Face, Meet Egg

I would love to be able to skip this entry and avoid this subject altogether. But I write happily about my husband and in-laws' silly behavior and it's only fair I do the same when it's I who behaves badly.

I am an ass. Let me just start there. No other way around it. Not only am I an ass, but I'm a careless one at that. And to make it worse, my kids have suffered for it.

The dog has gone back to the rescue group. It's been a brutal four or five days during which I snapped (after waking at 4 am because of the barking and spending the day scrubbing poo out of carpets.) Then there was bickering, negotiating, persuading and debating. The bottom line is that this dog, maybe any dog, needs more time than I have to offer. I have to figure out who can watch the kids, for instance, while I walk her in the morning for an hour. (She needs 1.5 hours of walking each day, not the 30 minutes we were told.) And in the afternoons, when Isabelle barks up a storm and I'm trying to get dinner on the table, I found myself barking at the kids to pay attention to her, feed her dinner, throw the ball, etc., none of which they were eager to do.

Within the span of the week, I already started getting kid push-back like: "I don't want to walk her, Mom. I'm playing Legos!"

A significant portion of this problem was created by my unrealistic expectations. I thought the work of taking care of a dog would be shared more evenly among the family. Of course, it wasn't -- and I should have known better. And it was a lot of work, more than I anticipated. My neighbors have since told me I looked like the walking dead since we brought home the dog.

I wanted to be able to give this to my kids. (I know, bad reason to bring a dog into your life.) I thought that I wanted it for myself. I thought I'd be able to handle it.

So, yes, I'm eating crow, big time. All the groups that rejected us as adopters were right, after all. I couldn't feel worse about the whole thing. My kids have suffered for losing her, Isabelle has been through yet another transition that could have been avoided, and Jarvis has had to watch this train wreck unfold. He saw the track we were headed down a month ago. Like I said, I'm an ass.

The kids have done amazingly well. They knew that the first two weeks were a trial period of sorts. (The rescue agency accepts the animals back gladly during this period.) But still, they loved her and it was devastating news to have to deliver. QB wailed for a half an hour when I told him and said,"It's like adopting a baby and killing her two days later!" Ouch. Mopsy took it in stride and barely even said goodbye to her -- the opposite of what I expected.

I went alone to New Jersey to drop her off yesterday afternoon. I expected to feel relief afterwards, but I only felt guilt and sadness. Who does such a thing as this? I cried half the way home.

This morning Mopsy woke up and remembered Isabelle was gone when she looked in the backyard. Then she asked me, "Mommy, today can we get a kitten?"

Really?

I only have one thing to mention today. The dog was awake, needing to go outside at FOUR IN THE MORNING. And it was pouring.

The ice just cracked.

Poop Report

This dog is on thin ice over here. I'll tell you why:

1. Yesterday, I awoke to find both urine and poop AGAIN on the dining room carpet. (The expensive one.) Apparently, the rug is her new toilet. I tried the trick of feeding her in here, and --guess what?-- she didn't want to eat in the smelly dining room. Well, guess what, Dog, neither do we!

2. Last night Jarv took her for a nice long walk after I gave her a good brush and belly rub. How did she thank us? She came inside, squatted on her new bed in the (carpeted) family room, and started to pee. Having spent much of the day scrubbing carpets and mopping, I lost it. What, was she saving it up? Mind you, this is a dog I was told was house-trained. False advertising anyone?

3. If that wasn't enough, she decided to put one last nail in her own coffin. She woke me up this morning at 4:45 to go outside. That's right, people, a quarter to 5. In the morning.

Growl.

Oh, and now she has diarrhea. Have you ever experienced doggy diarrhea? It is quite possibly the most vile, foul-smelling substance on the planet. And, added bonus, it gets all over the underside of her tail. Cool!

