To be a mountain girl
You must be cold as frost on the tin roof
And hot as cinders from the wood stove
You must be witty on your comebacks
And sharp as grandpa’s yellow Case knife
To be a mountain girl
You must be tough as a pine knot
And delicate as a monarchs wings as they pulse
You must be soft as spring’s peach fuzz
And hard as the fallen walnut
To be a mountain girl
You must know how to sew with catgut
And how to heal with aloe and plantain
You must be able to rise and bake biscuits
And rest in the heat of the day
To be a mountain girl
You must know how to bait your own hook
And keep up with who’s buried where
You must know who married who
And where their children scattered to
To be a mountain girl
You have to talk to critters
And go barefoot most of the year
You must know how to plant by the signs
And what made that track
To be a mountain girl
You will appreciate each day as it comes
And be grateful to the one who made it
You will prepare as much as you can
And give grace at every turn
To be a mountain girl
You should be capable of shooting straight
Both with a gun and your mouth
And you should have casseroles in the deep freeze
And a stack of cards to send in sympathy or thanks
To be a mountain girl
Is to know which way to the river
And where to dig sang
And hold the note on hymns
And pray for the sick babies
To be a mountain girl
You will carry your own knife
And can your own tomatoes
And bake your own bread
And mind your own business
My grandmother built this house round about 1960. She had beautiful #1 hardwood floors put in. After a time, she decided they weren’t worth the effort to maintain (she was under the illusion you had to buff and wax them on the weekly) and had them covered up with some truly horrendous mustard colored carpeting.
When she died in 2008, my first priority was getting that God awful carpet ripped up. A friend helped me with the biggest part, and I was tasked with pulling up all the staples and nails and cleaning the wood from all the bits of carpet cushioning before putting down some nice area rugs. This was a JOB. I did it all with a claw hammer and my trusty needle nose pliers. I love needle nose pliers. Some staples came up easily, some I had to really fight with. And a very small number got left forever because they weren’t coming out, no way, no how. And once that was completed I went over it with a paint scraper, then some sort of cleaning agent, THEN the floor polish.
Three bedrooms and the hallway is what I slaved over. I had to get done before my furniture was delivered so I worked way into the night through the week and every moment those two weekends to get finished in time. And it seems like I had to get my library painted too. And the walls had to dry. I had fans going nonstop. I would lay down and my arms would quiver with fatigue. I remember taking Tylenol but the burn was always present for those few weeks. I remember complaining about the pain at work once and my manager at the time, whom we all agreed was barely human as he showed no empathy, actually commiserated. He told me a story of the first house he and his wife bought and remodeled. He said they’d work awhile, and cry. Sometimes he’d be so frustrated he couldn’t work, and she’d pick up the slack. They took time about this way. I didn’t have anyone to rest me, but it didn’t matter. Once I was finished the floors truly gleamed. They were gorgeous. I couldn’t imagine covering them with that hideous carpet. In an effort to save time, I had neglected to pull the carpet out of the closets when I had pulled it out of the rooms. Nobody was going to be looking in the closets and I could stand the carpet in there long enough for my arms to recover.
As time went by, I did finally get it pulled out of my bedroom closet and the library closet. But the coat closet in the living room retained it until one night a year or two later when it started bugging me and I had time on my hands. I pulled it out but for whatever reason I didn’t get the tacking out around the edges. Probably because that’s the hardest part, especially in such a tiny space. It left all these little pointy nails sticking up. This bothered me, but not too much because all that’s was ever stored in there was old boots and it wouldn’t hurt them.
Years go by. I get married. He uses the spare bedroom for his junk. He tears the carpet out of the closet when he’s painting. And leaves the tacky strips in the closet, I imagine for the same reason I did in the coat closet: it’s a pain in the hind end.
Some time after he’d moved his stuff I was again faced with those strips as I reorganized my possessions. I decided that would be a good use of some pent up rage and went to find my tools.
Well, I couldn’t budge the stuff. It had been over ten years since I’d pulled the other and I had forgotten just how ruthless you have to be. And I didn’t seem to have the right screwdriver or pry bar for the job, anyway. I sighed and vowed to look for something more appropriate next time I was at the hardware store. I loaded the closet with beach paraphernalia and forgot about it until I needed something out of there from time to time and it would be hung on one of those prickly tacks.
I eventually did pick up a spackler spreader tool that I thought looked narrow enough to shimmy under the yardstick looking stuff but I hadn’t yet used it.
