Part-time Parenting and an Attempt at Transparency

“The Child”, “The Girl”, “Poppet”... I call her many things. She’s my daughter. And she’s coming home in two weeks. No, she’s not been away at college, or boarding school, or even institutionalized (I swear!) She’s just been living with her dad and his wife, 20 short minutes away in the neighboring city. And apparently, I am going to tell you why.

But why am I telling you why? I have no idea. Maybe it’s because I’ve been following Elizabeth Potts Weinstein on Twitter. Yes, let’s blame her. @ElizabethPW (her Twitter handle) talks about authenticity and being transparent and although I certainly couldn’t give a seminar about these topics, I think I get the gist. A little. If I have not, in fact, “gotten the gist”, then this will be embarrassing as hell. Shit. Now I'm nervous. Sigh...

Here. We. Go.

Fifteen years ago my little Poppet came into the world and although I loved her more than anything, yup... even PUPPIES, I had no idea what the hell to do with her. My first time holding a baby had been 5 days prior, when I held my BFF’s newborn. There I sat, like a statue, with this football-sized thing screaming and wiggling around. I was petrified.

And the screaming... Did I mention the screaming? There was a lot of screaming.

So there I am, having a baby that I probably had no business having because I was twenty-two, unmarried, financially unstable. Oh, and I was a college drop out because I gained so much damn weight while I was pregnant that I couldn’t fit into the desks or lecture hall seats at ASU. Yeah, I was that fat, so I quit school. **On a side note, I did go back to graduate when Poppet was 2. She wore my graduation cap at my party and shook her little ruffled fancy-pants all night long. Well, at least until Grandma took her home, so really it was only like 20 minutes of fancy-pants shakin’, but whatever, it was cute. I have pictures to prove it!

The Other Parental Unit (OPU) and I were on-again-off-again our entire relationship. We stuck it out for about two years after Poppet was born, but it was ugly at best. So fast forward to the elementary school years: I’m a single mom, working my tail off, picking Poppet up from after-school care and getting home too late to cook a decent meal or help the child with her homework. It was a disaster. Nay... (I just like using that word), it was a nightmare. For both of us. The evening would typically end with the child’s homework soaking wet from her tears because I would yell and scream. I couldn’t help her. Especially with the math. I could get her to the answer, but if she couldn’t show her work, the way her teacher was teaching it, she wouldn’t get the credit.

My temper didn’t help. When exactly does a temper help?

I would call the OPU, begging for his help and he would get on the phone with Poppet and the math would be done, just like that. One day the OPU didn’t answer. I was hiding in the bathroom so Poppet couldn’t see me shaking and crying. I wanted to put my fist through the wall. I left a message on OPU’s cell phone. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t my finest moment. I re-live it over and over again. I practically have the message I left him memorized. Mostly because it was played back to me many, many times. By attorneys. And a judge. You get the idea. Long story short, I ended up taking a class, “Anger Management for Parents”. The class was 99% humiliating, but that other 1% actually helped. Okay, so the humiliation may have helped a little, too.

The homework situation didn’t get better. Fortunately, my ability to deal with it did. I swallowed my pride and agreed to let Poppet move in with the OPU and his fiancée so they could help the child with the "technical" homework. As it turned out, the school in his neighborhood was amazing. The district is one of the best in the State and we were truly blessed that the child ended up where she did. Poppet excelled at the new school. The OPU helped with math, science and social studies. I handled English, reading and art. Poppet came back to my house on the weekends when there was less stress and more time for us to just “be”. Junior High went the same way: great grades, less stress for everyone, happy, happy, happy.

Except not completely happy. I don’t feel like a real mom. I have improved my attitude and my anger and my communication skills by a gazillion times and I miss my little Poppet every single day. And she’s only 20 minutes away.

Fast forward again: Today, Poppet is one week away from finishing her first semester of high school. She has surpassed everyone in math. No one in the OPU’s family can help her when she needs it. Luckily she’s in the Honors Program and has a college prep class that brings in tutors when she needs help. Technically, there is no longer a reason for her to be at the OPU’s house. So she’s coming home. Yes, it’s only 20 minutes away, yes I’ll be losing my quality weekend time with her and only getting her during the crazy busy week, but she’ll be home. My little Poppet is coming home!

I’m so happy I cannot contain myself! Part-time parenting blows.

Mama Mia

My 60-year-old mother has been an investigative journalist/feature writer for over 30 years. She has flown with the Blue Angels. She’s flown in a KC 110 or 135 refueler (I don’t know any of the correct military terms!) while it refueled fighter jets in mid-air. My mother has followed Hot Shots into a forest fire, trained with Marines, and driven a tank. When I was younger I remember she wrote a series on the KKK in our rural Michigan county and an article about dead cows floating down the Grand Rapids River and both of these elicited death threats at our house. She’s won awards, most of them local or regional and the AP always picks up her stories.

As skilled as she is at writing and at getting sources to divulge their secrets, she has zero ability to make and keep friends or to communicate on a personal level with anyone. This is one of the many reasons that our relationship has always been precarious, to put it mildly, but that’s a different post altogether. The last newspaper that my mother worked for was in a small town north of my own where she had hoped to retire. As it turns out, she will be retiring not in the small, quaint, northern town, but in my town. In my house. With me. Because she quit/got fired simultaneously – yet again. And with print newspapers and magazines folding every day there seems to be no hope of her finding another job in journalism. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Up until a year ago mother lived a few thousand miles away and we got along…okay. Then she moved back to my state, but was a respectable two hours away. My daughter and I visited a few times, always uncomfortably, because my mother is difficult. And always right. And above reproach. Now my tiny little shoe-box home will house myself, my mother, my 15 year-old daughter, our 3 dogs and my mother’s dog who, incidentally, is as unfriendly as my mother and hates my dogs.

I am concerned. That’s about the only way I can put it. I wish I had the energy or the words to explain why I am so “concerned”, but I don’t. I can’t even muster my signature sarcasm today. I’m exhausted and lost and I feel defeated on so many, many levels and now my mother is moving in with me? Again? Yes, she lived here many years ago and it wasn’t pretty or happy at all. Not. At. All.

I needed to get that out before I went to bed because I can’t take another sleepless night. I know that it probably won’t be as bad as the picture my mind is painting for me and I promise that for my next post I’ll be less Debbie Downer and more Snarky Sally!

