If a lion roars in Zimbabwe, but no one's around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Can I just say, I’m rather annoyed with people and this Cecil the Lion thing.  

I’m not irritated for reasons you might think.  I’m not upset because people are outraged over his killing; I am too.  I’m upset because people who aren’t outraged somehow feel the need to sanctimoniously belittle those who are.   “Oh, you give a shit about a lion, but not the children dying in Africa.”  Um, go to hell.  Yeah, I care about that too.  Why can’t I give a shit about both?   How does me caring about Cecil make me care less about children starving?

Who the hell is anyone to tell me that something I care about isn’t worthy, simply because he doesn’t find it significant or thinks there is something more important to care about?  “Americans can care about a lion but not….”  Give it a rest already.  Don’t tell me what to care about.  Here’s an idea - educate me about your cause, without disparaging someone else’s.  That’s a good place to start.  But telling me that I have to care about your beliefs simply because, well, I care about a stupid ol’ lion is going to get you a face palm.   And if you’re planning on trying to educate me – have facts, not propaganda.  I like to think I’m a reasonable and considerate person; if you come at me with thoughtful, factual information, I’ll listen.  It doesn’t guarantee that I’m going to agree, but I’ll try to see your point of view.  If you’re simply going to spew out vitriolic half-truths and exaggerations at me, you’ll be lucky if you get my zoned-out look.  That means I’m not going to engage you because I realize that talking with you is a waste of my time; you’ve drank the proverbial Kool-Aid.  If you’re not lucky, you’re going to get an earful from me about why you’re an idiot.   These days, I often opt for the former.  It makes my head hurt less and keeps my blood pressure down.  

To sum up; I can care that a lion was killed for its head and hide but its carcass was left to rot and still care about starving children, Vladimir Putin’s policies, law enforcement safety, animal abuse, elderly abuse, the state of education in this country, curing cancer, curing MS, national security, and a plethora of other things.  I can also care about Cecil being slaughtered and not give two hoots about your cause.  I’m talented like that.  You can choose to care (or not) about Vlad’s policies and whatever else you deem important.  Me giving a damn about a lion shouldn’t change that. 

I'm in love with a pitbull.

My friend, Kelli, who runs the dog rescue I have fostered for in the past, was going on vacation to see her son and needed to piecemeal all her dogs out to friends and family for a little over a week.  I volunteered to take one.  I asked for a small female; one who would fit the doggie door but not cause the male canines in my house to go on a mass peeing spree as they competed for turf.  She said she had just the dog; a little sweet youngster who just wanted to be loved - and she would fit through my doggie door.  Sounded perfect!  Another girlfriend of mine had just adopted a lhasa apso mix that was just precious so I was secretly excited for a young baby to come stay with me for a while.   

I met Kelli the other night at Petsmart (our usual meeting spot) to make the exchange.  She got out of the car and out behind her trotted a gorgeous pittie.

Shit.  That was not at all what I was expecting.

I had only that morning sprung it on KC that we were going to have another dog for "about a week," I had not prepared him that it would be a pit.  My husband's experiences with pitbulls have not been what one would call positive.  They have all been while he was at work on the Southside and they have all belonged to dopers or gangbangers who haven't exactly trained them to be friendly to the Boys (and Girls) in Blue....Less than a week ago he made a comment on one of my Facebook posts about getting chewed up by a pitbull.

"Your dad is going to kill me."  I said to Dear Daughter before I exited my vehicle.

I walked up to this beauty and her butt started to wiggle.  And I mean wiggle.  Like she could be in a Sir Mix-A-Lot video with her moves.  I knelt down and was met with a big ol' wet, sloppy kiss on my face.  Dear Daughter saw that as her cue that it was safe for her to get out too.  She listened as Kelli told us more about 'Brindie,' who was named for her wonderful fur; this included a lot of gushing about how great a pup she is.  Brindie jumped in the backseat of my car, put her nose between the two fronts seats, looked eye-to-eye with Dear Daughter and immediately kissed her, then turned and laid down.  She didn't make a noise the whole ride home.  We got out and DD ran inside to shut the door to the dog's room.  (Yes, my dogs have a room - don't judge.)  Brindie came in, sniffed around, then I let her outside - where my pack, that knew something was up - they could just smell it, charged through the doggie door and up into this sweet girl's business.  I had kept her on a leash; I wasn't yet sure how things were going to go between her and my rude brood.

