Sad, Sad Day

Call me heartless, but I never imagined I would spend the day crying my eyes out over the loss of the dog.  Then again, I never imagined that I would have to take him and have him "put to sleep" at the ripe, old age of five years.

The last time I wrote about Tucker I was a little concerned about the way he was eating—or not eating.  He was still gobbling down people food with no problem, and even eating his dog food if it had only the tiniest bits of "goody" in it.  So I wasn't really sure what to think of him.  He might snub his food for a couple of days, and then I'd get worried and break down and give him something yummy to tempt him into eating.  I was kind of frustrated that he was being so stubborn and naughty, but in the back of my mind I kept worrying that this really wasn't normal.  Then I discovered that if we put his dish on the kitchen counter, poured in a little water and let him hear us stir it in with a spoon he would eat the dog food.  So I went a couple more weeks thinking he was just silly and stubborn.

But by the end of last week he started vomiting all his dog food.  From Friday night to Saturday morning Bruce and I could see a dramatic change in Tucker.  He was very listless and he didn't even show any interest in his food—or anything else; he didn't even bark or growl at a knock on the door.  We couldn't take him to a vet, so I looked online to see how to treat a starving dog.  Mild people-foods like rice and eggs—about 1/2 cup every hour, and after a couple days we could try some high-quality puppy food.  We did the rice and eggs for him, but we had to coax him to eat the first dish.  That perked him up a little, and the next hour he was very happy to eat more of his special, home-made food.  But by Sunday morning he didn't want to eat, he vomited all his rice, and he wouldn't drink his water either; he was stiff and seemed disoriented.  He was vomiting again this morning.

In the end I had to take him to be euthanized; I slept badly last night, anticipating this. In the end, all that's left of our dog is a receipt.  And I've been crying all day.   I drove straight home from the Humane Society, and as I walked in the door I automatically looked to where he usually waits for us to come in, expecting him to be there.  Poor Tucker!  I feel horribly sad.

In the Dog House

You could say that I'm just exhausted from many, many consecutive nights of very little sleep. You could say that I'm stressed out with my new load of school work. You could say that I have PMS and I'm crampy and emotional. And you'd be right every time. But that doesn't change the fact that I am more than tired of the dog.

Things might be different if I'd had a dog that I loved before I had any kids. Or things might be different if I'd grown up with a dog; in fact I'm sure they would. Because I remember that when I was about six or seven, and we had Rocky—my brother's Dalmatian-English Pointer mix—I thought he was pretty wonderful. I sat around with him, and leaned on him when he was lying down, and petted him, and invited him everywhere I went. In fact, one winter Mom kept Rocky in the house because he had bad arthritis (from a pin in his leg, earned by chasing cars) and I remember her complaining about all the mess of dog hair all over the house that winter. I hadn't even noticed it until she said something; I just loved having the dog in the house. I know, I know; all my kids will find that very hard to believe, but it's true. I treated Rocky the way Rachel treats Tucker.

But Rocky died when I was between eight and ten, and we never had a dog after him. Well, when I was about 20 we did have Basil, a Cocker Spaniel who was as dumb as he was attractive.

So I didn't grow up with dogs. I'm not used to them. I think they are yucky. I can see why other people like them—I really can. They do that cute inquisitive dog-look-thing—in fact, they have very expressive faces, they are enthusiastic, they love to be with you, and sometimes they're kind of funny and cute. I can enjoy them (sort of) from a distance, but they are a big-old, nasty pain to live with.

Every time I begin to think that maybe, just maybe, I could tolerate Tucker (despite the piles of black, hair everywhere, and as long as his nose and tongue never touch me)—just when I begin to think that maybe he's OK, he does something that makes me want to beat him. Or sprinkle Tabasco on the trash.

Yes, Tucker has started chowing down on the trash. He tried it a couple of times when we first got him, but his head got stuck in the lid of the trash can and it scared him and he's never done it again. Until a little while ago. And now, this morning was the third time in a week. Now, if he just used the kitchen trash-can like a big-doggy bowl, that would be OK. I mean, who cares? But, no. He has to search through the can for the tastiest tidbits—like old chicken fat, empty "cream of anything" soup cans . . . You know the routine, I'm sure. And I'm sure you've seen the end results of the way dogs carry out this archaeological dig—plastic wrap chewed up and stretched to Kingdom Come, vegetable peels and scraps discarded all over the place, cans and containers strewn about. And even that would be tolerable if it was limited to the back yard, only happened once every two years, and my kids were here to clean it up. It could be set down as typical dog behavior which would irritate me a lot, but not quite make me want to kill him. But, noooo. He has to drag it down the stairs and mess up the living room too!

