One More Step Forward.

So, we had a home visit for MidWest Mastiff Rescue on Sunday. I think we have decided to go the rescue dog route again. I must say it was an easy decision. A: Cheaper. (By a lot.) B: Good Karma. C: Sophie was a rescue dog and enough said. I have a soft spot for drama cases. Shocking no one.

I, of course, want to adopt them all. Again, shocking none.

But, we shall start with one. We have requested a female, puppy/young dog. Sometime after July 4th after we are back from our travels so there are fewer transitions to said dog. I think/know I really want a fawn mastiff but, truth be told, I would take just about anything. Although, I am really hoping not a brindle like Sophs because I can still tear up at a picture of her and that might be too much. Or it could be really fantastic therapy. Something tells me that isn't the case.

I just want a dog in the house again. A lot. Frannklin, the bulldog, came for sleepovers this weekend and I had forgotten the sound of clickity-click on the wood floors and the messy water drinking and climbing up on the couch ordeal.

I miss her.

Step Two.

Today we are going to meet with a potential Mama dog. Yep, we are starting the process of looking for a puppy in July.

Am I okay? Absolutely. Am I excited to be around a big-dog-slash-big-dogs? God, yes. I miss a canine presence in the house. I miss Sophie. But I know that doesn't get to change so I am excited to change the presence part.

In the car yesterday, we drove by a huge, beautifu, HUGE fawn colored Great Dane with a black mask. I was a little embarrassed at how excited I got. I might have squealed. People. I don't squeal. Really, I don't.

But I did.

And that's my point.


I am just hoping I don't embarrass myself further and bust into tears at the doglady's place. That would monumentally suck. And........for those that know me know that this a very real possibility. Crapenheimers.

Aim High.

One must have goals. Mustn't one? (Say "mustn't one" three times fast. Does it sound like a rancid appetizer? No? Must just be me then. Huh.) So. Goals. Having them. Here were my goals today. Let's call them my "goals". As opposed to my "real" goals. My on the DL goals.

My "Goals": Get up, go to locally-owned, non-chain, coffee place that I heart. Preferably with my Sweet Baboo. Come home. Clean the entire house in, like, 2o minutes. Take the dog to the groomer to get nails cut. (I could totally do it if I HAD to, but the nail quick part kind of ooks me out. And, the groomer totally cut one to the quick and it looks like it hurts, but she is a professional and probably wouldn't start sobbing if it happened. Just sayin'.) Go work out. Lose 12 pounds in three minutes because of said stellar workout. Come home, shower and do something productive. Go to department Christmas party. Come home. Sleep through 3:30 am, unlike the last two weeks.

Now, those are my goals on paper. Let's look at my "real" goals. My "Answer Like a Guy" goals. (We play "A.L.A.G." a lot at our house. I tend to use a lot of words. Ones that might or might not need to be said out loud. I verbally vomit my thoughts as I think them and share my whole process of decision making. Which doesn't really work out well for the audience because I am not convinced that, if I had to, I could make a decision to save my life.

Seriously, like "K. You must choose a favorite color or we kill you. K. Go." And most likely, my answer would be something like this: "OH, oh my...okay. Uhm, my favorite color is green because I really like the different shades and my eyes are green and it signifies new life, but I also like red because it is bold and fiery and the color of watermelon which is also green so it sort of works out perfectly because red and green are my two favorite colors. It's like Christmas, but I also really like the silver at Christmas time with a bright, bright blue or another jewel tone. I can't really pick a favorite color because it is totally situational. Sorry. Kill me." At which point the listener-slash-killer in the story has killed himself.

The A.L.A.G. version: "K. You must choose a favorite color or we kill you. K. Go." Me: "Green. See ya.")

Back to my goals: Here's how it has gone so far.....let's call them what my "Goals" should have been because then this day would be a RockStar success:
Wake up and stay in bed next to the Space Heater. Watch the light and day emerge. Make a real breakfast of toast, eggs, and breakfast sausage. Screw the fancy coffee and make a pretty damn good cup of coffee. Make lunch for Sweet Baboo. I heart him, and I make his lunches with extra love most days. Correction: On the days I do make him lunch, it is with extra love. Check e mail for the first time in three days. (That is like a bajillion years in So...There...Then Time. Seriously.) Fart around and putter for about 45 minutes. Take Sophie to the dog groomers (Thing Number Two I will Never EVER Do To My Dog: Express the anal glands. Enough said.) Go workout. Decide to listen to music and read trash celebrity mag while sweating instead of the planned "Think Deep Thoughts About My Life". Worked out much better this way.)

After work out, came home. Checked my e mail. Farted around and puttered some more. What? I am really good at it. I did, purely for show, dust the buffet and the shelves. Oh, and watered plants.