Good night…

Hearing Voices

Last weekend I took my daughter and our two youngest dogs, Effie and Ero, up north to see my mother. While we were there my mother popped a tape into a cassette player and said, “Listen to this”, so I did. I fought back tears – I don’t cry in front of people, certainly not my mother – when I realized it was a recording my grandfather made on Christmas Eve when I was 3 years old. He just hit the record button and taped until it ran out. For the first time in 23 years I heard my grandmother’s voice. I heard her say my name. I heard her tell me how silly I was. I heard the jingling of the ice in her signature glass of Seven and 7. For the first time in 23 years I heard my grandmother laugh.

I remember everything about her. I remember her clothes, what brand of cigarettes she kept in the freezer, what she made for Sunday suppers. I remember sitting with her at her organ when she played. I remember that she would ask my mother to bring me over every time she lost something because I could find anything in her house. I remember the glasses that hung off a chain around her neck so she wouldn’t lose them. I have thought about her every single day for the last 23 years and I can remember everything about her, everything but the sound of her voice.

My grandparents were a gift. When my world was dark, they lit a candle. When everything seemed hopeless, they imbued possibility. When I was lost, they would steer me home. Hearing their voices on that cassette, especially my grandmother’s, was so unexpected and for a moment I felt the loss all over again, but I could listen to it every single day.

For those of you that have lost your grandparents, what's your favorite memory?

For those of you that still have your grandparents - spend as much time with them as you can. Listen to their stories, watch them cook or play the kazoo or whatever it is that they love to do. Ask them questions and listen to their answers. Memorize them.

Thank You PNN-ers! Ero loves you all!

I had such a great response on my "Luckdragon" post so at the suggestion of Verby, I decided to do an actual post about Ero and his quest to be deemed "The Cutest Dog". Thank you to everyone who's been voting - thanks to you all, Ero made it into Round 8!

Ero, short for Fiyero, was recently accused of looking like a "Doofus" by a rather unpleasant and incessant chick at our local bark park. I beg to differ. Technically he may not be handsome and he certainly doesn't like to be dressed up like my other dogs, but what he does have is an endearing quirkiness, a pizazz about him, that makes you fall in love with him instantaneously.

Ero somehow ended up at the local county shelter where he was deemed a "girl" because his long hair was so matted no one knew he had little boy-bits. He was scared and wouldn't interact with the staff so he was placed on the "E-List". Thankfully, a local rescue took him out of the shelter before his death sentence was carried out.

**On a side note, I applaud rescues that pull dogs from the E-List, regardless of breed or beauty, as opposed to removing only adorable pups and purebreds.**

Ero went for a bath and a shave and low and behold he was actually a boy! A very big boy. The picture below is Ero after his first bath and shave. This is also the picture that has been entered in the competition:

After many weeks, Ero was still with the rescue. He was living with a foster family and many other dogs. He warmed up quickly to everyone, was listed on petfinders.com and attended weekly adoption events, but nobody wanted to give this little guy a chance. Honestly, when I met him, I wasn't going to give him a chance either. I went to the adoption event to look at two other dogs, both Wheaten mixes because my other dog Effie (Elphaba) is a Wheaten. And there was Ero. Goofy bobblehead Ero. I watched at least 6 other people/couples/families look at Ero, walk him around, play with him and leave with another dog or none at all. Ero didn't care. He just played with everyone, happy to be alive and clean and fed and certainly happy to be loved by his foster family. I had brought my Effie to the event so she could meet her potential "Fiyero" and much to my dismay they hit it off immediately. 

I was looking for a particular dog for Effie. Something in the Terrier family, close to her weight because she's a rough little girl and likes to sit on (conquer) her playmates. I had convinced myself we were getting another Terrier. End of story. After hours of watching Ero get left behind, I knew I had to take him. Here's what I got for my $275, and i tell you it was one hell of a bargain:

Ero's head is too big for his body and it bobbles from side to side. His paws are too big for, well, for anything really. His snout is as big as his GINORMOUS paws. His legs are as short as a Basset Hound's. He has no depth perception whatsoever, so he head-butts everything and everyone. When he gets startled, his neck telescopes like E.T. and his bobbly-head rises an extra inch or two. He's afraid of being picked up for any reason. He eats his food like he's never eaten before and will never again. When he first wakes up from a nap, he has no idea where he is or who you are and he barks like he's never met you before. Sorry mom. Just don't go near him for 5 minutes or so after he wakes up. It'll all come back to him...

He also sleeps curled up between by arm and my side at night. He guards my bathroom while I take a shower. When I get home from work he usually pees on my foot to say he missed me. That's what I choose to believe, anyway. He snuggles and kisses and says "thank you, thank you, thank you" every minute of every day since I brought him home. Here's what he looks like today:

Cute doesn't necessarily have to be about looks. Hair gets cut, grows back, gets cut again and costumes and props make everyone look adorable. Cute can be a state of mind, an attitude, that little something extra. I think Ero definitely has a little something extra and if you do too, you can vote for him by using the link below:

http://www.cutestdogcompetition.com/vote.cfm?h=89C85FEC894CC2B3E48955A56699C231 

No, He's Not A Luckdragon!

What ever happened to "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all"? I'm not talking about blogging or tweeting or anything like that, but in the real face to face world what makes random people say nasty things for no apparent reason? I understand misguided humor and people that think they are being funny. Hell, I probably think I'm a lot funnier than I actually am, but I also don't walk up to complete strangers and insult them. Wait... Yeah, no, I've never done that. Without provocation. Or booze.

This morning we took Effie and Ero to the dog park. The  early morning weather is fantastic now so the park is packed with the usual suspects and a lot of fresh faces, both canine and human, which I love! I bore easily. It's a character flaw. Anyway, a woman that's been coming to the park longer than we have approached me because one of her dogs was drinking out of our cooler. There are a few people at this park that don't like to share their water and you never know who they are until you hear them yelling at your dog. I am not one of the stingy water hoarders. I like dogs more than people so we bring a big cooler.

The woman, whom I've seen many times because Effie used to play with her dogs, noticed Ero, went to pet him and called him a "funny little mutt thing". I told her his name and Miss Rude said "Oh, he's YOURS? What is he?" I told her his breed, but he's a rescue so it's really just a lot of guessing unless I do a DNA test. Miss Rude proceeded to point out all of his flaws. Thank you. I'm actually aware of his supposed "flaws" and don't consider them as such because he's a dog not a beauty pageant contestant, I chose him and we love him dearly.

