The Calvin Chronicle, Part One: The Calmonster Preview

My former partner and I, animal lovers, both grew up with dogs.  And we had agreed early on in our long relationship that, one day, when we had a house, we would have a dog.

And one day, we had a house.

Then we agreed that once our 1920s kitchen was renovated, we would have a dog.

And one day, our 1920s kitchen was flashed forward into the 21st century. And we started looking for our dog.

We started stalking PetSmart and the humane society website, discussing incessantly what kind of dog would suit our lives and lifestyles best.  We had cats, and so needed to be sure that there would be compatibility.  I had grown up with an Airedale and a Standard Poodle, and many cats.  He had grown up with a Golden Retriever.

So many conversations and arguments ensued.  It was an endless loop.  I wanted another Airedale.  He wanted a Golden.  Impasse.

We continued our stalking efforts, and soon became enamoured by the Greyhounds that the rescue would bring to meet people at PetSmart.  We filled out the application and waited.

As we waited, we continued to research, and stalk.  And we loved them more and more.  But....the more we researched...the more doubt began to creep in and we began to realize just how important this choice was - for the dog, and for us.   Greyhounds are sight hounds.  They cannot run offleash in an unfenced area.  We wanted an easy offleash companion.  The cat question loomed large.  Eventually, we sadly came to the right conclusion: beautiful and sweet dogs, but not the right breed type for us.  We withdrew our application, and the research and stalking continued.

Next, there was Tank.  Tank was a beautiful, amazing, wonderful Keeshond.  My partner's boss' ex-wife bred Keeshonds and was looking for a home for Tank, a young male.

We took him home for a weekend, to test out the match.  This isn't a story about Tank, so I will leave it to this: in a heart wrenching decision, we determined that sadly,  as awesome as he was, this, too, wasn't the right match (and Tank wound up in absolutely the right home, happily ever after).

We kept digging and kept researching.  We knew we wanted to adopt, we knew we wanted a dog and not a puppy (cute, but we weren't ready for the intensity of training and raising a baby), and we figured a rescue dog who had been fostered with cats would have potential.  Whether the dog was a purebred or not was immaterial - it was about understanding what we were getting into and being educated enough to give any adoption the best possible chance of working, for us, the dog, and our resident felines.   By chance, in the process, through the miracle of Google, I stumbled upon a website for the Australian Shepherd Rescue and Helpline Inc (ARPH).  Neither of us knew the breed, but in researching somewhat, this beautiful, long-haired, medium-sized, square, usually tailless herding dog seemed to speak to us, and so I enthusiastically emailed the Ottawa-based coordinator, Doris.  Doris responded almost instantly, inviting us to attend a "Bounce" - when Aussies and their People run around together in a large gathering at an offleash park. We'd get to meet around 20 dogs and ask as many questions as we could think of.

We went.

We fell in love.

The rest of this long love story with the Aussies will be saved for another post.  But the important part for now is that we wound up adopting a "senior" dog: the beautiful, perfect Savannah, a well-bred show dog who was inexplicably abandoned by her owner/guardians at 8.5 years old.  (That's right. Show dogs wind up in rescue, too. There is no discrimination in the unfairness and evil of abuse and abandonment.) You couldn't have dreamt up a better dog.  Truly.  She adopted us and took over in her busy, steadfast, brilliant and charming way - we often said we expected to come home to find her in an apron, feather dusting the house.  She was special: The Boss Lady.  She kept us and the felines in line.  And she and my ex had a special relationship from, literally, the instant we met her at her foster home.  She loved me, no question, and i loved her right back.  But she and Ex were soul mates and it was beautiful to see.

Soon, we decided that, as they say, we "couldn't have just one Aussie!" And, ok, I admit it:  I wanted to be the dog's favourite! :)

So we started looking for a brother for Savvy.  There were a few close calls, but the right one didn't come along until the Ontario ARPH coordinator e-mailed me to say that a 4-5 year old male had been brought up from the US and was available.  Would we like to meet him?

We stared at his photo - a silly looking boy, black, white and brown, a tricolour, like Savvy.  He had been found in a barn in Connecticut, and spent time in shelters in Connecticut and NY before being sprung by ARPH and moved to ON for fostering.  His history was a mystery other than that.  We called his foster home and talked for an hour.  And then we agreed: he sounded like a good Beta to Savvy's Alpha.  Let's meet halfway - he was being fostered in Mississauga - so we decided to meet at a park in Darlington.

