Boris

It has been a long and dismal few months. Our wonderful dog, Boris, passed away with cancer at 14 years old. Our whole world went dark. I realized that yet again I have lost a treasured part of my identity: Boris’s mom.

With the new silence in our house, we began to contemplate getting another dog. No dog could replace Boris, the sweetest most soulful Australian Shepherd. But I’ve had four dogs in my adult life and loved each one for their unique qualities. So we started looking.

We hoped for another Aussie. For one thing, they are just beautiful, and because we are shallow, we enjoyed the compliments each time we went out with Boris. We also loved the intelligence and loyalty of herding dogs.

We searched adoption pages and found Pepper, a 4 year old Aussie who was described as adventurous, smart, loving, great on walks and in the car. We drove for 90 minutes to meet her at the home of a rescue lady who had 20 dogs inside her sprawling ranch house. Sorry for writing “sprawling ranch house” but I’m in a hurry to get through this story.

Pepper jumped on us and seemed pretty wild but we were assured that she was just excited. We paid $600 for Pepper and signed a contract.

Driving home, Pepper barked and struggled to get into the front seat all the way home.

Once home, Pepper bounced off the walls. She was happy to jump on the couch for affectionate petting, but impossible to control. The next day, she was even wilder. She was supposed to know some commands but wouldn’t acknowledge any. She was an ordeal to walk. She started giving me hard, unblinking looks. She jumped over me on the couch, nearly knocking me over. She attacked her dog-bed, dragging  it around the house and growling.

So we called the rescue lady and said we couldn’t deal with Pepper. On the drive back, Pepper kept jumping on my thighs in her effort to get into the front seat. and we were rear ended by an SUV. The rescue lady could barely restrain Pepper when she took the leash. We felt giddy with relief when we drove off to Starbucks, the bruises blooming on my thighs.

Next, we got Zoey, who was extremely loving but would not stop grabbing our legs and fiercely humping us. Zoey could bark for hours, literally, without a break. She started chewing up the dog-bed. The humping got more aggressive. Luckily, this rescue girl wanted us to spend a couple of days with Zoey to see if we were a good fit. A nice wealthy family came to meet Zoey at our house, and drove off with her, hoping for the best. May god be with them.

We continued our search and contacted the owners of two dogs they needed to “rehome”: Roxy, who was described as lovable and gentle but not good with dominant dogs. And Kora, a 4 year old mini Aussie who was described as sweet and happy to lie around all day.

On a Saturday, we met Roxy in a park with her owners. They were a young couple who had raised Roxie and were now expecting a second child. They didn’t have the time to “give her the attention” she needed. They told us how she barked at animals on TV, including the Charmin cartoon bear! How adorable, we thought.

Tired of this yet? Me too! Roxy was great in the car. Back home, she humped us even more aggressively that Zoey. She jumped on us and vigorously humped our legs. She jumped on the couch and thrust her butt in my face. She became hysterical when a dog barked on TV, and clawed at the screen.

Nevertheless, we kept our appointment to meet Kora, the mini, which was love at first sight. I couldn’t believe she was real! I rubbed her tummy and marveled at her cuteness. She sat in my lap like a baby on the drive home. I was and still am ready to marry her.

Kora, my betrothed

But then. I walked with Kora into the kitchen to give her a dog treat. Roxy barrelled into the room, snatched away the treat and attacked Kora. The panicked squealing and angry growling was terrifying. I managed to separate them with my foot and checked to see if Kora was hurt.  She seemed okay but wouldn’t eat for the next day and a half.

Now our TV screen was ruined and we had to sleep with Kora in our bed to protect her. I texted Roxy’s owners after 2 days of this and said that “aggressive” wasn’t the same as “gentle.” The girl wrote, “Nonetheless, we have said our goodbye’s and are not taking her back.”

Now we are up to date. The two dogs are okay together but have to be fed in separate rooms and Kora can’t have any treats or toys. We are still sleeping with Kora and afraid to leave them alone together, so we can’t go out.

Roxy and Kora

We have contacted a million adoption places but no one will foster a dog who needs to be an only dog. Who can blame them? A lady who was excited to meet Roxy changed her mind when I informed her about Roxy’s “resource guarding.” I sought to rehome Roxy on a neighborhood Facebook page, where everyone scolded and lectured me for not “doing my research on Aussies” etc etc. Their grammar was terrible.

No one wants this fucking dog and neither do I. I have come to hate this poor innocent dog whose owner fucked her up by not socializing her early on. I can’t help it. I just hate her.

Walking Kora in the neighborhood yesterday, I stopped and chatted with a new neighbor. She weighs around 250 pounds, displayed in a tiny sundress despite her advanced age. She told me about her popularity with men, “because I’m sexy.”