This is where I started to take it a little personal. I had been over it; Miss Rude went to hob-knob with one of the cliques and all was good. We walked around the perimeter for a bit and sat on a bench so Effie and Ero could rest. The next thing I know Miss Rude is headed our way again, with some other chick, and says "You should've named him Doofus. That's what he looks like. A doofus." And then she turns to the other chick and says, "See, doesn't he look weird? Doofus fits better." They laugh and walk away.

What possessed this chick to walk across this massive park and point out my apparently stupid looking dog to someone else, I will never know. I just don't understand people, which is another reason why I like dogs better. But, if you think that was the end of it you would be so very wrong! We walked back to the tree where I had left our cooler. Effie and Ero got their second wind and while they were playing Miss Rude came over AGAIN, WITH MORE PEOPLE IN TOW, and said to them, "See, doesn't he look like the dog in 'The Neverending Story'? I think his name should be 'Doofus'. Doesn't that fit him?"

<dl>

Ero - The "Fugly and Flawed" Dog

</dl>

<dl>

Falkor the Luckdragon who actually *is* kinda fugly. And also imaginary.

</dl>

Sweet Baby Jesus Mother Mary I'm going to kick your irritating ass.

I know he's "just a dog" and not my actual child but she basically told me, and apparently the rest of the park, that Ero is the fugliest dog she's ever seen. And she didn't just tell everyone, she had to show them as well. I try really hard to like people. I make an effort every single day not to smack people in the face because they are mostly irritating. And more stupid than they should be. But I never, ever say it to their faces. That's how classy I am.

Why Yes McDonalds, I have Been Inconvenienced.

Every morning I make a quick stop at the McDonalds down the street from my house. I require coffee. A lot of coffee and since a Venti Frappacino costs as much as a barrel of crude, I have had to make some adjustments to my routine.

Well, imagine my surprise when I arrived at the drive-thru speaker this morning and saw this message taped to the screen (camera phone, sorry - you may need a magnifier):

WHOA! BACK THE TRUCK UP! Do you mean to tell me that I have been wasting countless hours and oodles of my hard-earned money on Match and eharmony and all this time I could've just ordered a Boy Toy at the damn drive thru? What the hell McDonalds!?! Yeah, I'd say you've inconvenienced me. And now you're out of them? When will you get more? And do you take special orders? Oh wait, you're not Burger King so I probably "can't have it my way". 

What. The. Fuck? Why am I always the last to know about the good shit?

I *Heart* Crazy

I really do enjoy meeting new people every day. Most of them are weird in one way or another, but then who isn’t? People think I’m a little strange and it doesn’t really bother me. The hard part, for me, is getting through each of my appointments without letting my clients know that I think they are weird. Or stupid. Or crazy.

Take for instance the client who completely stopped her signing because she didn’t like the way I wrote my 5’s. Yes. My 5’s were too similar to an “S” and she wanted me to correct them all. Holy Shit Batman. If you thought my 5’s were bad, you should see my “1’s”. They’re horrible! They are so similar to an “L” or, dare I say, an “i” WITHOUT THE FUCKING DOT! It’s sick. I’m sick. I have no idea how I made it through school. And how in the name of all that is Holy did I make it into a Master’s program? With penmanship like that I should’ve been held back in fourth grade.

Another example of crazy is the little old lady in North North Scottsdale. If you are familiar with the Phoenix area you will understand that North Scottsdale and North North Scottsdale are two completely different animals. North Scottsdale = money. NN Scottsdale = OMG Shut The Fuck Up You Live Where? And therefore there is an expected level of class or culture or brains or something that inherently comes with the location. Unless of course you are me, because when I get called to NN Scottsdale I just get to meet the whack-jobs.

Little Old Lady (LOL) lives in a gated and 24 hour guarded community. I had to stop at the gate and check in, wait for the guard to record my car info and check to see that my name was on the list. When I got to the house I rang the bell and heard LOL unlock three separate locks. When she “opened” the door she did so with the chain still attached and she gave me the once over. After a few awkward moments she shut the door, took the chain off and led me into the kitchen. Okay, dicey start but I was in now, sitting at her kitchen table, with her loan documents in hand.

LOL seemed really uncomfortable with me, with her loan documents, with everything and then she had a question regarding some of the costs on her settlement statement and because I don’t work for the title company I cannot tell you why they charged you a bajillion dollars for this or that. So I pick up my cell to call her title rep and LOL freaked out!

            LOL:            “You can’t use a cell phone from my house!”

            Me:             “Why? I’m getting reception.”

            LOL:            “NO! THEY can hear you. EVERYONE can hear you. You have to use MY phone. They can’t hack into MY phone.”

            Me:             “Are you kidding me? Is Ashton here?”

Sweet baby Jesus, she’s fucking crazy. And since I don’t like to touch other people’s stuff, like their virus-ridden phone, without sanitizing it first in a bleach bath, I gave her the number and made her call the title company on her fancy, hack proof Bat Phone. By the time she got off the phone with the title company LOL had freaked herself out so badly about a multitude of things that she made me follow her to a café down the street to finish the signing. It was all I could do to not tell her that I thought we were followed and that the café had cameras recording our every move. That probably would’ve launched her right off her rocker. But it would have been awesome.

Please Stop Apologizing...

I meet a lot of people every day while I'm working. Ninety percent of the time the conversation turns to personal chit chat, especially when my clients are women, and 90% of the chit chat ends up being about kids, dogs, family, etc. I cannot tell you how many times in a week I get asked if I'm married, or what does my husband do or, my personal fave, "and what does your husband say/think about that?". My response is always the truth. I say, "I'm not married", because I'm not. Nor do I have a boyfriend and haven't had one since my daughter was 2. She just started high school.

I am not offended by the question. Not in any way. I do not get upset. I do not cry and throw myself a pity party in front of my client. Nor do I take offense and stand on my feminist high horse with sword in hand exclaiming that I chose this life. I just answer the question and continue the conversation. Unfortunately most women I meet immediately say, "Ooooh, I'm sorry".

You're sorry? Why exactly are you sorry? Are you sorry you asked the question? Or are you sorry that I'm about to turn 38 and have never been married? Are you sorry that since I'm unmarried and have a teenager I must have had a hard life? I don't mind the questions regarding the assumed husband. What I do mind is the apology. In that moment and just for that moment, your apology makes me feel "less than", disadvantaged in some way, possibly broken and completely and utterly fucked up. And the next moment that feeling is gone.

My point is this: There are a million reasons why some people never get married. Some choose it, some don't, but please, please, PLEASE stop apologizing unless you are apologizing for the ASSUMPTION. And if that actually is the case, no apology necessary, really.

