Youths

As if adopting a new puppy wasn't enough, I went and did something.

I think I need my head examined.

Or else I've just given up on all my dreams and decided to make myself a full time steward of animals (well, and plants, but that doesn't happen until spring).

I blame Joy. Completely. It's all her fault. I take no responsibility for my actions. I also blame the Dog and Cat Shelter. They know a sucker when they see one, and they somehow manage to find those suckers even when the suckers don't come to them.

They will find you.

The other night at puppy class, Joy was doing her exercises and suddenly this little black head with two big green eyes popped up from one of the cages at the back of the Petco store. This small black kitten fixed its eyes on Joy and watched her with such intent while Joy worked her class, he seemed almost mesmerized. Joy finally noticed him too and was equally interested. They sat and stared at each other.

I almost saw heart bubbles popping between them.

I may not have thought much about it, had the little beast not stuck his tiny paws through the holes of his cage and waved them at us. He was all black with green eyes.

And I thought, Percy 2.0.

Of course I had to check him out. I love dogs, but cats are a different story with me. I can walk through the kennels at the animal shelter, and while I will pet a few noses and sympathize with the plight of homeless dogs, I can walk away. Shepherds are my Kryptonite, but even them, if they seem like they won't fit in with my life, I can walk away. Mewing, homeless, pathetic looking cats just break my heart. This is why I don't go into the cat room at the Dog and Cat Shelter anymore. That's how I ended up with Puckett and Willow.

It was the perfect storm. The kitten, being all black with green eyes, filled two criteria already, and when I checked his card to see if he was male or female (hoping he was a female because I don't need any more girls in my house), I groaned. He was male. Four months old, neutered already, all his shots, ready to go home.

I mean, he wouldn't cost me a dime except for the adoption fee which wasn't very much. And I already had all the food and toys and treats and bowls and litter necessary for a cat his size.

So that week we acquired Spencer, the new little brother no one but Joy wanted.

It actually didn't go as badly as I thought it might. Introducing a new cat to two others is always tricky. I didn't worry too much about Puckett. She doesn't care as long as everyone understands and accepts that she is queen. Willow I was a bit more worried about. She's gone through bullying from Percy and being picked on by Joy. I was worried maybe I'd pushed her too far. But both girls hissed and swatted a few times upon meeting Spencer. They watched him as long as he kept his distance, but they didn't seem bothered. At first he spent most days in the guest room while I was at work, and at night when I was asleep. He couldn't be unsupervised. He tried to eat my yarn, climb on the wine rack, and Joy (who had just been spayed and needed to stay inside on a velvet cushion) just could not seem to sit still around him. She followed him around and rolled him across the floor with her nose. This kitten is completely fearless, just like Percy was. Dogs don't bother him. The vacuum cleaner doesn't bother him. Even Puckett doesn't intimidate him, though he has learned to keep his distance.

So while there was some growling and swatting and hissing, nothing too dramatic. He and Puckett have become friends. They play together just like she and Percy used to. He follows Willow around like she is the most fascinating creature in the world and tries to engage her in play. That ticks her off and she hisses and jumps on the cat tree. I think if Spencer wasn't so pushy, Willow might eventually warm up to play with him. He was a bit apprehensive about Joy at first since she was so pushy, but now they've become good friends and play together every night. Joy chases Spencer who chases Willow who throws a fit and chaos ensues. Meanwhile Puckett and Tess watch them with the look I usually reserve for twenty-year-olds.

To quote Schmidt from The New Girl, "Youths!"

Grief and disappointment will do strange things to a person. For eight months it was four old ladies sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. Well, three old ladies, and Willow, who I guess is middle-aged. Maybe I'm middle-aged too. Who knows at this point. Then we got Joy, and then we got Spencer. Boy do they spice up life. They are so full of life and energy and joy (Joy!) they kind of remind me what that used to be like.

It's too soon to tell if this was the biggest mistake of my life. Spencer is now five months old, but still a baby by kitty standards. I hope when he grows up he doesn't take everyone out. And Joy is a teenager by dog standards, and most nights I feel like I'm fighting with my teenage daughter. I can almost see her stomping her feet and screaming "You're ruining my life!" I know this too shall pass, and when she hits 18 months she'll be as good a dog as Tess. She has the temperament. I don't think cats go through bratty teenage phases, but males do go through bossy britches phases, and as much as I loved Percy he was a nasty little bully. I hope Spencer won't take on that personality trait. He's already getting bolder, and his new thing lately is stealing my makeup brushes and knocking his food bowls over so he can play with the kibble.

It's easy forget as one ages the utter joy and carefree wonderment of youth. And it's easy to be contemptuous of that youth. Contrary to what the kids think, it isn't jealousy that drives older people and animals to despise them. Jealousy? Really? Go through all that again on purpose? Not on your life. No, it's arrogance. Sure, we all used to act that way when we were that age, but it's easy to forget as the wisdom of age takes over. It's easy to get annoyed, and think, "Jesus, why don't you use your brain, think a little, don't act so stupid!"

But sometimes I look at Joy and Spencer and I just have to smile. They are so cute. They are two balls bouncing through life with exuberance. They haven't had a chance to develop idiosyncrasies or anxieties. They haven't yet learned that some may not like them or judge them or, Heaven forbid, would hurt them given the chance (Spencer is a black cat after all). They are silly and irrational, but they are innocent, and their innocence makes them happy.

If youth has no other use, it at least has the joy of innocence and the excitement of new discoveries. And I definitely miss that sometimes.

And here he is, the new little beast. Spencer was named during a Criminal Minds marathon. I named him for Dr. Spencer Reid.

New Little Sister

It's been eight months. Eight months since I lost Percy, and ended this blog about codependent animals.

Then I went and acquired another codependent animal.

Last August, I got Joy, a two month old German shepherd puppy that I never really wanted. Tess never wanted a little sister. And Puckett and Willow had no intention of dealing with another dog, especially a puppy who thinks of them as live squeaky toys. Joy stampeded into the lives of four old ladies with nothing much left to live for, and turned our lives upside down.