Because I’m Sexy will haunt me forever. Who says stuff like that?? Because I’m a monster, I’m planning to take Roxy to an animal shelter, still wearing the original owner’s  dog-tags. Let them pick her up or explain that they’ve already said their goodbyes.

I’m sad to say that Pico is gone, as you might have predicted. Life seemed so miserable for him.

I will blame myself for making the call, because I don’t know how long he would have lasted, despite the chronic pain and cognitive issues.

I miss him terribly but I’m not traumatized, because it seems like I’m already stuck with permanent PTSD that time won’t budge.

However! I am still capable of being dismayed.

I fucked up my back when I had to carry Pico inside from the backyard. He was only 40 pounds but I managed to lift him improperly.

So after whimpering (i.e. screaming) about my back for two weeks, I went to the doctor. The first blow was when she measured my height. I am supposed to be 5′ 6″ but now I measured 5′ 4 1/2″ for a loss of one and a half inches of valuable height!

Fuck me! I can’t believe this, even though I know that age and shitty bones lead to shrinking. What next? A dowager’s hump? I’ll probably go bald and whatever else is available to elderly women. I had to have ex-rays of my back, which revealed a degenerating spine or something that sounded like that. All those years of weightlifting, for nothing.

I’m going to get physical  therapy for my back, but for now I have two new prescriptions plus a bottle of Pico’s narcotic pain-killers.

To further drive home the old age thing, my husband and I were talking about TV hosts and we couldn’t remember Larry King’s last name. It was a moment of shared horror as our eyes met and we silently acknowledged that our brains have turned to mush.

Trying to retrieve Larry King’s last name was like gazing into an infinite black hole where a memory bank used to be. I hate Larry King now. I would say He’s dead to me, except now I’ll probably remember him as a symbol of senility, both his and mine.

My dog is senile. He is sixteen years old, even though we refused to admit he was getting on.

Living in denial was easy until he lost his mind.

Poor Pico! He is completely nuts. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or where he’s going or what to do when he needs to move backwards or turn around.

He howls for hours. He pants and whines. He often needs help to stand up because his rear legs are so wobbly. He has arthritis and I don’t know what else. The vet advised us that any kind of surgery was out of the question. I like her for not trying to squeeze money out of us.

She’s a wonderful vet even though she’s unsure about penises. My BFF remarked that Pico’s penis is probably the first one she’s seen in years. I think that’s to her credit. She didn’t mind at all when Pico shat on her floor.

I don’t know whether ‘shat’ is a word but I’m using it anyway. My dog has been shitting in the house for more than a week. This ties into my recurring dream that everything is Shit.

This morning, Pico backed himself under a couch and started howling. The more I tried to pull him free, the more he reversed, moving more of his body under the couch and getting stuck. I tried to lift up the couch like mothers can do when their child is underneath a car, but this supermom thing doesn’t seem to work with dogs.

I ran outside and got the drug dealer from the house next to the house next door. He lifted the couch and took a phone call from someone named ‘Josh.’ “I’ll call you in a few minutes, babe” he told Josh.

I am really at a loss here.

Pico still likes his food, even though he forgets where the bowl is. Otherwise, his life seems pretty awful, with all the confusion and anxiety. I personally will not be the one to pull the plug because I’m already permanently traumatized.

Advice, dog owners?

As I walked out onto the patio of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf in Santa Monica, a tall shirtless douche was involved in a contretemps with an elderly woman who was afraid of his dog. He was saying to her, “I told you there’s nothing to be afraid of, now just shut up!”

How rude, I thought as I sat down with my coffee. The douche was returning to his table where he’d been sitting with a girl he just met in the parking lot. They had realized they had a friend in common, “Brian.”

The douche’s dog wandered over to me and I pet its head. “Oh, sorry,” said the douche as he came to get the dog. I gave him a nice smile and said: “You don’t have to be sorry to me!”

At this, he flipped out, screaming, “Hey, I don’t have to be sorry to anyone! I have nothing to be sorry about! I’m here having a great day, I’m enjoying myself, I’m with a beautiful woman!”

I started laughing, and a guy working at a laptop said to the douche, “Stop yelling.” The douche turned to taunt the laptop guy, who muttered, “Psychopath.” “You’re the psychopath!” screamed the douche.

The douche sat down again with the girl, who seemed thrilled by his performance. Together, they phoned the mutual friend to tell him they were together at the Coffee Bean. The douche went back inside to get more coffee while the girl continued on the phone. “Yeah,” she said happily. “He’s GREAT!”

Here they are, above. Reading their body language, I wouldn’t be surprised if she slept with him later that day and he rewarded her by bashing her head in. I can’t even feel sorry for her, you know? You get what you pay for.