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….”