It's been a shit year, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I ended my engagement (for good reason, and no regrets), I lost my Percy, and fell into despair. As the months passed, I tried several things to lift my spirits, change my life, do something anything different. I attempted to buy a coffee shop and bakery to showcase my new talent of creating macarons. Now, they say money isn't everything, but unfortunately it is something. I couldn't afford it, not even the down payment. I'm fairly confident that once I purchased the business I'd have been able to keep it successful, make it even better than it is, but if one doesn't have the funds to get started, there isn't much else one can do. The only way I could do it is if my father invested and he didn't want to. Then I thought, well, fine, I'll start applying for jobs in other places, because I have to get out of this town. I applied for so many jobs and received so many rejections it was almost like submitting my writing. One place that interviewed me raved about my qualifications, gushed about how impressed they were with me, and paid for me to drive down and interview in person. After nearly dying on the mountain pass in a crazy snowstorm, a three hour interview and tour of the town, and meeting everyone and their brother at the library, they decided I wasn't what they wanted after all and left a rather cold, informal message on my house phone that I only check once a week telling me that they weren't going to offer me the job, and good luck in my endeavors.

As if that wasn't cheerful enough, I got rejected for my dream job in my dream town, and by two more places in the same town, telling me I wasn't quite what they wanted.

I've wanted so badly to get the hell out of this town where nothing good ever happens anymore and that has nothing left to offer me for the last two years, that I was ready to move into my best friend's basement.

Through it all the one bright spot that remains is my pets, and then here comes Joy.

And a joy she is. This is the happiest, most delightful dog I've ever had the pleasure of being around. Tess looks at her with the contempt that only an older being can have for a youthful one (sort of how I look at people in their twenties), and the cats want to kill her. But she bounces around like a little black ball, vibrant with the joy of life, fearful of nothing, ready to take on the world.

I didn't want another puppy. I toyed with the idea after Percy died mostly because I was terrified that Tess might be next and maybe it was time to start looking so that I would have something to act as a balm for when that horrific event happens. Percy was a wake up call. I did not expect to lose him as soon and as quickly as I did, and when it happened I realized that any of them could go at any moment. Tess will be twelve in March. That is old for a shepherd. And while she is very healthy barring some arthritis that slows her down a bit, she is still old. She won't live forever. I can't imagine a life without her, but I'm going to have to start.

One day not long after Percy passed, I was at the Verizon store at the same time as a lady was visiting with her beautiful black German shepherd. As shepherds are my Kryptonite, I immediately forgot the reason I was at the Verizon store and made an ass of myself over the dog. The lady told me she was pregnant, and if I was interested in a puppy, to let her know. At the time, I wasn't. But after thinking about it, I stopped by the store a week later and dropped off my card letting them know if their friend was still interested in selling me a puppy, I'd be interested in buying one.

I never heard from her and I was fine with that. Until the end of July when I got a random text from one of my best friends in town, a woman who seems to collect stray animals. She sent me a picture of herself holding a little black puppy with the caption “Look what I have for you.”

A week later I had adopted a little black and tan German shepherd puppy.

It was a rough start. I was not prepared for a puppy. I had no kennel, no idea how to raise a puppy. I always had older dogs. Tess was a year old when I adopted her. I've never had to deal with something younger. But Joy is a very good puppy. She's very smart. She learns quickly. She was housebroken quickly. I've been taking her to puppy class, and she loves the exercises. She's so different from Tess. Tess, who needed three hours of walking a day just to be a little tired, but could go all day if she needed to. Tess who isn't food motivated, who never had any interest in rally or obstacle courses, who is loyal and territorial and dominant and crazy attached to me. Joy is food motivated, will do anything for a treat, even a bit of kibble. I have to feed her with one of those special slow feeder bowls to slow her down or she'll have gas all night long and keep us awake with the stench. She loves training classes and an hour of work wears her out that she'll sleep the rest of the day. She's lazy, not nearly as energetic as Tess was at her age. She doesn't care for walks, but she wants to use her nose, and she loves obstacle courses. Her new favorite thing is to roll over. Where Tess is protective of me and will throw a fit should anyone suspicious come near me, Joy will hand over the silver if you give her a piece of bacon. Where Tess is dominant and full of herself, Joy is submissive, happy to play the omega as long as everyone is nice to her. Where Tess is aggressive towards other dogs from being attacked one too many times, Joy still sees the good in all other dogs, seeing a friend in each one. Tess is anxious in the car and hates being taken from her home, and Joy loves to go, loves to experience new places, and has no fear of anything. She challenges me and Tess, in the thick of her adolescent phase. She's only eight months old. But when Tess shows her teeth and snarls, Joy hits the ground, groveling, and licking beneath Tess' chin. If I make my voice firm and put my hands on my hips, her butt hits the floor and she stares at me, waiting for her treat.

She is the cutest little thing.

The other night after puppy class I took her to the grassy area in the parking lot to go potty and she burrowed her nose in the snow, tunneling through it like a mole. She buried herself so deep all I saw was her backside and her tail sticking out of the pile of snow. The mound of snow moved as she tunneled forward. I laughed so hard. Harder than I have in a long time.

Rejection sucks. I've had the trifecta. My career, my writing, and my relationships. I can't seem to move on in my career, I can't seem to finish a writing project. And I definitely can't seem to make a relationship work. I can't forgive myself for making the wrong decision the last time, and I can't blame the good men for not wanting someone like me. But when it comes to animals, they don't reject. At the end of the day, I am Tess' world.

And somehow I've become Joy's. I didn't ask for her. And she didn't ask for me. Heaven knows she deserves better. Tess did too, this beautiful intelligent dog who was wasted on someone like me. Joy could do any kind of work suited for a dog of her intelligence, trainability and temperament. I look ten years back in time and I know. Tess should have been a drug sniffer, a search and rescue dog, or at the very least a herder as her instinct was very strong when she was young. Joy should have that chance as well.

In puppy class we worked on recall. I had to leave her with the trainer and hide in the aisles, then call her. She freaked out. Lost her shit when I walked away from her. Whining, scrabbling along the floor, pulling on her leash as she tried to race after me. Somewhere in the last six months, this puppy became so attached to me that she doesn't like letting me out of her sight.

