How I Learned to Take a Nap

12/8/2009
AJW

The household hums in its daily chores:
heat the home, pump the water, let in the light.
A loud thumping comes from below
in the basement laundry -
zippers on hoodies thwack against the side of the dryer,
bass accompaniment to an unknown rock song.

Grey has settled between the cottonwood trees
blurring lines between leftover leaves and bark.
Even the grass, while still green, casts a hue
as if to hush and not wake up Spring, not yet, not for a longtime.

The puppy has completed his tasks too:
Dart outside, bark at the half-bitten moon,
relieve his body of impurities from the night before.
Chew Morning Glory seed pods hanging by threads off the trellis.
Lick at pant legs of boys before they climb onto the bus.

Sniff at the base of the trees along sidewalks,
hope for the scent of a new friend or long lost one.
Alert the neighbors across the street
their fake deer is eating up their patch of Vinca vines,
while next door the white wooden deer are kissing.

Dart back in for his daily dose of banana bites
and puppy rubs to strengthen his response
to the long winter about to commence.

Finally, he settles in where love and words flow.
His eye lids flutter slightly
at the sound of the pitter patter on the keyboard
before he slips into slumber.

This is the moment they sing about:
“Sleep in heavenly peace.”

Upon Arrival of Thanks

On Waking
~ John O'Donohue

I give thanks for arriving
Safely in a new dawn,
For the gift of eyes
To see the world,
The gift of mind
To feel at home
In my life.
The waves of possibility
Breaking on the shore of dawn,
The harvest of the past
That awaits my hunger,
And all the furtherings
This new day will bring.

Fastwrite with dog on lap...

For the warmth of fur on my lap, while his tongue licks the dust off on my keyboard, life pleasures so simple.

I give thanks for the beauty of his coat – the rich red fur softly falling down his long ears, settling into tangled curls, life in its messy state.

For his utter reliance on me to provide entertainment, exercise, mental stimulation, to break my day into minutes when I could so easily fall into hours.

I give thanks for his curiosity, his nose pointed through the sliding glass door at squirrels chasing the red cardinal around the bird feeder. It is not often I glance outside to be a witness to nature’s playtime.

For his waking me at 3 a.m. when I am deep in slumber, dreaming about giving out my cell phone to strangers who are purveying concrete family vaults. For rousing me from the darkness of my inner life to the dark peace that has fallen around the house.

I give thanks for the pieces of food he scours off the floor. I call him “Little Hoover”, saving me the effort of falling to my knees to clean up the crumbs.

I give thanks for the saliva-ridden stuffed animal called his “girlfriend” - he has a new one and an ex, a gentle nudge or obvious one to play “come and get it”, to play at all, the silly adult that I am.

I give thanks for the smiles he has brought to neighborhood children and the shared love that he has generated inside the home, sitting on the boy’s lap, nestling his way between young teens and their boyfriends, welcoming college students home with a romp and a lick, giving comfort to the husband and his ailing arm.

For the heartbeat that thumps through his chest, life in my lap.

The Critter Lady

2009-10-21

Today, I met the Critter Lady. She was not what her e-mail moniker might imply. Tall, rugged, embracing, convincing, the critter lady is Kathy Wilson. By all accounts, she is the physical education teacher at Locust Corner Elementary School in Clermont County. But to the students, the faculty and the principal, she is the critter lady, or, as noted when one signs in to the school visitor list, the dog lady.

The juxtaposition of the word dog next lady seems ironic and yet, for the past five years, she has nurtured the reading habits and raised the reading level of the very young within her school, all because of a dog named Gator. Kathy first learned of reading dogs (R.E.A.D.) through her work in agility circles. Though Furby, her papillon, was nationally ranked in agility, it was Gator who was Kathy’s first therapy dog in the school.

Locust Corner in eastern Cincnnati was originally known as Pleasant Hill because of the peacefulness of this hilly point in Pierce Township. The community was laid out from the farm of Benjamin Ricker, who settled here shortly after 1830. The still unincorporated community received its present name when the local post office was established in June 1846. The name might have referred to numerous locust trees in the area. Most children in this area have dogs, as evidenced by their constant comparisons of Kathy’s dogs to their own.

But Kathy’s dogs were different. Not because of breed, but because they were certified as therapy dogs, designed to support certain environments to which individuals might alter their behavior because of the presence of the dogs. The dogs would help those learning to read or needing to focus.
.
She kicked off a reading program with six first-graders kids in an after school format. “Six kids,” she tells me, “who never would have stayed after school for anything.” Being with the dogs became a means of reward throughout the day for the children, and still is. It is similar to my young neighbor girls who come and walk my dog, just for the fun it. (I think it’s because he is cuter than the rest!). And when I return the favor by paying them 50 cents, they insist they do not want payment. (They accept the coins anyhow).

As we stride down the hall, Kathy continues on, “When we first started the program the kids were all reading below their grade level. After a year and half, they all were reading at or above their level.”

The program works like this: kids love dogs for their warm heartedness and soft fur. Dogs love kids for the food always left under nails or between fingers (or in the case of my son when in preschool, on his sleeve). Put the two together in a room, ensuring that one of them is trained (the dog) and you will have the magic formula to encourage children to read aloud, regardless of the overprotective eye of an adult, without worries over stumbling while reading in front of their peers.

Kathy escorted two children – “Jack” and “Hally” into a small room, off the open library area. She also carried along Furby, the pappilion, and walked alongside Betsy (part mutt, part retriever) and Gator – part lab. As we walked, she discussed her passion and joy for this program.

“We now have ten dogs who are therapy dogs that come in an read with the children. All are certified at some level through the Delta pilot program or therapy dog international certification.”

I was there because my puppy Enzo, who last chewed on a bra and barks at the wind, had me thinking he might make a good therapy dog, in that he loves to be in someone’s lap. He will soak luxuriously in your affection, and you will forget about your troubles for the day.

Gator, Betsy and Furby are celebrities in this school and when they trot down the hall, or prance into the administrative office looking for treats, it is as if the Jonas Brothers, Jay-Z and Miley Cyrus have stepped out of a limo and into the limelight of Locust Elementary. The children all vie for the attention of the dogs and the adults vie for adoration they may not get from their students that day.

After we enter into a small reading room, Kathy lays down a blue blanket and Gator and Betsy instantly know to recline on it. Furby gets to sit on her owner’s lap on a soft fluffy pad. Furby’s ears pop up at the mention of her name, raised like furry wedge-like antennas, alert to names, treats and even to the voice of Hally. Jack reads first. He reads upside down, like a teacher might. He intersperses his actual reading with a commentary on Gator. “Gator is laying his head in my lap.” When Jack reads a story about a skunk, Gator moves his snout into the belly of black Betsy. And we all joke, “Gator must not like the smell of skunk.” Throughout his reading, Jack appears content to show Gator the pictures from his story books. And when he is engaged in the reading of the words, Jack’s one hand is still conveniently placed on Gator, rubbing his belly, petting Gator’s fur down her back.

When it is Hally’s turn to read, she takes a more simplified approach. But her intentions are no less pure. She too turns the book around to show the pictures to Furby in the lap of her owner. And Furby’s eyes are responsive. Furby, of the spaniel family, reminds me a lot of Enzo in how curious she appears. And when Hally reads the story, “Who can go for a ride,” ears on all three dogs raise up in anticipation of a real ride. They immediately settle back down when they realize it is only a story. They are tired but still alert, having spent the previous hour with another adult, acting as therapy vessel to another room full of children. “We all love being read to,” a wise writing sister of mine once wrote. Dogs are no different.