OK, so this video is only loosely related to this post, but I had to include it. Enjoy. And your welcome.

How Not To Get Shanked By Your Client's Gangster Daughter

It has really been a rough week. I know the world is full of crazy people, but I didn't realize that I would be meeting them all. Sometimes they are funny. Sometimes they are scary. Sometimes they are eccentric. More often than not they are just plain stupid.

Take for instance the client who works for a major, MAJOR lender. Not only does this client work for the lender, but he's really high up the food chain. Client refinances house. I show up at house at specified time. Client doesn't have any identification. Why does this keep happening? People: This is America-Post-9/11! My dog can't take a piss in the local Bark Park without a god damned license so why the hell do you think you can refinance your house without one? I realize there are many reasons why some people don't have drivers licenses, I get that. I, technically, didn't know how to drive until I was 25. But you can bet your sweet ass I had an Arizona ID the day I turned 16. It's common sense. How do you cash checks? Have any type of bank account? Have a job? Buy adult beverages? Cigarettes? How do you survive? And if you DO manage to get by without any of the above, then A) you most likely have a miserable life and B) you certainly do not own your home. No one in this country owns a home without having had some type of ID, authentic or otherwise, when they purchased said home. Fact.

My client thought that since he worked for the lender his employee ID would suffice. Sure, I can accept that. Or your library card, Costco card, Friends of Josh Groban membership card. Whatever, I'm easy. It's just a job, after all. In the end the client ended up finding 2 witnesses to verify his identity. Unfortunately the witnesses came over with 6 untamed children, for a total of NINE untamed children, running around destroying the house while we completed the signing. That evening required heavy alcohol consumption. Thankfully I have an ID.

My next fabulous signing was with a very lovely couple. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at all. We sat down, everyone had ID, they understood their paperwork because, for a change, their loan officer had actually done his job correctly so there were no surprises. About halfway through the signing, I felt something brush my toes so I moved my foot a little, assuming it was a cat. Then something brushed BOTH my feet, but this time it was so startling that I actually kicked my foot a little. It was just a reaction, I didn't do it to be vicious for god's sake but allegedly I kicked a bunny rabbit across the kitchen. Allegedly. A bunny rabbit. Roaming the house all willy nilly. There were several rabbits. What the eff are bunnie rabbits doing roaming the house? And why in God's name would you not alert your visitors to the potential threat of bunnies nibbling their toes? Maybe I'm allergic. Maybe I'm phobic. Maybe I was mauled by a vicious, bucktoothed jackrabbit as a child which would illicit the football punt reaction that occurred. This is exactly what the bunny looked like. I'm not kidding:

<dl>

Vicious effing bunny

</dl>

Needless to say my clients were mildly horrified and yet apologetic at the same time. I felt really, really bad, but cage your vicious bunnies. And your snakes, lizards and birds, too. Don't even get me started on the birds...

My last unfortunate appointment of the week occurred Thursday. It was enough to make me want to never do another signing again. Ever. I arrived at an appointment, in a less than desirable neighborhood, and knocked on the door. I could hear girls/women talking and I could hear the TV. No one answered. I rang the bell. I knocked some more. I could still hear the TV and women talking and laughing. I called the number on my order sheet. I could hear the damn phone ringing from inside the house BUT NO ONE WOULD ANSWER IT. I am persistent though, so I waited in my car for a few minutes, in case my client wasn't home and had just left the TV on, although I definitely heard talking and laughing. I went back to the door about 10 minutes later and continued ringing the bell, knocking, and calling.

After a total of 22 minutes, TWENTY TWO, the door swung open. Standing just beyond the swing area of the door was a girl. A woman? I don't know - late teens or early 20's. She looked like a gangster. She was standing like a soldier "at ease" with her hands behind her back, as if clutching something. Something like a shank. Or a gun. Or a meat cleaver. But what was even more strange was that she had her head cocked to one side and she was just staring at me, with a calm yet homicidal look on her face. Immediately I had a feeling that my client was stuffed in a freezer in the back of the house or bound and gagged and tied to a chair. I hate that feeling.

Gangster Girl continued to stare for what seemed a long time, saying nothing. So I asked if my client was home and said that I had a 5 pm appointment with her. Gangster Girl slowly, and I mean VERY slowly, cocked her head to the other side and STILL SAID NOTHING. Creepy effing bitch. She very much reminded me of Dollface in The Strangers. You know, this one:

<dl>

Gemma Ward as Dollface in "The Strangers" aka My client's gangster daughter.

After an insanely long time she said "No one is home" and slowly cocked her head to the other side again. Okay, so it was a little creepy because I had a very bad vibe the whole time and technically I should have given her my business card, etc., but there was no fucking way I was giving Gangster Dollface my personal information. Not a chance in hell! I walked quite swiftly to my car and left and do you know what? She still just stood there. I don't even know if she was my client's daughter, but if she WAS the daughter then she needs a serious, SER.I.OUS ass-whooping.

</dl>

This is why I hate my job. And I certainly don't get paid enough!

**disclaimer: Yes, I am still very thankful that I at least have a job.

If I Had Josh Groban's Ear...

The Obligatory "Who I Am" Post

Hello! My name is Jenny and I've been on PNN for a couple weeks. I found PNN through another Jenny, The Bloggess, whom I follow on Twitter. I like to write, but my technical skills are lacking so I usually sit here with my copy of Strunk and White's "The Elements of Style". The book isn't really helping. I keep it near me regardless; it makes me feel smarter.

I am a thirty-something year old single mom. My daughter (pictured on left) starts high school tomorrow. Tomorrow. Ohmygod; my sweet little baby girl STARTS HIGH SCHOOL TOMORROW! Whew, okay, got that little freak out out of the way. Yes, my little poppet starts high school tomorrow and I am actually thrilled. I promised her a long time ago that we would not move until she graduated high school. But just so you know, I already have my calendar for 2013 and May 16 has been circled with a sparkly neon pink marker because I'm outta the P-H-X! I don't care what anyone says; the heat in Arizona is not bearable because "it's dry". That's just stupid. I'm originally from Michigan and dry heat vs. wet heat has no winner. They both suck. Tremendously. So, I'm out after she graduates and since she's in the honors' program I'm hoping maybe she can graduate early. I know that's very selfish of me, but I feel like I can't really start the rest of my life until I've gotten her educated, both in school and in life/common sense so I'm just kind of chugging along, living paycheck to paycheck, raising the awesome-est kid on the planet and 3 dogs. And yes, I know "awesome-est" isn't a word but I use many words that aren't real. It's OK. Everyone's doing it.