So this morning, as I haul my tired self out of bed to take the kids to school, in my PMS state, I am weighing which is more urgent: My zillion homework assignments, or the huge globs of dog hair stuck all over the stairs? Being a fastidious housekeeper, and not a big fan of dogs, I've been feeling irritated all week about the black hairy mess (I mean Tucker—and the hair he's shed all over my world), and I've been murmuring about the lack of vacuuming that my carpets receive. I figure I'll drop off the kids, pick up a few groceries, clean up the house, do some laundry, vacuum the stairs (where Tucker sleeps), and then get to my homework. An extremely full day.

I drop off the kids, go shopping, and get home feeling pretty darn happy that I just got 36 cans of Stephen's Cinnamon Hot Cocoa Mix for 75 cents each. That might just last month or two around here. I open the door to bring in the groceries, and there it is: slimy, chewed up, stretched out, plastic wrap hanging down the stairs; an old honey bottle dripping its last dregs on the carpet; onion roots, carrot peels, and celery ends all over the place; butter wrappers chewed into shreds and scattered on the living room floor—and, to top it off, ants coming from who knows where to enjoy the remains of the feast. Tucker knew he was in BIG trouble; he's pretty lucky I didn't kill him on the spot. He hid from me all day until Bruce got home—which was perfectly fine with me.

I admit, the thought of lacing the trash with rat poison did flit across my evil brain. But I think I'm not entirely heartless, and not vicious . . . I think. At least I'm not truly murderous. I just hate living with a dog.

Hours later, with most of my "mad" worn down, although not completely gone, I'm willing to negotiate: I won't kill the dog if my family will really take care of him—you know, like feeding and watering him and letting him outside without my having to tell them over and over again. AND vacuuming up all the dog hair Every Day. We'll see what happens.

Dog Wars

So, I'm having dog trouble with my neighbor. I think she is unreasonable—obviously I do. Let's see what you think.

When we first got Tucker this neighbor decided it would be really sweet to bring her dog over so they could meet and become playmates. I thought this was a crazy thing to do myself, especially since Tucker had only been in our home for about a day and a half. For a couple of minutes things went OK. Until her dog decided to show dominance by putting his paw and head on top of Tucker's shoulder. It looked like a sweet doggy hug, but we soon found out that Tucker didn't appreciate it at all. Later we read online (your source for all wisdom and knowledge) that this "doggy hug" was, indeed, a dog signal for, "I am the boss of you. Yes, even on your own territory." Well, we pulled the dogs away from each other and she went home.

A few days later my kids took Tucker for a walk at the park. Tucker saw the neighbor and her dog there, broke loose from the kids and went to finish what her dog had started. The neighbor freaked out and got in between the two dogs, and so she got hurt. She came to Bruce and me four times in three days to tell us that she didn't want to make a big deal of it, but if it ever happened again she'd call animal control. Not satisfied with that, she told us that if she ever saw Tucker outside she'd report us. Then she said that if she ever saw my kids out walking Tucker she'd turn us in. And, that still not being enough, she brought over her favorite dog-training book for us to peruse.

Since then Tucker has pretty much stayed in the house—far, far contrary to my own wishes. When we let him out for a potty break one of us watches him from the back door and calls him back into the house as soon as he's done. We've had Tucker for about seven months now, and he's only gotten loose maybe three or four times.

OK. It is no big secret that I don't really like dogs. It's a pretty well established fact that I'd just as soon not have a dog. But Tucker really is a nice dog. If I could overlook the fact that he makes a disaster in my house by shedding everywhere, and that I can't stand his face to be near me because he drools so much, and that he sleeps on the stairs, and that he is generally underfoot, then he's not so bad. He's good with the kids, pretty obedient, and very friendly—not just with us, but with everyone who comes to visit—almost too friendly (he thinks he's a lap-dog). So my point of view is that if I'm stuck living with a dog for the next 15 years or so, and I'm stuck keeping him in the house with me, at least he's a nice dog.

Ferocious brute!

Well, two nights ago Jessica let the dog outside and then forgot to stay and watch him; I didn't realize this until the next scene played out: Tucker couldn't have been out for more than five minutes when we heard a pounding on the door. And, you guessed it, there's our neighbor. Does she say "hi?" Does she say, "Did you know that Tucker is running loose?" No. She just started yelling at us that our dog was running around and that if it happened again she would call animal control. As soon as we realized Tucker was out—while she was still at the door—we called him and he came right in. But there was no acknowledgment of that. No, she just delivered her very rude message and stormed off without even saying goodbye, never mind a thank you.

