A Girl and Her Dog

Gut Hund!

I am finding that a puppy is a full time job. Actually, more than a full time job; she doesn't stop being a handful after I've put in 8 hours.

Thankfully, I'm able to take her to my mom's house when I'm at work. I can imagine the mischief and mayhem she could (and would) cause if left by herself for any length of time. It's enough to give me a nervous twitch and a near-overwhelming urge to piddle.

My mother has a yard; a veritable dog Eden. There is plenty of room to run, dig, slobber and poop to puppy heart's content. And Mom is available to coach the dog in appropriate pee behavior. She takes Puppy to a certain spot and tells her to go potty, giving praise if Puppy does what she is told.

Actually, she doesn't say "go potty." She trains, old school; instructing Puppy in High German. This means that in order to properly reinforce good behavior, I must follow Mom's lead.

It's not too far a stretch for me. Many of my first words were in German. But, as I got older, I refused to speak a language that my friends didn't use (Mom was obviously low on my totem pole). Still, the words don't sound quite natural falling from my lips. I hope Puppy isn't confused or offended by my poor accent, like Mom is.

Really, though, I'm thankful my mother is able to care for my puppy when I'm not able to. She's a wonderful resource, even if she does speak a different language.

I should say, she's a wonderful resource because she speaks a different language. I always wanted my children to be bilingual.

The horse broke *me*...

I like dogs. I would even go so far as to say I love dogs. But, none of my cats made me cry with frustration on our first night together.

I always said that if I ever got a dog, it would be a big dog, a dog that I could use as a pillow on cold nights. Small dogs always seem so frail, so twitchy, more rat than dog. But a big dog, like a mastiff or Great Dane, those are DOGS. They look like the word "dog" sounds; solid, stable, simple.

I've found myself wishing for a prissy Bichon Frise, lately.

On Saturday, a 6 month old St. Bernard came to live with us. Even at such a tender age, she's hit 80 pounds and stands as tall as my thigh. But, for such a large dog, she's sweet and gentle, good with everyone, big, small, two legged or four.

So, why wish for a pocket pet? Well, when a teacup poodle piddles with nervousness, it's just that, a piddle. When a pony-sized puppy piddles, it looks like someone tossed a Super Big Gulp of Mountain Dew on the floor. And our pony piddles, a lot. I'm talking amount AND frequency.

Now, you're asking, why is she nervous? Turns out, she's afraid of stairs. Which is an issue since she now lives on the second floor.

Back to Saturday. We discovered this little quirk immediately and immediately started cleaning up piddle. Once. Twice. Three times. We had to resort to carrying the giant bladder up and down the stairs to get outside. But, the act of scooping her up made her (surprise, surprise) piddle.

By the end of the evening, after mopping all the floors in our house multiple times and doing enough loads of laundry to empty the Colorado River, I was spent, physically and emotionally. I checked in on the sleeping behemoth and spotted something in her white fur. A flea.

This shouldn't have made me freak out. A dose of Advantage on her back and the cats' would wipe out any blood-suckers in less than a day. But it was suddenly too much. I did the only thing I could think of; I curled up into a ball by the side of the bed, the lights out and hidden from view and sobbed. Not my finest moment and testament to the fact that I don't do well in stressful situations.

I went to bed shortly after and fell asleep wondering if I could handle a dog, which got me wondering about another peeing creature I might someday have in my house. Things were looking bleak all over.

The next morning dawned, clear and quiet. I padded to the bathroom where the puppy was corralled. She looked up at me with brown, bloodshot eyes, her lanky limbs and huge paws tangled on the dog bed. I thought she looked absolutely perfect, absolutely at home, and absolutely mine. I wonder if she thought the same thing as she looked back at me, since I had brown, bloodshot eyes, lanky limbs and huge paws.

Thank goodness that is where our similarities end. I would have been piddling all Saturday night.

Perhaps I should have thought this through...

I don't cook.

I don't live in New York.

My blog is destined to fail...

Abandoned

I believe that Blogger may be responsible for many, many unwanted children. How many blogs were birthed, only to be abandoned when they got too hard to handle, too time consuming, too emotionally difficult? Or, perhaps worst of all for any parent, an utter disappointment?

I got to thinking about this, because I started reading Julie and Julia. I bet people's one-night-stand with that book resulted in many blog "accidents."

I could write a blog like that! I'm clever and witty! I'll get a giant book deal, it'll get optioned and Jennifer Aniston will land the starring role! (Much more cachet than that Amy Adams...pfft!)

I started this blog a few months ago. And forgot about it immediately. It's not that I didn't have anything to say or anything to share. I have plenty.

I think every aspiring blogger has something. And has that something in excess. I'd like to think that most have an excess of happiness; that all blogs are created to hold the sunshine and rainbows straining to burst from their writer's fingertips.

I am inclined to think that many aspiring bloggers have excess abscesses. Festering boils filled with a poison of awkwardness, pain, confusion, or trauma. They know the things need to be lanced, they give 'em a prick, let 'em ooze a bit into the internet ether, only to draw the needle back out and slap some bandages on. The draining hurts. And really, who wants an audience during that surgery?

But, a lot of us are staggering around with abscesses. We are a colony of lepers amongst the healthy. And we find comfort in commiserating with those like us; the unfortunates that are missing bits of themselves.

That's not to say that those bloggers pour out all their deepest, darkest secrets. They write humorous anecdotes, share thought provoking experiences and merely hint at the tumult, just give a glimmer of the vulnerability that flows underneath. Those bloggers are strippers, teasing with a show of flesh as readers sit in their chairs leering (and lonely).

Regardless of the method, the release of the excess is cathartic. Or, at least, it is hoped to be. I think many find that catharsis can be more painful than the abscess. Certainly, more work.

So, I wonder, again, how many blogs have been left, adrift, to become another bit of internet space junk? It's kind of sad to think of all the unfulfilled potential of so many somethings.

There is something here, though. And I hope that, one day, my formerly unwanted child will make me proud.

Don't think that I am one of the festering lepers. I am completely well-adjusted and have sunshine and rainbows ready to shoot from my fingers. You'll see...once you start reading my humorous anecdotes and thought-provoking experiences.