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. 

Mud Pie

Look at all that beautiful dirt! It's pretty gorgeous, right? Actually, it's not dirt at all. It's compost. Last year this poor veggie patch was more like a rock garden, despite the amount of back-breaking work I put into it. I tore up all that grass by hand. (Not as easy as it sounds, I learned.) I dumped in 40-pound bags of fertilizer and peat moss and hauled all those heavy rocks from across the yard to make the border. 

Despite all that, the results were unimpressive. Here and there a plant sprouted which was quickly nibbled up by the rabbits, squirrels and deer. At least our neighborhood rodents were well fed.

This year, however, there's a new game plan. The rocky soil is out, the expensive compost is in. This stuff is amazing: rich, black and soft. Completely rock-free. I've put it around the hydrangeas, the clematis, the pansies, the butterfly bushes. We've taken to calling it garden crack. Can't get enough of it.

Another important addition this year: I'm adding an anti-deer fence. It's not the prettiest thing,  which is unfortunate, since the garden sits smack in the middle of the back yard. But I'll suffer through an unsightly barrier in exchange for some juicy cucumbers and fresh baby lettuce. I'm already dreaming of those mouth-watering tomato-basil pastas I'm going to make. There's nothing better than a home-grown organic tomato in the summer. Except a margarita to go with it.

Jarv figures with everything I've spent on this crazy project, it will work out to about $6 a carrot. He's probably right. But it's well worth it.

I told you we knew how to party out here in the 'burbs.

Main Street March

Friends in Los Angeles, you'll get a kick out of this. Ever wondered what people in Connecticut do on Memorial Day? (It's been keeping you up nights, hasn't it?) Turns out, half the town gathers "downtown," -- and I'm using that term loosely -- to watch the other half march in a low-key parade. Everyone puts on their madras shorts, brings their coffee and their labrador. (Not us, of course, 'cause we don't have a dog.) It's a prep-fest. Good, old-fashioned fun. 

Most amusingly, one group dresses up like early American settlers and plays their little Colonial instruments. I think that proves once and for all that no one rocks Memorial Day like New Englanders. Party on!

Dog Saga, continued

Just to clarify, the puppy in yesterday's post is not our dog. It's a stock photo, people. I'm a good photog and all -- but not that good. (Although my friend Gail does say I have a gift...)

We went to visit three dogs today at Gay's house in Weston. Gay is, for lack of a better term, our dog adoption facilitator. She's been doing animal rescue for something like 25 years and knows everyone in this vast, underground network. She's put in dozens and dozens of hours trying to find us a Golden and has been so frustrated by the experience she's about to throw in the rescue towel altogether.

We've applied to many, many Golden rescue groups and been rejected by, let's see, all but one! Here are some of the reasons we're not qualified:

1. We're installing an invisible fence instead of a standard fence. Many rescue groups do not approve of this. No dog for you!

2. My children are under age 10. They don't like that. (Yeah, 'cause it's so rare that a family with a dog would have kids under 10. And Goldens are known for their viciousness.) No dog for you!

3. We live in a different state than the rescue group. They need to come to my house, inspect my laundry room, check my banking records and look under my bathroom sink. No dog for you!

4. We've never owned a dog before as adults. Despite the fact that Jarv and I both grew up with Goldens doesn't count. Clearly, we don't know what we're doing. No dog for you!

5. We weren't willing to fly the entire family to St. Louis to be interviewed by some guy who won't release any of "his dogs" to people he hasn't personally vetted, even if we've been vetted by a long-time, well-respected golden rescuer in Connecticut. No dog for you!

After a while, it started getting embarrassing. And exhausting. No one found us to be suitable applicants. I find it a little ridiculous and hypocritical. The animal rescue community is constantly moaning about how many dogs are being killed in shelters every hour and that we need to adopt, not buy from puppy mills. And here we were, ready and eager. I think I'm safe in saying we're no bigger bozos than anyone else, but the rescue groups would rather leave a dog to die in a shelter than let us adopt one. How pathetic could we possibly be?

Just as we were about to give up, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. And the light was in... New Jersey. Will tell you more tomorrow. 

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.....)

