orange alert

Last night we were reading on the deck and the girls were sniftering their way around the yard when Belly starts on her orange alert, barking like a freakshow (she never does that). Steve's getting frustrated, telling me she's yelling at nothing (she really never does yell at nothing--she's not stupid), calling her up on the deck. She won't come, just keeps barking. I tell him to go down there and GET her if it's bothering him so much. He's not wearing shoes, so he can't. I go into the yard to get her and I see this very old man a couple yards away doing something to his fence. See, I say to Steve, she's not yelling at nothing. There's a man there fixing his fence.

I get Belly to stop barking and we all go in to start making dinner (yes, the girls help). Steve decides to lock the girls in so that they won't keep barking at the man. About ten minutes later, Belly's staring at the dog door and I say to Steve that we have to let them back out. Well, he's gonna go check on where that man is first. He goes out there and sees the man being walked back up the little mound behind our neighbor's yard by two nurses. "Honey, he ran away," he tells me. He wasn't fixing his fence and he wasn't out for an evening walk. He was lost. He was holding onto the fence to steady himself. There's a retirement home behind those buildings behind the trees behind our yard. We were completely depressed the rest of the night.

And then it occurred to me that maybe Belly actually HELPED. I like this story the best. The nurses didn't know where this poor little old man could be but they heard my booda barking barking barking at him, so they followed that sound. And they found him safe before he got to Hershey Ave.

fool

Just when I let myself believe that I could have an afternoon of quiet and simplicity, I am shown what a fool I am.

Wednesday afternoon was a gorgeous early spring day, not quite warm enough to go without a sweater, a nip in the air that reminds me of Fall. Steve wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours, so I decided I’d work in the front yard, removing the hay we’d put on the plants to keep them warm through the winter. I brought the dogs out front with me. I tied Wrigley up because she’s the one more likely to run off after a bunny. Annabelle’s almost 8, so she’s all grown up. She’s finally become the kind of dog who will stay by my side. Took me a very long time to get to this point with her, so I love taking opportunities like today to show her how I trust her. At one point as I’m walking to the street with arms full of hay, I tell Wrigley that someday she might be as well behaved as Annabelle and maybe then she can be outside with us not tied up.

Let me set the scene a bit more. Idyllic afternoon in a middle-class suburb. The little boys next door are riding their bikes up and down the street, the neighbors are out talking, friends come over to pet the girls, and it feels good to do physical labor outside for the first time in months.

And then she saw a bunny. Annabelle was off, running down the street, letting out that animal moan she only gets when she’s on the hunt. My calling her name did nothing except to make me even more frantic. Really, am I really doing this again? Am I really running down the street after this damn dog for what has to be the twentieth time in our lives together?

I should mention, too, that all the neighbors by this time had gone inside. I had no help.

So I ran after her down the street. We live not that far from Hershey Ave., and it was that time of day when all the State Farmers are on their way home from work. In Annabelle time, Hershey was just seconds away. Somehow in my chase, I ended up in a yard with Annabelle running running running in parking lots on the other side of a fence. I’m helpless. I’ve got to climb this fence. But it’s the chain-link kind, the kind with the really sharp spires. I put my foot into one of the slots, put my other foot on a higher slot and try to pull my other leg over the fence. But I’m wearing wide-leg jeans and the bottoms keep getting stuck on the sharp edges of the fence. So I fall back down to the ground. I get up. My jeans are ripped. I’m standing there thinking that the one thing standing between me and my dog is this fence and if I can’t climb it, she’s gonna die. I'm wondering how on earth I'm gonna be able to live with myself.

The woman whose yard I’m in appears and asks if some steps would help. What? I’m so panicky that I don’t really know what she means until I see her small daughter lugging a set of steps over—the kind you might use for a trampoline or a pool. “This is heavy,” she groans as she drags it across the yard ever so slowly. I can’t stay for this. I’ve got to do something to find her. So I run back toward our house, knowing that one of our neighbors has a gate I can use to get through to the other side. I grab a friend who’s just coming home from work. No explanation. Just, “J.W., I need you!” and with no questions, he helps. We get to the other side of the fence out to a grassy swamp. I look left and right, still frantic, when my eyes land on a little black doggie head straight ahead. She’s lying in a mud puddle, content as can be, cooling off after a long bunny chase. And she reeks. I’m so mad at her that J.W. has to drag her home by the collar. When we get back to the house, there’s Wrigley sitting on the front steps, obedient as can be. Such a good girl. Finally, it’s Annabelle who’s in trouble.

youie

How do you spell youie, as in a U-turn abbreviated?