Now for the rest of the family, the dogs... We have 3 dogs, each with their own ridiculous issues. I'll start with Fluke, aka "Old Man" (pictured w/ Effie). Old Man is a 12 year old Lab/Shepherd mix. He was diagnosed with cancer about a month ago. He's my daughter's dog and she wasn't ready to let him go, nor did he seem like he wanted to go, so he had a tumor removed 2 and 1/2 weeks ago. The tumor didn't come out clean, but the cancer is slow growing so we will pray that he's got another year, maybe 2. Maybe old age will take him first. Other than the cancer, Old Man is perfectly healthy and has been for the last 10 years.

Our second dog, a Wheaten Terrier named Effie (Elphaba the Wicked of Oz, actually) is MY dog. My little, maybe not so little, princess! I have many posts about her, telling of her shenanigans, so I won't bore you here. But I love her madly. She's my pal because my daughter is at school all week and I'm lonely. 

The newest addition to our family is Ero (pronounced "arrow", pictured left) which is short for Fiyero. Elphaba and Fiyero. If you aren't addicted to Wicked, either the book or the musical, you probably think I'm a shitty dog namer. Well I'm not, just so you know. Ero is a rescue. He's supposed to be a Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen. Yep, I know, just google it. I don't believe that he is, but I won't know what he really is until his fur grows back as he was shaved down to his skin by the rescue that saved him from the e-list at our county pound. What I do know about Ero, now, is that he has issues. Severe issues. He needs work and since I don't believe in disposable pets I have committed myself to getting him the help that he needs. A lot of help. I'm so not kidding.

So that's all there is about me. Oh wait there's more. I should tell you that I have a job. Well "technically" I'm self employed and to many, including the State of Arizona, that means I don't really have a job but I really, really do! I am a notary, a mobile notary, and I drive around all day doing loan signings for lenders and title companies. I take the loan documents to the borrower, explain them and make sure the borrower signs everything correctly. It's harder than it sounds, really. I don't just stamp papers willy nilly. There's official crap that has to be done and I'm really good at it and yet it's boring as hell. Certainly not my dream job. Not even close. I tell you this because I write about it, but if you don't know what the hell my job is then my posts won't make sense. My posts may still not make sense, but thanks for reading anyway.

House of Horrors aka: Banfield Pet Hospital

I have blogged before about my Wheaten Terrier, Effie, and her medical issues earlier on in her life. Now I am faced with cancer in my 12 year old Shepherd Mix, Fluke. He's actually my daughter's dog. She picked him out at the pound 11 years ago, when the pound was still called "the pound". She named him. She dressed him up in pink tutus and pearl necklaces and painted his "toenails" and he never once complained or nipped or ran away from her. I even had portraits done of Fluke and Kenzie when they were both toddlers. If I wasn't so technologically challenged I would scan that picture for this blog, but there isn't enough booze in my house to get me through that.

But I digress... This post isn't about Fluke's cancer or the love between a girl and her dog. This blog is about the complete and utter disgust I have for my current vet, Banfield (at Petsmart). About a year ago something happened that should've gotten my attention. But I wasn't listening to that little nagging voice inside my head and then life happened and I forgot about that nagging voice. So, I will take the blame for the past and focus on how to educate and inform others about the true nature of Banfield. Here's my story:

The first incident, that I ignored, happened when I had to take Effie to the ER Vet in the middle of the night. She had been seen multiple times before by her Banfield vet for a high temp, vomiting and dehydration and they took x-rays of her stomach. The ER Vet wanted to see the Banfield x-rays to compare to the x-rays he had taken. The ER staff called Banfield numerous times to ask for the x-rays but Banfield would not return their calls. As soon as the ER told me, I called Banfield and they said I would have to come down and pay $40 for a copy. I paid for the x-rays, did I not? To be exact, after my "Optimum Wellness Plan (OWP)" discount, I paid $188.08 for the damn x-ray and now I have to pay $40 to get a copy? What about standard of care? What about the health and welfare of the pet coming first? If my vet isn't open at 2 a.m. and I have to take my pet to the ER and said pet is so ill that she can't be released for 3 days, shouldn't my regular vet give me copies of whatever the fuck I want because I already paid handsomely for it? I think so, but that's just me. The same vet tech that charged me the $40 had the nerve to ask me for a copy of the ER x-ray so that Effie's files would be "complete". I told her it would cost them $40. Incidently, the ER vet did not charge me to make that copy.

Incident number two: I had done a lot of research on dog vaccination and decided that I only wanted Fluke and Effie to have the core vaccines. The Banfield vet tech tried to talk me into the non-core vaccines and I still declined so then she made a rude comment to the actual vet who then asked me "what exactly my issue was with the non-core vaccines". I told her what I had read, from the AVMA website, and she rolled her eyes. People, I can throw down if I have to. I love my dogs like they were my children and since I have a human child I actually know what that love feels like.

Incident 3: When you go in for vaccines, Banfield tells you that many vaccines cause an allergic reaction but they can give your beloved pet some Benedryl prior to the vaccine to ward off the reaction. The Benedryl is only an additional $12 dollars. Do you know that a bottle of generic Benedryl from Wal-mart or Walgreens or ANYWHERE ON THE DAMN PLANET is $4 and lasts my 80 pound dog about 4 months because he has actual allergies, but has never suffered from so-called "vaccine allergies". Do they even exist, or is that bullshit, too?

Incident 4: Fluke went in for his last comprehensive exam. He's old and prefers not to be poked. The vet tech called the day before and asked if I could just drop him off because they were very busy the next day and I didn't see anything wrong with it so I dropped him off. After I picked him up and got home I looked at the receipt and saw that they had charged me for "extra restraints", which prompted me to look at ALL of my receipts for the last few years. Every "drop-off" visit for Fluke and Effie had charges for these "extra restraints" totaling a few hundred dollars. As of Saturday, I have called 47 vets in the Phoenix Metro Area and given them this hypothetical scenario:

Me: "I bring my 80 pound Shepherd to you and he doesn't want you to invade his rear end for a fecal exam. He's not mean or nipping, he just wants to hide his tush from you. You have to get another tech in the room to help hold him. How much do you charge for that?"

Vet's Office: "For what?"

Me: "Extra restraints, or an extra tech to help hold him."

Vet's office: laughter... "That's our job. We don't charge extra for that."

This was the same basic response 47 fucking times in a row! Sometimes there was giggling, sometimes there were comments like "You go to Banfield, don't you?"

