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.