Oh, Joy!

 I think Joy is trying to kill me.

She will either slowly drive me crazy, or she will murder me on a walk one day when she goes after the wrong dog.

I was walking the gang one day and this dog was just hanging out in his front yard, minding his own business. Two ladies were there with him. It's not like the dog isn't allowed to be in his front yard. Everything would have been fine had he not decided to trot down to the sidewalk for a sniff.

Instant meltdown.

Joy pulled the leash out of my hand, chased the dog into the street, and knocked me down in the process, causing a tangle of the leashes attached to Kira, Colleen, and Murphy. One lady asked if Joy was going to kill her dog. No, they were just playing in the street. The other lady asked me if I was all right as I must have been a sight sprawled out on the ground with dogs all over me.

Yes, fine. Excuse me, I am now going to go home and murder my dog.

Joy is extremely dog reactive. Once she's allowed to sniff the dog and play with it, she's fine. But until then she looks like she's ready to kill something, and I guess I'm the closest target. She's not aggressive at all, she just freaks out.

Another time I took Joy out on the bike. She's usually pretty good. It's easiest to exercise Joy and Kira separately. Kira is great and just runs alongside the bike until she's worn out. Joy is, well, Joy. Lately she's taken to chasing rabbits, and since she's so dog reactive I get a little nervous. If she's following the bike she's usually okay.

Until one day.

There we were, flying down the walking path a block from my house. The wind in my hair, pedaling away, no cares in this world. There is nothing more freeing than riding a bike (well, maybe a horse, but I'm terrified of horseback riding). I can't believe it took me so long to learn. I kept thinking how I wish I'd learned sooner because Tess loved to chase the bike and she would have loved it more when she was younger, but hey, now I have Joy and she's benefiting so much!

And then Joy just...stopped. That dog can stop on a dime, like a rodeo horse. She stopped, squatted, and the bike and I just kept going. My bike jerked to the right and I went ass over teakettle right into the embankment next to the river. I'm lucky I didn't go INTO the river. It was pretty high at the time. It had done nothing but rain for over a month and the river was moving fast. I had visions of me and my bike being swept downstream while Joy looked on, taking her dump. Probably waving a paw. Maybe even flipping me off with her tail, like, "Ha ha, now I'm loose, and I don't have to be attached to you with this stupid leash anymore, loser."

It would have been fine had I just tumbled in the grass, but my knee hit the walking path and I managed to brace myself with my hands in the grass.

The resulting bruise on my right knee was beautiful. It took over two weeks to heal, and every day it turned a different lovely shade of blue or purple, surrounded by a red patch and decorated with several scrapes. My shoulder caught a scrape too, and I had a bruise on my left ankle from where the bike pedal hit, and another one on my left calf, plus scrapes on my hands.

My right knee still hurts when I kneel down to play with Murphy, or when I kneel to get into bed.

I'm lucky I didn't hit my head, because yes, like an idiot, I didn't wear my helmet. I didn't think I needed it. We weren't going very fast, Joy usally just trots along beside me, and I know how to fall. I fall a lot from just being clumsy. I fell down the stairs once when Murphy tripped me. Another time I lost my balance on the stairs and slammed my left arm into the wall to protect Colleen, who I was holding at the time. She was fine. I had another bruise on my arm that bloomed colors about the same time my knee was starting to heal.

Maybe all of my dogs are trying to kill me and not just Joy.

Joy likes to scare the ever living wahoo out of me by randomly barking when it's all dark and quiet and I'm ready to fall asleep. Suddenly "Woof woof woof!" and all four dogs go barreling downstairs to slide into the front door where there is literally no one. And Kira has one of those barks that sounds like she's going to tear someone or something limb from limb. It's the pit bull in her. She doesn't bark often, but when she does she scares me and I live with her.

Joy hates the pit bulls next door, so when they are outside she whines and groans and barks and makes cow noises in protest of their existence until I've been driven completely bananas. I've called her a cow out in the clover before because she just about moos. That's a joke because of my mother. There's a Swiss expression that essentially means "cow out in the clover," but it sounds better in German, and I think its an insult.

So I yell at Joy when she moos like a cow out in the clover, and then she paws at me with a front paw almost like she's taking a punch. Like, "Shut up, human I'm going to protect you from these dogs."

Thanks. If I actually tossed her over the fence, the AmStaff from next door would probably just eat her. Joy is a sixty-pound German shepherd with an omega complex. There is no way she'd win that fight.

Sometimes I wonder if Joy was hired by someone (my ex maybe) to take me out. It's a miracle I'm still alive with this beast in my life. It doesn't help that she looks extremely wolfish with her black markings and large ears. She's beautiful, but if you didn't know what a weenie she is, you'd be terrified of her coming at you. 

Well, okay, the dopey look on her face isn't very terrifying either.

All that just adds to the deception I think. "Well, detective what do you think killed her?" "Oh, definitely this crazy looking house wolf."

