The Grouch Cure

I have been incredibly moody lately.  Not so much this weekend, probably because I was so freakin’ glad that it was this weekend.  But last Thursday my mood was awful, downright heinous I tell you.  And I don’t have a good reason for the mood.  In fact, last week should have been a fairly stress-free week because my students were reviewing for and taking their midterm, which means no teaching and (hypothetically) less stress (until I start grading them at least).  But alas, I was snappy-mcsnaperson.  Driving home from campus I was yelling and throwing my hands up at just about every other car on the road (because obviously I am the only decent driver in the world).  I didn’t want to check my email for fear of what stupid question or comment could be lurking in my inbox.

My only saving grace for the day was Potter Rotter, who was in his best good-dog mood, following me around with the tail wagging at full speed, happy to trot after me and wait patiently for a pat on the head.  So to distract myself from the hideous grumpusness (yeah, it’s a made-up word; what?!?), I decide to take some pictures of the Rotter, and this is what I got:

How can a face like that not make you laugh? I caught him at the end of a sneeze.  Clearly it’s not the best look for him.  But it made me laugh and laugh.  So I gave him a big kiss:

He loves me, even if he doesn’t look like it.

I tell you, I don’t understand people who don’t love dogs.  I mean, I respect your choice, but I think you’re crazy; how can you not love an animal that provides such entertainment for free?  And you haven’t even seen him chase his tail!  Good ol’ Potter; he’s the cure for the grumps for sure.

Prepared…Unfortunately

My dog seems to believe it is his mission in life to prepare me for the ups and downs of motherhood, mostly the downs stand out, though.

Take today for instance.  Dave and I left our apartment around 1pm to head to Mt. Dora for the weekend.  Potter, of course, knew by our bustling and carting of bags out the door that something exciting was going on.  And he was pumped.  Until, of course, we left without him.  So he began to bark and whine, begging us in his little puppy yelps to take him to.

Making this worse is the fact that Dave and I each thought the other person had grabbed the directions, so neither of us.  When I went back inside to get him, Potter was ecstatic.  He ran in circles at the door, waiting for me to put his leash on him and invite him along.  When I told him to go to his pillow (the usual, pre-exit routine), he looked at me like, “What the hell?  You’ve got to be kidding me!”  He obliged, only to run to whine at the door when I, once again, walked out of it without him.

This escapade did not help me already present worries about leaving him in the hands of a pet sitter for the first time ever.  But, because I have full faith in our pet sitter, I got over it…until she called me this evening.  Potter has been great, she said.  He ate well, he seems comfortable with her, he wants to play.  The only thing is, he refuses to let her take him outside.  Anytime she tries to put his leash on, he runs away.  She said she tried everything she could think of and had, in fact, tried everything I could think to suggest.  She reassured me that she had not given up on him and would return very early in the morning to try again.  My fingers are crossed that he figures it out.  Dave and I are making contingency plans just in case.

My poor boy.  He’s such a lover but he can truly cause me stress.  I can’t imagine what it will be like with my human children if leaving my fur baby with a sitter for the first time is this stressful. So, maybe I should thank Potter for preparing me?

Maybe not.

[Note: forgive any typos in this.  I'm typing this after a great deal of wine (thanks, Papa!) and while being eaten by bugs on the porch.  More on Mt. Dora later.]

Call the PoPo

because today I became a dogsnatcher.

Or at least I felt like one.

This morning Potter and I were sitting out on the porch while I was doing some reading.  Suddenly I started to hear the clinking of dog-tags and looked up to see which familiar neighborhood dog was being walked around the pond: nobody.  But the clinking continued.  So, befuddled, I started to look around when I saw this gal:

trotting across the bridge that is perpendicular to our apartment.  I happened to know that she belongs to our upstairs neighbors and I doubted that they would be willing to let her run around the complex by herself.  So I tried to call her over to me but she, not knowing me at all, got scared and ran up to the door to her apartment.  She stood there for a bit, pawing at the door even, but nobody came to help.  She then ran back down and out towards this street.

At this point I began to worry that she’d be run over, so I lured her to me with a treat and went inside to call the number on her tag, where I also found her name: Cookie.  No answer at the number.  So I left a message and wrote a note to put on the neighbor’s door and brought her into my apartment to keep her safe.

I knew I was doing the right thing.  She is so little that she can fit in the palm of my hand and could therefore be whisked away or not noticed pretty easily, but it felt awkward.  I only know these neighbors, three college girls, enough to give a polite greeting as we pass each other in the parking lot.  I worried that they’d think I’d overstepped my boundaries, and perhaps I had.  But Cookie seemed relieved to be somewhere safe and lapped up the water I sat down for her, which reassured me.

The Potter Rotter, of course, was none-too-pleased.  He didn’t mind so much her being in the house.  What he minded was that I would not let him play with her.  Can you imagine?  He’s at least ten times her body weight; he’d accidentally crush her!  So I kept her in the spare bedroom and would rotate which pup I spent time with.  Cookie was good and quiet when I would leave her in the bedroom. Potter, on the other hand, would sit outside the bedroom door and whine when I wasn’t with him.  Pitiful guy.  So to cheer him up I offered him a piece of my banana as well as Chiquita’s wisdom:

He was not amused (but I was).

