Everything I am thankful for ... I learned from my Schnoodle

As Thanksgiving approaches this week, I have been thinking a lot about gratitude.  What it means to me.  Where it shows up in my life.  How I express it.  I realize that I am grateful for so many people and so many things, and that my life is blessed in more ways than I can count.  Though it is often easy to focus on the things I am trying to fix or the relationships I would like to improve, I think Thanksgiving is a perfect time to sit back and simply reflect on what feels good and brings me joy and peace.

By now you are well acquainted with Beckett, my Wonder Schnoodle, so no shock that he rises to the very top of my gratitude list this year (as he will, I imagine, every year from this point on).  But I realized, as I watched him eat his way through his latest chew toy last night, that everything I have learned from him has made my gratitude list this year.  Some of the lessons he has taught me are simple, and some are so complex that I have a hard time wrapping my head around them or putting them into words.  But either way, his presence in my life is a daily reminder of just how wonderful the unexpected can be, and of how blessings can occasionally appear in the most unlikely places - even in a rescue shelter.

So, here is this year's gratitude list with a unique twist.  I like to call it "Everything I am thankful for I learned from my Schnoodle":

1.  Life should be all about fun!  What's wrong with that?  Why should I have to schedule it or time it or ration it?  Why can't I just have it?  After all, FUN is everywhere!  In a stray sock, a new bone, a fluttering leaf, a loud squeaky toy.  All I have to do is walk a few feet and fun will be waiting in some form or other.  How easy and awesome is that?

2. I eat when I'm hungry.  I stop when I'm satisfied.  I see nothing wrong with eating a treat when I have done something well (or two treats when I have done something really well!).  I don't criticize my mom for rewarding me with food - I just do more of what she wants so I can have ... more rewards. (Don't have to be a math major to figure this one out, people.)  Food keeps me alive so I can have ... yup, you guessed it ... more fun.  (See #1 above for more details on this).

3. Breathing is important.  And not that hurried, shallow nonsense that most humans do because they're always so busy talking and yelling and worrying and rushing.  When I breathe, I breathe from my belly, deep, full breaths that fill my lungs and then slowly leave.  It's why I can run and chew and bark and jump for hours upon hours while my poor mom alternates between hyperventilating and barely breathing as she hurries through life looking at that time-telling thing on her wrist.  She looks at that a lot.

4. When I don't feel well, I nap.  When I am tired, I nap.  When I feel like napping, I nap.  Sleep restores me.  I need it.  So I take as much as I can, whenever and wherever I can.  It repairs my muscles and replenishes my energy and makes me a much happier, much more pleasant Schnoodle to be around.  If I loaded my plush bed up with lap tops and remote controls and books like my mom stacks on her bed, I'm pretty sure I'd suffer from chronic insomnia.  And while I'm at it, if the television is on, my brain is on, too.  Sleep.  It's what the body is supposed to do.

5. I love people!  Sometimes I bark at them, sometimes I lunge at them, sometimes I size them up, sometimes I circle them.  Depends on the person.  Depends on how the person treats me.  But I always give people the benefit of the doubt, since I am usually pretty sure they show up because they are interested in getting to know me better.  And most people are kind.  The mean ones eventually go away, and if they don't, well, then I can growl and hide.  But why growl and hide before I know why they're there?  Maybe they just want to play fetch and give me a cookie.  Why would I bark away THAT opportunity?!

6. I don't speak English, so people need to show me they love me.

7. I appreciate people who are willing to sit on the floor so I can look into their eyes and who don't make me struggle and jump to reach their level.

8. Home is where I live and family is who I love and who loves me.  Even though my mom doesn't look like me, she chose me.

9. It's not good going through life following people.  It's good to be a leader, ahead of the crowd. Bold. Confident.  Even loud, when the situation calls for it.  My mom is a bit of a follower at times.  She once told me that "Neutering is just what good puppy parents do, Beckett."  What good parents?  I want to meet these so called "good parents"!  Followers, the whole lot of them.  And look how that ended up for me!

