July 20, 2010
My mom and sister arrive from New York tonight! I wonder if my Mom knows what she’s getting into.
It has been really, really, really hot here. Really hot.
I’m going to cook flat-iron steaks with a balsamic vinegar reduction sauce tonight. I really like saying “reduction sauce” because it sounds fancy, but it really just involves leaving something liquid on the stove for a long time until about half of it evaporates.
When you do that accidentally it’s called “getting distracted.” BUT, call it a reduction sauce and suddenly it sounds fancy.
My mom and sis will head on down to Charlotte on Wednesday, where they have wedding dress shopping plans all day. I’ll join them Thursday, to hopefully help narrow down some finalists.
Friday, my mom will return to me where I shall put her to work helping me get ready for our garage sale on Saturday. Like I said, I wonder if my Mom knows what’ she’s herself into.
I think some gene gets activated when you have kids that makes you suddenly and selflessly okay with doing what would otherwise be intolerable activities, all because your sweet precious babies asked. I mean, I adore the Budster but he’s never asked me to help him move, organize a kitchen, iron a shirt, pick him up from softball practice, quiz him for a spelling test, or make a grilled cheese sandwich. Now that would test my love.
Then again, I’ve never asked my Mom to take my crate out back and hose poo out of it every day for an entire year. So, yea. Gene activated.
Totally innocent. No idea what this “crate business” you have mentioned?
October 31, 2009
To be honest, I’ve never been a huge fan of Halloween but last night is really going down as a bummer of a holiday. After a Friday evening in catching up on my laundry and scouring the stovetop with Cerma-Brite, I’d been looking forward to breaking my homebody routine and getting together with friends at a party. But I did have some reservations about how the Budster was going to do if there was a flurry of ding dong activity prior in the evening – I might have mentioned this, but he’s a bit of a nervous little dog.
And actually, Buddy has had a pretty good week with some progress. Since I no longer have the excuse of not being able to wander more than 1/10th of a mile from the nearest restroom, we’re back on our 3-times a day, short leash, no marking, Cesar-approved walks. I don’t know what it is about this walking routine, but it seems to chip away molecule by molecule of the nervous energy that floats around this dog. While I was sick, Buddy had regressed back to soiling in his crate, tearing his poor schnozz up on the lock mechanism on the crate, and barking so hard that the entire vessel practically ends up in another room by the time it’s all done. This week was a good week. Clean crate, nose is healing and, the hallelujah moment of the week, one day where I pulled in to the driveway and heard silence. I know our journey is going to be one of three steps forwards, one poop-filled crate step backwards… but this week? It was a good one.
So I digress, but that paragraph actually has some relevance to my evening. It’s 5:30 and I’m sitting on the couch, watching I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant (yes, I judge me too) when the first doorbell chime sounds.
An adorable Superman and Hannah Montana await with pillowcases open. TREEK OR TWEAT!!! they holler up at me. I graciously drop 2-3 kitkats into each open bag. Buddy pants hard at my side.
Each set of visitors escalates his energy. By the time the doorbell goes off for the fifth time, Buddy shoots up from his spot in front of the blue couch, barrels towards the door and runs smack into the table of the foyer instead. As the tricksters walk away, he is running circles around the house awaiting the next one.
DINGDINGDINGDINGDING. What on EARTH. I’m starting to wonder if our doorbell is made of play-doh, because these children seem to enjoy MASHING it with some serious fervor.
As the stream of visitors increase, I start scrutinizing costumes. Let the cynicism begin.
A flannel shirt and jeans? Don’t try to tell me you’re a farmer. The least you could have done was stuck a toothpick in your mouth. (Wait, is that a safety hazard?)
A pink hoody that says GIRL POWER on the back? Listen, I grew up with Spice Girls. You had 5 different directions to take this in…. wearing their SLOGAN does not count.
And the girl in the black leggings, black knee high boots and tunic dress? Unless you are going as Meghan’s Bad Decisions From Forever 21….. you do not deserve my candy.
I became more cynical about this holiday as the night wore on and the doorbell continued to ring AT LEAST THREE TIMES IN SUCCESSION, every time. Seriously, kids. Press. It. Once.