On Thursday night, C. and I drove about an hour and a half up to Oak Brook, IL, to see Heather Armstrong, aka, Dooce, give a reading from her new book. We had a blast together. We ate dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, and before and after the reading, which was great, we shopped at stores we don't have down here in Bloomington--The Container Store (love it!) and Crate and Barrel (love it even more). We left Oak Brook for home at about 9ish.

About a half hour into our drive, I have to pee, so we get off on the next exit on the highway. There's a McDonald's/BP station right off the highway, but in order to get to it, you have to drive a bit and then take a U-turn in order to get onto the other side of the road to get into the parking lot. In other words, there's no direct way in. And the U-turn you've got to take is clearly illegal. Two big signs tell drivers not to do it. C. told me not to do it. I justify it to her by saying that they should have an easier way into McDonald's cuz I really gotta pee. So I make the U-turn and drive into the parking lot.

Meanwhile, as we're driving I've been telling her the cute story about how every night all we have to do to get the girls to go out one more time to go potty is say to them, "Who gots to go pot-pot?" and they book it out the dog door. Belly's usually in one of the bedrooms at this time of night, so she comes bookin' it down the hallway and has to slow down a bit before she turns from the hall into the kitchen. It's a sharp turn. We call it roundin' third. Here comes the Booda rounding third and she's being sent home. I'm gesturing wildly as I'm telling this story and I finish it just as I drive into my parking spot at McDonald's.

And the blue lights grab my attention in my rear view mirror.

"Oh Amy. I'm sorry," C. says. Christ. I just got "pulled over" in a parking lot. That damn U-turn. I gather my stuff--registration, insurance card, license--and I have it ready for the cop when he comes to my window.

"Good evening, Ma'am. Do you know why I stopped you tonight?"

"Actually, no I don't." I sounded so convincing I think I convinced myself.

"You made a U-turn back there and there are two signs clearly posted prohibiting a U-turn."

I didn't even stop to think up this response. "Oh. I was just so intent on using the bathroom"--I nod toward McDonald's--"that I must not've noticed it."

"Where're you headed?"

"Bloomington."

"Where're you coming from?"

"Oak Brook. We went to a reading up at the Borders there." Why I felt the need to tell him this, I'm not quite sure. Probably a class thing. See, I'm a good, cultured person, the kind of person who attends book readings. I don't deserve a ticket. Not for having to pee real bad.

He hesitates, looks at my documents, tells me that if my license is valid, he'll cut me a break this time. Goes back to his car. But not before telling me--twice--that I can go ahead and use the bathroom while he looks me up.

So I go inside, confident that I'm not getting a ticket, impressed with my own quick reactions to his questions. When I come back out, he gives me my stuff back and tells me to be more careful next time.

The youie. Rounding third. Belly and me both doing so just to pee one more time before bed. But my prompt came from a 25-year-old cop who got off just a bit too much on his own authority.

my big girl

Since you've seen me last, Annabelle has earned a new nickname. I'm not really sure how it came about, but lately I've been calling her my "little baby big big." This morphs easily into simply "Big big" or, simply, "Big." When I write it out, it looks even sillier.

My big big girl has very bad arthritis in her left elbow. Bad arthritis in her right elbow, but REALLY bad in her left. This diagnosis became the lesser of two evils, the other evil being bone cancer. During that time I kept telling myself that it can't be cancer, it can't be cancer. Arthritis we can deal with. We can manage that pain. We can't manage the pain of bone cancer.