Just like Tess.

The whole world might reject you. But dogs never will. Maybe Tess is wasted on me. But no one could love that dog as much as I do. And maybe Joy deserves the chance to do meaningful work. But someone abandoned her at two months old and I have a very good friend who knew that I'd take her in. Joy will be loved just as much as Tess.

She's already spoiled rotten, sacked out in front of a warm heater, a full belly, and a big sister she absolutely worships. Maybe I've had the trifecta of rejections, but Joy accepted me as her protector and friend.

That's worth more than the other jobs, the writing rejections, and the relationships rejections.

 

She thinks she's beautiful.

And this is the look of guilt from stealing three bowls of cat food.

Bye Bye Baby, Baby Goodbye

It is the end of an era, and I'm finally drunk enough to write about it.

This will probably be the last blog post ever about how codependent my animals are, because the most codependent of them all has passed on.

I lost Percy yesterday. And I'm shocked at the pain, at how much it hurts. At how wrong the house feels without him in it.

When the week started I didn't think, didn't realize that I would be finishing it without him. Last week, both he and Puckett went to the vet for different issues, and the diagnosis for both ended up being surgery. Puckett had a few bad teeth that needed to be pulled, and Percy somehow ended up with hyperthyroidism. I didn't understand everything the vet said to me, but what did sink in is that hyperthyroidism was the reason he couldn't settle down, the reason he was bouncing off the walls and tearing through the house, the reason he would dig to China in his litter box, the reason he ate and drank like it was going out of style, and then would pee a lake three times a day.

I thought he was just being an asshole.

He was sick.

I was the asshole. And I'm still the asshole. I've been in a terrible mood the last two years, much of which I took out on my animals, and that's on me. My last relationship did it to me - it's never good to get involved with an alcoholic - but I'm not blaming him. It's not his fault I didn't see the red flags and just fell headlong into a relationship anyway, even though that damned little voice kept warning me away.

And the animals hated the relationship. They were under constant stress during that relationship, Percy included.

You know when they weren't under constant stress? When I was in a relationship with the Cowboy (who still sits for them whenever I go on vacation), and, God help me, the Drug Dealing Felon, because Drug Dealing Felon aside, that was one of the most comfortable relationships I've ever been in.

But I digress.

I took Percy in on Monday for his surgery. Surgery he passed with flying colors. I have the best vet in the world. He's a master surgeon on animals, the best in the county. If you need shots for your pets, you can go anywhere. If you actually need something serious done on a pet, you go to this guy. You don't go to anyone else, ever (Drug Dealing Felon's sister included, as she is a very accomplished vet too).

What ended up happening to Percy was a blood clot. A pulmonary embolism is most likely what took his life, and the vet said that he probably had that clot floating around his heart for a while, and it would have eventually killed him anyway. And if I hadn't done the surgery, his hyperthyroidism would have killed him. There were other options - diet, pills - but I trusted the vet when he said Percy was a strong candidate for surgery and surgery was what he recommended and what he would do for his own cat.

It was that damn clot. With or without surgery it would have taken him.

I never thought Percy would be the first to go. God forgive me, I thought it would be Tess or Puckett, and while I wouldn't say I was prepared or ready for anyone to go, the shock of losing Percy so quickly and so suddenly has thrown me into a tailspin. I was driving back to work from getting lunch yesterday when the vet called and said Percy was deteriorating rapidly. He couldn't breathe, his heart rate was too fast. So I told the vet, tears streaming down my face and sobs choking my voice, that i would be right there. That I was on my way.

It was all I could to keep the speed limit. I didn't want to get pulled over when I needed to be with Percy in his last few minutes.

When I got to the vet, I pushed open the door, and the receptionist took one look at my face and hurried me to the back room. I saw nothing, heard nothing, except for the distressed wail of a cat in horrific pain.

I've heard that wail before. I stayed awake all night with a cat in such terrible pain before, when all I could do was hold her until she finally died in my arms.

I was not going to let a cat suffer like that again, especially not my Percy.

A vet tech had an oxygen mask over Percy's face while he screamed. Puckett was in the cage above him, having just come out of her own surgery, but I didn't even see her. I fell on Percy, screaming "Oh my God, Oh my God," sobbing and begging the vet to put him out of his misery. I asked the vet if there was any chance for Percy to come through. The vet had said that he hated to end it after all we'd been through, the surgery, the careful montitoring, the IV and the calcium drip, and the horror of all of it.

He was one hundred percent honest when he said he truly believed Percy would not make it, and that he was in pain.

I had to make the decision in a split second, so I did. Put him down, it was the humane thing to do.

And I held him as they injected the euthanasia in his IV. I cried as I held him, and told him how much I loved him, and how much I was going to miss him, and how sorry I was.

I held him for a long time after he died.

I've lost a lot of pets in my life. I've loved a lot of animals.

Percy was hands down the absolute worst.

Percy was not just a cat. He was a personality. Even people who said they didn't like cats met Percy and fell in love with him, wanted to steal him away from me.

The vet has been absolutely amazing. Him and all his techs and receptionists. They've all been great. They did everything they could to save him. They did their best, and I will be forever grateful to them. As long as I have animals, I want my vet to be there, taking care of them, because as far as I'm concerned, he is the absolute best.

I spent the whole next day in bed - today actually. I wasn't this broken up over my last breakup. I wasn't even this broken up over the Drug Dealing Felon. I might have spent four months in the bottle, but I got up. I did stuff. I lived my life as best as I could despite everything.

Today I couldn't live my life without Percy.

There was no one waking me up in the morning, flinging litter everywhere as loudly as he could, scattering it all over the floor.

There was no one playing peekaboo in the shower with me.

There was no one squalling loudly for his breakfast.

There was no one to pick up and snuggle me under the chin, head butting me and purring so loudly the neighbors could hear him.

I had no idea how quiet my girls are until Percy was no longer with us.

Tess paced all night, looking for her friend. I'm clinging to her as if to say, "Don't you leave me too."

