The Great Dog Mutiny

I don’t ignore my dog(s) on purpose.  On the contrary, I keep a rather mundane job at Graples so that my Katie can have regular walks and stay in premium dog food.  I know she can’t understand the sacrifices I’ve made, nor see them as sacrifices; so I try not to get upset when things at home go…not quite as planned.

Lately I’ve been spending more time away from home than usual.  Multiple dates with The Colombian, along with extra work put in at Graples, have come between me and Miss Katie.  I try to make our time together quality; however, Katie seems set on quantity, as evidenced by her recent undesirable behavior.

Though her relationship with Little Willie seems to be growing and transitioning into solid friendship, Katie appears to feel lonely during the day.  And she is exploring areas I wish she wouldn’t.  For example, last Tuesday night when The Colombian took me dancing, Katie went into my purse (as older children often do) and stole my new pack of peppermint-flavored whitening gum.  She took it upstairs to the bedroom, opened each blister, and chewed every piece of it.  She left the remains scattered about the room, along with the stuffing of her “little buddy,” her favorite toy of the last month, which is now a “dead buddy.”

When I left her overnight for a stay at the inn, Katie (I’m assuming) held it for as long as she could before letting fly her pee on the living room pine floor.  I would have expected no less.  But what I didn’t expect was her tearing into a stray grocery back and opening my toiletries, one by one, settling on an expensive tube of toothpaste.  She managed to eat through the cardboard box, flip open the flip-top cap, and squeeze half the paste into her mouth without spilling a drop.

A couple nights later, when The Colombian surprised me with a late dinner after work, I arrived home very late to this on the living room floor:

You’re Damn Skippy!

While I certainly understand her recent outbursts, I have to wonder whether she is simply bored, or whether she is actually offering payback for my lack of attention to her.  Dogs do not have intentions, according to the experts.  My guilt is brought on by me, and me alone.  Or so she would have you believe.

Tonight we will journey to pick up Biscuit.  Katie will not be so lonely, and his influence will help her to hold it when I of course work late at Graples.  I might even get away with spending a night or two at the inn, knowing that she has someone to cuddle up to in my bed.  But I can’t help but wonder whether I’ll come home to find the stuffing of my pillows scattered all over the floor.  It seems, more and more, that the Queen Bitch of the Hall is missing her throne.

A Little Life Update

The past week has been filled with activity, and, for the most part, joy.  Unfortunately, this has kept my posting limited.  A few begun, and none finished!

For those friends who read regularly, let me assure you that I have not quit.  I have merely been soaking up some much-needed South American Sunshine.  Four dates in five days, a giant home improvement project that consumed a full weekend, and a busy work-week have all contributed to a dead blog.  October, sadly, will be much the same.  My time is limited to home improvement in preparation for the visit of my parents for Birthday Week.

Oh, how I wish I had time to write!  This minute, loud thumps and thuds from above me are signaling that Willie is creating a blog-worthy mess upstairs!  Katie’s curious expression is highly photographable–and when I do return full time, it will be with a new camera to capture those too-cute moments.  Biscuit is healing…or is he?  He is with his father this week after an extended stay at Ina Hall.  And Carter…well, Carter remains on the fridge, hoping each day that this mean old dog will go away.  I predict that at some point, Willie will serve as a bridge between the oldest resident of the Hall, and its newest.

The Colombian has become a wonderful and joyous staple in my otherwise mundane life.  While he claims not to be ready to call this a “relationship,” his dedication and good behavior have indicated that his heart is open and ready for the beginnings of one.  Only time will tell if our seeming compatibility is for real.   But time, we seem to have.  I have personally found that his smile, his sweetness, and his “naughty laugh” are among my favorite things in life these days.  I intend to do whatever I must in order to invite more of these.

My dad has been ill.  He was released from the hospital yesterday, with a stern warning on diet.  The corn is in the midst of being cut back home, and my mother has run herself ragged tearing after all the loose ends.  For once, I think they may see their trip here as a “vacation” from all of it.  Ha!  Just wait until they step foot in the bathroom with no closing door!