Those of us who stay home and pass out candy should always be allowed to have at least one beer.
And can I mention how many of these children did not even SAY Trick-or-Treat? OR THANK YOU????
I had intended to leave to go to Anne’s around 7:00, but the slew of doorbell mashers kept me hopping. Finally, around 8:00, I swiped on some mascara and ran the Chi over my hair. (Serious efforts, folks.) As I turned to grab my coat out the closet, I nearly tripped over my panting, agitated canine who had positioned himself squarely behind my kneecaps. Hoo boy.
I grabbed his collar and we headed over to his crate. Suddenly, I found myself dragging 26 lbs of dead weight. Panting, drooling dead weight. Crap.
Matt told me recently that Buddy had been doing this drop-butt move right before he gets to his crate. He said that he just waits it out, talking calmly to him and eventually, he’ll gingerly step into his crate.
Well, Cesar Cline, can you share with me some of the Quaaludes you must be slipping him too?
My calm talking did nothing to budge the furry bundle in my hand. Eventually, I did what anyone with the 103 pound advantage would do, and picked him up and pretty much pushed him in the crate. As I closed the latch on his nose, guilt washed over me.
“Shake it off, Megs.” I consoled myself. “He’s a dog. He stays in his crate all the time. He’ll be fine.”
DINGIDINGDING… PRESS IT ONCE YOU LITTLE PUNKS!!!
I’m pretty sure the Lake Michigan of Urine I had to wipe out of the crate later was released at this exact moment. By Buddy or me, I cannot say.
I passed out my last handful of candy and tried to figure out how to turn off my porch light. (I was not successful, and I hope that when I re-read this later it will remind me to ask my husband how on earth we turn off our porch light? There are eight different switches by the front door, why do none of them control the porch light?)
In to the car I went, consoling myself that he’s just a dog and he’ll be okay. And by consoling myself, I mean eating at least 3 of the Heath bars I smuggled from the candy bowl before I left.
I drove through my neighborhood and was surprised to see many more goblins, ghouls, and one Octomom (8 baby dolls glued to her, YOU GET HEATH BARS FOR CREATIVITY, GIRL) headed towards my house. I thought of my welcoming porch light. “I guess they’ll figure it out when I don’t answer,” I thought.
A mile from my house is a round-about to get on the highway. I found my car going around the circle, my finger on the cell phone calling Anne. I couldn’t do it. Visions of my doggy locked in his crate with multiple DINGDONGDINGDONG ditch going on tugged at my heart. I thought of the great week the Budster had had. I thought of how much I wanted to see my friends. I felt torn, and it felt silly and stupid to be turning around on seeing my friends for the sake of a possibly agitated dog that needs therapy anyways. But round the circle my car went, and soon enough I was back in my garage.
I wipe out the crate and I shook my head at my little furry guy running circles around the house in confused delirium and gulping water like a drowned man would oxygen. Seriously, I think I was gone for 3 minutes. Oh, good gracious, this sweet dog brings me so much joy but in the same swipe, he brings frustration, guilt, and even occasionally resentment. (And then guilt for that resentment, eh?) There are the good days when silence settles in the crate, and then there are days when you drive away listening to the barking wondering if you are doing the right thing. And then there are Saturday nights when you’re parked on the couch watching Suze Orman (because at least that feels slightly less brain degrading than the mess on TLC), with your flat-ironed-effort hair going to waste, wondering if you’re being silly or mature by coddling a dog’s neuroses over your own selfish pleasure. Trick or treat? That is for sure.
So, it was a disappointing Halloween but what can I say? I’m sure, in the big picture, that one night of doorbell ringing would not make or break my separation anxiety bootcamp. I probably should have sucked up the guilt, and gone to see my friends. I missed them, and to be honest, I really didn’t learn anything useful from Suze anyways. But it is what it is, and this holiday is going down in history as being one pretty big bummer.