10. Money can't buy everything.  Sure, it bought me lots of medical care and toys and food and daycare, but  sometimes cuddling with my person is the most priceless part of my day.  (Sometimes.  Because I did just get a cool new bone, and it's perfectly ok to love that, too!)

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Til next time,
~ Hasky and Beckett

And speaking of healthy diets -- don't forget your pets!

Yesterday's post about Chinese food therapy has me thinking about Beckett's diet, too. After some research, I am considering the alternative dog food recipe below. Even though I buy him the healthiest "bagged food" I can find, I still don't like that I either have to choose minimal ingredients (and therefore minimal nutrients) or lots of nutrients with the added ingredients I don't want him ingesting.  And, bonus:  he likes every ingredient in this!

Bella's Alternative Dog Food

YIELD: 20 Servings   PREP: 10 mins COOK: 60 mins READY IN: 1 hr 10 mins

Ingredients

6 Cups Water
3 Cups Brown rice
4 Stalks Celery Chopped
3 Large carrots Chopped
1/4 Cup Olive oil
1 Pack Chicken gizzards Find these in the deli
1 Pack Chicken hearts Find these in the deli
2 Bone marrow bones Find these in the deli
Instructions
In a large pot, bring water to boil.
Add rice and turn down to simmer. Cook for 35 minutes.
Add gizzards, hearts, celery, and carrots into pot. Add a cup of water. Cover and cook for an additional 25 minutes, or until carrots are soft.

I can't imagine handing anything chicken-adjacent, but I also don't think it's healthy to inflict my vegetarianism on my puppy, who needs the protein. Even so, I would LOVE a chicken gizzard/heart alternative (for oh so many reasons!) that would be just as healthy for him, so please share away.

Bon appetit - to you and your canines!

~ Hasky

~ Another Wordless Wednesday ~

Happy Wednesday!  

And welcome to your weekly opportunity to do all the talking.

Use the image below to talk about absolutely anything that comes to mind. 

Until next Wednesday,
~ Hasky

September 11th - from a different angle

Even though yesterday was Beckett's first birthday, I decided not to post this until today in the interest of letting yesterday's 9/11 post sit at the top of my blog awhile longer. 

Certainly, Beckett's September 11th (2011) birthday endears me to him even more, as a reminder of how signicant a date can really be.  And that date, in particular.  Though Beckett was born into an unfortunate beginning - the runt of his litter and a parasite- and flea-filled dropoff at a local, horribly overcrowded but very loving shelter, his amazing strength and beauty still strikes me as something of a miracle.  In fact, on occassion I have even admitted to myself that, given his initial circumstances, there is no logical explanation for why he survived at all.

Fortunately, I'm not a huge fan of logic.  Because sometimes, things just are.  Sometimes, we survive despite the obstacles. Often we survive because of them.  Perhaps that is why I have allowed myself to believe that Beckett was as destined to come into my life as I was fated to care for his.  Together, we continue to figure out our own rules and establish our own "logic" as we go.  And so far, it works just fine for us.

So now that I am officially the parent of a one year-old dog whose bark has become noticably deeper and whose little baby paws have grown noticably larger, I am amazed that this once sickly little 7-pound guy has not only survived his first year of life (ten months of which he spent in my often frazzled and learn-as-you-go care), he is a healthy, loving, brilliant little ball of energy with an old soul and a forever-youthful spirit.

I have written a lot about Beckett, so I know that anything I could add here would be repetitive, but I couldn't let his birthday go by without acknowledging the joy he has brought to my life.  His constant presence is a gift, and while my tendency to worry endlessly about his health and his care and his wellbeing tires us both at times, I am so grateful that Beckett requires so much of my energy (and what he doesn't require he kindly tolerates) becaise he has truly taught me to lighten up - on life and on myself.  More than anything, he has given me the gift of such pure joy --  I can't quite remember a time when a shopping trip didn't end in the excitement of a new chew toy or squeaky bone, or when I didn't head out for an evening walk with a leash in one hand and a pooper scooper in the other  - and no room for my cellphone.