I hate to run, but I must.  Walls must be patched and primed.  Trim must be scraped.  Laundry must be done.  Calls must be returned.  It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

Discovering my Powers of Witchery

Sorry pooches

When I close at Graples, I get up early to walk the dogs.  Katie and Biscuit (who has been with us for two weeks now) are good dogs in general, if a little needy.  While I am not a master dog-walker, we muddle through and find enjoyment where we can.

For the past two weeks, Biscuit has been barking at everything that moves.  Some of his outbursts are understandable:  we live amongst white trash drug dealers and crazy old grouches.  But justified or not, they are embarrassing.  And Katie, who has never been held to a high standard for behavior, pulls at times so hard on the leash that I nearly come out of my sneakers.

Yesterday morning, I reached my limit.  When a neighborhood stray crossed our paths, I found my arm nearly pulled from its socket as I attempted to prevent a doggy rundown in the street.  My hand was slightly bruised.

So when we got home, I dug through my boxes of books until I found the one I’d received as a gift from an old friend who dabbled in the dark arts.  If they were so fascinated with cats, it seemed the only fair thing to do:

Pepper Pecker Strikes Again!

Pepper on the Vine

I suppose we’ll call it a birthday gift. 

Yesterday was Little Willie’s first birthday.  He wouldn’t wear the hat, and he wouldn’t sit still for photos.  But his distracted mother foolishly left her beautiful new hot banana pepper on the countertop after showing it to The Colombian and walking away upstairs. 

Lo and behold, the pepper has been pecked.  And so ends the pepper season.

Pepper, pecked.

The Sisterhood

There is a little known bond which draws all women together, under one flag and as a family of Sisters. It is not often spoken of, as much more entertainment is made of the cattiness and slapfights we have with one another. But it exists. And when times are at their hardest, or happiest, we celebrate The Sisterhood.

These are a Few of my Favorite Things

1.  Singing in a choir.  Last night was my Choral Society practice.  I still feel my voice is out of shape, particularly problematic on sustained, pianissimo high notes.  I need to work on breath control…and confidence.  That said, when an assembled group of voices get it right, even just for a moment or a measure, the chills going down my spine are well worth any discomfort or embarrassment I feel when I don’t get it exactly right on my own.

In particular, when the men sing their four parts–all eight of the men–to near-perfection, I cannot contain my glee.  Neither can the other women in the chorus, who applaud the beauty of it, right out loud.  Our selections for the holiday concert, a collection of well-known Vermont poems set to glorious, complicated music, are absolute magic.

2.  Happy surprises.  As we ended our rehearsal, I texted The Colombian to let him know that, Yes, I was interested in seeing him.  (It has been a long, dry week, now that we have taken a break to allow for my new stalker–his ex–to cool her jets.)  I called him, and he began asking me a series of bizarre questions.

“So what are you wearing?”

“Jeans, why?”

“Jeans and what?”

“Jeans and…a shirt.”

“Jeans and what kind of shirt?”

“A button-up shirt.”

“And what does it look like?”

I’m walking out the door now, surrounded by curious choir members.  “A white shirt, with orange and green stripes.”  What an odd line of questioning.

“And now, are you fiddling for your keys?”

Holy crap, his ears are incredible.  “Actually, yes I am!”

“And are you carrying a folder as well?”  Oh, damn.

I peered into the darkness to see The Colombian in the distance.  He appeared like a Christmas package under a tree in the parking lot.  I swore and hung up the phone as I moved toward his smile, which reached out like a lantern in the pitch black.  His arms warmed me in the late summer chill, and his skin against mine felt like home.  What choir?

3.  Greasy burgers late at night…in the company of The Colombian.  We ate at a greasy spoon down the street from the church.  I had cheeseburgers, for the second time in the day.  He told stories and laughed.  I laughed at his laughter.  We talked about serious matters, too; but his warmth brings out a light in me that could not be squelched by talk of such nonsense.  For a moment, I almost forgot that his jury’s still out on me.  I was too busy making goo goo eyes.

4.  Kissing The Colombian.  Enough said.

Katie and Willie, Sitting in a Tree…

Something unusual happened this morning. I was awakened by a cat claw up my nose, inserted as Willie made a mad dash escape over my head and off the bed. Within a fraction of a second, Katie’s snarling snout approached my ear in chase, and stopped. “Dammit! Katie! Stop!” In my hazy grog from recent REM, I could not understand what had just happened; but I knew that it must have been Katie’s doing.

