The Injustices

Has anyone ever watched Dateline, 20/20 or one of the other televised newscasts that always sucks you into watching 50 minutes instead of the 5 you originally intended? No matter how disinterested in the story I am at first, I always find something compelling about it in the end. And, low and behold, within 20 minutes, I am more than likely in tears.

I have a hard time with life. In fact, more times than not I question what goes on in our world and find myself deeply distraught. I choose to listen to NPR all day, when I know I should listen to something easy...mindless. Inevitably, I am wrapped up into one of the world's many problems. Tragedy in Darfur, Russian journalists being prosecuted, suicide bombers in Iraq. These problems rock me to my core...bother me to the point that I cannot concentrate and usually end up in a tied up mess of nerves.

Three years ago I became totally, 100% selflessly engrossed into the Eric Volz story. I would dream of making a crusading trip down to Nicaragua to show him my unending support. I would write him letters encouraging him to stay strong and telling him that justice would prevail.

But did justice prevail? In this case, yes. What really bothers me though is how easy it is to forget about the world's wronged. I know this is deep stuff but seriously, we hear about tragedies in far off countries and forget them as soon as the radio or tv goes off.

So what can we do? Well I can tell you what I do.

I have a big secret. Huge actually. Behind my family and boyfriend's back I take weekly trips to taste the forbidden fruit. Sensing fear in my mom's voice every time I talk about going, I ultimately decided to start sneaking out...so reminiscent of my teenage days.

Weekly, I secretly go to PAWS and will tell no one. I know what they all think. She'll come home with one. My pushover heart will collapse in the wake of big brown eyes staring a hole right through me. I can't blame them for thinking this, though. While watching my favorite reality tv on Bravo, I caved to the ASPCA commercial (ugh, that Sarah McLaughlin) and called to donate for what most likely will be eternity. I could never take away my precious donation from dogs in need! I also have been endlessly emailing permanent adoption facilities about a disabled dog I met in PAWS one day.

I know some people may think that loving or helping dogs is not adequately addressing the world's injustices, but for me this is my tangible way to make a difference. Every time I see a dog running around without an owner in sight, I stop, hoping to find an owner or bring some type of hope or solace for that dog.

So call me a crusader, zealot or champion of the dog, but I'm just out to curb the injustice that I can. Have you picked up a cause? If not, start going to PAWS or another no-kill shelter and I'm sure you'll think of something.

It looks just like the sun

I experienced something today that I have never experienced before. It took me by complete surprise. Usually driving through the city is like maneuvering through an obstacle course. This unpredictable course is littered with foul mouthed speeders, perpetual crawling turtles (either from out of town or elderly) and Chicago newspaper vendors that decided it was their duty to stand smack dab in the middle of racing traffic.

I practice my best yoga breathing before I leave to go on the road. Each morning I take three deep stomach breaths. One breath...I will not be bothered by those that will cut me off today. Second breath...I will not get annoyed by drivers that clearly should not have passed their driver's test. Last breath...I will not be tempted to slam on my brakes when a car is tailgating me.

OK, I was ready to brave the most dissident and reckless environment in the world (or at least my world) - the City of Chicago roadways. Despite my best relaxation efforts though, I almost always end up swearing off driving by the end of the day.

So today began with my typical ritual and I left my house ready to brave another gray day. However, today was different. As I appeared outside from under the cover of stale heat and gloomy fluorescent lighting, I saw a perfectly clear blue sky. This is not something us Chicagoans are usually privy to. No clouds, no slush. The omnipresent sun beamed adoringly on us as it melted away all the gray darkness.

I knew immediately that today was going to be different.

All morning I was greeted by people giving me the right of way, smiling as they stopped at stoplights and driving more like my mother than Mario Andretti. I could not believe my eyes. Today might be one of the only days for the past four months that I didn't disdain every moving vehicle. The glorious sun had erased the city harshness that you get so used to adapting to as a coat of survival.

With my new sunny outlook on life, I went on my usual dog stops. To the dogs, though, this was just another day. Sunny or dark, arctic temperatures or tropical climate, my dogs all enjoyed life equally every day. I was somewhat jealous of them. Being in Chicago for 5+ years, I was beginning to think I suffered from seasonal depression.
On winter days, I would ruminate for hours about why I lived here and would fantasize about other places that sounded so much more appealing...you could lather on tanning oil, wear sunglasses on a daily basis and complain when it hit below 60.