Where are the reviews for Banfield? Is someone going around Al Gore's Intranet deleting negative reviews of Banfield Pet Hospitals? Is this a professional gig, like "Bad Review Deleter"? How come I didn't hear about these things until it was too late? I'm sure, if I had the finances to do so, I could prove that Fluke's cancer is a result of some bullshit something-or-other they gave him that was unnecessary or questionable. Now that I am actively seeking reviews about Banfield, here's what I have found out:

1) They don't seem to be licensed by the American Animal Hospital Association.

2) Their employees are apparently paid bonuses, i.e: commission, for "upselling" products and services.

3) The actual vets have a reputation for being "bottom of the barrel" or "last in class" or else they would be in private practice.

4) If your pet dies, and you have enrolled in Banfield's OWP, you have to pay the remainder of your monthly fees OR reimburse Banfield for any "cost savings" over the term of the plan. EVEN IF YOUR PET DIES. Let me repeat that... EVEN IF YOUR PET DIES and doesn't, therefore, need vaccines or a wellness plan anymore, you still have to pay. That's in the fine print that I didn't read.

Dissertation is over, my dog still has cancer but I'm getting a second opinion tomorrow on the treatment. I bet you $40 that Banfield charges me $40 for a copy of the needle biopsy results. Wouldn't surprise me at all.

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

Dating blah, blah, blah....Episode 2

Dating in my thirty-something years, Episode 1

The Great Job Search of 2008 is finally over!!!

The Great Job Search of 2008

Elphaba the Wicked of Oz

Elphaba, The Wicked of Oz was born on New Years Eve, 2007 in Missouri. At a puppy mill. The puppy mill part I didn’t know about at the time I found her. I should have known. I would have known if I had thought about it for just one tiny moment. Now I think about it a lot. I still feel terrible. I feel like I have to make amends for contributing to the vicious cycle of cruelty against these poor dogs.

But enough of that for now. Elphaba, or Effie as I call her, is by far the second love of my life (of course my brilliant daughter is numero uno!) Effie is a Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier, full of mischief, love and neurosis. I researched breeds for a long time before I actually went looking for a puppy. I had it narrowed down to 4 breeds – 3 of them were pocket or “purse” puppies and then there was the Wheaten. Wheatens are much larger than a pocket puppy, but a lot smaller than the breeds I have grown up loving – Danes, Mastiffs, Labs… I wanted a dog that could go with me everywhere and snuggle with me and basically take the place of my teenage daughter who has unfortunately outgrown the need for a mother. Loving mothers are not cool. I guess I can’t blame my little poppet. So now I have Effie. My new child. Hooray for me!

Originally I tried looking for a local breeder, but I couldn’t find one in Arizona that was approved by the AKC or federally regulated so I stopped looking for a while. Then I met a client who worked at a puppy store. At a mall. Seemed like fate at the time so I gave her the 4 breeds, 3 she had never heard of because they are considered “designer” dogs – crossbreeds that are relatively new- but she said her store did get a few Wheatens every year so she’d call when one came in. I didn’t ask a lot of questions – I was working.

Months later I’m in the hospital (that’s another blog all together) and I get a phone call from my old client and she had just received a baby girl Wheaten. I told her I would stop by when I got out of the hospital and see if the dog was still there. I didn’t actually think the puppy would still be there because even though they aren’t well known in Arizona, they are very hard to resist. Wheaten puppies look like Ewoks and they hop like bunnies – cute as shit! And FYI: very, very expensive.

So a couple days later Poppet and I go to the shop in Gilbert and what do you know? It was fate, or so I thought. The cute-as-shit-hard-to-resist-super-expensive-purebred-puppy was not sold! It took all of 3 seconds for me to fall in love with her so Poppet and I sat on the floor in a visitation room and played with her while the paperwork was being prepared. I didn’t ask where she came from. I didn’t ask about her health. Nothing. I was completely blindsided by this fur bucket that kept licking my ears and my toes.

A few thousand dollars (thank you American Express) and a hundred signatures later I officially owned a Wheaten Terrier. Visions of cute puppy clothes danced in my head. Especially the blinged-out t-shirt that read “Mommy’s Single”. So damn cute! But for sixty American dollars I could by 10 t-shirts and a fucking Bedazzler and make her a whole wardrobe. Again - I’m in the wrong business.

After everything was signed I was told that the dog had a “normal” puppy cold and would need to stay at the shop for treatment for a few more days. So I visited her twice a day, every day and made everyone call her Effie so she would learn her name. I found out later that puppy colds are not “normal”. An upper respiratory infection in a puppy that requires breathing treatments isn’t normal. I also found out later that the trucking company (and parent company of the puppy store) that shipped Effie, and hundreds of thousands of other dogs, has a horrific history involving illegal dumping of animal remains, letting puppies die in burning trucks and letting them suffocate and bake in broken down trucks that had been abandoned with no A/C or ventilation.

The only reason I found any of this out is because Effie ended up being sick for weeks and months. She’s about to turn 9 months and these last 4 weeks represent the longest amount of time she’s gone without being at the vet or in the ER every 72 hours. It began a couple weeks after she came home. I was gone for about 4 hours. When I came home she was lifeless, I couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not, I took her temp and it was 105. She was covered in bile. By the time I got her to the ER, about 20 minutes later, her temp had risen to 106. Thankfully the ER vet was AMAZING. The staff swept into action before I had both feet through the door. I had called while driving and they were waiting. They were just amazing. Effie’s tests all came back negative. My sweet little puppy was sick as a dog AND healthy as a horse at the same damn time. She came home 2 days later on a strict diet of boiled chicken, white rice and baby food. Unfortunately this was a scene that would repeat itself every couple of weeks, with more and more obscure tests being done each time. Still no cause and therefore no cure.

After the first few trips to the ER and vet with no diagnosis in site I took to the Internet to do some research. This is when I found out about the trucking company and parent company of the puppy store. Although I never found anything to help Effie, I did find a wealth of information, most of it shocking, that I would’ve never known otherwise. Don’t buy a dog from a mall store. Don’t buy a dog from a website. Rescue a dog instead. If you have your heart set on a purebred, rescue one from a purebred rescue. If you do go through a breeder – go in person. Ask to see ALL of their dogs, not just the ones in the whelping pen where everyone looks happy and loved. I can almost guarantee you that past the whelping pen – in the backyard or back lot is a shack or shed filled with caged, malnourished, mistreated dogs who’ve never felt the warmth of the sun, the tickle of grass on their paws or the gentle touch of a human that loves and respects them and calls them by name. It’s sickening what these dogs go through and I feel like I have contributed to this cycle of torture so now I stand on my soapbox and try my hardest to dissuade everyone I meet from buying ANYTHING from a puppy store.