In the light of day later on, I was not so sure. Little Willie has become more and more bold as far as Katie is concerned. He has grown confident in his ability to escape quickly, especially when I am near, and has ceased shying away in most cases. Katie chases him less frequently, as she has begun to accept him as part of her pack. As far as their rank goes…well, that has yet to be settled.

Bottom of the Bottle

Earlier tonight, after looking through Jukey and realizing there were even more texts and hang-ups from Cy Kobiotch than I originally thought–apparently I am a hard sleeper–I thought back over the last year, and toward my own semi-psychotic calling and texting of The Bill. I realized, finally, what it must have looked like from his point of view. All the anger and frustration I had for him would come spewing forth in ranting voicemail soundbites, and scathing two-line mortar attacks.

Head Versus Gut

What do you do when your senses are misaligned, when one key portion of you sees one thing, and the other key part sees something entirely different?  Does the truth lie somewhere in the middle?  Or is it possible that there is no such thing as “truth” in some circumstances?

The events of the past week have left me in a tailspin, psychologically speaking.  Only it’s not my typical autumn tailspin, full of doubts and fears.  No, in fact, my head is now operating very clearly and with reason.  My emotions are in check, my behavior is what could be considered “normal,” even by conservative standards.  What I have, unfortunately, is a crisis of heart.

The Colombian has been upfront with me since the beginning, this I believe.  Ordinarily, when one is being lied to or misled, there is something in the gut that we choose to either face, or ignore.  In the past, more often than not, I’ve ignored this gut instinct.  I’ve used my head to justify a man’s sketchy behavior, while my gut was screaming out “He’s a liar!  You’re being played!”  But in this case, the reverse is true.  By all outward appearances, my head tells me that The Colombian is a lying cad.  My gut, however, firmly believes otherwise.

There was a woman, before.  We’ll give her a name.  How about Cy Kobiotch?  Cy is The Colombian’s “business partner” at the inn.  I asked about her on our first date, as any woman in close quarters with a new flame can be cause for concern.  He revealed that they had, in fact, once had a romantic relationship, but that it had ended badly after she became abusive.  His friends, he said, had questioned his involvement with this Cy Kobiotch, wondering about not only their compatibility, but about her mental stability and goodness.  Still, he had been grateful for her impact on the business, so when the relationship ended, he allowed her to stay.

She was to leave this month, and move away to a condo far away.  He was to buy her out and say goodbye forever to their partnership.  She was the reason he had initially put off our first date until September; this was when she was to have left.  He didn’t want me running into her, as he feared her reaction and the scene she would make.  But I thought their relationship was over?  Yes, it was…but her erratic behavior knows no bounds, and has not stopped since the end of their affair.  He would not risk the business.

This was the story I was told, and this was the story I believed.  I still believe.  You see, I am familiar with Cy and her demeanor.  She is a customer at Graples.

Over the last weeks, The Colombian has pulled back, been elusive, even angry at times.  This seems to have coincided with massive quarrels with Cy.  I’ve been at the losing end, unfortunately, being stood up and ignored.  I put my foot down, and gave The Colombian one last chance to do things right.

Last night, things happened.  We had scheduled a date, and Cy intercepted The Colombian just as he was ready to go with me.  I watched this from outside the window.  It was disturbing.  I decided to let go, and let him deal with her however he pleased.  I was done with the whole mess.  I would no longer accept her affecting my social life.

But she, unfortunately, did NOT let go.  A call from her in the middle of the night confirmed that she had been intercepting not only The Colombian, but my messages, texts, and emails as well.  I said nothing to her as she raged and berated me, claiming their relationship was still intact, and that I had been misinformed.  She called me the crazy one before slamming the phone down.

Was she right?  Had my friends’ suspicions been justified, this whole time?  Had my own head, which carried a laundry list of warning signs, been correct?  Or was she crazy?  And what would I do now?

My head, which carries the list, is clear, but not infallible.  My heart is shut down for the time being.  My gut, however, is telling an entirely new and different story.  It is telling me, without hesitation or reservation, that The Colombian is being honest.  She is unstable, and wants to scare me away from her claim.  She has already refused to leave, as she said she would in September.  She wants him back, and thinks she can win against the new harlot.