"I think it was the cat." (Looking at you, Puckett).

Maybe national security should hire Joy to go in on our enemies. She can murder someone and make it look like an accident.

She really should work in search and rescue or drug sniffing as she has quite the nose. I can't help but wonder if we were up the mountains searching for lost bodies if she wouldn't just casually push me off a ledge too, and trot off to find some wolf pack to join.

I really wouldn't put it past her.

Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

The Proverbial Houseful of Cats

 There is nothing I hate more than certain men telling women of a certain age that she is doomed to die alone with her houseful cats whenever she has the nerve to have any kind of standards for men she'd like to date. Especially when she has just politely declined a date with such a man.

First of all, women of a certain age are not doomed to die alone just because she isn't so desperate as to accept any male scraps thrown her way.

And second of all, why is the ultimate punishment to die alone in a houseful of cats? That actually sounds like heaven to a lot of women, including the ones who are already attached to a man. I mean, it would suck for the cats, so make sure there is a will in place for their care.

When I'm told, "Enjoy your houseful of cats," I say "Yes, please! And dogs and rabbits and maybe a miniature donkey! Possibly a pot-bellied pig."

In other words, bring on the houseful of animals. 

It just cracks me up that there are people out there who think being with a man, any man, is preferable to being with a lot of animals, because I am here to tell you my last three relationships do not compare to the houseful of pets I now live with. They might be messy, but they are much easier to live with. They've never shot a hole in my wall. 

Or called me a slut and a bitch.

Yes, I am a woman of a certain age. I am also a woman of a certain age with the worst possible taste in men and no current prospects on the horizon because I don't trust my own judgment anymore. Except when it comes to the critters.

I love critters of all shapes and sizes. I save the jumping spiders hanging out in my house by putting them in the garden so the cats won't get them. I will also save any moths who happen to escape the wrath of Spencer by also moving them outside after sucking them up with the vacuum cleaner. I love bunnies and birds and horses and pigs. I even like the pissy town deer that hang out in people's yards every morning and give me shitty looks should I dare to walk by them too closely.

So I get resentful when I'm expected to swoon at the attention of any man just because he was willing to overlook my age and give me a chance. Yes, I realize I'm an old relic, but even the old relics have standards, and more so after an abusive relationship.

Believe me, after living with an abusive man, living with nothing but animals is NOT a punishment.

Pickings are slim anyway. Since I broke up with the ex I had one date with a guy who ended up being under thirty (in my defense I thought he was at least 32, and in his defense he may have thought I was 35), and I was possibly propositioned for a threesome with a couple.

I guess I should have jumped all over both of those, but the twentysomething ghosted me after I refused to sleep with him, and the threesome just isn't my thing, I don't care how hot the guy was. I haven't been intimate with anyone in over a year, so when or if I ever decide to have sex again it sure won't be a one-night stand with some guy who will never call again, and it won't be with another woman present who is more important than me in the relationship. I don't have a problem with swingers or people in the polyamorous lifestyle, it just isn't for me.

But thank you very much for asking.

These are just a couple of examples of the scraps thrown at women my age that we are supposed to be eternally grateful for. I have a degree, a successful career, own two properties, and have a bank account, and that is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people have, but I am lacking because there is no man attached to me. I am doomed to die alone and miserable in my house full of cats because I missed the boat and had the nerve to turn forty without ever getting married. I had opportunities, but I squandered them and now I have to just accept whatever comes my way because no man of quality will want my aging tuckus.

How dare my old ass have standards. I'm single and forty. I don't deserve them.

Society really needs to get away from this philosophy that a woman's worth is tied up in her youth because really, we all age, we all get old, and even men will find themselves on the wrong side of the nursing home door one day. Age is not a dreadful horrible thing that happens to you and you might as well give up your vitality and life in favor of the knitting needles, a rocking chair, and a houseful of cats as soon as you hit forty. Though none of that sounds hortible. Sure the skin gets a bit wrinkled, and the love handles start to show, the hair starts to thread with grey, and maybe the bones creak a bit more than they used to. But here's the thing about age. I wouldn't go back to my twenties if you paid me. Go through all that again? Phew. I have more now than I ever had when I was younger. I actually own property. I have amazing lifelong friends that I've known for thirty years. No twenty year old can say that. I have experience and wisdom. Maybe not in dating, but the wisdom is there. Somewhere. I finally got my Papillons I always wanted. I could never have afforded them in my twenties and without property wouldn't have been able to have them. I still have a German shepherd. With the degree I studied for I make enough money to live alone so I can essentially do whatever I want in my own home, and I don't have to ask someone's permission when I want to get another animal.

Or buy an entire new wardrobe which I had to do when I gained twenty pounds and none of my "thirty" clothes fit me anymore.

I can buy a case of high quality wine without hearing "How much did that cost?" 

I can feed my pets the highest quality diet I can afford without hearing about what a waste of money it is "just for a bunch of animals." (I had an ex who got irritated with how much money I spent on food for Tess, as if that was any of his business).