Turns out that when my mom brought over a Christmas Rosemary Tree yesterday it was a double whammy good gift. We don't have a Christmas tree this year, so...done. And it also turns out I committed my 39th planticide. My rosemary that I transplanted from the garden to a pot so I could have it inside over the winter. Friggin' died. All on it's own. It was like it wanted to make me feel all bad and killer-y. The new Rosemary Christmas Tree came with a booklet that specifically said: "Rosemary is a plant that will not come back from too little water as a houseplant." Great. Is this common knowledge? That is my main approach to plant care. "Oops. Forgot to water the last two weeks, they look kind of droopy." Then I water the crap out of them and they come back to life and look good. (Usually. Thus the 39th planticide discovered this week.)

So. There. Then I went to The Crack Box(Target) and got a gift for the party tonight. Then, to pick up Sophs. Home for lunch and blogging.

That should have been my original plan. I think next time I take a PTO day I will have official plans to do whatever the crap I want. Which is what I end up doing anyway. Plans are overrated.

I might take a nap. I might not. It might matter, it might not. The point is, people, everyone should have a figurative day to hangout in their jammies with the footies on the bottom and play with legos. There doesn't always need to be something to be done or dealt with. Having said that, at some point today, I do PLAN on vacuuming up the half of a dead cricket that has been at the top of the staircase for the past week. I guess maybe we should have some goals. My original plan of ignoring it and it disappearing doesn't appear to be working out so much.

Try As I Might......

I cannot fathom life without this dog. I can't. You can't make me. She is the pea to our carrots, she is the jam to our peanut butter. But Ol' Girl is pushing maximum age, especially for her breeds.


She had a tough day today, was the report I got upon arriving home. She just can't seem to get comfortable, sleeping a ton over the past couple weeks. Most of the pictures we have of Sophs are during slumber. Parents of pups might think because that is the only time she is still and will sit long enough for a photo. Falsies. It is because that is what she does ALL THE TIME. Snoring, gaseous excretions, old guy lip smacking in her sleep, and running man dreams.


I am pretty sure that part of her lack of hearing is on purpose, but some of it has to be real. The fake part? Yeah, she is a total sleep fibber. Exhibit A: She no longer comes upstairs and sleeps in our room at night. That began a year ago as the stairs were just too steep for her to navigate down. We could help her back end up, but she was too scared and shaky to come down on her own and too stubborn to let us help her safely (i.e. carry 100 pounds of dog down the stairs. Kinda glad it worked out this way.)


When I come down every morning about 6:30, she makes no sudden movements, no noise. I get her breakfast ready, and our breakfast ready and do puttery stuff and then the last thing is to go and wake her up...most days. Sometimes, I let her sleep in because she can and I am a nice human. But, when I lift her blanket off her, and she is fighting waking up.....hand to God, it's like she is a teenager. Burrowing under the blanket, snuffling, exasperated huffing, puffing, sighing, sneezing, every manner of communication to explain her displeasure. And this is before her eyes are open. She pretends she is still sleeping until she realizes that I am not going away because of all her shenanigans.


Then, the games truly begin. I might try and "help" her my lifting the blanket corner a little, as if I was a magician and going to pull the tablecloth off the table and leave the place settings there. Ala Kazam! In her youth, she would spring up and make me feel really crappy that she thought I would do something so mean-spirited. Then, in her middle ages, I used it as a threat to get her ass up. Now, it doesn't even make her flinch and even if it did, there is not much spring left in Sophers.


Now, she just uses the momentum from me lifting up one side to turn over to her other side. If she could have toddler noodle limbs, she would. We do a little dance of me trying to "help" her get up by lifting up her limp ass and her flopping back and forth trying to burrow under the blankets and away from my meddlesome ways.


Eventually, I win. Then there is what I used to think was the dramatic march to the front door to go outside (Now, I think she is just old.). You know the type, parents of humans.....Resigned, defeated, she is making me go on the Bataan Death March AGAIN. But, usually it is with human children going to bed and fighting it or human teenagers going anywhere with their parents and fighting it. With Sophie, it is becoming awake in the morningtime.


Once outside, and back in to check madam's food bowl for the choice morsels, it is back to bed. Saturday, I was home for the morning. We had gone to "Quantum of Solace" on Friday night and were home late. She went out for the last time midnight-ish. Saturday morning, I let her sleep in as I did lesson planning and puttered doing shores around the house. ELEVEN O'CLOCK, PEOPLE. That is what time she reluctantly hauled her butt out of bed. I. Love. Her.

Attempted Lockdown.

When Sophie isn't sleeping when I am home.....which is like 92% of the time I am here---she is after all, a bajillion years old--she is usually putting me on Lockdown. This consists of following me from room to room. If I sit on the couch, it is sitting right next to me on said couch. At least until she wants the spot where I am sitting. Then, she will bark or come and give me the prison stare and THEN bark. Specifically blowing her death breath in my face whilst barking.