I decided to write this post not only because I couldn't imagine not writing something about Beckett's big day, but because last weekend, while I sat in the hair salon, I listened to people around me talking about how unfortunate it was that they knew people with birthdays, anniversaries, and other once-happy occassions on September 11th.  The day will always be a dark one, even as time goes by.  And  I wonder if it is even okay to celebrate these small moments, modestly and with respect, when the memory of terror will always (should always?) cling to that day.  So I wonder how other people feel, or whether others have special occassions that they are celebrating differently  - or not at all - since 2001.  Does it help the healing to move forward with something positive and familiar, or is it somehow insensitive to acknowledge anything other than the events of that terror-filled day?

Leave your thoughts ...

Until next time,
~ Hasky

Pleasure Proxy

Today is "New Bone Day" at casa de Haskins. And as I sit here trying to write while listening to Beckett indulge in his fresh out-of-the-bag rawhide, I am wondering where I can find a human rawhide equivalent.  Something that makes me as happy and content and excited to be alive as Beckett's weekly treat does for him.  I am also wondering whether I selfishly give Beckett these little moments of enjoyment because most of my own happiness is vicariously derived. Usually, I find contentment in watching others have fun, and I enjoy the osmotic excitement I feel when my "New Bone Day!" announcement brings Beckett running, no matter where he is or what important job he is doing (or mess he is making) elsewhere in the house. Certainly, I want Beckett to be happy for his own sake, and I do believe that his display of lip licking and tail wagging whenever I hold out his new treat prove just how pure and uncomplicated his happiness actually is.  In Beckett's world, "I want something + I get something = I am happy."

But I also admit that in addition to making Beckett happy because I love him, I rather enjoy the simplicity of giving him something that seems to create such a positive reaction.  Because essentially, Beckett has become my pleasure proxy.

Now, I know plenty of people who do things for others at least in part because it fills the "do-er" with a sense of meaning. There is nothing wrong - and everything right - with enjoying a little of the positive energy we share with the world.  So I don't think I am at all unique in my emotional connection (Some might say dependence.  Some might say co-dependence.) to my dog.  After all, he is the being with whom I share my life.  He is where I have invested my time and my money and my energy since I brought him home almost a year ago, when he was nothing more than a seven-pound runt filled with parasites and worms and more medical problems than I could have imagined. While many people's children and partners occupy this central space in their lives, I have chosen to place my beautiful little Schnoodle there instead, so it makes sense that I am interested in what he likes, concerned about what upsets him, amused by his quirks and habits, and completely tuned into his abrupt shifts in mood or behavior.  But the interesting element to all this is that as time goes by, I am realizing that more often than not, Beckett's antics and his temperament are actually reactions to me.  So as convoluted as it sounds, as I key into what is going on with him, I am really connecting with something in myself.  This became painfully clear recently when, as Beckett and I were playing fetch, he grabbed his toy from my hand and accidentally bit into my finger, breaking skin and drawing a pretty significant amount of blood.  More shocked than hurt, I yelled without thinking: "OUCH!  DAMN IT Beckett!" which sent him running to his crate with his tail between his legs and his head down.  Fortunately, it took only seconds to reassure him, as I sat petting and hugging him, that I was okay, that I wasn't angry, and that he was not a bad boy. But my ability to scare and worry him without even thinking about the power that holds amazed me.  What's more, Beckett's refusal to leave my side for the rest of the night was both a sweet gesture and a sad reminder that I do influence him more than I ever realized. And more than I ever thought possible.