I can paint my walls a lovely shade of light green, and plant all the petunias I want without having to listen to opinions on why petunias suck and are boring (well except from my dad, but he doesn't have to look at them so whatever, Dad).

I can eat cake for breakfast, and this is probably one of my favorite things. Probably also the reason I gained twenty pounds and needed a whole new wardrobe.

Since I am no longer looking to impress the opposite sex because hey, I'm old and worthless to them anyway, I can behave however I want. The older you get the more you get to speak your mind without caring what others think. You have wisdom that you didn't have in your twenties. You aren't looking to impress people or worry about what they think of you because you realize it just doesn't matter. If they like you, great. If they don't, they probably never will so who cares what they think? It's exhausting trying to get people to like you anyway, and it's even more exhausting trying to be the perfect girl for a man who will never be satisfied. I'm not speaking generally of men here. I'm speaking specifically of the ones I dated who always tried to change me and then got pissed off when I wasn't the dream girl they envisioned.

Most men are lovely. Most men are wonderful people who want the best for the women in their lives. These men are essential.

But I am not going to get a boyfriend just because my time is running out and my destiny is to die old and alone with a houseful of cats.

It will probably be a houseful of Papillons anyway. Because I can get another Papillon if I want and there is no one to stop me.

 I won't. Four dogs are plenty..

But I can.

 And yes, I can buy dresses for my dog!

The cat sleeps on the bed.

Hypocrisy

 I'm the biggest hypocrite in the world.

I remember when I used to be all "Dogs will NEVER be allowed on the bed!" I mean, dogs are big and hairy and have dirty feet because they go outside.

 Not that cats are any cleaner. They dig around in litter boxes, and they always track litter onto my bed. Really only Willow and Puckett get up on the bed, and Willow usually only stays for a bit before going to sleep in her basket. Spencer will come up for a snuggle and then also disappear.

I used to get pissy with the ex-fiance (not to be confused with the most recent ex, though they are about the same jerk), because he'd let his equally annoying dog up on the bed, and I was always like, no dogs on the bed!

I hated that dog anyway. There was something off about her.

Of course, there was something off about him too.

Thank goodness I didn't marry him.

Also because he said if the dogs aren't allowed on the bed, neither are the cats, and also because he said when his dog and Tess were gone, we were only going to have one dog, and we would definitely not have any more cats because he didn't really like cats.

Yeah, right, buddy, good luck enforcing that one.

But I digress.

Remember when dogs weren't allowed on the bed? And they weren't allowed to eat people food, and I didn't believe in giving them food from plates because they would learn to beg and so on and so forth?

Oh yeah, that all went out the window.

Suddenly my bed at night looks like that meme on the Internet:

         Credit Kelly Angel @anythingcomic

I mean, I don't have a snail or a dung beetle, but that's about how we look at night. A cat on one side, a cat on the other. Colleen tucked under my arm. Murphy stretched across the body pillow along the wall. I actually would invite Kira and Joy up there too, except there is no room. And they do tend to shed more and have dirtier feet than the Gremlins.

I can't wait to get bunnies. They'll be on the bed too, probably. In my fantasy everyone will get along famously. Can you imagine, three cats, some bunnies, and two papillons in a bed? Where the hell am I going to sleep?

And the food thing? 

I am almost ashamed to admit what I've been up to.

First of all, I cook for the dogs. Every other week I buy several pounds of ground beef and chicken, and I cook this huge stockpot with meat, brown rice, sweet potato, bone broth, chia seeds, liver, peas and carrots, and spinach or broccoli depending on what the darlings feel like that week. I mix this up with their kibble and this is what they get fed twice a day. Willow gets sardines. The other two cats would too if they'd eat them, but they won't. I tried to switch Spencer to a raw diet for kitties, but he was having none of it, and Puckett only eats HER kibble. 

And then not only do I cook for the dogs, they always get a few fries when I have fries for dinner. I slip each one a few tastes right from my plate.

I know, I know, it's terrible. So awful. And then I wonder why they beg.

Well, no, I know exactly why they beg. I take full responsibility.

Their other favorite snack is tortilla chips. If I'm having some nachos well, by God, they have to have some tortilla chips (minus the queso - I mean, I'm not trying to kill my dogs with unhealthy food). They get giblets whenever my friend cooks a whole chicken or a turkey. She gives me the insides so they don't go to waste, and my dogs LOVE this. I will buy them fresh chicken livers at the local meat store. But they won't eat them raw. They must be cooked to a tender pate.

The only thing I won't get for the dogs or eat myself anymore is bacon or anything pork. Once they got bacon because it came with a meal kit, and I don't eat bacon so rather than waste it, I cooked it up for the dogs. I'm too much of a pig advocate to endorse eating them. Not that cows and chickens are any less special (though I am less attached to birds), pigs just have a speical place in my heart. 

