Wednesday, March 25, 2009
It's Just So Hard
Yes, yes, I'm lame. I'm so... mediocre, you know? But this is why. Mediocrity is a hard balance to keep up. (NOTE: not so much his link, which will be boring unless you're a TwitterHead™, but his words)
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Texas
What can I say? He was the single most stubborn dog I've ever known, and I can't believe that after 17 years, 15 of which I had the pleasure of knowing him, he's gone. Let's go to the highlights:
The End. As Guy said, he went out on his terms. He must have wanted to live, because he had so many moments where he could have, and in some should have, died. To the end he followed the sun, wobbled to the next sunny spot and lay down. I think, when even that activity became too much for him, when that last pleasure was being taken from him, he decided that maybe it was time to go.
Many people didn't "get" Texas. But I (and eventually Guy) did, and that's really all that matters. Ribs for my Ooocher.
- Driving down a small road in Waco, TX and seeing a small, flea-infested Dachshund walking next to a cornfield. "Let's stop!" I said to Mark. "Umm, if he's there on the way back, we'll pick him up." Two hours later we were driving to Austin with an emaciated Texas in the car with us. We bought him a spiked leather collar at a pet store there, and had to remove a spike and make a new hold to fit it on his tiny neck. He wore that same collar until the day he died.
- He was a well-traveled dog. Countless trips to NY and Utah by plane, as well as numerous road trips to LA, the Sierras, and Northern Cali and two cross country adventures by car.
- He suffered from, in no specific order: epilepsy; lupus; broken hip; herniated disc; heartworm. He had also been shot at before I found him - the surgeon removed a bb that had healed under his skin. Lastly, he was run over *in front of me* as I walked across Guerrero Street to Dolores Park. The cab dragged him halfway up the hill, where Texas suddenly tumbled out, looking stunned.
- He loved to run on sand. When he was on sand, his back felt better and he turned into the dog he might have been, had he not been entirely neglected his first two years. He may have needed to be carried down the stairs at Fort Funston, but once he was on the sand, you couldn't help but laugh and smile at his energy.
- He was mocked by most of the men I know, and he couldn't care less.
- Surprisingly, he was the "swimmer" of our two dogs. After being tossed in the Yuba River on a camping trip, he made a slow but stately dog-paddle to the shore. Unlike Trout, who forgot to use her back legs and sank like a stone.
- Speaking of camping - the bear trip. In the Sierras, me, Guy, and a 4 month old B, plus the two dogs, in our tent. Texas is in his favorite place - sleeping on the back of my knees - when a bear appears outside, Trout starts barking like mad, and Texas just shivers in place. After banging pots and yelling at him, the bear leaves and I think, why are my feet wet? Oh, Texas... so frightened of the bear, he peed all over my sleeping bag. [sigh]
- Until his last year, when he was so frail, he *dominated* Trout and the house. The food was *his* food and he decided when Trout could eat it. He got to sleep in the bed when Trout got the floor. When he started sleeping on the floor, *he* took the nicer bed, going as far as to growl at Trout and tunnel his way under her to make her move.
- Last week, when I thought he was laying there dying, I brought him some short ribs. I haven't seen him get up so fast in a very long time. He licked the bowl clean.
The End. As Guy said, he went out on his terms. He must have wanted to live, because he had so many moments where he could have, and in some should have, died. To the end he followed the sun, wobbled to the next sunny spot and lay down. I think, when even that activity became too much for him, when that last pleasure was being taken from him, he decided that maybe it was time to go.
Many people didn't "get" Texas. But I (and eventually Guy) did, and that's really all that matters. Ribs for my Ooocher.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Cookbooks
This past "holiday break" (a misnomer: I was home with both my children, so it was more like "holiday work camp") I decided to do smaller home improvement projects. Organize the closets, and organize the pantry. Anyone who has been to my house knows the love I have for my pantry. It, along with the basement, were the two biggest selling points when we bought our house. Yes, you may have thought it was the spectacular local elementary school or the variety of trash strewn across our neighbor's lawn - but it was the pantry and the basement. Oh, yeah - and the cheap price.
The pantry falls into complete disrepair every 2-3 months - and I'm OK with that. We use it a lot, it's a living space. However, my assortment "recipes I've cut out of the New York Times and shoved above the cookbooks" was becoming a sentient being of it's own and was threatening to leave, so I decided to get down to business. But as I organized and cleaned, instead of basking in the warming glow of satisfaction, I was falling into melancholy.
