How much is that doggie in the window?

Photo courtesy of the Lexington Humane Society

Hmm, there’s something wrong with this picture. Here we have a dog who is obviously being well-cared for, and yet…there’s just something missing.

Okay, now this is more like it. Or even better yet:

Hoo boy. Now we’re talking!

So, as you may have guessed, we got a new dog. After multiple visits to the Humane Society, we finally found our boy. He’s a beagle/fox hound mix, one and a half years old, with no medical problems except being really skinny (we took away his copy of Cosmo and told him it’s okay to pinch an inch, so hopefully that’ll help). Also, he’s a vindictive snot when he doesn’t get his way, but I don’t think there’s a medical term for that. That might just be an inherent trait of beaglehood.

When we first saw him, he sat quietly in his kennel while we looked at his info card, totally motionless except for the frenetic thumping of his tail. When we opened the kennel to take him out to the play yard, he didn’t make a break for it, but didn’t shy away, either, which impressed the heck out of me. Once in the play yard, all he wanted to do was cuddle. He went back and forth from my husband to me, bucking his head up suggestively under our hands as if to say, “Look, these big floppy velvety ears aren’t going to scratch themselves, you know!”

He passed all of my aggression tests with outstanding marks (and has since proved to be the single most laid-back dog I have ever met who was not in fact dead. I think he’s actually photosynthesizing in that last picture). He snuffled Baby Girl and didn’t mind when she tugged his ears; he ran around amiably with the Sprog, though he wouldn’t play fetch. He was affectionate, but refused to give kisses. Still won’t, but I’m okay with that, considering that his mission in life is to get his testicles to regenerate by the never-ending licking of their sad, empty shell.

We all liked the dog, but my husband wasn’t sure about him, so we put an adoption hold on him and went home to think about it. The next night, my husband called me and finally gave the green light, so I finished up my work in record time and motored over to the Humane Society to get me a hound dog.

The only hitch in the process was when I went back to the kennel area to collect him and found the cage empty. I turned around and was horrified to see a darling little boy leading my dog around on a leash and loving on him as his dad looked on approvingly. In my head, I pictured him saying in a wholesome, Ovaltine commercial sort of way, “Can we keep him, Daddy?” And Daddy would say back, “You betcha, son! You deserve a dog after you helped that old lady across the street today. Keep up the good work!”

Readers, I did not know what to do. It just about killed me to go out there and tell that sweet little boy to give me my dog. I did it in the most cringing, apologetic way possible, but to his credit, the boy immediately smiled and handed over the leash, saying that he knew there were plenty of good dogs there. See? I told you he helps little old ladies across the street. But I still just about crawled out of there.

But I digress. I took the dog to PetSmart and spent $70 outfitting him with fluffy doggie beds, food, bowls, squeaky toys, rawhide bones, and other such accoutrements as befit a proper Prince of the Yard. Took him home and we all loved him up but good. I found myself feeding him Fatboy Specials, a dish I had prepared for PJ in his last days in an effort to get him to gain some weight, and it gave me a pang of unexpected nostalgia. Or maybe it was a dry heave, because dude, a peanut butter, bacon and Crisco sandwich is just gross. But it packs the calories, and this dog needs them bad.

The last problem we had, once the dog was home and installed, was that we were still calling him “the dog”. The shelter volunteers had called him Stevie, but I hated the name (a sentiment I shared with a friend whose cat’s name is—guess what?—that’s right, STEVIE. WILL I EVER BE ABLE TO TAKE THIS FOOT OUT OF MY MOUTH?). The husband and I went around and around on the issue, but we just couldn’t agree on anything. I think we’re still burned out from naming Baby Girl. Finally, I made up a list of all the names we had suggested and told the Sprog to choose one. He immediately picked “Buster”.

And don’tcha know, but he sure looks like a Buster, doesn’t he? So I called him over, held his head in my hands and said, “Buster. Your name is Buster.” And he sighed and laid his head in my lap, as if to say, “Okay, I guess I’m home after all. If you guys are going to name me, maybe you’ll keep me and be nicer than the last people who had me.”