So today I get a wild hair to clean out this coat closet. I wanted to throw out some old shoes and I knew there were sweatshirts in there I’d never wear again. And as I got deeper and deeper into this abyss, I remembered the little tacks that were sure to stab me, lest I tread carefully.
So tread carefully I did. And then I decided to be productive, unlike the previous two days, or any of my Christmas vacation, and tear that crap out once and for all, no matter what it took. I went in search of my tools.
And lo and behold, I stumbled upon my littlest most perfect screwdriver. And I knew as soon as my hand closed around it, we had been long separated but now we would once again do great things together. Whoever said a screwdriver is not a pry bar has never met me. Or my tiny, trusty companion.
And we went to work.
Within an hour, I had totally eradicated all traces of the tacky board and any wayward nails. I took a little break, ate some lunch, and moved my carpentry work to the writing room. We set in, guns a blazin’. I was after it now, take no prisoners.
So me, my Estwing hammer I bought at Sears when I was nineteen years old, my new spackler tool, and my very old, very much loved, t-tiny screwdriver got the job done today. I think I’ll retire it now.
I felt empowered. I haven’t done anything like this in twelve years. I didn’t really think I had it in me. My arms are aching, but I’m pleased with the results. When you have had someone to do all this kind of thing you forget that you used to have to do it or it wouldn’t get done. I guess I could have paid somebody, but then they would have wanted all the stuff out of the closet and I would rather struggle and do it myself. I showed myself I could, once again.
I don’t have fancy tools, or anything suited especially for the job at hand. I didn’t even have a $30 flashlight, which seems to be a necessity for most jobs. But I got it done with no help from anybody. I just laid in there and gritted my teeth and called it a sorry SOB when warranted and jerked that crap out.
And you can, too.
With this new year, I urge you to do something out of your comfort zone, something you think you’re not able to do. We’ve all seen the commercial with the man lifting weights so he could lift his granddaughter to put the star on the tree. Set your mind to whatever it is that you feel is out of reach. I hope you surprise yourself.
✨⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐✨
That title just looks weird.
But it’s kinda like what I said about the fires here, you can find blessings wherever you look. That year I saw generosity and a community with a big heart and open doors. Through my divorce, I found friends that pull you close and guard your heart and will pray for you when you’re unable to pray for yourself. So I’m sure I won’t have any trouble coming up with a list of things for this year.
I had to do some shopping today during my lunch break and unfortunately, it was raining. Rain is just an inconvenience, but you can’t help but dread going out in it. I don’t like my feet wet (even though I was wearing boots), and I had straightened my hair. And it got me to thinking.
Four years ago we were all praying VERY FERVENTLY for rain. It couldn’t get here quick enough, and it couldn’t rain hard enough. This was during the Gatlinburg Fires, the very thing that kick started me into opening this blog. Rain would have helped immensely back then, and it did come, but it was just about too little, too late. Shame on me for seeing it as an aggravation today. Think of all the states and countries in perpetual drought. And here I was complaining. Rain is a good thing!
Yes, I had straightened my hair. Well, so what? Who am I trying to impress, for one? And at least I have hair to straighten! And at least I can get it to straighten. And again, there are plenty of stick-straight haired people who would kill for curly hair, frizzies or not. Shame on me for being vain.
While I was on this kick, I should be grateful I wasn’t walking or riding the bus while I was out getting groceries. I had my very own warm car with a spacious trunk to put them into. (As soon as I move this chair, and this bucket, and these empty growlers, and these books….)
Thank the good Lord that I had the means to buy groceries, rain notwithstanding. Some people would give their eye teeth to have 36 eggs and orange juice and a box of Little Debbies in their possession. (I am one of those people. I actually did not buy ANY snack cakes today. I made a vow to lay off the Zingers and to only consume one box of Christmas Tree Cakes this holiday season. It seemed doable in November.)
And yes, to avoid all this Southern Baptist guilt in my head, I could have simply avoided going in the rain. I could have gone another day in the sunshine. Legend holds that we WILL indeed see the sun again! Ha. But I didn’t want to have to leave my dog. His presence would NOT be appreciated in the grocery store.
As for the rest of my thankfuls…
I’ll start, as I always should, with my belief in MY Saviour, Jesus Christ. What a merciful God we serve. I don’t serve him enough, but I know He’s responsible for me getting home safely and having a roof over my head, and having a strong network of friends and family. For all blessings, I give Him credit. Sure, I worked for my possessions, but I wouldn’t be able to work if it wasn’t for my health. And I really don’t deserve to be as healthy as I am. I eat everything. I refuse to sweat.