Kathy and I chat after the children leave. “When kids with ADD come into this room and spot the dog, boom, they immediately calm down.” This focus, this singular focus is astounding when one considers the meaning behind the acronym ADD.

She lets me lead Gator (who really leads me) as we pass down the hallway and enter into Kathy’s other realm, her Phys. Ed. office. Inside, each dog has its pad, water, and even a window, for daylight. Food supplies are ample. Fresh air and the sounds of children on the playground stream in on this balmy October day. The dogs often spend their entire day here in service to the many children whose only desire is to read.

Kathy is proud of this program in a way that is not boastful. She puts down the leashes, leaves the dogs behind closed doors. We reenter the main hallway to peruse the large bulletin board outside the office, looking at the other dogs. A beautiful black lab. A springer spaniel – too many dogs and faces for me to recall their names all in one visit.

I tell Kathy, “My son, as with my stepdaughters were quick studies in reading.” I cannot imagine the burden on the parent with a child who refuses to read, regardless of whether they are being pushed or not. I used to be a reading tutor in the classrooms, when my son was much younger. And I enjoyed a child’s satisfaction that came from a book well read. Perhaps school funders should look more closely at this innovative way to educate children that are on the edge.

In two nights, Locust Elementary will host the first of three literacy nights for the school, each at a different grade level. Parents and children will come into school together. Parents will hear all about the types of reading learning that is taking place within the school walls. Children will get to show off their new friends in Gator, Betsy and Furby and pals. And the dogs, well, they will simply be happy to be back at school, for that is where they feel most at home.

A List

A teenager’s tattered bra, polka dot on the inside, pink on the out.

Also, her underwear

because she leaves it on the floor, and says, it’s a long walk

to the washer, out her room, down two flights, and into

the Chinese lantern orange laundry room.

Blue crocs, pock-marked, invaluable to the part-time gardener.

Used often in place of running shoes for young boy’s football games

despite mother’s protestations about twisted ankles.

Indestructible, plastic, yet still palatable.

Golden fringe torn away from the ten-year-old Oriental rug,

First purchased for the new house, kept feet warm when answering the front door,

faded by summer sun and cool winter light.

Once a place to play and rest for toddlers,

Now His instead.

Heliobores, planted only last fall

because the nurseryman in the paper said so.

One of three plants took a hit. Tattered leaves litter the patio tile.

Deer-resistant is not the same as dog-resistant.

.

Spaghetti strands, not yet cooked, that never made it to the boiling pot

crunch underfoot. He springs on the fragments of dried wheat.

It is pasta and he is

named after an Italian, how bad can it be?

Feces of geese, green goo smeared across his tan-white face,

which also sports a look of delirium.

Though scrubbed clean, toxic green residue still forms a ring -

a moustache around his mouth.

Little losses,

bites of life.

Enzo as Therapy

Within the first months of being Enzo’s owner, my trainer had suggested Enzo might make a great therapy dog. I blew off the notion, knowing that the only one who should be participating in therapy was me. Weeks later, while browsing through books at the local Symmes Township Library, I noticed a sign accompanied by a picture of a dog looking quite similar to Enzo. The Cavalier King Charles’ name was Houdini, and Houdini routinely appeared at the library every Saturday from 10-11 a.m. to read with children ages 5-7.

I furthered considered the notion of Enzo – a reading dog. Not that he was going to read Where the Wild Things Are to any preschooler, but it had been proven that dogs with a benevolent, loving, but not too obnoxious nature, were given over to being perfect vessels for children for whom reading was a struggle, either through language development, nervousness or anxiety.

I began my Internet research on this topic and found an organization called R.E.A.D. whose mission is to improve the literacy skills of children through the assistance of registered therapy teams as literacy mentors.

R.E.A.D. stands for Reading Education Assistance Dogs. The R.e.a.d. program improves children’s reading and communication skills by employing a powerful method: reading to a dog. R.E.A.D. dogs are registered therapy animals who volunteer with their owner/handlers as a team, going to schools, libraries and many other settings as reading companions for children.

Dogs are ideal reading companions because they are not judgmental, at least mine is not, as long as I am feeding him his bananas in the morning, alongside his cardboard puppy chow. It is also clear that Enzo is not judgmental in that he will chew on ANY shoe, not just those belonging to my son Davis, whose footwear is optimum because his shoes have crossed many backyards, and his feet stink as if he never showered.

Last week, I visited my aging parents and took my dog along. My parents had been first to accompany me to the breeder’s home when I had gone in search of a puppy and found Enzo. At the time, there was also a runt in the litter, who had the nickname of Tiny Tim. My dad held Tiny Tim in his hands for the duration of my visit with the breeder. He could have cared a less about the others. My mother reacted this way too. She felt safe around a puppy being held in one’s hands vs. one jumping up on her lap.

In the end, Enzo became the I one selected, but during the entire drive back to my parent’s home, my mother lamented about not getting a dog. My mother has Alzheimer’s and her forgetfulness is only one reason why now is no longer the time for a dog. But in my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined her allowing the dog to occasionally have an accident on the carpet in the living room, or to chew up one of her door mats. But, since becoming a grandparent, she has changed her tune about what she allows from the grandchildren and a dog is no different. My sister’s dogs, affectionately named, The Fluffers, by their owner, and I.B.D’s (ill-behaved dogs) by the rest of the family are prone to occasionally pooping in the same spot on my mother’s dining room rug, and she simply shrugs it off, grabs a paper towel and plastic bag, and continues on with her chores.

As for my father, he would have loved to own Tiny Tim, who reminded him of the dogs he once owned. Blackie was some coon dog beagle mix and Tiny was part beagle, and part, just cute puppy. They were his hunting dogs, and served him well. The dogs survived until the first year of my parent’s marriage. After that, dogs took a backseat to children, and never became part of the equation. The only other pets allowed were bunnies, hamsters and gerbils. Not even fish. Of course, Subaru, our beloved but stubborn goldfish, still lives, after five years of intentional abandonment. So, I could see how my parents didn’t want to hang on to anything too long.

When I returned in April to retrieve Enzo from the breeder’s, my parents did not accompany me, but asked me to find out if Tiny Tim was still available. Alas, Tiny Tim was gone. He had moved on to a good home with younger homeowners.

When I arrived home during my most recent trip (funny how I still call Amherst, that house, or visiting my parents “home”), my parents were pleasantly surprised to see Enzo in tow. He too was just as surprised (read “excited”) to see them, and promptly licked my father’s face for a full five minutes. My mother quickly picked up on my falsetto voice calling Enzo, and then giving him a command. Though he rarely listened to her command, he certainly piped up when he heard her call his name.

Once I labeled the stereo buttons for Mom to operate, she began playing her Sinatra records incessantly. Enzo camped out near the stereo speakers for all his naps, lulled into slumber by Fly me to the Moon, and the softness of September in the Rain. It became quite the spectacle for us to listen to him snore away, backside nestled up against the pulsating rhythms coming through the speakers.

He would excitedly greet Mom or Dad when they descended the stairs in the morning, jumping up, waiting to be scratched behind the ears, or, what he loved best, to have his belly rubbed with a brisk motion of a Swedish masseuse.

It was Enzo’s nonjudgmental ways that my parents loved so much, after falling prey to their children’s criticizing their parents for a house move they should have made long ago, or for paying off the bills of my imprisoned sister while risking their own credit. Either way, Enzo would not condemn them for their actions, only condone what they believed to be the best decisions at that time, to protect themselves or maintain their dignity.

