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.

Sanctuary or Prison?

I went off the deep end this last month or so. 

It was long overdue.

I've been processing a very abusive relationship while also coming to terms with and accepting that I will never have a good, healthy long-term relationship as that is just not in the cards for me. Since it's something I've always wanted and prayed for, it's been hard to accept.

So yes, I went off the deep end a little, but I have come to terms with the fact that my longest and best relationship will always be Tess. I have finally accepted it. I don't have to give it a second thought now, and that is both a relief and a curse.

Complex PTSD is a confusing thing. I feel both guilt for lumping my situation in with the horrors others have experienced, especially since I got out without landing in the emergency room, and denial that it was even that bad. There has been an excess of drinking, a lot of sobbing and isolating, and okay, then there was the night I cussed God out and flipped him off a few times.

That scene in "Heat" when Sandra Bullock runs her middle fingers across the glass at all the police officers? That was me.

At the time, I truly didn't believe the abuse I endured was that bad. I mean, he never hit me. But dear God, the manipulation, the silent treatments, the gaslighting, the sexual abuse, the walking on eggshells, and my favorite, the constant name calling - well, I guess that stuff wears on one's emotional wellbeing. Runs down your self-esteem. Makes you feel less than human, like you don't even matter.

Until you truly believe you don't matter.

Who knew?

Add in that this was the third abusive relationship I've had in a row, and well, maybe a complete meltdown was in order. I got out of the other two with a bit less damage, I think maybe because I didn't live with them so they couldn't exert complete control over me. I might be nonconfrontational, but I've always fought for my own freedom. This last time I made the mistake of letting him move in, and that's when the fun began. It ended with a bullet hole in the wall of my guest room, a knife thrown across the living room, and me loading animals into my car early the next morning and running for the Advocacy Center. A few visits from the police and a protection order later, he was gone. I have the pets, he has, I think, a new girlfriend he's living with, and I thought well, that's the end of it.

It is not the end of it.

I go to therapy, and I annoy the hell out of my friends with all the processing, and I have to say, people coming out of an abusive relationship really have no idea how to behave like normal citizens anymore. It's like I'm in a foreign country. Or on another planet. Dealing with people? Not even a clue as to how to begin. I can't have normal conversations anymore. I can't socialize normally anymore. Every social engagement is riddled with extreme anxiety. I can't even deal with my neighbors. When I see them, I pretend they aren't there, or I run into the house to avoid speaking to them. Painting and writing? Forget it. Creativity is blocked. I've started several paintings I never finished, and I trashed them. I keep opening my laptop to write and give up after one paragraph. I have a sketchbook filled with half-finished drawings, and a blanket I never finished knitting.

This is where the animals come in. All seven of them. Two of which I wouldn't even have had he not left them behind. That's how seriously fucked up this relationship was compared to the last ones. This one actually left behind pets and made my codependent menagerie even more codependent (and larger). They hate being away from me. I can't leave them alone for longer than four hours at a time (I mean, I do have to go to work). We all have severe separation anxiety. And I also believe it was a cruel joke on his part to ensure that I will never get into another relationship after him because really, who is going to get involved with a crazy woman with four dogs and three cats? Especially when said woman is so full of anxiety that she constantly assumes one or all of her animals are going to die from a stubbed toe or a minor stomach bug.

My vet bills have been through the roof. I have rushed Puckett to the vet three times for "respiratory issues" that turned out to be nothing. Her lungs are scarred from being alive so long, I was told. I've taken all four dogs' poop to the vet to be analyzed because everyone had the runs for three weeks straight. I thought they were dying of parasites. Turns out the stupid kibble I was feeding them was too rich and causing stomach problems. They are all back on Natural Balance and Fresh Pet. I rushed Murphy to the vet because he was having trouble peeing one afternoon. I immediately thought bladder stones or UTI. Two hundred dollars later, he went home with a clean bill of health and a report that he peed just fine there. This was after he'd been to the vet for holding his ears funny and scratching a lot. Yeah, he's over that too. I think his ear fringe was bothering him and getting in his eyes.

Colleen almost died on my watch when she choked on a piece of mulch, and I rushed her to emergency after-hours vet only to have them tell me the x-ray showed everything was clear and she must have coughed up the offending piece of wood or swallowed it. I had another large vet bill and a chewed-up finger from trying to dislodge the wood from her throat.

Kira has to go in this month for a broken tooth. It needs to be pulled or it will abscess and then I can have another meltdown.

I am a wreck.

And do I hide behind my animals? Of course I do. Do I use them as an excuse to skip social engagements and stay home? Absolutely.

The damage is very real, if invisible. There are no bruises, no broken bones. I never had to wear sunglasses or long-sleeved shirts or anything like that. But I no longer trust my own intuition. I overreact to silly things and avoid situations where even the slightest potential for harm may lie. I let complete strangers on the Internet hurt my feelings. I've been scammed by two e-commerce companies when in the past I always knew better. One I disputed. The second one I didn't even bother. Didn't even care anymore. I feel like I'm going crazy. I don't believe what used to be my own truth anymore. I believe others' opinions about me and don't question motives. The motives are all to hurt and damage. I assume the worst and believe I deserve it. I don't believe I deserve a second chance. I don't believe I'm good enough for anyone or anything. I don't feel safe. The world is a frightening place, and I have no idea how to navigate it. I am both furious with God and also terrified at whatever else he might throw at me. That saying that God only gives you what you can handle is bullshit. And I don't even have it that bad. Other people are in way worse situations. That's the guilt.

And everyone thinks now that I'm out of the relationship, now that he's gone, I'm free to be "me" again. Do the things I used to, go out and socialize, be happy and fun again. Well, that "me" no longer exists. 

So when my friends and family make the comment that I am overworked and perhaps seven animals are too many, they are not wrong. I am drowning in a sea of animal care. But here's the secret. On the one hand I can't rehome any of them because I've grown attached to all of them (and several of them are too old to rehome anyway). On the other hand, they give me the perfect excuse not to move on with my life. It's impossible to do so with so many animals, and it's also impossible to not have them, to not care for them. 

They are at once my sanctuary and my prison. 

Murphy has the right idea. Hide.