I am thankful for my little house. I really do love it. And I’m thankful I was able to find a roofer who showed up and got the job done when he said he would. I’m thankful for my gutter guy, Joe, and that he had kind things to say about my daddy. That was unexpected and appreciated. I’ll tell that story someday. I am also thankful for the invention of gutter guards, as they have eliminated severe anxiety and stress for me at least twice a year. I HATE climbing on my roof. I am thankful I had new windows installed a few years ago and I’m thankful for the fence my Grandmother had installed many years ago. Chester is thankful for that, too.
I’m thankful for my best friend (who probably won’t even read this). We don’t always see eye to eye and sometimes I have to be like, “Hey. I need you to listen to this and give me your opinion.” Because she’s so busy but I know I can shuck down to the cob and we are BRUTALLY honest with each other, always. I’m so glad we’ve been able to spend some time together the last couple of years now that I don’t have a husband to worry about, and her kids are finally capable of being left semi-unsupervised. Not everybody has a person that they can call for any reason, that knows all their secrets, and is almost 100% of the time on their side. She is the closest thing to a sister I will ever have and I appreciate her and her generous and sweet husband so, so much.
I’m thankful for my Co-op family. They know me as well as anybody. I forged so many friendships there that have carried me through the rest of my life, as well as working relationships with people I see on a professional basis. It’s so weird how Co-op saw me through the final months of my college time to today, still working with them in many aspects of my life. I’m thankful for the Co-op, too.
I’m grateful to friends who are better to me than I am to them. Looking at you Angela, Lorie, and Donna! Just to name a FEW. Y’all always have my back, whether it’s a Facebook Karen or having me a horse saddled or some treats to pick up on my way home. You don’t go unappreciated, but sometimes I’m so ashamed that I’ll never live up to your tier of friendship. These are the gals who would come, no questions asked, shovels and backhoes at the ready. One even has a wood chipper.
I am thankful that Chester has never had heartworms. I hope that this will equate to a good long life.
I am thankful for choices. Every day we make a million choices without even realizing it. As a woman, I am more aware of the things I have a choice of doing. The Centennial of a woman’s right to vote was this year. Imagine! Only a hundred years have we had any say! Blows my mind. I am able to work at any job I want, not merely a teacher or nurse, but a welder, a meteorologist, a fisherman, or lawyer! The possibilities are endless! I can do any of these things! I can wear pants and I can drive my own car wherever I want to, alone, after dark. I don’t have to have a male escort me on vacation or out to dinner (I can’t tell you how thankful I am for that!) I have a choice about whether I wish to have a child (I’m talking contraceptives, here, people, don’t get excited) and I can walk right up, stick my hand out, and introduce myself to anybody I darn well please. I don’t have to wait on my (nonexistent) husband to do it for me. I can buy a cell phone, a car, my own house BY MYSELF.
I am thankful that I haven’t always been given what I’ve thought I wanted. Now, I’m not talking about a mink coat or something like that. I’m talking about respecting God’s time. There was another job that I prayed and prayed that I would get. Turns out, I didn’t want it at all. I wanted THIS job. I have prayed for certain men to ask me out…to find out later they weren’t suited for me at all. I prayed for that pit bull in Charlotte to be mine. Thank God the agency finally decided to be transparent about his issues and he didn’t work out. I’ve prayed for a book deal to fall into my lap, and for some reason that hasn’t transpired, either. I’m sure there is a good reason for it. So I’m just going my own way. I’m not waiting, per se, but I’m trying not to think about it too hard. If it’s supposed to happen, it will happen.
I made new friends. I said goodbye and good riddance to others.
I swam in a warm lake, a rough ocean, a placid Sound, and played beer pong in a pool. I had a kiss or two and drank some weird beers with some strange and familiar people. I read some excellent books–shoutout to the one I just finished, The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern. If you’ve ever wondered about adult fairy tales, I would definitely recommend that one. I’ve eaten some wonderful fattening food- some of it lovingly prepared by people precious and dear to me. I have had soul-searching conversations and thousands of laughs with so many of you, despite restrictions and opinions. I did what I wanted to for the most part, and I hope you chose to, too.
We wound this year out with the Bethlehem Star and a white Christmas, and finally a beautiful full moon. I hope you got outside to look at them all. They were gifts from above.
So 2020 is over, but the rest of our lives are in front of us. I don’t blame the year, I thank the year. Maybe it got some people to slow down and reflect. Maybe we all reaccessed what is important to us, what we can live without. We all made choices on how to live this year. And if you’re reading this, you made choices that kept you alive. So congratulations. Maybe it wasn’t the year we envisioned- when are they??? But it wasn’t the end of the world after all. My greatest loss was my sweet little brindle bulldog, Lightning Bug. My greatest happiness has his big blocky head in my lap. Who rescued who?