And it's true, we can manage this pain. But because of the way I learned about this diagnosis, I trained myself to think of it as not so bad, really. Not life-threatening, obviously. But it is incredibly painful for my baby. I'm begining to think she's had elbow dysplasia her whole life, that she was born with an elbow out of whack; this would explain the on-and-off limping after running really hard. She's only 7 1/2 and her arthritis isn't going to get any better. It's breaking my heart.

The fear of that cancer diagnosis prevented me from understanding the seriousness of this diagnosis. And I knew that even when I was saying to anyone who would listen that arthritis, we can deal with. Cancer not so much.

Nothing I wouldn't do for that girl. My little baby big big.

Boodas for Obama

The original Booda, complete with her new "flower power" collar:

And the Junior Booda, who's still learning how to read:

doggie day care

Faithful readers will recall that when I first arrived at ISU, I had a wacky schedule, so I decided to put Annabelle in day care one or two days a week so that she wasn't home alone for 12 long hours and so that she could socialize and make friends and do up her hair pretty on those mornings. This routine ended when my schedule became more manageable, and since then I've noticed that any time Belly's in a large group of dogs that she doesn't know, she gets anxious. She shows this most often by walking away from the other dogs and staying off by herself. Or trying to leave wherever she is.

So when S. and I talked about taking Wrigley to Doggie Day Care because she so desperately loves other dogs and she equally desperately needs more stimuli, I was concerned about my big girl. On the one hand, I wanted to take her because I wanted her to go with her little sister and have fun and I couldn't bear the idea of putting just Wrigley in the car and leaving Belly home. But on the other, I kinda knew she wouldn't like it. So when we toured Paradise Pets--a different place from Belly's original day care, as this one is much closer--I told them about my concerns about Belly and asked them if they'd please let me know if it seems like Belly's miserable. Because lord knows I can't deal with that idea. S. and I decided we could afford to take them one day a week, and we chose Thursday because it's one of the days the staff grills hot dogs for the dogs. I shit you not.

Week 1: When I drop the girls off, I remind the staff that this is their first day and that I'm concerned about Belly, so please keep an eye on her. When I pick them up later that day, they tell me that I was right about Belly, that she did what I said she'd do, which is hang away from the other dogs. So they put my horse in with the little dogs and she seemed to do okay. Wrigley, of course, had a blast.

Week 2: When I drop them off, I again remind them about my concerns about Belly, and they remember that she did well with the little dogs, so they'll do that with her if it seems like that's what she wants. But when I pick them up later that day, they tell me that Belly was in with the big dogs. This leads me to believe that she was doing better.

Week 3, this morning: When I drop them off, Wrigley is so excited I think she's gonna pee herself. All Annabelle wants to do is get to the door. As in, the door to go back to the car. She so very clearly doesn't want to be there, and one way to know this for sure is that she refused a cookie. She does this at the vet when she's scared to death. So I wavered at first because the woman told me that lots of dogs do this when they first get there, especially when there're lots of dogs coming in at once. So I said okay, she can stay. But then when the guy tried to take her back and she resisted with all her might, I had to say no. I wasn't going to force her to stay. Wiggles went, never looked back, and Annabelle RAN to the car. I brought her home, took her for a walk in the neighborhood, and left her home.

My big girl, it seems, is not up for any more changes to her routine. I'm glad I didn't make her stay, but at the same time, I feel horrible leaving her home alone.

I guess I knew from the start that this plan was really for Wrigley, that Belly probably wouldn't like it, but it breaks my heart nonetheless. Nothing worse than seeing my girl scared.

This afternoon, while Wiggles is still play-play-playin' at daycare, I'll make my big girl a hot dog of her very own.

hard to type; story to follow

Meanwhile, look at me and the Booda with our front left appendages all bandaged up. We're Stumpy Jo and Gimpy too. Typing with one hand...that damn book's gonna take a bit....

happy happy birthday to my girl

Happy happy birthday to Annabelle Blue Butler.

My baby girl is seven years old today. Last year at this time she was the youngest of three dogs, and this year she's the older of two. She's adjusting to this role. I didn't say she's adjusting nicely, just that she's adjusting.

This next photo was taken right before a walk. When I put my socks and sneakers on, Belly runs down to the door and sits like a good girl, waiting for me and/or S. to come on already and take her for a walk.

