dogs

“Tread lightly and do no harm. Approach the problem from a passive direction and everything will simply come together.”-Skunk

“Oh, F*uck, Ruby!!!”

Our boxer-pup Ruby has been skunked three times in past nine months, the last time being Saturday night. I know what you’re thinking: What a glamourous life you lead!

Everything we own has the lingering aroma of skunk woven into its cellular structure. I say aroma instead of odor because the inhabitants of my home react to it like it’s a new scented spray from GLADE, or a particularly cloying potpourri because well—we’ve all gone nose-blind.

We don’t smell the residual skunk in our shower, on our blankets, or in our clothing until we leave the house and come back.
And you know what? I have to say, it’s really not that bad!

Human beings are mysterious creatures. We are so incredibly adaptable and as if to prove that fact my entire family has adapted to the stench.

The first time, it caused my eyes to water profusely and I drooled like a cartoon wolf eyeing a pork chop.

The second time I gagged. Loudly.

This time the smell barely made me flinch.

Even the little brown dog seemed unfazed and her sense of smell is ten hundred billion times more sensitive than mine.

Here’s the thing, if you visit me three times…you’re a totem. I don’t care what you are. Grasshopper. Praying mantis. A Girl Scout selling Thin Mints. And since I am not one to miss an opportunity to ask “why?” I looked up “skunk totem.”

“If Skunk is your Animal Totem;
You are the ultimate pacifist, always preferring to avoid conflict and turmoil. You walk a very fine line between being a people “pleaser” and balancing your own self-respect and always maintain a “do no harm” attitude. You know how to be assertive without ego. You know how to attract others and are very charismatic. You have a good understanding of energy and how to use energy flows to get what you want.”

This makes no sense. It fits absolutely NO ONE in my house! Not one word of it. The three of us bicker like an angry pack of honey badgers. Ego is our middle name, and if charisma smells like skunk, well then okay. Otherwise…

My husband insists that this only goes to show that sometimes a “cigar is just a cigar, Janet—and a skunk is just a nuisance.” This all makes me mad because it proves that he is right yet again. 

And so…this bleeding heart has agreed to catch and release—the trap has been set and the skunk-scented potpourri is about to leave the building.

Geesh.

Happy Humpday y’all!

Carry on,
xox Janet

So…It’s that special time between holidays where my guard goes down, my cold, stone heart turns all soft and mushy, and I throw the entire world a ton of slack…because I’m jolly as fuck!

That being said, I still can’t find it in myself to feel sorry for the poor corporations and the super rich who I’m being told every minute of the day need our help because their tax rate is too high.

Listen, dickless, get your hands out of my wallet and off of children’s healthcare!

Besides, we all know your wealth won’t trickle down. In all the years they’ve tried to convince us it will—it never has. I may be jolly but what do you take me for, a fool?

I’m also not buying the case for doing away with net neutrality. Everybody wants cheap, fast, and impartial internet access. Period. The end. Full stop.

Dear Ajit Pai and the FCC, if you know what’s good for you—you won’t fuck with our internet!

And what’s with all the lying? It isn’t just pervasive, it’s epidemic and it insults my intelligence!

“We never talked to any Russians!”
Oh, mah, gawd! Yes, yes you guys did. A bunch of you. A gaggle. A gang. A coven of suits, you all talked to the Russians.
A lot. Like, all the time!
Then you lied to cover it up, like we all do when we’re just having legal conversations about nothing with lovely folks who aren’t criminals.

I heard a story recently that reminded me of Paul Manafort and (Don Jr.? Flynn? Pence? — fill in the blank) about two dumb-shits who killed a third dumb-shit (this is just an educated guess because of his proximity and relationship to the other two). They hit him in the head repeatedly with a hammer and then tied a cinder block to his legs and threw his corpse into a body of water.

Of course they didn’t do any of that right because his body came up to the surface within an hour—with a head full of hammer marks—and while the police were scouring the area looking for the perpetrators, our hero’s got pulled over for a traffic violation that produced a bloody hammer and a couple of matching cinder blocks — IN THE TRUNK OF THE CAR.