We loaded Savvy into the Subaru and drove the long drive from Ottawa to Darlington.

On arrival at the appointed spot, the three of us got out of the car.  Savvy stretched her legs, and Ex and I watched the crowd of Aussies and their people gathered around to wait for us.  We wondered which was the mystery dog: Calvin.  As we walked toward the crowd, one of the dogs came running toward us and stopped halfway, looked, burst into an enormous, silly, grin, turned tail (or lack thereof!) and ran back to continue playing with the other dogs.  "What a funny looking Aussie!" we laughed, "he's so long! He looks part wiener dog!"

And that, my friends, was Calvin.

Ball of Confusion

...that's what my world is today... hey, hey....

Thanks, Love&Rockets, for a song I always hated but that now is tormenting, haunting, and plaguing me, playing loudly inbetween my ears over and over, all day long.

The thing is, I'm a fundamentally happy gal.  Annoyingly chipper most of the time, screamingly optimistic behind a thin and somewhat giggly veneer of irony and sarcasm.  The glass is always 100% full.  Sweet. Nice. Laughs and smiles a lot.  Direct.  Honest.  Easy to talk to.  Etc.

Breaking news:  I'm a spoiled brat.

I am so used to getting what I want, sans effort, sailing along, that I really have no idea how to decide what I want or develop strategies to get it.  I'm a generalist with a sharp mind, charm, and even better luck.  I rarely know exactly the answer but I always know who to ask to get it... so I do.  And people usually tell me.  That's my strategy.  And man, am I lucky.  I have great acquaintances and the most awesome of friends: wonderful, kind, brilliant, selfless, successful people who want to help and sincerely want the best for me.  So I consult.  Surely someone will tell me what to do; I will implement their advice, et voila!  Happiness ensues, The End.

Here's the rub, boys and girls:  The more advice I get, the more confused and upset I get.  And the more confused and upset I get, the more I consult... until the inevitable breakdown when I completely shut down. 

We've all been there, even the most positive and social among us.  The shutdown comes along when all avenues seem to lead to oblivion, and you want to stop the madness.   And right now, I just want to stop talking about it.  But I can't. Because if I do, then I cannot effect change.  And inertia is not an option.

Catch 22, thy name is K.

Annoying, isn't it?  Annoying to experience and consume your thoughts and lose sleep over and wail to your long-suffering peeps about.  Annoying to deal with your friend who is in the throes of it because your friend feels bad about bothering you about it so doesn't want to talk about it but talks about it constantly and even when she doesn't she's so distracted and looks so sad, on the precipice of tears, that all the other friends gather around to talk about how to deal with it because they love the friend and want them to be happy and want her back.  It could be about anything. Love, family, friends, career, finances, housing options, kids, pets, choice of tile for the bathroom.  It's a soap opera without the flattering lighting and daytime eveningwear.

So, what's an eternal optimist with a hefty guilt complex overtaken only by a searing sense of self-confidence to do in these situations?

She reminds herself of how f#^%&*ing fortunate she is.  She sends a love letter to her friends.  A promise to suck it up and get 'er done.  A letter of gratitude for their patience and total lack of eye rolling and Moonstruck-style face-slapping.  And a promise: to always have their backs, no matter what, no matter when, no matter how.  A solid-as-a-rock, capital-P, Promise.  No judgment, ever.  No  questions asked.  No explanations expected or needed, ever.   And a sincere, bottom-of-the-heart thanks for their support and love and advice.  Because no matter what, they will all succeed, to astronaut-esque levels.  In this life, and in any Hereafter there may or may not be.

We already have, because we have each other.  And at the end of the day, my wonderful, brilliant and beautiful friends, you ground me, and you give me wings.  I thought of that today, when thinking of the One Who Has My Heart (and thanks to The Friends for that, too... for the intro, the encouragement, the calmness in the face of panic, the sanity and the reason and the encouragement and the judgment-free zone, and the shared happiness).... but this is true of True Friendship.  For me, it is my Girls who are my collective Red Bull.  T'will ever be thus.  Je t'aime, pas mal follement, mesdames.

Moi