To another tomorrow. For tomorrow is another day.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy
It is human nature to complain. I know this. But I have never seen the like of gripe-filled posts about this snow. And the majority are horse owners. I’m not sure if I see more from them because I’m friends with more horse owners than cattle owners (I think it’s a pretty even split), or if it’s because horse people are more vocal about things.
But it confuses me.
We live in the hills of Tennessee. Snow is a given. We never know how much, or how long it will last, but we know cold weather is coming for a good three months of the year. If you don’t like it, or are ill-prepared to deal with it, may I suggest moving to town? Or moving further south? Or simply just not having horses? Horses are a luxury afforded to few. They serve no purpose beyond making you happy. And if you’re this miserable taking care of them in the short winter we have, maybe you shouldn’t have them.
I don’t have horses anymore and that’s about 50% of the reason. The other half is cost. Horses are outrageously expensive if you keep them in the manner in which you should.
I liked the snow just fine. Thankfully, my heat stayed on or I would have been in a bit of a pickle, as all my firewood is wet and old. I didn’t have to get out because I had plenty of food and fortunately I don’t hold a job that requires me to get there in inclement weather. When I did have such a job, I used vacation time that I had squirrelled away or the Rescue Squad came and got me (true story, several times. Dispatch doesn’t close).
So. If those of you who are bellyaching about snow would stop and reassess what’s most important to you, horses or staying warm and being able to go and do, maybe you would relabel your list of priorities.
Can’t see your family on Christmas? Thank goodness for telephones and FaceTime. Internet down? Maybe it’s time to read a book or color or play cards. How long has it been since you’ve seen your family, anyway? Why do you wait till Christmas? No heat? Guess you’ll be buying a generator or wood stove with that Christmas cash. Car slid in a ditch? Where were you going and was it worth it? Pipes burst? That’s no good and I’m really, really sorry. There is a product called heat tape but I’m not sure how it works.
Thank God for the linemen, plow drivers, and tree guys who had to be away from their family this whole time, working out in the cold. Thank God for the soldiers who work in extreme heat year round to keep us safe from outside forces. Thank God for the grocery store employees and truck drivers and farmers, ensuring we always have fresh food. Thank God for the emergency personnel who have to report to work so somebody can come save you if you have a stroke from getting all het up about the weather or if you crash your fool self in a ditch while you were out skittering about looking at the snow. These people have to be out, they have to go to work, and they knew it when they took the job. Just like you did, when you chose to have horses.
Thank you for the majority of you who did not complain. Who were simply thankful for whatever kind of heat you managed to have and for the food in your belly. Thank you to those of you who made it the best Christmas you could. Thank you for my friends that take obstacles in stride and find a way to laugh it off or even see beauty in the simplicity of this snow filled holiday. Because there is certainly enough hate, enough division, enough sickness to last us all the rest of our lives.
To a better attitude for us all, myself included. 🥂
Once upon a time, in a land not so far away at all, lived a little tank of a blue brindle bulldog, who was very, very loved.
In a land pretty far away, as far as dog travel is concerned anyway, roamed another dog, who was not loved at all, by anyone.
Now this story has equally sad and delightful parts, so consider yourself warned if you read on. But, I will tell you: like all fairy tales, you get a happy ending.
And so the summer went by, hot and sticky. The brindle bulldog was very, very sick but the Princess was taking very good care of him during this time. She would feed him half her meals and they would go through drive thrus and get him his very own roast beef sandwich and cups full of ice cream or whipped cream, depending on where they were. The brindle bulldog was very happy, but getting weaker day by day. He loved to go on trips and would lay peacefully in the backseat until they got to their destination. One time they were in the car for a very long time and every time they stopped and got out it was further from home and there were all new smells and sights. Even the trees looked different. And then…after traveling all day, they reached the ocean. And it was the best thing the little tank of a blue brindle bulldog had ever seen. He was beside himself with glee and couldn’t stop yipping. And the bulldog was not a yipper, but he was so happy he just didn’t know how else to act. He loved the water and there was just so MUCH of it. If he had known the word vast, he would have used it. He had a very good time at the beach every single day. There was water with waves, and there was water without, and it was all glorious. There were smelly creatures in shells and there were trips on a boat. There were lots of new things to eat every day. The Princess made sure that he had a good time and got to see lots of different stuff every day because she knew he wouldn’t be around to enjoy this world much longer. She said everybody needed to experience the beach at least once in their life, dogs and humans, both. And the bulldog got his trip. And he ran free and swam just like a little kid. He was rejuvenated.