As I rolled on the floor with Enzo, my father remarked, “He’s a good dog, and he’s been good for you too.” And for once, I agree that my father is right. Enzo had been my outlet too, when I needed to see simplicity in life. He had been my companion, when I needed to walk outside and play among the leaves. He had been my therapy for such a low, low price. And to boot, we could share the couch.

I will have to wait until Enzo is one year old before registering him, or at least having his temperament and training tested, to determine if he can actually fulfill the role of certified therapy dog. But I wonder, Do dogs have a purpose, a vocation? Do we train them for this, or are they born into it? I have these burning questions about Enzo, the same ones I have for myself.

I could be one of those people who project on their dog all day. But the three days with my parents were not a projection of any thing other a simple healing from hurting hearts.

Only the Shadow Knows

Enzo had been restless last night and hadn’t touched his vittles. Only hours earlier, he had been on a run with me where he had performed admirably with his legs and predictably with his nose.

But he woke before the sun this morning. I could hear his tail tapping against the wall of his crate. After I opened the latch, he ambled towards his food bowl and found the space empty, devoid of any sustenance, just a green post it note reminding me and others not to feed him after midnight. He licked at the towel that usually caught crumbs from his food and the strips of banana peel when my husband feels benevolent enough to feed him part of a banana.

He seemed lost, roamed aimlessly and listlessly through the house, displaying none of the tendencies for which he had earned the name Enzo, after Enzo Ferrari, of the famous race car family. When it came time to walk outside and watch Davis get on the bus, Enzo sat on the driveway, head heavily hanging down. After the boys got on the bus, he crept into my arms then I lifted him into the car where his crate awaited him. He crawled in, and went to sleep during the seven minute drive to the vet office. Enzo was getting neutered today.

The building was eerily quiet, an odor of sterility and cat litter permeated the office. Enzo had the first appointment of the day. Betsy immediately scooped Enzo in her arms while I signed the obligatory paperwork at the front desk. Finally, I checked the box “no” to having an EKG performed, a test that would detect any other abnormalities with Enzo’s heart. As a newborn, he had been diagnosed with slight heart murmur on his left side.

When I had first singled Enzo out from a picture of four males, age 4 weeks, he was already developing a beauty mark, a patch of reddish hair, against the backdrop of white fur, on his left cheek. I took that mark of imperfection as a sign. I did not want the perfect dog. I wanted one who was different. But it did come as a surprise when the breeder called to inform us at Enzo’s 6 week checkup, the vet had detected a murmur. The breeder offered us a different puppy as an option. But Enzo picked us. I wasn’t going to spurn his decision. Besides, as Enzo grew, he took up a larger place in our family and on the floor.

Three years ago, when I had blended my family of one son, with Mark’s family of three teenage girls, a dog had been high on the list in the girls’ demands for blending successfully. That and their own rooms. Their mother had died three years prior. Their old dog, Gipper, has passed away the previous Christmas. The girls were looking for something to tie their life back together.

Numerous arguments ensued between Mark and me over the topic of a new dog. If the girls knew now, they would be horrified to know that these fights threatened the beginnings of our marriage. The fights went something like this. I would be standing in the same room with the girls and Mark. One of them would mention getting a dog. And Mark would casually laugh it off. Later, when we were alone, I would ask, “Why can’t you tell them we are not getting a dog?”

My demand to simply tell the girls the truth was not unreasonable. But Mark had other ideas - that they just needed to say those things and to let the issue pass. The topic finally died but not without tears shed over what was a clear lack of respect for my voice in the marriage. At the time, I did not want a dog and was no more willing to take one on the midst of our jumbled year, than I would have said, “Let’s adopt,” because I had always wanted a brother for Davis.

Three years later, I lost the argument for good. But I prevailed in choosing the time and place. I picked the dog from the litter and bestowed the name Enzo upon him.

I dropped him off at the vet this morning with tears welled up in my eyes, as I recalled the past four months with Enzo. His sweet freckled face is the last I see before turning in at night. He has brought calm to the household. He is often the focus of our family’s entertainment. My niece Sophia, who lost her cat as a pet because her mother has an arm’s length full of traffic and legal charges against her, took to Enzo, wanting to walk him every day of her visit. The two were inseparable, appeared to be the same size and their pleading brown eyes went a long ways towards each of them having their way with me.

Enzo has given Cheryl, our oldest, a sophomore in college, more reason to come home and spend time with us. For the middle two girls, he has brought company and an excuse to unplug and sit outside or go for a walk. And for Davis, Enzo has brought a companionship that can mainly be attributed to their mutual attraction to sweat and dirt. They play together, climb over each other, and watch Sponge Bob and Scooby Doo. In some sense, Enzo has taken the place of the brother Davis never got. And Mark has welcomed him with the same gentleness he welcomed Davis.

But I have been the biggest beneficiary. Per my productive training with him, Enzo is my shadow. He accompanies me as I move about the house on laundry/cleaning days. He never tires of following me up and down steps, sometimes two at a time. He nudges his backside until it is up against my bare feet, a trait which I will love more in winter. I am learning so much from this creature. How to be faithful to those in your home. How to bask in the sun on the warm patio tiles. And how to be ebullient in the midst of anger and open to what life presents.

My office has felt empty without him today. My toes have been cold, and the sun has remained hidden behind the clouds, which is just as well, since my shadow is not here at my feet.

2009-08-31 Without My Shadow

Enzo had been restless last night and hadn’t touched his vittles. Only hours earlier, he had been on a run with me where he had performed admirably with his legs and predictably with his nose.

But he woke before the sun this morning. I could hear his tail tapping against the wall of his crate. After I opened the latch, he ambled towards his food bowl and found the space empty, devoid of any sustenance, just a green post it note reminding me and others not to feed him after midnight. He licked at the towel that usually caught crumbs from his food and the strips of banana peel when my husband feels benevolent enough to feed him part of a banana.

He seemed lost, roamed aimlessly and listlessly through the house, displaying none of the tendencies for which he had earned the name Enzo, after Enzo Ferrari, of the famous race car family. When it came time to walk outside and watch Davis get on the bus, Enzo sat on the driveway, head heavily hanging down. After the boys got on the bus, he crept into my arms then I lifted him into the car where his crate awaited him. He crawled in, and went to sleep during the seven minute drive to the vet office. Enzo was getting neutered today.

The building was eerily quiet, an odor of sterility and cat litter permeated the office. Enzo had the first appointment of the day. Betsy immediately scooped Enzo in her arms while I signed the obligatory paperwork at the front desk. Finally, I checked the box “no” to having an EKG performed, a test that would detect any other abnormalities with Enzo’s heart. As a newborn, he had been diagnosed with slight heart murmur on his left side.

When I had first singled Enzo out from a picture of four males, age 4 weeks, he was already developing a beauty mark, a patch of reddish hair, against the backdrop of white fur, on his left cheek. I took that mark of imperfection as a sign. I did not want the perfect dog. I wanted one who was different. But it did come as a surprise when the breeder called to inform us at Enzo’s 6 week checkup, the vet had detected a murmur. The breeder offered us a different puppy as an option. But Enzo picked us. I wasn’t going to spurn his decision. Besides, as Enzo grew, he took up a larger place in our family and on the floor.

Three years ago, when I had blended my family of one son, with Mark’s family of three teenage girls, a dog had been high on the list in the girls’ demands for blending successfully. That and their own rooms. Their mother had died three years prior. Their old dog, Gipper, has passed away the previous Christmas. The girls were looking for something to tie their life back together.