And I’m going to tell you right now, Children of Long Creek, next year I’m buying one bag of The Good Stuff (the $8.50 bag of Snickers and Milky Ways, yall) and one bag full of dum-dum suckers and those awful banana Now and Laters that ruin your teeth. If you don’t wear an easily identifiable costume or learn to press the doorbell just ONCE…. you’re totally getting the cavity-makers and that’s all I have to say about that. That’s right, we’ll be the house with bad candy. Whatever.
I’ll tell Matt to be prepared to wash our smashed pumpkin off the house next year. At least he’ll be able to see it okay with the porch light on.
October 13, 2009
Hooray Dog, Hooray!
Yesterday I came home to find you
Sitting with in your crate in silence
And we celebrated
You are a good dog!
We are so happy.
So happy
Hey, here’s a bone!
Hey, let’s do a dance!
You are a good dog
Now you are so happy you just peed on my carpet
Oh
October 6, 2009
Buddy’s last week was a little chaotic, between our four day visit from dachshund Layla, 2 back to back days at Doggy Daycare and an overnight stay at our friends’ house. Like any routine oriented species, he’s been showing some signs of regression these last few days. We call this velcro dog syndrome. Buddy, in general, follows me or Matt around the house. He’s learned that the bedroom and dinner table are both off limits, but other than that, where ever you go, there he be. He’s been improving with that lately, allowing us free range to walk from the living room to the kitchen or folding laundry without standing underfoot. However, after his stressful week, he is back to wanting to be where ever we are.
Buddy & Layla. The stress of having to share.
Case in point? As noted in my prior blog, I’ve been spending a great deal of time in one particular room of the house. If I’m not intentional about latching the door all the way, it isn’t long before a little paw comes and swings the door wide open. If I do shut it, I can pretty much guarantee on tripping over his curled up body as soon as I walk out. I get up frequently during the night to use the bathroom when I’m flaring, and I usually check to make sure Buddy’s sleeping soundly in his corner of the living room as I pass through. Tonight, I got up and saw no signs of Buddy. I was a little perplexed until I rounded the corner to find him curled up, sound asleep, right in front of the bathroom door.
Dog knows where his momma gon’ be.
August 30, 2009
July 12, 2009
I’ve been feeling really frustrated and glum about the whole Buddy-crate system (see: past entries, react: no DUH). But I got to thinking yesterday, about how much I talk to my clients about energy and expectations, and how often what you think you’re going to get is what you get, for better or for worse. Then, last night I was reading Cesar Milan’s “Cesar Way” passed on to me from the lovely doggy-veteran momma Jamie, and I realized with a start that Cesar is a big-time subscriber to all these universal concepts that coaches love. He even cited some of MY role models, including Wayne Dwyer, Deepak Chopra and Dr. Phil. I was all okay Megs, let’s put your coaching hat on and get out of your own way. YOU CAN DO THEES.
I don’t know… I don’t think I wanna…
Regardless of whether or not we’re seeing progress I have also simultaneously declared myself on a Venting Fast for 1 week, based on a cranky, complaintfest I had on Friday and how ugly I felt about it. I’m choosing not to complain OUT LOUD for one whole week (mark my words and feel free to hold me too it) and if I MUST let out some steam, I’m going to try and keep it to written word. To myself. (Possibly to be posted later should they be entertaining.)
So let me tell you about my day with Buddy and you can help me decide whether or not he’s progressing. And I apologize for the current theme of this blog of late, but hey if mommybloggers are such a force to be reckoned with, why not doggybloggers? (Are you listening, PetSmart? I will happily put an ad upon the side of this blog in exchange for compensation in the form of monies and/or lifetime supply of puparonis.)
One thing the Doggy Behaviorist guy recommended was that we move Buddy’s crate into our living room and that we spend some time with him in it while we were in the room. I guess the idea here was to start to diminish the association between crate = GONE GONE OMG THEY’RE ALL GONE MELTDOWN that seemed to occur everytime the latch on that crate swung shut.
The other thing I learned from my Cesar reading was that wearing your dog out, then feeding him was the key to getting him sleepy enough to chill out in the crate (or left out.) If you saw my dog shakin like a polaroid picture, you’d know that I’ve pretty much research separation anxiety up and down, and this is like tip numero uno. So I’ve definitely attempted to employ this strategy. However, my version of a walk was a 10-15 minute stroll that ended pretty much as soon as bodily functions were taken care of.