And we will, too. Welcome home, Buster.

“The food so big! It’s bigger than a house!”

Me: What does God’s Pantry do?

The Sprog: They give food to little kids who don’t have peanut butter. They can’t buy it because they don’t have any money.

Me: And what did you see at God’s Pantry?

The Sprog: The food! The food so big! It’s bigger than a house! It’s bigger than lots of houses!

The Sprog did his very first charity/volunteer work yesterday, and I could not be prouder. But before you think I’m being outrageously, ostentatiously pious, please know that this all started because I got tired of listening to his endless campaign to own every toy in the free world.

We began giving the Sprog an allowance two months ago, but there were some serious strings attached. The system goes like this: He gets $20 on the first day of the month, all in quarters, and split up among three mason jars: 10% goes into the charity jar, then what’s left is split 50/50 between the savings jar and the spending money jar (decorated with a smiley face). If the Sprog misbehaves and time out is not an immediate option, he loses a quarter from the smiley face jar. But if I catch him doing some super-extra good, then at my discretion, I may give him a quarter back from limbo (the fourth jar, which has a frowny face on it).

One note though: this is not bribery. The Sprog is expected to behave, and to do it for free. The allowance is given to him as a matter of course, but will be taken away if he misbehaves. His behavior has improved greatly since we started this system, and he’s also (mostly) stopped griping about wanting me to buy him toys. When he sees something he really wants, he’ll just sigh and say, “Well, I guess I’ll have to save up my money for that!” SCORE.

But let us wend our way back to the original topic: the Sprog had a charity jar full of quarters, and I wanted him to understand what charity meant when he made his first donation with that money. So I called Rebecca Wallace, the senior development manager at God’s Pantry, and asked her about taking a tour with the Sprog. She enthusiastically welcomed us to come and see the warehouse, so yesterday we did just that.

For several days leading up to the trip, I talked with the Sprog about how lucky he is to always have food when he wants it, and how some people don’t have much food because they can’t afford it. He is already aware that people get paid money to work, and that money buys the things we need, like food and our house, etc., so it wasn’t a big stretch for him to understand what the lack of money meant (especially after he got turned down for several toys because he lacked the funding in his smiley face jar).

I reminded the Sprog about his charity jar, and asked him if he would like to use that money to buy food for people who couldn’t afford it. He was totally on board with that, and even voluntarily transferred a dollar from his smiley face jar into the charity jar, just to sweeten the pot. I love that kid so much.

Anyway, we took the Sprog’s charity jar and two bags of canned goods to God’s Pantry yesterday and met up with Rebecca. He gave her his quarters, but then got all bashful and hid behind me, grinning. She was very sweet and knew just how to talk to him (she has small children herself).

She took us back into the warehouse and showed the Sprog the big industrial scale they use to weigh donations. He helped her weigh the food we brought, then she weighed the Sprog by himself just for fun (41 lbs., good grief!). After that, we took the bags over to a long table and helped him sort them into the correct boxes (meat, veggies, baby food, grains, etc.) The table was at the far end of the warehouse, which was enormous and absolutely towering with food. Seriously, it looked like Sam’s Club or something.

Rebecca said that God’s Pantry and their affiliated charities distributed over 50 million pounds of food in Kentucky last year. Take that, hunger! They need a lot more help, though—donations are up, but the need for food is outstripping even the increased donations. But the good news is that it’s so easy to give to them and make it count. For every $1 they receive, they can distribute $10 worth of food. Think of that—the Sprog’s $7 will feed a family for a week, thanks to God’s Pantry.

Of course, there are other benefits to giving. It’s a handy smokescreen for misbehavior, for instance. This morning, I caught the Sprog stealthily feeding his breakfast to the new dog. Now, I have been telling him all week not to feed the dog from the table, but this morning he looked at me seriously and said, “But Mommy, I’m not hungry and I don’t want to waste food. That’s really bad.”

I just do not know how to argue with that.

Pet shop boy

We’ve been feeling very doggish lately, so I started doing some casual research online about dogs and which breeds are good for kids. Well, that was stupid, because internet research begets lots and lots of pics of omgcute doggies!!1!, which are a known gateway drug to pet ownership.