Pepper, who I was most worried about, was surprisingly the most welcoming.  Frank and Baxter were complete jerks, to say the least.  Tink just saw this giant and ran to hide out of her way.  Zippy quickly followed Tink's lead.  Daisy, my old lady, wasn't sure what to think.  After letting them sniff her, she then tried to sniff them.  They were not very reciprocating in that department.  When I saw that she wasn't going to instigate any fights, I took her off her lead.  She shyly made the rounds around the yard and then came to me immediately upon being called.  We introduced her to the doggie door.  It took one time through and she had the hang of it.  So far so good....

I waited patiently for KC to come home.  Soon, I hear his car pull up and so do the dogs.  They start barking, spinning, and jumping.  He walks through the door and is swarmed by his furry babies - all vying for his attention.  He goes through his hellos to all of them, taking the time to pick up his favorite dog, (yes, he openly has a favorite) Frank, the poodle.  Brindie approaches him cautiously and he says out loud, "Oh boy.  Who's this?"  He makes the mistake of kneeling down and is immediately rushed by the pack, each aggressively wanting his affection.  He pushes them all out of the way and approaches Brindie, who promptly takes the submissive posture of laying down and showing her belly.  He rubs her belly, gives her a couple of pats, and gets up.  Taking that as an invitation, she gets up and jumps on him.  "No, get down," he sternly tells her and she runs off.

Whew.  Next step - feeding time.  Kelli must have fed her before bringing her to me because she took a couple bites and spit them out.  I didn't know it at the time and was worried she wasn't going to eat my food.  I found out the next morning that I had nothing to worry about; she ate like a champ.

She has continued to charm us.  Kelli wasn't lying - she is a big, goofy lovebug.  She sleeps on the couch in the dog's room (she is sacked out as I write this) and follows me whenever I change rooms.  She's got "the lean" down; whenever she's near, she has to be touching me by leaning against me to let me know she cares.  She wants to play with the other dogs so badly but she's so big, she's like the dog version of  Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in that my dogs "never let poor Brindie, join in any doggie games."  She also loves Dear Daughter, so much that DD came in my room last night to let me know how upset she was with me for bringing this dog home.  "How am I supposed to let her go back in a week, Mom?  She's such a good dog!  Why can't our dogs be that well-behaved?  I just love her!"

And that seems to be the consensus in the house; at least the human consensus.  Even KC.  Of course, he remains steadfast in his favoritism of Freakin' Frank.  Which probably contributes to Frank's continued jerkiness.  But that's another post.

Beautiful Brindie

If you are looking for an amazingly sweet, loyal, well-behaved,
gorgeous canine addition to your family - I highly recommend you meet Brindie.  She converted KC, who was staunch in his "no pitbull" stance.  She will steal your heart the first day you bring her home, if not before.   This angel deserves a family where she will be loved forever because she will definitely love and be loyal to you forever.  We love her and if we were a bigger dog family, she wouldn't be going back to Kelli.  Our loss is your gain.

I've got a lot of Pep and Zip

Mutt

After Lil Bit went to her forever home, I brought home a white terrier mix with a wild underbite.  His name was Pepe and he was full of piss and vinegar.  I also brought home a little, elderly chihuahua who weighed all of 5 pounds; his name was Mutt.  I loved Mutter Butter.  He was so sweet and mellow.  Pepe, on the other hand, just wanted to play - all the time.  I would wake up at 4:30 in the morning to him playing fetch by himself with his tennis ball.  He would toss it in the air, let it bounce down the hall, then chase after it and sliiiide, occasionally crashing into the wall.  He also liked to bite feet, particularly toes, and he would grab my pant legs as I would walk down the hall, tripping me from time to time.  He would 'steal' water bottles, socks, slippers, anything he could carry and he loved to unroll the toilet paper from the holder.  He also liked to nip at my shirt, while bouncing up and down, and he would chew on my fingers and ankles whenever he got the chance.  While this was done playfully, it still was uncomfortable and sometimes actually painful!  When he would try to bite the jiggle part of my arms, I would hold him at arm's length and then he would then try to bite my wrists.  He was exhausting.  Pepe and Mutt stayed a few weeks before Mutt went back to his original foster, who ended up adopting him.  Pepe became a regular at Saturday Petsmart adoptions but no one was showing any interest.  One weekend, there was a new boy; a scrawny little chihuahua named Zippy and man, oh man, did he give Pepe a run for his money.  Those two played all day, nonstop.  Chewing, biting, wrestling, barking, and nipping.  I decided if Pepe or Zippy didn't get adopted that day, they were both coming home with me because those two wore each other out.  Turns out, neither did and they continued their play session at my house.  Pepe slept until 7 a.m. the next morning; he hadn't slept through a sunrise the whole time he'd been with us.  The minute he and Zippy woke up, however, they were back at it.  Frank would occasionally join in but it was always short-lived.  Daisy would just bark at the two as they streaked through the house and Lilly found a spot out of the way. 

