Pete

I love every feathery hair of Pete. I love that his nose is always a little wet, but not so much that you mind when he presses it against you. I love how the hair pokes out from between the pads of his feet. I love how his ears perk up when he’s excited, growing twice their normal size and dwarfing his tiny, stuffed-animal face. I adore his nub of a tail and the wispy pouf of hair that sticks out from its end. I love it when he sprawls out, stretching his back legs behind him like frog at the height of a hop.

He is compassionate--once comforting me by jumping on the bed and laying on me when he saw I was crying. He is truly joyful. He is happiest on the go and runs for the joy of running. The moment he’s let off his leash he is gone. All you see is the grass swaying behind him as he makes his way out into the wilderness. When he returns his mouth is open and panting, and you’d swear he’s smiling because of the way his little lips curl up at the edges. He is beautiful. His pumpkin orange markings are flawless, save for the spot on his mouth. It’s just a little crooked, like he tried to put on lipstick after a night of bar hopping.

For all the love I have for him, it’s hard to remember that he was our accident baby. He was the result, not of careful consideration and planning, but of a little too much wine on a Thursday night. By the time morning came, casual conversation about a second dog had ended in a breeder being selected and the conclusion that Henry would be miserable without a fluffy white brother. The next morning we were swimming in a combination of excitement and uncertainty.

But here we are, and here Pete is. He sheds pretty much constantly and he makes this crazy, some-one-is-strangling-me-please-help noise when he’s excited, but he’s our fuzzy, polka-dotted baby. And I’ll never regret our drunken decision.

Nine to Five

Employment--aah what a magical thing. Each day has a purpose, a reason to shower, a reduced need to check my e-mail six to seven times per hour. It is truly amazing how stressful doing nothing can be. While I'll freely admit I more than tend to procrastinate in my personal life, having nothing to even procrastinate--aside from brushing my teeth--was truly depressing. So, on the whole, all is right now that I've found a job and regained a life.

But the problem--because there's always something--is this. Having avoided employment for nearly two years through that lame excuse for being a bum they call graduate school (just kidding mom and dad, your money is well spent), I have had the pleasure of spending my days with two of my favorite people--Peetles (Pete) and Mr. Pants (Henry). Being a student, unlike being graduated and unemployed, I felt some sense of purpose and tried to soak up the joy of an unstructured life. On non-school days, we would rise at 9 a.m., eat, cuddle on the couch, in front of the news, and chat--or more they would bark at the yard man and I would sigh at the prevalence of journalistic bias in television news.

Henry and Pete would rotate couch duty, stretching out across me and the small piece of furniture and leaving me with a generous square foot of space. Their bellies would face the ceiling, flashing me a clear view of their bits and pieces, which I'm pretty sure is their way of saying, "Good morning. I love you!" I'd stroke their soft tummies, and they'd twitch in their sleep and drool on my pajama pants.

It was truly lovely. The rest of the day was spent doing school work, which they patiently slept through on the futon in our study. That is, until about four o'clock when they'd approach me with sad eyes and lay their heads on my laptop, typing their own unintelligible message on my research paper, which looked like this: "ATERWURTG" but really said, "Don't think you're gonna work on this paper any longer, because I'm going to be extremely annoying until you take me outside and play with me." And that was a threat one must take seriously. Like crackheads needing their daily fix, I would have to burn off some of that energy if I expected to get anything else done.

But now, my time with them is cut down by 40 hours. I wake them up in the morning, feed them and let them out for their morning b.m.'s, then it's off to work. Luckily my office has two cats (yes, really), so I'm not completely deprived of animal interaction, but I truly miss them. My office seemed like a lifeless abyss until I brought in pictures of my little moofies, which sit quietly around me as they did in my grad school days.

Sure, I enjoy their intense excitement when I enter the door at night after the whole day away--though my work clothes don't appreciate the footprints. I just feel guilty leaving them for so long. I imagine them wondering where that lady is that gives them all the treats and attention and lets them on the furniture when her husband isn't around. Luckily, my husband has just started his job hunting process, and they are usually not alone, but I certainly envy his time with them.

