Roxy the Neurotic Dog

So, as I mentioned some time ago, Grayson and I have taken in this Temporary Dog, Roxy. I believe I mentioned that she is really sweet. Did I also mention that she is completely neurotic?

So far she has ripped two screens: one on the back window and one on the door from the garage to the kitchen, tearing at them to get in. She still can't be left outside for any length of time. I put her out sometimes for the afternoon while I'm at work, because don't dogs need to be OUTSIDE? But I'm afraid to do it every day because I don't know if she goes nuts barking while I'm out.

She throws herself at you when you come in the house, hitting you at chest level before you even get the door all the way open, and often clawing whatever you're holding or carrying out of your grasp. If she's REALLY excited, she jumps up and claws the door so frantically that it's hard to actually get it open and you have to yell at her to stand down just so you CAN come inside.

I've now stopped give her tennis balls altogether after she had another barfing incident on the skirt around the Christmas tree. Now she is allowed only to play with her Kong ball which, though it cost $7, has proven to be virtually indestructible. Problem is, she's always losing it under a piece of furniture, causing her to either dig frantically at the carpet or sit with her nose stuffed under said furniture, whining and barking until you get down on your hands and knees and grope the thing out for her. This is an exercise in futility. Usually she just loses it again right away.

It's impossible to read or watch TV on the sofa without Roxy constantly bringing you the ball and dropping it in your lap, begging for you to throw it. If you give in to this invitation, you will have her skittering through the house after the ball and bringing the wet, slimy thing back to you until hell freezes over. She never gets tired of it, never. If you refuse, she just stares at you and whines this incessant high-pitched whine until your hair stands on end. Sometimes hiding the ball helps, but if she sees you hide it, forget it. Then you just get the same whining and barking thing she does when the ball is lost under the sofa.

When I was home sick, I learned that she watches out the front windows all day, her back legs on the sofa and front legs folded up on the window sill. She barks at everything that goes by, flies overhead, or moves the tree branches. Also at things she hears but does not actually see, such as distant dogs barking, car engines, and sirens. I pity the poor mailman. She goes absolutely berserk when she sees him. I'm surprised he has the fortitude to come up on the porch at all.

Roxy has recently started sleeping with Grayson at night. This is very sweet, and Grayson doesn't mind. She just curls up small and tucks in at the foot of his bed. But most nights he gets up around 4 or 5 and comes into my room. I have a baby gate across the door to keep Kobi and Flower in, which he is skilled at climbing over in the dark. (Okay, it's just for Kobi. If she has the run of the house, she will get up in the middle of the night and pee on the floor behind the dining table.) When Roxy discovers that Grayson is gone, she comes to the gate and whines, and when I let her in, she jumps up on the bed and settles right in next to him... in my spot. So I have to shove and cajole her out of my way to get back into bed.

She still gets up around 6:30, which is a big improvement over the 5:30 wake-up call we got the first few mornings. I get up and let her and Kobi go out to pee, and then I go back to bed. Generally I'm just drifting off to sleep again when Roxy barks to be let back in 15 minutes later. Not much point in getting back in bed at that point. It's not so bad on the weekdays, but let me tell you, it's a pain on the weekend.

In the morning when I leave for work I am, of course, obliged to leave Roxy inside. She reads all the signs -- I've got my coat on, purse, keys, etc. She knows I'm getting ready to leave, and she immediately goes into stasis mode. I don't know if she's trying to be very still and quiet so I don't notice her and make her go outside, or if she's just settling in for the long boring morning, but she climbs onto the sofa, curls up small and lies very still, staring blankly into space. She doesn't respond when I talk to her. Not an eye flicker. Not an ear twitch. She's in suspended animation. Nobody here. Just us big black hairy pillows.

A couple of times a week I come home at lunch and throw a ball for her in the backyard, just to give her some exercise. She also likes to play keepaway with Kobi and Flower, and tug of war with Kobi. Kobi does all the tugging. Roxy just hangs on. I have to watch, however, because sometimes the thing they are tugging is one of Grayson's stuffed toys or one of my bras. I've already lost one that way, and I don't have that many of them, so I have to keep my eyes peeled.

Sometimes I want to kick myself for bringing her home. She IS a pain in the ass. But then she'll stand up on her back legs to hug me, and look into my face with those sad, crazy brown eyes, and I melt. She's not a BAD dog. She's really very sweet and gentle. She's crazy, but it's a needy, harmless kind of crazy. I'm probably a little bit that way, myself.

Still, it will be good when her family gets a place of their own and she can go back. Though I'll probably miss all that nuttiness when she's gone. It will be very very quiet around here.

Art Walk

I had a lovely evening last night with my fellow Leadership Norman classmates. It was a low-impact evening. We pre-viewed the Second Friday art walk, cruising convivially from gallery to gallery down Main Street, plastic wine-glasses in hand. This is such a great group of people. I am so glad I signed on.

We all had rather more wine than was strictly good for us.

A group of them went out for further shenanigans after nine, but I of course gathered up my responsibility and went to pick up my son from my folks' house and get him to bed. Tonight I will take him up the demilitarized zone between Norman and OKC and hand him over to his dad for the weekend.

Holiday

I realize it's been a long time since I updated this. Frankly, I think my life has been so dull that I haven't had much to say. Or rather, perhaps what I would say would be tedious. The holidays are upon us, and I am ... not ambivalent... I can't find the word I need.

I love Christmas. It was always such a happy time for me as a kid that I bring that joy forward, I can't help it. I'm so glad that I have also managed to pass that joy of the season along to Grayson. So it's a good time, no matter what. We decorated the tree and listen to Christmas music and every morning, Grayson opens another drawer in the advent calendar cabinet we bring out every year and I fill with little treats and surprises. Every day Grayson tells me he can't wait till Christmas. And I agree. We'll be spending Christmas Eve at my folks' again this year, so it will feel like home.