At the same time the bulldog was having the best time of his life, the dog no one loved was having the worst time of his. He was the color of chocolate pie filling just before it begins to boil, and he was so skinny that his ribs and hips were clearly visible beneath his chocolate colored coat. His blocky head and enormous paws with their white toes looked way too big for his rangy frame. He spent his days on the move, searching for things to eat and avoiding people who hurled insults and sticks at him. He was always hungry and he was always tired. The chocolate dog slept somewhere different every night with no one to stroke his gigantic velvety head and rub behind his floppy ears. The chocolate dog needed a safe place because he was very big and scary sounding when he barked. Many people were missing a chance to have a great friend because of how he looked.
The bulldog had come to the Princess in a way that most misunderstood dogs do: by default. He was pretty grumpy, but he had been mistreated and abandoned by too many mean people to trust them. But he had always trusted the Princess, and he respected her after an incident with a meter reader. The bulldog recognized that the Princess had saved him more than once and he loved her with everything he had and defended her right up till the end of his days. So when the little tank couldn’t breathe very well, and his eyes looked so, so tired, the Princess held him and let him go to sleep and breathe easy and rest the most restful sleep he had ever had. And when he woke up he was at a beautiful, still lake, the water smooth and cool, and he had a tennis ball in his mouth. And when he looked around, he saw there were tennis balls everywhere!! He had to get to them all and chew them up while he waited for his Princess to come take him for some ice cream.
Letting go is hard, the Princess already knew this. But maturity comes when you can appreciate what you had and not cry for what’s gone and cannot be changed. So, after a time, the Princess decided she was being a little silly and selfish for not sharing her heart with someone else. The Princess knew that dogs with block heads and scary barks didn’t often keep homes very long. And she knew that there are many, many dogs out there fitting that description. So the Princess started looking for one in particular. She was confident that when she found the right one, she would know it.
The Princess searched and searched. She met a few dogs but there was always something that told her to wait, to meet one more. There were so many!! It was heartbreaking not to be able to take them all home. But the Princess knew that for a dog to have the best life with her she could only have one. She would wait for that dog.
In the meantime, the chocolate dog that had been wandering for many months was picked up by a nice man in a truck. He took him to a place with many other dogs, and he had a bowl full of food every day, and all the clean water he could drink. He wasn’t yelled at, or beaten with a stick, and he got to sleep in a warm, dry place all of his own. He visited the doctor and got to feeling better very quick. He didn’t miss being free at all. He was always too tired to play before, but now that his belly was full he had energy and loved to go on romps outside and chase balls and play tug of war with the humans. He was very playful, and very, very strong. He was the biggest dog at the kennel, and families would come by and their eyes would slide right over him as they made their way past. He looked through the bars with his most endearing expression but it didn’t do any good. People would mutter, “Pit bull mix, can’t trust them” and keep moving.
One day, the Princess was feeling defeated about a dog she had set her heart on. The Princess had wanted a protector as well as a companion. She wanted her little brindle bulldog is really what she wanted but realized the fruitlessness of this wish. However, the heart wants what it wants. She looked over her favorites again, gathered in the cyberspace of her phone.
He was too furry, but she sure did like his smile. And his profile was short: “Andre the Giant came to us as a stray. He is around 2.5 and keeps his kennel clean. He is very large and has a scary bark, but is very loveable and playful. He knows some commands and seems very intelligent.” How big was he, really??? the Princess wondered. Only one way to find out. So that weekend, the Princess went to meet this giant dog.
When the chocolate dog got his collar on, the man took him out a different door and he knew something was happening. He saw the Princess, and the Princess had bacon, and he knew something major was afoot. He gave the Princess a kiss and she didn’t turn into a frog, so he knew she was real. And she took him on a walk. She was very kind, and asked him to sit a couple of times. He obliged and was given bacon. It tasted like the real stuff. It wasn’t rubbery at all. The chocolate dog with the big feet and the bigger head knew he should be very, very good and things might just look up for him. This is how it went for the other dogs in the shelter. He had seen so many come and go in his three months there. Or had it been four? He hadn’t been counting. It was still better than life on the streets. He tried to keep slack in the leash to show he could be obedient. He went to her when she kissed at him. He wanted to jump up and give her lots more kisses but he didn’t want to scare her; he had paid attention to all the people who said he was so big.
