Saturday, January 14, 2006What You Ask For I have a terrible habit of thinking up mottos or goals for the new year. I should've learned my lesson long ago. I can't remember all of them, but they used to be along the lines of "write more in '84" or "no more jive in '85." They worked pretty well until 1986, when I put forth a ballsy ultimatum - "Live Free or Die" - which was meant to suggest to the universe that I get out of debt. Instead I totalled my car and plunged into a year of being completely unable to work. Not only did I get immediately deeper in debt, I realized that I edged unnervingly close to the dying part of the equation as well. I think my motto for the next year was something like "No mottos in '87." I actually broke the habit, at least in any kind of conscious sense, until this year. This year I thought I'd follow along with some important conversations I've been having, so I put it out to the universe that I want more space in my life so new things could fill it. To that end, I did a lot of housecleaning over the holiday break. As you may remember, I got NEARLY to the end of the Master List, the be-all end-all list that was going to clear up all the loose ends of my life once and for all. Once I was at the end of that list I was going to be freed from all past duties and able to pursue new projects, open myself up to some new thoughts, forge some new frontiers. Then, January 3 happened. The universe apparently decided I hadn't delved deeply enough in my clearing-out activities and (through an agent of evil) literally dumped out all the remaining messy drawers in my life onto the floor. Now, I don't wish upon anyone this brutal reminder that there will always be things to clear out. And the event, besides the shock and the invasion, made my list go exponential over night. I had a pile of ransacked rubble to go through. I had to change all my bank accounts. I put a fraud alert out on my social security number with the credit bureaus. I then had to re-map all the intricate debit and credit numbers we weave together to make our lives "easier." I researched and had a security alarm system installed. I bought the kids some replacement electronics. I started trying to figure out what I wanted to replace my own stolen goods with. And I bought a dog. I knew that a dog would be a good deterrant for all the opportunistic bad guys out there who were now waiting to pounce on my house again. The kids wanted one badly. But all I could see was my list going even more exponential. I liked the idea of having another pair of ears and eyes around the house, but the added layers of complexity were endless. In their lobbying for a dog for this house, my kids saw unconditional love: I saw unceasing guilt. My kids saw good companion: I saw boarding fees. My kids saw happy playmate: I saw fights over poop-scooping and midnight trips to the market to get more dog food. But as I wandered through the house after the 3rd, on the nights the kids were gone, I felt a new absence. An echo that could be filled with another presence. I also accutely felt the solitude of living in my particular house. For the first time in a long time I felt alone. And I walked through the house with my knife in my pocket and my ax handle always at hand. Once I accepted the possibility that I might get a dog, I decided that I would do this the intelligent way. I would research breeds, I would make lists. I wasn't going to just get any old dog; no, this was going to be a sensible decision I could maybe actually live with. It was the only way it would work. I decided that what I wanted was a young adult female Wheaten Terrier. I researched, I wrote the Wheaten rescue contact for Southern California. I sent out messages to the friends I have who have Wheatens. And then one day last weekend, we went out to Subway for lunch. It was an innocuous little run. Subway is by the pet store. Great; we'd go get crickets for the praying mantis while we were there. I knew the windows were filled with roly poly little puppies, but I knew my heart was sufficiently hardened to the cute-factor of puppies. Again: my kids saw cute, and I saw puddles of urine. My kids saw fluffy: I saw chewed up sofas. But there was this one. Fluffy. Cute. The usual puppy characteristics. I off-handedly asked what its breed was. A "goldie poo" the pet store guy answered. A tall guy, probably gay. A WHAT? Jesus. A "goldie poo." Hybrid between a golden retriever and a poodle. Well, golden retrievers are cool. I had to admit that. So I asked the most pressing question on my mind: does it shed? Nope, it doesn't. The poodle part doesn't shed. The retriever part is mellow, the poodle part is smart and doesn't shed. I wanted a medium dog. About the current size of this "goldie poo." How old is this dog, I ask. Oh, 10 weeks. Ten WEEKS? This dog is a good sized lap dog. Ten weeks? It's going to be large, I say, feeling my life already spiraling out of control. Yes, the guys answers. It's going to be large. What is it? I ask. The guy holds it up and reveals its little puppy genetalia. A boy, he announces somewhat proudly. Oh brother. A male puppy. So much for getting some female energy into this house. I