MEET DAISY!

So this is our new family member!  We decided to name her Daisy (her name when we got her was Elana, which we didn't love).  Isn't she the CUTEST thing ever??  This is her, in the little harness that I got her at the Doxie Picnic from Hug A Dog. It's so sweet -- blue and white gingham!  She's looking a tad scruffy here - she hasn't gone to the groomers yet.  This is her, and Lillie, post-groomer:

Well, I guess she's looking a little scruffy here, too - she had a little bow in her hair, and it came out right before we took the picture, OF COURSE!  

The Fiance and and I are marveling at how well she's fitting in with the other dogs - it's amazing.  They seem totally accepting of her.  Perhaps because she's smaller than they are?  Perhaps because she is so timid?  Whatever it is, I'm okay with it, because it's like she's always been here.

I will say, though, that when I say 'she's timid', that really doesn't describe it sufficiently.  But, I will have faith that, over time, we'll bring her out of it.  Perhaps never as completely as we'd like, but enough that she will climb stairs and come to us more easily!

And that's all for now!  Talk to you soon - 

rescuers are a crazy breed

Talked to the rescue person with the new dog yesterday and agreed we'd meet today, I'd call her with a good time.  So I did call her with this good time.  And she EMAILS me back to say 'oh, I though yesterday (Tuesday) was Monday (it wasn't) and so I can't really meet tonight (!!), how about tomorrow night, same time (grrrrr).  I guess I'm glad I had time to check my email.  Otherwise I would've rushed home from work and fed the current dogs and been anxiously awaiting her and Elana's arrival with the Fiance. And it's totally normal to email a person who CALLED you.  Whose number you have because IT'S IN YOUR CELL PHONE, because THEY CALLED YOU.

On top of this she finally sends me the contract and informs me that they don't accept personal checks, so I'll need cash or a money order to get the dog tomorrow night.

Ah, thanks for telling me that NOW.

Rescuers are nuts.  This woman also, in the short 5 minute conversation I had with her yesterday, totally bagged on the woman who came to do our home check.  Who seemed perfectly nice to me, but Rescue Woman was all, "Oh, yes, Janice.  Her dogs aren't very well behaved.  And she's ... well, she's not everyone's cup of tea.  Not everyone gets a long with Janice.  But she's okay, just, you know..." 

No, I don't know.  Nor do I feel the need to know.  Janice came to my house for the check, and then I ran into her at a doxie event,  and that will probably be the sum total of our interaction until, maybe, next year again at the annual doxie event.  So why do I -- who found her fine -- need to know that 'not everyone likes Janice'.  Nor do I need to get a sense of her credit score, job assessments or whether or not she likes brocolli.  It seems to me that it's tough to find people who want to do rescue work, especially scut work like home checks, so if you have someone, you might want to be more 'oh, she's so great' than otherwise.

I do speak from experience - I did rescue work myself for six years.  And tried to stay on the periphery as much as possible, because I found the other people I was involved with all a bit crazed. 

So no, Wacky Rescue Woman Who Thinks Tuesday Is Monday And Is One Of Those TMI/No Filter Kind Of People, I don't need to know anything about Janice.  But I might've been interested in the 'cash or money order policy' earlier in our association.

So that's what I'm doing tonight - going to a movie, and getting cash.  Because tomorrow night - assuming she wasn't confused again - we will meet/get Elana!

oops, here we go again!

So the Fiance has had dreams of a yorkie - yorkshire terrier - for a while now.  And because of these dreams, he's become a bit yorkie-obsessed.  At first I thought it was just dreaming.  Then I'd be sitting at work and get an email with a link to an adoption site showing a yorkie.  And I'd think, "uh-oh".  So after a seeing a few of these, and wanting to be supportive, he finally said I would need to be the 'front man' - people think Al can be a little intimidating looking, and he doesn't speak 'rescue' - and he asked me to apply for two of the dogs.  So I did.  The one, called Ladybug, had been adopted by someone else that day.  But the other - with the ridiculous name of Elana -  was indeed available.  So we jumped through a few rescuer hoops, aced the home inspection, and tomorrow night we meet Elana. If everyone seems to like everyone else, I write a check, and she stays with us.

Dog number four.

Oh, my.

I'm not entirely sure about this.  I was initially,  but the more I think about it, the more I don't know.  Afterall, it's I who has to keep getting up in the middle of the night to let the dogs out, who makes the extra food, loses the sleep.  Peanut was SO HARD to get in the groove - how will this one fit?  And Jasper, I swear, seems to already realize what is going on, and is already acting out.  And to this we're going to add another dog?

But it does seem like something that's meant to be.  So I just need to have the faith that there was a reason for the dreams, and for this particular dog.  We've had great luck with the others, after a little work, pain, and sleep deprivation.  So perhaps we can help another dog, too.

But we seriously have to change the dog's name.