If I am moving around from room to room too much for her liking, she may give up on the one-on-one D, but will position herself strategically in the house, say..........in the hallway where she can see the den, dining room and both entrances to the kitchen.....oh and the door to the basement. I guess in case I get real creative and go to the basement to sneak out the Bilco door. So.

Lockdown might mean that if I am at the dining room table, she will come and lay on her side so that her body is up against my chair so she can feel if I move my chair to get up. Then she is bolting up out of a dead sleep to see where it is I think I am going.

It also might mean that if she sees me put on my sunglasses, pick up my purse, or get my keys....putting herself bodily between the door and me.

It might mean looking at me in an Orphan way.....or at least what I interpret is orphan-esque. It might just be gas. Or stifling a yawn. (Occasionally, if I come back into the house right after such an exchange, she is already up on the couch snoring. So. There's that.)

Whatever it is, I love her to bits and I don't mind that she gets a little crabby at me for not being around last week. Plus, we have Thursday and Friday off this week, so I will be around more than usual. So. There.

Another Milestone?

We heard back from the lookers. Seems they are looking elsewhere. And that is about all I have to say about that.

As of last night, Sophie, seen here in this updated photo:

...has stopped using the door that she always uses. She has been having trouble getting up the stairs. No more power from her back legs has been a reality for a while...she quit sleeping upstairs on the second floor sometime around Christmas-ish, was it? So. She now uses the proper front door through the porch as there is only one low step. No longer will she have to battle the 3 big cement steps at the side door.

I have mixed feelings about this, I guess. While I am glad I will not have to worry about her falling and hurting herself, or watch her fall or try and help up her back end while holding the screen door open like some Cirque du Soleil contortionist....it hurts a little tiny bit.

It's one more thing that she can't do. When the people came to look at the house this weekend and were a little bit early, they both commented individually at different times to the effect of: "Is she sick?"

Nope. She just moves that slowly and deliberately. I don't like to think about the next couple "milestones" too much. But, being realistic things that are unpleasant eventually happen. I get that. I know it is coming. We have had multiple conversations about when it does and the best way to view it (And that really helps to remind myself of when I get a bummed out perspective) is this: We rescued her when she was 9-ish. That was 4 years ago. Do we love her the best we can? Yep. Have we done everything thing we can to make the end off her years comfortable and happy? Check.

Done and done.

And to end on a note that is not as depressing as this post: She is laying next to me and about five seconds ago ripped ass audibly for an extended "gas bomber" of about...wait for it...no joke: 5 seconds. Count to 5. I think we can all agree that that is a friggin long time to expelling some air. ----------And now the perfume. Thanks, Soph.

You Light Up My Life....

How many people sang along with Debby Boone? Raise your hands. Raise 'em high, don't be embarrassed. I did. At age 7 or 8, when I was belting it out with Ms. Boone, I was pretty much convinced that I had a future as a famous, FAMOUS, singer a la Debs. Oh, and also my first record I owned. A 45. "Queen of Hearts" by Juice Newton. I am surprised my mom didn't banish me as a result of how many times I played it over and OVER.

So.

That didn't work out, mostly due to the fact that I can't sing. Regardless of my crushed dreams and unfulfilled Top 40 destiny.........Debbers had it pretty spot-on describing my feelings for this Ol' Gal below. Some of you have kids, and you know of what I speak. I realize she is a canine, but we don't have kids. Nor do we want them. This mutt daily lights up my life. She is the best Dee Oh Gee in the world. So. Let's meet her.

We bought our house four years ago and promptly got a dog. Sophie. Boxer/Mastiff mix and quite possibly the best dog in the world. I looked it up. She is there, right there, at the top of the list. Since this is my blog, and I am the boss, I get to say things like that. You can try and convince me that your dog is pretty special. While that may be, here are So...There....Then Sophs rules. This is one of the first pictures, above, we ever took of her. Before GarageGate '05, even.

I lied.

THIS is one of the first pictures ever taken and I can tell because she is so skinny and her face is still wary of us. She doesn't know that we are her people yet. Plus, I don't think she was very famous at her old house and no one took a ton of pictures of her, like I do. So, I think the red eye flash thingamabopper freaked her s*** out.

We have estimated her to be 14 years old...that's like 98 in dog years. So. She sleeps. A lot. When she is really zonked out, her tongue doesn't stay in her mouth and it just slays me. I love this dog.

You can tell she has decided to let us be her people. When she is not putting me on lock down by following me around everywhere, she can be found on the local couch. Excuse me, her couch. Sleeping. Frequently, dreaming. Doing the dog Running Man dreaming and occasionally talking in her sleep.

I wish she could go on walks with me. I would take her all over. But she is an ol' gal and will just turn around when she is done with the whole walk thing. Usually after she has done her business and gotten caught up on her p-mail sniffing. Even doing nothing, she still lights up my life. Gol dang. She is the best dog in the world. So.