She makes me so happy every single day. For her birthday celebration, there will be pupcorn, ice cream, and swimming (not in that order).

I have to admit that this year's birthday number hurts a bit. She's no longer my spring chicken. She's seven. Isn't that officially a senior? My heart hurts just thinking about my life without this beautiful beast. So I won't. Instead, I'll love on her and take her swim-swim-swimmin'.

Nessie lives

This is from last week's swim and I just love how Belly looks like the Loch Ness monster rising from the depths. Last night we took them swim-swim-swimmin' again, and Belly actually wanted to chase the ball in the water. We'd brought the ball for Wrigley because on land, Belly couldn't care less about the damn ball. That's child's play, she says. But in the water, suddenly it's something to chase.

Their swimming last night made my heart hurt, they were so damn cute. Two little black heads, swimmin' side by side, workin', workin' so hard to get to the ball. When Wrigley'd bring the ball back to us on land, Nessie stayed in the water pretty much looking like she does in the picture here, and when we'd tell Wrigley to sit before we threw the ball, Belly sat in the water.

They kill me, these girls.

how our doggies got their Deutsch names

Last weekend it was time to cut Wrigley's toenails and since she's not Annabelle, well, we do that here at home. S. holds her down while I cut them. It was kinda nice out, so we went out on the deck to do it. Belly watched from afar.

Wrigley has both black and white toenails and the one I cut too short was white, for crying out loud. The blood, it was red and it was gushing. We bandaged her foot up a few times that day. When it was time for our evening walk, I suggested we put a boot over the bandage to make sure it stayed on. She thus became the one-booted wonder.

S.: She could be a kicker. And with her little white beard, she needs a German name. Like Horst.

A.: How about Helmut? I've always loved that German name.

S.: Helmut works.

Then we realized, probably at the same time, that the name is indeed perfect because we could make it into Hellmutt. Two l's, two t's and we got a whole new meaning. She is the mutt from hell. Julia used to call Annabelle Hell's Bells. Now we've got Hell's Bells and Hellmutt.

On the way to the park, both girls stick their heads out the windows of the car, Belly barking the whole way. Lately we've noticed that her voice is getting pretty hoarse. With the trips to the park and the daily scolding of her little sister, it takes a lot out of her. Thus was she christened Horst.

Hellmutt and Horst. Two beautiful girls.

night and day

Belly: smart

Wrigley: not so much

Belly: anxious at times

Wrigley: not so much

Belly: thinker

Wrigley: not so much

Belly has always been my sweet, sometimes anxious, pooper stinkbutt with a big ol' smart bump on her head. She's very sensitive, and every time she's ever been hurt or sick, she's been very expressive about it. She communicates. And she does the pathetic look like no other. She's been working very hard to perfect it.

Wrigley, on the other hand--if she were fat, I'd be able to say she's fat, dumb, and happy. She has what could be a smart bump on her head but I'm thinking we might soon be able to confirm that it's really a shrunken dunce hat. She's just a happy, happy girl with not a care in the world. The day we brought her home she jumped up on the couch and wanted to wrestle. There was no adjustment period. There's also no pathetic look. It's just kind of a dumb, huh?

We have a trainer coming over tonight to help us train the Wiggles. I wish it were Cesar. I'm starting to get a bit of a crush on him. He's so no-nonsense. He'd have a field day with my relationship with Belly, but I know he'd straighten out the WiggleButt pretty quickly.

I mean, I knew our new doggie would be different from Belly (how could she not?), but I guess I wasn't prepared for such a happy-go-lucky doggie. A dog who really does get up each morning excited about all the possibilities for a new day. New sniffs! Toys! Walks! Food! Opportunities to steal food! Oh BOY!

aftermath

When I had had Annabelle for just a few months and we were living in an apartment on Green Street in Syracuse, I came home one day to find her water bowl completely empty save for a couple feathers stuck to the bottom of it. There were feathers stuck in her coat. When I went to the bedroom I saw a scene not unlike the one that follows here:

When I got home from school yesterday, no more than two minutes before S. did, I walked into the living room to this. It was a little bit funny. When I heard the garage door open, I went downstairs to greet S. and told him I wanted him to experience what I had just experienced. "I don't wanna experience anything," he whined. "Tell me."