Luckily I only had to practice my balancing act for a few hours before Cookie’s owners came to get her, expressing relief and uncertainty as to how she could’ve gone out. I don’t know but I was glad she was back where she belonged and that I had done a good deed.

Plus I learned something.  Did you know you can paint a dog’s toenails?

I wonder how Potter would react to that.

What, you don’t know?

I just realized that I haven’t told you all the “big news” yet.  This guy:

got a new job.  Yay, Dave!  As of a week from Monday, Dave will no longer be employed by State Farm and will, instead, be making sure they (and other insurance companies) comply with federal regulations at the Florida Office of Insurance Regulations (or at least I think that’s what his job entails; I know for sure the employer is right).  The best part about the new job for Dave is that it is step one on his path to becoming an actuary. But the best part about the new job for me is that it comes with awesome insurance.  And considering that we currently pay for insurance entirely out of pocket (read: lots of money, not so much coverage), I am particularly pumped about this.

In other changes in the Altmaier household, I have started eating “grown-up” cereal.  No more Fruit Loops  or Honey Nut Chex for me.  In an effort to eat more fiber and less sugar, I am now munching on Banana Nut Crunch.  I must tell you, this is a day I never thought would come.  Sigh.

You might also be interested to know that this guy:

is about to get to spend a whole weekend home alone, with no parental supervision.  Isn’t he a big boy?  Okay, that’s not entirely true.  But he is going to be home alone for most of a weekend.  The second weekend of October, Dave and I are going to Mt. Dora, Florida to spend the weekend with Dave’s grandfather; Dave and Papa will spend the weekend cycling while I read (for a change of pace) and hopefully do some shopping.  For the first time, we’re leaving Potter behind and entrusting him to the care of his new pet-sitter, Nida.  Nida will visit twice a day to feed him, play with him, and take him on a lengthy walk that will hopefully keep him so tired that he’ll forget that we’ve abandoned him.  Keep your fingers crossed.

And that’s about it.  I’m so absorbed in school these days that I was fairly oblivious to the fact that the price of gas in Tallahassee jumped to $5.50 last Friday and then even more oblivious when I didn’t realized that it had dropped back down again.  You might say I’m a wee bit busy.  But aren’t we all?

You Can Also Pimp My Dog

This blog is having a giveaway for some pretty awesome dog collars, and I want one.  Do you want one, too?  Go here:  http://www.fidosfashioncollars.com/.  If you happen to enter the drawing and win, you should give the free collar to Potter.  If not, he’ll come after you like this:

[Disclaimer: Potter is not trying to eat me in this picture.  We are playing one of his favorite games, creatively titled "Get Your Nose." Much like the human version of this game, it involves me trying to, you guessed it, get his nose.  This is the face he makes to discourage any such nose-getting.  Rest assured, however, that I do always get his nose and, when I do, he rewards me with a good hand-licking.]  

[Oh, but he will get you if you don't give him the collar.]

Okay, Maybe You Can Beware of My Dog

I’ve never been a fan of those hideous black and orange “Beware of Dog” signs.  For one thing, they seem a little redneck tacky to me. But mostly it’s because, quite frankly, if you have a dog I should beware, why don’t you keep it contained somewhere that I don’t have to worry about being wary of it? And in my case, I have spent quite a lot of time making sure that Potter is not the kind of dog that anyone should have to worry about. I don’t want people to beware of Potter; I’d rather you find him cute and cuddly.

Case in point: the maintenance men in my apartment complex.  Anytime the maintenance guys need to come to our apartment, whether for regular maintenance or unexpected mishaps, they tend to severely over- or underestimate their arrival time.  Most recently I came home last Thursday to find the chandelier in our dining room hanging about six inches out of the ceiling. So the sweet grandfatherly maintenance man hurried over, determined that I would need an entirely new chandelier, and told me that someone would be here Friday to install it but it wouldn’t be him as he would be out of town that day.

The problem with their generic “be there Friday” statement is that they have, in the past, been known to not show up on the day specified.  Then, when they come on an unexpected day, they won’t enter the apartment if I’m not there because they’re scared of Potter. That’s cool. I understand.  Potter does bark when people knock on the door.  And even though I know that he would just run to his pillow until he garnered the courage to sniff and lick them, I realize that they don’t know that and shouldn’t have to deal with my dog. But because they didn’t come the day they were supposed to, I refuse to indefinitely gate Potter into the back of the apartment. Unfortunately they rarely even notify me that they tried to come, so it tends to be a game of chance to see what day I will happen to be home when they show up.

So I was shocked when today, five days after the maintenance crew was originally supposed to replace the light fixture, I came home to find that it had been replaced though Potter had been roaming free. I was proud that Potter had clearly not tried to eat them and, when I later ran into Terry the maintenance man, he reassured me that Potter had been very good other than some initial barking, I was proud that people do not, in fact, have to beware my dog.

But what if something had happened?  What if Potter had been scared of the complete stranger entering his turf and had taken a chunk out of his leg? Or, more likely, what if he had been exuberant at the entrance of a new friend and had jumped on him and knocked him over? I would’ve been responsible. And even though Potter had done just fine, I found myself worried about the “what ifs” of dog ownership and understanding for the first time the appeal of tacky plastic signs.