So now, even as I marvel at the pleasure I take in watching Beckett work his way through this rawhide bone, convinced that his excitement makes me as happy as watching other people eat satisfies my appetite, or seeing parents and their children at the park warms that small part of me that always longed for a family of my own, I wonder if perhaps Beckett's pure, uncomplicated happiness is actually a response to my "New Bone Day" excitement.  Maybe it is all in how we present ourselves to those who care most about us - When we hurt, they feel concerned. When we are happy, they feel a sense of joy on our behalf.  And when we are angry - well, they may run and hide at first, but generally, they care enough to stick by us until we stop bleeding and can honestly say that we are going to be alright.

I guess maybe that is what love is all about.  And I guess that the pleasure proxy goes both ways, regardless of whom we choose to share our lives with.  I am much more aware of the impact my volume and tone of voice have on Beckett now, and he seems to like the gentle, positive, upbeat tones best - so that is where I try to stay.  After all, it's hard to do anything but smile while you're announcing "New Bone Day!" to a puppy who has learned - from you - that this is what happiness feels like.

I would love to know what your pet(s) have taught you - about yourself, about life in general.  What are some of the ways you connect with your pet(s)?  What instincts do they have about you and vice versa?  Share here!

Until next time,
~~ Hasky

Lightening Up and Letting Go

I feel anxious when my dog Beckett refuses to eat.  I think this simultaneously makes perfect sense and no sense at all - which pretty much describes the mental duality of my existence.  While I prefer to hang out on the sensible end of the worry spectrum where most reasonable people would naturally become legitimately concerned about any living being who goes hungry for too long, I generally find myself as far away from this personal ideal as possible - somewhere between incapacitating anxiety and compulsive Googling of every symptom, both real and imagined, until I manage to transform the most inocuous symptoms into a life-threatening diagnosis.  For both my dog and me.

My fears are not entirely out of context.  After all, I am no more or less unique than anyone else when it comes to physical ailments.  I, too, have experienced my share of colds and flu bugs and pneumonia and strep throat.  Perhaps less common was the rare form of bacterial bone infection called osteomyelitis that I contracted first at age fifteen, then again at age thirty.  No known cause and --despite the necessary surgeries and months of intravenous antibiotics --  no guaranteed cure.  Certainly, that threatening osteomyelitis relapse clock often ticks in the back of my mind every now and then, but I have learned to hit the snooze button on my anxiety about a third recurrence, most of the time believing that worry will not stop the inevitable from happening.  In fact, worry is often a welcome sign for illness.

But here's where the challenge comes in. I am learning that while Beckett brings out the joyful, peaceful, calm person that I always suspected hid somewhere inside me, I often let his actions dictate my emotions.  And then I let my emotions drive my responses and define my behavior. Case in point: despite the fact that, for the past ten months, Beckett has eaten when he was hungry and stopped when he was satisfied, I put myself through daily stress and worry when he doesn't immediately empty his breakfast bowl as soon as I set it in front of him.  The difference now is awareness - I can at least see that I do this to both of us, and I am even starting to figure out why.

Because the truth is this: I am anorexic. In fact, I have been anorexic for most of my life.  Though I flirted with the vicious cycle of bulimia first, from ages 12-14, I eventually gave up the expensive, aggressive, all-consuming practice of bingeing and purging for the quiet and unassuming restriction of anorexia.  Most of my late high school years, all of my college years, and the majority of my adulthood so far  - my jobs, my relationships, my roles as friend and sister and daughter and student, and writer, and colleague and woman - have revolved around denial of food and feelings, and the guilt/fear/shame hybrid that has inevitably shown up any time I have given in to my appetites.  I have become a food restriction specialist, often pursuing starvation as if it were a career path, while developing an addiction to exercise that has left me with a resting heart rate of 42 bpm and more torn and damaged and constantly sore body parts than most eighty year-olds I know. (And before you ask, I actually know quite a few.)

