What happens at the kennel stays at the kennel

Attention, burglars: we'll be out of town for Mardi Gras this year. So, I had to make reservations at the dogtel for Clooney. Until dogs are allowed on cruises, he is relegated to shore. Holland America does not like the idea of dog poo on their decks, I guess.

Clooney has traditionally stayed at the vet's office. However, when we pick him up, it always seems like he's been on a terrible bender: he's got nasty junk in his eyes, and he smells like his own pee, and basically I feel like I'm picking him up in the middle of the worst hangover of his life.

I just can't get behind that. I feel terrible that he's been spending an entire day barking his head off while trapped in a little crate. It's unpleasant. And maybe it's not his pee that he smells of--maybe it's from the crate above him--and that's just wrong. NOBODY (except those freaks on HBO) want to be pee'd on without consent. That's just gross.

So, I ask around for suggestions. Of course, CC has a dog. And CC's dog stays at the pet motel. I call the pet motel, and they offer 2 services: Indoor/Outdoor facility and suites.

First, their Indoor/Outdoor option is nearly 2x as much money as the vet's rent-a-box. But, pweshus wittle cwoonsey will get his own bed, and a doggie door to the outside whenever he wants/needs to go. Seems humane. The indoors are heated and cooled to 72 degrees. Which is good, since he gets cold easily.

The Dog Suite option cracks me up. It is more than 3x the vet's rent-a-box, but get this--features human day bed, real plasma TV, and a phone jack with speaker phone so that humans can check on their canine campers. This option provides same doggie door access to the outdoors and 4x/day human interaction.

First of all, if I'm the human interactor, I'm a little bitter that the dog is livin' in the lap o' luxury and I'm wearing doggie themed scrubs and am picking up his crap. Maybe the tech just goes in and watches TV with the dog. Maybe there's playtime. Who knows? It's a freaking dog.

But, then I got to thinking that maybe there's doggie pay per view. Wouldn't it be hilarious if you go to check out Rover and he's run up a HUGE ppv bill? A combination of bad animal flicks like The Chipmunks (a movie about potential food items) and Marmaduke (a buddy flick) and Marley and Me (a doggie tearjerker) and Dog PORN?!?

I love it. I could sit here all day and think of dog porn movie titles, but for G rated purposes, one is already an ACTUAL movie "Cats and Dogs 2: The Revenge of Kitty Galore." Imagine Rover guiltily looking out the window to see if anyone's watching, stepping on the red button on the remote that looks like a tail, and kickin' back with a rawhide treat watching some doggie love.

I googled dog sex, to see if I could find something humorous to post to this article, but now simply just want to wash my eyes. I did find this, however, which tickles my funny bone:

Yes, that is a white fluffy dog humping a doggie sex toy. Again, I find myself imagining the human being working for the company that makes these toys. Picture a Chinese factory worker, getting paid some horrifyingly small amount to make these dogs. "I wonder where these beautiful toys wind up," he asks himself. "Perhaps they are toys for wonderfully happy children." "Or maybe, they are virtual companions for disabled people."

Nope, Sorry. The toxic fumes you inhale every day which are probably going to kill you, Xi, for which you are chained to the assembly line and get paid a nickel and a half per day under inhumane conditions with repetitive motion and no light is to build a toy for Americans' dogs to hump. Bummer.

ANYPOODLES, poor Clooney The Mistreated is getting basic services only. No sex doll, no cable porn. He's just gonna have to ogle the chihuahua in the dog run next door.

Stormy Weather

There is a folk legend that says you can count the seconds between a flash of lightning and the initial clap of thunder to determine how far away a storm is. This piece of information stems from the very real fact that light travels faster than sound. Pretty basic.
There is a lesser known corollary to this rule that says the volume of the thunder clap is directly related to the speed of the footsteps from a child's bed to his parents'.
This morning at 5, that flicker of light woke me, so that I was already braced for the subsequent thunder and the subsequent patter from S's room to mine.
Of course, then, the bed was more like a pit of snakes than a bed. S is wiggly, especially when he is trying to manipulate his body into such a position that he can cuddle the dog. The dog, already startled and uneasy about the thunder resists cuddling, and perches himself on my head. This brings the child closer to me, and in a cascading chain of events, everyone is suddenly ON ME.
Which happens to be one of my least favorite things EVER. I hate having my personal space invaded, which is partly why I hated being pregnant so much, but that is a different (and much longer) story.
So, after about 5 minutes of being kneaded in the kidneys by S's ankle, I sent him back to his room to weather the storm alone. I suppose he fell asleep again, but I can't be sure, as I waddled into the bathroom to pee, and promptly went back to sleep.
M woke up early this morning, as he was expecting a call from a service person, which (surprisingly) never came. So, S and he did their early morning business while I slept in. I have had a cough for about 5 weeks now, and it is migrating to my sinuses, so I slept 'til 7. Then, the subcontractor I was expecting to demo my bathroom came. And demolished my bathroom. Did I mention DIY reassembly of bathroom? Perhaps that was a tactical error.
An early start to an annoyingly out of synch logistical day. And more storms expected tomorrow...it's a metaphor.