The Gourmet cookbook Rob and Susie gave me for my birthday years ago. The How to Eat cookbook Guy's mom gave me years ago, where you can find the Lamb and Veggie stew I used to make every winter for Stew Night, inviting all my foodie friends over for a night of steaming bowls of goodness, wine, and conversation. The Dean and Deluca cookbook... who gave me that one? Rob again, I think. The port-marinated salmon I've made for Rob and Susie many times. The chicken pot pie and mac and cheese Scott's been a regular consumer of. In my book of saved recipes, the Asian Wilted Greens Susie whipped up at one party. I cleaned under my bottle of truffle oil and I remembered the time SAE added "just a little more" truffle oil to her dish - and it instantly became inedible. And the Jamie Oliver and River Cafe Cookbooks we all loved to death - Thai Mussles, Roasted Hot Pepper Caprese, Crunchy Asian Salad, Sea Bass and Salsa Verde...
Sigh.
I realized, as I cleaned my pantry, that it was filled with the memories of cooking with friends - and I don't really do that anymore. I cook *for* friends, but my friends who love to cook, really love to explore and teach and create, live in Boston and Seattle and Ireland now. It's been years since I had one of those Saturdays where we created some extravagant and ridiculously difficult meal, just for ourselves.
So I called a few of my peeps and told them I missed cooking with them. And I do. I mean, I have B and U to cook with, but somehow, it's not the same.
So happy 2009, and here is to being closer together someday and cooking up a storm!
The pantry falls into complete disrepair every 2-3 months - and I'm OK with that. We use it a lot, it's a living space. However, my assortment "recipes I've cut out of the New York Times and shoved above the cookbooks" was becoming a sentient being of it's own and was threatening to leave, so I decided to get down to business. But as I organized and cleaned, instead of basking in the warming glow of satisfaction, I was falling into melancholy.
The Gourmet cookbook Rob and Susie gave me for my birthday years ago. The How to Eat cookbook Guy's mom gave me years ago, where you can find the Lamb and Veggie stew I used to make every winter for Stew Night, inviting all my foodie friends over for a night of steaming bowls of goodness, wine, and conversation. The Dean and Deluca cookbook... who gave me that one? Rob again, I think. The port-marinated salmon I've made for Rob and Susie many times. The chicken pot pie and mac and cheese Scott's been a regular consumer of. In my book of saved recipes, the Asian Wilted Greens Susie whipped up at one party. I cleaned under my bottle of truffle oil and I remembered the time SAE added "just a little more" truffle oil to her dish - and it instantly became inedible. And the Jamie Oliver and River Cafe Cookbooks we all loved to death - Thai Mussles, Roasted Hot Pepper Caprese, Crunchy Asian Salad, Sea Bass and Salsa Verde...
Sigh.
I realized, as I cleaned my pantry, that it was filled with the memories of cooking with friends - and I don't really do that anymore. I cook *for* friends, but my friends who love to cook, really love to explore and teach and create, live in Boston and Seattle and Ireland now. It's been years since I had one of those Saturdays where we created some extravagant and ridiculously difficult meal, just for ourselves.
So I called a few of my peeps and told them I missed cooking with them. And I do. I mean, I have B and U to cook with, but somehow, it's not the same.
So happy 2009, and here is to being closer together someday and cooking up a storm!
Thursday, February 17, 2005
The Berkeley Bowl
Wednesday is the "no babysitter day" here in the Lake/NorCal Division home. At least for now - if I don't get a few more jobs soon everyday will be a "no babysitter day" here. In any case, Berch has a music "class" at 10:30 am, and after a too short morning nap an getting his hair pulled by an equally tired toddler in the "class," he took nap number two until the early afternoon. We had lunch, and then we were off.
To The Berkeley Bowl.
Many of you have heard me rant mightily about the Bowl. The thing is, I LOVE what they sell. 15 different kinds of mushrooms. Organic apples at what Safeway charges for regular ones. More yam varieties than I ever knew existed. But there are three big problems with the bowl. One, they were so afraid of being shorted out of shelving space to sell fifty different gourmet olive oils that they made all of the aisles too narrow. Two, their parking lot sucks, on top of being too small. Three, everyone who shops there really suck (except me, of course!).