Numerous arguments ensued between Mark and me over the topic of a new dog. If the girls knew now, they would be horrified to know that these fights threatened the beginnings of our marriage. The fights went something like this. I would be standing in the same room with the girls and Mark. One of them would mention getting a dog. And Mark would casually laugh it off. Later, when we were alone, I would ask, “Why can’t you tell them we are not getting a dog?”

My demand to simply tell the girls the truth was not unreasonable. But Mark had other ideas - that they just needed to say those things and to let the issue pass. The topic finally died but not without tears shed over what was a clear lack of respect for my voice in the marriage. At the time, I did not want a dog and was no more willing to take one on the midst of our jumbled year, than I would have said, “Let’s adopt,” because I had always wanted a brother for Davis.

Three years later, I lost the argument for good. But I prevailed in choosing the time and place. I picked the dog from the litter and bestowed the name Enzo upon him.

I dropped him off at the vet this morning with tears welled up in my eyes, as I recalled the past four months with Enzo. His sweet freckled face is the last I see before turning in at night. He has brought calm to the household. He is often the focus of our family’s entertainment. My niece Sophia, who lost her cat as a pet because her mother has an arm’s length full of traffic and legal charges against her, took to Enzo, wanting to walk him every day of her visit. The two were inseparable, appeared to be the same size and their pleading brown eyes went a long ways towards each of them having their way with me.

Enzo has given Cheryl, our oldest, a sophomore in college, more reason to come home and spend time with us. For the middle two girls, he has brought company and an excuse to unplug and sit outside or go for a walk. And for Davis, Enzo has brought a companionship that can mainly be attributed to their mutual attraction to sweat and dirt. They play together, climb over each other, and watch Sponge Bob and Scooby Doo. In some sense, Enzo has taken the place of the brother Davis never got. And Mark has welcomed him with the same gentleness he welcomed Davis.

But I have been the biggest beneficiary. Per my productive training with him, Enzo is my shadow. He accompanies me as I move about the house on laundry/cleaning days. He never tires of following me up and down steps, sometimes two at a time. He nudges his backside until it is up against my bare feet, a trait which I will love more in winter. I am learning so much from this creature. How to be faithful to those in your home. How to bask in the sun on the warm patio tiles. And how to be ebullient in the midst of anger and open to what life presents.

My office has felt empty without him today. My toes have been cold, and the sun has remained hidden behind the clouds, which is just as well, since my shadow is not here at my feet.

Time for a Change

When my first husband died, I had some well-intentioned friends who suggested that I get a pet, possibly a dog. While I was grateful they did not ask for his golf clubs (see “Don’t ask for the dead man’s golf clubs” book), I was reluctant to take their advice.

After a few weeks of considering their thoughts, I took the plunge. Well, I say plunge, because we got a fish and a ten gallon tank instead. We actually bought two. The first goldfish we named Vern, after an old curmudgeon, but a lovely gentleman, that I knew from the Oregon Coast. The second we named Speedy, named by Davis’ because if fish could fly through water, this one appeared to do so.

In the ensuing years that we cleaned tanks, prayed over their deaths, and replaced these fish with a few new ones, I was grateful that I had not gotten a dog. There are many risk-takers out in the world. I believe myself to be one of them. I am always trying out new species of plants and was the first to utilize the fiber optic grass in my tribal head pot bought for me years ago. I ran hurdles in high school, and traveled with the college ski club to Colorado without knowing a soul. But I am not a risk taker when it comes to animals, or shall I say, anything other than a human being, or a plant.

So, it comes with some surprise that I found, now was the time to have a dog. I have no concrete reasons other then that when I sit on the kitchen floor with tears in my eyes from a sadness I am experiencing, I comprehend why this dog was put in my life.

Enzo was named after a character in a book who sat with the owner’s wife while she fought cancer. And sometimes, I project this same quality onto my Enzo. When he does sense in me, a sadness, he will engage in eye to eye contact, of course he does this when he has been bad, or is trying to be cute, but nonetheless, his rich chocolate eyes remind me of earth and grounding. And there is a part of me that whispers, namaste, to him – the divine in you honors the divine in me.

I hold Enzo some mornings after the kids leave, and cry for a sister who is in mental and physical pain and for her daughter, my niece, who does not understand why the world asks this of her young soul. And sometimes tears well up because I think Enzo could have shouldered some of my sadness from years ago when Devin died yet I was too stubborn to give in to the notion of dog. I hold onto Enzo and his innocence, as if I am still holding on to some piece of my sister spirit that has been kept safe from harm.

I pray that Enzo can help change my heart. A heart that has become hardened, a heart that no longer holds my faith in God, the justice system. A heart that can only open itself up to the human condition and this little furry animal that a fish could never replace. Maybe I don’t really need a change of heart, I just need help turning it right side up again so that all of life does not run out me. I hope Enzo is strong enough for the both of us.

The Origin of "Enzo"

Lately, we have been asked, “What is the origin of the name Enzo?” Of course, those that know me and know my heritage, know too that Enzo is Italian. Yeah, I know his kind was named after King Charles and all that baloney in the English court, but I tell you, I have seen Enzo in a fit at nighttime, and I tell you, this pup is Italian.

Let’s begin with what Enzo is not. His name is not Endzone, sorry ultimate Frisbee players on our daughter’s teams. His name is not Enzoroni, Mark, he is not a pasta of any sorts. He is not a girl, and his name is not Enza, or short for “influenza”.

His name is derived from the Latin surname Laurentius, that is, "citizen or descendent of Laurento," ancient city of the Lazio region that the Romans associated with a "forest of laurel." His day is celebrated with St. Lawrence on August 10, 2009. Every saint in Italy has their day, and patrons with those names celebrate. Enzo should be no different.

By the way, laurel is a form of leaf usually made into a wreath that is horseshoe shaped. In Greek myths, it was given to special people, such as winners in competitions in poetry or sports. This is good - we are writers and sportsters here in the house. Of course, it was also used as a drug so the ancients could get stoned. We do not subscribe to that, but a little bit for Enzo before bed would not hurt.

Until recent times, laurel wreaths were used to show that someone had done something special (for example, the Olympics gave laurel wreaths to the winners). The saying "resting on one's laurels" came from this and meant that someone can relax now because he or she did something good in the past. The Italians do the rest thing very well. I believe they are still resting from the Roman Empire times. This is surely true of Enzo too, only his idea of relaxing involves laps, usually when we are sitting on the kitchen floor, with no pillow in sight for the weary owners.

To sum up Enzo in one word would be doing him a great injustice. I can tell you that when I call out, "Andiamo", that boy moves. So if I really, really had to come up with one word, I would, of course, say Italian!

With Apologies

05-01-2009

The following is in order of occurrence:

I apologize to my grass for its share of dog poop it has held, and for the share of dog poop that I cannot scoop up with our new Scoop it and Sack it.

I apologize to the shoe company Clark’s, maker of the Privo brand, for defiling their shoes, my brand new (read one day old) shoes, with dog poop that I did not know I stepped in.

I apologize to my kids for telling them all the time to wipe their shoes when I did not have any inkling there was doo-doo below mine and just assumed it was dirt, and smeared that across the rug in the garage.

I apologize to my husband who sat next to me in the movie theatre last night, and put up with my constant seat hopping because I thought the seats smelled funny.

I apologize to the movie theatre. I am sure that Regal Cinemas has cleaned all sorts of bodily excrements off their seats and floor, but one would suppose it was more human waste that dog’s.

I apologize again to my husband, because we took his car. I was tired of driving my new car (only a female can make that statement) and thus carried dog doo onto the mats of his Lexus. He may notice that on his way to work this morning.

