For Pet's Sake: A Story of Percy and Quinn

This weekend we took off for the Iowa Games to catch our boy play just a little more soccer. No, we really don't get tired of it. You might hear my husband sigh and complain about going, but don't believe it for one second. That's all pretend. We both love it. Watching talented youth with all of their energy is uplifting as heck. And, there's beer to be had after those games.

Whenever we leave for a short weekend away, we need to decide what to do with our pets. I'm usually all for boarding. Doug, the true-blue farm kid, doesn't believe in this philosophy. He's of the camp that animals can stay at home and be checked by the neighbor. I usually fret over this decision. On one hand, the animals like staying at home. On the other hand, what if a storm comes up? On one hand, there's less hair in the car when we don't transport them. On the other hand, Quinn might get eaten by a coyote. It usually comes down to whether there's rain in the forecast and how long we decide to stay away. Since we were only going to be gone one night and the weather appeared amenable, we decided to let them stay home and sleep under the stars... on their honor. We made implicit instructions: no parties while we're gone. Grandpa Ron will be checking on you!

Well. As usual, we left in a flurry – running in and out of the house seventeen times to ensure we had everything. Sunscreen. Allergy pills. Beer. Water. Snacks. Beer. And, oh yes, soccer gear. Finally, we were off to Ames. I always have this bit of anxiety when we leave for trips. I'm certain we've forgotten something. And that something is so unique that it could never, ever be purchased at a Target store. #irrational #neurotic_mom

Waiting for an ear-scratching.

By the time evening came, we had our first pet report:

Percy is good. Can't find cat. 

A good report! Our cat only appears when its hungry or needs its belly scratched. It's the dog I mostly worry about. On top of his over-domestication (guilty!), you see, our dog was just recently diagnosed with diabetes. It seemed overnight, our chubby terrier gained new nicknames: Slimdawg and Skeletor. The poor thing receives insulin shots twice a day and can no longer partake in ice cream. Thus, the worry over our dog rivals the worry over our kids. Just kidding. Sort of.

The next day as we were getting ready for the games, we received a call from Grandpa Ron. No Percy. No Quinn. He called out to them and looked everywhere. We told him not to worry. He was probably under the deck. His hearing was failing too, after all. But after I hung up with my father, I had a pit in my stomach. Maybe his time had come. And I hadn't really said a proper good-bye to him... all those stupid trips in and out of the house!

But we had some games to watch. I said a prayer that our animals were not suffering and flipped to soccer mom mode. But it wasn't far from my mind.When the weather switched and the clouds grew dark during the last game, I began to internally berate myself. Even if our pets were safe and sound, now they'd be caught in a storm. I should've boarded them.

The last game was finally called due to lightning. Our boys got second place. (They should've gotten first, but that's a story for another time.) I was ready to get on the road. We took off in the rain. I buried my head in a book and tried to push back the dread that perhaps we had lost our beloved little barker.

Two and a half hours later, we pulled into our driveway. The rain had stopped by then. But there was no one to greet us. My heart was sinking just as Cole said, "There he is!"

Our little Percy came prancing out, bright-eyed and muddy as hell. Hallelujah! The pang zipped out of my heart. I hopped out of the truck to hug the rain-soaked dog, not caring about the stink he was gifting my hands. I glanced around for the cat whose usual ploy was to lurk on the ledge. But there was no Quinn. I began a futile call for the cat who doesn't like to be commanded to come. And then the most amazing thing happened. Doug opened the door to the house. And the cat rushed outside. Quinn had decided to stay at the Hotel Kramer for the night. I had to laugh. I couldn't even be upset. Our cat and dog were alive! That's all that mattered... for the next couple of minutes, at least. Then I realized something. The cat most certainly had a party in our house. We'd have mess. Kitty mess.

Messes. Schmesses. My joy over our pets made up for any poop or pee left to clean. Besides, we have Cole for that duty. Good boy, Cole.

It's always naptime for these ole dogs.

Only the Lonely

I recently read an article by Dave Barry who recently made a life altering decision: to emulate his dog. Not so much to do things like drink toilet water, but to fearlessly connect with others as our canine friends so easily do. I gave the article specifically to my husband and my father. They share a common quality with Dave Barry: they're all a bit skeptical of people. Now that my dad is retired, he spends much of his time with his motorcycles and dogs. And my husband, as a farmer, spends much of his time with his tractors and cows. I worry about the amount of time they spend alone.

I also worry about my daughter. She's fiercely independent and lives three hours away, often strapped to her studies and work. I keep asking her if she's getting enough hugs – of the maternal type. She assures me she's fine, especially after visits to the pet store to hold puppies.

It just occurred to me that I never worry about my son being lonely. I actually worry more about his overactive social life. But that's a story for another blog.

It can be difficult to reach out – especially for the introverted. I worry so much about loneliness. Not for me. (Or Cole.) I'm rarely lonely, even when I'm alone. (This, could be a result of my only-childness, having spent much of my youth reading Nancy Drew, writing screenplays suspiciously similar to Grease, and playing games like Monopoly by myself.) But I obviously worry about it for others – even beyond my family. Whenever I see someone at a restaurant eating by themselves, my heart breaks a little. I say a prayer and do my best to catch their eyes just to say hello. It's probably not enough.