But dogs have a way of slapping you back into reality. They were obviously not bothered by this weather, so why should I be? I am here, with them and that is a blessing in itself. I liked this simpler way of thinking.

So for now on, I am going to approach dejected winter days with a kinder heart. I will drop the melancholy attitude and appreciate what is beautiful about winter. I will drive with a shred of sanity and ignore other drivers. That will be my creed.

But for the time being that will have to wait...until I get back from my Caribbean vacation, because even dogs need some time in the sun once in awhile.

Ti parli dog?

I speak a different language. I get scoffed at by strangers and am judged by passerbys. I know what it feels like to be looked at differently by ignorant English-speakers.

My ex-boyfriend spoke Swiss German and at first sound, I didn't like it. It sounded like everyone had a giant piece of phlegm permanently stuck in their throats. When languages were created, who on earth thought that "eigentlich" sounded good? I don't exactly think English is the prettiest of languages but Swiss German was way worse.

After months of dating him, though, I began to hear words that were more pleasing to the ear. I loved "wilkommen" or "unter". I felt a false air of sophistication when I said them. Maybe I could even trick native Swiss speakers into thinking that I was recently initiated into their elite culture...Not so much, all the Swiss saw right through me. To them, I was just another one trying to imitate their sacred language and invade their country.

So after all was said, I found that Swiss German was actually quite elegant. My stupid American ignorance got in the way to see the beauty of the language.

Now, as karma has it, I am feeling the way that so many foreigners must feel once they arrive in our country. Not welcome nor accepted.

In my language, each one of my words is laced with emotion and vigor. No word is said without a change in pitch or without fervor. My friends hang on my every vowel pronunciation or consonant stress. See, I personalize my language for each of my friends.

Some are called "princess" others "buddy." Each day when I walk outside, the cacophony of the city melts away when I am deep in conversation with my friends. I have six straight hours of peace. In my language, no one is criticized, judged or belittled. Everyone is put on a pedestal and loved unconditionally. All of my praise is reciprocated by kisses, hugs and tail wags.

So I may be judged by strangers, but I can guarantee that I happier than most. Once you enter my secret language society, there is no going back. You will find the time to think outside of the city chaos, time to breathe, time to listen to what your dog is telling you. Is he pulling on the leash and jumping from left to right on the sidewalk? Slow down and relax your heart before you take him on a walk. Is he crying when you leave? Calm yourself and ease your anxiety. Your dog is only anxious if you are.

When you genuinely speak to your dog, he will give you some valuable advice. Take time out to love and you will be loved. Take time out to be quiet and you will receive serenity.

These are all secrets I have learned from my dogs and that is why I think the English language should be intertwined with dog. This post may come off as preachy but I can assure you I am not preaching. I am simply encouraging you to speak dog for awhile and see what happens.

Guest Post - My Best Friend Forever

When Lauren first told me about her blog, I wasn’t surprised to say the least. One of the reasons our friends are as close as we are, is because we all have a slightly obsessive love for dogs and don’t think there is anything wrong with it. Once our friend Faith, in an attempt to describe me to her boss (who I was about meet on a business trip he was taking in Madrid where I currently live), compared me to a chocolate lab. Her co-workers thought it was the strangest comparison ever; I thought it was the best compliment I had ever received.


My chocolate lab Cali reminds me how great it is to have a dog every day. Though she has a love for eating my socks for attention and likes to disobey my authority in front of strangers, it is hard to stay mad at her. While I was home for the holidays this year visiting Cali, ahem I mean my family, she was so excited to see me that she followed me everywhere I went and asked me to play catch at least 20 times a day. But towards the end of my trip I knew I had to tell her that I was leaving again to go back and finish my last semester of grad school in Madrid. I put it off as long as I could until finally, with about an hour to go before I had to catch my flight and with all my bags packed and by the door, I told her I was leaving. As I turned my back for 30 seconds to talk to my mom, we both heard Cali eating something and knew she had gotten into one of my bags. Of all the bags I had by the door (yes, I know, after years of traveling and moving I still haven’t learned to take my dad’s advice and pack light), she chose my purse. And of all the crap I had in my purse, what did she choose to tear up? My plane tickets. Of course. My first instinct was to yell at her and try to get her to spit them out before she completely ripped them to shreds. But when my dad heard the yelling and came upstairs to see what she had done, he said to me, “She knows you’re leaving and didn’t want you to go.”


