My Fair Doggie

So this dog ownership thing...somebody should have told me what I was getting into.

Apparently all those things you hear about the differences between cats and dogs are true. Having had a cat...or four...during the majority of my adult life, I'm pretty well versed in the world of the feline. Feed them. Let them think my bed is theirs. Pet them when they say I should. Create a weird, creepy pet cemetery in the backyard when they die. That pretty well sums it up. No walks. No baths. No assurances that they are good kitties. They really don't care if I think they are good. As long as they feel I'm catering to their whims everyone is happy.

Not so with dogs.

It just would have been nice if someone had told me about that before we impulsively took in an abused, rescue dog whose needs are vastly different from the felines of privilege who currently concede to let us live in their house. 

In reality, Sadie doesn't show all that many signs from her early life anymore. I think she's forgotten about her puppies. Being on death row seems a distant memory. She's well loved and although she wouldn't look at the cats when she first came to live with us, she has learned to cohabitate with them. One cat is her buddy, two don't really care about her one way or another, and another one is seemingly plotting her death on a daily basis. But then, he seems to be plotting everyone's death on a daily basis, so we don't worry about it too much. 

Until recently my daily walks with Sadie have been a refreshing routine. We would go out in the warmth of the day so she could sniff all the things that appeal to dogs and burn off some energy. I used the time not only to get a little exercise of my own but also to think and process. Without that time my thoughts tended to resemble a Fort Lee lane closure. It just wasn't healthy. Since Sadie made her way into our house my mind had been clearer. Walking had been a good thing for both of us.

Until it stopped being a good thing.

Our walking routine changed a couple of weeks ago when, for whatever reason, Sadie decided to exercise her cattle dog herding dog instincts on a young man who in no way resembled a cow. He was just an innocent, if a good bit larger than I, boy on his way home from school. She didn't actually hurt him but she ripped his pants and scratched his leg. 

I was horrified. He was upset. Sadie, however, had no idea she had done anything unacceptable. She was just doing what herding dogs do. This was the first clue I had an Eliza Doolittle on my hands.

I gave the boy my contact information and insisted I would pay to replace his pants. Immediately following the unfortunate herding incident I called Animal Control and Sadie was put under house arrest. First a teen pregnancy and now trouble with the law. My children never gave me this much trouble. 

Sadie was under house arrest for ten days. This meant no walks, no trips in the car, just a few quick jaunts into the back yard each day. During that time I didn't hear from the parents of the boy who had the misfortune to pass us, as I had hoped I would. I did go out for several days in search of him. I was prepared to offer him another apology and some money but I never saw him again.

When Sadie had served her time, a parole officer visited our house and told me the boy's parents were pressing charges and I had to appear in court. Although it was sad to think they didn't trust my word enough to believe we could work things out on our own I also knew the situation could have been much worse. This is when I knew it was time for Operation Pygmalion. Minus the patriarchal undertones.

The first step was to enroll Sadie in obedience school. We knew she was smart but up until this point we had felt what she needed most was love and recovery from her early life. Clearly love alone wasn't going to cut it anymore so I registered her at a School for Wayward Dogs. Going to school creates a lot of anxiety for Sadie. She attends class with a rowdy little Husky intent on being the center of attention and distracting Sadie from her studies. Nevertheless, with time and patience I'm confident Sadie will eventually calm down. Currently she demonstrates some mad sitting and lying down skills and I'm pretty sure she's going to show that feisty little Husky up when they start learning 'stay.'

My second step was to take her to a veterinarian. I had taken her once just after we adopted her but she was so thoroughly traumatized by the experience little was accomplished beyond making it inside the front door. This time she was somewhat better although it took two humans to subdue her enough for an examination. At one point I heard the veterinarian say, "It looks like you are putting on a little weight." I looked around the room for my mother but then realized the vet wasn't talking to me, she was talking to Sadie. It seems our overzealous approach to love has nudged her from an ideal weight of 25 pounds up to a tubby 30 and Sadie needs to go on a diet. As an act of solidarity I'm going to join her.

We start as soon as the batch of chocolate chip cookies I just made are gone. I mean it.

The last step in the remaking of Sadie was a bath. Every time Parker sees Sadie he asks if she's had a bath. Something in my spirit knew this was not going to be an easy endeavor. My spirit was right. I recruited Parker to join me in taking her to the self-service Bark 'n Wash as I knew I'd need help. I had no idea how much help. By the time we left for home Parker, two professional dog washers, and I were all drenched and exhausted from washing a 30 pound dog who should really only weigh 25 pounds.