So yesterday we pull up at the strategic hour of 2:30 - after the lunch crowd but before the after work crowd And still, I am waiting for someone to walk up to my section of parking lot to leave. Finally a woman appears, walks to her car, and I turn on my turn signal. I wait as she carefully takes each bag and gingerly places it in the back seat of her car. While I watch this, I see a car start to turn into the exit, right next to where this spot is about to open. I see the driver's eyes light up and I understand them perfectly - "Ah HA! See how smart I am - I completely disregard the signs for entrance and exit, completely mess with the flow of traffic, and see how I am rewarded? A SPOT. Just for me!" I then inch the car up slightly, just enough so the passenger sees me and mentiones to her friend that perhaps that spot is spoken for already. The driver reluctantly drives off, as if I have done something wrong by patiently waiting my turn in the parking lot straight from hell.
My slow-lady friend is finally done and she starts wheel her cart back to.... the flowerbed marking the exit. Wow - the cart bay is maybe another 40 feet from where she ditched the cart in freakin' flowers, but evidently she and her Lexus had places to go and flowers to crush, because she couldn't be bothered. But we're finally parked! And I take her abandoned cart, put Berch in, swab down anything in licking distance with an antibacterial cloth, and we're off.
As you can see, Berch has his hand in a box of cereal. He started to breakdown about 10 minutes into the Bowl experience, so I opened up his cereal to give him a few. You'd be amazed how fast a baby can figure out that you are feeding him too slowly and he can stuff way more into his mouth if he finds the source. Behind Berch is just the organic apples and pears. So that should give you an idea of how massive the produce section is. Still, not so big that shoppers with poor shopping form can't infuriate me.
I am a big "cart tucker"; when I am going to park my cart somewhere to peruse some lettuce, say, I try to push the cart as far to the side as I can, making sure that other shoppers can still get by. I'd like to thank my mother for this trait - I don't think she specifically taught this to me, but I am sure it is the result of many examples of good form. Anyway, I am a tucker. As opposed to someone from Berkeley, who feels it's their God-given poser liberal right to stop dead in the middle of the aisle to look at some absolutely lovely shitakes. That's the thing about Berkeley - it's all about peace and love until you ask someone to please move so you can get by. Because once you do that, you're harshing their mellow, man. And Berkeley folks don't like that. In fact, they don't like anything that points out the hypocrisy of their way of life. They are the worst type of liberal - one who loves diversity, as long as it's in a Volvo station wagon and wears Dansko clogs. Really, I had a lady scold me once when I, at a waddlling 9 months, had to reach around my cart and push her cart out of the middle of the aisle. She told me I was "impatient" and could use some lessons in the virtue of "waiting." I am sure the fact that I was bringing another future fossil-fuel lover into the world simply infuriated her. For more insight into this way of thinking, look here.
Still, despite other shoppers' best attempts at clogging the aisles, we kept shopping and tucking, shopping and tucking. It went something like this (moms will recognize this monolouge immediately):
ME: (as I pick through some Romanita tomatoes) Look at all the tomatoes, Berch? Are they red? Are they round? Are they... no..no.. Berch, no, you can't... I guess we'll buy that tomato since you bit through it.
ME: (as I pick through some organic apples for Berch) Look at all of the apples! See, these have some pink and red and yellow, and these are all red, and these...no... no... Berch, no, can I please have th.... I guess we'll buy that apple since you bit through it.
I went on like this through the produce section. Finally, we were on line, where I got to watch the twopeople in front of me stand there while the cashier bagged their groceries. That's a Cali thing - people feel it's beneath them to bag their own groceries. Berch and I kept each other happy anyway, since we were almost out of there.
I'll be back next week.
To The Berkeley Bowl.
Many of you have heard me rant mightily about the Bowl. The thing is, I LOVE what they sell. 15 different kinds of mushrooms. Organic apples at what Safeway charges for regular ones. More yam varieties than I ever knew existed. But there are three big problems with the bowl. One, they were so afraid of being shorted out of shelving space to sell fifty different gourmet olive oils that they made all of the aisles too narrow. Two, their parking lot sucks, on top of being too small. Three, everyone who shops there really suck (except me, of course!).
