Muddy Days are Hard on Dog Owners

60 degrees today, and the backyard is filled with melting snow and mud and, well, dog excrement.  It’s disgusting.  On days like this, one actually has to actually (gasp) walk the furry ball of kinetic energy or risk total destruction of one’s home. 

You’d think the lack of the front right long might slow even an Australian Shepherd down, but alas, when she’s running, you can’t even tell she’s missing a limb.  Case in point: the other week Daniel let Kiah out the front door.  She took off like a bat out of hell, and within seconds, was completely out of sight.  I thought that was it.  She was gone.  It was over.

“She’s gone,” I told John. 

“Well, that’s it then.  It’s over.” 

We're a worst-case scenario kind of a couple.

The kids sobbed and moaned.  We all piled into the van and drove slowly around the neighborhood calling her name and waving beef jerky in the air.  Ten minutes later, we pulled into our driveway and found Kiah sitting in the middle of it, staring at us imploringly: Why did you guys leave?  How could you do that?  How was I supposed to get into the house?  You know I can’t live without my toilet water and the kids’ favorite stuffed animals.

The thing with having a three-legged dog is, every time you venture out in public with her, someone assumes you adopted her three-legged furry self from a shelter.

“Wow.  Good for you,” they say before you can explain.  “More people should adopt special-needs dogs.”

And I pause. 

“Yes, well, we just couldn’t resist her,” I say.  And for a brief moment, I feel really proud of myself for rescuing a special-needs dog.  

Except I didn’t.  But explaining the whole convoluted story of how we lost Kiah, thought her for dead, and then got her back minus a leg is exhausting.  And retelling it makes me feel like a truly rotten dog owner, though I know in my heart the story of how her leg came to be no more is nobody’s fault. 

The kids opened the van door and Kiah hopped into it, ready for a road trip.  There was great rejoicing in the land.  Then we put her safely back into the house and debated whether or not to give her the beef jerky, because we didn’t want to reward her running-away behavior.  That is exactly the kind of behavior the dog obedience class was supposed to get rid of. 

I want my money back. 

Today, I don't feel like dragging the kids out for a walk so I put her into the backyard to go to the bathroom, and she curls up in a puddle of mud, sticks her nose in it, perks up because she hears something in the distance, and runs frantically to the fence and begins barking like a maniac.  When she runs, she is fluid, beautiful, a soft streak of black and white fur.  The mud flies off of her like rain.

I’ve never wanted it to snow so bad.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Ben, doped up on Benadryl, lay next to me on the couch determined to keep his eyes open. He was suffering from, I think, an allergic reaction to strawberries. His ears were bright red, he had a fever, and he spoke in a raspy voice.


“Are you having trouble breathing?” I asked, loudly. When I get nervous, I say things loudly.

“No,” he whispered.

“Does your throat feel funny?”

“No. Except I can’t swallow and there’s a lump in it. Like a ball.”

“DON’T PANIC BEN! I, YOUR MOTHER, WILL SAVE YOU WITH THIS HERE BENADRYL!”

I bundled him in a blanket and put him on the couch and commenced staring at him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“Do you know how my friend Adam got those two broken bones in his arm?” he asked, drowsily.

“No. How?” I answered.

“He was kicked by a Sith Lord,” Ben said, casually, as if getting kicked by a Sith Lord was a common everyday occurrence. Ben will believe just about anything anyone tells him. Eventually, convinced tonight was not the end for little Ben, I lugged my little guy upstairs and put him to bed. Downstairs, John, Caleb, and Kiah the Wonder Dog came in from the backyard.

Yes, THAT Kiah the Wonder Dog.

That awful Saturday, Kiah was severely injured after she tried to herd the riding lawn mower. In a prelude to a catastrophe, Kiah had broken out of her crate and slipped through the sliding glass door left open by some small person. After a difficult trip to the emergency vet, John was faced with some choices: he could have a) had Kiah put down b) gone thousands of dollars into debt trying to save her leg c) relinquished her to the local shelter, where she might have a chance.

He went with plan C. He came home without a dog and we understood we would never, ever see her again. We didn’t know if the shelter would give her the surgeries she needed to survive, or if they would choose to put her down.

To make a long story short, thanks to the kindness and generosity one incredible person, Kiah came home tonight. She is sleeping at my feet this very moment. She is happy, healthy, and has only three legs.

Which we think makes her even more of a wonder dog.

Life is never easy. Tonight was no exception. But we have our dog back.

We are blessed.

Being Batman

“Nooo! Don’t hit me! Pleeease! HELP! HELP!”

These were the sounds coming out of my house last night. The door was wide open, the night air carrying the noise across backyards and driveways and into people’s homes.

We have to feign domestic abuse in order to get Kiah into the house at the end of the night.

I’m serious. It’s the only thing that works. We make a ruckus and Kiah bounds inside, eyes burning coldly, her black fur shining like justice. We have a canine Batman. She stares John down like nobody’s business. One of us rushes and closes the sliding glass door so she doesn’t escape again.

