In Memoriam

by Patti

I have a dead hamster in my freezer.

Remember Gus? Oh, Gus, may he rest in peace. Early last summer, Gus started acting strange. We'd find him oblong against the side of his cage, his furry little body gasping for air. Several times we thought "this was it"; that Gus had gone to run the big hamster wheel in the sky. But Gus stubbornly lingered. One day my mom came over, and she held vigil with us as we waited for the inevitable. Finally, knowing that S was not giving Gus the kind of attention he needed in this now frail state, especially now that we had Gaucho, I offered my mom the opportunity to take him into her own special brand of hospice. She at first declined. After all, she had adopted S's goldfish and her guinea pig, falling in love with each of them, only to find her self heartbroken at their respective demises. No way was she prepared to do this again. One hour later, she was headed home with a cage, a hamster wheel, and a dying hamster.

But Gus flourished. Under my mom's care, Gus's coat became once again shiny, he had a new pep in his tiny little steps, his precious, twitchy rodent hands once again eagerly foraged the seeds out of the mix my mom fed him every day. Gus was, to our collective amazement, miraculously on the mend, and it now seemed he would live forever. All through the summer he rallied, running that hamster wheel, delighting in the special freedoms my mom allowed him as she let him explore her bed while she cleaned out his cage.And so, we kind of forgot about the inevitable.

Then came the call. I was at Target buying snacks for S's sleepover. It had been a long work week, I felt a migraine coming on, and I was bracing for a tween scream fest as I threw packages of preservatives and red dye no. 4 into my cart.
"Hi, mom."
Sob. Sob. Sob.
"Mom, what's wrong?"
"I think Gus is dead!"
"Oh, no!"
"He's not moving! I was only gone for a couple of hours; he was fine before I left. I can't touch him. COME OVER."
"But... S is having a sleepover..."
"Please! This is more important!"

How could I say no? After all, she had taken Gus into hospice; she had given him life and joy for seven months. Gus had been ours for nearly two years before that. Wasn't his final resting place my ultimate responsibility? So I promised to be there as soon as possible, paid for enough junk to sufficiently poison S and her friends into comas later that night, and raced to my mom's. On the way there, I called S to explain that Gus had died, and she called my mother to promise her she and her friends would give him an appropriate funeral that night.

Once there, I approached the cage, and there was Gus - a furry lump. Ironically, he looked more plump and healthy than ever, except for that he was perfectly still and stiff and you know, not breathing?  As my mom sniffled in the background, I wrapped the plastic bag she had given me around my hand, and gingerly attempted to pick him up. Sufficiently freaked out, I may have accidentally flung him from my grip and back into the cage, inadvertently causing him to tumble into the fluff and onto his back, his stiff feet now skyward. Once again, I dipped my hand into the cage, and willed myself to muscle up and pick him up for CRYING OUT LOUD. After three mini-seizures, four screams, and five attempts that ended with hamster flinging, I finally managed to successfully transport Gus from his cage to the makeshift coffin my mom had made him: an empty check box now filled with fluff and a few of his favorite seeds.  We said a small goodbye, then closed the "coffin" with the lid, tied it with ribbon, wrapped it in a plastic bag, placed it in a shoebox, wrapped that in another plastic bag, and I headed home, a dead hamster in my passenger seat.

At home, I hosted a small "viewing" for S and her friends, then respectfully re-wrapped Gus back into his coffin, but not before, I'll admit, snapping a picture for memory's sake  Just as I was about to announce burial time, M reminded me that the ground was frozen solid and did we really think we'd be able to bury him? I could hear my mom's voice, "Please don't throw him away!", and my mind raced for solutions.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up with a dead hamster in my freezer. There he sits, among the Freschetta naturally rising pizza and Hot Pockets, patiently waiting for his proper send-off. You'll get your day, Gus - I promise.

R.I.P., Gus

Separating Dogs

by Patti

I just spent 4 days and nights separating dogs.

We took in Gaucho's brother Bento while his owners vacationed, and the two dogs' brotherly love bordered on Fatal Attraction. If they weren't rolling around in circles on top of each other, they were pawing at each other's faces; if they weren't pawing each other's faces, they were stealing each other's food; if they weren't stealing each other's food, they were chasing each other and skidding headfirst into walls; if they weren't chasing each other and skidding headfirst into walls, they were humping each other. Brokeback Brothers.

Needless to say, the fear that Gaucho's heft would crush Bento, or that Bento's playful yet aggressive nips would leave a hole in the side of Gaucho's face, meant that I spent 4 days and nights playing referee, and all I did all the time was separate them. Exhausting, I tell you!