During our last book club, we discussed a novel called The Story of Arthur Truluv by Elizabeth Berg about an unlikely friendship between a teenage girl, a widower, and a spinster-ish teacher. It was a joy to read as these three lonely souls found each other. But what has been lingering with me in regard to this book isn't anything about the story itself. It's a comment made by one of my book club friends. "I really get this. It's like how Sundays get so long for me."

Growing up, I watched my mother talk to just about anyone in her path. Sometimes, I'd get annoyed by this. I didn't want to stand there listening to stupid adult stuff. Sometimes I'd even be embarrassed when she'd realize she wasn't talking to who she thought she was. ("Why do you keep calling me Bob?" We still get a good laugh over that.) But now I have a great respect for this ability to connect. Mom opened a shop as a retirement gig. And countless people tell me how they love stopping in to visit with her. I even catch Dad in there! Who knew he liked to visit with my mother!

I think there's lots of remedies for loneliness. Dogs and cattle are an obvious solution. But there's another one that doesn't involve animals. Heed the advice of AT&T's 80's slogan: "Reach Out and Touch Someone." Not literally obviously. But say hi to the lady next to you in the produce section. Tell her how good the mangos are. Take your book club friends to lunch. Hug your daughter every day when she's home on break even if it annoys the crap out of her. Or simply smile and say hi to the elderly gentlemen eating pizza by himself at the next table. As Mother Teresa said, "The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved."

Loneliness is a terrible poverty. But the good news? It can be cured without spending a single penny. Especially if you happen befriend a dog running the ditches. That's worked for us quite well.

Percy, former ditch runner.

The Dog is in the House

It's now been over a year since a scruffy, stinky terrier, living a vagrant life, cautiously accompanied us home one day. 

How does a dog, who’s not supposed to be in the house, come to have a luxury bed, smack dab in the living room?  How does a dog–who still smells like a bad fart–get away with putting his dirty paws on the breakfast table? (As we all giggle and dote on his cleverness.) And why in the world would we put up with a dog who barks throughout Glee when that unforgivable train passes through. Because Percy's indomitable spirit is as contagious as a cold.

  

What kind of animal can weave themselves into a family’s life so delicately and yet so forcefully at the same time? Certainly not a fish! No, not a cow. Ooh, a lizard you say? I do waver on cats. If they could only smile.  Methinks, without a doubt, a dog. Our entire family can be sad. We can be spitting mad. But it takes one small act from our pet. Like a lick in the face from his big wet tongue. And we are all saved from rage or gloom. (No, we don't like to consider where that tongue has been.)

Percy. He's still the smelliest of them all. But there's no dog that can dance like the Perce. Oh Pup. What would we do without you? Probably vacuum less. But life wouldn't be near as fun.

Percy, sitting on his butt and dancing.

Dear Mr. Dyson

I've been a little obsessed with my vacuum lately.  Of course, it all started with this dog, Percy.  We keep saying that we're gonna keep him outside more. But that resolution is toast as soon as the mutt bats his big black eyes in our curtain-less windows. We can't resist his canine charm. Consequently, we live in hairball hell.

You know that song "Me and my shadow?" Don't know any of the other lyrics, but that's the tune that rolls through my brain as I grudge to the closet to, once again, vacuum most specifically those spots that Percy has frequented.  So, here's my story.

For those of you with bagless vacuums, have you ever studied the quantity of your carpet debris? I'm not so interested in quality, because in our house, it's mostly gray and hairy. But it's the quantity that amazes me! I've been emptying that compartment everyday - not because I need to so much - but mostly out of curiosity. But here's the problem. I'd like to know more specifically what I've done in a day. Empirically, my family and I will tell you of the vast and disgusting amount. "Look at that Doug! It's a one-day collection!"  Dyson should consider adding a metric line to their amazing machine. Seriously, since they want to disclose the grime of our carpet anyway, why not measure it as well?  Soon, women will quit talking about the loads of laundry they've done. It will become passe'.  You'll start to hear comments like "I dumped 9 gallons of gunk from my Dyson this week." And who wouldn't rather talk about dirt, than laundry?

Happy dog - basking in the rug.

Anyway, just some food for thought for the Dyson folks.

Molly

It seems I must say goodbye to a loyal companion of 16 years...most of you have met our dear old grounds keeper, Molly. A few days ago, in the unbearable Iowa humidity, before the storm, she decided to limp away to select her burial ground. She hasn't come back, and I find myself wallowing in a grief that I had a feeling was coming this summer.

Already I'll miss coming home to that wagging, trotting, drooling (is she actually smiling?) pet of mine every night. I'll miss how she made us laugh by playing tag with the cats. I'll miss how she reminded me to enjoy nature every time she started sniffing the air. I'll miss watching her utter joy of prancing with a left over t-bone in her jaw. I'll miss her on my walks. She's never missed one. Until this morning. And it was heartbreaking.

Goodbye, Molly. I love you, Girl. You were the best dog ever. No matter how many flower pots you broke.