Chelsea back home again, I would never let her go.

There were mumbled apologies at the "mix-up." I ignored them. There was no "mix-up." It was a major mistake on their part.

The thing is, even if I had gotten the time wrong, which I didn't, they should have ignored it. Obviously, I wasn't in some sort of hurry that I deceptively came in with my dog and tried to get them to put her to sleep 3 hours before my scheduled time. That's freaking absurd.

Any ounce of compassion would have caused the very first woman in the office to ignore the discrepancy between the time we arrived and the time that Rachel the genius entered in the computer. She would have quietly slipped into the back and found the vet who helped us in the end, and made everything work out without subjecting us to the drama that their incompetency created.

This isn't a rant, it is simply what happened that day. In the event that someone Googles this vet, it is the chance for them to see how they might be treated if they choose to go there.

It was hard enough to make the decision. It was hard enough to get in the car with my pup. It was hard enough to get out of the car and take her inside for the very last time. To say goodbye.

I will never understand how they could possibly treat someone in so much obvious pain as badly as they treated me.

Long goodbye

It's done. Chelsea left us today around 2:00 PM. She died with her head in my hands, and me telling her how much I loved her.

I have spent the day swinging wildly between knowing I was doing the right thing and doubting that I could ever have the wisdom to end her life.

One bite of yogurt spooned into Little Bird's mouth, and I'm smiling at Kevin, telling him that I'm relieved that my sweet pup isn't in pain anymore. By the time I'm catching what Bird spit out on the spoon, I'm sobbing that she didn't want to leave me and I miss her so much.

I'm basically a wreck.

The thing is, logically I know it was right. They gave her a little Valium before the big drugs, and she was finally able to bend her back legs and lie down again. Finally, she lay with her head in my lap again; something she hadn't done for over a year.

Only after the Valium, I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. I wanted to say, "Thanks! That was just what she needed!" and run away with her.

But it was time.

The front office at vet handled it horribly, but I need to think about how to write about it before I put it out there. I knew that it was going to be hard to do, but the incompetence of the office workers made it so much harder, I don't even know what to think tonight.

For tonight, I'm just going to stay in the place where I miss her, I love her, and I pray that I did the best thing for her. It's tenuous enough to stay in the confidence that I did right by her.

Fourteen years, my best girl. My most consistent companion through all of the biggest changes in my life.

I love you, Chels.

Not quite yet

It's almost time.

Chelsea, otherwise known as "Pupstar" here, is 14. She has kidney failure. Her back legs frequently give out on her, as does her bladder - whenever and where ever. She has sores that won't heal, and is on antibiotics for a tooth abscess.

In fact, she is on five medications at every meal and eats prescription dog food. The money spent on my dog would be embarrassing compared to what some families can spend on a child each month.

But she has been my constant companion for 14 years.

Ashley found her for me. A girl we were in school with found this tiny white puppy wandering along the side of the road. Ashley went to see it before they took it to the pound, and called me when she got there.
"Bird, you have got to come see this pup."

"I can't do that. If I come over and see the pup, you know it's coming home with us."

"Bird, you have got to come see this pup."

Chelsea came back to the apartment with us and proceeded to terrorize Ashley's cats, Tess and Todd; pee on her notes, biology; and basically win the hearts of everyone who met her. Except possibly Farrar, whose eggnog she simply wouldn't give up drinking.

Fourteen years later, Chelsea is still with me. We've moved five times. We've lived with six different people. We've had five different dogs join our family, and countless fosters come and go. We've been married and divorced and married again. She's tolerated Little Bird taking her place as the baby, but not without climbing into the Moses basket for a nap more than once.

But she is worse now. Even with the Pepcid, she is vomiting again. She isn't as excited about dinner time as she once was. I often have to lift her up the two steps in from the backyard. She lays at my feet, but doesn't stir when I get up.

It's almost time.

But it's not time.

I told her this morning, whispered in her ear, that she could go now. That I loved her and that she was a good dog. I looked into her eyes and kissed her little snoot. Of course, she's deaf, and a dog, so I don't know what good that did, but it made me feel a little better.

I'm hoping she goes in her sleep. I don't want to make that call to the vet. I will if I have too, but I just don't want to.

She is the best dog ever.















Chelsea with her Christmas elf moments before gutting it.

Pups 3

Yesterday, we took our dogs to the off leash dog park by our house.

Chelsea, otherwise known as Pupstar, is my old lady. She tottered around behind us, looking for shade, taking a drink from every bucket, and hoping that someone forgot to clean up a pile of delicious poo.

Gibson, our chocolate lab, ran his fool head off for about five minutes. He was chasing a ball that Kevin threw when another dog ran after him and nipped at his heels. Without a struggle, Gibson turned and ran back to us sans ball. It just wasn't worth the struggle. There will be more balls, and he knows it. Within 10 minutes, he too was close to us, seeking shade and laying in the cool mulch.