And even though their finger prints and his blood was EVERYWHERE — they denied any wrong doing.
There’s nuthin’ to see here!
They were indignantly innocent because they said they were.

Sound familiar?

My dog thought so.

Here’s a case for trickle down lying.

Last night, for the first time in the four years she’s been alive, our little brown dog jumped up onto the kitchen counter and ate half a pot roast.

Judging from the suspicious look on her face, the drooling, and the licking of her chops as she left the room we were in on her way to the kitchen, I suspected as much. But my husband, his faith in her good behavior stubbornly intact, gave her the benefit of the doubt until she failed to come after repeatedly being called.

Ruby! Ruby? Ruby…where are you?

He got up to check on the roast at the exact same moment she left the kitchen. They even passed each other in the living room. The fact that she could not maintain eye contact, had her tail between her legs, and was virtually commando crawling past him was the clincher for me. It was her “bloody hammer in the trunk” moment as far as I was concerned.

“Motherf*#@$ dog!” He yelled, bounding back into the den and grabbing her sorry ass in a headlock all the while dragging her back to the scene of the crime amid a firestorm of obscenities.

“You bad dog!” he hissed. “You ate half a damn roast!”

Really? Did you see me eat it? I heard her say as she was forcibly dragged from my sight.

She obviously watches too much cable news and has come to believe this new truth we’ve been subjected to, that lying about and denying something—means it didn’t happen.

The beef was gone. She was the only other person in the house —and her breath smelled of…you guessed it—roast beef. Yet, she continued to deny it and her remorse in the end was tepid at best.

A lot of things could have happened to that roast. And besides, hypothetically speaking of course, it isn’t against the law if I were the one to have eaten it. Everyone knows that eating meat in this house is NOT a criminal offense!

She barked all of that from her bed, which is located in the lower back-forty of our home (fifty feet away) where she was banished for the rest of the night.

I felt bad. Bad that I had such a roast-eating-lying-liar of a dog and even worse that I knew I’d probably choke to death in my sleep from the horrendous beef farts brought on by her impending meat sweats.

So there you have it. That special time of year. When the government tries to take away all of your deductions, the wait time for online catalogue customer service is measured in hours not minutes, and some asshat comes up with definitive proof that raw cookie dough can kill ya.

I call bullshit on December—and while I’m at it, pretty much all of 2017.

Carry on,
xox

This morning I saw a dog taking an Uber.

It was in the passenger seat barking orders (oh, yes I did) at the harried, middle-aged, female driver. I know this because I was across from them in the opposing traffic on Coldwater Canyon for an inordinate amount of time.

He, (the dog) being a schnauzer mix, resembled a hipster millennial with a scraggly beard and man bun.
I decided to name him Drake.
And because Drake was either chewing or barking, he appeared to this anthropomorphically obsessed woman (me) to be talking.

Rather, make that yelling.

Drake was back-seat driving from the front passenger seat (is there anything worse?) blah, blah, blahing directions to the dog park on Mulholland.

I’m sure of it. I have dogs. I know what dictatorial, unforgiving, assholes they can be.

He looked self-righteous and entitled (like most dogs I know) yelling at the poor woman to get a move on! Drake was having none of the morning traffic on his commute to socialize with his kind. Having overslept, he’d skipped his coffee, making him surly and short-tempered.

If I were his driver I would have told him to either stop his yelling—or to get the fuck outta my car!

I would have told him that I know better than Waze and that no matter which lane you use, the canyon at that hour is a brutal shit-show.

Then I would have made a crack about the day old biscuit crumbs in his beard and his breath that could curdle milk.

I felt sorry for the poor woman who had her head turned toward me, away from his yapping, staring longingly out the window, just waiting for this hell to end, knowing full well that Drake would skip the tip.