Today, I have walked/run 14,915 steps. THAT’S SEVEN MILES, PEOPLE. (In other news: that’s seven hundred extra calories which I intend to make up in these here tall glass of vino. Thank you furry personal trainer.)
So today, Operation Rehab went into full effect and I was all about some calm-assertive energy. I found myself chanting on our walks “you can do this, you can do this, you can do this.” I’m not sure if I was talking to Buddy or me.
After our first 3 mile walk, we worked on small periods in the crate. I started with ten, then twenty, then thirty, then fourty-five with anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes in between each session. I mostly stayed in his view, and corrected him anytime he started to whine or paw the crate door. He actually laid down for the FIRST time ever in his crate. This is big. Although the panting/shaking did indicate he wasn’t exactly relaxed.
Since the trainer did recommend that Buddy get him some Xanax or the like, I thought maybe tonight I’d try some Benadryl. (Don’t worry, I made Dr. C google the appropriate dosage amount. I didn’t want to try and do CPR after he’d been drooling in his crate.) After an afternoon of crate training, I took B to work where we took a mile walk around campus and then he passed out on my office floor. After a few hours, we packed up and came home. Another 2 mile walk, and I slipped him the Benny in some peanut butter.
As I write this, he’s been in the crate for 20 minutes. He’s laying down, but still shaking and panting. Not entirely sure the Benny has had any effect. In fact, I think he could still operate heavy machinery. (Me on the other hand, I’m buzzed from 4 sips of Pinot. Maybe Buddy prefers his drugs in liquid form? I’M KIDDING, PETA.)
Is it progress? Maybe. He’s in his crate without any of the usual behaviors: whining, drooling, BARKING, or peeing. He is panting, but he’s laying down. And truth be told, he’s still shaking.
But, it’s still early. I’m choosing to believe that this dog can be rehabbed. If not, well, no loss. I paid for the Benadryl out of my FSA.
Goal: Achieve this mental state,
but within crate so as to ensure safety of curtains and/or dry-wall.
July 10, 2009
I had a huge scare yesterday. I have been kind of cutting corners on my sleep (which is actually scheduled in my Outlook calendar). I usually get up now at 4:30 to walk Buddy, because I typically leave the house at 5:30. And USUALLY I’m in bed by 9:30, but for some reason this week and the week before I’ve been pushing it to 10:30 and even on Wednesday night stayed up past 11:00. At first I was thinking “well, heyyyy look who’s functioning okay on 5, 6 hours” and I was kind of proud of myself, because everyone’s always sort of teased me about my claim to need 7-8 to function (and to tell you the truth, I am legit worried about the sleep deprivation that will accompany the having of little people in my life one day.) So each day I felt a little progressively tired, but I sort of felt okay and I was like “Maybe I don’t need as much sleep as I think I do and I really have just been making myself THINK I need that much sleep.”
WELLLLLLLLL. Famous last thoughts, right? Yesterday I was doing a coaching session at a Sbux across town – 30 mins from my house. On my way home, I was feeling really warm and started to get really sleepy. I was about 1 mile from my house when my head bopped and my eyes closed, and I nearly swerved right into a mailbox. It scared the crap out of me. I know I drove the rest of the way home shaking on adrenaline. MOM STOP PANICKING, I AM OKAY. But, definitely no more cutting corners on sleep. I’m still kind of shook up by it, but thankful that nothing happened. I actually slept on the couch yesterday from 5-7, then got up and walked Buddy, made dinner, and got back in bed at 9. I slept til 5:30 this morning and I’m starting to feel half-way normal again. You better believe next week I’m getting back on my regular 9:30 schedule.
In other news: I saw my husband a total of 15 minutes this week. Three 5 minute periods either when he got home at 6 am or I got home at 4:30 pm. So happy that he has the next 2 days off. We’re having dinner with one of the new EM interns and his wife – who both went to Wake tonight, and no plans on Saturday except the Resident Spouse Association brunch for me. Sunday the crazy work schedule starts up again and my official week of Sleeping Normal Amounts resumes.