I apologize to Enzo, for when he had an accident this morning, following my accident from yesterday, it may very well be because he sniffed out where my shoes had tread the day before.

Finally, I apologize to my neighbors, who, over the course of ten years, I have consistently cursed out under my breath for not picking up their dog poop and have a new found respect for the undesirable but necessary task.

Talking to Myself

My mother used to talk to herself. We would come home from school and she would be folding diapers, perhaps watching General Hospital, wondering aloud how Luke was going to save Laura again. Or she might be found on a Saturday, upstairs, making beds, muttering to herself about what slobs her teenagers were and where did she go wrong.

I too, upon becoming a mom with four loads of laundry, can often be found expounding on the vices of the teenagers in the households, or cursing at my husband for planning a putting green in the backyard, so that my yard has been torn up and is now covered with a blue tarp (and I am not talking Kentucky Bluegrass Blue) waiting for the weather. But I find the weather this time of year easy to predict, four days of rain, followed by four days of unseasonably hot or cold temperatures.

And now, with the pup, I am always spouting off wisdom that he alone understands, or is at least the recipient of. We sit outside, beneath the hackberry tree, now that the silver maple is gone after the windstorm. The wind is blowing about 20 mph and I say, “Oh Enzo, doesn’t this feel good, and I can see him lift his nose into the air, so that the wind can tickle his senses. Enzo, lets go inside. Enzo, what do you think about a walk?

Enzo…Enzo…Enzo. I have to constantly remind myself that he is NOT Davis. He is NOT a human and can truly only respond to commands, and typically through actions, not words. There is no hug or plea from Davis, “Mommy, Carry?!” There is no excitement about going inside to eat lunch, or go for a walk.

I am sure I am not in the minority here, as other pet owners babble on and on to their pet then actually stop to ask themselves, “Why am I talking to you…you wont answer” and then continue to remark about the weather, the flowers and whether Enzo has to go potty or not.

Stupid Pet Tricks

When David Letterman first conceived of this idea, he was definitely naming the dog as the stupid pet. But I am tweaking that concept a bit, to include the stupid things you do because you have a dog. I have accomplished many in just a few days time, so due to sleep deprivation, some due to lack of focus on anything other than house-breaking or dog-proofing my home.

In a stretch of a two hours, I managed to accomplish this:

First, this morning, I stepped in dog do. In my own yard. This is due to the fact that I must have forgotten where Enzo first put down his doo, then I moved and lost track of it after that. I hold fast to the notion that I need bean bags flag, like the NFL refs have, to throw down, at the site of the ball touching the ground or a knee going down, or a penalty occurring. I can simply throw out this bean-flag, near the site of the infraction, in this case, poo at 6 a.m., and know that I will not miss it, when I go to clean it up later, after the sun has risen.

Stupid pet trick number two. While watching my dog chew at my Reef flip flops, I also noticed stuffing that resembled that which might come out of stuffed animals. I then went into our family room to retrieve all the doggie animals and check for missing innards. While avidly studying Enzo’s girlfriends, his favorite stuffed chew toy, I walked right into our makeshift gate, which is not made out of any sort of flexible material, unless you consider an oak plank flexible, in which case you are probably a master of martial arts. When later asked about the red streak on the bare wood, my son was relieved to find out it was not blood, but simply a streak of nail polish from my big toe which had been painted moji-toes red.

Finally, in a rush to get home, not wanting to have left Enzo for too long without the option of impressing me with his house breaking, I scurried to place party invites in three mailboxes in another part of my neighborhood. While the first two went off without a hitch, the third did not. I rooled down my window, then opened the door slightly, reached through the window opening, to pull down the mailbox cover. I inserted the invite into the mailbox and proceeded to think my task was complete. I lowered myself back into my car, with the door still open, and in a split second, “kkkk”, and a scratch appeared in my brand new VENZA, only hours old, on which I had declined the paint and chip warranty, believing I would take better care of this, than I would my leased car.

Of course, there are other issues in my life that have really detracted from my focus. But I contend that I would certainly be able to deal with those issues better were it not for the freckled face and constant presence of Enzo. May he sleep in peace. One of us should!

Germaphobe

Day Four of Enzo’s arrival in our home has brought a new perspective for me. Actually, every hour that we have had him here has been a new awakening of sorts. I remember now how not funny the show friends is at 11 pm at night, when you are stomaching menstrual cramps and trying to encourage a puppy to sleep. I remember how hard my mother worked to keep a well-oiled machine of a household of five kids and a somewhat messy husband. And I remember all those times I wiped Davis’ hands after his eating of French fries or dittalini pasta that he picked up with his fingers.

In honor of those memories, here is what I am letting go. Sleep – that all important ingredient to my even temperament. I truly am a bear, cannot think straight when I do not get sleep. I am a light sleeper, always have been. Sleepovers scared me because I knew that while my girlfriends eventually would fall asleep at 2 a.m., I would lie awake for another hour. When I go down for a catnap, I have to plan for an hour because it takes 20 minutes for my heart to stop racing long enough to catch up with my brain that is telling it to stop and rest.

The kitchen looks as if a tornado came through and deposited the remnants of the Petsmart onto my kitchen table and floor, and took the remnants of the city dump and proudly displayed them in my mudroom. My pants are full of mud, my sweatshirts that had holes in them could possibly get bigger if I don’t get Enzo’s chewing under control. Part confession – I have washed three rugs, to eliminate the odors from Enzo’s accidents in parts of the home where I should not have allowed him to roam in the first place.

Finally, while Enzo seems rather accomplished with the pee pad and has even gone outside a few times, he still tracks some of his stream across the kitchen floor, a floor I once kept spotless so my son could crawl around on it without fears of him eating the same dirt that Enzo now consumes.

In fairness, this germaphobe stage I come by honestly. My mother was one. She might still be. In her dementia, she swept the floor for over two hours during my last visit, despite my protests that we were bringing a dog into her house, plus four kids. In fairness, she does let my sister’s dogs roam around on the first floor and I have found droppings of those dogs which I later reported to mom, and she, without hesitation, proceeded to clean up.

And as caregiver for my husband who had a bone marrow transplant, when the patient has no immume system, and you spend most of your waking hours giving care, Cloroxing the bathroom and raising a toddler, being a germaphobe was an easy call. Not so anymore.

All the Way

Enzo is home with me now. He survived over a period of three days: two toddlers who thankfully did not pull at his tail, but definitely raised the noise level up a few decibels, enough to chase Enzo outside, cousin Zach who proclaimed himself Enzo’s godfather, my mother, who has dementia, constantly picking him immediately after I had put him in his cage for a “rest”, but I am certain that puppies need more holding than resting, my father, who held him tight, though Enzo was NOT Tiny Tim from my father’s visit with me to the breeder, Tiny Tim was already spoken for. I probably would have bought the second dog for them, if Tiny Tim not had a home already.

Two nights in the yellow room, or at least it used to be yellow, when I slept there in my youth. Now only remnants of yellow in the desk and hutch are evident, oh yes, the yellow lamp that light his way through the night.

Two doggie cousins, Lasas, Binnie and Sugar, who were being fed hot dogs while Enzo was being fed Science Hill Diet, Small Bites for Puppies. I am sure he wanted to go home with that owner instead,

Lots of holding and waiting and wondering, if my mother’s home was his real home, or just another stop on the way station

Four hours in the car, and a flat out refusal to pee in the Wendy’s parking lot of Mt. Gilead or the Rest Area south of Wilmington. This was only hearsay, as I was in the other car, alone, no kids, no dogs.