One night, after a long day at work and then an entire rest-of-the-day spent separating the shit out of those dogs, M came home from work in a lively mood. I was laying on the couch, the dogs snoring in their respective crates (at last!), and M began clanking around in the kitchen, heating up the dinner I had left for him. Suddenly I heard salsa music bouncing out of the kitchen, and I rose frantically from the couch. "SHHHHH!"
M looked at me, surprised. "Why, SHHHHH?"
I gestured desperately to the crates, shout-whispering. "The dogs are ASLEEP!"
M paused, a look of complete disbelief sliding slowly across his face. "Are you kidding me?"
"NO, I'M NOT!" I knew I sounded ridiculous, but my biggest fear at that moment was that dogs would wake up and start their annoying quest to Must! Hump! Each! Other! NOW!

M simply stared at me, wondering who this crazyperson was and what had she, with her crazy eyes and flailing arms and shout-whisper, done with his wife? But HE hadn't been the one that had taken the dogs out one at a time at 6:30 a.m. that morning in work heels, hefting them back and forth, obsessively careful not to let the other dog know that I was holding his brother, otherwise a symphony of whines and barks and snorts would commence, and the whole house would be woken up and I was TRYING TO BE CONSIDERATE, OKAY? And then? HE hadn't been the one who had come home from work and had to help with homework and after-school snacks and engage in constant Brokeback Brothers break-ups while doing all of that.

And that's when I realized: I'm not sure I would have been cut out for raising siblings. Because siblings? Argue. And though they might not hump each other with the shameless glee of the canine variety of siblings - or: at all, even - they bicker and take things from each other and complain that "she won't stop TOUCHING ME!", and the whole idea of that is just stressful to me. And when they do argue, fuss and fight, you can't necessarily lock human siblings in separate crates and leave the house for a couple of hours. So there's that.

I also know this: in the moments when Gaucho and Bento forgot to annoy each other (and me in the process), there was this amazing sense of unity that sang from their bodies. From behind, they were the same shape, the same color, with the same curve of spine and cock of head. They lay together under the shade of the bright yellow bench in our backyard, their noses touching, their paws joined. It was clear: They weren't just friends - they were brothers. And that's when I knew that though the mothers I had inwardly tipped my hat to may spend their days "separating dogs", they also had the privilege of  witnessing the magic of heads joined over a board game, hands held running through sprinklers, locks of hair falling the same way over matching eyes.

I'll never see that with S - her head bent in conspiracy with a sister or brother; her arm consoling, her laugh knowing. And though sometimes, when I have little revelations like this, it makes me just a little sad, I also know that we have something incredibly special, too. Something that days spent separating dogs might just take away from. So, in reverence of that, I am careful not to wish for what never will be, and to hold fast and gratefully to what is.

Siblings

by Patti

S finally has the baby brother she has always longed for. And I finally know what other moms mean when they say they "can't take the bickering."

The only difference is that this baby brother? Is a dog.

Gaucho has now been with us for just over a month, and I can honestly say we can't imagine our lives without him. This bat-eared, flat-faced, wrinkly-bodied, chocolate-eyed little creature has kind of stolen our hearts, and I'm not even sure he realizes it.

He has also transformed from shaky, scared little puppy, to a confident, frisky, mischievous little thing that zigzags around the back yard and tries to befriend Great Danes 900 times bigger than him.

Part of this new found confidence also means that he sticks his barely-there nose into a book that S is reading, or paws the homework  she is working on, or tries to take a lick of ice cream right as the spoon is headed into S's mouth. In short: He has become The Annoying Baby Brother.

"Mom! Gaucho won't stop biting my sweater!"
"Mom! Gaucho keeps trying to chew my 'Young Authors' book!"
"MOM! Gaucho keeps trying to jump off the couch!"
"Mom! Gaucho keeps trying to eat my apple!"

And I look over at them, Gaucho parked brattily on top of S, his innocent face daring me to ground him, and I just can't get mad at him. He IS younger, after all, and, well, S, being the big sister and all, should know better than to provoke him.

But, so as not to play favorites, I scold him, even though he cocks his head at me when I do in such a way that I might just have to eat him up right then and there.

And then, just as soon as the bickering between them begins, it is over, and they are once again cuddled onto each other, watching some totally insufferable show that features screaming! All! The! Time! on Nickelodian together.

Ah, siblings. Such a wonder to behold.

Even if one of them regularly tries to eat rocks.