If i had my way they'd eat venison and elk, but I'm no hunter and I worry about parasites.

Yes, the meat is all organically raised and locally sourced.

Oh, and lately before bed they all get a spoonful of whipped cream, their very own puppuccinos. 

Because dogs don't get human food and should not be fed table scraps. 

My ex-fiance would be furious right now if he could see how I've fallen.

Is it wrong that I get a wicked sort of pleasure at the thought of this? I feel like I'm sticking it to all the abusive assholes in my life who had a problem with my animals. The jackass I dated for a summer who told me to get rid of Puckett and Willow, but I "could keep" Percy and Tess because they were the "cool" pets, like what does that even mean? And the ex-fiance who thought he had any say in the matter of whether I would be "allowed" to get more pets when mine all passed on. Or the recent one who I call AA for Abusive Alcoholic who said Tess was nothing but some dumb old blind dog that I acted like an idiot over. He beat Joy when she misbehaved, and scruffed Murphy when he misbehaved and smacked Kira around that one time she bit me accidentally.

Wow, I've dated a lot of assholes.

I think I'll stick with the animals. And now the only time I'll feel like a hypocrite again is if I ever forsake them by bringing another one of these losers into my life. They deserve better.

 And so do I.

Who Needs a Security System?

 My dogs bark at EVERYTHING.

After twelve years of Tess, I cannot get used to this. Tess barked, sure. She barked if someone came to the door, she barked if she saw some strange person walk by on the street, and she barked at the wind. 

My dogs will be lounging quietly while I watch TV in the bedroom, and suddenly burst into an explosion of barking. It scares the shit out of me and then I sit there in bewilderment wondering what the hell.

Murphy likes to sit on the cat ledge where he has a perfect view of the kitchen window, and if someone has the nerve to walk by with their dog, or one of the resident bunnies hops along, he will lose his shit and start barking until they are out of sight.

Good job, buddy. You scared that evil nasty bunny right out of the garden.

We'll all be hanging out in the bedroom and I'm reading a book and Colleen and Murphy will sit on my bed, watching out the back door for any threatening people walking a threatening Shih Tzu. Sometimes children bike or skateboard down the street. This is unacceptable. Barking ensues.

If the neighbors let their pit bulls out to play and go potty? Well, the world has just come to an end. All four of my dogs will race to the backdoor and go crazy, like the pit bulls have some nerve behaving like, you know, dogs.

When did I end up with such dog reactive nut jobs? I never had this problem with Tess.

Heaven help us if the doorbell rings. 

God, I hate that anyway. If I'm expecting someone, then they have to text me, let me know they are on the doorstep, and I'll open the door before they knock or ring the doorbell. The dogs will bark at "Oh my God, new people in our house!!" but they get over it fast and settle down. A doorbell sends them over the edge.

I don't mind so much, really. I mean, ever since I threw the abusive asshole out of my house last summer, I acquired a security camera so I can see who is coming onto my property (damn that Door Dash - my neighbors on both sides do it - and I'll check my camera and be like why is there a car in my driveway??? Oh....Door Dash). And having four dogs who bark at everything is actually a good thing. "Weirdo alert, weirdo alert! Bark bark bark."

Cue calling the police.

Okay, so that hasn't happened yet. But I'm sure hearing two deep scary barks intermingled with the frenzied yapping of two furry gremlins would be enough to deter anyone from a property.

One night the police actually did show up on my doorstep. I was watching TV, minding my own business around 8:30 pm, and the doorbell rang. I about had a heart attack. Like I have anxiety as it is, and then the unexpected sends me right into panic mode. My dogs went nuts. Absolutely crazy. I went to the door to ask who was there, but of course, they couldn't hear me. The dogs were barking too loud. I finally heard "Police Department!" so I opened the door and slipped outside so the dogs would SHUT UP. Joy literally tried to push through the door with her head to get at the whoever dared to intrude, and the whole house was in confusion. Even standing out on the porch to talk to the officers with the door shut, I could still hear my dogs barking, and it was that frantic barking of "My owner's going to die, get help!"

Dudes, it was the police. I think we're fine.

Turns out they were looking for my ex, and since his dumb ass never updated his mailing address, everything, and I mean EVERYTHING (including his W2), comes to my house looking for him.

See? It's a good thing I have cameras and alarm dogs, because the abusive asshole is STILL fucking up my life.

I sent them on their merry way, having some idea where he might be staying (he keeps his vehicles at a storage unit a block from my house, so the camera is very important), and after checking the reports the next morning I learned they did manage to arrest him.

Good.

Of course, he had to have known I sent them there because it was no secret they were at my house (cop cars don't hide well), and he knows I know he's been keeping his vehicles there. I mean he was driving by my house every day for about six months (probably checking to see who I'm sleeping with - that would be a NO ONE). I'm inclined to believe he's doing it to be an asshole. So ever since then I've been expecting retribution, though it hasn't happened yet.