As we finally passed each other I made the sign-of-the-cross and prayed a little prayer that when Drake got to the dog park a German Shepard trained by Mossad would beat the snot out of him.

That not-so-loving thought bit me in the ass only moments later when a stranger’s Frenchie craned it’s neck under the stall at Tree People and watched me pee with an expression that was just pervy enough to make me miss Drake.

So…how was your morning?

Carry on,
xox

I know this looks like a waste of perfectly good food, but someone had to drown—and better the brownies, than me.

Let me explain.

This was a long three-day weekend and seeing that my husband went on his annual Memorial Day motorcycle ride through the Sierras, I was left to my own devices—along with my bitchy malcontent of a dog whose every thought causes her to whine miserably.

She is the furry, four-legged embodiment of that friend we’ve all stopped seeing. The one who drove us nuts with her complaining. My dog suffers from the same affliction. She whines when I walk her because she finds the scenery uninteresting. She whines when she’s hungry (which she may have learned from me), and she whines when I feed her because I’m not moving fast enough. She whines when she’s in the back of the car and when she’s not—on the way to and from doggie daycare—and while falling asleep.

I can only assume that must be because her bed is too soft, the blankets smell too fresh, and yet her dreams are not exactly what she had hoped. Gahhhhh…

Anyway, I tell you this so that you can understand why I was sucking down the whiskey sours with my girlfriends all weekend. I was so grateful to have someone to talk to who wasn’t complaining about my shortcomings as a mother.

During the days I worked in the garden, wrote a little, took turns reading the three books I’m in the middle of, and by Monday night I forbid myself to make a whiskey sour on account of the fact that I would be drinking hard liquor alone.

I wish that bitch of a dog of mine drank—it could improve her disposition.

Since alcohol was out of the question, 6 pm found me rummaging through the pantry looking for something sweet. That’s when I discovered the box of brownie mix left over from the holidays. Maybe not the 2016 holidays, but I can safely say it was bought this decade. Right then I could hear my sister screaming at me, “Throw it away! That shit goes bad!”

She and I have agreed to disagree on this topic.

Processed food, in my opinion, will outlive us all.

Post-apocalyptic cockroaches, zombies, and astronauts from the future would be thrilled to stumble upon my brownie mix, so I figure if it’s good enough for them—it’s good enough for moi.

And just like that, I found myself pre-heating the oven, cracking the eggs, and adding the melted butter to the powdered chocolatey mix. I waited for that familiar tap on the shoulder from the part of my brain that rules common sense and good judgment. It needed to remind me of a thing called moderation and the fact that while I was home alone a batch of hot brownies was not only a terrible idea—it was about to be like crack to an addict.

I could feel the shaky anticipation as the house started to smell like Christmas. I savored every drop of raw batter as I licked the beaters. (My sister just hurled reading that.)

Only two things trigger me this way, brownies, and pie. I felt like I imagine a junky feels waiting for a fix.

I waited a whole five minutes for them to cool off before slicing them into neat little squares. Because my old O’Keefe and Merrit has a mind of its own, they were crisp on the edges and seemed a little dry but I didn’t care. I ate three in quick succession standing at the counter without taking a breath, while my dog whined about a long-lost morsel of kibble she had spotted under the stove.

I finally forced myself to walk away—but I could hear them over the constant whining; calling me from the kitchen. Brownies are cruel that way. “Janet, (they know your name), we’re here. Just a few feet away. Happiness disguised as chocolate gooeyness.” 

And so the battle began. The douchebag brownie’s siren song versus my willpower (and the fact that I was full), telling me to forget about them.

But I couldn’t.

I lasted about one hour. That’s when I found myself back in the kitchen, staring into the pan, seriously scoping out the best section to get the maximum chocolate return. The middle pieces, of course!

As I reached for the knife the part of my brain that had forsaken me suddenly kicked in “What the fuck are you doing?” it asked in a decidedly judgy tone, “This has officially turned into a binge. Stop a minute and think. What’s going on with you?”