Puckett stayed downstairs by the food bowls, constantly trying to eat and being unable to because of her teeth. She'll feel better in a few days. But I don't think she's quite right either, sticking to the food bowls, moving from one of my kitchen chairs to another as if she's waiting for Percy to join her for dinner.

Does she understand that she will never play fight with him again in the mornings?

Willow, I think, is glad he's gone. I don't judge her, though. She's on the bed, fast asleep as I write this. I binged on wine, sushi, and chocolate cake (completely packed with gluten, speaking of judging) and she glared at my sushi like it was the most disgusting thing ever.  Funny thing for a cat to do, considering sushi is raw fish.

I'm starting to believe Percy was the glue that held us all together. I'm simultaneously numb and devastated, puddling up every hour when I think about him climbing into the toy box or playing with his favorite catnip mouse. And I'm making plans to bring Willow to my best friend because her eight year old daughter would absolutely love her.

Willow deserves a person of her own, and my friend's daughter could very well be that person.

And I'm making plans to bring Puckett to my mother, who has said in the past that she would love to have a cat like Puckett.

And I'm going to hang on to Tess as long as I still have her, because she and Percy were my first, my babies, my best animal friends. They defined my thirties. They helped me through my breakup with the Drug Dealing Felon, and sat with me through the long nights alone, and crawled into my lap the two awful weeks when I had the flu; when one night I couldn't take it anymore and sat down on the top step of my stairs and cried for two hours, Percy in my lap, and Tess snuggled up beside me.

It is the end of an era.

It is the end of this blog.

I will never forget Percy. I will never forget my precious black witch kitty, who could always make me laugh even when I was at the bottom of a hole, in the depths of despair.

Most people would say, "Hey, he was just a cat. There are plenty of homeless cats out there. Just get another one."

When pets are all you have, when those are the creatures that are with you through your bad times and your good times, your barometers for when you're in a horrible situation, and your sounding boards for when you're happy, no one is "just a cat."

I feel like I've lost a limb. I can't go downstairs to my living room where Percy's toy box is, where he used to sleep and play and roll in catnip. I can't do it, so I've been in my bedroom all day, except for when I took Tess for a walk, binge watching The New Girl, and then bingeing on gluten and sushi and wine.

I don't know how I'm going to make it without him.

Bye, bye, baby, baby, goodbye...

In a World of Shit

There is a line from Sex and the City, where Carrie is telling Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte all about how Mr. Big called and left a message on her machine while she and Aiden were in bed (this was the second time around with Aiden, post "cheating on Aiden with Big" storyline).

Samantha has a lot of opinions about Carrie just ignoring it and forgetting it ever happened, and not to try to talk about it with Aiden.

Then when Charlotte mentions she is quitting her job in order to pursue having a baby with her husband, Samantha cuts in with," Well, be damn sure before you get off the Ferris Wheel, because the women who are waiting to get on are twenty-two, perky, and ruthless."

To which Carrie replies, rather huffily, "You seem to have a lot of opinions today."

That was me the other day. I have a lot of opinions and judgments about things that are probably not my business and make me seem like a very nasty person.

For instance: I just cataloged a book compiled by Beau L'Amour called "Lost Treasures," which is essentially a collection of Louis L'Amour's unfinished manuscripts and lost notes. L'Amour is a well-known, best-loved western author with many contributions to the world of books. I myself have never read any of his novels, but I know he has a ton because we have them all in our collection. Upon cataloging this book, my first reaction was not, "Oh, that's cool, more material for L'Amour lovers." No, my reaction was, "This is a terrible thing to do to a writer! Why would anyone in their right mind take someone's unfinished work and notes and put them together to publish and sell for the general public to read? I would die if anyone ever looked at any of my first drafts or beginning work."

Second thought was, "Anything to make a buck off Dad, eh, Beau?"

Not a very generous thought, I admit. I'm still horrified that anyone would do this to a writer. Beau was probably just trying to honor his father. Or something, I don't know. But really, Beau, not every piece of writing should see the light of day.

It's sort of like publishing someone's journal or diary.

Another example: Me bursting out laughing and basking in a glow of schaedenfreude when I read about the Drug Dealing Felon getting arrested and picked up by the cops in the weekly police reports. I had a few choice words about karma being a bitch, people deserving what's coming to them, and pieces of trash in general, and I admit. It didn't make me sound like a very nice person, and what's worse, I didn't, and still don't feel bad about it.

Then there was this thought: There is a special circle of hell for people who let their dogs shit wherever they want (particularly on my walkway at the foot of my front stoop), and if it happens again, I'm getting the arsenic.

I'm kidding of course. I have no idea where to buy arsenic, I would never ask, and I would never poison a dog anyway. That's mean.

That of course didn't stop me from grumbling to myself about the irresponsibility of pet owners who just let their animals wander the neighborhood, going wherever the hell they feel like it. Like I don't have enough shit of my own to clean, now I'm cleaning the neighborhood dogs' shit as well? Are you kidding me right now?

And do people who allow this of their dogs not stop to think for a moment that what they are doing is just insensitive, rude, and self-entitled? Are they too busy sitting inside eating bonbons and watching soaps that they just cannot be bothered to put on their snow boots and jacket and go outside with the damn dog? Yes, there is about a foot of snow on the ground, but for cripe's sake, if you are going to own a pet, take care of the pet.

See? I have a lot of opinions.

I just hate dog people anymore. The situation is deteriorating into me not really caring for dogs in general anymore. I don't like any dog but my own. And she is essentially a robot. She's a push button dog. And a mind reader. I have zero issues with this dog now that I no longer load her into the car to drive two hours to visit California Guy. Well, she is getting sick of the below zero weather and it's making her a little cabin crazy, but otherwise, Tess is about as perfect as a dog can get.

I don't know what it is about dog owners these days that makes them believe that their precious poopsies are so adorable that everyone and anyone should be subjected to them. I remember one afternoon I spent scooping shit along the walking path by the river a block from my house because some people hadn't bothered to pick up after their dogs. Not just one person. SOME people. The entire walking path was bordered by a parallel line of shit. I think I filled ten bags. And I cussed the entire time I was doing it too.