The dogs didn't calm down for about two hours after that whole ordeal.

Another night I was in bed watching a movie about 7 p.m. I had all my lights off and I think I may have even fallen asleep at one point. And the doorbell rings.

Oh my God. Joy LOST it. And Kira sounded like she was going to rip whoever to shreds. She is part pit bull after all. She has the bark and the bite to prove it. Murphy launched off the bed and went yapping to the gate at the bottom of the stairs, and I had a panic attack once again.  Figured it was the cops again. Or maybe this time it was the ex coming to pay his respects.

It was my neighbor. With the rent money. For the life of me I could not figure out why he was ringing my doorbell and handing me an envelope when they only have ever stuck it in my mailbox and then texted me to let me know it was there. Like we have never had to interact to exchange money before. The dogs lost their shit, he backed up with the most mortified look on his face and practically ran back next door, and once again I couldn't go to sleep until almost ten while I tried to calm my pounding heart.

I'm going to dismantle that damn doorbell.

And murder my neighbor.

So now the dogs bark when I let them out back before we go to bed. It doesn't matter what's going on out there. Wind rustling leaves, a car driving by, the neighbor dogs, some random bunny. It's a bark fest, and everyone is so keyed up all the time, I don't know how to calm us down. Joy is even on anti-anxiety medicine.

I had to get on Lexapro.

I guess I'm safe enough. It's no secret that four crazy dogs live at my house, and I wouldn't put it past Kira to take a chunk out of someone if she felt threatened enough. A German shepherd and a pit bull aren't exactly something you'd want to mess with anyway. It's kind of fun really. I've always wanted to yell through the door when someone rang the doorbell, "I've got a German shepherd, a pit bull, and a loaded Glock, so you have to ask yourself. Do you feel lucky? Well, do you, punk?"

Not that I would ever actually do it. The neighbor already thinks I'm nuts, and with my luck I'd yell it the next time the cops show up.

   Threatening, isn't he?

   She looks sweet but don't let her fool you.

Tears

I thought I was doing better. I swore, no more tears.

And then Kira went in for surgery.

The vet told me a couple months ago that Kira had a broken molar.  It had a crack in it the size of the San Andreas fault. He said he would need to clean out the tooth to see how bad it was and with the vet bills piling up and the money I spent trying to get rid of the a-hole (and the money I've lost in the stock market) I couldn't schedule an appointment until this month.

It was worse than I expected. I mean it wasn't. I figured that tooth needed to be cut out. I just didn't realize how awful it was and how much work was involved.  The tooth was rotted through and black. The three roots ran deep and needed to be cut out too. If it hadn't been taken care of soon it would have abscessed and it would have been even worse.  I can only imagine the pain.  Poor dog.

So she went in for surgery.

Kira is usually pretty stoic.  Shes not a huge baby. Murphy is the baby. Joy can be a baby too. Kira is more like Tess was. Silent, out of the way.

She whined most of the evening. She tried to sleep as I'm sure the morphine doped her up, but of course Joy and the Gremlins would not let her rest. They had to constantly sniff her over to see where she was all day. She bore it all with the patience of Job. 

As for me, I ended up crying for three hours, rather than my usual two on a Tuesday night. I can't handle it when my animals are in pain. And when they whine it makes my heart hurt worse. And to add insult to injury, I took them all out around 6 p.m. and there was the abusive asshole, parked at his storage unit, getting God knows what out to move to the current flavor of the month, whoever that unlucky woman is. That whole situation pissed me off. The storage unit is right down the block from my house and his particular unit is situated so that he can see right into my backyard. 

So I'm sure he got an eyeful of Murphy and Kira, and not that he cared that Kira just underwent several hours of grueling surgery and now has a hole in her mouth the size of a galaxy. I mean it's good that he doesn't care about the dogs. At least he won't be coming back for them. But there is still a part of me that is furious about that. I mean, Kira was his dog and he just left her. Had he not left her she never would have gotten this surgery and would have ended up with an abscess, I understand that. It all worked out best for Kira, don't get me wrong. I guess that just hurts too. Like I guess none of us mattered at all.

And Murphy? Murphy was his treasure when he was serving a purpose, like being cute enough to pick up chicks while I was at work. Now Murphy doesn't even matter to him.

So I herded everyone back inside as quickly as possible, trying to shield Murphy as best I could, and went to take the poop I scooped out front to the trash. Then he drove by when I was out front. It's like I could not get away from him that night. 

After that the tears would not stop. I literally could not stop crying. It's become my ritual. Every Tuesday night, I sit on the kitchen floor and cry for two hours. That last week I thought I'd finally made a breakthrough and I decided no more tears. Then there we were on a Wednesday night, crying for three hours. Kira had her head in my lap, whining. Murphy sat on the back of the couch behind me and Colleen sat beside me. Joy ignored all of us. 