The thing is, when I go with my gut, I am never wrong–nor am I ever stronger.  Cy Kobiotch has no idea what she’s in for.  Now that my emotions are normalized and my head is clear, there is no stopping me from getting what I want.  While I’m not sure what I want is The Colombian, I absolutely won’t let Cy Kobiotch make that decision for me.  I am master of my own fate, driver of my own destiny.  And I absolutely, positively, won’t back down from a fight.

Infected

When Patrick arrived with him, I was shocked at Biscuit’s appearance. It had been less than a week since I’d seen him, and he had deteriorated visibly. Patches of his Robert Redford hair were missing, and some was hanging only by static electricity. His eyes were surrounded by “eye goobers,” and he had scratched himself on the eyelids until they’d become pink and puffy.

Harmonious Joy

When I was young, I used to love to sing in the choir at school.  I managed to make time for it every year in high school (along with band class), becoming a leader and remaining emotionally invested.  All my friends were in the choir, and even my enemies were friends when our voices were joined together.  Our director always picked challenging pieces which were so satisfying to learn and master, and we performed well in contests, achieving wonderful ratings.

In college, I joined a choral group and stayed with it for all my semesters.  Each year, I would audition for our well-known director, hoping to make it into the “big” choir–which was a position of some status within the music college–and each semester, I failed.  He thought my voice was more suited to the smaller group, which sung pieces not nearly so challenging, and met not as often.  Three times a week was not nearly enough rehearsal for my taste.  I desperately loved the act of singing with a chorus, and wanted to be in the larger choir not only to perform more challenging pieces, but to be able to rehearse daily.

In my last semester there, the choral director began skipping our class very regularly.  He had always complained of bursitis, and was having a lot of challenges with his directing arm.  He made it only to one or two classes a week.  But he rarely, if ever, skipped out on the large choir.  He cancelled three of our four scheduled concerts, citing that we were either not ready, or he didn’t expect a turnout.  I could tell he didn’t like our group that semester.  And I began not to like him very much, either.

There were a core group of us who had been dedicated members for some time.  We knew the newer additions were not great, not of the caliber of past groups, but we also believed in the power of a chorus, and knew that with practice, they would improve.  We would improve.  Apparently, our own director did not believe in the power of singing.  As he stopped coming to class, I, too, stopped coming to class.  I failed that semester by skipping out on the “final.”

I hadn’t sung in a chorus since then.  I felt some bitterness, like the joy of singing had been sucked from me by one cynical man, whom I had once respected and now could not.  Then last week, a young woman was in my store making photo copies, and I stopped to help her.  Nosy as I am, I took a look at the paper I held in my hand.

“What’s this?  ‘No audition necessary’?”  She was copying a flyer for the local choral society. 

Tilting her head with a sly squint of her eyes, she asked, “Why?  Do you sing?”  She was willing me to say yes.

I thought about it for more than a second.  Do I sing?  I sing in the car.  I sing in my head.  I used to do a mean karaoke.  “Yyyyes…I guess I do.  But I haven’t sung in a group since college.”  Saying it out loud made me wince a little.

Excitedly, her face now animated, she began, “Well!  Let me tell you a little about our group….”  She gave me the hard sell, talking about the importance of younger folks joining now, about the choir’s storied history and world-class director.  And she did her best not to frighten me.  “Listen, I know how you feel.  I hadn’t sung in years.  But everyone is very accepting, and you’ll realize that you remember more than you think!  It all comes back to you.”

I doubted this.  It’s been more than twelve years!  How could I possibly remember how to read sheet music, how to harmonize, how to take cues from a director?  And could I still hit those high notes?  I wasn’t sure.  But I told her I would come.

Last night after work, I put on some street clothes–a rare treat, as all I do is work and lounge–and drank plenty of water.  My instrument was tired as well as dehydrated.  I checked the internet for a map to the church where we would be meeting, which was in an unfamiliar area.  On the drive, I began some familiar warm-ups.  I was disgusted to find that not only could I not hit those high notes, but the low notes and in-between ones sounded quite sour to my own ear.  I was about to embarrass myself.