There was also the one year when the spring thaw revealed that someone's mutt had spent the entire winter shitting in my front yard, leaving several piles under the melting snow. Once again I was out there for the better part of an hour, scooping and cussing. I must have been overheard because that never happened again. And then those people moved away, and took their stupid dog with them.

Now some neighborhood dog is coming over and actually shitting on my walk way. It can't get into the actual yard due to the foot of snow, so what, it just decided to take a shit next to the car? and I'm not exactly sure which mutt it is, either, as it could be one of several culprits. I'm getting very tempted to just scoop up Tess' ginormous shit from my backyard, and deposit it in each possible culprit's yard.

That'll show them.

And is it bad that I secretly hope the damn dog goes and plays in traffic one day since my walkway isn't really that far from the street? Which leads me to my next opinion, if my walkway is THAT close to the street, then how irresponsible does a dog owner have to be to just let their dog wander around out there? I don't actually hope it will get hit by a car, but the truth is, it can very easily get hit by a car.

Besides, I thought it was against city law to allow one's dog to run loose in town.

Don't get me started on the abuse of "emotional support dogs" and the people who think they need to take their four-legged attachments everywhere. If I did that to my dog, she would be the one needing an emotional support animal. She gets anxiety leaving the house for any reason other than going for a nice long walk. Now granted some people need a service dog and they should have them. But I can tell the difference between a real service dog and one that is just a live security blanket being dragged over God's green Earth for the benefit of some self-entitled jackass. Real service dogs do not jump on my leg and try to hump it, and real service dogs do not yank at their leashes and practically drag their handler across a room in an effort to throw themselves at an unsuspecting person.

If someone is so emotionally crippled that they cannot set foot outside the house without a Chihuahua in a purse, then maybe they should look into some medication. Or therapy. Or move to Europe where it's acceptable to bring your mutt into a restaurant provided you don't allow said mutt to urinate on the buffet.

My dog isn't allowed to hang out at the table when I'm eating so why they hell would I want someone else's mutt drooling over at the next table while I'm out enjoying a meal?

Some people have the opinion that animals are so much better than people so those of us who don't like them out and about should just get over it and learn to "share the planet with other creatures." I agree with these people. Animals are so much better than humans. Sometimes I think the whole planet would be better off without the human race, me included. So let's start with these overzealous animal lovers who feel the need to inflict their fur babies and their poop on everyone else. Eradicate them from the Earth, because hey, animals are better than people anyway. I bet their pets would be happier.

I really don't dislike animals. I dislike most people who own animals. And yes, I am well aware that I own animals. And I don't dislike all pet owners. There are some very good, responsible pet owners out there, and I appreciate their efforts.

So in the words of Carrie Bradshaw, "You seem to have a lot of opinions today."

Yes, I do. But I've had it. I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. If people cannot be bothered to pick up their dogs' shit, then they have no business owning a dog. If you don't like the idea of cleaning up waste, then don't get something that generates it. If I don't think I'm too good to clean up my pets' poop, then you aren't too good either.

Poop is a part of life. Deal with it, and clean up after your pets.

After all you wouldn't let your kid go squat in someone's yard, would you? And if you did, I could have you arrested.

I think I've earned some wine and chocolate these last couple of weeks.

Waterworld

Boy, I tell you. It is always something with cats.

In the last couple of months Willow decided that the water bowl is her personal plaything. I'd fill it up in the mornings, and she would respond by sitting by it, pawing in the water until the bowl was mostly emptied all over the floor. I kept the bowl on the tile floor downstairs, but still.

A huge lake of water on the way to the couch was not a good situation. I skidded through puddles several times and nearly killed myself.

To say nothing of the fact that the other cats never got a chance to take a drink. The bowl was usually empty by the time they got to it, unless they wised up and ran down there to drink first. Percy usually got to it first, but after him, Willow would take over.

She didn't just paw and aerate the water. She would swipe her paw through the water with such force that it would arc out of the bowl and splash across the floor. And she would sit there and watch it, so I know she knew exactly what she was doing.

She eventually lost interest in her own bowl and started seeking out Tess' water bowl upstairs as it is bigger and metal, and I don't know, maybe she liked to look at her reflection while she was soaking my carpet.

Two instances of a completely soaked carpet prompted me to either keep Tess' bowl outside, or on top of the dresser. I'd put it down periodically in the evenings so Tess could drink.

Willow managed to get up on the dresser, despite the obstacles I set up to block the bowl and still ended up drenching the books sitting on my dresser.

Boy, was I mad.

And also, she's not allowed up there in the first place. The placement of a water bowl does not change the rules just because she is so damn spoiled that she thinks a water bowl means she can play in it, no matter what.

After I managed to keep Tess' bowl completely out of range, she went back to the smaller bowl. Day after day of wet tile was starting to get on my nerves. Then she started doing it at night too. As soon as I went to bed. I'd turn out the light, close my eyes, and like clockwork, I'd hear bloop, bloop, bloop! SPLASH!

She earned her nights in her kennel after that.

Needless to say I was getting super frustrated. I started supervising the water drinking, and removing the bowls when I wasn't home. Or if I didn't feel like watching the bowls, I'd stuff Willow in her cage. It wasn't a good situation. The cats couldn't drink whenever they wanted, and really, I couldn't just keep Willow in her cage indefinitely. Plus, making sure everyone got enough water was a full time job.

Who's codependent, me or the cats?

So finally I went online, looking for a solution. I typed into my friend Google, "How to stop cat from playing in the water bowl."

There were a ton of sites addressing this apparently very common issue.

Sheesh, if there is an issue out there, one of my cats has it or will develop it. As soon as I solve one issue, they develop another stupid habit.

Every site suggested purchasing a kitty water fountain, and one site went so far as to tell me that if I'm not currently using a fountain, I'm severely endangering my cats' health because only a fountain can ensure they ingest enough water. Cats like their water fresh, aerated, and moving, and how dare I still use a bowl which infringes on their ability to drink properly?