Cake Capers

A few of you have asked me if I'm concerned about my in-laws reading my posts. I haven't been, but maybe I should be. (If they ever do, I'll be banned from their house.) My MIL has literally never even looked at a computer screen, so I'm not too concerned about her blog surfing. And my Father-in-Law just got rid of dial-up, so that tells you a lot about his internet savviness. If you happen to know the Dr. and Mrs., though, let's just keep these little stories to ourselves, shall we?

Speaking of which, I have a second update to the birthday visit from Jarvis' parents. I had made a birthday cake that afternoon, naturally, and planned to serve it back at our house after we returned from the restaurant with the kids and in-laws. We all ended up ordering a dessert, though, so I back-burnered the cake. I hadn't completely finished frosting it, anyway.

Jarv saw his parents the next day in the city and the first thing his mom said to him was, "I came all the way to Connecticut and your wife didn't even offer me a piece of cake!" This was, evidently, a slap in the face and shameful breach of etiquette. She was also ticked that Jarv hadn't packed a piece for her in his briefcase. (She does know that cake is available in New York city, right? I mean my baking is good, but not that good.... We're talking about a box cake, here, for Pete's sake.)

I had no idea she was so intent on the cake that night, although I should have considering her penchant for sweets. She gets a jonesin' for sugar the way a crack addict craves a fix. But right after a huge helping of tiramisu? And considering that she packed up half the cheese in the house to take with her, I'm aghast that she was too shy to inquire about the dessert.

Once again, I'm at a loss.

Note to self: when cake is in the house, always, always serve it. It doesn't matter if we've just come from a pie-eating contest and stopped for ice cream on the way home. Just serve the damn cake.

Better than the Prom

Tuesday was the big night: this season's Dancing with the Stars winner was crowned. I'd been looking forward to it all week. Honestly, I didn't really know who to pull for. (Incidentally, I'd like to say for the record that way back in April, my three faves were Shawn, Melissa and Gilles. See 4/21 post.)

Even though Shawn had been doing well lately, Melissa and Gilles were the better dancers over the course of the season. Between Melissa and Gilles, though, it was a tough call. Do you handicap based on the fact that Melissa was, as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, essentially a professional dancer? (Shawn, of course, also had an enormous leg up over her competitors as a gymnast who's spent years training her body to hold amazing positions.)

On the other hand, do you take into consideration that male contestants, by and large, have a huge advantage: they stand there and look dancer-like while their pro partners twirl and spin their sexy selves around them. (Who's even looking at the guys, anyway?)  I love both Gilles and Melissa. Asking me to choose one was like asking which of my children I'd save in a fire. Gilles rocks every sultry latin dance. And he's smokin' hot. But I also want to see spunky Melissa pull off a great American comeback and show up that Jason guy and his new girlfriend. If I really had to choose, I'd have to go with Gilles, who has consistently been the best performer the entire season.

It came down to the Freestyle round, the last dance of the Finals. Shawn and Mark were phenomenal. Her hip-hop routine was fun, non-stop, and had fantastic choreography. There were tons of tricks and flips, and she cut loose with some serious moves. It reminded me a lot of the freestyle routine Mark danced with Kristi Yamaguchi, who won that year. Well, you gotta stick with what works. 

Melissa was disappointing. With all the flips, lifts and jumps, her number was impressively acrobatic, but there just wasn't enough dancing. I think she forgot she was in a dancing final, not a cheerleading competition. Performing right after Shawn's superiorly-choreographed dance didn't help her either. Melissa's abs, though, are worthy of that crystal ball trophy. I'd kill for her midriff.

Then we were on to Gilles' and Cheryl's freestyle. Oh, Gilles, what were you thinking? This Flashdance send-up was cheesier than a can of Velveeta. It opened with Cheryl draped backwards over a chair and continued with the two of them slithering all over each other. Seemingly inspired by Solid Gold, they even wore ripped shirts and treated us to a few pelvic thrusts. Gross. I really wanted to see Gilles break out some moves, but not that. Please, not that! 

So if we were to vote on the Final round alone, then Shawn really did deliver the winning goods. In the end, the final three were all utterly entertaining and enjoyable. I guess it really doesn't matter who won. (As long as it wasn't Ty.) 

I just love this show. (I know, I need to get out more.) One of the reasons I'm so crazy for Dancing is that it's the only program that my 4 year old and I both truly want to watch. I'm usually on the elliptical working out while she spins around the room in a swirly dress, imitating the dancers. It's good, clean fun. And there isn't enough of that these days.

Dance on!