Just a Walk in the Park, Officer

Duck Pond at the Local Park

Recently, I discovered a lovely little park not too far from our new house.  The park offers a tangle of paved pathways running throughout a wooded area, all bordered by a peaceful river.  There are picnic areas and a duck pond, and the locals stop by to have lunch and a quick walk.  This, I decided, was the perfect place to take my new puppy on his daily walk. Our outings were a huge success, and each day I looked forward to spending time at my little oasis.

Today I decided to be a little adventurous, taking a longer path than normal through the park.  About halfway through the route, I saw a little black and white, pointy eared dog standing on a foot bridge.  At this point in the path, there were no parking lots or picnic areas nearby, and I couldn’t see anyone through the dense patch of trees surrounding the path. The dog had a collar and a tag, so I tried my best to coax him over to us. My intention was to check the tag, call the phone number, and hopefully get this little guy back home. My own puppy, always eager to make a friend, scared the little dog over to the river bank.  So I crept just a few feet off the path, talking out loud to both dogs all the while.

I must have stood there talking to these dogs like a crazy lady for a solid five minutes.  Finally the little black and white dog began heading our direction, but then darted off to hide under the footbridge.  As I started to walk over the wooden bridge, hoping to meet the dog on the other side, I looked between the cracks under my feet in search of him. That’s when I caught a glimpse of something odd.

Under my feet I saw a pair of white sneakers, on a pair of feet, sticking out from a pair of blue jeans that were clearly occupied.  I was straddling what appeared to be a man laying flat in the ditch below.

My first reaction, for some reason, was not to alarm the dog. I myself was terrified… instantly assuming this was a dead body and the killer must be nearby, watching me talk to the dogs, waiting for me to discover his secret.  But in some effort to “throw him off” I continued talking aloud to my puppy as though I hadn’t seen a thing.  Maybe if the killer thinks I didn’t see the body, he’ll just let me go.  So I kept walking, saying aloud “That doggie doesn’t want to play. Oh do you want to run? Yes that’s a good dog… let’s go for a run!”  And we ran the remaining half mile back to the car in record time.

Now I realize that this was probably just some homeless guy, who was being very polite considering I had interrupted his nap.  But the fact that he hadn’t spoken or even shuffled an inch really had me worried.  So I called the non-emergency police explaining, “There was this dog, and these feet, and homeless but not moving but I don’t really know for sure.”  I left park immediately after making the call.

The dispatcher called for a little more information, saying that the officers hadn’t found anything.  So I’ll never know for sure. Did the killer move the evidence? Or did the homeless guy finally wake up?

All I know is… I need to find a new place to walk.

My Great Migrations

I have always felt the need to travel.  Coming from a family that could never afford to “take a vacation” in the traditional sense, I had little exposure to the world outside my home and immediate family.  Even so, I always knew I loved other places.  I developed a plan, as many teenagers do, to get as far away as possible as soon as I was old enough.

When I was 16, I left my parents’ home for boarding school.  Although it was only an hour’s drive, the experience was rich in cultural exposure.  I grew up in a small town in the Bible Belt of America, completely un-aware that Christianity wasn’t “the norm” in other places, or that people might have customs different than my own.  I was quickly thrown into a new world that was eye-opening in the best way.

My roommate was of the Mormon faith, and she so gracefully answered all of my questions about her religion by starting with “Well, we believe….” instead of “It’s like this.”  That’s when I first started to change my own way of expression and thinking.  From “This is how it is, because that’s what I believe” to “I feel this way, but I don’t mean to say that you are wrong.”  Our dorm-room neighbors were Muslim.  I didn’t even know what Muslim was, but by the end of the semester I had learned and observed many of its customs.  I grew to really respect religious diversity and to this day enjoy learning about the intricacies that make each one unique.  I loved listening to a girl on my floor talk about her early life in Pakistan, where she was born.  I learned why Bengali is not Indian. I was amazed to discover that my friend went to “Chinese” school conducted in Mandarin, while I was playing Nintendo.  To this day, I love listening to my friends tell stories about their respective cultures.