I know what you're thinking. I wanted a dog. I wanted this dog. I know, I know, I know. It's my own stupid fault. If anyone had told me I was signing up for a house full of crap and 5 am wake-up calls, I would've probably gone in a different direction with this thing.

Lucky for Isabelle, the kids already have a bit of a soft spot for her. Plus, she's pretty freakin' cute.

Dog Blog

I thought getting a dog would give me great blogging material. Instead, I have no time or energy to blog. I've started waking up at 5:30 in the morning in anticipation of Isabelle needing to go outside. If you know me, you know exactly how crazy this is. I have a hard time getting up at 7 to get QB ready for the school bus.

This is what the days feel like: let dog out...let dog in...Mopsy takes dog back out...dog runs away...throw on coat...run down street...catch dog...feed her breakfast...grass on the kitchen floor...sweep, sweep, sweep...dog's eating Barbie!...pick up pieces...look for chew toy....let dog out...let dog in...give her a treat...mud on carpet...vacuum, vacuum...dog's barking at deer...be quiet Izzy!...throw her ball...poop on the grass!...clean up...brush her fur... she's asleep in the shade...she's eating a shoe! She's eating a sock! She's eating a Lego!...bring her in...dog sneaks upstairs....take dog back downstairs...aack! Poop on carpet!...try to clean up before Jarv sees it...not able to clean up before Jarv sees it....blot, scrub, baking soda....listen to Jarv rant about poop on expensive carpet...dog goes out.

Aaah. And this is all before noon.. No wonder we're all wiped out.

But I might be giving the wrong impression because Isabelle is a gorgeous and fantastic dog. She's sweet and gentle, low-maintenance and loving. She adores the kids and let's them do basically whatever they want to: use her as a pillow, open her mouth and brush her teeth, take food and bones away from her. In fact, she ran away from Jarv this morning and he chased her for about 20 minutes until QB came outside and Isabelle ran right over to him. QB, Mopsy and I were quite amused. Jarv was not.

The other huge plus for Isabelle is that she doesn't do a lot of those annoying dog things like jumping all over you, begging for table scraps, barking incessantly, stealing food off the counters. She just wants to lie at our feet and be rubbed. Now, if we could only solve the house-training issue....

We're in the clear on the QB allergy issue. The doc says he's got no sensitivity. The timing sure seems suspect, tho. His symptoms haven't gone away, despite being hit with about 4 different meds. We'll see.

Paws on the Ground

The pup has arrived! We went to pick her up yesterday at the rescuer's house in Jersey. After a few minutes of playing with her, I asked QB if he liked her, to which he answered, "I don't like her. I love her." Mopsy was enthralled at first sight as well.

But the poor thing was terrified when we got her home. She burrowed herself in the bushes and shook. She wasn't even interested in a porterhouse steak bone that we saved for her. Jarvis, ever understanding and compassionate, pronounced her L-A-Z-Y lazy. It was even more amusing that he delivered this analysis from his perch on the couch. 

We had all settled on the name Butterscotch, but Isabelle, her first name, seems to have stuck. Unsurprisingly, when we call out "Butterscotch!" she has no idea we're talking to her. So apparently, Isabelle it is.

Today, she's been much more playful and active. She even ventured far enough away to poop on the neighbor's lawn. Oh goody. The fun begins.

D Day

Tomorrow's the big day. We're driving to New Jersey early in the morning to go check out this pup (currently) named Isabelle. She's just arrived after a very long trip from North Carolina. 

The kids are beside themselves. It's like Christmas Eve over here. Mopsy can't sleep and all they want to do is get ready for the dog. Mind you, we're going to check out the dog and see if she's right for us. If not, we'll have to keep looking. But we hope she is. 

I'm very, very nervous. I feel like I've committed to adopt a baby and have no idea what kind of kid I'm going to get. High-maintenance? Hyper? Cooperative? Destructive? Time will tell.