But last week when Matt was out of town and I was forced to leave them completely to their own devices, until I came home on my lunch break, they managed to destroy and consume an entire tub of vaseline (don't judge me, it's for my lips). Was it a suicidal attempt spurned by heartbreak and loneliness? Probably not, but it definitely sent a message--"How dare you!" Surprisingly, there were no negative intestinal after effects, just my intense guilt for abandoning them.

It was then that I realized, once Matt is employed, leaving them totally and utterly alone for the day will soon be the norm. What will they think then? They've only known our lives as students, when odd class hours allowed for maximum time at home. I worry they'll think they've done something wrong and pack up their little knapsacks and hit the road. Can they survive without us?

I try to comfort myself with a little bit of undergrad logic. Because it is true that a) most people have jobs, and b) many people have pets, then c) most people probably suck it up and leave their dogs at home all day. But are we most people--are we okay with this??

I'm not sure that I will ever truly be "okay" with this, but it will soon be a fact of life, and my distress over this inevitability is likely far greater than theirs. Like an extended version of "Risky Business" they will be free to party it up, or their equivalent--playing all day, peeing on stuff and chasing lizards. So, I'm sure, as usual, my apprehensions are unjustified, and I'll just have to get over it--either that or get one of those pet web cams so I can check up on them all day.

The Magical Adventures of Skunkface Sausagetail

We have a special house guest for the week, and though he has four legs, likes to nibble your ears and attacks you when you eat anywhere in his vicinity, for some reason it feels like the Pope is visiting us. You feel you must remain on your toes and treat this special guest like the finest of royalty. But this visitor is hardly blue-blooded, he is simply my parent's beloved dog, Bear. I am always amazed when my mother allows us to babysit her three-year-old German Shorthaired Pointer. It's as if she's trusting me with some priceless, sacred object like the bones of the missing link or Amelia Earhart's flight plan. Sure, I have two dogs of my own, which I've managed to keep breathing--though I've certainly done my fair share of damage via chronic over-affection and shamefully weak disciplinary tactics--but Bear is something all together different. He is the adorable, tweeting sparrow that has filled my parent's once-empty nest. He is the sun to my mother's earth. He is, in a word, special--and not just to my mother. There is something uniquely divine about that dog.

It's not just his appearance--though that deserves a mention. Most German Shorthaired Pointers are slim but hearty dogs, with the build of a lean lab and a short, bobbed tail. Bear is built like a stallion with long, thin legs, tiny feet and glutes that look like they could send him to the moon in one hop. And rather than the standard hot-dog sized tail donned by most GSPs, his tail looks more like an Italian sausage link--a good two to three inches longer than the standard, thick, and with a wisp of white hair jutting from the end. Either God broke the mold when he made him, or the vet was a little tipsy when he whipped out the bobbing shears. Not only does he stand apart in tail length and girth, while most GSPs have a solid brown head, his sweet face has a big, white, crooked skunk stripe running up the length of his dark nose. Though he wouldn't win any AKC championships, he is undeniably beautiful and truly regal. He stands with an air of dignity and is as peaceful as a golden Buddha.

My parents got him from some fancy Midwestern kennel and were promised he is from the finest of GSP lines. However, I am convinced some frisky outsider paid a visit to Bear's fancy pants mother. Though a look at him might suggest that visitor was a greyhound or even a doberman, I stand by my suggested illegitimate father--a majestic, magical unicorn. Call me crazy, but Bear is not of this universe. He belongs among the Leprechauns, fairies and elves.

When he runs, he leaps, bounds and frolics like he's chasing a glittering rainbow that ends in a burgeoning bucket of gold. Our GSP, Henry, runs like a freight train pulling away from the station. No loping or bouncing there. Not only is Bear, or Sir Bearington as I like to call him, blessed with the gait of mythical creature, he has the agility of a Kung Fu fighter. He dodges and ducks like a champ when he plays with Pete and Henry, but he can quickly gain the upper hand with what can only be described as a Chuck-Norris-worthy roundhouse kick. He literally leaps in the air and throws his back legs around in a 180-degree display of badass martial artistry. And when he's not taking down Pete and Henry (in play of course--he's no killer), he'd prefer to spend his time sitting reflectively at the water's edge, staring above into the treetops and watching the leaves fall. Either he's been catching up on his "Power of Now" or he is, as I will argue until the end of time, truly magical.