Somehow, we failed miserably when it came to dog-obedience training.

On the other hand, it’s nice to have canine Batman on my side. (I’m thinking of getting her a cape.)

A Tale of Thanksgiving Woe

It’s a very manic time of year. There’s a lot going on. There are Christmas concerts and projects and shopping and decorating and cookie baking and tortuous exercise because you are determined to lose that weight before New Year’s. So what if you procrastinated a bit. This is the perfect time of year to go on a diet.

We had a lovely Thanksgiving. I made rolls- from scratch- and they were delectable. I spent the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, in constant search of things I had purchased at the store and immediately misplaced.

“Where’s the cinnamon? Does anyone know where the cinnamon is?”

“Up your butt!” said my 4-year old, Daniel.

For the record, that’s not where I found it.

The best thing about Thanksgiving, of course, is reflecting on all of the things God has blessed me with. Four healthy, rambunctious children with their father’s primitive sense of humor, a husband who has a good job in this horrific market, a supportive extended family, wonderful friends, food in the cupboards, clean water, medical insurance, and warm cups of tea on dreary, grey days.

The second best thing is leftovers.

I like turkey sandwiches. Leftover turkey warmed up on regular sandwich bread with a bit of mustard and mayo. Simple, but I look forward to it. Yesterday, I fed the twins their lunches, sat with Ella through her speech therapy after which I proceeded to make my turkey sandwich. As I worked, squeals of delight came from the other room, happy sounds that always make me nervous. I peeked in to discover Ella attempting to straddle the dog like a horse. Kiah looked quite put out, so I extricated my petite Lone Ranger from atop of her furry Silver. Ella said, and I quote, “Awww, man!”

“You could hurt Kiah,” I said. Ella was dubious, but she promised not to ride on the dog, so I went back to my sandwich.

The sandwich was gone, having probably been consumed in two large gulps by the very beast I had just rescued. There was mustard on her whiskers.

There are no words to express my incredible grief, which turned swiftly into anger. I composed myself, gave Kiah the hairy eyeball, and called Ella in from the other room.

“Ella?” I asked, “Do you know what a jockey is?”

Look for us in the circus.

Who Wore it Best?

We know spring has arrived when the most fashionably dressed begin showing off colorful headdresses, like this year's vibrant, minimalistic, and oh so chic basket hats.  The basket hats, complete with their signature chin "handle," (these hats defy those pesky spring breezes) are making a splash at popular social events like the Jennings family dinner. 

Last night, both Ella Susan and Kiah the Wonder Dog arrived to dinner with multi-hued basket hats from famous designer Wegmans.  Who do you think wore it best?

The Albany Widow

I have a bruise the shape of Eurasia on my thigh. It is colored various shades of the earth: mossy greens and browns and slate grey.

Daniel came up to me the other day blubbering about a hangnail.

“I have a boo-boo!”

“That’s not a boo-boo,” I said in my best Crocodile Dundee voice (which admittedly is terrible.) I hiked up my pant leg. “Now THAT’S a boo-boo.”

Daniel inspected it closely.

“No blood. Not a boo-boo.” he said, and sauntered off.

What does he know. He’s four.

I banged my thigh into the corner of the oven in the dead of the night. I will dispel all rumors now: I was NOT up because I had a late-night hankering for a jello pudding cup. I was up because Kiah was barking and growling ferociously at the closet door. Again. Because the closet, apparently, contains some vestige of evil that can only be seen by her.

I’ve put Kiah in the laundry room at night because she is boycotting her crate. She refuses to come inside at night because she knows the crate is her final destination. Chasing her around the soggy backyard during monsoon season has not been a whole lot of fun, let me tell you. I think the neighbors get a kick out of me running around the backyard like a looney-bird in my pajamas and tall, rubber boots screaming, “Sit! Sit? SIT! Pleeease sit… Come back! No! KIAH!”

All of this would not be my problem if I were not an Albany widow. Because once John comes home, that dog is his responsibility. All of her quirks and her misbehaviors become his problem. If John is home and asks, “Did you feed the dog?” I respond, “She’s your dog, sucker. You feed her.” I think 30+ months of breastfeeding babies entitles me to this response.

Being an Albany widow is dangerous. I need John around to make sure I go to bed on time and to keep me from daydreaming too much.

“Holly. Are you daydreaming about Timothy Olyphant again?” (Timothy Olyphant is my new Viggo Mortensen.)

“What? No! She’s your dog- you feed her. Sucker.”

I turned the light on in the laundry room and stared at my dog, who for whatever reason, decided that was the moment she would obediently sit and look at me with submissive, beautiful puppy-dog eyes. I opened the closet door and let her sniff around until she was satisfied. I turned off the light, closed the door behind me, and immediately ran into the pointy end of the oven door. I shrieked, which stirred up Kiah of course, and swearing and barking commenced. (We’re working on Kiah’s potty-mouth. And apparently my barking when I’m upset is “weird.”) And that’s how I came to have a bruise in the shape of Eurasia on my thigh.