So yesterday we pull up at the strategic hour of 2:30 - after the lunch crowd but before the after work crowd And still, I am waiting for someone to walk up to my section of parking lot to leave. Finally a woman appears, walks to her car, and I turn on my turn signal. I wait as she carefully takes each bag and gingerly places it in the back seat of her car. While I watch this, I see a car start to turn into the exit, right next to where this spot is about to open. I see the driver's eyes light up and I understand them perfectly - "Ah HA! See how smart I am - I completely disregard the signs for entrance and exit, completely mess with the flow of traffic, and see how I am rewarded? A SPOT. Just for me!" I then inch the car up slightly, just enough so the passenger sees me and mentiones to her friend that perhaps that spot is spoken for already. The driver reluctantly drives off, as if I have done something wrong by patiently waiting my turn in the parking lot straight from hell.
My slow-lady friend is finally done and she starts wheel her cart back to.... the flowerbed marking the exit. Wow - the cart bay is maybe another 40 feet from where she ditched the cart in freakin' flowers, but evidently she and her Lexus had places to go and flowers to crush, because she couldn't be bothered. But we're finally parked! And I take her abandoned cart, put Berch in, swab down anything in licking distance with an antibacterial cloth, and we're off.
As you can see, Berch has his hand in a box of cereal. He started to breakdown about 10 minutes into the Bowl experience, so I opened up his cereal to give him a few. You'd be amazed how fast a baby can figure out that you are feeding him too slowly and he can stuff way more into his mouth if he finds the source. Behind Berch is just the organic apples and pears. So that should give you an idea of how massive the produce section is. Still, not so big that shoppers with poor shopping form can't infuriate me.
I am a big "cart tucker"; when I am going to park my cart somewhere to peruse some lettuce, say, I try to push the cart as far to the side as I can, making sure that other shoppers can still get by. I'd like to thank my mother for this trait - I don't think she specifically taught this to me, but I am sure it is the result of many examples of good form. Anyway, I am a tucker. As opposed to someone from Berkeley, who feels it's their God-given poser liberal right to stop dead in the middle of the aisle to look at some absolutely lovely shitakes. That's the thing about Berkeley - it's all about peace and love until you ask someone to please move so you can get by. Because once you do that, you're harshing their mellow, man. And Berkeley folks don't like that. In fact, they don't like anything that points out the hypocrisy of their way of life. They are the worst type of liberal - one who loves diversity, as long as it's in a Volvo station wagon and wears Dansko clogs. Really, I had a lady scold me once when I, at a waddlling 9 months, had to reach around my cart and push her cart out of the middle of the aisle. She told me I was "impatient" and could use some lessons in the virtue of "waiting." I am sure the fact that I was bringing another future fossil-fuel lover into the world simply infuriated her. For more insight into this way of thinking, look here.
Still, despite other shoppers' best attempts at clogging the aisles, we kept shopping and tucking, shopping and tucking. It went something like this (moms will recognize this monolouge immediately):
ME: (as I pick through some Romanita tomatoes) Look at all the tomatoes, Berch? Are they red? Are they round? Are they... no..no.. Berch, no, you can't... I guess we'll buy that tomato since you bit through it.
ME: (as I pick through some organic apples for Berch) Look at all of the apples! See, these have some pink and red and yellow, and these are all red, and these...no... no... Berch, no, can I please have th.... I guess we'll buy that apple since you bit through it.
I went on like this through the produce section. Finally, we were on line, where I got to watch the twopeople in front of me stand there while the cashier bagged their groceries. That's a Cali thing - people feel it's beneath them to bag their own groceries. Berch and I kept each other happy anyway, since we were almost out of there.
I'll be back next week.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Home Improvements
My parents arrived yesterday. Berch and I were waiting for them at Oakland Airport, and surprisingly enough, their luggage appeared on the announced carousel in under and hour. We were back at the house by 1:30, my mom and I hit Berkeley Bowl while the Bean napped, and by 3:30 we were all fed, awake, and ready to do something fun.
Of course, "fun" is a relative term. My dad nearly took out a piece of his skull with this ridiculous cabinet the previous owners installed on a wall that is really a thruway. I casually mentioned that we were planning to remove the cabinet. Within 15 minutes we were having "fun," dad style - we were recharging the drill battery, and he was hammering a screwdriver around the paint encrusted screws. 3 hours an 2 trips to Home Depot later (all home projects at the Lake household involve no less than 2 trips to Home Depot), that behemouth of a cabinet is in the garage and the wall has been patched.