As for the Princess, she was wondering why all these people went on and on about how big he was. He wasn’t THAT big. He sure was cute, though. And he actually listened to her and acted like he cared. She tried to find something wrong with him, but all she could come up with was that he wasn’t her little brindle tank. The pair made their way back down the hill to the group of shelter employees standing outside watching their progress. She made no move to give them back the large chocolate dog with the blocky head and white toes.
The man explained why the other dogs there wouldn’t be a good fit for her. The Princess shrugged. “I don’t want to meet them anyway….I like him,” she explained with a shrug, still tentative about saying the next words. She was scared to make it real.
The man looked at her, and she looked at the man, and the dog looked at them both. Then the man said the magic words. And so the large chocolate dog with the white toes and the big smile on his blocky head got his cape, got his harness, and got his home that day. And when he got to his home, he had two beds and a blanket. He had too many toys to count, he had a bowl full of food and another bowl of crystal clear water. And it stayed that way. And he got to run and run and run inside a big fence and he got to go on rides lots of times in the rocket. And best of all, he got to snooze on the couch while the Princess stroked his big blocky head and told him he wasn’t so big after all. And she would fry bacon and he would lay on her lap while she wrote stories. It was like it was in his wildest dreams. And he was so, so happy. And the Princess missed her blue brindle bulldog, but this chocolate dog never failed to put a smile on her face. And she thanks the brindle tank for teaching her not all pitbulls are scary and mean, and they love you so completely it’s almost impossible to let them go. But there will always be another to help you find your way and shower your affection on.
And so the Princess and the large chocolate dog with the biggest heart and biggest head and biggest feet with little white toes lived happily ever after.
There is so much I don’t know. And there is so much to be thankful for that doesn’t even enter my mind. I haven’t done the 30 days of thankfulness in several years but I think I’ll do one giant blog post soon to catch up.
Once upon a time, I was scrolling Pinterest and saw these adorable curtains made from antique handkerchiefs. I have a friend that makes them from bandanas, but I don’t really have a Western theme at my house. I don’t think I have a theme at all, come to think of it. It’s just uniquely Amy.
Which translates to haphazard pieces I find and buy.
Anyway, I had a few hankies I’ve collected over the years and I thought, “hmm…I could do that, easy peasy!”
Pffffft.
First of all, I didn’t have nearly enough. Ebay to the rescue! And I even found some ready to be hung. “A simple whip stitch runs through the corner” the description said. I liked the simple bit, and I figured I could do it to my already acquired ones.
Well.
The lot I bought came with ten, and for it to look like anything I needed about three dozen to create my vision.
So that’s how the hankie curtain made its way to my office. And I never got around to “running a simple whip stitch” through my previously owned ones.
Until today.
I can’t sew a button on a shirt, by the way. My former husband was a decent little seamstress so he helped me out when I needed something mended. Now I have Angela, thank God, who is a quilter and can generally get me out of a pickle when it comes to my hems.
{I should note here that my phone is unfamiliar with all these sewing terms and is quite creative with what it’s changing the words to.}
Alright. So here I am this morning, eyeing my pile of hankies with mistrust. I’d rooted around in what I’ve kept from my Grandmother’s sewing box and found some white thread and a needle. (Check out the price on the thread!!)
And it got me to thinking about how little I know about things that were rote for her. For instance, just the packaging of this thread. Obviously thread comes in various thicknesses. So is this standard thread? Did she buy it with a particular project in mind? How long would a spool last, typically? Did she have a favorite brand? Is it like baler twine and the cheaper varieties will break or get wadded up and knot? Should this thread be thrown out since it’s so old?
And off I went, thinking of my costumes she would make for various beauty pageants. She sewed me a riding habit. She threw together aprons and could hem any pants and could make curtains.
Surely I can sew a few stitches.
I’m here to tell you, it is much, MUCH, harder than it looks.
First of all, you have to have good sight to thread the tiny thing. Then you have to not gouge your fool self and bleed on the white material and thread. Then you have to determine how much thread you’ll need for your little project (that’s some logistics I can’t fathom right there, like if you were sewing a quilt, how does that work??) And then you’re ready to start.
I fumbled around an eventually managed to run a stitch through.
You have to be precise and nimble. I am neither of these things. I am a wreck. But I eventually got all five finished. It only took me thirty five minutes. And then I looked at my rumpled pile of dainty hankies and thought, “Grandmother would have starched and pressed them.”
But Amy won’t.
So today I am thankful I can march in a store and buy clothes that will fit right off the hanger. I don’t have to go select fabric and thread and buttons and zippers and whatever else and then measure and cut and sew.