Gaucho vs. Gucci

by Cathy

If you've been following our blog, you know by now that Patti has recently become the proud new parent of a little smushy-faced, cuddly French bulldog named Gaucho. After years of repeated attempts with various pets (including a cat, another dog, birds, a guinea pig and a hamster, which they still have) and having all the stars align in terms of a buying a single-family home, moving to the suburbs, convincing her stubborn Argentinian husband to commit to a dog and at the same time, giving her daughter S a sibling, it all came to fruition recently.

As for us, we are in an opposite situation. We live in a second floor condo in the city of Chicago, we have two kids and not much space left and my husband has allergies to pet dander. Me? I've never been a dog person. I never coveted dogs when I would see other kids play with them in the park. I would never even go near them and was actually afraid of them until I got to be a teenager. In fact, this past weekend was the very first time I ever held a dog - Gaucho.

Way since before Patti got Gaucho, my kids would squeal in tight-hugged unison as they Googled pictures of cute little dogs or saw them on television. They would print out these pictures of dogs and put them up on their bedroom wall. In fact there is a collage of black-and-white dog pictures up adorning their room. Good grief, I thought. Why can't they just put up pictures of Justin Beiber or Lemonade Mouth or other cute little Disney characters the way I put up pictures of Duran Duran? They drop hints here and there by commenting, "Isn't that dog cute?" or "Which one do you like?" How could two non-dog lovers spawn kids with such a connection to dogs?

I keep reminding them that our living situation is not conducive to keeping a dog and that even more importantly, once the cuteness and playful factors wear off, dogs are a HUGE responsibility. My youngest one, Ari, not fully comprehending this, thought I was referring to how expensive they are, which is another point on my list of cons, and says, "Well, how much bucks are they??"

So for now, folks, instead of a Gaucho, we will contend with our Gucci, the adorable FAO Schwarz, caramel-colored stuffed dog sent all the way from the U.K. to my oldest daughter when she was born, by my good friend Sue. A Gucci ribbon taken off of a gift given to me from my husband became his leash and that's how Gucci, our dog, came to be.

Our dog Gucci and his brand-name ribbon leash.

We've had Gucci now for almost 11 years and he's perfect. Adorable, quiet, provides hours of playtime fun, and cheap. No walks, no poop, no pee, no barking, no space hogging, no smelling.
What's funny is that he is the same size and color as Gaucho is now - parallel lives!

For now, he's the perfect little dog for our family, until we move or finally break down and give in.

Been Fur-berizing

by Patti


I went missing again, didn't I?

It's amazing how life can just suck you in and swallow you up whole.

And I only have one kid!

Well, make that two.

No, I didn't suddenly become pregnant and gestate and give birth to a child in some warpy time-lapsed way over the past week. Instead, I became mother to this:

Could you just DIE?

Yes, it finally a happened. We now have a dog. A real, live dog, not a stuffed animal draped droopily over S's pillows, wishing with all its might to make itself real, but remaining as stuffed and as fake as possible.

We have been waiting for 2 months for this little alien-like creature to come home to us. We actually met him the first day of 2012, but the idea of him was planted in our hearts before Christmas. And now, as if wishes really do come true, he's here, and his name is Gaucho.

Last Saturday, S and I hit the road and drove 5 hours to a tiny town in Southern Illinois to pick up Gaucho. M couldn't come with us - he had to work. But he texted me the whole way, sending me messages as if he truly believed I was driving for the very first time in my whole, entire life, and that just maybe I was actually also blind while doing so. First, uh, texting me when you know I am driving to stalk me into being safe? How is that safe? Secondly, I have been driving for thousands of years, and drove for that many before I ever even met the man, yet, he somehow has it in his head that I took my very first breath when I met him.

ANYWAY.

We made it just fine, thank you very much for your concern my dear husband, and I will never forget that trembly, nervous, sweaty feeling I got as we got closer and closer to Gaucho. One would think I was about to go pick up a real, live baby, not a furry one. S was no better. She was a mess in the backseat, trying to sing along to Michael Jackson but unable to hold a note for more than two seconds because she kept breaking out into nervous giggles. "I can't believe this is really happening!" she kept announcing to nobody in particular, in awe that her dream was coming true.

We finally made it, and when we walked into our breeder's house, our hearts exploded and left puddles all over the floor. The puppies lapped up those puddles, and then attacked us with their puppy breath and big, clumsy paws, and giant bat ears. S scooped up Gaucho, holding that long-held dream in her hands, and pulled him to her with her eyes closed in gratitude. He sniffed her face, trying to know her, and began to tremble, understanding his life was about to change, just not knowing quite how.

