Tag Archives: Esme

The Veteran Rookie

I’ve been around dogs all my life, but something about J.D. feels like my first dog.

Perhaps it’s that I’m retired, and raising a pup feels more like parenting — helicopter parenting — than with previous kids. Perhaps it’s the pandemic, and sequestered life has taken on new meaning. Perhaps it’s J.D. herself; what dog is not a unique blend of energy and stardust?

Regardless, I feel like I’ve come to a new awareness of bringing a youngling into the world. Namely, this realization:

Babies are assholes.

There’s no getting around it. They’re self-centered, awful listeners, and good luck trying to get them to mow the lawn, ‘cuz their rows are crooked as hell. Overall, they’re pretty useless.

And yet, it’s that very uselessness that makes their upbringing such a profound experience. Once, when Esme was a puppy and I was renting a home with a pool, I heard a splash in the backyard. She had fallen in.

I dashed to the backyard, where I found her, paddling at the deep end, unable to get her tiny paws hooked on the ledge. As I scooped to get her, we briefly made eye contact, and I knew: If I don’t get her out, she drowns. We both knew it.

I scooped her, of course, and she immediately tempted fate by returning to water’s edge. But the moment — and her look during it — is cemented in my brain pan.

I think of that moment often with J.D., because she is always seemingly dog paddling. Chewing rocks that are choking hazards. Leaping from heights she has no right scaling. Looking for a flash of daylight to sprint through, over or under my fence and into a threatening world. Her pool remains too deep; it just lacks water.

When I look back on other pooches, I think: You were a terrible parent. For years, I kept my hounds in spacious crates, filled with toys and water and snacks and everything vets and friends recommended. I’d come home from work for lunch, let them out, repeat at dinner.

That’s not parenting.

J.D. has the same amenities in her crate (I could probably rent it out in this housing crunch), but I am hardly the absentee landlord I once was. Now I use the crate sparingly; usually when I need a moment to bathe and not worry that she’s dropping my electric razor into the sink and turning on the hot water, which she did last week.

In a week, she’ll get her final round of immunization shots and she’ll be free to romp at the park. I can’t wait to see how she reacts to other dogs. She hasn’t seen one since she left the litter.

She’s not going to know what to do with all the open air. She has a wonderful backyard, where we spend hours and hours (along with this minute). But she has sprinted to every corner of my postage stamp; it’s time to gallop!

Just don’t run too far, please. I’m not ready to give up the chopper.

El Amor Es Una Perra 











Bad dog. 





In the literal and metaphorical sense, J.D. is being a little bitch. She’s chewed through a tried-and-true pair of sandals that cradled my feet like Jesus. She will not see the benefits of outdoor plumbing. And now she’s leapt up, nipping my right index finger and drawing blood.





As an added curtsy, she’s barking her head off in an ever-deepening-yet-still-shrill voice for reasons I can’t dechipher. Maybe she’s bored. Maybe shes tired. Maybe she sees what a fraud of a parent I am.





I used to fancy myself adroit at dog raising. I’ve lived with them all my life, and still retain shards of dog training tips that seem to work.





Or used to. Clearly, I am not the Obi Wan to dogs that Teddy was. He raised the smartest animal I ever saw, Esme. He potty trained her, taught her to sit, even showed her how to fetch, even though he did not know how.





Archives for January 2018 | The HollywoodBowles
Feel the fuzzy Force, Esme.





I could use his advice now. Or at least his thick fur, which he was happy to let Esme chew on during her teething phase.





So I let his advice flow over me. Let her bark; she’s learning her first words. Let her chew; she doesn’t yet know the loving nibble. Let her be; she just turned 3 months old (!) today.





And he reminds me from the cloud circuit that I am the one who needs training, not her. Enjoy the newness of the life she brings, he tells me in every photo of the duo I see: One day soon, those hairs will gray, those nips will become naps, and I will remember how, as a puppy, she would sit at the foot of my shower, waiting for me to finish. How, when she’s tired, she preferred to slumber in my lap. How, when I take too long to bathe (which is all the time), she would  drag my sweatpants into the living room and sleep on them.










How, when I sit to write at the computer, she curled at my feet, unwilling and uninterested in curling anywhere else.





Like now.





Good dog.














			            

		

		
		
	
    

				

									

				Siamese Dream
			

								


				

			

NATIONAL SIAMESE CAT DAY - April 6, 2020 | National Today





“A rare, two headed snake was discovered in Florida today when a cat dragged  it into a Palm Beach home. Said the homeowner: Gah! Get that cat outta here!” — Seth Meyers





Dos, the two-headed snake





This site occasionally teases that dogs are better than cats, usually because of jokes like the one Myers told last night.





It’s just too easy. If a meteor unleashed a virus that ballooned domestic pets to the size of Buicks, goldfish would hog pools, hamsters would consume couches, and cats would shred us like mama grizzlies. With dogs, your biggest threat would be slobber drownings. That and concern that dogs hump only your leg.





But in all honesty, as I begin to brush the cobwebs from my windshield to start looking toward a new companion, I wish adopting a cat were an option. Because one of the coolest I ever met has befriended me.





Alas, I can’t own a feline because of the transplant. The immunocompromised and pregnant are strongly discouraged from cat ownership because of the lethal risk of toxoplasmosis, a nasty organism that lives only in cat feces.





That’s a shame, because the truth is, when a cat loves you the way a dog does, it can be more of a dopamine rush.





I realized this after meeting a diminutive Siamese with what feels like a broken tail. She’s a tiny thing, as light as a sparrow. But she isn’t shy about being pet, and will drive her head forcibly into your hand to commence her massage. It’s wonderful.





Esme loved being pet, too. She would hop on the couch (when her legs worked), and sprawl against your side, exposing a pink, bulbous belly that demanded attention.





Esme | The HollywoodBowles - Page 4





It was unfailingly, unfathomably adorable. But it came with a price: She farted like a diesel truck engine, and her many bumps and warts made her look like an upended frog. The Siamese, on the other hand, is all petting pleasure, without the silent-but-deadlies. 





And cats just feel better. Like a stuffed animal coming to life to huddle with you, but with a warmer, softer coat. The sound of a content cat purring is like hearing a perfectly-tuned violin.





I’m sure I will still joke about the evolutionary differences between wolf and mountain lion progeny. And the fact remains: Feline fanatics will boast about their cats being dog-like; canine connoisseurs don’t brag about their dogs being cat-like.





And I remain a dog guy. Through the windshield, I’m beginning to make out the prospects of a new live-in: tiny roommates; gigantic ones; siblings; duos, entire families.





But the truth about cats and dogs is this: They’re best when they’re a little bit of both.