I would tell you the names under consideration and give you a chance to vote, but since I'm both author and sole reader of this endeavor, it seems like the votes might be weighted in my favor!  So we'll just have to duke out here, between the Fiance and I.

I'll keep you posted.  And try to keep my apparently split personality in check.

It's been a while since I posted.  I started one recently, but it's still in the drafts.  This won't be long.  I hope.  Because it's a lament, and it's late at night as I write it.  Bascially, I'm feeling sorry for myself.  But I've always found that it's best to just give yourself license to feel sorry for yourself occasionally, but you have to put a time limit on it.  I'm allowed to throw myself a little pity part until I go to sleep, which will be soon, and then tomorrow I'll get up and give the dogs kisses, and let them out, and greet my fiance with a kiss, and tell the refrigerator guys where to put the new fridge, and dump the stuff out of the old one real fast, and answer questions at work, and so on and so on, until the end of the day when I go back to bed.  And then we'll have gotten through another day, and it's all good.

The lament is for my left foot, which, now that I write that, seems rather as though Daniel Day-Lewis should come around the corner and start spouting an Irish accent.  But it's a serious lament.  Because right now the nerves of my foot are so over-active, and the foot is in so much pain, that I'm scared to go to bed, because the sheets will hurt.

And the lament is because this has been getting worse for the last couple of months, but I just thought it was related to any number of weirdnesses about my body, so I accepted it.  And it didn't seem that bad.  But last Sunday it suddenly flared so badly that I could barely walk, and it's continued since.

Monday I tried to get a podiatrist appt, but could not get one until next week, so I just went to my GP, who ordered an x-ray.  The x-ray ended up showing arthritis.  ARTHRITIS.  I turn 50 in two months - seriously, this could not have at least waited until the calendar flipped?  He took the x-ray because he though it might be a stress fracture, but no.  ARTHRITIS.  I realize stress fractures are horrible and if anyone who ever reads this has one, they would be like, "oh, no, girl, you don't want a stress fracture", but seriously, I think I would prefer that.

One person said, "oh, yea, I think I have that in my knees."  Which again, not saying that's not painful and a huge hit to an active person.  But you can have your knee replaced.  You hip.  They replace all kinds of thing.  But not feet.  Not one is loping off a person's foot and replacing it with a better, faster foot that looks just like your old foot and works just as well.

My foot.  My feet.

I've always had painful feet.  I was surprised when I talked to a friend one time, and she told me that most people's feet don't hurt.  You don't end the day with the feeling that you have a couple pounds of ground round attached to the bottom of your legs.  Your feet don't feel bruised to the point where, at times, it's an effort to take another step.  But I've accepted this - it's all just part of who I am.

But this burning.  The nerves.

And I love to walk.  And I'm heavy - which I'm sure doesn't help the problem - so I need to walk.  I should be walking briskly for a minimum of 20 mins four times a week.  Meanwhile, I have no shoes on at the moment because the pain of having a shoe touch the top of my foot is too great.

I was sitting on the couch just before bed, and my fiance came upstairs.  I said, 'would you do me a favor,' and he said yes (well, actually he said no, but he's just contrary like that - he meant yes), and I said "touch my foot.  lightly.  with your finger."  And he thought I was joking, I guess (plus he's not especially fond of feet) so he leaned down and started moving his foot down, and at one point his foot was below my cuff, and I couldn't tell if he was touching the foot or not, so I look, and then he touches the foot, and at first it was okay.  But a couple seconds in, it was starting to burn.   And this is the lightest touch, not much more than a feather's weight, and I say, "okay, stop" but he doesn't, because often light touches like this are nice.  And I say, "okay, that hurts - stop."  But he doesn't, and I can't blame him, because his finger is barely touching my skin, and it's been moving there less than five seconds, so how can that hurt?  And finally I start to cry, and I say, "please, stop", but he doesn't realize I'm crying because he's watching his finger lightly, lovingly trace the top of my foot.  And finally I'm like, STOP IT THAT REALLY HURTS I'M SERIOUS.  And he stops and looks up, and says, 'Seriously, this cannot hurt that much?" and I'm crying and saying, "yes, it does.  It does."  And while writing this and reading this take forever, and you mihgt think, "he's horrible - how could he not stop earlier", truly, it was the space of seconds, and he was being so delicate with his touch - it's crazy that it could hurt that much.  But it did.  And it does.

So tonight I want to cry.  I want to mourn.  Because I'm only 50, and this hurts so much.  Because I want to walk and walk and walk - thousands of miles before I'm dead.  But right now, just sitting here not moving I can feel the foot burning.  Because my foot HURTS, and I don't want it to.

I know there are MANY, MANY other problems, and as such things go, a foot isn't so bad.  Of course, things aren't being aided by the fact that I also have an appt with a cardiologist this week, because, as my GP said, "your heart doesn't look as good as it should for someone your age."  And this with my birthday still two months off!!

But still, my foot HURTS.  And I want to walk and run and play.