We were a wreck. I don't know if Kira was whining because of her tooth or if she was whining because I was sobbing on the couch.  Maybe a little of both. Maybe on some level she knew the person who abandoned her had been just a few yards away.

The person who was supposed to be "her" person.

Well, Kira will never be abandoned again. She at least is better off, even with the hole in her mouth. She eats a fresh diet, she has a pack of friends and a warm bed every night. She is loved.

I feel sorry for him. What he's missed out on.

The Price of Love

 My most expensive pet is Murphy.

So, I am a snob. I will admit it. I used to be that person who would NEVER get a purebred dog and most definitely would never buy from a breeder, and as a pretentious sixteen-year-old even went so far as to look down my large nose at people who did buy from breeders.

And yet I wanted a purebred German shepherd but I would only consider getting one as a rescue. And that all worked out with Tess, right down to the age (a year old), sex (female) and her breeding (impeccable with no genetic issues like hip dysplasia and I had the papers to prove it). I actually had nothing against purebreds. Just breeders. Which is idiotic when you think about it because someone got the dog from a breeder, dumped her at the animal shelter where I later acquired her. I mean, talk about a hypocrite.

I can admit my shortcomings and negative personality traits. I don't have a lot of admirable qualities to begin with.

Lightning struck twice for me and I acquired Joy, also a purebred shepherd, also a rescue, but she did come from a backyard breeder and ended up with a friend who handed her over to me, knowing that I love shepherds. I don't have her papers, but I'm hoping her straight back and easy gait means that she too will avoid the hip dysplasia issue.

So I was able to keep my pretentious attitude and still get my purebred German shepherds. To be honest I let go of that snotty attitude years ago. I got over myself pretty fast when I realized how people acquire their pets is none of my business. I just was lucky enough to find what I wanted in rescues.

I no longer look down on people who buy from breeders. I have joined their ranks. All I care about anymore is if people take care of their pets and don't unleash them on me and my dogs. 

I have two papillons that I did buy from a breeder. "The Gremlins," I call them. They are a special circumstance because 1.) I never thought I'd ever have a chance to own papillons. They are not a common breed, puppies are hard to come by, and they are very expensive, and 2.) my best friend just happen to work with someone who does breed them and is also a reputable breeder who breeds a championship line with very few health issues. So not a puppy mill, not a backyard breeder, and definitely not cranking out puppies for profit. She breeds one female a year once a year and usually only has two puppies.

I'm a greedy asshole and ended up just buying the whole litter when they were born. Well, in my defense I only wanted the female, but the abusive alcoholic I lived with at the time insisted that we just get both because it would be sad to buy one and leave the other one to languish like he wouldn't be snapped up immediately. 

This was Murphy. Technically he belonged to my ex. My ex initially wanted him, paid for him, and named him, but I ended up paying all the vet bills, the AKC registration fee, and all his food and toys. I also did the bulk of the animal care like feeding and walking them because he was usually passed out in the mornings after the previous day's drinking and then drunk by the evening, so these animals never would have eaten if I didn't handle it. I mean I don't mind taking care of my animals, that's what they are there for.

But I digress.

All he did with the animals was throw the big dogs outside all day and ignore them, then drive around town (drunk mind you) all day with the gremlins showing them off and probably picking up chicks. Then he'd come home and complain about all the attention he kept getting when he was out and about with them.

I wonder sometimes if he didn't get Murphy to use against me, an ace up his sleeve so to speak. He was never into little fluffy dogs like papillons. He liked muscle meathead dogs like Bulldogs and Rottweilers. He didn't even know what a papillon was until I showed him a picture.

When it came to actual discipline, he wasn't nice. Murphy peed on the bed once and the ex scruffed him so hard he yelped and cried. Then he took him outside and beat him. He was maybe four months old. Way too young to be completely housetrained. When Murphy was three months old, he was running around the park happily and didn't perform recall as quickly as the ex wanted (we hadn't exactly had them in obedience class), so the ex scruffed him hard and shook him, and I swear they could hear him yelping and screaming a block away.

Murphy almost fell out of the truck once when we were driving. The ex had the driver's side window rolled all the way down and Murphy was hanging halfway out. Luckily he wore a harness so when he almost bounced out, we were able to grab his harness and pull him back in. I was upset. He told me to calm the fuck down and he did it all the time with Colleen too when I wasn't with him.

When Murphy got his rabies shot, he had such a bad reaction to it that he whined and cried all night, keeping me up, and the ex got so furious with me for "babying" Murphy that he stomped upstairs to the guest room with him and wouldn't let me see him or comfort him. He was always calling Murphy a puss or a wimpy little dog.

Murphy got into the ex's weed stash once. He always left his bowl with the leftover resin on the floor of the guest room, and Murphy got up there once and ate part of the resin. He was so looped out and sick for the rest of the night, I almost called emergency vet, but the ex wouldn't let me. He didn't even feel that bad about it, just laughed and said Murphy learned his lesson.