So as I type this, my father is impatiently waiting for Berch to wake up from his morning nap, because there is the other cabinet on that wall, calling out to him, waiting to be removed....
This is what a visit from Dad entails - having a list of home improvements ready for him. Tomorrow I believe it's a section of wall that needs to be patched. I haven't come up with a Sunday project, but if anyone has any suggestions, I am all ears.
Berch finally feels better today, though his cute factor didn't suffer from the illness. Case in point, here is this movie of him crying because his throat was bothering him. Yes, yes, evil mommy, filming his tears instead of comforting him. Good stuff. To balance that, I leave you with a few pictures of him sleeping last night.
Of course, "fun" is a relative term. My dad nearly took out a piece of his skull with this ridiculous cabinet the previous owners installed on a wall that is really a thruway. I casually mentioned that we were planning to remove the cabinet. Within 15 minutes we were having "fun," dad style - we were recharging the drill battery, and he was hammering a screwdriver around the paint encrusted screws. 3 hours an 2 trips to Home Depot later (all home projects at the Lake household involve no less than 2 trips to Home Depot), that behemouth of a cabinet is in the garage and the wall has been patched.
So as I type this, my father is impatiently waiting for Berch to wake up from his morning nap, because there is the other cabinet on that wall, calling out to him, waiting to be removed....
This is what a visit from Dad entails - having a list of home improvements ready for him. Tomorrow I believe it's a section of wall that needs to be patched. I haven't come up with a Sunday project, but if anyone has any suggestions, I am all ears.
Berch finally feels better today, though his cute factor didn't suffer from the illness. Case in point, here is this movie of him crying because his throat was bothering him. Yes, yes, evil mommy, filming his tears instead of comforting him. Good stuff. To balance that, I leave you with a few pictures of him sleeping last night.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Back in the saddle
It is freezing in our basement. For the last hour I've been sitting here posting items for sale on ebay - for the most part outfits and tchotchkies that were given to Berch in that first flurry of his arrival that we never got around to wearing. And a fair amount of clothing that I truly hated. So I have finally learned how to sell items on ebay - Guy just asked me through IM if I wanted to be a Power Seller. Um, hell yeah! I must say, now that I understand how easy it is to sell your crap on eBay, I find myself eyeing items in my house that I have been "holding on to," though for what I'm not entirely certain. "I wonder how much I can get for that dusty phone with no cord that's been sitting in a corner of the basement since we moved in?"
So the Bean has been quite the sicky. Some of you may have known that he was really sick a few weeks ago and needed to be hospitalized. Thankfully, that's overwith, but once again the poor guy is suffering from a fever and what I can only imagine is a sore throat. I guess that because he keeps making a very cute and pathetic mouth/tongue maneuver that is different from his cute and effective "I'm hungry and want to try what you're eating" mouth/tongue maneuver.
But other than being a little sick, he is doing great. Here he is still bouncing in his bouncy seat, despite being way too big for it:
I suppose I should get back to my power selling. I have a few more precious, precious outfits left to list. And I think I need to find a pair of gloves and a down jacket
So the Bean has been quite the sicky. Some of you may have known that he was really sick a few weeks ago and needed to be hospitalized. Thankfully, that's overwith, but once again the poor guy is suffering from a fever and what I can only imagine is a sore throat. I guess that because he keeps making a very cute and pathetic mouth/tongue maneuver that is different from his cute and effective "I'm hungry and want to try what you're eating" mouth/tongue maneuver.
But other than being a little sick, he is doing great. Here he is still bouncing in his bouncy seat, despite being way too big for it:
I suppose I should get back to my power selling. I have a few more precious, precious outfits left to list. And I think I need to find a pair of gloves and a down jacket
Monday, September 20, 2004
I Used to Like Dogs...
This past weekend Guy and I went to Santa Fe for a friend's wedding. The day before we left we had Tivo installed. I mention this only because this is a story about two dogs.
We have two dogs: Texas, a dachshund I found 10 years ago wandering a state highway in Waco, Texas, and Trout, a kelpie we adopted from the SPCA three years ago. Texas is a world of dog maladies - epilepsy, discoid lupus (cauing some nasty-ass nails and weird skin funk), a bad back (needing surgery once), and a broken hip I never knew about. Yet he's so easy, relatively speaking. Trout, on the other hand, has been stressful from day one: she barks at any little thing, even if we are home and tell her it's OK; she can't tell the difference between and intruder and a guest, resulting in excessive barking with every person who comes into the house (fun party dog!); she has seperation anxiety; she developed some weird bladder thing where she was peeing daily in the kitchen; she started protest SHITTING in the kitchen; and, oh yeah, she has epilepsy too.