Thank you, Lord, for Belk.
Day 8: I fell off the couch this morning. It was an embarrassment and a surprise. But no matter what happens, it won’t be as bad as The Soaking yesterday. Princess Sparkleshoes says life is full of ups and downs and I’ll do good to remember that.
She’s just mad because hairs keep mysteriously showing up in the tub and she’s cleaned it twice already. I told her if she hadn’t stressed me out I wouldn’t have shed so much. She said I should have cooperated better. I started to tell her something else but then I heard a little bee tell me to never argue with a redhead, especially the one who feeds you and allows you to ride in the rocket. So I yawned and licked her hand.
Chester’s Diary, Day 8 and a half
Popcorn is an acquired taste. I haven’t acquired that taste. It’s not natural. I would rather just play with them but Princess Glitter Pants gags when she has to pick the slimy bits up off the carpet. I do think the chickens next door would fit my discriminating palate. And I promise not to leave any slimy bits anywhere. #scoutshonor
Chester’s Diary, Day 9
Whoever this Lightning Bug character is, he must have really been something special. Princess Glitterpants still cries over him sometimes.
She also says I could have learned a lot from him about rocket riding etiquette, whatever that’s supposed to mean. I think I do just fine. There’s just so much to see and SO MANY WINDOWS TO SEE IT FROM
Chester’s Diary, Day 11
I have been told multiple times that today is a holiday and that means we get to sleep extra.
But I can’t sleep extra when I’m not extra sleepy.
I wore myself out yesterday and fell asleep on the couch when the sun went to sleep. I didn’t even want to get up to go to bed. Princess Glitterpants said I staggered like a drunk. I was extra sleepy YESTERDAY.
So I woke up at 5:30 today. Which means I woke up PGP approximately five seconds later. She whacked me with a pillow, which I thought meant she wanted to play and in my excitement I may have licked her eyelid. I’m not sure. Things move so fast. Including PGP after that happened.
Anyway, that did the trick and she got up and made go-go juice, which I’m not old enough to have, and bacon, which I AM old enough to have. And she made herself a concoction with an egg that I got the last bites of. I’m glad she didn’t like it enough to finish. I thought it was glorious.
So it’s going to rain today but the sun is up so I guess it gets a holiday too, later, after everybody is up doing. I don’t mind rain and I get the towel treatment when I’m wet and that’s Very Nice. We have the windows open in anticipation. I hear it makes nice napping.
If any Veterans are in need of a face-licking, I am happy to oblige. Thank you for serving our country. I’m sure it wasn’t easy to be away from your favorite humans and I guess you probably had a dog, too. I’m sure they missed you desperately. I just want to say I appreciate you and maybe that makes up for the free loading hippies that don’t.
This is what I look like when PGP makes bacon, in case anyone wants to know. She said I look like a wild dingo. I guess that’s good. But she also threatens to sell me to the Gypsies and I don’t know that I would like living with the Gypsies as much as I love living here.
Chester’s Diary, Day 12
Everybody that has met me says I’m MUCH cuter in person, which makes me wonder if Princess Glitterpants is putting goofy looking pictures of me out there on purpose.
That being said, I run into walls because I can’t walk in a straight line when I’m looking back to make sure Princess Glitterpants is coming. So I guess it’s justified.
Chester’s Diary, Day 12, second entry
I visited a very smelly store today. Princess Glitterpants has a TWIN!!! And there was a tree inside but I was warned several times to NOT pee on it.
I don’t understand the point. But I also don’t like to face the wrath of PGP so I just sniffed and sniffed and sniffed….and sniffed some more.
PGP told me that many of you ask about my “antics” every day and I have a fan club of sorts. I hope to meet you all! But let me warn you….the only person I am truly in love with is this red headed dumplin’ who feeds me. I will probably unleash my loudest, scariest bark upon meeting you. Especially if you lock eyes with me. I don’t like it. I came from the streets and a dominance was established. I often did not win with humans. I don’t bite, but I am very vocal. So forgive me if I bark…but don’t challenge me, capiche?
Chester’s Diary, Day 13.
PGP says if I tear up my office bed she’s not buying me another and I won’t have any place soft to sit.
I think she’s bluffing.
Chester’s Diary, Day 14
Usually it feels like I’ve been here forever. But sometimes I remember the hard concrete and the constant noise and the few minutes I got to see somebody each day. So when I think about that I climb into Princess Glitterpants lap and close my eyes and forget again.
I guess if I’m gonna tell this, I need to pick up with where I left off.