Arrival to a dark home, a dark night, the departure of everyone but ME in the morning, my ab exercises and my eventual departure to a funeral for several hours. I did however, leave some music on….Frank Sinatra. I know Enzo is NOT Italian, but he does have an Italian name, and Aunt Jeanne gave him the middle name of “Lupini” after the lupini beans we eat each and every holiday (darn I left the jar at mom’s house).

Finally, he survived a round with my sister, whom I fail to trust anymore in her condition. I told her she could only look at the dog - I didn’t want her bringing him out of his cage. I know he could have broken down some of her walls…of course I only realize that later, as I sit and stare at Enzo, with Frank singing in the background…."It’s for sure I’m gonna love you all the way, all the way. I’m gonna love you all the way….”

Expecting

When one is pregnant and begins to spring clean closets, buy new window treatments and put the college photos where they belong – away, the activity is called nesting. I did not get to nest when my son Davis was born. True to who he has become, Davis showed up a few weeks early, upside down, kicking like a soccer player which he never became, four weeks premature. The only project we had accomplished the day before was to buy a video camera. Apparently, he must have been aware of at least this action and decided it was cool, we would be ready.

But what is it called when you are expecting a puppy? It can’t still be called nesting, hell, it should not have been called nesting as it relates to humans in the first place. The image of a nest has no parallels to the hormonal surge that women experience prior to letting go of the mass in their womb, or the process of letting go of the monthly hormone house we build each time. But there are no hormones involved in expecting a puppy, except for Holly, Enzo’s mom. But not for me, or for Mark, the future father.

Perhaps this is why I have found it difficult to get motivated to buy anything for Enzo, that and the economy seems to go up and down like his tail, and quite honestly, I don’t want to spoil him right away either. Can you see my dilemma?

We procrastinated as long as humanly, but not caninely possible, after grocery shopping yesterday. We were even in denial so much that we only wanted to shop in the pet aisle of the grocery store, and found a collar and leash that did blend, but not match (hey when you are blending families, there is no matching, only blending, matching creates conflict and competition). So, we bought the blue collar, with the blue plaid short leash.

Mark was insistent that Enzo needed a chew rope, so that went into the cart too. Then, he said something really new father like, “Enzo needs to have something soft to cuddle up with.” I could not believe this was coming from my overly pragmatic, but always up for a good debate of a husband. It was really something that would have come from my sister Jeanne, who calls her dogs “fluffers”. I just shrugged, knowing I had picked out the dog, if he wanted to pick out the toys, more puppy power to him.

We logged in a few more miles driving closer to home to the Complete Petmart. Really, all the names sound the name, PetSmart, Petland, Complete Petmart. Where is the creativity in the pet world these days? Inside the store, we selected a nice carrier / cage for Enzo and also picked out a soft mattress for him, which offers more cushion than our own. I told Mark, “That’s it. I can’t take anymore, this is overwhelming me.” Just so as to be clear, dog popcorn?

I am already of the opinion that society in general has gone “to the dogs” about dogs. I know people who proudly tell me they are “dog people.” And I really don’t know what that means. Does that imply they love dogs, or that they really are a dog, more animal than human? When you have kids, do you tell people, “I am a kid person”, or when you have parents, are you a “parent person”? For that matter, what does the phrase, “I am a people person,” really mean?

I digress. I did enough damage today to my psyche and my wallet to signal that this is really going to happen. Though I am no closer to finding a name for “expecting Enzo” that will help prepare me for the last leg before welcoming him home, I have come to learn that nesting for humans has a corporate branding, with Edward Norton’s Fight Club character referring to the syndrome as the IKEA Nesting Instinct. Perhaps finding a corporate sponsor is a good place to start.

3-26-2009

One Wednesday morning, I was making limoncello with my girlfriend Kristi. One has to be wondering, how does limoncello relate to getting a dog. We were elbow deep in peeling 40 lemons, 20 oranges and 10 grapefruit when the phone rang. I popped up to look at caller id, and, in the same way the teenagers to, realizing its not for them, I walked away and let the caller leave a message.

The limoncello process is rather lengthy, in particular, if you are making this liquor with Kristi, and one is too busy talking to count the number of lemon rinds in each Mason jar or the milliliters of vodka poured out. Plus, we needed more vodka to complete the job, and decided to head to lunch, buy vodka on the way back, finish the process and call it a day. It really does consume a whole day, if you include lunch.

When the seven Mason jars were safely stored in the cellar, and Kristi on her way, I remembered that someone had called earlier that day. As I scrolled through the numbers, I did not recognize any with the exception of one from Willoughby, which I knew to be a city close to my breeder’s home. Correct I was.

On the message, Debbie was asking me to call, “I wanted to give you the update on Enzo after his eight week checkup from the vet.” Immediately, I sensed a calm alarm in her voice. My jaw dropped, my heart raced, my pulse was off the roof. What could it be? Oh please don’t let it be anything….

I ran to my office to retrieve pen and paper, knowing I would have to take notes, and in that time, I also checked e-mail (I am the ultimate multi-tasker). Debbie had also felt the need to communicate via email as well. Apparently, limoncello takes A LOT longer than one might anticipate.

I sped through the text of her note. The vet had detected a slight heart murmur in Enzo. This was not uncommon, she emphasixed. How bout my heart now, I am thinking, this seems pretty uncommon. She also explained that the murmurs usually go away and in no way indicate Mitro-valve disorder, which can also be found in this breed. Debbie was thorough in explaining the murmur may disappear at 12 or 16 weeks and reminded me of the one year guarantee. Well, I thought, thank god for that.

But there I sat, paralyzed, unable to call her. First, I called Mark at the hospital to read him the body of the note. “She wants to know if we want a different dog, one of the other males.” Mark asked, “What do you think?” And I said, “I picked Enzo, that’s who I want. The other dog would not be Enzo.” Mark replied, “I guess you have to decide, if something happens would you feel worse for having picked this one, or if the other dog didn’t work out, would you feel bad for foregoing the original Enzo in the first place.”

“I picked Enzo,” I repeated. We hung up and I called the breeder. She walked me through the same explanation she had given over email. And I repeated one last time, “I picked Enzo.” It just wouldn’t be the same.

Later, at dinner, I shared the information with the kids. Before telling them the outcome, I waited for their reaction, my breath held, wondering if I had picked a doozy. Would they blame me? I wasn’t very good at shouldering responsibility.

All three in unison said, “Ooohhh, We should keep Enzo,” or something to that effect. I nodded in agreement and told them, “That’s what I told the breeder.”

I picked Enzo, we would live together and die together too. If, and when it comes to that, I will have plenty of limoncello to toast to his life and how even before he has moved in with us, I am a better woman because of him.

Downward Dog

I am contemplating yoga again this morning. It is essential that I contemplate, before moving my butt out of my writing chair to actually attend class. But since class last week, I have been thinking too much about writing about yoga and not really doing yoga. It was the pose downward dog that got me going last week.

As part of our sun salutations, a “good morning” to my whole being, I began on all fours. Then making sure my hips were in line with my shoulders and my arms in line with my hips, or something of that sequence, I lifted up my backside, rump high in the air.

I tried hard to maintain this pose for the 1-2 minutes that we were instructed to remain. It was not because of my hips being tight, which they were. It was not because of tight calves from too much running. I was losing my focus, my smile turning wider than my hips. I was imagining Enzo doing the same, as he woke from a nap beneath my table or desk or couch. With his paws outstretched, I could easily imagine Enzo coming into being after a snooze, looking completely rested. And I wondered if I made it look that easy as well.