"Nope. I want you to have the same surprise I had."

"I'm not going upstairs. I'm gonna stay down here all night."

All of these feathers, folks, were from HALF a couch pillow. Dang, they stuff those things real good. Poor Petula the Penguin. She was covered and she had no way to escape.

We'll be finding feathers for at least the next week or so. I've blamed it all completely on Wrigley, though when I was telling Nan about it last night, she suggested that maybe the girls were playing tug-o-war with the pillow. Belly tells me no, it was all Wiggles. And while Wrigley was making this mess, Belly coached her, telling her what it was like when she had done the same thing. Back when she was a baby.

I seeeeeee you...

Ah, life before the Wiggles came to town. It was so easy...

two beautiful girls

Wrigley looks so regal in this pic, but really, she's a clown. Don't let her fool you.

Wiggles

Here's our newest little baby girl. She's adjusting remarkably well. This photo of Belly and Wrigley playing in the back yard is from right when we got home from the Humane Society. I am so so happy to see Annabelle playing with another dog. She hasn't played with a dog in at least two years.

Wrigley looks up to her big sister, follows her around, and loves the scent of her butt. They also love that they get treats when the other one does something good.

Wrigley loves loves loves her daddy. They've bonded instantly, and she's gonna be a huge help as we continue to mourn Mulder and Scully.

Um, Annabelle is strange. She hasn't seen her crate in at least four years. Last night she got in it. She's missed it, she wants us to know. Or, you could say she's looking to recapture her youth. She had us cracking up. Look at this pathetic face.

Happy to have our Wiggle girl home. Happy to see our girls getting along so well. Happy that we've chosen such a happy happy girl. Happy new year.

because we need something to smile about

Here's Belly with her two Christmas toys from Santa. A turtle named Lulu and a hard rubber tire. Likely she'll be giving that hard rubber tire to her NEW BABY SISTER because that little sister will be looking for things to chew on. In one week we'll go back to the Humane Society to pick up her 10-month old sister, a black lab mutt who could very well be Annabelle, rewound 5 1/2 years. More on the new girl soon, but chew on this: her name will be Wrigley. Now, that's a pretty common name for doggies around these parts and lord knows I don't want to give my new girl a common name. But given that S.'s last name is Field, well, how could we NOT name her Wrigley Field? Her full name: Wrigley Juniper Robillard Field.

oh how she loves having friends come over

Um, does it get any cuter than this? Christmas Day, 2007. All I had to say to her was, "your friends are coming over." She knows what this means and runs to each of the windows so she can watch for them. God, this dog kills me sometimes.

We had fun on Christmas. Cheryl and Brad joined us for a yummy turkey dinner with all the fixins, including cranberry sauce with lines. We played Scrabble, drank wine, played Scene It, and enjoyed each other's company. S. carved the turkey and did all the clean up after dinner. I tried to help but he wouldn't let me. For the record, he's a good one.

Today and tomorrow are writing days. Chop chop.

black doggie in snow

The girl in action. It was much easier to film her while on the leash; when I tried to film her off-leash, she appeared as nothing more than a little black speck moving very fast.

add "Bagel Butt" to the list of names

Here's the girl in her brand new, superhuge Bagel Bed. Santa brought it for her a month early. We ordered an extra large because when we measured her old bed, we figured we should get one just a wee bit bigger so she could stretch out. Well, she can certainly stretch out in this one. Hell, she could have a friend over for a sleep over.

It's called a bagel bed because it's got the higher sides around the edges and a big sinkable, snuggable hole in the middle. Belly wouldn't pass muster for a catalog shot since she's not modeling her famous kitty cat pose.

Alternate names for the bagel bed: the raft or the boat, which makes Belly bugger a sailor girl.

because you've missed her

A Monday morning photo of the girl:



Does it get ANY cuter than the girl with crosspaw? She'd just finished reading Cheryl Strayed's "The Love of My Life" and was thinking hard about how to respond.