How Much is that Puppy in the Window

In the wake of mother nature’s bowel movements, California’s continuous earthquakes and Haiti’s flattened and devestated. It frightens me that my office is nineteen stories high in the town of tremor. It's pretty scary stuff and a topic that weighs heavy in my chest. Well, now that I have two beautiful kids and a wonderful husband, I treasure my life more then ever.

Still, I can’t live my life in constant fear. Listen I was born into a draconian Roman Catholic household. My home peppered with a varietal of statues of saints, virgins, jesus, baby jesus, bloody jesus nailed to a cross. Gulp. Growing up I was under twenty four hours of religious surveillance, preparing for the end of the world. When I meet Saint Peter, heaven's glorified door man, I hope he would let me into Club Heaven and direct me to the VIP section with unlimited bottled service. Alas, mass therapy and decades later, I've kicked my guilty habit. I know a thing or two about damnation, destruction, hell stone, and brimfire. My kind apologies to my family and friends who remain under the thumb of the holy trinity. You gotta do, what you gotta do.

In essence, my heart and thoughts go out to the people, families, and nation that is Haiti.

On to brighter, not so bleak, yet somewhat interesting subject, urine. Yes, you read right, urine. Father’s day 2009, I decided to throw caution to the wind and adopt Oliver, original name Sherman, from the SPCA. Against the SPCA counselor's advisement, “Perhaps certain dogs are meant to be alone. Did you ever think of that?” the counseling session wasn’t going as expected. There was another family, that wanted dibs on Sherman. This I gathered from sitting in the waiting room with the other excitable candidates. Originally we were gung ho about Grover, a cool unknown breed with a peculiar brow, sporting a turtle neck sweater with an intelligently coquettish sway. He was the Sherlock Holmes of the canine club. Well, he was snatched before I could spell impulsive.

Sherman was down for Chloe, this was evident by the badgering and butt sniffing. On the contrary, Chloe wasn’t down with Sherman; she sheepishly wanted nothing to do with his anus. As a female, I concur. I understand. "Well don't you think they'll eventually get along?" I thought. Naturally, why wouldn't they? The family of four in the waiting room was in for a disappointment. I was a mere steps away to closing the adoption.

Chloe, our bichon frisee, was lonely without our company so we thought we’d be a pal, and get her a pal. Besides, she was a frigid little fluff that was afraid of her own shadow, literally. Another infant and a year later, I’m questioning my decision. First of all, we have no idea of Oliver’s, formally known as Sherman, background. It's not always the case when rescuing a dog. All I’m certain of is that he can clear jump over anything, like we’re talking equestrian and shit. On top of his super vaulting prowess, he can run like a habanero fueled cheetah. Sir Oliver is whipped with a fury of vim that can make an old man do the shimmy shack shake. I’d like to think that he’s an aggressive blend of Chihuahua with a hint of miniature italian pinscher. My husband tells everyone, "He's whippet Chihuahua mix for sure."

Either way, he requires the mystical assistance of the “Dog Whisperer.” I’ve seen the television show twice and he’s bone down amazing. Essentially, it all winds down to the owners, the masters, if you will. We entered into the commitment with the brilliance that the dogs would play in our backyard during work. Oliver clears up and over the enclosed deck, scurries down the backside of the hill and goes on an adventurous fury, harassing pedestrians and yapping at his fellow dogleagues. Did I mention that deck was built by Shane in two days, specifically to keep Oliver in.


On this specific day, Stevie was newborn and Hunter wasn't in daycare, a friend stopped by with a care package for the baby. At the crack of the front door, Oliver made past the prison walls dashed straight into street traffic. Stevie wailed as Hunter screamed, "Oliver, momma Oliver!" What do I do? I can't leave the babies? Ironically, straight out fiction, there were four police cars each at opposing four way stop. Oliver weaved and dodged traffic, barked at pedestrians. I was embarrassed on top of furious. "Lady please keep your dog on a leash," the bullhorn blared from one of the cops cars as the other policemen chuckled at my despair. There I stood barefoot in my pajama bottoms and white t-shirt, "Here Oliver, come on boy, Oliver please come here." Oh, Sir Oliver, if I could only get my hands on you. The men that swore to Serve and Protect, Sat and Chuckled. Sir Oliver, I should rename Judas, possessed not a smudge of loyalty in that little body. He simply took off like the wind and returned thirty minutes later.