Well, I was really more concerned with the fact that I really don't have the time to sit around monitoring water drinking, and if I don't monitor it, Willow will empty the entire bowl on the floor and everyone will go thirsty anyway.

So I took a chance and went out to purchase a fountain. It's really cute. It's a little bucket with a water pump attached to the bottom that pushes the water up through a filter and a plastic daisy to form four streams of water, and a pool bubbling out the middle. It wasn't overly expensive, and I didn't want one of those fountains that cascades into a bowl. I think that would just exacerbate the issue. Then not only would Willow have moving water to flick around, she would still have a pool that she could swish her paw through, splattering water to the other side of the room. Plus there would be twice as much water, and she could do it all day long before the stupid thing would finally be empty.

I shuddered at the thought of that mess.

I brought the fountain home, assembled it, plugged it in, and stood back to gauge everyone's reaction.

Percy was immediately in love. He marched right over and began to suck down water like he hadn't seen any in a week. Which he probably hadn't. That poor cat drinks a gallon of water a day. People ask me if he's diabetic, but he's not. He drinks a gallon, pees a gallon, and then starts all over again. And with the recent issue of not having water constantly available to him, thanks to Willow, he probably wasn't getting enough.

So Percy was thrilled.

Willow, on the other hand, was terrified of the thing. Go figure. She wouldn't go near it. And Puckett was just too fat and lazy to haul her ass up to the kitchen where I had the fountain plugged in, so I still had to leave a water bowl out for the girls over the weekend. I figured it was fine, as I was home all weekend and could watch.

Willow doused the floor twice in the two seconds my back was turned, and I decided, "You know what? You can either get used to the fountain, or die of dehydration." It's not like she's drinking the water out of the bowl anyway. She just wants to make a mess.

I removed the bowl and ignored the irritated looks I got from both Puckett and Willow. Puckett eventually gave the cat equivalent of a shrug and gave the fountain a try. She seemed to be fine with it and went on with her life. It took Willow a day longer to finally resign herself to the fact that she is now going to have to live without a water bowl and drink from a fresh stream of aerated water.

The horror.

You'd think I was asking her to actually get in the fountain and take a bath. The drama involved when anything tiny changes around these cats. It's like the world has ended and things will never be the same.

When I last left them, all three had happily partaken in the water of the fountain and seemed quite content with it. Plus, no one has to take turns anymore. They can all drink at the same time. So I'm hoping this will solve the latest issue.

Until Willow comes up with something else stupid.

And don't worry, she will.

Why are We Depressed?

I've been reading the book, “Lost Connections: Uncovering the Real Causes of Depression – And the Unexpected Solutions” by Johann Hari. Hari is actually a world renowned journalist, not a mental health professional, and because of this he got a few bad reviews on Amazon, reviews that stated since he was only a journalist, he is ill qualified to make any assessments or conclusions in the field of mental health.

The funny thing is, if one actually reads his book, one realizes that he's not so much making assessments or conclusions as he is doing what journalists do best: trying to find answers. And because he is a journalist, he goes all in, traveling around the world, interviewing doctors and experts alike, asking the deep questions nobody really wants to ask, and researching.

He never once claims to be any kind of expert – and yet cites many of those experts and doctors in a well-researched, logical book that, when one really thinks about it, makes a lot of sense and is almost painful in its simplicity. He has thirty-six pages of notes and citations, and a full index backing up and supporting the research in his book.

I can't understand why anyone would give this book one or two stars in a review except maybe someone who is still in denial. Although one one-starred review was given strictly because the reviewer claimed Hari as an atheist, and there is no way one can not be depressed if they don't have spirituality and religion in their lives.

I discount reviews like this. They have nothing to do with the subject matter of the book, and they just make the reviewer look silly.

I have long been a skeptic of modern medicine and doctors, and no, I am not anti-vaxxer. I'm not against antibiotics or doctors or hospitals. If I break my leg, you bet your boots I'm going to call an ambulance and have my ass hauled to the emergency room to get it set, and yes, to get a nice prescription of painkillers.

I just don't believe that doctors know everything, and I don't think the almighty pharmaceutical pill is the answer to all our woes. And anyone who thinks that the pharmaceutical companies actually want to help people feel better are extremely naïve. This is a country of capitalism, and the first goal of any company is to make a profit. If you don't believe me or Hari, just YouTube an antidepressant commercial and set your stopwatch for how long it takes them to list the side effects. No, I believe if you want to feel better and healthier, it is your job to take your health into your own hands and do as much reading and researching you can to figure out what works best for you.

I've struggled with depression and anxiety for several years now, and I am in treatment for it. The one thing I absolutely refuse is to take antidepressants. That's my choice. But I understand why people do take them. As Hari points out in his book, clinical depression is defined as a chemical imbalance in the brain, as if something has gone haywire, one's supply of serotonin has run out, and one is then prescribed an antidepressant to boost serotonin levels and bring the brain back in balance.

Hari actually discusses in Chapter 2 the history of how the, as he calls it, “serotonin story” first began, and it was quite by accident. I guess this made a lot of people angry, because as long as we hang on to the idea that there is something wrong with people's brains when they are depressed, then there is an easy way to fix it (antidepressants) and we don't have to talk about it so much.

Or you just sweep the loonies under the rug with their drugs, and call them cured. I have actually likened antidepressants to a lobotomy in the past, but only in my own situation. I can't even take Midol without going a little crazy, so pharmaceuticals have never really been my bag. As Hari points out in his book, he is not trying to take away antidepressants, or tell people they can't take them. If something is helping someone, by all means, they should continue its use.

What he is saying is, what if there is more to the story than just serotonin levels? What if instead of just putting a pill shaped bandaid on a person's mental health, we dig deeper and try to discover what is really going on here?

And this is what I think is so painfully simple. It really isn't that far of a stretch to believe that someone is severely depressed after they discover their spouse of twenty years is cheating on them. Or after the death of a child. Or because of some repressed trauma from childhood. Or being fired from a job they were working for fifteen years and then suddenly, pink slip. Or even some physical illness or pain that won't go away. These people are given an allotted time to grieve, and then told to get over it and move on with their lives, as if there is some kind set-in-stone time period for grieving.