OH, must also update you all on Buddy, as I had a nice talk with a doggy behavioral expert here in Winston. (Like Winston’s very own Cesar Milan!) Good News! Buddy is the worst case he’s heard of in 20 years! I was like, hows about you just don’t share that tidbit of info with me? He did give me a few more pointers but basically everything I told him I’m doing he said is what you’re supposed to do for a dog with separation anxiety. He also said that he would recommend Buddy get on an anti-anxiety meds, and he also said that’s the first time he’s recommended medicine to a client ever. But he thought while I was doing the behavior modification, that would help him relax enough to be reconditioned. He basically said instead of 2-3 months like most dogs would need to get over this, Buddy will probably take 6-12 months. In a way, I’m glad to know I’m doing the right thing and it’s just been too short a time to see a difference but I was sort of hoping he’d tell me I was doing something wrong and if I just did xyz this would get better. Oh well. He was super wonderful to take a half an hour just to TALK me, and share all his wisdom and experience. I know if this doesn’t get better soon, at least I have an expert in my back pocket to call in for reinforcements! I told God this morning that since he gave me a difficult dog, I better have an easy baby. Either He said okay, or the voices in my head just agreed with that statement.
July 1, 2009
I kind of felt like we were making good progress with the Budster – we had him up to about 4 hours in the crate, although I wouldn’t say it was by any means a HAPPY four hours. Unless panting, drooling and excessive barking are signs of a happy dog… last I checked…umm, NOPE. But, he wasn’t acting like a drunk toddler when we released him, so we figured that we were getting somewhere.
Then came Tuesday. Tuesday Matt had to be at orientation from 7:30-4:00 and I had to work from 5:30-2:00… so one way or the other, Bud was going to be flying solo from about 7:00-2:30. A leap from four hours to almost eight…. we thought, you know, if he can do four, he can TOTALLY do eight.
You know that rule about increasing your running mileage and how you should go up by 10% each week?
What is true for shin splits must also be true for anxious doggles. Holy Backslide, Cesar. So, Tuesday I got home from work at 2:30 and lo and behold, found a soggy, smelly, miserable dog in his crate. I scooped him up and into the bath he went – chalking it up to too long a day and a bladder that just wasn’t ready for that.
Over the next two days though, we realized it was his mind, not his bladder, that wasn’t quiiiiite ready for the long day in the little box. Wednesday he was only in for two hours, and I was totally dismayed to come home to find yesterday’s scenario repeated. Two hours! He can definitely keep his little legs crossed for two hours.
Thursday morning, we had just come in our from our walk when Matt arrived home from work. I was fixing my coffee, chatting with the new doctor fresh off his first overnight shift, when our sweet little adorable Sheltie looked up at both of us, and lifted his leg and treated our brand new fridge like his very own fire hydrant.
W.
T.
F.
Not sure if this is regression or if he’s pissed at us (pun intend), buuuut whatever the reason, it ain’t fun.
So we’re back to basics, and back to crating in increments of minutes. It’s frustrating, but I also recongize that it’s not his fault and he’s ours now and we have to figure out how to help him. We’ve started putting his food in his crate, hoping that YAY EATING will make the crate seem like a tiny bit of a happier place? He’ll now go in there to eat but as soon as that bowl is empty, he’s out of there in a flash. I’m sure he’ll get there, and I’m looking forward to the day I can write the blog entry that says simply: BUDDY! IN THE CRATE! NOT BARKING! and we’ll know we’ve helped him become a happier, well-adjusted pup.
In the meantime, it’s just one fun, bark-filled day at a time.