Effie is better now. After months of bland food and a medication schedule that would frazzle even a regimented Marine, she’s at her correct weight and I just got the all clear to start adding regular puppy food to her diet. She’s back to her maniacal self once again and is enjoying our Sunday trips to Starbucks where everyone dotes on her.

Moral of the story… RECYCLE: RESCUE A DOG

The Root Canal From Hell

I Rescued A Human Today

The Last Wedding and Lesbian Kisses

My First Police Line-Up

More Tales From The Signing Table

People amaze me. Sometimes they shock me. And occasionally there's just good old fashioned disgust. The things I have seen, heard and smelled while signing loans is just ridiculous. Here are some highlights:

1) Captain Underpants - I arrived at an appointment 3 weeks ago and a lovely young woman with a baby on her hip answered the door. She showed me to the kitchen table and out walked her octogenarian mother. Maybe her grandmother. I have no idea. All I could focus on was this old woman in a t-shirt and underpants. She sat down right next to me, in her underpants, and signed her loan. The lovely younger woman didn't say a word. In fact, she left me there in the kitchen, alone, with a crazy lady in effing underpants! What is wrong with people? How about, "Hey granny, it's a little chilly, how about a blanket?" Another approach would have been, "Holy Mother Mary Jesus Fucking Christ! Go back in your room and put some fucking pants on! There's a stranger in the house!" The possibilities of what could have been said are quite endless.

2) The Maggot Kingdom - This was the day I realized that I was NOT, in fact, the worst housekeeper in the universe. It almost made me feel better about myself. Almost. It also made me want to vomit. I arrived at a client's house on a Monday morning. The woman showed me to the kitchen table. I noticed a smell. Not a mildly funky what-died-in-the-fridge kind of smell. No, no, no, it was more like the stench-of-rotting-flesh-wafting-up-from-the-basement-where-all-the-corpses-were-being-kept kind of smell. I know that's pretty specific, but this was a very specific smell. I also noticed the woman's daughter sweeping the far side of the kitchen. Sweeping feverishly. So feverishly in fact that I thought she was a little wacko. I would like to point out that I am vision impaired. Not blind just vain, so I don't wear my glasses except in darkened movie theaters or while driving because I can't afford any more tickets or accidents (see previous posts). Had I not been so vain I would have noticed the kitchen floor moving and the psycho-sweeping was due to the fact that the floor was covered with MAGGOTS. MAGGOTS. MAGGOTS. I politely picked up my bag and my purse, checked them for MOTHER FUCKING MAGGOTS and set them on the table. I also politely stomped my feet a couple times and rested them on the bar that ran between my chair legs. The mother explained to me that they had a family emergency on Friday and left the house without taking out the garbage. When they arrived home Sunday the MOTHER FUCKING MAGGOTS had taken over the kitchen. I was certainly in no position to CSI her story, but I can Google "life cycle of a fly" as good as the next person and I'm pretty sure that since the MFM's (I affectionately call them that now) were no longer moving around in a mass, they were just going willy-nilly in all directions, they were at least 4, probably 5 or 6 days old... I could be wrong, but don't contradict or correct me because this is my MFM story!

3) Crazy Cat Man - It's usually a "crazy cat lady". I don't know why that is, but stereotypically it's always a woman so I was shocked when the single man I was signing opened the door and immediately my eyes began to water and burn and my nose started to run. The stench of multiple cats is unmistakable. It smelled like 87 cats trapped in a garage with no ventilation. It looked like it smelled and the man was a pack-rat. There were no chairs, no table to sign the papers on, no counter available. Every square inch of space had something on it and that something was then covered in cat hair and feces. All the shit was covered in, well, shit. And urine. And hair. In his defense, I did arrive 10 whole minutes early. Maybe he was just about to clean when I knocked on the door. Bah ha ha ha ha!!! By the time I left that house I was covered in hives, coughing, sneezing and continued to itch for the rest of the day.

Have I said that I love my job? No? Well, I'm thankful I have a job. How's that?

Sunk Like A Sack Of Potatoes

Saturday marked my mother's 60th birthday. Even though we aren't great friends I did feel it was my duty to mark the occasion. Who else was going to do it, right? Right... So I invited her to stay for the weekend and she brought her dog. Everyone knows I'm a dog lover. I like dogs more than I like people and I make no apologies for that, but this dog really tries my patience. Corky, a Corgi, is 100% over weight, mean, old, smelly and has the most shrill, ear-piercing bark you have ever heard. And she doesn't like to play. The rule in my house is that everyone plays with Effie. It's my house. That's my rule. If you bring your dog over, and everyone is welcome to, said dog must play with Effie. She's a Wheaten and she's 16 months old. Her life revolves around playing. Suck it up.

So my mom and Corky arrive and we do all of the regular birthday crap - I take her to Olive Garden because she loves it. Gross. And expensive. It's one notch up from Fazoli's so why the hell is it so damn expensive? It's a mystery... Anyway, we do dinner AND Kenzie and I actually went out and purchased several very thoughtful gifts for my mother. Not just the typical generic crap I usually get. We really impressed ourselves with this. Sad, I know, but 60 is a big deal. The best (and I'm using that word sarcastically) part of the weekend is when we took Effie and Corky to Cosmo Park in Gilbert. I know we shouldn't have gone after the incident last weekend, but I had made the mistake of telling my mom about the dog park with the dog lake and blah, blah, blah she wanted to take Corky because Prescott Valley doesn't have any of our fancy, big city parks.

We get to the park and Effie isn't as excited as she usually is. I could see her little brain working it out, remembering the agility apparatus and the horrific fall she took, but she's a trooper and we went to the "wet side", far away from any structures that she could fall from. Effie clearly wasn't as impressed with the water as the rest of the dogs and no one would play with her because they all had balls to swim after and what not. Poor Effie. But she did follow me closely along the "beach" as I watched a 3 legged greyhound swim faster than all the other dogs. It was kind of cool, and as I sat chatting with tripod's mom I saw my mental mother walk her over weight CORGI (hello, their legs are 2 inches long) to the end of the pier and egg the fat old girl into the water. Did you know that a 50 pound Corgi will sink like a sack of fucking potatoes to the bottom of a lake if it jumps in? You didn't know that? Well I do!!!

