The Daily Fuss

Bad Dog Ma

Luella, my four pound Yorkshire Terrier, is our first baby.

She has a full wardrobe, gets her chicken treats in the morning and sleeps in our bed at night.  

She is allowed up on the furniture, uses the outdoor "facilities" during the day and has a potty paper upstairs to use at her discretion in the evenings.

Lue is going to be eight years young this year. Although, we have found her to be a bit of an old soul from the start. If Luella were a human, she'd play bridge, drink dirty martinis, curse like a long shoreman and (quite possibly) smoke.

She has her vices.

Historically, Lue has gone to the fancy vet in the city every year for her checkups. I like this particular vet because they do blood work before dental cleanings to make sure Lue can handle the anesthesia. During the dental, Lue is fully intubated and receiving fluids to quickly flush the drugs out of her teeny system.

Hundreds of dollars later, I have peace of mind and Lulu's teeth are clean.

I have yet to find such a vet in Highland Park - not because one does not exist, but because I keep making appointments in the city and then canceling them because I work and spending four hours taking Lue to the vet isn't feasible.

Here's a tip, I am rarely realistic. Most of the time, I deliver on my overreaching overachieverness. Sometimes ... not so much.

It's a vicious cycle, much like the one my hair is experiencing right now because my colorist is in the city and I actually can't find ANYONE in Highland Park that can highlight me like Tracy. I look like hell.

Happy Holidays.

Luella's last cleaning was shockingly only as recent as May 2010. Unfortunately, I have brushed her little pearls maybe ten to fifteen times since Mairin was born. Her teeth are so dirty and A FEW ON THE BOTTOM ARE LOOSE!

I feel so guilty. I am the worst dog mom ever. I have sacrificed the dental health of my very first baby for lack of time and attention. I have sacrificed Lue's adorable little teeth for my other children.

It's not the only notable difference for Luella from B.K. (before kids) to A.K. (after kids). Lue waits longer than ever between trips outside. She is ignored for a spell during the day and gets bounced around at night when the little sisters meander into our bed.

On the bright side ( and because the prospect of rotting dog teeth should have a silver lining) she islearning to hang with the squad in situations where she should have normally slunk off to bed midday.

For example, visiting my inlaws this past weekend, a friend was first to the party with her six and eight year-old boys. No less than four minutes into the visit, I heard the older boy say, "Look  mom! I finally caught him!" As I turned in movie-slow-motion, I saw a blur of black and tan fur and grey and pink argyle sweater vest (yes, Lue's) leap from the boys arms and tumble to the hardwood floor head first.

I freaked out, snatched up poor Lue and ran out of the room. She was fine, but so scared that she pooped all over me. The only clean shirt I had left was a loungy pyjama top. Out of choices, I sucked it up and rejoined the group as other guests began to arrive.

Lue sucked it up too. She jumped back into the fray immediately, barking at the kids and mingling with with the crowd, hopeful that bits of barbeque would fall from a plate or two down to her domain.

This behavior is atypical for Ms. Luella. Both Ryan and I were proud at her newly-found resilience.

I convinced myself that Yorkie teeth are notoriously bad and that no matter how much I brush, they will become harder to maintain as she ages. I also decided that rehabilitating what was once a painfully shy little dog is more important and that I'm not such a bad dog mom after all.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.  

We'll see what our new vet has to say about it.  We have an appointment with the Highland Park vet at noon.

No Lulu. You go!

While we waited the four, long days Leighton was overdue for her arrival, I joked several times, "Why would she be late? Doesn't she know she has a cute little dog waiting for her?"

I'm guessing, she did know. And didn't care.

It has become painfully obvious over the last eighteen months that Lei is not an animal lover. She loves babies. "Baby! Baby! Baby!"  The furry counterparts ... eh, not so much.

Out and about in a world full of strangers, Leighton and Lulu can be chummy. The mutual excitement caused by a sighting of Chip the chipmunk or congregation of squirrels in the yard can even bring them together. But the celebration quickly subsides and the two go right back to ignoring each other.

When Lei is feeling particularly naughty, she will take a swipe at Lue to clear her out of the room. "You go Lulu!" It generally works, since the poor pooch isn't much interested in being bothered anyway.

When food hits the floor, it only stands to reason that Luella should have it. Unless Leighton is there to see it. Having to share ANYTHING with that little dog bugs her. "No no Lulu. NO!"

My mom brought some books over last week, as she usually does because Leighton loves to play with them. She reads and stacks them - sorts and hoards them. It's a game. One book was about puppies and Lei completely passed on it as we were cleaning up. I said "Hey. Let's put this away. Isn't this your book?" She looked at me, furrowed her brow, shook her head and vehemently denied ownership with a gesture that said, Are you nuts? That could never be my book. Duh, mom.

The high hopes I harbored for this star-crossed sisterhood are all but dashed. We try every now and again to bring her around or trick her into professing what must be a deeply private affection for Luella. "Do you love mama?" Leighton says, "Yes." "Do you love dada?" Leighton says, "Yes".  You can run a string of family members, friends and even throw in a teacher and Lei will let you know just how much she loves each one.

"Do you love Lulu?" Without missing a beat, she'll look up at you and answer with a deadpan "No." She just doesn't want to share her world with our sweet little Yorkie.

Just WAIT until she meets her little sister. I can't even imagine how that's going to go down. The fact that little sis is a Baby! instead of a puppy may be our only chance at family harmony.

Poop-a-Doops

The weekend is upon us and we're playing it low-key. Last night, Leighton was fast asleep.  Ryan sat in one of the leather club chairs, iPod Touch in hand, looking through the top hits of 1997, whilst I toiled away deciding whether my picture and Tweets should appear on the right or left hand side of my post. 

As he scrolled through the list we joked that 1997 was not a particularly fabulous year for music. And, in true Tommy Boy, road trip fashion, we sheepishly pretended to haaaate the playlist. We faked our way through MMMBop, Wannabe and that goofy Chumbawamba tune. The Freshmen by The Verve Pipe - so good. Notorious B.I.G. Hypnotize and Mo Money Mo Problems - are you kidding me? No Doubt? - No doubt. Unfortunately, Barbie Girl was the buzz kill that ultimately ended the two-person dance party. Barbie Girl and the fact that Leighton, were she awake, would not have approved of the foregoing – a sobering realization for the new-ish parents of one. 

I should say that we are not exactly “newish” parents. Rather, we are newish human parents, but seasoned dog parents.  By "seasoned" I mean that at this point in the evening we are unphased by the fact that we have spent the last five minutes trying to decide where that smell is coming from and whether Luella (our four pound, five year-old Yorkshire Terrier) simply tooted or has poop-a-doops.

“Poop-a-doops” basically means “cling-on”. Signs of poop-a-doops include 1) intermittent whiffs of poop – the location of which cannot immediately be determined; 2) tail tucked between legs, so much so that it can neither be seen nor extracted; and 3) shaking when asked "Do you have poop-a-doops?" Check. Check. Check. 

Because the initial threshold has been met, Ryan picks up Lue in one hand, turns her butt toward his nose and sniffs in the direction of her rear – this is part one of the unsavory poop-a-doops confirmation test. Part two involves trying to pry up her little tail to confirm what the other indicators are almost certainly telling us. After a minute or two of waving Lue around like a left over hoagie he found in the fridge (the mayonnaise on which may or may not have gone bad) Ryan deduced that we narrowly escaped a poop-a-doops situation. It was, in fact, just a toot. Ryan set Lue free and apologized profusely to her. She ignored his overtures and with unflinching ambivolence went to bed.