I felt very sorry for myself, so on my way to bed, I grabbed a jello pudding cup. And I ate it in bed.

And it was delicious.

A Special Guest Post from Kiah the Wonder Dog

I'm Kiah the Wonder Dog.  Here I am again, with my head tilted the other way:

I could be a model.

I am the leader and protector of my family.  This is not understood by everyone, but they will learn.

My family's two greatest nemeses are the vacuum cleaner and the fat cat who lives next door.  The broom comes in at a close third. 

My adopted mother, Holly, who is pale and not fuzzy at all, does not understand how incredibly dangerous the vacuum cleaner is.  In fact, she loves it.  She calls it her best friend.  I think she does this just to irk me.  I have tried repeatedly to warn her that her so-called "best friend" is probably a fat cat disguised as a high-end cleaning device.  I bite my adopted mom's calves and growl and attack the thing with an intensity that rivals a lion tearing a gazelle to bits. 

I do this out of love. 

My non-fuzzy adopted mother always puts me in my crate when she gets the thing out.  She says she can't deal with "The Sound AND the Fury."  I think I am the Fury.  

I worry about her.

I used to be afraid of the fat cat next door.  Now, I am a big girl who fears NOTHING.   I wait for it to cross our yard.  Just try it, I say, while staring it down.  The adopted mother has expressed concern that I will catch it and tear it to pieces like a lion eating a gazelle.  She doesn't understand that the fat cat is a horrible, manipulative, and cruel animal that must be kept away from my family.

When I am not busy protecting my family from the many evils of this world, which do not include other dogs or people, I like to chew on things. 

I love nerf.  Nerf is a substance made specifically for chewing.  My non-fuzzy adopted brothers and sisters get so mad when I chew on nerf.  I don't understand this.  They NEVER chew on nerf, so what, exactly, is their problem?  I would gladly share.  They've taken to hiding it from me.  I always find it, though.  I'm an excellent finder.

Man I love to chew.  I have chewed up those ridiculously fun hanging blinds in the sun room.  The adopted mother is getting new ones, because she loves for me to have fresh things to chew on.  She really cares about me.  That's why she leaves food, sometimes, on the counter for me get.  I love to jump up on the counter!  The adopted mother calls me a "horrible, horrible counter surfer."  She has a number of wonderful terms of endearment for me.

I am an excellent jumper.  I can jump up and pull down the mini-blinds.  Then I chew them up. 

I chewed the white knobs off of the Etch-a-Sketch.  My adopted brothers and sisters were so impressed, they went and showed their mother right away. 

I chew cookbooks, milk containers, shoes, my little adopted sister's play food, legos, and much more. 

I rip apart stuffed animals like a lion tearing a gazelle to bits. 

I'm a social animal.  I have a friend in the neighborhood.  We've never seen one another, but we talk constantly.  I bark, then he barks, then I bark, then he barks.  This can go on and on and on.  We have riveting conversations.

"I'm a dog!" I say.

"I'm a dog!" he responds.

"I'm a dog!"  I say.

"I'm a dog!" he responds.

We talk like this for a while.  It's so good to be able have meaningful conversation with another dog. 

The adopted mother is nice, but she doesn't feed me enough.  While the human brothers and sisters get three meals and two snacks a day, I get two paltry helpings of puppy chow and an occasional treat.  I have to sit down and roll over for the treat.  It's strange, but my human brothers and sisters do NOT have to work for their snacks.  This bothers me, so sometimes I steal their teddy grahams or cut up apples.  Then they squeal and tell my non-fuzzy adopted mother, who chases me and pries the food from my mouth.  If she actually gets the food, which isn't often, she throws it in the garbage.  She would rather throw the food in the garbage than let me eat it, which is a level of cruelty I hope you never become familiar with. 

No matter.  I can knock over the garbage can, no problem.

The adopted father, who is by far the fuzziest in the family, loves me the most.  I can't help it; whenever I see him, I wiggle my stumpy tail and jump up and down. 

Sometimes, he shares his lime chips with me.  He doesn't shriek and carry on when he finds one of my baby canine teeth on the floor, like my adopted mother does. 

Somtimes, I wonder if she is part cat.  It would explain her irrational loyalty to the vacuum cleaner.

It is exhausting being me.  I am always vigilant, and rarely rest.  There is so much to explore and steal and chew.  By 9 pm, I crash.  Then, suddenly, the non-fuzzy adopted mother loves me.

She pets me, coddles me, and gives me a good massage.  She coos and puts her feet under my belly to keep them warm.  And I oblige  her, because it is my job.

I am her leader and her protector.  One day, she will accept this, and we will all be better for it.