 

Sadie and the bath of terror

The owner of the Bark 'n Wash refused to let me pay. I'm pretty sure she just felt sorry for me as I stood there bewildered and dripping. But Sadie was fluffy and clean.

I don't know exactly how things will end up in court. I've been assured Sadie won't be taken away from us but I suspect I'll be asked to pay restitution. Which is what I wanted to do in the first place. It won't surprise me if some additional costs are added on. Regardless, I intend to continue playing Professor Higgins to Sadie's Eliza Doolittle until she learns to become a proper little cattle dog.

But ultimately I plan to continue to love her first and foremost. Because, manners or no manners, what all of us need more than anything is love.

For the Love of Bunny Marshmallows

I've been threatening to run up and down the street naked for years.

Once when Anna was a baby and wouldn't stop crying I told her if she didn't stop soon I was going to take off all my clothes and run up and down the street naked. She was too young to know what I was saying, but Charles wasn't. He calmly responded with, "Don't you think that would be a little embarrassing?" I'm not sure he understood the concept of hyperbole. Anyway, ever since then when I get frustrated enough I make the same threat.

This week I happened across two separate magazine articles offering expertise on how to be a good parent. According to both of them I've been a bad one. Apparently you aren't supposed to threaten. However, now that my children are young adults I guess I'm off the hook. But only a little. Whatever bad decisions they make in life will surely come back to having a lousy mother.

I guess using a Tazer on them wasn't such a good idea either.

Okay fine, I didn't really use a Tazer on my children. But if I believe the message of the parenting articles, not using a Tazer is pretty much the only thing I did right.  One of the articles even detailed a strategy for how to give praise.

Really? We need instructions on how to give praise?

I don't remember following instructions on how to give my children praise. Praise seemed like a fairly straight forward exercise. I wasn't aware there was a right way or a wrong way. I just did it the best way I knew how and for the most part they seem okay. They don't seem too badly screwed up today because I didn't praise them the right way then. But the truth is, praise aside, I didn't parent my children perfectly. At all. Sometimes I was negligent. Sometimes I was too attentive. Sometimes I yelled. Sometimes I was inconsistent. Sometimes I was too controlling. Sometimes too harsh. Sometimes too soft.

Sometimes I just was.

Because like almost every parent, I was doing the best I could. Which is something I have to remind myself about my own parents too. There are no perfect parents. Nor are there perfect children.

Thank God. Perfection is so overrated.

We weren't (nor never will be) a perfect family. Consequently, my children are now entering the age where family get-togethers provide the opportunity to dredge up old stories about the times I went insane. They laugh about me losing my mind and yelling. Or the time when I dumped the entire bag of bunny marshmallows in the parking lot because they disobeyed me. Or the time I threw the full water bottle across the room in exasperation. (For the record, I didn't throw the water bottle at anyone...just across the room.) Those things didn't happen every day. But they happened. And although they make for funny stories now, at the time I felt terrible.

I didn't need to be so hard on myself though. In the end, my children weren't scarred because I sometimes lost my patience. They admit they often drove me to it. They also say they never expected me to be a perfect parent. All they really expected from me was love.

I think striving to be the best parent possible is a good thing. I'd never discourage someone from that. But striving to be a perfect parent raising the perfect child is a recipe for unnecessary stress and pressure. It isn't going to happen. Kids aren't always going to be what we want them to be, parents are going to screw up, and later on all that striving for perfection will just get in the way of honest relationships.

In the end it doesn't really matter how perfect anybody was. In the end all that really matters is that my children know they are loved. So yeah, they misbehaved and I dumped the bunny marshmallows in the parking lot.

(Source: Google Images)



They cried. I felt bad. They missed out on gelatin and corn syrup molded into something that vaguely resembled a pastel rabbit that spring. My self imposed penance for the long ago hasty punishment has been making sure they receive bunny marshmallows every Easter. I realize I really don't need to. Because even if I never gave them another bunny marshmallow in their entire lives my children would know they are loved.

Loved for who they are.

Not what they do.

Not how they act.

Nor look.

Nor what they accomplish. 

They are simply loved.

I'm absolutely certain I could never love my children more than I already do. I'm fairly certain I won't ever again feel the need to dump a bag of bunny marshmallows on the ground. But that running naked up and down the street thing...

...I make no guarantees.