I'm here to tell you, Murphy did not learn his lesson. He's a year old and I still fish stuff out of his mouth that he shouldn't have. I just watch him better.

When I finally got up the nerve to leave, I loaded all the animals in my car one morning while he was passed out and took them to a friend's house where I stayed for a week while I let the police and the court system sort it out. He tried to get Murphy back (he didn't care about Kira). At that point everything was in my name, he had said several times that "Murphy is yours anyway because you'll have to take care of him when I'm gone" (yes, constant suicide threats), and I had given him four thousand dollars to start a business, money I was pretty sure I'd never see again. 

In other words, I paid for that puppy, not just monetarily, but in blood, sweat, and tears.

I was in a constant state of anxiety of what would happen to this little dog if I didn't take him out of that environment. I was concerned for the other dogs too (the only dog he never beat was Colleen, and that was probably because she weighed all of two pounds and would break if you looked at her cross-eyed), but he didn't care about them. Murphy was his chick magnet.

I get accused of Murphy being my "favorite," but I think I'm just the most protective of him because of how bad it could have gone for him. He'd be dead by now. Either he'd have fallen out of a moving truck window and broken his leg or worse, his neck.  Or when the ex got angry enough, he'd have beaten the little guy hard enough to really hurt him. Murphy would have gone from a happy, fun-loving cutie, to a cowering, timid mess. He might have even turned aggressive. 

Or one night I have no doubt we would have all ended up on the business end of that loaded pistol the ex kept in the house.

Murphy is the dog most attached to me. When we first got the gremlins, the ex would pass out drunk by seven o'clock, leaving me to care for the dogs, and the gremlins would snuggle on the couch with me and then sleep on the bed. Murphy was always tucked next to me by the next morning. I don't know if he thought of me as his protector, or if it's just because I was the nicer one. Joy was already attached to me, as I raised her from a puppy, and Kira isn't bonded to anyone. She just wants a warm bed and a bowl full of food and the occasional ear scratch. Colleen was mine from the moment the breeder handed her to me. But Murphy took months to decide who he would attach to, and even though he spent every day with the ex, I'm the one he glued himself to. And once he decided that, we were bonded.

Maybe he thought he was protecting me.

It's funny. This little dog who cost me an arm and a leg and possibly a piece of my soul has become my reason for getting out of bed in the morning. I love all my animals but Murphy's antics can put a smile on my face when I've been in tears for two hours. I guess every disaster has a silver lining, and mine is Murphy.

This face is just too much.

Too Many Dogs

Four dogs are a lot.

Having two tiny gremlins is nerve wracking to say the least. When Murphy went in to get neutered. I about had to take a Xanax to get through the ordeal and he's the one who had surgery. He went through it with flying colors. He was an excellent anesthesia patient, the procedure went very well, and I was able to take him home that afternoon.

Murphy, however, was a terrible patient. He kept trying to lick his nether regions, so they put the cone of shame on him. He was more upset about the cone of shame than the surgery. He kept running into walls, he got the edge of the stupid thing caught on his kennel, and then he managed to paw it off twice and proceeded to lick until his business was red. He whined continuously and peed on the bed because he wouldn't go potty the first ten times I took him outside. He seemed to think the cone inhibited his ability to pee. I managed to figure out that putting his harness on him has the same effect as the cone, it's just not as scary. He's getting used to his harness now, but at the time he seemed to think when he wears his harness, he's in trouble or something so he doesn't do anything but sit and look miserable.

Two days later and he was fine. His usual rambunctious silly self, bouncing off the walls.

Colleen went in to get spayed a week later.

Turns out I gave the vet a nervous complex. I guess he and I both needed a Xanax. Colleen went through the surgery fine and everything was fine, but he admitted after the fact that he'd been a nervous wreck all week about it.

Words you never want to hear from your vet.

Well, Colleen doesn't even weigh four pounds (despite eating like a horse), and the vet said it's like performing a hysterectomy on a preemie. Perhaps in the future of papillon ownership I will lean towards the bigger ones.

I've panicked over Colleen three or four times already. As a three-month-old puppy, she fell off the cat ledge and fell six feet onto my art table. I heard a yelp and a whine, and I raced downstairs to find her standing on the art table looking completely bewildered. Cue call to emergency vet. I was hysterical. The nice man on call told me she was probably fine, she just needed to sleep it off, and if she wasn't fine to call back and bring her in. She slept that whole afternoon, snapped at her brother a few times for bothering her (it was his fault she took a flying leap in the first place), and the next day she was fine.

