I surrender
The call came at about 6:45 this morning; Super was in the live trap we’d left in our neighbors’ yard. We went down to get him out, and hooked him up to our leash.
Which he bit halfway through, immediately.
The neighbor brought out a steel-corded run line for us to put him on, and I was able to walk him back down the street to our house. I got him into the garage. Up to the door. Halfway inside.
And then he slipped out of his collar and was gone.
I officially admit defeat. We’ve reset the trap and put in calls to both Animal Control and the rescue. Assuming we are able to capture him again, he’s going back. I’m sure someone can rehabilitate him, but it’s not us.
Why am I so sad about this stupid, infuriating dog??
Stop, thief!
Super is still at large. When the entire night passed without a single sighting, I concluded he’d finally left the neighborhood.
Then we got a phone call early this morning, and the hunt was on again. When we couldn’t find him, we came home, and five minutes later a nice lady walking her dog rang the bell to let us know he was sitting in our neighbor’s yard, right across the street. The ensuing chase can only be described as completely comical, culminating in the Pinnacle of Ridiculous when Super neatly flew down our driveway, stopped long enough to GRAB THE ECONOMY-SIZE BAG OF PUPPERONI WE HAD SITTING THERE, and took off into the woods. Now at least we’ll be able to track him by his flatulence in a few hours, right?
I am completely demoralized. Other than getting to know all of our neighbors, finally (which is lovely), this process has been agonizing.
In completely unrelated news, I am giving away an Acer laptop. I’m lousy with dogs, but good with contests. I guess I’ll tell Otto to make sure that gets put on my gravestone after I die of worry and frustration.
Should’ve named him Bolt
About an hour after I posted about Super, yesterday, I let him off the leash on our fenced/gated deck. I’d just given him a bath, plucked about a dozen ticks off of him, brushed him out, and figured he’d like the opportunity to lay in the sun for a bit, unfettered. I was sitting right next to him. Otto did something—I don’t even know what, moved his arm or breathed, who knows—and Super jumped up and BOLTED. And he was through the slats in our gate and gone by the time I’d scrambled to my feet.
I chased him across the yard, through the forest, and down by the pond. I was barefoot. When I lost sight of him I went back for Otto and shoes (both of which were on their way), and we searched everywhere. He’d vanished. read more…
I’ve never been good with baby steps
Otto and I decided that it would be certain catastrophe to take the kids to one of those “adoption day” events to look at dogs. Surely one of them would fall in love with the first dog they laid eyes on, and tragedy would ensue when we were unwilling to embrace that pup on the spot.
One of the dogs I’ve had my eye on on Petfinder was listed as being at a local rescue, and we figured we’d go check him out today BEFORE potentially dealing with a child enamored of him, etc.
So we got the kids off to school and headed over, and the woman there asked which dog we were interested in and we told her, and she disappeared inside and came back out DRAGGING the most frightened dog I’ve ever seen in my life. He was shaking. He wouldn’t make eye contact. His tail was down.
Everything I’ve read says that’s a dog with serious problems, and probably a history of abuse. A tough case. A lot of work. Naturally I fell in love with him immediately. read more…
Love starts again
Yesterday was… kind of a long day. To put it mildly.
As I’ve mentioned before, both kids are going to new schools this year—Chickadee is moving on to middle school, and Monkey was redistricted out of our beloved little elementary school. Yesterday we had meetings and orientation, and somehow the entire afternoon became an exercise in getting crushed in crowds at one school, then repeating at the second school, and then going back to the first school to do it all again.
Sixth grade orientation took TWO HOURS, and by the end of that time we still hadn’t met all of Chickie’s teachers. But she made a name placard to put in her locker and got a soggy ice cream sandwich, so I guess that’s all we needed.
By the time we were at the end of our Parade of School Visits, Monkey had pretty much had it, Chickadee was pouting and whining, and I have to admit, it was a good way to make sure I was looking forward to seeing them off this morning. Ahem. read more…
The plot thickens
So this morning I took Chickadee back to the allergist, our new second home.
