breaking news

Hey, people (especially all you vicious schadenfreuden out there) the abandoned dog has been adopted! Hallelujah. Yes, of course it's sad but Phobias has lovely new owners that will take care of her and probably give her a respectable proper name. And I'll stop having those canine midwifery dreams that have been freaking me the fuck out.

foundling update

No one has responded. Not to fliers, faxes, web postings nor emails. No "lost" posters in the hood. One might conclude that no one is looking for this dog.

People who abandon pets [presumably when the owner's initial cute-tardation rubs off] should be drop-shipped into the wilds of Montana wearing only flip-flops and smeared in the musk of whichever local prey is most popular.

So we stopped by the local veterinarian. Alas, no microchip and no "x-marks-the-neutered-here" spot. The vet clinic folks think she is maybe 6 or 7 months old. And about ready to go into her first heat. Fuck me very much.

i can NOT believe this

I hadn't really planned on getting back to the plant and animal sagas so soon but fate has intervened. Must itemize.

farming
I have a blanket requirement for anything rooted in our yard–No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. It's harsh and Darwinian but folks, them's the rules. I am happy to say we have survival-of-the-fittest azaleas, mae-west-tough gerbera daisies and hardy sago palms. Well, one hardy sago palm. The eastern sago flanking our walkway stopped producing its crown of new leaves many months ago, whilst its stronger western sibling strutted in place with healthy, gorgeous new fronds. I recently decided it was time to sit shiva for the sick cycad.

Then last week, lo and behold, there were signs of life from its barren center. Swear-to-godlessness, this ancient plant resurrected itself for Easter. In time to join the riot of color in the yard: fuschia azaleas and carmine gerbera daisies.

For some reason, I also planted herbs for cooking last week. Donning a gingham dress and marrying a Mennonite could only be more out of character for me. But I'm not that addled yet, only giving in to some dormant, tentative connection with Mother Nature. Really, it's just a phase.

livestock
Okay, okay. I'll admit that part of my aversion to pet ownership is selfishness. Too much maintenance, too much stink and too much adjustment to my life. And part of it is financial, so shoot me. I hesitate to pay for my own shots and grooming (and don't get me started about the anal gland treatments). Then, there's the guilt. Social animals ought not be isolated. The trade-off of assy-dog tongue licking my face is just not enough for me to justify all that danderrific trouble.

SO. Yesterday there was a young female black lab roaming down our street. Our daughter was outside on the porch communing with nature to spite me. [Have I mentioned she's a vegetarian? Don't think the Fates are not enjoying the hell out of this.] Anyway, the girl-child committed the cardinal sin and made eye contact with the canine. EYE CONTACT. After all I've tried to teach her. She called us from outside to say, "uh, Mom, we have a situation out here." Sonofabitch, I'll say.

To make a tedious rant a little shorter, we are now trying to find the owner of this damn dog. She is extremely sweet and timid to the point of ridiculous. Every threshold, every doorway is a portal to the dreadful unknown. Every step up or down is fraught with dog demons. The linoleum is terrifying. The porch, a nightmare. I named her Phobia which Barbara modified to Phobias, pronounced like Tobias, in honor of the Arrested Development character played by the brilliant, caustic David Cross. He, of the Never-Nude Phobiases.

We've flyered the neighborhood. Posted to the Craigslist Lost & Found. Will call local vets and stuff tomorrow.

In the meantime, we coexist. She's affectionate, house-broken, not much of a barker* and not too inclined to jump up on people. The occasional ankle lick and the regular, though abating, dead-weight-drop-to-the-floor fear response hasn't worn on my nerves too much. Barbara and the girl-child take care of the feed/eliminate cycle. Please, by cracky, let someone be searching for her.

If that wasn't enough (and it definitely was) on the way home from the grocery store this morning, a pigeon dive-bombed into our car grill (I was looking in my brain files for the word kamikazied but could only find kawasakied because The Bloggess has thrown a wrench in my limited japanese-influenced vocabulary). The pigeon-explosion moved quickly across the hood, up the windshield and shot over the car roof where, I assume, it landed in the road behind us. Relax. It was completely obliterated. It could have been run over 100 more times and it wouldn't have felt a thing. I'm grateful on an almost ecclesiastical level that the exploded missile did not take a curve through the open window into my lap. That, my friends, would have been three showers, a steamcleaner and the end of my to-do list for the day.

ghosts of livestock past
Just a few brief notes on the history of animals crossing my path.