So of course, we went to the local Humane Society yesterday to take a look. I wanted a schnoodle because they tend to be smart, obedient, very good with kids, and (I love this) they do not shed. We’re still finding PJ hair in the house five months after his passing, so a non-shedding dog would be a major plus.

No schnoodles there right now, but no problem—there are plenty of other dogs who deserve a good home. But I am determined to make sure and pick the right one this time. I am hopelessly optimistic about animals, in the way that certain women are hopelessly optimistic about their unemployed boyfriend who plays World of Warcraft for 5 hours a day and perfects his beer belching the rest of the time. In short, I’ve been burned after taking home a dog who was not a good fit for my family, and I didn’t want to go through that grief again. So I took my time and walked around, wrote down a list of dogs who looked promising, and went through a vetting process that would put American Idol to shame.

First of all, I brought the kids with me, partially out of necessity, but also because it was useful to see how the dogs reacted to a child (at a safe distance) and vice versa.

Once there, we walked around the kennel room and wrote down the names and cage numbers of likely-looking dogs. Then I quizzed the staff about which of the dogs on my list were known to be friendly with other dogs and/or children, and which ones had issues. Then I got the Sprog to stand in front of their kennels and jump up and down. That was a major trigger for PJ—he would go bananas if someone did that, and I’ve found it’s a useful tool for figuring out a dog’s temperament. Dogs who were mildly interested or happy because they thought it was playtime stayed on the list. Dogs who flipped out, growled, or acted nervous got crossed off.

Also, when I had a dog with me in the play yard, I made sure to tug its ears, neck, and tail a bit (not too hard, but about as hard as a kid would) to make sure they were okay with kids climbing on them. A couple of dogs growled or showed their teeth, so they too got crossed off the list. Other dogs shrugged it off and walked away or were completely indifferent. Those dogs stayed on the list.

I also stuck my fingers in their mouths to see if they’d nip or gnaw. Only a few dogs did (off the list!), but most were appalled at the thought of biting a human. In fact, they looked at me like a food snob who had been offered white wine with red meat. Fingers are totally gauche, I guess.

My favorite dog was the serene little sweetie pie who got all up in Baby Girl’s diaper area and snuffled around, much to the baby’s delight. While laughing, she kicked the dog in the head repeatedly (until I got over there and separated them two seconds later). But here’s the important thing: the dog did not even flinch. She’s a stray, but I’ll bet anything she was raised alongside children.

Finally, while we were out in the play yard, I let the Sprog play with those few dogs who passed all my arcane little tests, though I stayed close by. All passed with flying colors at that point, and the Sprog looked like he was in heaven, running around after the dogs and throwing balls for them to fetch.

So hopefully we’ll be able to go back soon and get a new little dog—I just cannot wait. I admit I was a little overwhelmed at first by just how many dogs there were to choose from at the Humane Society, but I was very impressed with the cleanliness of the place and the friendly, knowledgeable staff and volunteers. Every time I stopped a volunteer to ask about a particular dog, their eyes would light up as they talked about the dog in question; it was really heartening to see how much they obviously care for these poor dogs. At the very least, it made me feel a little better about my painful decision to bring my beloved beagle Molly here four years ago (there were excellent reasons, but it’s too long a story to fit here).

As we were walking back to the car, the Sprog said, “Mommy, thanks for taking me to the Amazing Society!” I almost corrected him, but then I thought, well, close enough.

Do any of you have a “pound puppy” or have any advice about choosing a dog? Any good/bad experience with a particular breed? Share, please!

Taking your lumps

Please go and read Jan Ross’ chilling blog entry here on Bluegrass Moms. She said that she had found a lump in her breast, but thankfully it turned out not to be cancerous. I started reading the entry wanting to puke and finished the entry wanting to wring her neck for scaring me like that. Jan and I have met several times and have enjoyed a long correspondence since before Bluegrass Moms even began, and any of you who have read her blogs know what a wonderful person she is.