What shall we do, dahling?

Today, I dropped him off, and he so bravely went, all by himself. Clooney is getting his first grooming. Here is his "after" picture:







Trivial, yes. Beyond your caring, yes. But, it has been a very long weekend, and the preschool has decided rain is far too dangerous a weather phenomenon for S to endure away from the safety of his own home, so tedium reigns.
My friends have decided to go to the Petri dish indoor playplaces. There is something about the tangible humidity outdoors and the artificial cooling indoors that gives me the heebeejeebies about playplaces. Irrational, probably. But I am convinced some one (and it is usually me, not my children) will come home with Ebola from one of those places.
Meanwhile, S is FREAKING OUT because his giant Megablock tower won't stay together. Don't try to explain the basic tenets of engineering to this kid: big blocks on the bottom, little ones on the top. Forget it. If 27 giant blocks will not stack on top of a 1 knobbie little square, then damn the world. He's very stubborn. Although I give major props to him for playing nicely at the coffee shop this morning for an hour.
M worked and I did a puzzle, and S played ever so well with his little Wall-e set. It was civilized. Almost. Except for the SHM's*. Apparently, the club was closed today, dahling and so the coffee shop was over run with the SHMs in uniform. Uniform being issued, I suppose, at the club? They were there in matching Nike shorts and work out tops. Nike microfiber mock turtlenecks Nike sports bras. Nike socks. Nike visors (it's not sunny). Nike hair bands. Nike sunglasses. There are Thai children chained to sewing machines in sweatshops whose sole job is to outfit the SHMs. Then, of course, the SHMs have their cellies. Because, a good workout still leaves enough air in your lungs to maintain a SHOUTING conversation on your cellie. Now, when I work out, I am literally sucking wind. I can hardly get air, forget expelling it in coherent, loud conversation. About where to have lunch because the club is closed.
I only wish I were joking.
I could barely navigate my way out of the parking lot because of all the GIANT suburban assault vehicles in the parking lot. These women have enough space in their vehicles to carry no fewer than 8 passengers, and they can't be bothered to save the fuel or time to carpool more than their 1.8 children to school. That's another whole diatribe right there. So, I gingerly back out of the parking lot, and head home. Some of the SHMs are out exercising with their SHMs in-training. Little blond ponytailed teenagers in matching exercise outfits bedecked with ipods and visors. Good to know the next generation is on track.
I should have had decaf. Makes me less angry.

*Spring Hill Moms

This is the Question

Ambivalence is a big thing in my life. Sort of. I mean, I have never been perfectly happy with any decision in my entire life. Has anyone?
Not that I am not happy; I am. Many series of near-misses, and mostly satisfieds have led me to a place where I am happy. I love my children, my husband, my home, my city, my life. Mostly. I always second guess, though. The what-ifs nose in.
When my first son was born, I actually told my husband that we could leave the infant at the fire station. When my second son was born, I was sure it was the worst mistake ever. When I find myself lying next to my snoring husband, I wonder if that is what I had bargained for. I am ambivalent about my E's going to Kindergarten (he's so ready; he's still my baby). About S going to preschool every day (he really does well there; am I pushing him away?) I feel that way about Clooney now, too (cute canine, more responsibility.) Is there anything I am sure about? Is there any feeling of which I don't feel the flip side?
I wonder if there is some self help guru out there who would help me channel my mixed feelings into a single emotion. Is ambivalence enlightenment? Am I more "self aware" because I can connect with both sides of single emotion? Or is it neurosis--a way to constantly rehash and revisit decisions? Surprising no one, I am not sure.
So, I have a dog now. The dog is sweet and has proven himself to be a quick learner. We are moving forward in his housebreaking and he seems to be a quiet, unobtrusive member of the family (that is for sure a change!) On the other hand, I am enlisting in years more of responsibility, of finding petsitters and groomers and vet appointments at a time in my life when I was emerging from all those similar responsibilities of infancy and toddler-hood. Hmm. I am not sure. And poor Clooney must think he belongs to Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. I am often cuddly attentive. Other times, I am just this side of icy.
The only thing for certain is that a Danish Prince obsessed over decisions less than I.

Coming Out

I've decided to use this forum to come out to my parents--as a new dog owner. Like a kid with a bad report card, I dread telling my folks I got a dog AGAIN. I got a dog in college, and she was wonderful. A great big warm fuzzy. Last February, she passed away. For the last year, I have been missing the little pooch. Yesterday, a dog called out to me. Hey, lady! Want a dog? And there he was a 14 week old, iddy biddy ball of caramel colored fluff. He is half shih tzu and half pekingnese. He is a PekeTzu. He will grow from his current 5 pounds to 8 or 10.

So now that my boys are or will be back in school, I have a new project.

His name is Clooney, because ALL the girls love him. I was explaining his name to to this woman at PetCo last night when I realized she is a lesbian. Oh well, I suspect even lesbians love George. Here's his first papparazzi picture. I'll be sitting at home waiting for the phone call from my parents, "YOU DID WHAT?!?"