There was a period of time, maybe for six months or so, that animals came to my yard to die. Nothing mystical here, just my luck. A cat crawled under our car and died. A dog dragged its sick carcass into our flower bed and promptly expired. An injured squirrel hauled its bloodied body onto our porch and gave up the ghost. Most people would have taken this as an omen–a cosmic message about doing some community service at the SPCA. Not me. I just hoped it wasn't like dog urine. You know, an irresistible marking of territory that beckoned to dying animals for miles around, "come here to die...everyone is doing it."

When I succumbed (doesn't "succame" sound pornographic? suck-came) to the big-eyed, pet-pleading machinations of my partner and children years ago, we got a small blonde cocker spaniel. (Raise your hand if you've heard this story. My apologies.) I named her Suburbia. For two reasons. One, that's where she lived. (Hello, why do they call it a "Scottie"?) And two, Faux-Wood-Paneled-Stationwagon seemed too cumbersome. Besides, Suburbia had a nice hispanical femininity to it.

Then, the guilt seeped in. Dogs are social animals. Not intended for 9-10 hours of solitude each weekday. So, we got a companion animal. A black and tan cocker that we hoped to breed once, so the children could witness the goddamn Miracle of Life. Enter puppy #2. Bourgeoisie. Bourgeois for short. Damn, but I do love a theme. We eventually pimped her out and sold most of her babies, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Suburbia and Bourgeois established a pecking order and companionship. Suburbia was in charge and Bourgeoisie did a lot of averting her eyes and groveling. Occasionally, they escaped the yard together. Which had me running up and down neighborhood streets yelling, "Surburbia!" "Bourgeois!" like some nutjob evangelical existentialist.

All in all, a checkered past. When the last of the cocker spaniels died, we'd had 13 or 14 years of petdom. I was ready for 13 or 14 years of petlessness provided the dear woman, who loves me in spite of my hardheartedness, was agreeable. Chorus of fallen angels, she was. We have lived in this state of whimper-free bliss going on three years now. I'm not going back without a fight.

*Well, unless you're an inanimate object. Like a stone gargoyle, for example. Then, you are going to get barked at. If Epiphenita is trying to have a long-distance conversation with her parents, you're going to get the deluxe barking special.

no blogging until you've finished your peas

Couldn't blog this weekend; I had chores.

Spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday pulling the landfill (computer room) apart and putting it (mostly) back together. If wires and cables were money... Anyway, the junk I didn't throw away is piled up on the dining room table and in the, well shit, I don't know what to call it, I guess it's the den but that sounds too plaid herculon for my tastes.

I am such a collector of crap. Of course, it's not crap to me. It's material for projects, things that surround me with happy ideas for future creativity. But it's also too much. Too fucking much. I need clear spaces and breathing room. So I am fighting against my nature and doing the purge.

The biggest challenge is momentum. Which is why boxes and bags have become an anathema to me. Anything dumped in a cardboard box and moved out of my visual path is dead to me. I am not going to open it up just to sort through and organize. I shouldn't even have closet doors. The existence of a closed box of chaos simply doesn't nag at me. They scream to be dealt with for most of my family members but I can't hear them at all.

Speaking of not being able to hear things
I learned early in adulthood that I don't do well with pets. Particularly quiet pets. If I have to tend to something, it had better know how to make some noise when it needs food and water. My ex-husband had a penchant for getting pets and then, going out of town. The hermit crabs were a case in point. I can't recall if we named them Larry, Moe & Curly but that's how I remember them. And that's about the sum total of my affection for them, too. Hermit crabs are not easy to warm up to. And they are awfully quiet. I walked past them a few days after Dave had gone and thought, Jesuschrist those damn things stink like fish. At which point it dawned on me that I had forgotten something. Like teaching them to tap on the glass every night to remind me to, you know, feed and water them.

The three dead crab stooges initiated the guilt list of pets in my life. (No, I didn't kill all of them, assholes. Well, I did kill a couple hundred sea monkies, I'll admit. And euthanized a paralyzed parakeet, Bert–or maybe it was Ernie, who entered his eternal rest in a carbon monoxide fog, but that was an avian mercy killing, people.) The rest of the animals and plants (goddammit, plants are really quiet) that I have reluctantly allowed to share my domain were under the strict purview of the softhearted family member who wanted them. Or they just didn't make it.

More later, about the creatures in my life.