But nice people can get cancer. You can get cancer. So pay attention to your body, and heed Jan’s wise words:

If you don’t check your breasts, start. Do it every single day. If you find any irregularity at all, even if it’s not a lump, call your doctor. Immediately.

Because I know you have plans for your life. Just like I do.

I’m calling my doctor today for a mammogram referral. I hope you all do too.

In all fairness…

Two weekends in a row, the Sprog has come home so filthy that he looked like he was rolled in cinnamon. We saw the sights, we rode the rides, we ate enough kettle corn to choke a goat. And now, Gentle Readers, I believe I’m just about faired out for the summer.

The madness began two weeks ago when we trekked up to Eminence for the Renaissance Festival. It was Pirate Weekend and we just could not resist. Also, we are geeks. We didn’t dress up, but the Sprog wore his little pirate hat and ARRRRRRed his way through the whole day. There were wonderful shows and activities, and, um, really really good shopping. But we went for the Sprog, I swear! And he had a great time, too—cried half the trip home because he wanted to go back and watch Doktor Kaboom blow up another egg. I did too, because that guy is hilarious. At least half of his jokes went right over the heads of the little kids present, and please believe me when I say that that is a good thing.

Another high point of the day: I passed a pirate wench who had her cell phone jammed into her jacked-up, corseted cleavage. I guess they didn’t have period-appropriate phone cases in Ye Merrie Olde Verizon Shoppe.

On Sunday we rested, all last week I ran like a hamster to catch up from a week of being off, and then this past Saturday we went to the Sweet Corn Festival, where my husband’s band was headlining (because they’re Big Time, baby). Frankly, that was the only reason anyone could have dragged me and the kids out of the house on a day so hot that my shoes were melting onto the asphalt. But there was a pretty good play area for the kids and fabulous Triple Sweet corn on the cob. And the music was pretty good, of course. And the band’s cute drummer promised to steal me away to see The Dark Knight afterwards. Dude, I’ll be a two-bit festival floozy for some Batman tickets.

So, after all that I was so very sick and tired of trudging around hot, dusty fairgrounds that I did the only logical thing: I took the Sprog to the Bluegrass Fair the very next day. What can I say, you only get so many chances to make memories with the little rugrats, and I’d hate to deprive my son of the recollection of being hot and tired and terrified of Ronald McDonald impersonators.

Which was the only thing he was afraid of, as it turns out. Somehow, inexplicably, my son has turned out to be a total daredevil. This would surprise you too if you knew how much his father and I loathe roller coasters. Moreover, this is the kid who will only eat like ten different foods. Ever. I just can’t reconcile the boy who literally wept with outrage when they wouldn’t let him on the Spider ride with the boy who literally wept with terror when I tried to serve him Cinnamon Toast Crunch the other day.

Nevertheless, young Captain Courageous went on every single ride his height would allow. There were only a few rides I vetoed because I didn’t think his body could handle it (ahem), but other than that, if he wanted to go on it and was tall enough, I was all for it.

We did go on a couple of the tame little kid rides, but he’d invariably start getting cagey about halfway through and spend the rest of the ride twisting around in his seat to try and scout out a ride that would make him toss his cookies good and proper.

So we had a blast: we went on the swings, the Scrambler, the Tornado, and even a little kiddie version of the Drop Zone. There were some rides we went on where bigger kids were crying and begging to get off, but not the Sprog. Nope. He threw his hands up in the air and kept them there the whole time we were on the little roller coaster, even on the hills.

And late in the afternoon when we were hurtling around the track on the Himalaya, the Sprog plastered to my side, both of us screaming with laughter while the dusty setting sun winked through the trees, I realized that I was about as happy as I had ever been in my life. That my heart was overflowing love for this sweet, funny, brave little kid sitting next to me. That I’d do anything for him. That I’d never forget this day. That my neck hurt from all the jouncy rides, and that I needed a couple of Advil in the worst way. But what the heck, it was worth it anyway.

Just another ordinary miracle today

I heard something Tuesday night I thought I’d never hear again: my grandmother’s voice.