Zippy

Fall Break was fast approaching and we always go to Michigan, as it's my absolute favorite time of year there.  The leaves are beautiful, the air is crisp and I can wear sweaters, something I can't do in Tucson since it's still well over 100 degrees in October.  This year, however, I began to wonder if going was such a good idea.  I worried about how we were going to travel across the country with five dogs.  It's kind of funny how easy the decision is when you really don't like any of the alternatives.  We loaded up the suburban, piled in the kids and dogs, and away we went.  About five hours into the trip, Pepe vomited all over me.  The night before, he had gotten into the Halloween decorations and ruined my fake bats and scorpions.  That explained why there was a bat head in my lap and scorpion legs all over my sweatshirt.  And Lilly hadn't barfed yet so I feared the fun hadn't even started.  Luckily, that was the end of the puke for the rest of the trip.
We made it to Michigan and it was chilly!  It was awesome.  Unfortunately, we don't have a fenced yard in Michigan like we do in Arizona, so every time one of the canines had to go out, someone had to go with them.  There is nothing sadder than an underweight chihuahua on a cold Michigan morning trying to pee while shivering uncontrollably.  Frank handled the cold surprisingly well.  He was kind of an old pro in Michigan and he surprised everyone in my family because he had turned into a really well-behaved boy, which was quite different than how he had behaved in the summer.  Pepe took his place as the rotten dog.  He barked at everyone, wouldn't mind, was bossy and rude and just was an overall stinker.  And I loved him.

Pep

Our vacation flew by and it was time to go back to Arizona.  By this time I had pretty much made up my mind that I was going to adopt Pepe, and probably Zippy too, but I knew it was going to be a delicate dance getting KC to agree.  I managed to make up excuses for a few weeks about why the dogs weren't going to the adoption events with me but eventually they had to go to one; this was right around Thanksgiving.  As we were getting ready to go, KC said something about how he hoped Pepe got adopted.  I got mad and began to pout.  How could he not love him as much as I did?  I left the house in a huff.  He called me on my cell and inquired what my problem was.  "I'm just on my way to get my heart broken," I dramatically replied.  He gave me the "this is what you agreed to" speech and we ended the call.  About an hour and a half later, he called me and said, "bring that damn dog home, I don't want your heart to be broken," and that is how Pepe officially became Pepper and how I came to love my husband even more than I already did.  About two weeks later, I made Zippy official too, but I didn't tell anyone.  Pep really did need Zip and vice versa; those two were still playing from sun up to sundown.  I figured I would just keep taking him with me on Saturdays and no one would be the wiser.  Of course, my conscious got the better of me and by Wednesday of the following week I had spilled my guts.  KC wasn't surprised at all, he has been with me for almost 19 years and knew it was just a matter of time.  And he agreed that they really are two peas in a pod. 

I'm happy to report that Zip has put on some weight, Pep still steals socks, then acts like he's killing them when he growls and shakes them ferociously, and they still wear each other out.  I decided that I am a permanent foster failure and can't bring home any more dogs.  I still go to the adoption events and lately, I have been kicking around fostering again; but they can only stay a week at a time or else I will get attached.  I'm hopeless.

It all started with a scrawny 6 pound poodle

Frank, fka Napoleon

The beginning of how Pepper came to be our dog....