Truth be told, I did not. I struggled always with keeping hips aligned with other parts of my body. This has on occasion led to being called malicious canine-related nicknames in high school from the manner in which I walked. My misalignment also caused my track coach great hardship in trying to convince me to run in a straight line. I missed shaving a few precious seconds off my time in the 100m or 200m dash, as I simply could not put one foot into front of the other. They had to go side by side. In the end, my body’s makeup caused serious injuries from running and other exercises which led to pulled piriformis muscles – the butt muscles, not the glutes. For months, I was in pain, even sitting down, so that after typing all of the above, I might have to lie down in the floor to relieve myself of this pain.

Katie, my instructor, tells me, “Be patient, you will reach your edge,” while in down dog. It is why we come into the pose so often in class, because down dog takes a while to “get there,” meaning, for the pose to feel good, for me to feel canine and not human.

We are not canines, we were not meant to be the same body alignment with canines. We were meant to walk side by side with these four legged companions. And how easy they make it look. If I had four legs, I am certain I would be in alignment, my track coach would have been happy and the nicknames would have never haunted me. I had a lot to learn from my dog.

A Stroke of Fate - See Video at End of Blog

We met Debbie, the breeder/mom/entrepreneur at her home. But first we met Holly, a rather plump CKC mom, who had given birth to a litter of seven only weeks before. And then we met the litter, as they scampered about in a laundry room like space, resembling ants building their hill, busy, but without the work that ants do!

Debbie had previously sent me pictures of the three available males. The picture took me off guard, when I realized I actually had to pick one of those three and not all three. The dog to the left was lifting his head up and over the others, the middle dog was rather focused on the camera, and the dog to the right, again looking off. Mark implied I would pick the middle one, just because, I am in the middle of my sibling too. I told him he was crazy. That hardly seemed to right, to pick out a dog that would have all the same issues as me! So, I tried hard to concentrate on the pictures of the other two, all but ignoring the one in the middle. So as not to accidentally channel him when I arrived at the breeders later.

When Debbie brought all three boys out, I felt like the dating game had begun. Bachelor number one – come over here and let me see you. Bachelor number one is the runt, nicknamed Tiny Tim, I would find out later, only because the breeder did not want to influence us with names before hand. But Bachelor number one seemed to be drawn to my father, or more so, my father was drawn to him. Later, Debbie would say, “Your dad looked so peaceful holding that dog.” In good conscious, I could not pick the runt. I was told specifically, by my husband, not to pick the runt. Perhaps some other time.

Bachelor Number two – come here boy. Bachelor number two carried a birthmark (some have noted Cindy Crawford, but I like to think of it as a dimple. It is a small brush stroke of fur that graces his lower left chin. The light brown patch appears as if his Maker said, “Hey wait a minute, I forgot something special.” He wanted to play. He rolled around at my feet, let me left him up and hold him, and when put down, was assertive in his play with the others.

Bachelor number three – Come here boy. Bachelor number three did not come here. Though the breeder thought he was the more assertive one, temperament wise. He and I tended to stay away from each other. So I let him go.

So it was now down to one. Bachleor Number Two. And as pulled out my cell phone to take a few more pictures, other than those from my camera, I noticed in the picture that the puppy in the middle, was indeed the one with the birthmark. So, I began calling out Enzo to Bachelor number two. He was not quick to come right away. I was naïve to believe otherwise! But he and I developed a nervous excitement towards each other, just like dating. In the same way Mark and I began our dating process, realizing this was it for each of us, but not wanting to make the commitment right away. Ok, I should only speak for my commit-aphobic self. I won’t even buy a car outright. I want to lease it, because I can’t commit to that singular car model, color and styling for a lifetime.

We had only minutes left and the puppies were each in turn beginning to head back to their litter box for a late afternoon nap. I was tired too. I had driven four hours that morning, picked up my parents, and driven another 1.5 hours to the breeder. I wasn’t even sure at that time if I had a clear enough head to be making this choice. Everyone kept telling me, the dog will pick me. Hell, even I kept telling that to myself. But it wasn’t happening, and being the sign person that I am. I had not been given any signals that were blatant hit me over the head types.

One last picture, I proclaimed to the breeder, and then we’ll get out of your way, I tell her. So, I walk into the laundry room, seven puppies plopped down, one over top of the other. And quietly, I pull out my camera.

One lone dog lifts his head, wakes the others while making his way out of the puppy pile, and comes up to the side of the box. I have to crouch down below to box line see that his chin has that same brush mark on it, that same distinction that marked “my” Enzo only minutes before. And I begin to call out, Enzo.

And he keeps jumping up at the edge of the box. In seconds, I am filming all this, he is whimpering, as if saying, “Take me with you now.” Only I can’t. He needs more time with his mother, his breeder and the vet before I can commit to taking this precious life and merging him with mine.

Choices

I wasn’t sure I wanted my eighty year old parents to join me in this quest to “seek Enzo”. I had driven up north for four hours, enjoying the prospect, imagining how I might appear to Enzo when we would first meet. Of course, I also had the silly notion that Enzo might stand me up. What if he didn’t show. I hadn’t ever experience that in any other real life scenario, mostly getting dumped on the back end. But there was a very real possibility that Enzo might not be in the pool of available applicants for the job – Januzzi Wick Manley Dog. Of course, with a last name such as that, I couldn’t blame him if he suddenly didn’t show, not wanting to go through life unable to recall all his names.

I hadn’t put on any makeup, as I wanted Enzo to see the real me, wrinkles and all. I had however plucked my eyebrows the day before, for my annual visit to the ob/gyn. I had also shaved my legs, and removed the hair from my bikini lines for the good doctor as well. I don’t know why, but I truly spent more time getting ready for the ob/gyn than I did for my first date with my husband, Mark. Perhaps there is the connection. That if I was to make one at all, it would be because I was naked – at least without makeup or pretensions.

Now, I was in the car, waiting for the breeder, with mom and dad in the car with me. I told them I was nervous, or maybe tired, or maybe just hyped up on caffeine since mark and I had been cutting back at home, and when I went on the road, I stopped at the Go-asis for a large cup of coffee, telling myself I wouldn’t drink it all, then proceeding to gulp it down during the last hour of my drive.

I was heightened, I told mom, what if I pick out the wrong puppy? My mom didn’t seem to grasp the weight of this decision. After all, it’s not like Mom said that every time she went into the delivery room, but there were times over the years, Mom was convinced she came home with the wrong one. And each one of us, in wanting to be separate at some point in our teens, would proclaim the same thing.

There was so many dependent on me for this decision. Cheryl, who would not be living with us anymore, well, if the economy doesn’t turn around, she may still move back home. But this was a one shot for her, get to see, know Enzo. What if Enzo could not bond in short periods of time, what if he took a long time to make friends, like me? For Shannon too, she only had a year left with us. We could not afford a long term bonder. And for Kaitlyn, this one had to be special enough to overcome her sheer devotion to her rabbit Midnight, the one whose cage she cleans only once a week, or sometimes forgets to feed when she is at a sleepover. And Davis, whoa, he had never had a dog, so this one had to be good, or else. For Mark, this one had to just satisfy any need that he couldn’t already. So much riding on this very choice, except tor me, Enzo is like the first draft of any book. He just has to exist.

Temperaments

I find it fascinating how many new acquaintances I have obtained now that I am getting a dog. It is somehow as if I have joined a secret society of dog worshippers like in Ancient Egypt, dogs received burial in family tombs and family members would shave their heads in mourning at the death of a family dog. Now I know how single women, or those without children must feel when I discuss the latest disaster or celebration regarding the kids - somewhat intrigued, somewhat repulsed.