So say what you will about dog lovers and their sometimes overly obsessive ways, but I am proud to say Cali is my BFF.

It's a man's world

What is it with guys and Home Depot?? I usually contain myself to the flower section when I visit there, but during my last trip I wasn't so lucky. I walked aimlessly through every aisle attempting to locate winterization tools for my windows. My search through this store ended unproductively an hour later but turned out to be an eye opening experience. As I walked past what seemed like a trillion of the same tools and pieces of wood, I noticed that all the men there had an expression on their face that (in my humble opinion) should have only been reserved for their wedding day...presumably the happiest day in their lives. They had this wanderlust look in their eye like "If only I could live here....". At one point, I walked past a group of five guys huddled around a pint sized t.v. eagerly watching and studying a video. I imagined the Rocky theme song playing in the background as the blank screen revealed a brand new, shiny, orange power tool. When the reveal manifested, there was a gasp among the guys. At that moment I was convinced - men could easily replace women with power tools. They were infatuated. As the song track of Rocky played in my head, I peered down more aisles and envisioned men grunting as they do when bench pressing twice their body weight. Power saw? Ggggrrrrrr. Black and Decker drill?? Double grrrrrr.

I needed to escape. This was a man's playground that I was not welcomed in nor enjoying. When I left, it got me to thinking. My dog is a male and I am proud to say, lifts his leg to pee. I once naively thought that he lifted his leg at every plant or even dirt because he really had to relieve himself, but as I found out, he was doing this to prove he was a MAN. He may not be the biggest dog on the block but he still wanted to let every man know where he had gone first.

I am convinced that the Chicago epicenter of the alpha male dog population is at the dog park. It is the dog "Home Depot." Inevitably there is always one dog rounding up the others, taking laps and antagonizing the other dogs before they enter. On my most recent trip, it was a German Shepherd. The moment he set eyes on my 30-lb wingman, I knew it was over. He circled the park anxiously awaiting our arrival. I was hoping that some other dog would take away his attention from us, but much to my dismay, he was there to jump on top of my poor little buddy upon our entrance.

So I know that there are a million unspoken dog park rules, but today, I was not about to follow them. I decided to step in and put this alpha male in his place. What I failed to remember was that the German Shepherd was basically my body weight and that I was wearing a white jacket. Not for long. My jacket quickly turned brown and I was forced to grasp the railings to support myself.

My dog got away but a few minutes later, I could not believe my eyes! My precious mini-me was participating alongside Mr. Alpha. Together this awkward duo ruled the dog park. Peeing on every corner and charging every newcomer. Each time I tried to get his attention, he was too pre-occupied with his new "male" friend. I had been replaced yet again. First time by a power tool and now by the dog park ring leader.

Sitting there pathetic and alone, I saw an opening. In came a Bernese Mountain dog ready to take charge. Seconds later my buddy had had enough and was ready to come back to the woman in his life.

I realized that dogs need their male bonding time just as much as men. Let them go to their man cave, run around, pee on things and prove their manhood. We may not understand it, but that's what makes us love them. So for now on I will not be afraid to enter Home Depot. I will parade my dog around the aisles and respect each man's love for power tools and all things "manly." Eventually, they will come home from their fantasy land and if we're lucky, help us around the house a little bit.

Coiffure

I am obsessed with my hair. Not the typical obsession where you brush your hair all day and look in the mirror admirably at your gorgeous locks. My obsession is much more sadistic. I am obsessed with having the hair that I do not have. In fact, I hate my hair. It is a combination between curly, frizzy and thin. It never goes the direction I want it to, almost always frizzes out and never stays straight, even after hours of prepping and styling.

From an early age, I decided that I was not satisfied with curly hair. My mom, being the nicest woman on earth, let me embark on different ways of getting to where I wanted to be. Unfortunately, this was a painful and arduous process. The antiquated chemical straightening process practically burned off my scalp and even after going to the stylist for a good hour before my eigth grade photograph, my hair ended up looking like squeaky from the little rascals. Needless to say, I was an awkward child.

I had hoped and wished that 20 odd years later my hair would eventually straighten out but much to my dismay, it is only getting curlier...