Aja, the Setter Princess, was in rare form. She roamed the park, going from person to person like she was interviewing applicants for a new family. She would approach a possible sucker, let them pet her head and then sit down like a statue right next to their chair. If they didn't continue petting her or proclaiming her beauty, she would move on quickly to the next person. Much to her shagrin, she had to return home with her current family who has stopped appreciating the fine art that is the Setter. At least she still has her leather sofa.

What a trio.

We're thinking about letting the Setter convey with the house if she doesn't get her act together.

You could call me gullible

I trust people. Sometimes that is one of my good traits. Sometimes it is one of my downfalls.

Yesterday I had a face to face with the boy who was supposed to take care of my dogs last weekend. I explained to him how I didn't understand how he could have been in the house and not smelled anything. I explained to him how if the dogs were being fed then there should have been no food left in their containers - that was why I left instructions how to pick up more just in case he needed it.

I told him how the floors could be replaced, but that my heart was broken thinking about how hungry and neglected my dogs were last weekend. I told him how disappointed I was that he had let me down.

At that point, I thought that he was going to cry. He looked straight at me, never glanced away, and said with very watery eyes, that he promised he had fed them and played with them. He promised that they got let out and got their medicines. He said he was really sorry about the floors. Very very sorry.

I believe him. Guy doesn't.

It doesn't mean I'm not still upset about the mess, and it doesn't mean that I don't still have some doubts. But I have always trusted him. It feels completely unnatural not to at this point.

Besides, I think that the only way to make him want to be honest with me is to believe what he says. If I don't, then why would he bother telling me the truth? I think you get back from people what you expect of them most of the time.

I hope from now on, he understands that I expect much more from him than he gave this time.

Not that he'll be watching my dogs again. . .

Stupid rotten weekend end

Mastitis is mean.

Now that Bird and I are finally nursing like a team, we've switched our nighttime feedings to the side lying position. I was getting more sleep at night, he was enjoying sleeping right up next to me, and all seemed to be good.

Unfortunately, the side lying position leaves me with clogged ducts by the morning. Twice now, these clogged ducts have developed into mastitis before I can get them unclogged.

It hurts. I get a fever. It feels like the flu, and it feels like someone kicked me in the boob really hard. I don't like it.

That was the first half of the weekend. The second half of the weekend consisted of Guy getting a ticket in my Jeep because I totally forgot to renew the registration. It was due in January. I was a little preoccupied and never got around to it. It couldn't be me that got the ticket though, it had to be him. Fair.

Topping it all off? I got one of my high school students to come take care of the dogs while we were away a few nights. I was paying him to come over four times a day. He was to let them out, feed them, play with them, and clean up any messes that poor old Pupstar might have made. She's older and has a bladder issue. It's mostly controlled with medication, but she still has the occasional accident.

I don't know what he did, but it wasn't what we agreed on. We came home to a total disaster. The dining room floors are ruined because dog pee soaked into them. There were days of dog mess all over the floors. We could tell by how much food was left that he hadn't been feeding them. How we knew he had been there at all was because the door to the music studio was open when we had left it closed, thereby allowing the dogs to pee and poop in that room as well.

When I called him, he said that he had been here that morning and there was no mess.

I don't know what to do about that. He isn't being honest. I've taught him for almost 10 years, and I love him dearly, and now he isn't being honest with me. There were days of mess in the house. Days.

It's so very disappointing.

And Guy's floor? Ruined.

I will have to talk to the boy more about this. I haven't paid him yet, and I'm waiting for him to tell me how many times he came over until I do. I think I'm going to pay him based on his word even though I'm pretty sure he is going to lie to me again.

I expected so much more from him. I've always gotten so much more from him. It could just be a stupid teenager mistake.

But Guy's floors. And my poor dogs who missed I don't know how many meals, missed their medication, and were relegated to pee and poop where they knew they shouldn't. They tried. It was all up next to the back wall of the house - as close to the backyard as they could get without being able to be there.

So disappointing.

In a way, I'm really glad this weekend is over. Another post is due about the wonderful parts of the weekend. There were many wonderful parts. But tonight is just for the whining.

Everyone is ready

Pupstar is just as ready for Bird to go ahead and come as I am.

She's been hanging in the nursery today.

Maybe it's a sign.

Haiku holiday

I was a bad girl and skipped haiku-ing over the holidays. You all kept up so well, and I enjoyed reading them. Now, I will join you again.


******
Gibson, you poor boy
We are always coming back
You are safe at home.

Rescue Remedy
Isn't really helping you
Separation angst.

Gibson, you sweet boy
You're in your forever home
I wish you knew that.

********

Poor big love. Gibson has severe separation anxiety. He has to stay in his crate when we are gone. We can't trust him in the house, and supposedly, he is "crate trained." We don't know what the foster family thought that meant.

But when we leave him, he panics. Shelter nightmares? Fear of family leaving him forever? I don't know, but I wish we could make it go away.

We are trying. Safe word to put him in the crate. Leave for only 10 minutes. Come back and let him out only if he's quiet. Don't make a big deal out of leaving or returning. But in the meantime, we still have to leave him sometimes. Guy has to work. I have errands to run. And poor Gibson doesn't think we are ever coming back.