I think it is precisely because of my lifelong marriage to food restriction and excess and elimination in its many indelicate forms, that I experience such intense worry every time I realize that Beckett is simply not going to eat whatever I have lovingly scooped into his stainless steel bowl.  The runt of his litter and a chronic sufferer of intestional parasites and digestive problems during his first few months of life, Beckett is no stranger to medical problems - or food aversions - of his own.  That said, when he refuses his special "sensitive stomach" dog food only to beg for the romaine lettuce and roasted green beans he can see me putting into my own lunch bag, I begin to suspect that he, too, is aware of the food games that I always thought only we humans played with one another - and with ourselves.  And while I do believe (as do most pet parents I know) that Beckett is far superior to any other canine on Earth, I don't think he prefers greens to kibble because he equates thinnness with perfection, which was always the logic at the center of my own preference for produce over carbohydrates. In fact, I don't believe Beckett thinks anything other than "I want green beans.  I like how they taste."  I think he employs the same instinctive logic when he whines for his sweet potato treats and "sits pretty" for his corn-free/wheat-free biscuits.  I don't think he ever worries or wonders whether one is more fattening or less healthy than the other.  I think, quite honestly, that he has a beautiful way of knowing what he wants and of doing everything in his power to give himself pleasure and enjoyment.

This was all on my mind this morning as I watched Beckett pick at a few pieces of dog food before deciding that he didn't feel like eating.  With a clean bill of health from the vet and a reputation for being a dietary diva, Beckett is medically fine and just ... being Beckett.  I constantly remind myself that when I recently took him on a ten-day trip to Cambridge, Massachusetts, he refused to eat for almost four days, until, on day five, he got hungry enough, and I think he felt settled enough, to start eating again.  And all was well.  Despite the fact that I had spent days worrying about his refusal to eat, in the end, he ate when his body was ready.  Sometimes experiences like this remind me of the half joking/half serious curse my mother placed on me when I was very young and very stubborn: "I hope that someday, when you have children, they behave exactly like you are behaving right now," she would say.  Even though my life plans these days no longer include children of my own, I sometimes chuckle at the reality that I ended up with a dog who is putting me through many of the very same challenges I threw at my parents - some funny and quite common, some serious and scary. Certainly, as much as I love Beckett and as central to my life as he has become, I do sometimes wonder if my worries about his health and his refusal to eat are any indication of the helplessness and grief my parents must have felt all those years, watching me refuse the very sustenance they tried to give me, using starvation as a form of communication when no words would suffice.  I am doubly blessed that not only does Beckett eventually chow down, he communicates with me in a language all his own. All the time.  And if I don't hear or understand him, it is because I am not listening.

A few years ago, I asked my mother about the impact my eating disorders had had on her, especially when I was younger and hospitalization and feeding tubes started to enter the conversation. I wanted to know why she had suddenly stopped trying to force the anorexia out of my body and out of our lives.  After using every approach from ignoring the problem to suffocating it, from letting me feed  myself to force-feeding me through guilt and coercion, one day, she simply stopped.  She thought about my question for awhile before answering: "Heather, I just let go."  Those five words said so much.  My mother had let go of my illness and given it entirely to me.  It was a gift really, of the oddest kind, perhaps, but a gift nonetheless.  I don't know if she realizes that she taught me, in the letting go, that I, too, was capable of letting go of the struggles while hanging on to what was really important.  And though health and wellness remain a challenge, I am constantly teaching myself the lesson of letting go of the unhealthy to make room for what serves me and enhances my life. Beckett, of course, is one of my best teachers, especially as I watch him burrow through his bowl full of dog food to find the veggies I have strategically buried underneath.

I have committed to giving Beckett the freedom to eat when he is hungry and the freedom to stop eating when he is satisfied. I have decided to simply allow him to listen to his body's signals and to help him respond to them when I can. I figure I can learn from him, as I so often do, about how this all works.  And maybe, on this journey to health and self-awareness, I will even be able to lighten up with myself a little.  Maybe, eventually, I will even learn to just let go.