Now have I ever complained about when her dog, who is almost as big as Tucker, ran over to our yard and knocked my four-year-old Jessica down? No. I said, "That's OK. He's just excited." Have I ever gone and griped at her when her dog was running loose? No. In fact, I've coaxed him to me and kept him in our garage until she got home so that he wouldn't get hit by a car. Was I feeling really grumpy yesterday? You bet!

It's not about the dogs. Like I said, I couldn't care less about having a dog. This is about how rudely she treats us; storming over, yelling, threatening, and making unrealistic demands. This is what really frustrates me. If my temperament were like hers, we would have a battle royal over this. However I am non-confrontational to the point of almost being afraid to state my own opinion. I certainly don't want to start a battle over something as stupid as dogs—I don't want to go over to her place and say, "Not only do I think you are wrong, but you are very rude." But I don't want to be bullied by her for as long as we own Tucker, either.

So here I was, wanting to be on friendly terms with my neighbor, but feeling very angry and not knowing what to do about it. I definitely felt like she should know how I feel about all of this.

Finally I decided to write her a letter yesterday morning. I tried to be very nice about what I said; I didn't call her a big booger, or sign it with poison ink. But just to be sure it was OK, I took the letter to Melanie at her school to ask her how she thought it sounded; then Melanie showed it to her teacher/partner for a more unbiased opinion. They both said it was really good. (That means 100% of school teachers who read the letter said it sounded clear, and not nasty at all.) But I still wasn't sure about giving this letter to my neighbor, since I don't know her well enough to know whether even the most polite note would give offense. As I thought and thought about it, the best revenge popped into my mind: I would take her some brownies! Yes! (Insert evil, maniacal laugh here.) That would just serve her right! Weird, huh?

So after school I made the brownies and packaged them up. By then Bruce got home, so I had him proof-read the letter too and he agreed that it was a good letter, and he delivered the package for me. The neighbor was very happy to get brownies—apparently they are her favorite. (Who knew?)

I don't know how this will play out. I don't know if she'll say anything to me, or if I'll just have to see what happens the next time Tucker pokes his nose outside without her permission. In the meantime, I feel a little better.

The Verdict Is In . . .

. . . and it doesn't bode well for the pets.

Oh, I definitely don't like having a dog in my house. It's not because Tucker is a bad dog. Actually, he is a very good dog--for a dog. The problem is that he does dog things. Don't misunderstand me; I'm not one of those weirdos who hate dogs because they think a dog should behave like a human--or a cat, or a goldfish. No, that's not it.

I hate that he chases my poor cat around. I figure Abbi is much smaller, she's older and she was here first; she should have a little peace in her own house. But the chasing is partially Abbi's fault because she runs away. When she holds her ground and hisses at him, Tucker is the one who wimps out and runs away.

I hate that his nose is constantly sweeping my table and counters. Bruce says he's just checking things out, and I know that too. But it's not cute.

I hate that his hair is all over my world. No matter how often we sweep, vacuum or mop, there is black dog hair everywhere--even in the bathroom sink! I find it especially offensive on my table and counter-tops. For example, this morning I had just barely cleaned off my counter. Then Tucker came to say "hi" while I was preparing myself a bowl of cereal. When I picked up my clean spoon from my clean counter and dipped it into my cereal, a dog hair appeared floating in my milk. Gross!!

In all fairness, Abbi sheds a lot too. But Abbi is one-fifth Tucker's size (at most), and I've never seen her hair on my dinner table.

I really hate his drooly, slimy chops all over me. Tucker's slobber is the consistency of snot, and I just don't want it all over me. Since he seems determined to be my very best friend, it's hard to avoid his slime. I don't need a best friend, I already have one; and I don't need another child either. Especially a big, hairy, drooly one.

But I understand that dogs do these things; no, none of this dog-stuff is Tucker's fault and it doesn't make him a bad dog. He's a dog. He behaves like a dog. And he's actually a pretty nice one at that.

I just don't want a dog living inside my house!

This is why I resisted getting one for such a long time. Bruce says dogs are social and need to be with people all the time. I say they are big, dirty, smelly animals and belong outside. But in a moment of weakness I gave in to my family; and since the yard is not fenced in, the dog's been in the house. Boy, that had better change soon, or I will be "barking mad!"

Abbi and I don't always agree; but in this case I think we do.

In the meantime, I've been pretty much told to put-up and shut-up. Dumb dog.

Raining, Cats and Dogs

We have had an awful lot of rain around here lately. Rain every day for days and days and days; unusual. Will it stop?