I started getting depressed about the fact that for almost a year I had constant stomach issues and no doctor was able to tell me why, and then all they did was prescribe Nexium and tell me I had acid reflux. When every single thing you put in your mouth is a perpetual minefield, that starts to weigh on your mood. It's of course not the only thing that was causing my depression, but it was a good bit of it. So I got Nexium for my stomach and Prozac for my depression, and no one, except my naturopath practitioner thought to ask, hmmmm, are these two things connected and what can we do about it?

It's ridiculous to me that more people don't wrap their heads around the fact that our bodies work as a unit. We so often treat symptoms. Stomach ache? Here's some Pepto. Allergies? Here's some Allegra. Depression? Let me get the Prozac. But is it really so hard to believe that an issue with one body part might have something to do with another body part not working right? Dr William Davis of Wheat Belly and Undoctored fame says that all health begins in the gut. When the stomach ain't happy the rest of the body is miserable. But of course people don't want to adhere to that when it means that most of what we love to eat is the number one problem. Me included. I have to give up wine? And chocolate? And horror upon horrors, CHEESE? Well, shit.

Hari outlines nine causes for depression and anxiety in his book, at least the nine he feels he has uncovered so far. There are probably many more, he writes, but these are the nine he focuses on.

Cause One: Disconnection from Meaningful Work

• Basically, we are trapped in a rat race of the most mundane, ridiculously boring work that takes up twelve hours of each day, and pays us shit. And what's more, companies don't care about their workers, won't give them decent health insurance or care, and can fire them on a whim (my state particularly is a right to work state). There is more to this story, but that about sums it up.

Cause Two: Disconnection from Other People

• People are lonely. They can't figure out how to connect with each other anymore so they withdraw into that twelve hour work day that treats them like garbage, the Internet, or overindulging in substances or food. There was an interesting anecdote Hari added about gaming addicts, and how some people are so starved for some kind of connection they get hooked on online games just to have someone to talk to. I have actually seen this happen to a couple people in my life.

Cause Three: Disconnection from Meaningful Values

• We are obsessed and addicted to stuff, and acquiring more and more stuff. Materialism has taken over. Every three years people buy new cars. They try to keep up with the Joneses. I'm guilty of it too. I've become obsessed with collecting tea sets. One really only needs one teapot when you think about it, but I just love them, so I have four.

Cause Four: Disconnection from Childhood Trauma

• People who have suffered horrible things in childhood tend to be more depressed and anxious into adulthood. This is not to say that everyone who suffered childhood trauma is depressed, or everyone who is depressed has suffered childhood trauma. It's just another big factor.

Cause Five: Disconnection from Status and Respect

• There is a reason why Facebook exists. It gives people the opportunity to post about themselves, screaming "look at me, look at me!" Hari discusses an interesting anecdote about baboons and the relationship between stress and status in baboon tribes. The omega baboon is infinitely more depressed than the alpha, unless it's "Fight for position in the tribe" time. And then the alphas are more stressed, trying to protect their status. Now we are not baboons, though we are related to them genetically (although, come to my job with me for a day, and tell me we are not baboons).

Cause Six: Disconnection from the Natural World

• We crave nature even if we think we "don't do nature." I actually took that from Hari, who readily admits that he "doesn't do nature." And I laughed out loud. How do you not do nature? It's everywhere. A thirty minute walk outside with my dog peps me up more than anything else sometimes. I've started gardening every summer, because just being outside in the dirt is therapeutic. I don't have much a green thumb, but I still try. And waking up every morning to see the mountains in the near distance has still been one of my favorite things in the world.

Cause Seven: Disconnection from a Hopeful or Secure Future

• Depressed people can't see the forest for the trees (to use an overused cliche), and I've been right there with the rest of them. It's almost impossible to look into the future and see anything good when one is at the bottom of a well of despair. 

Cause Eight and Nine: The Real Role of Genes and Brain Changes

• This one I really found interesting. It's almost a chicken or the egg question. Are depression and anxiety caused by a changed brain, or do depression and anxiety change the brain? And as it turns out, according to one neuroscientist, the brain is always changing. And of course experiences over the years, and life in general is going to change someone's brain. The brain looks different from when someone is severely depressed as when that person is no longer depressed.

What it comes down to is that it's easier to “fix” a problem by doing nothing other than swallowing a pill. To believe that a problem stems from a chemical imbalance and all one has to do is take a pill and “fix” it, like an antibiotic, is intoxicating. One doesn't have to face issues. One doesn't have to change one's lifestyle (buy less, eat healthier, exercise, actually get outside and enjoy that tree). And the big one, society doesn't have to face the fact that in actuality it is sick and needs to change. One quote from the book stood out to me: "In a world that thinks there's no such thing as society, the idea that our depression and anxiety have social causes will seem incomprehensible" (pg. 258). And then, "But it turns out we are all still living in a society, even if we pretend we aren't. The longing for connection never really goes away" (pg. 258).

And maybe that's why Hari got one star reviews on his book. Demanding that society change is always a risky business.

And yet, having just looked at Amazon, the book is temporarily out of stock and listed as a bestseller.

I'm Tired

I've been channeling a lot of Designing Women lately.

That could be because a lot of their episodes just resonated with how women think, feel, and act. Even thirty years later (since Designing Women aired in the eighties) the conversations they had and the issues they dealt with are still relevant.

One episode in particular sticks out to me this week when Mary Jo sat on the couch looking a bit dejected and said, "Boy, I tell you Julia, I am tired. Tired of going to the grocery store. Tired of standing in the checkout line. Tired of doing the laundry. As a matter of fact I pulled this shirt out of the dirty clothes hamper this morning and pressed it."

Julia: "Mary Jo, I can't believe you did that!"

Mary Jo: "Oh, come on, Julia. You live in another world. Everyone has done that at least once in their lives except you, and maybe Queen Elizabeth. I'll tell you something else, I'm tired of shaving my legs. I'm not dating anyone. So what's the point? It's not like the kids care. They don't say, 'Gee, Mom, your legs are so smoooooooth.'"