Til next time
~~ Hasky

A Non-parent's Dilemma

I am a non-parent.  "Non-parents" are very different from "people who choose not to have children" or "people who have decided to remain childless."  The non-parent identity (a hybrid adjective/noun/verb that reeks of "lack") clings to those of us who define ourselves (or are defined by others) according to the white space in our lives rather than by the tangibles.  Given my non-parent status, it is safe to say that I am not qualified to assess "good parenting" versus "not so good parenting" or "appropriate discipline" versus "way too lenient" non-discipline.  Which is why I try (though admittedly sometimes fail) not to offer parenting advice, engage in parenting discussions, or compare the behavior and disposition of one child to another.  Essentially, how others choose to navigate parenthood -- and sometimes even survive it -- is none of my business.

That said, I often struggle with how to respond when a child's behavior rises to a level that I find unacceptable.  This is especially challenging when said child's parents are present and seem indifferent to - or worse, amused by - the very behavior I consider problematic.  As a non-parent, I tend to think that these moments are nothing more than overreactions on my part.  I get that parenting is often a "pick your battles" kind of world, and I assume that the battles become less and less pickable over the years, until finally only the wars are worth fighting, and only the big stuff generates any kind of parental response.

This is all to say that, over the past few weeks, I have become aware of a new family in my apartment complex.  I usually see the mother and all five of her very young children walking and playing and splashing around in their kiddie pool when I pull into the parking lot or walk to my mailbox at the end of the day. The children are adorable - dark hair, big beautiful eyes, full of life and excitement ... the kind of life and excitement that often presents itself in the form of yelling. Everything. REALLY LOUD.  No matter what time of day or what level of urgency (i.e. "I'M SITTING ON THE SWING!" warrants the same volume level as "I FELL AND I'M BLEEDING!")  At these moments, mom is always - without fail - talking on the phone or buried in an Ipod or a book while her kids experience life right in front of her, yet so far removed from her presence.  I often wish she would just sit and watch them, but then the "non-parent" in me yells "It's none of your business.  Move on. There is nothing to see here." And on I go.

But last night was different.  Because last night, as my dog Beckett and I strolled through the parking lot, one of the children, the littlest girl who looks to be about four years old, screamed "CAN I PET THE DOGGIE?!" as we passed their driveway. 

"Of course you can," I responded quietly, modelling the volume level I hoped she would imitate. "I'm going to hold his harness, though, because he's very playful and I don't want him to jump," I added.  Yet before I could grab Beckett's harness, the child came bounding toward us with her arms stretched wide screaming "DOGGIE! DOGGIE! DOGGIEEEEEEEE!" which, of course, resulted in a barking, cowering Beckett.

"It's ok," I assured her.  "He just gets scared when it's too noisy or when you move too quickly."  I looked at the mom, who stood half watching, half reading whatever on her Ipod was more important than her barely-out-of-toddlerhood child.  "Here, I'll hold him so you can meet him if you'd like," I added.  By now, the little girl stood rigid in front of me, both arms folded, a dirty look on her face, a glare beaming out of her big, brown eyes.  She didn't seem scared at all.  She seemed ... angry?  Was that possible? 

"NO!" she snapped suddenly, answering my silent question.  "Now I don't WANT to pet him!"

Yup, she was angry.

"He's a stupid doggie and I hope he dies," she hissed before pivoting on her tiny flip flops and storming back up to her mother, who by now was looking at me with a "Kids ... what can you do?" kind of expression, complete with exasperated shoulder shrug.  Here's the thing: Don't ask questions - not even in the form of nonverbal facial expressions - that you don't want answered, lady. 

"Um, excuse me," I was more official now as I walked up the driveway toward mom and her suddenly-less-cute tot.  I bent down to the little girl's level and addressed her directly, in front of her mother, who was now, finally, completely engaged in the situation, and looking both worried and curious about how this rare confrontation of her child was going to play out.