I was among the first to arrive, and was immediately struck with terror.  The women at the registration table were kind, longtime members who were excited and curious at how I came to join them.  They introduced me to the director, whose reputation had preceded him.  (He, along with most of the people I met during the night, was familiar as a customer at Graples.  I didn’t bring it up.  I’m not great at the small-town thing yet.)  I was then led to the music librarian, who issued me a packet of sheet music and told me I’d be responsible for taking care of it for the next twelve weeks.

I selected a chair in the soprano section (which I feared was a mistake), a few seats from a woman I guessed was in her early seventies.  By now there were ten or so of what appeared to be other members.  Before long, the woman picked up her things and slid over next to me.  “Hello, are you new?  I’m Annette!  You’re going to LOVE the choir!”  She was lively and engaging, and sang a lovely coloratura under her breath.

Annette told me about her own musical history, how she’d lived in “the City” for many years, then in Philadelphia, living a life in musical theater.  She’d moved to a nearby town in Massachusetts last year, and had happened onto this group in Bennington through an acquaintance.  She promised I’d be “moved to tears” by several of the selected pieces, most of which she’d sung before.  “And the director is not only world-class, he is also hilarious and very good.  He will pull things out of you that you don’t know are there.”

By the time we were ready to begin, nearly fifty people had joined the half moon of assembled voices.  Most of them, as my recruiter promised, were older, of retirement age.  I spotted a small handful of thirty-somethings sprinkled through the crowd, and one girl who could’t have been more than 20.  I had picked a spot on the front row so the voices behind me could prod me along; but also so no one would be in front to hear my singing.

The warmups made me nervous, which is not their purpose at all.  I had snuck a peek at most of the sheet music pieces, and was blown away by their seeming difficulty.  I just knew I was in over my head.  When we cracked open the first piece, I was convinced I hadn’t sung it before; but as Ed began to play the parts through the first time, I realized it was familiar.  Had it been high school?  College?  I knew the song, and the poem attached.  I was able to read the lines once, then watch the director intently on each successive run-through.

This was my only really lucky break, other than having sat next to Annette.  She was very good, and had that rich textured high soprano that is so common in established choirs.  The rest of the music was extremely challenging, the lyrics strange and beautiful.  But I slogged through, listening to my neighbors and to the guidance of the piano.  I was better at reading the tunes and the rhythms than I thought I would be.  My voice was embarrassingly weak, or strained, but I could feel all those years worth of knowledge and experience flooding back.

I needn’t have been embarrassed by my voice, nor worried about my selection of section.  The altos, who faced us and sang into our space, were a strange blend of blats and dragging.  They slouched, and faced downward, and drove the director a little nuts.  But he bore it with grace and graciousness.

By the halfway point, I was in heaven.  Parts of my mind had been awakened that had long stood dormant.  Pieces of my heart were floating and flying on the wind of fifty assembled voices singing the words of poets long dead and yet still alive.  I could have sung all night.  I no longer cared that I was not as good as my neighbors, or as experienced.  I was having a great time!

I found myself, while seated, clinging to the front of my chair, lungs and diaphragm open and sucking for air.  Without prompting, I held my music high so I could read it and see the director at the same time.  I smiled like an idiot when he made jokes, and sighed with the group when we ended a particularly glorious harmony.

I am a team player.  I enjoy being part of a group more than anything–that is, if that group is one dedicated to a singular purpose and its members are equally interested in being in it together.  A choir is the perfect sort of team, with each member playing his or her role, but not alone.  Two voices singing the same part bring two different textures to the tapestry of sound; and ten voices singing the same part can be heard at a distance blending into one rich voice.  Adding more layers, more parts, only adds to the richness of sound and unity.  There is nothing like it in the world.

I am continually amazed at how breaking my routine brings with it such amazing gifts of adventure and purpose.  I am also aware of how returning to my roots brings me closer to my future.  I am sure that my Monday night would have been perfectly pleasant had I stayed at home on the sofa with my pups, folding laundry and chuckling at television reruns.  But in breaking from my routine, and doing the thing I was scared to do, I found pure, unadulterated joy.  I can’t wait for the first concert, but I also dread it.  Because when it is over, so will be the season for singing.