But this also was the first year I got out all the holiday decorations from storage to do up the house. Last year I just brought out the Christmas tree decorations. But this year I rummaged through seven or eight large storage bins of decorations from ten years of married life. There was G's stocking, with his name in needlepoint that my Mom made for him. There were decorations from G's childhood that his mom sent over to us. There were the garlands and ornaments I brought out every year for specific purposes: one that always went down the stair rail at the old house. One that graced the mantle. The wicker star I made for the top of the tree. Christmas is about family to me, and these were just reminders of a family tradition that was broken.

They're just things, I know. Just objects. And I picked through and repurposed some of them for the new space: The staircase garland over the armoire, the mantle garland across the sideboard. G's things I just nudged aside. I told him I would put them all together and turn them over to him tomorrow night so he can decorate his place.

And I'm not sad looking at these decorations. But getting them out was a little painful, I'll admit.

I called my mom one night last week, crying pitifully. I hate to burden her with my pitifulness. But there's no one else to talk to who doesn't have a personal interest or an axe to grind on the subject in one way or another. Or maybe there's just no one else I think really cares. It's been a year, or nearly so, since the divorce was final. Everyone pretty much expects you to be over it.

Anyway, she was, as always, wise and kind. She reminded me that last year I had the healing power of rage to get me through the holidays. This year that momentum is gone. I'm in a much better place.... no longer crazy, or mostly not crazy ... At least mostly not crazy. I'll settle for that. Anyway. The mental space is healthier and more stable. But that removes a layer of protection from my heart. So things get in.

I went to a meeting of the Arts Council Roundtable on Monday. It was a meeting/holiday reception at the home of one of the members, and she had brought in a couple of founders of the Singer/Songwriters association to perform for us. One of them sang a piece about love and loss that brought tears to my eyes. I felt like a damned fool, sitting there in this cozy company, crying over a song. But that's where I am now. I'm in the final crying-over-a-song phase of grieving, I guess. Is that after Anger but before acceptance? I forget.

Ani DiFranco has a song that says "I found religion in the greeting card aisle, and now I know Hallmark was right."

I was bemoaning my state at work and my assistant said "you need to go talk to someone." I had to laugh. Yes. I definitely need to talk to someone. Or rather, I need to pay someone to listen to me talk. But I can't afford that right now. Not at Christmas. Ironic, isn't it? That during the season when you most need support, you can't afford to pay for it?

So, instead, I bought a bunch of self help books. As a reader, I am naturally convinced that there must be a book out there, the reading of which will solve all my problems. It won't require any additional effort... simply by consuming the words I will be miraculously healed. I have a sort of faith, there. I bought "The Ultimate Happiness Prescription" by Deepok Chopra, and "When Everything Changes, Change Everything" by someone whose name I can't remember. I'll let you know how those work out for me.

This singer/songwriter at the reception also said something that struck me. He said he writes a poem every day, and has for ten years. He said, consequently, he has a LOT of really bad poetry. But I liked the idea of disciplining yourself to write something every day. Poetry or SOMETHING. I'm not sure if Scrawlspace counts. So I wrote a poem. A sort of prose poem. And I'll try to write something every day. It's cheaper than therapy. And if the books don't work, hey, maybe this will.

Things are not all doom and gloom. It is, after all, the holidays. Tonight I go with my Leadership Norman class to dinner and the Norman holiday Art Walk. Good people and a fun evening. I'm looking forward to it. I recently learned that I got my first choice for Leadership Norman's board internship, so I will be serving on the board of Dreamer Concepts Studio, run by an LN classmate. It will be good to be involved with the arts again, and Amber is so bright and determined and visionary, I look forward to learning more about her organization and putting my back into something that isn't about me. Last Sunday I went over and spent a couple of hours helping to repaint the studio. I still have Amazon Jungle green under my nails.

My Christmas shopping is almost complete. I have a couple of projects that I need to wrap up. Okay, one of them I need to START. I'm almost finished with B's mosaic. I need to put the final touches on Charlie's table and get it shipped out to him.

Running out of time this morning. Got to get moving.

So here's my bad poem from yesterday. Have a nice day.

Five thirty a.m. in the dark

with the wind whistling around the house like icy veils

I am awake and remembering, wishing I weren’t, snowed-in nights with you

When love was new and the future long and wonderful.

Hot coffee at six

with piles of books unread and promises broken,

kept warm by the unassailable loyalty of dogs against the chill of solitude.

Tears smudge the ink of the hundredth, hundred and first, hundred and second times I have written that I do not love you. Not now. Not anymore.

At six thirty the sun cracks open the winter sky

and invades the little hollow of loneliness I have inhabited, pooled in yellow lamp-light and bound by blankets. The dogs stretch and yawn, pawing the door for

access to the cold cold world. The coffee is bitter and the alarm sounds relentlessly from the empty bedside.

At seven I am making breakfast,

rousing our son from sleep and jollying him into another day. Filling all the roles we once filled together, feeding the hungry stomachs, rolling the trash to the frosted curb, my eyelids a little puffy.

By eight my face is tidied, my heart boxed up neatly. His hair smoothed, his lunch packed, his cheek kissed, bundled in coat and sweater, I deliver the life we created together to school alone in a comforting rhythm of rush and hurry.

I go on then, focusing my attention forward and forward, not looking back. Because there is no back, there is only through. Forward and forward. To a future that is now uncertain, veiled in the cold unknown. Waiting for the dawn.