"I'm sorry if my doggie scared you when he barked.  But he is a doggie, and he likes it when people are gentle with him and come up to him slowly." The little girl was quiet now, staring at me as if I  had several heads, none of which she cared to look at, and none of which she dared to look away from. 

"But calling him names and saying you wish he was dead are not going to stop the doggie from barking or jumping.  Only talking to him softly will help him do that."  And then I finished with: " And I would be very sad if anything happened to my doggie."  Then I waited.  I don't know what I was waiting for.  Part of me was waiting for her to tell me she wished I would die.  Part of me was afraid that, even in my attepmt to be gentle, she would start crying because someone had finally taken an interest (in the unfamiliar form of adult authority) in her behavior.

After a few minutes of staring at one another, the child looked away as I stood to walk back to my apartment, saddened by how effortlesly she had laid a death wish on my dog, because I knew she had no concept of what that even meant and no understanding of the power of words or the finality of what she had said. 

As I clicked my signature "Come" noise in Beckett's direction, I heard a soft voice ask "Does he like little girls?"  I spun to face the child again, because I couldn't believe she was capable of producing such a bearable volume level or such an innocent, genuine question.

"You know what?" I asked, as I bent back down and looked directly at her.  "I don't know.  He is never around little girls.  Or little boys.  It would be really nice if he could meet you and have a little girl friend, though.  What do you think about that?"

At that moment, even as a non-parent, I saw what parents mean when they describe a child's smile as "lighting up the world."  She smiled the biggest, brightest smile and walked over to me, put her hand on top of my hand, which was resting on Beckett's back, and said "I could be his first friend."  And then, before I could respond, she bent down and kissed Beckett's head.

As I got up to leave, I noticed that mom hadn't blinked in almost five full minutes, though she, too, was smiling.  I don't know if she was smiling because the little girl was finally calm, or if she was as touched as I was by the ability of a child, of her child, to show compassion, to admit that perhaps she had been wrong, and to open herself to the possibility of connecting to another living being (in this case both Beckett and me).  But whatever it was, I allowed myself to step into this unknown mother's world for just a moment - not as a parent, or as someone who had earned a full time membership in that world, but as someone who had seen a child in need of guidance and who had, despite mom's presence, provided what guidance I could.

I imagine the little girl and all her siblings will be out playing tonight when I take Beckett for his post-dinner walk.  Mom will probably be engaged with something electronic while her kids have once-in-a-lifetime experiences right in front of her distracted eyes.  But I also know that Beckett and I will stop by just to say hello to his new little friend, because even as a non-parent, I know that sometimes life isn't about picking the battles or fighting the wars.  Sometimes, life can be as simple as E.M. Forrester's suggestion: "Only Connect."

Lightening up with Beckett

A friend of mine recently posted the above picture on my Facebook wall.  While he and I saw each other evey day in highschool, it is only through the power of social media that we managed to reconnect after almost twenty years of lost contact.  Even so, this photograph reminded me that although many of us now choose to communicate our daily thoughts and actions in the form of posts and threads and tags and tweets, we often convey so much more than the standard "140 characters or less" restrictions allow us to type into tiny internet boxes.

The whole truth is, my recent journey through pet adoption has proven to be my greatest "Lighten Up" challenge to date -- and I have shared the daily details on Facebook.  Last fall, I wasn't sure I was ready for a puppy or could care for one by myself, so I debated and made my customary pro/con lists and researched and talked to other pet owners.  My allergies made the hypoallergenic poodle breed a wise and necessary choice, even though poodles, from what I was hearing, were "energetic" at best, "fiercely destructive" at worst.  But none of that seemed to matter the moment I saw my puppy on Petfinder.com -- I instantly knew I was going to bring him home.