These days, I simply leave the backdoor ajar and patiently await his return. He's swift with no regard to his Lords and Masters. Marking his territory on our bed, now there was a new one. I’m not a dog psychic, but I think Oliver's unhappy, if not livid. I get it. I'm just glad he didn't paint a picture on our comforter, substituting acrylic with feces. Sir Oliver is unable to exert all the genetic wattage, as he is best behaved when given a good run, free of leash; freedom. Sadly we're unable to accommodate him with the daily leisure. To be straight, two kids and two dogs, we can't afford to walk him daily period.

In light of his great urination, it was the great crate highway for Sir Oliver. Readers I do not advise utilizing the crate as punishment for your animals. The dog need not associate the crate with punishment. Sir Oliver cried the entire night. I wanted to cry the entire night. No sleep. If it’s not the kids, it’s the dogs. If it's not the dogs, it's the kids or sometimes my drunk husband. I'm embracing my chaos to allow for harmony to enter. Tonight I will tackle the matter at hand. Sir Oliver will get his first walk to make up for long neglect.

To set the record straight, I really should’ve gotten one of those coin purse sized dogs that I could just tote around in a designer handbag. So here I am, wearing myself thinner which, unfortunately, isn’t equivalent to my physical stature. I’m hoping that this dog walking, may contribute to launch my weight loss and minimize the indoor dog made pool.

Yes, I think I just dedicated the entire entry to my dog, Sir Oliver. Pathetic.

This is Shellie from the top of Potrero Hill with my hind leg up, “here’s to marking my territory” back to you Bob at the studio.

Hurdle

I kissed Shane goodbye as he made way to the bar to meet his boys for a couple of afternoon brews. I gently reminded him that we had a dinner date with two expensive free range pork chops so don't be late. Two chick flicks later and that disappointing ball of spike sunk it's sharp dagger deep in the pit of my stomach. "Is it shrug off worthy?" I thought to myself, "Was I making a rash out of an itch?" Funny, I didn't feel crazy.

I loathe being the female that places the disgruntled call, I'm not a spoiler. What is he like ten years old? He should know better. It wasn't my place to call him to remind him of our dinner date. As there's one thing that I have learned and that is there's no sense in communicating with the drunk. None. Zip. Nada. I have a better chance of communicating with my dead relatives. Besides, he won't remember the discussion tomorrow and my time is too important to waste on an incoherent baboon. I'll save my shrieking for tomorrow morning when his hang over is drilling a hole in his head. Despite the fact that my night was tarnished, it didn't give me a reason to ruin others. Regardless, if I calculate correctly, four hours of drinking doesn't sound like a good concoction for a beautiful meal. If I know my husband, he'll be stumbling through that door and slurring like his tongue was on a mechanical bull ride.

Shellie's Proverb: Only pet a dog when it's tail is wagging.
I took advantage of the silence and attempted to catch another chick flick on cable. I cozied up with a warm bowl of soup and called it a night. At this point, I was more disappointed than furious, but furious nonetheless. As predicted, he dawdled in like the rooster that ruled the roost, "Whuhre's deechnner?" He smiled and slowly plopped on the chair, his head tilted back eyes closed and mouth gaped wide as the Great Plains. Shoveling a spoonful of hot sauce in his mouth seemed like a good idea. There he was my darling husband sloshed to the gills. I turned the video camera on and began my first film Shane Does Beer. I chuckled, as I tried to decipher his prattle. "Whut ur eew doing?" His head bobbled, "Yewr so meagn." His eyes rolled and than closed shut. "I'm not mean honey, I just wanted you to see how hilarious you are when your drunk." I bantered. "Um nawt dreeunk." He rebutted repeatedly until he blathered himself to silence. I grabbed Chloe and headed upstairs. Soon he would shuffle his way upstairs and accuse me of being cold and mean, because I didn't feel like cuddling and inhaling his breath that resembled a bar. Regardless, I ignored his absurd drunken bollix and prayed for sleep.

It's times like this that I wish I could drink. It's times like this that I prefer to be drunk. It's times like this that I wish I could shriek my frustration from the top of my heels. It's times like this that I learn positive restraint and patience. These experiences can be hurtful and vexing at times, but I know that it's not out of spite, stupidity perhaps, but not spite. It's not consuming alcohol that's difficult, it's having to adapt to an intoxicated husband that becomes intricate. As the world turns, there are other humans that are worse off such as these American foster children that are shafted by the Brangelinas of the world who opt to adopt children in far away countries.

Lesson: A wise Grasshopper must learn to tolerate the pain of walking barefoot.