One particular woman is named Barbara. She and I are not friends. I repeat, not friends. I see her once a week where I work out. Maybe not, if I don’t work out. She is usually reading the paper, or stretching, before class. Whereas I am just trying to settle in.

When told I was getting a cavalier king charles, she piped up. She owned numerous CKCs over time and was the current owner of one as well. We have talked more in the past week, than in the past five years I have been in the class. Draw your own conclusions but this could be me, could be her, could be the dog. Whereas our expectations from our children are so different that when we discuss our children in public, some will walk away, wondering, what is she drinking, with dogs, there seems to a universal understanding that we expect our dog to be, well, a dog, and not some super human athlete, Albert Einstein, or Yo Yo Ma. A dog exists to simply exist.

That sounds like such simple terms, the existential movement, “I am a dog, therefore, I exist.” “I have nothing else better to do, anyhow.”

Barbara was rather insistent when I mentioned I would be selecting my dog this past week, from a pool of three contestants. “You should look it up on the internet, do you know about puppy temperament tests, there’s a lot out there to read, you should read up on some of that before you pick one out, you know, if you hold them on their backs and tickle their belly, if they remain in your arms, they are submissive which is a good thing.” So this steady stream of advice played like a bad film fest documentary in my mind all during my workout. I am sure my biceps suffered because I could no longer concentrate. I was leaving the following day and was not sure I would have time to research those options.

And I didn’t. It was more important for me to fit in some exercise before leaving that morning and sitting in a car for four hours. It was also imperative that I leave behind some clean laundry, even if it was only the tidy whiteys. I also decided that making myself a lunch for the road took preference over practicing the tests for puppy temperaments.

I was a bit wracked by my indifference to the topic, but without a computer at hand in the car, I had no choice but to simply accept the fact that I knew nothing about temperaments tests, and suggested to my friend Leigh, “I am leaving this up to fate.” Afterall, my parents didn’t ask for any temperaments tests when they had me, or my siblings, though, being Italian, they probably should have, and in hindsight, have also realized the test results may have been helpful in determining the long term consequences of running over mailboxes, pretending to go to drugmart, but driving to see a boyfriend, getting arrested for shoplifting. But temperament does not equte to belonging. We all belonged together, and when I found my Enzo, we too would belong.

In Search Of

Married, female, mother of four, college degree in computer science, seeking canine companion, no yapping, not in the “fluffer” category, to fulfill all parenting desires that were or have not yet been realized by other children in household. Husband manages to take care of other desires.

Must have strong knowledge of female characteristics, wisdom about female idiosyncrasies. Must be OK with messy home on occasion. Must sit by front door, in the morning sunshine as it pierces through the sidelights, and faithfully lay on rug where son used play Legos. Must be OK without Legos, as Legos are long gone and not appropriate for canine behavior.

Canine should show respect to female head of household, agree with any wild hairs that female happens upon in their time together. Should be a worthy companion with coffee, and be able to cozy up two cold feet, even if socks are being worn.

Must be target of head obsessive female, for that matter, all obsessive females in the household, and be able to consistently show brown eyes in such a way that grown women sigh and follow wherever canine goes. Must willingly sit and watch obscure sporting matches with Eastern Coastal Carolina and Akron University, while simultaneously licking up ice cream dripping on floor from small male in the household.

Must respond to owner’s call to “go outside” in the same way children respond to parents call to “go outside” - with enthusiasm and obedience. Must exist in household with abiding loyalty. Must love with reckless abandon

Rhythms

03-01-2009

Two weeks ago, a boxer named Buster died. I didn’t know Buster, hardly know his owner. Buster’s owner and I spend our Monday mornings getting out butts kicked in a strength aerobics class by a woman my same age. But, obviously, there is not a lot of discussion around dogs or kids, unless one of us gets there early.

Three days ago, Murphy died. Murph was a black lab that had been a constant companion of my brother-in-law’s since he had graduated from college. Murph was 15 and half and had lived a long life, enjoyed lounging at our lakehouse and in general, getting in the way.

I see the look in the owners' faces, as if they have just lost their best friend and I cant stand it. I lost my best friend once already, my first husband, had to spend seven years writing a book about it, publishing it and am still speaking to grief groups today on the topic of loss. Mark says, I write best about loss. So this kind of scares me, because I don’t want Enzo to wind up in the loss category, not that there is a win category either, but loss, no way.

I have already envisioned Enzo as my companion, brushing up against my stockinged feet while I write. I have already imagined having to stop, mid brilliant thought, before putting the pen to paper, to let the darn dog out.

I see Enzo and the two neighboring goldens having a barkfest while I am trying to write. I see all these ways in which Enzo will comfort and also usurp me from my writing throne and thrust me into backyard for cleanup or call in duty. And too, I am made aware of all the ways that Enzo could take up space in my life, and then, one day, be gone.

So I am committed to treasuring him each day, even before he arrives here. I am committed to rise with a certain amount of vigor when he needs to pee. I feel more intentional about this than with my baby, now 12 year old Davis, when he was born. Perhaps because I am picking the time in my life when Enzo is coming, I am picking the actual day, when with Davis, he arrived a few weeks early. Long before nesting was complete. So, we never quite settled into any routine other than our walks on the beach.

I am hoping that Enzo will help me re-estalish the rhythms in my life that have been missing for so long, the rhythm of writing, of seeking, of just being.

Stick Figure Family

When people ask, “What kind of dog are you going to get?” I usually reply, “Well, it’s a smaller dog, not quite in the toy dog category. We didn’t want a yapper, but also didn’t want a dog whose size and presence would overwhelm me in the kitchen while trying to juggle a pot of hot water and tomato sauce.”

Our decision to acquire a Cavalier King Charles did not come lightly. As a matter fact, playing into that decision was my belief that dogs resemble their owners. This may happen at birth (the dog’s) or as the dog becomes more a part of the family, in the same way some spouses grow to look alike. Mark and I were at a party recently, and were asked, “A re you two brother and sister.” I spit out my hurricane punch, most likely in the questioner’s face, but I really don’t know that for sure, because my eyes were watering after laughing (and crying ) so hard. We’ve only been married for two years. How could we look alike so fast! Or perhaps this was just confirmation that we were indeed going to spend the rest of my life together (I called “first”, just in case Mark gets any funny ideas about dying before me)

Since I believe in the notion of dogs resembling owners, a more appropriate response to the question, “What kind of dog are you getting,” would seem to be, “Have you seen my family?”

The best way to physically describe our blended family is to imagine a kindergartener’s stick figure drawing, with a mom, a dad, three girls and boy (and now a dog), a rabbit called Midnight, and Subaru, the eternal goldfish, and finally, perhaps an added niece or nephew in the picture because the teacher was not specific enough about the family part. So you have seven figures, plus a dog, fish and rabbit, all lined up, but no one stick figure more than an inch taller than the other.

This is our family. We are not big people. We have no desire for a big dog. It doesn’t even fit our personality profile, even we were big people. Mark is 5’4”. I am 5”, so it would stand to reason that any of our offspring would not develop into collegiate basketball players. At 20, 17 and 14.5, the girls have quite possibly stopped growing. I know I did in tenth grade. Davis still has the edge, in that his birth father was 6 feet tall. If he winds up in the middle, he could still win out. But his fuzzy math also includes Mark into the equation, so he doesn’t believe me when I tell him he could grow taller than the rest.

At any rate, this is how we stand as a family. And our dog Enzo, whose breed’s maximum height is 12-13 inches, will fit in quite nicely.