Every night at dinner I ask the kids what was the best part of their day and what was the worst. The other night, Mopsy said that buying necessities for the pup at the pet store was her "best thing." QB reported that simply looking through the bag of dog treats, brushes, water bowls, etc,  was his "best thing." So I think we're either coming home with a dog tomorrow or two very sad kids.

Will keep you posted.

Pooch Potential

We just might be adopting this girl next Saturday!

So here's what happened. We spent weeks and weeks filling out applications at scads of rescue organizations and being turned down. Gay, our adoption facilitator, was working her network and was taking all the rejections even more personally than we did. Finally, a rescuer Gay knows in New Jersey sent an email saying she was getting a purebred Golden into her group in early June. And -- key factor -- she hadn't listed her online anywhere. We claimed her on the spot.

Here's her story: she was originally found as an 8-week-old puppy wandering around the side of the road in North Carolina with her brother. (Her rescuers suspect a breeder dumped the puppies when he couldn't sell them.) She was adopted out to a family who ended up keeping her chained outside year 'round, even in 0 degree weather.  They returned the dog to the same rescue group for the unforgivable offense of uprooting a flower in the garden and presenting it to the mother. (Bad dog!)

She's a healthy nine-month-old girl now, who loves retrieving things like balls and flowers and sticking her head inside buckets. On Friday she'll be en route to New Jersey where we'll go meet her. 

As soon as I opened her photo yesterday, I started freakin' out. What if I can't handle her? What if she eats up the furniture? Scratches the floors? Stinks up the kitchen? Needs walking four times a day? I hope I haven't gotten in over my head. (This is why I wanted an older dog, one that was nice and lazy...)

Her first owners called her Isabelle, but we're going to give her a new name. (It's recommended. Fresh start and all.) Here's what what's in the running:

Butterscotch (Butter for short)
Lily
Ginger
Flip Flop (that’s QB’s)
Bucket

Oatmeal

Let us know which one you like. Don't worry, the voting's not rigged like it is on Dancing with the Stars. 

Doggy in the Window

Aside from birthdays, in-laws, and cake, the main topic of conversation at our house for the last few weeks has been about one thing only: a dog.

We actually promised the kids a pooch two years ago when we moved to Connecticut. Sitting in the kitchen in L.A., it seemed like a harmless pledge. We were talking Connecticut, after all. If you couldn't have a dog in Connecticut, which was nothing but country lanes, huge backyards, and beaches on the Sound, where could you? Once we got here and started thinking about it seriously, we reassessed the enormity of the commitment. Somehow, in the midst of all the transition and newness of everything, the kids seemed to forget about the theoretical doggy, or at least put it on simmer.

A few times the subject came up and QB, our absurdly responsible kid, would say things like, "I'm not sure we're ready to take care of a dog. Maybe when I'm eight."

Well, he's eight now, and the Dog Issue has reared it's head again, this time with Mopsy leading the charge. (Come to think of it, she started to get obsessed with dogs right around the time I rented that St. Bernard Beethoven movie that she went on to watch 50 times. Pisser. This could all be due to a careless Blockbuster selection....) We dodged it effectively for a while but eventually, with Mopsy's insistent pestering, she wore us down. "Can we get a dog today?" was usually the first thing she said in the morning. "Can we get a dog tomorrow?" was usually the last thing she said at night. After all, we had promised. 

Thus, we embarked upon our search for a dog. We pretty quickly settled on the breed: golden retriever. Jarvis and I had both had a goldens growing up. We knew what to expect with a retriever and felt like we could handle one. My friend, Molly, who has her own rescue group in L.A., had drummed it into my head to never, ever buy a dog from a store or a breeder. We knew we wanted to go the rescue route. I believe in that philosophy wholeheartedly and abhor the puppy mill industry.

But rescuing turned out to be not so simple. Next time I'll tell you why we've have since been rejected by scads of rescue organizations and why I now understand why people give up on adopting and go to a breeder or even, as last resort, the closest puppy store. (Sorry, Molly.....)