His otherworldly characteristics do not stop at his physicality. He has this hypnotic stare that seems to take over your brain, and your better judgment. His big, hazel eyes conqueer your mind through his inexplicable inner peace--beckoning you to bring your face close enough for him to lick, or commanding you to hand him a fruit or vegetable--his bizarre favorite foods.

I've begun to realize that I don't really think of him as a dog. He's like an ancient, wandering spirit that somehow got the raw deal and ended up in the body of a half-dog/half-unicorn. Or maybe it's not such a raw deal after all. As any house guest of my mother's can attest, the word "no" does not exist at the Parell home, the food overfloweth and love and affection is always readily available.

Whatever Sir Bearington's story, he seems content enough with his earthbound destiny, and I'm convinced there's a children's story in him. So maybe, just maybe, his magical purpose is not to spread world peace or start a superior race of canines, but to make me the next J.K. Rowling.

Angels and Demons

Lately we've been experimenting with leaving the dogs free in the house while we go out. We started this very trusting and very risky ritual with short, 30-minute errands. We figured only so much destruction could occur while we ran to the post office, picked up a movie or stopped by the bank. After this seemed successful, we upgraded to an hour or so, hoping Pete and Henry could avoid gutting the couch while we ate sushi. Aside from the loss of a flip flop or two, we began to gain trust and were pleased--if not a little shocked--when we would return from four or five hour trips away and find them bouncing angelically at the door. There were no scraps of my favorite shoes hanging from their mouths, no tie-dye-like neon orange patches on their fur, indicating the ingestion of a highlighter, and definitely no convulsive coughing up of an arm of my prescription glasses. (These are all things they have destroyed in the past, by the way, either collectively or individually.) So, we were confident and pleased that all our talk of owning the smartest and most perfect dogs in the world was not only warranted, but probably a dramatic understatement.

But of course, they had to prove us wrong. Yesterday, we returned from an hour-long trip to the gym and saw a seemingly unharmed home. I was headed to the shower when Matt yelled back, "Hey, come in here and tell me if this is something important." My heart dropped. My favorite sandals, the Wii remote, my purse. When I got in the kitchen, I knew immediately what had happened. The carpet was littered playfully with scraps of white and green cardboard and bits of silver foil. No, they were not throwing out confetti in a late St. Patty's Day celebration. There was something much more naughty at play. I glanced from the floor to the counter top and back again. One of the two packs of heartworm medication I had just purchased was missing. Let me note that though most dogs love these chewable tablets, Henry won't even acknowledge them unless they are stuffed in a hot dog or wrapped in a cheese slice. And if you try to sneak one in his food, forget it. He will literally pick it out of his bowl and place it snootily on the floor. However, when left to his own devices, apparently he will tear through and consume foil and cardboard just to get into the meds he usually rejects with disdain.

First, I was angry. Heartworm medication is expensive, and I'd just driven across town to pick up the medicine and placed it on the counter top right before we'd left. I remember wondering if I should put it away, but thinking my reservations were silly because my little angels wouldn't dare touch it. But my anger was quickly followed by panic. This was a six-month supply eaten in a mere hour. My brain began to create imminent death scenarios with Henry collapsing dramatically to the floor--his eyes filled with resentment for my carelessly leaving out the tempting poison. I grabbed the remaining box and quickly dialed the 1-800 number. After a slew of recordings and operators, I was finally connected to a vet at poison control. I told her what the problem was, and instead of telling me whether my dogs were going to survive, she asked me for every possible tedious bit of information. Some seemed relevant--weight, breed, age. But other questions seemed like a waste of time--names, address, "Oh, they're hunting dogs. Do you hunt with them?" Seriously! My babies could be on death's door, and you're asking me about my recreational habits?! Finally, she punched their weight, age and the type medicine into some kind of death likelihood calculator and determined they would in fact survive. Thank God!