To review (if you don’t feel like reading the whole rash saga): Our lovely dermatologist had suggested a number of tests when we last saw her, and “felt strongly that we’re looking at something autoimmune,” but then her skin biopsy came back negative for whatever they were checking for and she then said, “It’s looking more like an allergy.”
Which left me wondering what exactly they DID with the circles they punched out of my daughter’s arm. I know they looked at them under a microscope. Did the angry red bumps hold up little signs? “Allergy! Probably! Maybe! HA!”
Anyway. That all sent us back to the allergist with a list of tests to run. Except that the allergist decided not to run them. read more…
New beginnings, old habits
School starts this week.
Let me say that again, for those of you who thought surely you heard (read) me wrong: School. STARTS. This. Week.
Thankfully, by the time we got back from camping we had just a few things we needed to take care of before then. Like unloading the camper. And laundry. And school supply shopping. And finding new bus schedules. And making sure everyone had shoes that fit. And regulation clothes to wear. And taking Chickadee for the next round of allergy testing (whole ‘nother story for another time, but it means three separate visits this week alone), and both kids have check-ups, and we have a team meeting at Monkey’s new school, orientation at Chickadee’s new school, and an ice cream social at Monkey’s school. Thank goodness those last three are all on the same day and nearly the same time.
The point is, there’s A LOT OF STUFF to pack into the time left. So naturally I allowed the children to invite friends to sleep over tonight. read more…
Hand me the oars
It’s almost time to head back to school, because here in the south we believe in bacon, grits, and sending our children out to get some learnin’ when it’s still 100 degrees outside. This summer—while vastly superior to last summer in terms of sheer volume of travel—has had a lot of travel but precious little time for just the four of us to have a family getaway. So we decided to do one last camping trip this weekend.
So that’s what we’re doing.
And it’s been pouring ever since.
It’s rained so hard and so much, that even Otto (motto: “It’s just a little bit of rain! Let’s fire up the grill!”) didn’t want to bother either grilling the meal we’d planned or repurposing it as something we could prepare on our tiny camper stovetop or in the wee little oven. He declared, last night, that we needed to flee the campsite and go out to dinner.
Needless to say, that was Very Exciting. read more…
Love finds the recipe
I’ve been thinking a lot about the conversation with my daughter that I wrote about yesterday. I’ve been fixated on this notion of making your own happiness, because—let’s face it—for a lot of years I wasn’t a particularly happy person. It took me a long time to figure it out, and it’s not a linear exercise by any means. I still have setbacks. I still have times when I feel like happiness is something beyond my grasp, and not for lack of trying.
Still, I believe in this. I believe in being agents of our own destiny. I believe I started finding happiness when I stopped looking for A Big Grand Sign. Happiness became palpable, for me, when I figured out how to feel grateful. And I’m not even talking about being grateful for a roof over my head or my family. I mean it started with being grateful for just enough coffee left for my morning cup. Or for a stranger holding the door. And then I started seeing bad-made-into-good all around me.
As much as I hate the “making lemonade out of lemons” saying, that’s really the type of thing I mean. And it starts small. read more…
The story of me, the story of us
“How old will I need to be before I can read your blog?” she asks me. We’re laying on her bed; she is pajama-ed and snuggled under the covers, I am next to her but on top of the blankets. I stroke her hair and she fiddles with a loose thread on my sleeve.
“I’m not sure,” I respond, slowly. I have to be careful. Right now all I know is that the right age is “not yet.” But if I give her a number, come hell or high water she will march up on her birthday and demand access. I guess I’m hoping this is one of those “I’ll know it when I see it” kinds of things. “Older,” I finally conclude. It feels lame. She affirms my ineptitude by pulling a face.
“I know OLDER,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But how old? You must swear a lot on there, to not want us reading it.” She sounds vaguely envious, and I squelch a chuckle.
“It’s not because I swear,” I tell her, thinking about how she busts out with “OOOOOH! YOU SAID A MODERATELY BAD WORD!” whenever I drop a “damn” or “hell” in her presence. “It’s because… it’s for grown-ups.” read more…