Obviously we’ve all just finished the marathon that is preparing for Christmas, or whatever your respective winter solstice time holiday may be. Normally, Christmas is one week of stress-cleaning , back-breaking late-night wrapping sessions, and worry that the boy-child won’t like any of his gifts. Yes, he’s reached the picky stage. I’m doomed.
But there was a port in the storm . . . which was actually the beginning of another small, furry storm.
My mother got the wild idea to let me adopt a puppy two weeks before Christmas. Admittedly, I’ve been itching to adopt a new dog for years. I can’t help it. Animals are my safe haven. They don’t look at me weird when I’m having manic or down days. Animals do their thing, you do yours. As long as you give each other the attention and help necessary, the relationship works. Dogs in particular are amazing at this. Given the depth of my mental hiccups, it was time to pull out the big guns and bring in a dog who would actually acknowledge me–unlike the Chiweenie o’ Doom, our eldest dog–and give me a focus to pull back from the edge of a serious downward spiral.
At first, I thought Mom was kidding. She’d made it clear there were no more animals coming into the house after we rescued a pair of guinea pigs whose human mommy didn’t want to transport them all the way to San Diego. So when Mom kept double-checking that I had a way to/from the adoption event near her work, I was certain she was fucking with me.
I was wrong. So wrong.
The first dog we saw upon arriving was a wonderful older gal; a German shepherd who’d been rescued from abuse and neglect. I was in trouble straight out the gate. In our discussions about a new dog, we’d agreed to pick a puppy. It’d be easier to integrate a puppy into the household–we would only have Tabitha’s inhibitions about a new family member to deal with, not two grown dogs who have very set visions of their home life. As much as I wanted to take the shepherd-lady home, it’d cause chaos and she deserved a family who could focus solely on rebuilding her trust in humans.
Over we went to look at the rest of the dogs they’d brought out to the event–we being myself and two friends who agreed to help me get the new baby home. My friend C took one look in a window near the end of the heated animal trailer, pointed, and announced, “That one.”
In the middle of a rambunctious puppy herd was a tiny fluffy black girl with a dab of silver on the back of her neck. She tossed a piece of kibble around, chasing it with the grace of a drunk chick in six-inch stilettos. Her lower half was drenched from playing in the water bowl with her litter-mates. This little darling has the most soulful eyes I’ve ever seen on a puppy and intelligence.
Limos has settled in reasonably well. She’s smarter than I anticipated, which gets me in a world of trouble. How so?
The other day, it was just the puppy and I in my bedroom. I walked into the adjoining bathroom–not bothering to close the door to spare the modesty of a dog–to take a leak. Can’t ignore nature. What I hadn’t anticipated? Limos didn’t know the bathroom existed until I sat on the toilet. She sat up on the bed and made the most pitiful noises, her “something is not fucking right, Mom” noises. I finished up, laughing the entire time, and picked up the puppy. She continued to give the now-closed bathroom door the stinkeye for ten minutes before fully calming down.
The the Kiddo had to take a leak and the “Omg” fest started again in Puplandia. She is also terrified of the guinea pigs and for her first ten days in the house refused to enter the same room as the piggies.
Hey, at least my dog is just as weird as I am. We’re kindred spirits in our mostly black and odd quirks. That’s just fine with me.