Then there was the choking incident. I think she was about five months old. I took all the dogs out to go potty. I turned my back for literally a second to scoop poop, and when I turned back around she was frantically pawing at her muzzle and freaking out. I scooped her up, shoved my fingers down her throat and felt a stick wedged in there. I, of course, panicked myself, and rushed her inside. I tried to remove the stick again and suddenly there was blood everywhere, down my finger, all over her paws. I called emergency vet hysterical, they told me to rush her over, and I was sure she would die in the meantime. I threw both gremlins in the car as I didn't know what to do with Murphy and there was no way I was leaving him alone. I got them to the vet clinic, and by this time Colleen was just sitting on the front seat staring at me with huge eyes, very much alive, seeming to breathe just fine. I realized the blood was mine. She'd gnawed my finger halfway to the bone. The vet checked her over, did x-rays, she came up completely healthy, and I paid a 300 dollar bill for my own stupidity.

Then there's Joy. Joy started to regress. Horribly in fact. She was doing well there for a while, and then I threw out the abusive asshole who was living with me and got two puppies, and suddenly she decided she's a puppy again too. She has become destructive. She has eaten my niece's favorite unicorn (that was traumatic - believe me, I used to be an eight-year-old little girl who cherishes all her stuffed animals, I can only imagine if a dog had eaten Fuzzy or Tuppy), two pillows (one being the first thing I ever sewed all by myself in eighth grade), and my mattress topper. I came home to find chunks of memory foam all over the bedroom and huge Jaws-like bite marks all along the edges of the topper on the bed. I was furious, but looking back now, I mean, Joy really should be renamed Jaws. It's kind of hilarious. I still have the topper. It's not ruined, and it's covered so whatever, but the bite marks really do look like a shark went after it.

Oh, Joy. She has started eating poop again, she barks at EVERY SINGLE DOG she sees, including the neighbor dogs that she sees literally every day, and she also barks at every distant bark she hears in the night. I can't let her outside when the neighbor pit bulls are out there. She and their female race to the break in the fence and bark at each other like they want to kill each other. Sometimes the neighbor dog starts it, and sometimes Joy starts it. I have bent over backwards trying to find the best diet I can for all my dogs and ended up making her sick with boiled chicken. She's always eaten chicken. Her kibble is chicken, she eats freeze-dried chicken treats, her Fresh Pet is chicken. But plain boiled chicken? Nothing added, thoroughly cooked through (I made sure) and total diarrhea. I felt awful. Poor dog. The other three dogs were fine.

I expected gastrointestinal issues from Tess. That dog had the tenderest tummy ever. Joy is a canine trash disposal. She'll literally eat shit off the ground, but chicken gave her the runs. Go figure.

And Kira? Well, Kira is my best child. She's older than the rest, seven or eight. Most of the time she's good as gold. She eats her food, she naps on her bed, and she stays out of the way. Then there was the night she almost killed Murphy. I took the four of them on a walk, something I have done many times and they are all usually pretty good (except for the dog reactive thing that suddenly everyone has acquired). I tie Joy (Jaws) around my waist, hold Kira's leash in my left hand, and the puppies in my right. The puppies wear harnesses. Joy wears a gentle leader. 

Anyway, downtown there are a bunch of statues displayed, and Murphy sort of lost his shit at the life-sized rhinoceros statue. Tess used to do that too. When I first got her, she freaked out at each statue until I walked up to it and put my hand on it to show her it wasn't alive. So I did the same with Murphy. Colleen pranced right up and gave it a sniff. Joy just sort of rolled her eyes at everyone. Kira decided she needed to cross to my other side so she could jump on the platform the rhino sits on. She jumped up, then down, then over Murphy, rolled him in the street, got everybody's leashes tangled and Murphy slipped his harness.

I had visions of him darting across Main Street and getting hit by a car. He started to run down the sidewalk with me chasing after him, dragging Joy who was still tied to my waist and Colleen who just follows me wherever I go. I had dropped Kira's leash and told her to stay by the rhino which she did, utterly terrified. Luckily it was a Friday evening and there wasn't much traffic. I was so panicked that of course Murphy ran away from me as I'm sure I terrified him. I finally crouched down and called him, and he creeped over to me, so I was able to grab him up in my arms.

We spent the next fifteen minutes sitting on that rhino platform with Murphy clutched against my chest, Kira sitting like a demure lady by my feet, Colleen next to me on the platform and Joy still thinking we were all nuts. I think I thanked God about twenty times, sitting there and Murphy didn't move a muscle, just snuggled in my lap and let me hold him. Meanwhile a cop car passed twice, probably wondering what the hell.

Traveling is fun too. When I want to go anywhere, I have to board Joy and Kira, and drive the gremlins down to Colorado so my best friend can watch them. It's no longer just leaving my menagerie with my friend and one time house-sitter the Cowboy to watch them. He even offered again, "Hey, I'll watch your pets any time," and he just doesn't understand that this is not like it was with Tess. Tess was easy. In nice weather I could leave her out on the porch with food and water and she just watched the world go by. Now when I leave even for four hours to go to work, I have to lock Kira in the bedroom, Joy in the hallway, the gremlins each in their own kennels, and everyone gets a Kong to keep them occupied. Otherwise, Joy will destroy my house and eat the bed.

It is a fiasco, let me tell you.

These guys will be the death of me.