Still, I could not afford to travel to any of these exotic places that my peers were so familiar with.  That is, I couldn’t go on vacation.  But the time to move on to college was approaching, and I could live wherever I wanted.  I landed in New Orleans, LA, which I absolutely adored.  I loved the culture- garden district streetcars, open air markets, sunbathing at the levee, and drive-through daiquiris.  Then Hurricane Katrina forced an unexpected relocation.  Again I wanted to go somewhere new, so I applied to the University of Southern California- sight unseen.  I packed my belongings (what was left) into my tiny car and drove to a place that I had never been to before, to live with people who I had never met.  I navigated the highways of Los Angeles and found my downtown apartment, which I had selected from over 1800 miles away.  I wonder if I still have the courage to do something like that.

So now sitting in my own little house on the prairie, I’ve started to feel that familiar craving.  After reviewing the not-so-encouraging vacation budget, I can’t help but wonder if just moving to a new city would be easier.  To hell with counting vacation days… maybe I’ll just learn Italian, move to the Almalfi Coast, and open a little café.

My husband does love pasta.

Emotion Vs. Reason (Or as I like to call it, What to Expect When Expecting a Puppy)

Lab-Weimaraner mix at 10 weeks old.

I recently experienced a huge disruption in my otherwise peaceful life.  After years of anticipation, my husband and I decided to adopt a puppy from the local shelter.

For the longest time I had two voices on the issue.  The first voice, my inner animal lover, said, “You’ll be saving a life and getting years of fulfilling companionship.”  The second and more practical voice countered with, “Only when you buy a house with a reasonable yard.  No, that’s not big enough, wait until the next house and try again.”  So when we moved into our second home, the animal-lover said, “Okay, now we can get a puppy.  I’ve met your criteria.”  To which the voice of reason said, “That yard is sufficient, but now you are working very long hours. This isn’t the time to get a puppy.”  It was true, I was commuting nearly four hours on top of managing a heavy workload. And then everything changed.

My husband’s job relocation allowed me to quit my demanding job and move into a home on a 3 acre lot.  The voice of reason had run out of excuses, and the more passive animal-lover said, “It’s time!” When the local animal shelter posted newborn Labrador-Weimaraner puppies, I knew the stars had truly aligned.

Adopting a new puppy is somewhat similar to expecting a child.  While I was waiting for the puppy to be weaned from his dog-mommy, I started purchasing all the necessities and preparing the house.  I also had an unexpected experience- sheer panic.  I would wake in the middle of the night and think, “I’m not ready for this!  There is a reason we don’t have kids yet! This is too much commitment!”  The voice of reason seemed to be pulling out all the stops.  I decided to keep these doubts to myself, sure that the feelings would pass and that my maternal instincts would kick in when the sweet little furball came home. 

The sweet little furball cried and howled throughout the entire first night.  I took him outside five times in the freezing midnight darkness, thinking that making him “hold it” was too torturous for both of us.  I had no intention of letting him sleep anywhere but his crate, but I was at his beck and call when it came to potty time.  I must have taken him out 50 times a day in the beginning, just in case.  I quickly wised-up and developed a strict schedule based on quantitative analysis.

(time in between potties) = (puppies age in weeks) x (15 minutes)

During the first weeks, I continued having bouts of panic about my decision to get a new family member.  I stopped showering, the cat started to avoid me, and my life revolved around the potty schedule of this furry little thing. I didn’t have time for afternoon tea, or crafts, or blogging/email/communication with anyone but the dog.  My conversation consisted of nothing but “Good potty” or “No!!”

The puppy is now 10 weeks old, and I am still struggling with my inner voices.  The animal-lover says, “Stick it out, this time will pass.  You committed to this, and you are responsible for this little life.  Your temporary misery is irrelevant.”  The practical, voice of reason says, “You don’t enjoy playing with him, and you feel little affection towards him. He is causing stress on your marriage and creating a lifestyle that you don’t want. Take him back to find a more suitable home.” As a shelter volunteer for years, I am shocked that these ideas even present themselves as options.  I feel terribly hypocritical. I’ve been known to curse people who adopt a pet, only to return it later.  I never understood how anyone could do that, and yet here I am experiencing such feelings.

I try my best to give him lots of exercise, both physical and mental, to show that I care for him.  But one chomp at the cat and I feel as though I could march him straight back to the shelter. When he performs well at obedience, I feel a deep sense of pride and start to think I can deal with puppy-hood.  Then later, when his obedience becomes selective, I feel a rage of frustration.

As of now, the problem is unresolved.  I wonder how normal or abnormal these feelings are.  Which inner voice should ultimately win this battle?