********

For more Haiku, go follow this link. For a haiku that will make you cry, go visit Labugga. She wrote a very special haiku for me today.

For me and Bird.

Because today, we are at term.

Thank you, LA.

Letters to the world

Dear woman in the Camry,

I'm sorry that you had a hard time making up your mind whether or not you were going through the light. As you stopped and started and stopped and started again, you will be pleased to know that you made it through the legally yellow light. Unfortunately, the rest of us did not. And I had to sit there for another five minutes. I hope you had to park way far away from where you were going and have corns on your feet.

~canape


Dear Postal customers,

Wrap your own damn packages and be ready to send them when you get to the counter. It's December 20, people. It doesn't matter how you send it. It's not getting there in time. Plan ahead next year.

~canape


Dear Gibson,

You are a sweet dog and I already love you. When you jump into the passenger seat from the back it frightens me. It is also very annoying to have you riding there because you weigh more than enough to set off the seatbelt sensors. The constant dinging was driving me crazy.

And you drool a lot.

~your momma


Dear Vet that I loved so much,

I'm totally pissed at you for retiring yesterday and not telling anyone. When I called to make an appointment this morning, I never expected to be told that I should have come yesterday since now you are gone.

Just because you didn't want a big hoopla doesn't mean you shouldn't have told your clients that you were leaving. That's just wrong.

~unhappy canape


Dear nice people at Lovely's band concert,

Thank you so much for offering me your seats. It was refreshing to have multiple people want to give up their seat for the pregnant woman.

I hope you didn't find me ungrateful for not taking it. Quite frankly, Bird fits better and is happier when I'm standing up. Sitting down cramps the little dude's style.

You were all so kind though.

~tall preggo on the wall


Dear numbers of random stores,

Mason jars are not a seasonal item. I need them now. I needed them days ago. There are other things that need canning besides jelly and jam. Damn.

~mustard making canape


Dear friends of all the people that used to live here,

I am tired of getting more Christmas cards for the Smith family than we do for our own family. I am now throwing them away instead of writing "return to sender" on them. If you really know them well enough to send a card, you should also know that they moved over 2 years ago. That goes double for you, Aunt Mary. Your nephew has left the building.

~the lady of the house


Dear Guy,

I know I'm crazy all over the place right now. I know the vet thing made me cry. And a bunch of other stuff too.

Tears don't mean I'm not happy though. I still love my life with you. Hopefully I have told you that enough. Just in case I haven't though, it's true.

~shamoopie, your crazy hormonal wife

Rewrapping presents today

When you are housebreaking a dog, and he pees on a tree, that should be a good thing, right?

Exception to that rule: Christmas time.

Guy's new dog peed on my blue Christmas tree. I suppose it belongs to him now. Gibson's tree. He claimed it.

More puppy to love

This morning, I'm typing this while sharing the couch with a 90 pound chocolate lab named Gibson.

On Saturday, Guy and I went to PetSmart to buy guinea pig food and came home with a chocolate lab. As CGF said in an email, "That was one hungry guinea pig!" She cracks me up.

It's a simple story of boy meets dog, boy falls for dog, dog comes home with boy. I couldn't stand in the way of that.

After all the fostering I have done for English Setter rescue, it never dawned on me how important the work really was. In my mind, I was just providing a home for a dog until he could be adopted. Saving a life.

I never realized that the family getting the dog was getting much more than just the dog. They were getting a dog that had learned to live indoors. Learned to live with other dogs. Been tested with children. Been trained to walk on a leash. Been housebroken.

That's a pretty good deal, people.

Gibson is an older dog. His paperwork says 3-4, but we are thinking more 4-5 at least. He is neutered, been through heartworm treatment, crate trained, good with other dogs, and his foster home had children there that he absolutely adored.

To top it all off, his foster mom called us Saturday night just to see how he was doing. I just can't say enough about how awesome it is to bring your pets home through a rescue program.

What started off as a "meet our new dog" post has obviously turned into a "please adopt your dog before you haul off and buy a puppy" post.

Many county animal shelters are moving towards using foster homes, giving you that head start on training your new pet. There are also rescues if you have your heart set on a specific breed. You really can find the right pet through adoption.

If you want the story of Gibson and Guy, you can go read his words. They are so incredibly cute together. Gibson is Guy's little, make that really big and slobbery, Christmas miracle.

Grown ups moved in

Our bedroom now has furniture. We looked for over a year for something that we both liked that didn't cost 80 million dollars, and of course we ended up back at one of the first places we looked.

It isn't fancy, but it is handmade. It wasn't expensive, but it does look nice. Very simple and plain. Very functional. We love it. I won't be sad to see my Rubbermaid dressers go.

And, it is one more thing in my house that looks like what my mother has. It's getting a little creepy really. Every time I have a hand in picking out something, it ends up looking a lot like my mother's things. Thank goodness she has good taste.

The only thing I don't like about it is that the bed is incredibly tall. As I type this, perched like some sort of princess perched up high, Pupstar is whining by the side of the bed. She cannot in any way, shape, or form, begin to jump on this bed.

I'm thinking we might have to invest in some doggie steps. As seen on TV.