It barely took an instant before I heard “I’m lonely”, come out of my own mouth.

Before I could process this sudden wave of vulnerability my hand took control. In order to save me from myself, it grabbed the pan and in one giant sweeping motion threw it into the sink, turned the faucet on full force, and drowned the brownies!

I was stunned.

I hate wasting food and chocolate food even more than most. But sometimes extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. Thank God a teeny-tiny part of me knows that.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a perfect person who always saves herself from disaster; far from it.
I am someone who, for the last decade has had a stubborn five (x4) pounds to lose yet I have secretly gorged myself on entire bags of Ranch Doritos, eaten entire half gallons of ice cream at a single sitting, and scarfed a second Thanksgiving dinner an hour after everyone has left while I clean the kitchen.

I’m not a serial binger but I know a binge even when its disguised as real hunger.

These days I’m just really working on being more conscious about everything I do and it sucks. You have to feel stuff. Like loneliness and the fact that after three days of whining you want to throw your dog in a blender.

The feels aren’t pretty and if you stop and acknowledge them they tend to circumvent instant gratification and who wants that? 

But they saved me the shame of an additional five pounds tomorrow so I’m grateful. Not really, but I’m working on it.

Carry on,
xox

 And when she’s not whining I get this: Silent. Judgy. Side-eye.

Let me be clear.
I never wanted kids.

I knew my limitations and the list was long.

As an adult, I had a cat and at times, even that was a stretch.

Then I met my husband and he had a dog. Rather, he was a dog and not in the way you’re thinking (Those days were over.) He explained to me that he was part BMW (motorcycle) and part Boxer. He still is.

Suddenly, I was a mom. A dog mom.

Let me say right here that I approach this job with great commitment.
I pick-up poop (never had to do that with a cat), I load her in my car and take her with me when she’s not attached to her dad’s hip, and I’ve gotten used to finding these little dog hairs (boxers don’t have fur they are covered with the equivalent of eyebrow hair), EVERYWHERE.

My wood floors are scratched to hell, my white kitchen cabinets are perpetually covered with dried eye goobers, and most of the fabric in my home has the stench of dog fart baked right into it.

Let me also be clear about this: I love her. Truly, madly and deeply.

Well, except for this morning.

I hate being woken up by anything other than my own circadian rhythm. That was one of the reasons I sidestepped motherhood. I can’t be bothered by someone else’s needs. I even slept peacefully through the night my husband was suffering from appendicitis because he knew better than to wake me up—he snuck silently into the guest room to whimper pitifully until it was safe to complain.

Hey! I can hear you… Jeez… You guys are judgy AF!

Anyway, this morning was especially brutal because we had been away all weekend partying with friends.


See what I mean.

I needed sleep. Real sleep. Ten hours of sleep uninterrupted by alcohol and hotel sex if ya know what I mean.

Instead, this morning at 6 am while my husband was at the gym, I got skunked. Rather, she got skunked.

For the fourth time in six months.

I blame the skunk. He’s not stupid, he knows a dog lives here. There are “Beware of the Dog” signs posted all over the place to discourage this kind of bad behavior.

Besides, I’m sure he can smell her! But this guy doesn’t give a shit. He’s got his tail in the air like he just don’t care.

And for the fourth fucking time, my dog has been the face-first, one woman, early morning welcoming committee.

Since this debacle has happened more than once, we now keep the ingredients for the anti-skunking right there in the bathroom next to the shower.

1 Large pan of water.
Baking soda
liquid detergent (I use Dawn)
Hydrogen peroxide
Bloody Mary (optional)

I don’t measure any amounts because who can be bothered? I just make a paste and smear it all over the unfortunate victim’s face, rinse and repeat.

By the time her dad got home she was cleaned up but the house had the lingering, now familiar stench of skunk road kill.

“She must be a slow learner”, I said like I imagine a mother does when her kid bites into a lemon every time she hands it one. 