Co-parenting, and the Modern Dog

My Biscuit is having a…ruff time.  His dad called the other night in a fit of anger, at an awkward moment.

“I can’t talk right now,” I greeted him on the phone.  I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

“Fine.  Then, when you can talk, call the damned vet and make an appointment for your dog.  He’s completely torn up.”  Biscuit’s skin issue has worsened, as have his chewing and licking.  He has lost approximately half the hair on his rear half, even with his cone in place.

While Patrick and I get along famously as exes, our decision-making regarding Biscuit is not without complications and disagreements.  Already feeling guilty and over-committed–I’ve worked a couple of seventy-hour weeks now, along with juggling a new would-be boyfriend and home improvement–and looking for some support from my former other half, I suggested that Patrick might want to call and make the appointment himself.  That went over like a fart at Mass.

“It’s your vet, why don’t you just call and talk to him like you should have weeks ago?” he challenged.  He was willing to take Biscuit on Saturday, on his day off, if I would make the call.  I didn’t think my vet was even open on Saturdays.

Bristling, I replied, “Since you are the one who’s off, why don’t you call?  I am at work late every day right now, there is no possible way I could take him, which is why I didn’t do it before.  Just take him to the other vet, by your house.”  We hate the other vets.  He never sees the same doctor twice, and the office staff are surly when you call to inquire about your pet.  But they seem competent, and convenient.

I was having flashbacks to the aftermath of the fire.  I was working full time, struggling to learn a new job, in a new city, while my unemployed husband sat home and yet couldn’t manage to communicate with the city administration back in Missouri, nor the insurance company.  He was too busy shopping with his mother.  When we were first married, and somewhat content, he wouldn’t even call for a pizza.  If I didn’t make the call, we didn’t eat. 

“Whatever.”  He hung up, pissed off.  I was forcing him to take some action.

Once I’d had a chance to think about it, I felt like an asshole.  Biscuit has had a difficult time over the years.  He was abandoned by his first people, and spent long, lonely months in an overcrowded shelter.  The day we brought him home, he insisted on riding on Patrick’s lap.  He was 44 pounds then.  When we arrived home, there was a giant, terrifying cat there who held him hostage daily in the kitchen.  Just when he got a decent routine going, we packed up the house around him to move…and then it burned down.  He was ripped from his home in the night and carted halfway across the country to live in a tiny room with his parents and cat brother.  Then his mommy left him, and his daddy got another, even scarier cat.

Biscuit has two homes, two packs.  As much as we’re able, we try to pretend we’ve made it one large pack, throwing together the three cats, and spending an evening here or there.  But no matter how much we pretend, Biscuit is the oddball.  He is carted back and forth, between two houses, two dog beds, two different lifestyles.  He has been displaced as the Lead Dog in my household by Katie, who’s taken all the good toys, a spot on my bed, and often, Biscuit’s food.

When he’s here, Biscuit spends more and more time away from me, in another room.  Patrick tries to tell me that he’s always been that way, that at some point he has always separated himself; but that’s not how I remember it.  He increasingly barks crazily at passing neighbors, and tries to go after neighborhood cats.  His behavior is odd an unacceptable.  But I find myself unable to provide him with discipline.  I have none of it myself, and allow my emotions and my guilt about the dogs to take energy away from what I know is the right thing.

Yesterday morning, my vet’s wife came in to Graples.  “Are you guys open on Saturdays?”  (I love that Bennington is small enough that I can run into a person and ask a question like that without re-introducing myself.)  She said that they were, and she listened to my concerns.  She agreed that we should bring him in.

“I made an appointment for Saturday morning.  I can come and get him tomorrow, or you can bring him, whatever is easier.  I’m sorry I couldn’t talk about it before,” I said into Pat’s voice mail.  When he called back, he said he’d already made an appointment at the other vet.  He would have to call and cancel.

Tomorrow, we will go together, as one pack, to see the doctor.  He will advise us what is medically wrong with our dog.  Knowing him as I have for a short time, he will likely also advise us what is wrong with us–in a very kind way.  We have waited too long to take action on a problem that we may have caused ourselves.  I, for one, can see that I need some behavior modification training.  My dog will show me the way; but I will have to begin leading the pack.