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.