My husband wasn’t having any of it. You’re allowed to fuck up three times in our family while we good-naturedly just look the other way. Need a Silkwood shower first thing in the morning before we’ve had our coffee? No problem.

But four times? Fuck that. Four times—You are called out!

“What are you, a dumbass?” he asked her to her face.

She’s a teenager so she just shrugged and flipped her hair.

Different parenting style is also one of the reasons on that long list. Not that we would have ever had kids. My eggs had turned to capers by the time we met. But still.

So to make her feel better about herself I made her a sign. She likes signs. I told her it said “You is smart, you is kind, you is pretty” and she believed me.

In retrospect, I think I would have made one helluva mom.

Maybe not…

Carry on,
xox

Hi, Guys!
This is a throwback that I forgot about. I was only reminded of it because when I put the word “shit” in the dashboard search behind the scenes it comes up! Ha! Go figure. Many, many posts come up when I put the word “shit” in the search. An embarrassing amount. Maybe too many? Nahhhhhh…
Oh well, I suppose it goes along with the shit on your shoe piece from yesterday. I also remember laughing out loud at that cartoon at the top because I’m a unicorn…or rather I wrote about being a twenty-six-year-old divorced unicorn, sometimes I just scream UNICORN! for no reason, AND I included the words unicorn balls in a piece and one of my besties, Steph, never lets me forget it!
#unicornballs
Anyhow, carry on,
xox

This graphic has nothing to do with anything—it just made me howl with laughter.

The bigger question today was: Heeeeeyyyyy…Why does my car smell like a horrible fart?

It’s not Ruby, the one we blame for all things foul smelling—she’s with her dad.
So…I’m the only one in here and as far as I know I haven’t passed gas.

Why do the bank and the market and the stroll on my way to the beauty supply also smell like ass gas? I wondered.

Thought process of an intelligent woman: Maybe that rotten egg, sulfur smell is a natural gas leak? Yeah, that’s it.
We must have a major gas leak in our neighborhood. That could be dangerous.

Note to self: When I get home I need to call the Gas Company to come out and check that out.

That could be a lifesaver, especially with all of the cooking and candle lighting going on the next few days. Nobody wants their face blown off while lighting a candle.

What actually happened: I promptly forgot.
I had other things on my mind.
It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was busy!

Someone else has probably called by now, I figured. It is going to have to be up to another Good Samaritan to save our lives.

Silent prayer just before lighting a candle: Dear God, I hope it’s not my face that gets blown off. Thank you. I mean, Amen.

I was reminded that I forgot, (See how that works?) by the smell of dog fart inside my own home!
The same one I had spent all day Hazeling. The one that was minus one poopy puppy.

Sourly odoriferous. That’s the smell!

I went inside and washed out my nostrils. I did! It was like that dog-farty sour smell was somehow stuck up inside my nose, tainting my entire day.

I lit incense. Nothing helped (but at least I didn’t blow up.)
It just hung over the stench for a while. A delightfully nauseating Nag-Champa-Poop blend.

Turns out I had dog poop on the bottom of my shoe and it had accompanied me all day long, everywhere I went.

Has that ever happened to you?

See where I’m going with this?
I’m not even going to say it because you guys are so smart you already know that I’m going to say that the poop on my shoe was exactly like a metaphor for a bad mood. Anger or even sadness.

We take that you take that shit wherever we go.

Damn, you guys are good!

Carry on,
xox

I’m visiting friends in Santa Cruz this week while my hubby races cars.

I know. Don’t cry for him Argentina. (Or as my friend’s seven-year-old daughter used to sing at the top of her lungs, “Don’t cry for me Art and Tina!” So, Art, Tina, don’t cry for him. He’s got a great life.)

And calling all potential burglars, you can help yourself to the leftovers in the fridge because besides those, there is nothing of any interest or great value left in the house.

All that being said, it was extremely windy here last night.
Like, up-end trees and decapitate wind chimes windy, which unnerved the boxer-shark. She doesn’t care much for any of the chaos brought on by this fast-moving air thing.