It’s been a long couple of weeks. On July 2nd my dad told me that Nanny had had a heart attack and was near death. All the way to the hospital, I was haunted by the memory of our last conversation.

Nanny and I talk all the time, at least once a week, but that day I laughed and begged off right after we started talking. The Sprog was acting wild and Baby Girl started howling, and I couldn’t hear myself think, much less talk on the phone. So I told Nanny I’d call her back later, and she said she reckoned she’d go run some errands. And then we hung up, so casually, like we’d always have another chance to talk. And then two days later she almost died.

For the next week, we all lived in the hospital waiting room. I watched my grandfather, uncle and dad sitting three abreast like grave judges, waiting for visiting hours again so they could go in and just hold Nanny’s limp hand. I stopped going as much because the Sprog started getting really upset—he wanted to see his Nanny, and he didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed. Frankly, even if the rules hadn’t forbade it, I wouldn’t have allowed him in anyway. Nanny was sedated, had tubes coming out all over her; she hardly looked like herself at all, and I didn’t want to scare him.

I was in Frankfort last week for professional development, but the whole time all I could think about was how I much I’d rather be at the hospital, even if it just meant sitting in the waiting room and knitting.

And by the way, if you want a good gauge of my stress, you could probably measure it in terms of compulsive crafting: I made three iPod cozies in under a week because I just couldn’t just sit there with nothing to do but worry. The first day when Nanny was in the hospital, I couldn’t get back home to fetch my stuff, so I stopped by the Rite Aid next to the hospital and bought a huge pair of aluminum knitting needles and a clothesline. That’s right, I knitted a clothesline. Within two hours, I had finished the better part of a utility basket (I think I’ll put my gardening tools in it). I still have no idea why they sell knitting needles but no yarn, but whatever: at least my hands were busy.

Nothing much worked to keep my mind busy, though. Nanny kept getting worse, and it was all I could think about. Finally, last Sunday she began a sharp (and inexplicable) turn for the better. My mother called me on Tuesday and said Nanny was talking a little. That night I flew from the newsroom as soon as I could and went to see Nanny. She was still weak, still swallowed up in all the tubes and pillows and monitors, but her eyes were open. Her words crackled like tissue paper in the air.

“Nanny, it does my heart good to hear your voice.”

“Does my heart good…to know I have a heart that works.”

I brushed her thin cloud of hair, fed her water on a sponge, and we chatted like old times. This time, I didn’t beg off early. This time, I made sure to kiss her bruised cheek and tell her I loved her very, very much. I didn’t think it would be the last time we talked—after all, she was doing so much better—but a little extra love and appreciation never hurts, does it?

One last word: I just want to thank you all for your sweet comments and emails, phone calls and prayers, offers of chocolate and babysitting. You’ve no idea how much that has meant to me. And thanks for sticking around while I was too freaked-out to blog about other stuff. I’ve been wanting to blog about so many things, but I knew I needed to write about this first, and I just wasn’t ready to do that yet. But now I’ve gotten that out of my system, so on Monday we will return to your regularly scheduled Mother Tongue. Um, I’m still just a bit emotional, though…so I won’t turn up my nose at any chocolate that mysteriously appears on my desk, ifyaknowwhattimean. [Okay, my editor might have a problem with it, but whatever. Ethics, shmethics.]

No witty title, just panic

My grandmother is being airlifted to St. Joseph Hospital right now. Something is really wrong with her, but I don’t know what, exactly. I heard “septic”, “heart attack” and “blood sugar through the roof”, but none of it really means anything to me right now. I try to think about what it means and my brain puts up flashing road blocks. Warning. Detour. I am not ready for this. She’s an amazing lady, but I don’t want to tell you all about her because I’m afraid it’ll sound like I’m eulogizing her. I am not ready for that either. I’m on my way to the hospital. I am calm on the outside, but there’s a ten-car pileup on the inside.

Update: Nanny is in stable condition, but on a ventilator and sedated. They have her in soft restraints so she doesn’t pull her tubes out when she wakes up. They’re still trying to figure out what happened to her, will know more tomorrow. I hate this so much.