But, she was worried they might get sick with intestinal blockage from eating the foil and plastic. She asked if they had ever eaten plastic or foreign bodies like this before. My first thought was to deny, deny, deny. First, I didn't want her to doubt that I am a highly responsible parent who always keeps her babies out of harm's way. Second, I'd rather not discuss that my little genius angels would ever be so naughty and admittedly stupid as to do something like eat an entire L.L. Bean. But in that moment I had to fess up--noting the highlighter, flip flops, glasses and sporting goods catalogue. Denial could prove deadly, and I just couldn't risk it.

Luckily, it turns out their previous bad behavior might actually save them from getting stopped up. Their bodies were already used to all the foreign material, and digestion shouldn't prove as challenging. I guess Billy Joel really was right -- the good are the only ones who die young.

So maybe they aren't perfect, but they still have moments of sainthood. When I came down with a nasty fever later that night and curled up in bed to ride it out, Pete hopped on the bed and laid down with his wet nose stretched to meet my face. When I let out a nasty cough he came closer--his big eyes wide in worry. He laid with me for at least an hour, helping to keep me warm and distracted. No, he is not technically allowed on the bed, but I wouldn't dream of holding it against my perfect little angel.

Home of the Itchy, Land of the Flea

It all started with a scratch, scratch and a bite, bite. It was the week before the Fourth of July, and Matt and I were high on excitement for the coming weekend. Sure, we love fireworks and all, but we also love not obsessing about job hunting (me) and not having to study for the bar every waking moment (Matt). We needed a break and were floating around in anticipation of a change. Our brows de-furrowed for a bit, and a light was glowing steadily at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel.

But, it was then that the battle began. We were eating dinner and chatting about our plans to worship the sun and leave life behind for a few days, when we heard a rapid jingling near our feet. Since it was too early for Santa, we knew it must be Pete and not a reindeer laden sleigh beneath our table. When we glanced below, we saw him frantically scratching away at his little white belly--his collar dinging musically to the beat. "Must be an itch," we thought naively. But, then there it was again. Pete's sudden jerking into scratching position, then following his jazzercise-like leg rotation with a desperate gnawing at his hip. Uh oh. This was more than a minor skin irritation. This was war.

Battle Tactic 1: Chemical Combat
We decided it must be time for the dogs' monthly flea spraydown in which they must be leashed to a stationary object and essentially hosed down with a toxic-smelling liquid. Then they must be caged while they air dry, so they don't expose their human family members to what are sure to be third-eye-growth level chemicals. I hope I'm not the only pet owner who finds it concerning that it's okay to drench Rufus or Spike in a liquid that could probably unclog your kitchen sink, but humans should avoid skin contact with the chemical and immediately shower after application.

Once Pete and Henry were thoroughly poisoned, we sat back and waited for the jingling to cease. But, alas, it only worsened and was shortly followed by a thorough round of vomiting by Pete. Unable to stop gnawing at himself, he'd ingested the chemical and made himself sick--only further supporting my concern for this pest control method. All the while, Henry remained unfazed, his shorter hair and long-term use of the flea spray thwarting off the invaders as Pete continued to claw away at his delicate, pink skin.

Battle Tactic 2: Point and Squeeze
Though the toxic spray usually works best on Henry, we thought Pete might respond better to a spot treatment that's applied between the dog's shoulders--to avoid them licking it and keeling over, I assume. For this second round of poison, Matt held Pete down as I squeezed a tube of liquid between Pete's tiny shoulders--and then we waited. When we quickly realized the fleas weren't budging, we knew we hadn't won the battle, let alone the war.

Battle Tactic 3: Scrub-A-Dub-Dub
I must say, Pete has always been a good sport about bath time. Though he'll fight you furiously to stay out of the tub, once he's in he just sits there shamefully, like a teenager embarrassed by a drunken parent. His eyes stare downward sadly as you try not to giggle at his soaked, little body reduced in size by half by his wet, matted down hair. I had purchased some flea wash promising to stop the little devils in their tracks. Certainly many of them were left floating behind in the bath water, but they only returned by the next morning.