I have met many dogs during my life, but it occurred to me with my most recent client that there is definitely a hair hierarchy between dogs. Some are wire haired, others curly and some soft and smooth. I think I would most resemble the poodle. So when I met "Jack", I was immediately envious. He had the most beautiful black, soft hair. His ponytails (ears) were perfectly cut, not a hair out of place and his white paws stood in perfect contrast to his dark body. Jack knew he looked good. I felt pity and shame for my dog who always looked like he had just gone through a drive through car wash where they failed to embark on the last portion of the cleaning and grooming process.

Was this shame self-imposed? Am I just putting my feelings on him or does he really feel this? He must be mad at me for not keeping him up to Jack's standards. In fact, in a totally failed attempt to make him more prim, I saw a glint of shame on his face.

I decided to take my dog to a new groomer that seemed very reputable and sophisticated. Putting my trust in her, I gave her permission to groom him as she saw fit. I could hardly contain my excitement as I came back to pick him up but when he came out I was shocked. Speechless. What had she done to him? She robbed him of his manhood! He was BALD. His ponytails were gone. His scrappy tail was shaved. She made him look like a hairless cat. I couldn't even look at him. I didn't know whether to cry or laugh. When I finally looked at him I immediately knew what I needed to do. He was ashamed and wouldn't move. I knew I had to pick him up and act like nothing happened. I am sure my mother thought the same thing as she saw my hair hit the humidity before my 8th grade picture. You cannot show your disappointment, but love them anyways.

For the next week my poor puppy walked around without his usual swagger and refused to meet other dogs. Were they judging him? I wanted to yell at them like a protective mother would. He was never quite the same after this experience, so I opted to keep his hair long to the point of matted, instead of subjecting him to this scrutiny again.

After this painful groomer visit, I decided to join my dog in his obscurity. There was no point trying to mask what you have. There is vanity in the dog world just as much as in the people world. No one has the perfect hair they want regardless of how much you try. So I decided that you can either obsess about it or get over it and sport the frizzy, matted hair you have. For now, my dog and I are sporting the hair we were gave and slowly getting our swagger back.

My Retirement Home

I live with a senior citizen. He eats breakfast at 11 a.m., sleeps all day and goes to the bathroom hourly. How did I get myself into this situation you might ask? Well...basically, I can't say no. My mom warned me about this problem since I was young, as she saw that I could never say no to my sister.

So here I am with my senior citizen. At first I gave him free reign of my home, but as with most senior citizens, it was too much space for him to mosey through. Too long of a distance between the bathroom and the bed. I found this out the hard way when I stumbled to the bathroom at 3 in the morning and found hundreds of poop pawprints leading me to the grand prize - diarrhea. So what did I win???? Two hours of cleaning on my hands on knees scrubbing away all of my hard worked anally clean floors. After burning out my nose hairs and drying out my hands (I inherited my Polish mother's love for bleach), I asked myself how I got into this situation.

On December 15, a lovely young lady came to me asking for her to care for her aging dog who would have otherwise been banished to a crate for 8 hours a day at a nameless boarding facility. Of course, I was unable to turn her down and so began my new role as caretaker for the elderly.

After numerous, audible cries of desperation exited my body, a brilliant thought came to my mind. Why aren't there retirement homes for dogs? You know, round them all up and put them together in a big room with no stairs (bad for the arthritis), heated at a balmy 80 degrees with endless amounts of designated naptimes. This alleviates the guilt you have for not being there for your aging friend and allows them to not feel so depressed that their life may be coming to an inevitable end. Surrounded by others in this same situation will make old age seem tolerable.

As my senior citizen unknowingly carried his poop paws all over my new home, I couldn't help but feeling a slight tinge of disdain. Disdain for him to ruin my palace of perfection. That disdain quickly changed, though. I shot him a knowing look...I knew what this was. He was livid with me. Livid that I took him away from the only thing that seemed familiar to him - his mom. He was grasping for the familiar and when he didn't find it, he was pissed. I understood this need for something comfortable. It was evident to me that old age is obviously not any easier if you're a dog or human. You need someone to come home to that allows you to take that much needed sigh of relief....that smell of your beloved one that allows you to breathe again. Anyone that says dogs are not like people, has not experienced the various ways they speak the same language as us. They love. They long for companionship. And they never forget the one that they come home to.

So, for now, I will attempt to be this person and will care for my senior citizen like I hope my future kids will take care of me. And just maybe, I'll start a retirement home for dogs.