One Saturday afternoon my husband, KC, dropped me off at a local shopping center to get my nails done and, if time, run to Target (okay, I will always make time for Target).  As it turns out, it was the day of the local high school’s prom so the people at the nail salon just laughed at me when I walked in without an appointment.  Realizing I had at least two hours before my husband would be done with his errands, I started walking towards Target.  Now, I love Target but even I was going to have trouble killing two hours there, so on the way was Petsmart with a sandwich sign out front that said, ‘Adoptions Today’.  I hadn’t had a puppy fix in a while so I went in, thinking I could just hold a few puppies and smell their puppy breath and I'd be good to go.  I met the lovely volunteers from Arizona Poodle Rescue (APR) and they began to tell me about their organization and all the dogs available for adoption.  I sat and held several puppies for at least an hour.  They were so sweet, cuddly and precious but I knew I wasn’t going to adopt one, I already had two at home, Daisy the Miniature Pinscher and Lilly, the Miniature Schnauzer, and I definitely did not have time to housebreak a puppy.  I expressed that out loud, part excuse, part 'don't try to talk me into this because my family won't go for it.'  That's when Rochelle, the fearless leader of the Tucson chapter of APR, casually said, “you know, you should consider fostering.”   Fostering!  Yes, that's the answer!  I thought, “I could sell this to my husband. We wouldn’t really be getting a new dog, but we’d be giving a dog a home until they found their forever home!  It's perfect!"  I called my husband, it’d been well over two hours so I thought he’d be ready, but asked him to pick me up at Petsmart instead of Target.  Oh, and come inside.  “Oh boy,” was all he said.  He showed up and I rapidly explained the merits of fostering, not pausing for a breath until I'd made my case about how we’d be a great fit; we live on an acre, there isn't a stitch of carpet in our house, our kids are older and responsible and can help, our dogs are older and mellow, and, and, and... we love dogs!  He asked Rochelle a few questions and then said, "what ever you want to do."  Yay!  No, wait!  Is this a trick?  Don't I have to do some more selling?  Why are you agreeing so quickly?  I decided not to question it and just be excited.  Which dog were we going to go home with?  I was honest and said we didn't really have time for a puppy.  Rochelle decided a little white poodle named Napoleon would be a good first foster for us.  He was a well-behaved boy who had been found as a stray.  When he was picked up he had wire wrapped around his privates and was incredibly matted.  Rochelle said he seemed grateful during the entire grooming process and never gave her any trouble.  He weighed just six pounds but easily needed to gain at least four more pounds, you could see every bone in his body; poor fella must have been without food for a while!  He was definitely cute; he had a puppy face even though he wasn’t a puppy.  My concern was that I had been trying to pet him all day and he didn’t want anything to do with me!  “He’ll warm up to you when he gets home,” Rochelle said.  So, we put a leash on him and with a spring in his trot, he pranced out the store with KC.

When we got home, it quickly became apparent that Napoleon had a crush on KC.  He would look at my husband like he was the maker of liver snacks and made sure he was sitting right next to him, wherever in the house that may be.  Couch, kitchen, bed, bath - it didn't matter. Sunday morning came and the new dog had slept in our bed but never made a sound nor moved all night.  And no accidents!  What a good dog!  The sun came up and I woke to a little white dog sitting next to KC's pillow, staring at him while waiting for him to wake up.  Apparently, KC didn’t wake up quick enough for him because Napoleon decided to kiss him awake.  It was very sweet and my 6'5" husband loved it, all the while pretending to hate it, of course.  That night, I overheard him tell the dog, “You’re such a good boy, if you really are housebroken, we might be in trouble.”

I went to work the next day and got a forward of an email that a woman had sent APR, inquiring about Napoleon.  As his foster mom, it was my responsibility to contact her and let her know all about him.  I knew KC was going to be sick to lose him so soon.  I called him with the bad news.  “Tess, I don’t think I can give him up,” was his reply.  “Are you sure about this?” I asked.  Without hesitation, his one word answer was, “Yes.” Oh dear.  Here I was, a brand new foster mom and I’m already screwing things up, they're going to hate me.  I called APR and explained the situation.  Surprisingly, they were very understanding (as I found out later, they all had "been there") and the following Saturday, we went back to Petsmart to complete the paperwork and pay the fee and become an official "Foster Failure."  Napoleon was renamed Frank and he is stubborn, sweet, and a little prince.  He continues to be KC’s baby while tolerating the rest of us.  Little did we know what adopting Frank would lead to…