Get a Dog (19 of 40)

Welp, if you have been in my life for the past couple months or following me at all on social media, you likely already know how this turned out, but in any event, here’s the recap. Sometime last November I got a wild idea in my head to give into the kids’ requests to get a dog. I remember the moment we told my parents over Facetime. They didn’t say it but the looks on their faces were something along the lines of raised-eyebrows-and-biting-our-tongues-because-our-adult-children-are-responsible-for-their-own-mistakes.

I knew what they were thinking. I was thinking it too. With everything that is on my plate, adding a puppy is a terrible idea…one I justified with an entitled pleading into the ether: “Aren’t I allowed at least one reckless and caution-thrown-to-the-wind moment in my life where everything doesn’t turn to absolute fuckery?!”

Spoiler alert. The answer thus far remains “No.”

So, after forking out a small fortune followed by weeks of preparation, a sweet four month old tri-colored 24-pound bundle of Bernedoodle cuteness was delivered to our door. And we were in love.

As has been a habit with all the pets I have acquired, he did not come alone. Turns out when you rescue month-old feral kittens from a bush, you get “accessory” pets as an added bonus. The weeks spent ridding the cats and apartment of fleas and mites were really…special.

And who could forget the time we discovered that one of our guinea pigs had what appeared to be a third butt cheek growing from his hindquarters?! In actuality, it was a particularly disgusting sebaceous cyst which has now morphed into a harden mix of crust and cheesiness. I like to refer to this as his “extra guinea,” a phrase that never ceases to elicit a good chuckle from me but always seems to offend Cash’s delicate sensibility. He recently told Ava and I that we are permitted to use the term…but only “behind his back.”

I digress…

Nocchi’s extra helping came way of a belly full of parasites. What should have been a quick 5-day-remedy, stretched on for months. Each time we thought it was under control, it would crop back up. Finally, the vet threw up her hands in defeat and sent us to a specialist. 700 bucks later and we were told to bathe the now 50-pound pup and sanitize the living area and all his toys daily for two weeks in the hope of ridding these ass-trespassers for good.

And I tried. I really, really tried. But between the full-time job, the solo management of a household, the responsibilities of single-parenthood, the injured back, the constant need to run off his excess energy, and the up-all-night-because-the-dog-has-diarrhea, I was spent.

To top it all, there was a final kick-in-the-teeth incident involving three hours of fecal decontamination. I’ll spare the details of here, but mostly because I’ve already told just about anyone who would listen of the horror that befell me. I had to resolve that even if relief was just around the next corner, I was not going to make it there, no matter how hard I wanted to.

The realization of this limitation was oddly familiar. It was a sentiment felt at the end of my marriage. There are times in life when a person just breaks.

It goes without saying that the ending of any relationship has responsibility on both sides. I can only answer for myself and as the years have gone on, I have only been able to see my contributions more distinctly. 

My limiting belief systems. 

My insecurities. 

My resentments. 

My difficulties communicating.

But no matter the reasons that brought us to a place of separation, the stark fact remained: I was no longer able to take a single step forward in the direction we were heading. I had broken. No amount of blaming, wishing things were different, or being told the devil was in my head (true story) was going to change that.

When I shared this similarity with my sister she said, “Maybe next time you can stop and reassess somewhere before you get broken.” Sounds like a good goal. She’s pretty effin’ smart.

So, even though things didn’t work out the way any of us had planned with Nocchi, he is happy as a clam with a sweet couple and a furr-brother and I am back to successfully managing the rest of the moving parts of our lives…for the most part.

And anyway, we still have a fair amount of pets to keep us busy. Check ‘em out below:

The Cats:

Rosieanna (aka Rosie, Rose, Wose, Rosie Girl, Princess, Wittle Wittle One)

She is pure perfection. She is tiny and soft and has the highest little mew that reflects just how dainty and ladylike she is…until she sinks her claws into your foot while you’re sleeping just to watch you bleed. Technically she’s Ava’s cat but she sleeps with Cash every night.

Moo (aka MewMew, King Moo, Moo Goo Gai Pan, Jelly Moo, Moo Puppy)

He is the, um, bigger-boned of the two. He always greets me at the door, and only tries to escape most of the time. He lost three of his nine lives in the first year: once by falling off the second story balcony and ping-ponging his way down a tree, once by jumping four-pawed onto hot electric griddle, and once by literally catching himself on fire. He is technically Cash’s cat, but he prefers Ava and her rough-rassle style over all of us (which, if you know Ava, means everything to her).

The Guineas (known collectively as The Fat Boys)

Henry (aka Henraloo, Henrals)

Not much to say. He’s cool. He eats veggies and bites us if we hold him longer than a few minutes.

Bread (aka Breadlesby, Señor Breadlesby, if you’re nasty)

He is the proud owner of the aforementioned third butt. I tell Cash there’s just more of him to love…and then Ava and I laugh about the "extra guinea" just out of ear shot.