Occasionally it sounded like a freight train and at one point a door slammed loudly nearby, causing us both to jump out of our fur. Being that she was completely incapable of relaxing into it, every gust woke us up. I was an idiot for trying to sleep while wearing a dog as a hat because as everybody knows— misery loves company and dogs over fifty pounds, even on their best day, make terrible fashion accessories and bed companions.

Being that I was wide awake, I got to thinking…I am cursed with the four-legged version of the neurotic child I never had AND fast-moving air is similar to fast-moving water. It is loud and rambunctious and once maximum momentum has been achieved it can carry things away. Like leaves, hats, picnic table umbrellas — and at one point in my life, all of my hopes and dreams.

But when you harness their power — it can literally move mountains.

And just like the dog, we can get triggered by the messiness, the unpredictability, the volume, and the speed of fast-moving things, making us twitchy and scared—with a bad case of helicopter hair.
We tend to want them to slow down or stop altogether. Which if you think about it is like paddling upstream. Instead of using that forward momentum…we make everything, even sleeping, an upstream battle.

We become salmon. Except salmon have tiny little brains that have been taken over by their instinctive urge to spawn. And spawning wins. It just does. (Just so you know, there are no urges or spawning happening here in Santa Cruz. At least none on my part. You’ll have to ask Ruby if that holds true for her.)

In the past, I’ve done it repeatedly in relationships, spawning swimming upstream because I was feeling as if things were “moving too fast”.

Certain projects have acquired so much momentum that my instincts advise me to put the kibosh on them, to drag my feet so I can catch my breath.

It’s an energy thing. I start off in the direction of something I want really, really badly, and then I can get overwhelmed by the speedy trajectory. The fast-moving air thing. The torrent of water.
Metaphorically speaking of course.

Does that ever happen to you?

Recently, I’ve been getting into the habit of going with the flow and I’ve gotta tell you, it makes life so much easier than swimming upstream.
I can see how useless it is to fight momentum, it’s as moronic as the dog wishing the wind would stop.
And besides, my arms were getting tired.

Carry on,
xox

I was talking to a friend the other day and all I’ll say is THIS post from a year and a half ago came to mind. Does it sound familiar? Yeah, I know. Me too.
xox

As I write this, I can feel the soft, cool underbelly of the big, older dog snoozing on my feet.
The puppy appears to be asleep except her eyebrows give her away. They signal that she is following my every move. She is plotting another caper and is patiently waiting for me to quit writing, get up, and leave.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”

That is their credo, their theme song, and the canine unspoken agreement.
If I’d let them get tattoos, that’s what they’d say.
But that statement gives ME a pit in my stomach. It sparks a crusty, old, unkind memory that hits me like a sucker punch.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”, is a quote is from the cover of a book about dogs.
It’s kinda funny, but it got me to feeling and thinking, which makes me run to start writing. Isn’t it weird how something as innocuous as the title of a dog book can trigger an emotion?

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is a declaration of ownership of…the scraps.
The stuff that is tainted enough that it isn’t fit for public consumption.
It can’t even pass the five-second rule.
Most likely the crap on the floor came off the bottom of someone’s shoe — literally.

“I call it! It’s mine!” That’s fine for Fido, but not for us.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
It is the cover page and the first rule in the Dog’s Life Handbook.
Not ours. Our first rule is “Call Your Mother.”

But what about us? How many times have you and I settled for the scraps in life?
From the blouse at Target that is marked down to 99 cents but is missing a button, (which as much as we say we’re going to—we never replace), to accepting pity sex from your ex-boyfriend?

That shitty “bridge” job that was just supposed to get you through the summer?
What happened? It’s five years later, why are you still there?

I’ve been so broke I have lived off scraps. Specifically, days of leftovers salvaged from one meal or my sister’s “doggie bag” from El Toritos. The irony of the name does not escape me.

I drove a piece of shit car that wanted nothing more in its life than to shimmy sideways.