But the big news is that I've had a lapse of reason, taken a break from sanity, and went out and got a dog for Jason. Well, he's a family dog, but it's Jason's fault that we got him. Jason has been wanting a dog for a long time. I have not wanted a dog. I don't particularly like dogs; they are gross. And it seems like buying a ninth, hairy, slobbery, under-your-feet kid. Oh, it's not that dogs are bad, and it's not their fault they're gross; they are just dogs.

But since Jason is just such a good kid, and since he looks at us with that hopeful, puppy face (and since Bruce has really wanted a dog, too; and since the other kids are pretty nice, too), I just couldn't keep saying "no." Besides that, Bruce took Jason to the Humane Society a couple weeks ago and Jason really fell for a dog called Chief, who probably didn't have much time left. So last Friday I relented, and we went to get him. Unfortunately, one of his statistics was that he eats cats—he totally hates them. We had to leave Chief behind, and there were some very disappointed kids.

Meeting Tucker

So Saturday morning Jason asked if we could go look again, and off we went to the Humane Society that afternoon—to look at more dogs. As soon as we chose one to take outside on a leash, so we could get to know him, it really did start raining cats and dogs. Rain and hail were coming down in torrents! But it cleared up—mostly—and we got to test-drive a few dogs before Jason finally settled on Tucker, a black lab.

Tucker needs some training: sit, stay, come, get out of my face, etc; but he is a sweet-tempered dog and he hasn't had any accidents in the house. He's still gross. Like, if I'm sitting on the couch, his head is almost level with mine and I get hot, doggy breath in the face; or when he walked past our lunch table and belched at us; or when I saw him drinking his water and noticed that his very fresh water was now super cloudy with dog spit—Gag! (I don't watch him drink any more). And he drools—but not nearly as much as a bull-dog or a boxer, thank goodness! And he takes up a lot of space in our little house. But none of these things are his fault—he's just a dog.

Lindsey and Tucker—with a tennis ball;
he'd prefer to have two or three in his mouth.

And, really, he is pretty cute. He loves tennis balls to the point of being ridiculous; we bought him three and he would really like to have all of them in his mouth at all times. Tucker loves the kids and he already adores Jason. And the kids—even Rachel (my self-proclaimed lover-of-cats, and hater-of-dogs)—think he's great.

Abbi, on the top bunk, sees Tucker in the bedroom doorway.
See the bottle-brush tail?

Abbi is pretty sure this is just another of my evil plots to torment her. First I bring in a bird that she can see, hear and smell, but not touch or taste; and now I bring in a big dog. As soon as Tucker came into the house her tail turned into a bottle-brush and she hissed a few times before running away from him. She's pretty much hidden in either my room or Brandon and Ryan's room since Saturday evening. (She favors the top bunk bed—and her hide-away box that I made especially for this occasion, even though she would have nothing to do with the box previously.)

But she'll get used to him. And I think I will too.

Jason and Tucker

I take it all back

Wait, wait, wait! Did I say Abbi was a very good cat?

Today she is all black again, and now I know why: She is using the ashes in the fireplace for a litter box! Dumb cat! Now, you might say this is not so bad—after all, she's still not pooping on the floor. But it is bad, and here's why:

1. I don't want her to think she can ever, ever, ever potty in the house. Never!

2. Can you imagine lighting a fire in the fireplace with unsuspected kitty poo in the bottom of it? UGH!!!!

And, besides, now she needs another bath.

She Loves Me; She Loves Me Not . . .

Abbi, our cat, and I have kind of a love/hate relationship. We got her seven years ago as a cute, little, noisy kitten. She cried so much when the kids played with her that Bruce and I thought they must be tormenting her to death and we were always telling them to leave her alone. Actually, Abbi was just a complainer. Unfortunately, she never did get attached to the kids—but she adores Bruce. She sleeps on his side of the bed; if he's left his clothes out she sleeps on them; and if he sits down for more than 10 minutes she hops onto his lap for some affection.

Abbi loves Bruce. Here she climbed into his lap while he was on a business phone call.

She sees me, however, as another creature entirely. First of all, we got started on the wrong foot: One night, when she was still little and exploring her new home, Bruce and I heard a crash in the kitchen (or so we thought). I figured she had gotten on the counter and knocked down my cooling racks; not a big deal, so I didn't even bother to go check it out. But in the morning I discovered that she had actually climbed on the fireplace mantle and knocked off the bride and groom figurine that my brother, Wendell, had given to me as a wedding gift (it was the figure on our wedding cake). Abbi chose the very moment of this terrible discovery to rub up against my legs. I think I grabbed her by the tail, shook her and tossed her aside. Now, I am not normally cruel to animals but I was very distraught! I did eventually forgive her for the broken figurine. (After I had super-glued it together as well as I could, and cried over it for about a week. But maybe it's fitting, now that we have eight kids, for the bride to be a little cracked and the groom to have a hole in his head.)