Since Berch was born, life with Trout has become very stressful. Before the baby, I was Trout's biggest champion. Guy would freak out on finding piss in the kitchen, or Trout barking non-stop at someone walking by, and I would be the voice of reason, calming him down, suggestion ways we could learn to live with this lemon of a dog. But then the baby came and Trout lost her ally. Maybe it was because she figured out when I was breast feeding or trying to put the baby to sleep, and thereby essentially unable to run across the house and yell at her over and over again to STOP BARKING. So just as Berch was drifting off to slumberland while feeding, Trout would start maniacally barking at some phantom squirrel she throught she saw outside, leaving me to make a lose-lose decision: let her bark and wake the baby, or yell at her to shut the fuck up, and wake the baby. She also loves to walk right next to me, and often right UNDER me as I try to walk down our somewhat unsafe back stairs. And she doesn't listen to me, only Guy.
On Wednesday, when the Tivo guy came, at first I thought I could leave her in the house and she'd get over the initial spate of non-stop barking. But no, she kept barking and barking, and finally I had to lock her in a room in the basement while the installer worked. As I sat upstairs I could here her alternately barking, scratching at the door, and THROWING herself at the door. This was doubly stressful because it reminded me of a recent night when friends brought their dog over and we also had to lock Trout up because she never managed to chill out with the other dog. Ultimately, our friends left early because it was a drag listening to Trout balefully bark every 3 seconds from the basement room. And as I sat there Wednesday afternoon, listening to her bark/scratch/lunge, I replayed the past few months and years of this dog completely circumscribing our lives. The friends who will no longer watch her because she will piss and shit in your house because she's stressed or pissed of we're not there. The fact that I can't even walk her anymore because she freaks out when you pass another dog and I can't control her lunging and barking while preventing Berch from getting toppled in the ensuing melee. The fact that we can't even camp with her because she barks at all the other people in nearby campgrounds. Oh, and we can't drive with her anymore either, because she doesn't realize that if she jumps from the way-back to the back seat she will step all over Berch and hurt him. So any drive with her means that I am yelling, top volume, "GET IN THE BACK! NO!! GET IN THE BACK! THE BACK!!" he entire ride. And I started to think about how, for now, Berch doesn't understand that we are "yelling" - he actually smiles when Guy or I are are yelling at Trout - but soon we are going to start making him cry and causing psychological harm because we're always yelling at Trout around him.
Then on Thursday, I went to drop her off at the expensive kennel we are reduced to using because she sucks so mightily, and had an incredibly stressful ride to Lafayette, constantly watching the rear view mirror to make sure she didn't hurt Berch by climbing over the seat, constantly screaming at her, visions of the truck flipping over because I was busy trying to keep her in the wayback instead of driving. After arriving I discovered that she was missing vaccinations and they wouldn't take her. After what amounted to a travelling nervous breakdown or me as I drove all over Oaklnad getting her shots, calling other kennels and dogwalkers, crying to Guy and Judy (who said, "I'd love to help you, but we can't have Trout stay with us ever again.") we decided that she needs to go.
It's a weird thing, as a lifelong dog lover, to realize that I have in some way failed this dog. Or maybe the dog has finally beaten me. Even when we were running her day and night, she was a hard dog to deal with. She was tolerable before, but her pissing and shitting in the house kind of threw us both over the edge. Now, we can't have people over because she won't stop barking at them. And I find myself screaming at her all day for either barking or not laying down when I ask her to, or for rushing past and under me, nearly tripping me, as I try to walk down the stairs carrying Berch, despite all the times I tell her to stay at the top until I tell her it's her turn to come down. It has become hard to lover her, and she is the #1 cause of stress and fights in our household these days.
In any case, there is my rant. Not much of a good story, I am afraid. But there it is.