We spent two hours with all of the puppies, bid farewell to the wonderful woman who had cared for Gaucho since he was born, and tore our puppy away from all that he had ever known. My heart broke for him; we were taking him away from his brother and sister, his parents, his aunts and uncles, his home. But I also knew he was going to a new home that would give him all the love he could ever hope for, and then some.

He's been with us four days now, and already we can't imagine our lives without him. He's sweet, smart, playful, mellow, does all his "business" outside (at only 8 week old!) .... and, oh yeah, cries like a newborn at night. This is where the hard part comes in. I didn't sleep at. all. the first two nights, and I felt like I was starting all over again with a newborn. He just didn't want to be alone, and considering we ripped him away from all he'd ever known, I understood. So I slept with him tucked into my chest those first two nights, and took him out every hour or two to help him understand that he needed to go out. On the third night, bleary-eyed and nauseous from exhaustion, we decided it was time to let him "cry it out". In other words, we were going to FURberize the little furball. And sure enough, he yelped and yowled and squeaked and barked... and then he realized that his crate, which he LOVES during the day, and willingly runs in there throughout the day to partake in deep snoozes, was actually just as cool at night. And so he finally fell asleep, and when we woke in the morning, his little overnight pee pad had been put to good use, and he was still adorable and awesome and un-scarred.

So yeah, that's kind of where I've been. Falling in love is very time consuming, you know, and watching S and her little motherly instincts come into full bloom is something bewitching to behold. But I'm back, and be fully prepared to be completely annoyed by me, as I am afraid I have become one of "those dog people".

But if you had this face nuzzed into yours, wouldn't you, too?

Houdini Hamster

by Patti


Last summer, S begged me into a submission until I agreed to let her have a hamster. We had tried fish (they died), a guinea pig (Allergies! Went to live with my mom!), a cat (who should have been named Wanderlust. She ran away 3 times -- the last time stuck), birds (dear GOD those things don't stop chirping, like, EVER), and finally, S decided to try to convince me that THE magic pet was a hamster.

She did her research and presented her case, and swore to the moon and back that she would take good care of the little fellow, and she even saved her own money to buy him.

So I finally agreed, and that is how Gus came into our lives.

I'm cute & fragile, but I ain't no Pollyanna

I have to admit, Gus is pretty darned cute - for a rodent. He is a hamster, so at least he doesn't sport that creepy, ropey rat tail that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and run screaming down the street all skinless. And most of all, S had been true to her word. Sure, she sometimes forgets Gus exists, but for the most part, she's been a pretty good Hamster mom, and I think the experience of caring for him has gotten her even more ready for what's to come next month when we bring home a puppy.

One night, annoyed with the hacking my husband was doing all. night. long. in our bed thanks to his Man Cold, I huffily grabbed my pillow and headed for the basement to try to sleep in silence. We were "dog sitting" M's co-worker's dog, Homie, at the time, and before heading down, I decided to let Homie sleep with me. Too exhausted to even pull out the bed from the convertible couch, I plopped directly onto the couch with Homie and fell promptly to sleep.

Suddenly, I don't know how long later, I woke with a start. I heard a ruckus coming from the other side of the basement, and I shot up from the couch as my eyes tried to focus in the dark. That's when I saw Homie half under S's craft table, his cream-colored ass up in the air. "What the...?" I was a bit drunk with sleep, and my mind didn't understand what was going on. I got up from the couch, unsteady, my heart pounding, and that's when I saw it: GUS WAS RUNNING ACROSS THE BASEMENT FLOOR, Homie chasing him, his paws pouncing heavily after him. Gus did a few zig-zag manuevers, desperately attempting to escape death, and I lunged after Homie, grabbing him by  the neck and pushing him into the bathroom. By the time I turned around, Gus was gone.

I eat hamsters

I stood there for a moment, weighing my options. I now knew it was 3 am. I also knew I had to get up at 7 am for work. I also knew that Gus was gone. S was sleeping upstairs, totally oblivious to the fact that her beloved Gus was gone. I was tired, and was in no mood to perform search and rescue at this very moment. I let the thought cross my mind: Would it be so bad if I just went back to sleep and didn't look for Gus? And then immediately squashed it: GOD WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?

I looked for Gus. Even though I was exhausted and had to be up in 4 hours and the basement suddenly seemed like a vast, endless, infinity of possible places to hide. There I was, crawling along the walls on my hands and knees, squatting under tables, peering under couches, moving furniture. I was SO ANNOYED.  M was hacking upstairs, all feverish and phlegmy, and I hated him at that moment for daring to be sick. And I hated that hamster for daring to be so small. And I hated Homie for being a rodent-chasin' night-wrecker.