Abbi really is a good cat. She doesn't jump on the table, she only eats cat food, she doesn't poop on the floor, she's never bitten or scratched the kids or anyone else. And, truly, I am pretty nice to her. But she's never known what to think of me since those early days. It doesn't help that I am at home more than anyone else, and so I'm always the one tripping over her—which she doesn't take kindly. Once I came in with my arms full of babies, diaper bags and groceries, didn't see the cat, and she got booted across the room. I feel bad when this kind of thing happens (although rather frustrated too), but Abbi just thinks I'm a madwoman. I can see her little kitty brain saying, "What is she going to do next?"

(after her bath)

What is she going to do next?!

Well, things have been OK between me and Abbi for months now, so I guess she was due for more wanton cruelty from me. She has had a big, black, greasy spot on her shoulder for a couple weeks; and black paws too. (I suspect she'd been hiding out under a car somewhere one cold day.) She really looked like she'd need a bath, but I waited and waited, hoping she'd get it cleaned up by herself. Today I finally gave her a bath. Poor kitty! She complained a lot, but she never tried to bite, scratch or even run away. She is such a good cat. I didn't think to take a picture of her before I dried her off—couldn't have anyway, since I didn't have an assistant. But I got a picture of her after she was towelled down. (above)

Of course, after the bath she ran straight for a heater vent, where she sat down to give herself a proper cat bath. Then she spent most of the afternoon in the sunny window, drying off. Now she's kind of avoiding me. You just never know what I'm going to do!

Rats!

When I was growing up I liked animals as much as the next kid, and I had my share of pets, too. I'd catch lizards and horned-toads in the fields around our house and take them home to keep until they escaped. One year we had a lot of fun with a wading pool full of tadpoles--several of them even made it to frogdom. We had ducks and rabbits, which weren't exactly pets, but were fun anyway. We had cats and dogs; Melanie had a couple of gerbils--that had lots of babies; we had finches. I had a fish tank with lots of fish and a really cool fiddler crab. Although I got mad at my fish because they ate the crab when it was moulting. (Is that what you call it when crabs get bigger?) Well, anyway, we had lots of pets and I loved them all.

Then I got married and had lots of kids; I just didn't really feel the need for a pet any more. We did get a cat a few years ago because I thought the kids should have a pet. I like Abbi well enough--she's a really good cat. But it's just not the same as when I was a kid. You know, I just don't love little critters like I did then. So the last thing I ever thought I'd have in the house was a couple of rats.

My first experience with a pet rat was when my brother Peter moved from home, I think for the first time, to California with a friend. We all went to "visit Peter" (really Mom was just going to check things out) and he showed us their rat. First of all, in my mind rats were "rodents" (translate to "vermin" in grown-up language). And I just thought it was ugly! I thought they must have caught it wild and caged it up; it was BIG and it looked bald and had a really pointy nose. It was a male, and all it did was lie around on its back, letting all its maleness hang out. This rat would make you think of the stereotypical unkempt, beer-bellied guy hanging out in front of the TV all day--the kind that would answer the door in his boxer shorts. I was 10 at the time so the whole thing was slightly shocking--it made a big, negative impression! Fortunately our two little rats aren't like that.

Still, I would never have chosen rats as pets, so why did I get a couple of them? Well Becky, my sister-in-law, keeps rats. This did not inspire me to run out and get some. No, one of her rats had babies and my kids really wanted some. So on May 3rd or 4th Ryan called Becky up and told her he could have a rat, and asked when he could get it. She immediately asked to talk to me or Bruce for verification of the facts. I felt surprisingly neutral about the whole thing. I was a little worried about Abbi (it turns out she couldn't care less); but overall, I figured it would be OK. But I told them they had to clean their room and keep it clean until the rats were big enough to leave their mommy (I did not know that was only two days into the future). WOW! They cleaned their room in about 20 minutes! And they did a good job, too; they made the beds, cleaned out the closet, the tops of the dressers... They even cleaned under the beds--because "if there was old food under there, with germs on it the rats might get sick" (never mind the people). One week later the room was still clean and we became the owners of a couple of little female rats.

I have to admit they are kind of cute. Do I want to play with them? No. Do I want to touch them? No. Do I want them running all over the house? No. I have progressed so far that I can talk nicely to them when they are in their cage. But the kids love them; it's really fun to hear them giggling with their new little critters. And I guess that's what pets are really all about.