Battle Tactic 4: The World Wide Web and Attacking Them Where They Sleep
I was beginning to worry Pete would never escape the grasps of those tiny little bloodsuckers, so I turned to the experts--Google and Wikipedia. Apparently only 10 percent of the fleas encumbering a dog live on the actual animal. The rest are setting up shop for rapid reproduction in your carpets and furniture. Disgusting, I know. I also learned they thrive in hot temperatures and, of course, humidity. Just grand. We were in the midst of a heat wave--in Florida.

This is when I became paranoid, figuring the fleas would be after me next. I had trouble sleeping, sitting, living. Every itch or minor discomfort turned into my assurance that I was covered in the little leeches. So, I washed everything the dogs came near--cackling as I imagined the fleas drowning and screaming for mercy in the churning washer. I then vacuumed every inch of the house daily. To me, every spec of dust and crumb was a flea that would soon be sucked into a black abyss of death. I also bought powder for the carpets at the grocery store, which promised to kill the fleas and their young. We left it on the carpets during our entire time away for the Fourth. Though I was certain I was taking years off my life and ensuring sterility as I sprinkled and coughed my way through the powdering process, I remained determined.

While we were away, we kept Pete in the water as much as possible--chlorine, salt, whatever would lead to flea homicide. We were sure this was finally going to be the end.

Battle Tactic 5: Thirsting for Revenge
When we returned to our dusty house, the moment Matt stepped into the kitchen, he was under attack. Ready to hand the keys over to the parasites, he responded with, "I don't think we can even sleep here any more!" It seems the powder had not killed the fleas but only driven them to the floors for refuge. That's when I really got angry. I called the vet for back up, and the receptionist reported it had been a nasty flea season (shocking) and swore by a professional pest control product designed to kill the fleas via thirst. I drove across town to buy the $40, supposed miracle powder, putting my grand total of pest control purchases at at least $150. I then drenched the carpets in snowy dust.

I was then instructed to grind the powder into the rugs with a broom, which took about an hour and left me with matching blisters on my inner thumbs. Now, all we can do is wait.

After more than 100 dollars out of my pocket and at least 10 years off my life, I'm hoping this will finally do the trick. I'm ready for the joy to return to Pete's face and the red spots to leave his tummy that I so love to scratch. I just can't watch him suffer any more, and I'm not willing to sacrifice any more of my golden years. Matt and I have got a lot of RV-ing to do, and I'm not letting those fleas take away my dream trip to the Grand Canyon in my battery-powered scooter!

A Dog and His Bed: A Love Story

So we have a slight problem...Henry has fallen madly in love with his dog bed. Though the love of his life has worn many fabrics and taken on many shapes and sizes, she always resides in the same cozy corner of our living room, calling out to him like a yearning siren.

It all started when he was about six months old. Come 5 o'clock, after a nice, hardy meal, he would get this look in his eye, like a playboy at cocktail party. Then he would disappear into the living room for a little romancing.

When this love affair began, his lady friend was a lovely, fluffy cheetah print number that he just couldn't get enough of. We assumed it was the animal print that was fueling his desire. After all, who could resist that Jane-and-Tarzan-esque fantasy?

So we decided to change her cover, hoping this might reduce her appeal. We put her in something much more bland and matronly--a sea foam green corduroy. Unfortunately that was not the ticket. He only longed for her more. He actually liked her more frumpy look--like a naughty librarian beckoning him from behind her book cart.

Despite our embarrassment, scolding and cries of "Henry, that's disgusting!," they were two star-crossed lovers, determined to be together, no matter the consequences. "What's the problem?'" one might say. Well, not only does it completely ruin your image of them as cute little babies to be cuddled and adored, but Henry tends to get destructive during his romantic encounters. His girlfriends kept ending up looking like Swiss cheese and have to be replaced on a regular basis. How can he love something so much, but have such a strong desire to rip out its heart and destroy its very being?

This is why we were enormously relieved when he gave up his horrifying habit. We're not sure why or what happened between him and his lady friend—maybe they’d hit a relationship slump--but he just lost interest. He would lay on her with no ulterior motives, happy to simply curl up and pass out. "Thank God," we thought, "Now we can finally have company."

