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Thursday, July 21, 2011

Gremlin in the House


You know that saying about being full of pride? Well I feel bloated with doubt. Bloated the same way I feel after eating a series of processed foods with garlic and onion spice in them, followed by bad cheap beer, and maybe a little Mexican food in there.

The dog fight, so to speak, has come to an end. I did it, I pulled the trigger, and I got a new furry four-legged friend in Centralia last night. Her given name is Cleo, she's a corgi, she's two years old, and boy is she skittish. She's a low rider, maybe something like 30 pounds and one-foot-nuthin. We haven't settled on a name yet, but are entertaining Gizmo, Foxy, Booger, Nugget, Bunny, or Mouse.

As for my favorite furry two-legged friend. Well, let's just say he's not doing cartwheels about our expanding family. We continued to go back and forth and back again about getting versus not getting a dog. It was the kind of fight that was having us, not the kind of fight we were having. And I felt like it was eating away at me in a way that previous disagreements had not. After a lot of talks-turned-arguments, and eventually a few shed tears, I realized that my dog-fever was related to my baby-fever - and my serious self-doubts about being able to care for another living creature.

One night, after I locked myself in the bathroom and laid on the floor so I could cry in peace and comfort, I discovered just how much I felt like everybody's doubt of me as a good dog owner felt like doubt of me as a good mother. I couldn't understand why Alex would want me to have his children (not to mention wreck my body and possibly compromise my professional future) if he didn't even entrust me to care for a grown ass dog. And as time and tears often do, he eventually conceded and told me that if it was that important to me, and if it would build my confidence, I could get a dog.

And so I did.

Only now, I'm starting to believe everyone's questions about whether or not it's worth it, or whether or not I'm able to care for my canine pal. Truth is, after I thought I was being patient by waiting 20 minutes for her to walk up the stairs she was so desperately afraid of, I was overwhelmed with the, "Oh fuck, I've done it again" feeling. The one that feels all-too-familiar. The one that tells me everyone else (father, father-in-law, husband) was right, and that I've made a mistake. Alex doesn't love her. She's spooked by her own shadow. She drools a lot. She's afraid of all 12 of my carpeted stairs. She doesn't sniff around out of curiosity. And she has not once peed or pooped on any of our short walks.

Yes, it's been all of 10 hours. So in all fairness to her, and to myself, we're going to give this a shot together.

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