Tag Archives: dog

I’m a crazy dog lady

IMG_20161118_173613Part of a countdown to 50.

80. One of the things that worried my daughter most about moving out of our apartment was leaving me alone with the animals.

She wasn’t afraid that I’d neglect them, or that they’d overtake the palace. She was more concerned that I’d turn into a crazy dog or cat lady, talking to the animals, having conversations, neglecting human friends in favor of my canine or feline furbabies.

At the time, I thought the concern was sweet but needless. I understood its base: I did (do) often talk to my dog and cat, and sometimes think I know what they’re trying to tell me. Mattie, my cat, will wrap herself around my feet every morning when we get up and every evening when I get home, meowing and looking up at me the whole time. I look down at her and say, “I know, I know.” (I really don’t know. I don’t have a freaking clue.)

Ceili, my 2-year-old Lab, and I often communicate through the morning and night, too – often with her trying to get me to play and me trying to get her to understand, “In a minute.” And then, equally as often, with me ending up throwing the ball or the rope or the squeaky toy until she’s worn out.

But that’s all normal stuff, that’s what all pet owners do.

Then yesterday happened. I had an argument with Ceili. What’s worse – she won.

We were in the hall between the living room and the bedrooms and she was barking at the spare bedroom/storage room, which is closed to her via baby gate. I knew she was trying to tell me her tennis ball was in there, and I didn’t see it. The conversation went like this:

Ceili: woof

Me: It’s not in there.

Ceili: Woof

Me: I don’t see it, it’s not there.

Ceili: Woof!

Me: It’s. Not. In. There.

Ceili: WOOF!!

Me: Oh, for the love of … (moves small box) Shit. There it is.

I threw the ball, she gave me an indignant, “I told you so!” look and off she went. And I was left there, both wondering what the hell just happened and concerned that my daughter might just have been right.

I might need a roommate. Or more human friends.



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I won’t be the first course when the zombies come

zombieI am not a runner.

I’ve said it for years. Sometimes I wouldn’t mind being a runner, occasionally it even looks like fun. But it involves one thing I really don’t like: running.

I love to walk – I could walk for miles. My regular walking route when the weather is nice is 2-3 miles, and sometimes I’ll push it to twice that without even really thinking about it. I love to ride my bike – not RAGBRAI-style riding, but taking a leisurely 5-, 10-mile ride. I like using the elliptical, stretching, Zumba – it’s not that I don’t like exercise.

I just don’t like running.

Lately, though, I’ve found myself on my walk and fighting the occasional urge to just … run. I quickly talk myself down from the ledge – I’ve never been a runner, not even when I played softball or basketball, and that was 25-30 years ago. I’ve got bad knees. I’m a former smoker. Walking is just fine.

But tonight …

Tonight I ran.

Don’t get excited, all you marathon runners out there. I ran – but it was only maybe an eighth of a mile. I was out walking with Mia and she had a bounce in her step because we’d just been wrestling in the apartment a few minutes before. Her pace picked up, then picked up some more, and suddenly I just ran.

It wasn’t far, and it wasn’t fast. But it was a run. I was a bit out of breath, but not horribly. Honestly, I probably could have gone a little farther. I imagine this is how the “Couch to 5K” program works. I felt good.

And I now know that in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I may not be the last person caught – but I also won’t be the first.

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A fecal matter

*Note: I just want to point out that after more than 25 years as a writer, I finally got to use the word  “fecal” in a headline. Yes, it’s a good day.

I can’t help but wonder what those without pets or small children in their lives – anywhere in their lives – talk about when the rest of us are talking about poop.

The fact that I’m wondering this at all tells me that No. 2 has taken too much dominance in many conversations and thought processes, and yet there it is. It’s just as much a part of my regular daily conversations as is the rising cost of gas and what the weather will do today.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, especially if you have children who are or were once small, have pets of any kind, or both.

DiapersWith kids it starts early. First, as infants, any time they’re not feeling well you’re told to watch their stools – that’s doctor-talk for poop. Make sure it doesn’t change color, or consistency, or frequency. If any of those changes, you’re told to collect a sample – in other words, put a small amount of their stool in some kind of container you’re never ever going to use again and take it in to the doctor. God only know what he’ll do with it, but you do it because he tells you to.

When the baby is still a baby but not yet a toddler, he or she will start to cut teeth. With that comes a whole new dimension of poop talk – mostly because it does change in consistency and frequency, and neither in a good way. When my oldest was cutting teeth he went through three or four onesies every day because the mess would go up his back and down his leg. It happened with every tooth, too, so we were overjoyed when he’d cut more than one at a time – that cut down on the possibility of 32 different sessions. Of course the messes were smaller and smaller the more the baby’s system got used to what was happening, but it was traumatic all the same.

Potty training brought a whole new level of conversations about poop, poopy, icky, whatever you called it. The actual potty training was easy for both my kids, but I swear one of them – and I won’t say which, so I don’t embarrass him – uh, oops – had real separation anxiety when it came to poop. He just didn’t want to let it go into the toilet. I would sit in the bathroom with him for an hour at a time, knowing he had to go, but watching while he told me stories or sang me songs or talked about the puppies or did anything but actually poop. Then we’d give up and less than 15 minutes later I’d find him hiding in the corner behind the chair, a funny look on his face. <sigh>

Once that gets over and you’ve made the transition, your conversations about poop pretty much stop for a while. Of course, my then-husband and I apparently enjoyed the conversations because we timed the arrival of Child No. 2 with the crossing over of Child No. 1 from diapers to big boy pants. Welcome another three years of poop talk.

There’s even a commercial for a bleach cleaner that brings poop into the conversation: A little boy brings his mommy into the bathroom, “Mommy, I made poopy!” “You did?! Where?”

You can’t get away from it.

Then there’s the pet talk, and really the point at which I realized much of my adult conversation has centered around doody.

My Lab mix, Max, will be 13 this year. He’s still spry, active, and looks very much like a younger dog. Some of his mannerisms, however, remind me of Walter Matthau in “Grumpy Old Men.” He has to offer one solitary bark to anyone moving outside while he makes his way to the sidewalk. He bullies Mia, my Newfoundland who is three times his size, out of the way of the food dishes until he’s done with them. And his every trip to the bathroom – or in his case, every walk we take – requires me to take a pick-up bag. I’ve nicknamed him “Sir Poops-a-lot.”

The fact that he goes all the time is not something that is lost on my now-young-adult kids, either. They’re well aware of his habits:

Me to Teen Girl: Would you take the dogs out for their bedtime trip so I can go to bed?

Teen Girl: That depends. Has Max pooped?

Me: He’s gone three times today, he should be good.

Teen Girl (after taking the dogs out, grabbing a bag to go back outside): He’s never good. He pooped again.

See what I mean? So, in getting back to my original point, just what do those other people talk about?

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