I searched for an hour and could not find him anywhere. I sat on the couch, practicing my "I did what I could" speech to S, when I heard it. "Scratch, scratch, scratch." The sounds seemed to be coming from under my butt. "Scratch. Scratch. SCRATCH." I jumped up from the couch, fearing I'd plastered Gus. "Scratch, scratch. Scratch." I had already looked under the couch; he hadn't been there. I carefully removed all of the cushions, and very slowly began to pull out the bed from the couch. When the bed was half out, I peered into the space underneath and wouldn't you know it, there was Gus. He was just sitting there, ever-so-casually CLEANING HIMSELF, not a care in the world. He looked almost... triumphant. As if he knew he'd pulled one over on all of us. I grabbed his exercise ball and put the furry little asshole in it, and transferred him back to his cage, and then I wired it shut. Then I took Homie out of the bathroom and put him upstairs in the kitchen. And THEN I went back to the basement and tried to go back to sleep. But all night long I had dreams of dogs killing hamsters, and it was a sweaty, sleep-deprived nightmarish night.

A couple of weeks later, Homie returned to his owner, M, S, and I went on our road trip. My mom, animal lover that she is, agreed to come by our house every day to play with Gus and feed him. On the last day of our road trip, when we were 6 hours from home, my  mom called me, hysterical. "I CAN'T FIND GUS! I THINK HE'S DEAD!" And because, you know, there was just so much I could do to revive a hamster from six hours away, I told my mom to go home and not worry about it. Of course, she thought I was some newly minted monster, but the truth was, I knew exactly where Gus was. He was living the high life under the couch, probably throwing a rodent rave and laughing to all of his friends about the fools he had for owners.

Puppy Love

by Patti


This past holiday weekend, M brought home a puppy.

Yes, I fainted, too.

M is the Grinch of the Universe; he is the only human being alive that is completely unmoved by fluffy white puppies.  So when he miraculously agreed over last Labor Day weekend that S could finally! FINALLY! have a dog for her birthday in April, S and I had seizures and then hugged and then promptly began daydreaming about what kind of dog we would get. We have both been eyeing puppies online pretty much non-stop, researching different breeds, and excitedly coming up with names.

The plan was to wait until April, when S turns 11 (ELEVEN!), because by then she will magically shift from child to a dependable, practical adult, and will be able to handle all of the responsibilities that come with owning a dog. That, and also: M was hoping to buy time. You see, even though he agreed to let S have a dog, I know him well enough to know that he was also secretly hoping she would just "forget" about that longed-for dog. We are now 3.5 months away from "D" (as in Dog) Day, and nope, she hasn't forgotten. Not at all.

So M went to Plan B. He brought home a dog. He called me last Thursday at work and asked me if it would be okay if we could take care of his co-worker's French Bulldog for 4 days. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? OF COURSE IT WOULD BE OKAY! He asked me to keep it a secret from S, and I nearly died from secret-holding induced implosion until he finally showed up. S heard M at the back door, and she turned to find him standing there with a creamy-colored alien that rode a magical spaceship from Planet Adorable and landed on our back deck.  M slid open the door and S was completely freaked out. I could tell she thought she was hallucinating, but she wasn't! There was a real! Live dog! Standing! In our house! And he was so cute it hurt! "This is Homie", said M. Homie wiggled and snorted towards us, and we fell in love. Like, right then and there.

And this is where M's Plan B began to unravel. You see, I also know M well enough to know that he was hoping that by bringing this dog home, S and I would both realize just how hard it is to have a dog. After all, owning a dog means taking him out all the time to pee and poop, it means getting up earlier than you want to because the dog is hungry, or has to pee, or wants to play, or feels lonely; it means giving up certain freedom and making certain sacrifices. But M's ploy was useless. We already knew this, and have been planning for this, and preparing for this. What M didn't plan for was falling in love.

That Grinch, the one who abhors shaky, white, fluffy puppies and might just serve them up as hors d' oeuvres, fell in love with a dog for the first time in his life. That dog sat by him on our couch and watched TV with him. That dog brought M his "tug-o-war" rope and plopped it into his lap, and M played with him. That dog snorted, snored, farted, and tracked dirt into the house, and M didn't have a thousand heart attacks.

We returned Homie to his owner yesterday, and the house already feels more empty. But I get the feeling it won't be for long. Thank you, Homie. You don't realize it, but you opened a heart that thought it was closed.