I’ve also settled for the scraps of affection thrown to me in a dying relationship.
I’ve been seated at the table. I’ve enjoyed the love feast. But when I sensed the end, I did not push away and say my goodbyes with dignity. I dove for the scraps.
Ouch. Oh, hi Fido, funny to see you down here.

I have pretty healthy self-esteem, but there have been some glaring lapses.
I wasn’t alone. Gwen Stefani of the band No Doubt had a hit song “Bath Water” during that time.
Part of the chorus being: ‘Cause I still love to wash in your old bath water, Love to think that you couldn’t love another, Share a toothbrush….you’re my kind of man.’  UGH.

At a certain point, I’m gonna say around my mid thirties, I said: no more scraps.
And I meant it.

No more second-hand clothes, no more beat up chairs-full-of-promise fished out of dumpsters. Enough of the stuff left on the curb because it didn’t make the cut at the neighborhood yard sale. Enough of the sloppy seconds from lovers. I was finished being broke, I was done with settling.
I deserved better than that. I deserved the best.
The best love.
The best life.
The best-made plans.

“Everything that falls on the floor is MINE!”
That is my dog’s credo, I’m clear about that now and they can have it.

Tell me, have you ever settled for the scraps?

Carry on,
Xox

Ruby is a boxer-shark teenager girl.

Ruby is a pest.

Ruby is a dog-pleaser.

Ruby is completely self-absorbed.

Ruby will suck all of the oxygen out of the room.

Ruby won’t be ignored.

Ruby wears bright orange polar fleece.

Ruby gets into your face when you just want some peace and quiet. Ask Clyde.

Ruby is a bottomless pit of neediness that can never be filled.

Ruby will shove her face under your chin with her ass in the air just to get you to say I love You —Don’t be like Ruby.

xox

The other day when I was feeling emotionally pushed and pulled every which way, subject to the whims of every jackass on the planet, it was then that I took a moment to find solace by having a chat with my dog.

Ruby, our boxer-shark puppy is now two years old which is the equivalent of fourteen in dog years and in that respect, she does not disappoint.

Every bit the bitchy, whining, sassy teenager, she is a walking contradiction: clingy yet distant, anxious but chill, a confusing mix of stupidly goofy and wise. She is utterly and completely dissatisfied in every moment—and she has no problem letting you know. She has a way of looking at you as if you just asked her for a ride to the airport. Perpetually disgusted.

If she’s at home, she’d rather be out. If she’s in the car she’d prefer to walk on some grass. If there are two dogs to play with, she’d hoped there would be three—and all boys. She searches frantically for food the minute she finishes eating. Being that I, her mother, am the model of moderation (and obviously, a master of bullshit), I have NO IDEA where she picked up this behavior. I’m thinking she’s modeling her dad.
Anyhow…

You can imagine my state of mind if I was seeking comfort and advice from this spoiled, over-indulged, canine equivalent of Kylie Jenner—big lips and all.

I sat down next to the sleeping princess and heaved a giant sigh, you know, the universal signal for I need to talk.

She barely stirred.

In order to get her attention I did what always works with my husband— I started petting her.
I rubbed her floppy velvet ears and moved down to her belly which caused her to roll on her back, legs languishing in the air (okay, what’s wrong with this picture? I was the one in dire need of a belly rub!).

She seemed open to dialogue so I started the conversation: “It must be so great to be you. Not a care in the world, no worries, just play and sleep, sleep and play. What does it feel like to always be in an attitude of trust? Trust in your wellbeing and that fact that all of your needs will be met? Huh? Tell me, what’s it like being you? YOU,  little dog, you are so lucky”.

With that, she opened her eyes just enough to make out who the fuck was interrupting her nap, tilted her head back, streeeeeeeetched her legs further into the air, yawned and farted.

And in that moment, the clarity I received was as overwhelming as the stench that filled the room.

I knew she was right. About EVERYTHING.

Yep. I told you she was wise.

Carry on,
xox