But about a month ago, those familiar bedroom eyes returned. We're not sure why. Maybe it was Spring fever or those new scented candles I bought—or even that jazzy music they play on the Weather Channel, which my husband watches incessantly. Whatever it was, suddenly he was in love again. Oh, the horror.

In our nearly three years of dog parenting, Matt and I have discovered it's a process characterized primarily by trial and error. You have to become a sort of doggy detective. We ponder, "Why did he chew up the $200 sunglasses? Was he mad at us? Was he bored? Was it because he was locked up and heard us talking about him in the other room?" You take a guess at the enabling factor, eliminate it and hope it doesn't happen again.

This is at the root of our newest solution--removing the girlfriend between the hours of 5 and 10 p.m. For some reason this is when he desires her most, so if she's not around, we deeply hope he'll lose interest. I refuse to be his escort service--bringing in one lady after another after he’s left them in shreds. So, he better start sleeping on--instead of with--his girlfriends, or he's going to have to get used to spending the night on the floor.

Fuzzy Grandchildren, Baby Phobia and Unspoken Desires

To my parents and mother-in-law, our dogs ARE their grandchildren. They shop for them, pamper them with bacon grease and table scraps and speak to them in baby-voiced-gibberish. After my parents watched our dogs for a long weekend, we were informed that Henry had been acting up--running away to the neighbors to visit a friendly English Pointer. "Well, did you scold him?" I asked my father, to which he replied matter-of-factly, "No. Of course not. I wouldn't do that to my grandson!" My mother often refers to them as her "fuzzy grandchildren," and despite Henry's tendency to mark his territory on her house plants, she never complains, just pulls out the paper towels and mops up the puddles.

I was always surprised and pleased by their warm embrace of the only grandchildren they will have for a few years, despite the babies popping up throughout our extended family and our circle of friends. When my dad speaks of someday taking his hypothetical grandchildren fishing, and I reply, "Well, I guess we're going to have to teach Pete how to fish," he just laughs and sighs. But, it was on a trip to the Lonestar State to visit family that I saw a flash of desire for a non-fuzzy grandchild.

One of my cousins is almost exactly the same age as me and was married only a few months before Matt and I. Now, at the same point in her life and marriage as I am, she has a beautiful, plump baby girl who is full of life and the obsession of the entire family. My grandmother refers to her simply as "the baby" and literally can't keep her hands off her. The obsessive behavior is understandable. Not only is "the baby" beautiful, she's the first small child in our family since scruchies went out of style.

I've always been sort of scared of babies--and, yes, I know this is ridiculous. Who is scared of cute, drooly, pudgy, cooing babies?! Unfortunately, the answer to that question is "me." They just seem so fragile, and I never know quite what to say or do when I'm around them, and asking to hold another person's baby seems like asking to see that ecstatic mother or father in their underwear. It's just too personal. Once they can sort of walk a little and tottle around, then I'm okay. At that age, you're less likely to break them.

So, when my cousin brought over her bundle of joy, I sat peacefully in the corner, enjoying her adorableness from afar as she was passed around like a Thanksgiving side. It was when she reached my mother that I saw it, not just a mutual appreciation of the undeniable cuteness, but a sort of underlying desire. And, I wondered, how can the fuzzy grandchildren compete? There are no bottles or diapers, and while they once made cute noises, now they're more likely to emit ear-shattering barks that make you want to leave the room, not pinch their cheeks.

Of course, my mother never said a word. She gets it. Recent graduate school grads about to move to another state who are currently unemployed do not make for ideal parents, but that's not to say some part of me doesn't want to fulfill their unspoken longing.

It was on a recent trip to the grocery store that I remembered all the reasons (aside from not having a job, etc.) that taking that life-changing step is not yet for me. As I loaded groceries into my trunk, a family across the parking lot attempted to remove their screaming one-year old from a shopping cart. But this baby wasn't going anywhere. All they wanted to do was go home after a long day at work, but she wasn't having any of it. Though I felt for them, I was sort of relieved to shut the trunk, hop in the car and drive home--obstacle free--with my only obligation being feeding the dogs and going to the gym.

Some day will be the right day, and my family will be ecstatic, but for now, I am enjoying my fuzzy children, savoring the quiet and hoping my baby phobia disappears when that baby is my own.