I started counting the seconds of no water movement, no bubbles, no thrashing paws or snout. When I got to 10 and still no Corky, I threw my purse at my daughter and headed for the filthy, murky, dog-shit water and cursed my mother for moving back to Arizona and having the gall to have another f-ing birthday! Fortunately for me, that damn little midget dog popped her nose out of the water just as my feet went in. Her little stubby arthritic legs were going a mile a minute and although she wasn't smart enough to head for shore initially, she eventually followed a black lab and his tennis ball, made it to the ledge and walked onto the beach, completely unaware of her near-death experience. And to top it all off, my mother was laughing her ass off, dry feet and all, having not even attempted to save her "beloved" baby. I cannot guarantee she will make it to 61. Nope, no sir, no guarantees.

Tales from the Signing Table

Charmed, I'm Sure...

You can add a charm to anything. Bracelets are common, but people add charms to their purses, cell phones, belly buttons, even teeny tiny charms can dangle from your acrylic nails. The one thing they all have in common is that they represent the wearer. For instance, I have a bracelet with a tiny pink pig charm, because I collect pigs. The same bracelet also has, among others, a heart with my daughter's name on it and a tiny replica of the Mackinac Bridge that I bought when my mother, my daughter and I visited Mackinac Island a few years ago. Each of these charms mean something to me, and could probably be used to describe me or my personality if it were found years from now.

More recently, charms have made their way onto dog collars. These charms are the owner/parents way of projecting themselves, their own human personality, onto the pooch. It's safe to say that the Chinese Crested proudly sporting a diamond crown is considered to be a princess by her "mom". And the English Bulldog wearing the skull and crossbones charm is looked upon as one bad-ass pooch in his family. 

But here's the thing, these dogs didn't hop in the car, saunter in to the Bark Boutique and select these charms on their own. Nope, I assure you their owner/parents did, because we like to project ourselves onto our furry friends and we typically choose animals that say something about us, so of course what they wear on their collar would also reflect us - the human, right? So imagine my surprise when an adorable woman at the dog park, after running her hands through Effie's fabulously irresistible shaggy hair, saw the Star of David charm on her collar and said with a straight face, "Oh my gosh, is your dog Jewish?"

Yes, my dog is a Jew. I'm currently planning Elphaba's Bark Mitzvah. She's 18 months right now, so with the whole dog year conversion thing it looks like I only have about 6 weeks to plan this massive soiree. Josh Groban will be performing, per Effie's request. I just need to find a kosher/gluten & grain free/soy free/corn free caterer. 

Uhhhhhhh, she's a dog. She licks herself. She drinks out of the toilet and chases bees until they sting her in the mouth. I don't think she has a religious preference.

Puppy Basic Training - A Really Bad Idea

Effie and I have been going to "basic training" for four weeks now. We are failing. Miserably. Both of us. In my defense, Old Man Fluke was diagnosed with cancer and Ero came into our lives in the same week that we started "Basic", so we were a bit distracted the first couple classes. But I really thought that by now we'd be working together as team like Starsky & Hutch or Brad & Angolina. Nope. We're Jon & Kate. And I'm Jon, the pussy. Apparently I am "enabling" Effie. According to our trainer, and I'll use that term loosely, Effie 1) has severe separation anxiety, 2) is afraid of strangers except when on her home turf, and 3) is dominant and treats me, my house and everything in it as "hers". I disagree. Strongly disagree. Stupid Observation #1: Effie does NOT suffer from separation anxiety. She does not cry when I leave, or stand at the door waiting for my return. I can hand her leash to anyone when we go to the coffee shop or wherever, so I can go inside and order and she doesn't freak out or anything. I swear. She may follow me with her eyes, but heeeeellloooo - I frequently supply her with canine crack so of course she watches me. Intently. And, might I add that our trainer is a man, a "strange" man, who hasn't ever been to our house or the park with us and he thinks he's going to just walk over, grab her leash and walk away with her, to demonstrate a "technique"? Ummmm, I don't think so. "Stranger danger", ever heard of that?

Stupid Observation #2: Effie isn't afraid of anyone. She may dislike certain people, who doesn't? Wait a minute, come to think of it... Effie doesn't dislike anyone. Except the trainer. She's a WHEATON TERRIER! She's never met anyone that she didn't fall madly in love with instantaneously. She greets each and every person she meets at the dog park, the pet store, the vet, the coffee shop, at our front door or on a walk in the 'hood with the same "Wheaten Greetin" that goes something like this:      "ohmygod! ohmygod! ohmygod! Iloveyou! Iloveyou! Iloveyou! I can't believe you're really here, to see me and only me, to play with me and only me! ohmygod! ohmygod! ohmygod! Iloveyou! Iloveyou! Iloveyou! Can I lick your ear? Oh pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let me lick your ear. Or nibble, just a nibble? It reallyreallyreallyreallyreally needs to be nibbled. I can nibble that for you!  ....SQUIRREL!.... Wait... What?    Ohmygod! ohmygod! ohmygod! Iloveyou! Iloveyou! Iloveyou! I can't believe you're really here..." And so on and so forth and such as. Keep in mind that this conversation is going on while the 40 pound Wheaten is pogo-ing 6 feet in the air. She will nibble on that ear. It's endearing.

Stupid Observation #3: Effie is not dominant. She is the first dog at the park to roll on her back and let everyone sniff her. If someone goes for her squeeky, rope, ball or bone she just lets them have it. She may pout for an hour, and she may quietly follow you around until the perfect opportunity to steal it back presents itself, but she'll let you take it. And for the record, Mr. Petsmart Trainer, I like it when she sits on my feet. It's cute. It's funny. She sits on everyone's feet. She sits on my daughter's feet. She sits on both of our other dogs. It's. Just. Funny. It doesn't mean she has "dominance issues". And if anyone out there disagrees, just keep it to yourself, okay pumpkins?

Well, my goodness... To make a short story long we are failing that damn class miserably. Effie dislikes the trainer so much that she wants to know where he is at all times so that he can't sneak up on her. Which he tries to do. She doesn't recall. She doesn't walk on the leash - she lunges, right and left and back and forth with amazing gusto. She sits beautifully, but with a verbal command as opposed to the hand signal I was supposed to teach her. She doesn't even want the treats that I use to bribe her because she's focused so intently on the trainer. These classes may be doing more harm than good. She's quirky, that Effie. And I love her madly just the way she is.

Pillow Talk

Do You Know Why I Pulled You Over?

Live and Learn

Assault with a Vehicular Weapon

You Know What They Say About Pineapple...