knew my fate was sealed when I asked to take it out. Of course, the kids went nuts. Who wouldn't? Mom was in a fragile emotional state and was going to cave. They knew it. I knew it. I asked the price and I won't tell you what it was no matter how hard you beg. It was beyond ridiculous. I walked around, with a nervous frown on my face. I stood in the corner, looking at dog books, trying to think it over. The clerk asked me what my fears about it were. Besides the money, the responsibility, the next 14 years of my life being wrapped up in another being, the emotional overhead of loving a body that could be stolen, squashed by a car, die of some weird disease, come down with hip dysplasia, break our hearts, eat our shoes, and be totally FAILED by me because I don't have the emotional or financial resources to take care of YET ANOTHER BEING? Besides that it was just too much to add to a life that had just been ransacked and thrown into total upheaval? Besides the fact that I didn't want a dog, don't much like dogs, and have no patience for dogs or dog people? Besides all this??? GOD, I just didn't want a dog. I tried to convey this in a few short sentences, mainly boiling down to the money. He told me that he loved his dogs and they gave him a reason to get up in the morning and he loved that. I told him -- because he, ah, obviously didn't and would never -- that I had kids and I'd like to sleep in once more in my life. I told the kids we couldn't do it. They looked at me sadly. They knew I was going to cave. I knew I was going to cave. Why go through the charade? The dog had to stay at the store for a few days to be observed, get his shots, and otherwise just be checked out. So I had a few days to watch the train coming down the track and wonder why I was so unable to move. I dealt with my anxiety the way I always do: I complained incessantly to everyone. They all said it'd be fine. I knew they were all smoking crack. It would not be fine, never would be fine, my life was over, this is why women have menopause because there really is a time and place to NOT have any more babies, of any species, and this was one of them. I get cranky if I have to get up to pee in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep for five minutes. I LOVE my sleep. I LOVE my yoga in the morning. I LOVE going out of town on business. And hey, I love my money, what was left of it after the deductible, the alarm system and the mountain of electronics I still have yet to buy. The next day, I came back to show the puppy to my friend Carol and her son. Carol said my body language and face still looked like someone was injecting something poisonous into my blood stream. "Anxiety" is not a strong enough term. It was more like abject and fully conscious fear of how radically I was about to change my life. My kids kept telling me that it'd be OK. I kept telling them that the pooper scooper has their name all over it. My oldest son said he'd take the burden, would take the dog out in the middle of the night and clean up the messes. I told him that I was really going to be relying on him. That we're changing the dynamic here for good: he's someone I am going to depend upon to help me through this. He insisted on stepping up to the plate. I was forced to acquiesce; I need another person in my life to help me. I've had the dog for three days now. He has accomplished something that no one has been able to do in years: today he's made me STOP. I haven't done anything much since 2 this afternoon when I came back from yoga, taking the car in, and taking him to the vet. His name is Sam - after Samwise Gamgee, Frodo's faithful companion. He rocks. He's smart, eager to please, and is totally getting the in's and out's of pooping and peeing in the right places. He doesn't shed. He is mellow as can be. When I put on KTWV (smooth jazz) on the radio, he quits whining and grooves with the tunes. He is forcing me to stay home, cook in the kitchen (where he usually hangs out). I did a crossword puzzle today, sitting on the kitchen floor. For several hours in a row I stopped. So I asked for space in my life to have new things come in. It's the 14th day of the new year and I've been burglarized and have a new life to take care of. I have a new life taking care of me, as well. In yoga the other day I had a vision that was pretty antithetical to what my anxious little brain has been feverishly projecting. I saw a grown dog, sitting tall, guarding me with calm serenity. This dog was facing out, towards the world. Instead of a list of obligations, instead of a burden of guilt, instead of a symbol of my monumental failure to love enough or give enough, I saw this proud being, taking care of me, my companion and guardian. Beware of what you ask for. You ask for space, you may have your possessions and your safety and your entire world sucked dry in a second. You ask for new stuff to fill it up with, and you may find yourself outside in the rain at 3 a.m., watching a little dog pee and feeling that curious elation of being in a new frontier, uncomfortable and alive. # posted by Katherine Doughtie Nolan @ 7:03 PM  
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