We have two dogs: Texas, a dachshund I found 10 years ago wandering a state highway in Waco, Texas, and Trout, a kelpie we adopted from the SPCA three years ago. Texas is a world of dog maladies - epilepsy, discoid lupus (cauing some nasty-ass nails and weird skin funk), a bad back (needing surgery once), and a broken hip I never knew about. Yet he's so easy, relatively speaking. Trout, on the other hand, has been stressful from day one: she barks at any little thing, even if we are home and tell her it's OK; she can't tell the difference between and intruder and a guest, resulting in excessive barking with every person who comes into the house (fun party dog!); she has seperation anxiety; she developed some weird bladder thing where she was peeing daily in the kitchen; she started protest SHITTING in the kitchen; and, oh yeah, she has epilepsy too.
Since Berch was born, life with Trout has become very stressful. Before the baby, I was Trout's biggest champion. Guy would freak out on finding piss in the kitchen, or Trout barking non-stop at someone walking by, and I would be the voice of reason, calming him down, suggestion ways we could learn to live with this lemon of a dog. But then the baby came and Trout lost her ally. Maybe it was because she figured out when I was breast feeding or trying to put the baby to sleep, and thereby essentially unable to run across the house and yell at her over and over again to STOP BARKING. So just as Berch was drifting off to slumberland while feeding, Trout would start maniacally barking at some phantom squirrel she throught she saw outside, leaving me to make a lose-lose decision: let her bark and wake the baby, or yell at her to shut the fuck up, and wake the baby. She also loves to walk right next to me, and often right UNDER me as I try to walk down our somewhat unsafe back stairs. And she doesn't listen to me, only Guy.
On Wednesday, when the Tivo guy came, at first I thought I could leave her in the house and she'd get over the initial spate of non-stop barking. But no, she kept barking and barking, and finally I had to lock her in a room in the basement while the installer worked. As I sat upstairs I could here her alternately barking, scratching at the door, and THROWING herself at the door. This was doubly stressful because it reminded me of a recent night when friends brought their dog over and we also had to lock Trout up because she never managed to chill out with the other dog. Ultimately, our friends left early because it was a drag listening to Trout balefully bark every 3 seconds from the basement room. And as I sat there Wednesday afternoon, listening to her bark/scratch/lunge, I replayed the past few months and years of this dog completely circumscribing our lives. The friends who will no longer watch her because she will piss and shit in your house because she's stressed or pissed of we're not there. The fact that I can't even walk her anymore because she freaks out when you pass another dog and I can't control her lunging and barking while preventing Berch from getting toppled in the ensuing melee. The fact that we can't even camp with her because she barks at all the other people in nearby campgrounds. Oh, and we can't drive with her anymore either, because she doesn't realize that if she jumps from the way-back to the back seat she will step all over Berch and hurt him. So any drive with her means that I am yelling, top volume, "GET IN THE BACK! NO!! GET IN THE BACK! THE BACK!!" he entire ride. And I started to think about how, for now, Berch doesn't understand that we are "yelling" - he actually smiles when Guy or I are are yelling at Trout - but soon we are going to start making him cry and causing psychological harm because we're always yelling at Trout around him.
Then on Thursday, I went to drop her off at the expensive kennel we are reduced to using because she sucks so mightily, and had an incredibly stressful ride to Lafayette, constantly watching the rear view mirror to make sure she didn't hurt Berch by climbing over the seat, constantly screaming at her, visions of the truck flipping over because I was busy trying to keep her in the wayback instead of driving. After arriving I discovered that she was missing vaccinations and they wouldn't take her. After what amounted to a travelling nervous breakdown or me as I drove all over Oaklnad getting her shots, calling other kennels and dogwalkers, crying to Guy and Judy (who said, "I'd love to help you, but we can't have Trout stay with us ever again.") we decided that she needs to go.
It's a weird thing, as a lifelong dog lover, to realize that I have in some way failed this dog. Or maybe the dog has finally beaten me. Even when we were running her day and night, she was a hard dog to deal with. She was tolerable before, but her pissing and shitting in the house kind of threw us both over the edge. Now, we can't have people over because she won't stop barking at them. And I find myself screaming at her all day for either barking or not laying down when I ask her to, or for rushing past and under me, nearly tripping me, as I try to walk down the stairs carrying Berch, despite all the times I tell her to stay at the top until I tell her it's her turn to come down. It has become hard to lover her, and she is the #1 cause of stress and fights in our household these days.
In any case, there is my rant. Not much of a good story, I am afraid. But there it is.
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