June 12, 2009
Buddy has been coming around, in small but promising steps. We’re hopeful we can get him (and us) okay with the longer crate times in just two more weeks. These two weeks have been two of the more challenging weeks I’ve had in awhile, but in a wonderful way. Truth be told, I’m a pretty selfish person. I consider myself (hopefully humbly said) a good friend, I work in a helping profession, I try to do as much as I can to make my husband’s life easier, but when it comes right down to it up until June 1st, I mostly did what I wanted to did. If I wanted to stay an hour later at work, swing by the gym, or sleep in an extra hour later on any given day – I almost always did it. Not to say I didn’t take others (most notably, the husband) into account, but let’s be honest: Matt’s not going to pee on the carpet if I didn’t get home after 8 hours on the dot. While we convened schedules on The Big Things, my moment to moment schedule was pretty much up to: me.
But I’m happy about this change, for many reasons. One, I’ve always hated change but it’s unfailingly been good for me. I could cite so many examples where I’ve freaked out, frozen up and panicked when Life Changed. But then, it turned out to be really, really, really good. For more examples, you could pretty much read my last blog. 2 Panicky Entries to every 1 Resilient, Insight Entry.
Two, reality check. Most ever client I’ve ever had has had a challenge with prioritizing their health because they’ve been in a caregiver role. I’m a huge proponent of selfishness when it comes to health. I’ve done many talks on taking time for yourself. And I still believe in it, but suddenly here I am not going to the gym after work because it’s my turn to come home and do crate practice. And I’m going “Oh…. so this is how it happens.” I’m beginning to see how it’s a bit more complicated when dependents come into the picture. And mine is just the furry-four legged type. Hardly comparable to a infant child, a parent in declining health, an adult child who’s lost their job, a spouse with health issues and the many other scenarios my clients detail on a daily basis. “Getting it” is key to helping others and I’m beginning to see a teensy bit more of the light. Understanding can only improve my practice. Professionally, and without question, personally.
Third, practice. One day, I want small, squirmy, drooling things. Not just of the canine type. Heaven knows why, because I’m sure they’re going to cause more sleep deprivation and guilt and worry production in 24 hours than Buddy has in 2 weeks. But nonetheless, having any type of creature be dependent on me is good practice for things to come. Because let’s be honest, I didn’t do so good with the ferns.
Today we came home to Rochester, for Krissy’s wedding. Last night we had the dog sitter over and while I fed her wine and reassured her that the whole “only an hour in the crate” thing wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded over a 3-day period, I was internally panicked the whole time she was going to throw her hands up any minute, tell us this wasn’t what she bargained for and leave us high and dry. This did not happen, and she even seemed to take kindly to my 8 page notes on how and where he will #2. (I’m serious. It’s a strategy.) My fear that she would reject my doggy was second only to the guilt I felt when he gave us THOSE eyes as we slipped out the door, suitcases in hand this morning.
Welcome to doggy parenthood: time to unsubscribe from e-savers.
June 10, 2009
Small but good progress. We’ve worked him up to 45 minutes in his crate and he doesn’t come out and act totally wacko now when we take him out, so I think he’s maybe getting used to it. We saw the vet on Monday and she gave me some good advice about slowly building up to time like we’re doing, and also my friend Stef who has rescued 3 dogs who ALL have had separation anxiety (3?!?!) said they just ignored it (put them in the crate and let them bark) and she said the dogs just eventually accept that you’ll be coming back and barking doesn’t do them any good. In the meantime, she advised, invest in ear plugs.
We have gotten six different opinions on separation anxiety and google gives us even more. Is this just the start of “WHAT OH WHAT DO I DO” hand-wringing, advice-seeking in our life when it comes to creatures who are dependent upon us? Methinks yes.
We’d been putting him in the crate and then correcting him when he’d start to go crazy, but Stef told us that even negative attention reinforces the behavior – which makes sense now that I think about it. I mean, it’s the same reason I don’t make a big deal out of the days when a particpiant eats 3 krispy kremes. Reinforce the positive, ignore the negatives, right? Right.
Just hope we can get him up to a decent amount of time by the 29th when Matt starts back full time. He has been amazing with Buddy. Today he is going to doggy day care (the dog, that is) because we’ll be both gone for about 13 hours. That’s extreme for even a normal pup. So, he’s going to this place that’s like a big Gymboree for dogs. I can’t really believe that we’re paying fot this, but here we are.
How quickly we’re becoming dog people.