Boy, I know how that feels. I'm tired of going to the grocery store. I'm tired of doing the laundry, especially since I know any day now, that wash machine and dryer are going to go completely kaput and I'm going to have to replace them.

I am definitely tired of shaving my legs. To say nothing of other areas. And I'm not dating anyone anymore, so what is the point?

And honestly? The thought of starting to date again, or "Get back on that horse" as people who are happily coupled up like to tell losers like me who can't seem to keep an engagement together, just exhausts me even more. It's like one more thing to do on the errand list:

Go to the grocery store
Do the laundry
Vacuum
Dust
Pick up dog poop
Clean that infernal closet
Clean cat boxes
Clean cat boxes again
Clean cat boxes a third time
Date in order to find new relationship

And the thought of all that just makes me want to go back to bed. That just means I'll be back to reading Evan Marc Katz's blog, reading articles on how to understand men and what they want in a relationship, and how to avoid red flags.

Those articles themselves are exhausting. For example, click on this one and learn all about why men pull away and how to deal with it. By the time I finished reading the article I had lost interest in the man in question, and I wasn't even dating him. Honey, if it's this much work to keep you interested, then I'm no longer interested. There is a nap I could be taking instead.

Which brings me to my next question: Where are the articles for men, Why Women Pull Away and How to Deal With It? Where is the book, The Men Who Love Too Much? Where is Evana Mary Katz and her blog for men on how to understand women?

Exactly, because men don't read stuff like that. Because men don't care about how to attract women (unless it's to attract lots of women in order to have sex with them and up their numbers) or how to keep women interested or how to understand women. That's because in this world, there is always another woman out there for these men, and if one doesn't work out they happily move on to the next one.

And on that note, there is a reason I don't Google my favorite celebrities or read about their personal lives, and the reason is this:  Most of them are pigs. I broke my own rule the other day out of blatant curiosity when I scored tickets to a Bryan Adams concert in June. I have loved Bryan Adams since I was thirteen, since before Viggo Mortenson but still after Luke Skywalker. My favorite album that I wore out listening to was Waking Up the Neighbors. I joined his fan club and was a member for about six years. So I learned all kinds of fun facts about him like he's Canadian and lives in Vancouver, he loves animals and advocates for whales and is vegan, and he has a soft spot for women and advocates for breast cancer research.

He also really loves women.

The man slept his way through the Victoria's Secret lineup in the 90's. I stopped reading about him when I dropped out of the fan club and decided to leave him on the stage. Then he stopped singing and performing for a while when he decided to do photography, and I kind of forgot about him (especially when I discovered Viggo Mortenson).

One day a few years ago, Bryan Adams was blessed with a daughter. I thought well, how cool is that, and went on with my life. Then the other day, after scoring tickets to this concert because seeing Bryan Adams perform live is on my bucket list, I made the mistake of Googling him and discovered that he was with his long time girlfriend when he slipped up and impregnated his personal assistant with said daughter, and then refused to admit to it for the longest time. Girlfriend #1 cut and run, and he tried to reconcile with her but she was having none of it. He finally ended up settling down with personal assistant and mother of his child, and had another child with her.

But I bet he's still seeing models on the side.

Creep.

This will not stop me from going to see him live and enjoying his music, but that fun dream I had about him a few months ago where we got married and everyone in town turned out for the wedding, well, that remains a dream. I don't want to marry him. The man is a pig. Any woman who willingly goes for him is doing it for star power, bragging rights to "I slept with Bryan Adams," or the money. After all, he owns three or four houses in various foreign countries and his net worth is more than I will see in three lifetimes (see how much you can learn on Google?). I'm not saying there is anything wrong with this, but if you are going to get involved with Bryan, just make sure you are aware that he is a pig and will probably eventually cheat on you.

Kind of like the Drug Dealing Felon, but that's another story.

Talk about a pig.

The thing is, if someone wants to be unfaithful or realizes that they can't be monogamous, that's fine. Just be up front about it. Just tell prospective dates, "You know, I really like you, we have a lot of fun, but I have to be honest. I am not the monogamous type, and I  just can't be faithful." Then that person is free to make a decision based on the information presented. Then if that person gets upset at infidelity, they only have themselves to blame. Quite possibly going into a relationship with Bryan Adams, knowing this information, maybe I could have a whole ton of fun with him for three months or so, before releasing him back to the wild to find a new plaything. But at least then, I would have all the information, I could make a decision accordingly, and I could guard my heart accordingly.

But people want their cake and eat it too, and I'm already exhausted just thinking about a relationship with Bryan. I will never have one with him, thank God. I already know without the shadow of a doubt that I would not be able to handle it. He would be like one more pet to clean up after. I'd have one dog, three cats, and a Bryan, all of whom make nothing but messes for me to clean up. Instead of going home to clean litter boxes and scoop poop from the backyard, I would also be chasing after my man's many infidelities, trying to keep him from completely humiliating me and populating the world through five other sister wives.

Of course we are talking about celebrities. Most normal civilian men are probably not quite as much work as this, though they probably still require infinitely more care than my animals. And my animals are higher maintenance than most.

I mean, the Drug Dealing Felon was super high maintenance, and he wasn't nearly as cute as Bryan Adams.

And frankly, I just don't have the energy anymore. I'm not just being down on men. I wouldn't wish myself on any of those poor bastards either. If they are too much work, I can only imagine how much work me with my baggage of crazy pets and mental illnesses can generate. I exhaust myself.

It's all I can do just to get through the day sometimes, just going to work, then coming home and cleaning everything. Then there is still dinner to cook, laundry to do, novels and short stories to work on.

So I tell you, like Mary Jo, I'm tired. My energy is dwindling.

And apparently, according to Bryan Adams who is 58 and has tons of energy (loosely quoted from some dumbass interview I read after Googling him), going vegan is the best decision you can do for you health and body.

So if I go vegan I will be more energized to do the grocery shopping and the laundry and stop being so tired of my life all the time?

Maybe, but I'm still not going to want to marry someone like Bryan Adams.

Seriously, Bryan, what is going on with your hair?

But, still a cutie.