Listed under the name "Aruba," the adorable little Schnoodle (Schnauzer/Poodle mix) I decided to name Beckett, after my favorite writer, was a rescue at a shelter about an hour from my home.  Although I expected him to have the customary tapeworms and fleas and hyper energy of most rescue dogs living in close quarters and fighting with other animals for food and attention, I had no idea what I was in for.  Beckett had hookworm.  Tapeworm.  Roundworm.  He suffered from what I would later learn was chronic Giardia, a nasty, hard to cure intestional parasite that led to a refusal to eat or sleep and caused frequent vomitting and diarrhea. He had difficulty with housetraining, a hatred of the crate I struggled to convince myself was not, in fact, abusive captivity, and more than anything, he was completely aware of my refusal to bond with him, so he seemed to take absolute pleasure in destroying our surroundings for sport.  I cried almost daily as his health deteriorated, his weight dropped, his energy came and went - mostly went - and my bank account reduced itself by hundreds of dollars every week.  At one point, my kitchen counter held seven bottles of prescription meds, only one of them mine.  (And therefore, only one of them covered by insurance.)  Basically, my attempt to lighten up, to rescue a beautiful animal and give him a loving home, to find companionship for myself, and to prove that I could unconditionally love and be loved by another living being, seemed to be failing.  I seemed to be failing.  And I was filled with regret and sadness. Yet no matter how often I thought about returning Beckett to the rescue, or how hard I tried to convince myself that he would be better off with a family of four in a huge home with a huge yard and a huge bank account, he was mine and I couldn't imagine giving up on him.  Or myself.

And then something happened.  Not to Beckett, but to me. It wasn't an "all of a sudden" sort of thing, more like a gradual shift that I only noticed once in awhile, when I stopped to realize I hadn't cried or indulged in one of my signature germophobic freak-outs in days. In the absence of lightening up, I was actually starting to grow up.  Even if only a little.  I began to look at my decision to adopt Beckett as a conscious choice I made, rather than something that was thrust upon me by an unidentifiable, unknown force. Before I got Beckett, I had fully intended for him to share my life, but when the four-legged reality actually walked into my house, I turned into a three year-old who refused to share her toys.  Her snacks.  Her space.  I gated him out of rooms, confined him to linoleum floors only, and structured his time in ways that would force the military to retaliate. I realized, after awhile, that my behavior was not likely to encourage better puppy behavior, and that, more than anything, Beckett's health crisis could not be all about me.  Not if I wanted us both to be stronger, happier, more peaceful beings. He was in pain and he wasn't getting better.  So I did more research.  I found a new, more proactive vet.  I started Beckett on a special diet and put him through seven rounds of Giardia meds (the last of which finally seems to have "taken" as his most recent tests were negative). I enrolled him in doggie daycare and made socializing him at the local park a priority of every weekend and most evenings. 

Sure, I did some crazy things, too, like resorting to puppy pampers to spare my carpets and furniture until the worst of the Giardia ran its course. 

And I learned my lesson the hard way about whether or not Beckett "really needed to be crated" while I was at work. 

But ultimately, I have learned - and am continuing to learn each day - that Beckett, like all puppies, craves boundaries. He does not want to make the rules, he wants to follow them. And, understandably, when left to his own devices, he will do whatever feels good in that moment, whether eating my walls or using my couch as his own personal bathroom


Today marks ten months since Beckett came into my life, and though I continue to grow up, Beckett has actually started to lighten me up as well.  He is a loving, tail-wagging example of how far we have both come, and of how much potential we both have to continue going forward together.  He effortlessly returns the unconditional love I now have for him, and he fancies himself my 25-pound bodyguard whether we are being approached by a 6-foot man in the park or ... a leaf.  Most of all, Beckett makes me laugh.  He makes me smile.  He makes me remember that I am capable and strong and full of love and compassion.

I am thankful every day for the faith I had in both of us, and for my determination to bring this little boy home.  Sharing my life is not so hard after all, and it is actually more rewarding than I ever imagined.

Do you have a funny or frustrating pet story?  How has your pet made your life better, crazier, more rewarding, more exhausting?   Share it all!

Until next time,
~~ Hasky

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