So I got all Chester’s (at that time still Andre the Giant’s) paperwork signed and paid his bail, and we busted out of that joint, everybody all smiles but none bigger than Chester’s. I decided to take the interstate home because those curvy roads might make him sick. He was pretty excited and paced some, looking at all the things that he’d never seen before. He acted like it was the most natural thing in the world to be riding 75 mph with someone he’d never before laid eyes on. I guess that’s a good thing. Ever so often he’d stick his head through the gap between my headrest and window and lay his muzzle on my shoulder. It was the sweetest thing. And if he could catch my elbow far enough back on the armrest, he’d put his head on top of it. He eventually circled and curled up to sleep. Bless his little bones. If I had been him, I wouldn’t have been nearly so accepting of this fate. I guess he knew my intentions and that everything was going to be okay. I kept thinking about what the director told me: picked up as a stray in June, and had been at the shelter ever since.
Once he settled down, I began calling all my good friends that have been in suspense waiting to hear if I found The One. They were all so happy for me, I even heard tears a couple of times.
I have such sweet, caring friends. They are incredibly dear to me. I knew they were all hurting right along with me when I had to make the decision on LB. That was a gut-wrenching time and I felt pretty low the whole month of October. And I’m so freaking picky about another dog, I guess they were all beginning to wonder if I’d ever find another that suited me.
We finally pulled through the gates at home and I grabbed hold of his leash before he could pop out the back door and be a stray dog again. Can’t y’all just see that happening to me? I took him for a tour of the outside, hoping he was noting the perimeters closely. He is a very strong puller with a lot of weight behind it. He sort of drug me around until we came to a truce. Then I let him come inside with me. I was on high alert for a raised leg although it seemed he’d exhausted his resources outside. You can never be too careful.
As I led him around, it appeared he’d not spent much, if any, time in a house before. Everything seemed brand new to him, not just merely something new to sniff. He tilted his head at every object, it seemed like. The only place he offered to mark was in the writing room, and all I can figure is he smelled LB. So I jerked him up and led him straight back outside. Then, because I hadn’t had but one little breakfast wrap all day, I made myself lunch. And my new dog made himself comfortable at my feet.
He didn’t beg for scraps, I can only assume because he didn’t know what he was missing. Allow me to introduce you to your first bad habit, Chester. Of course, at this time, I was thinking of him as Rhett. I kept his harness on him, for a few reasons: I wasn’t sure if he would come to me easily, I didn’t know how accepting he would be of putting it back on again, and let’s get real: I didn’t know this dog. He was in a completely new place with a completely new human. Sure, he seemed sweet but…..I know dogs. And you gotta give them time.
He went straight to his water bowl and lapped some up, and even got a few bites of food. I took this as a good sign that he was already comfortable enough to eat in his new surroundings.
I moved to the living room. Instead of him going to investigate more, he came with me and laid on top of my feet. Not near my feet, but as much as his body he could get on top of me, he did.
I have never felt more loved in my life.
Of course, he had his new Sealy bed that I had introduced him to, and all his new toys, but he just wanted to be as close to me as possible. I’m not sure who was protecting who at this point, but it didn’t matter.
After a while, I tried to get him to go downstairs so he could learn about that, but he was very unsure about the steps. They’re the open style, and I can respect that they’re a little disconcerting. Plus, there’s a mirror on the far wall, and that would be off-putting, as well. I didn’t push the issue. Instead, I led him next door to meet Uncle Dale and Aunt Brenda. I had been hearing somebody shooting, and my money was on Uncle Dale. Andre/Rhett/Chester, to his credit, barely flinched. I kept thinking of how I’d be peeling that psycho dog Holden off the ceiling…or perhaps off my face. He did great with them, just sniffed and moved on. Aunt Bren took a few pictures to capture adoption day. I had forgotten to get any at the shelter. Here is my favorite; it pretty much sums up how we feel about each other. I’m not sure who’s happier.
My friend Connie messaged me that Kevin, the director, had told her that no one had looked at him in at least three months. That made me love him so much more and melt any residual ice I was harboring around my guilt of getting another dog so soon after the passing of Lightning Bug. Lots of people missed out on a great dog, and I’m only slightly ashamed to say I’m glad!
Chester laid no further than six feet from me all evening. I made sure he got plenty of potty breaks before bedtime. I wasn’t sure what the night would bring, but I remember falling asleep with a smile on my face as I listened to him snoring from his bed.
The dog had settled right in, no problem.
The next morning I put his harness back on for our jaunt–too much can go wrong with a strange dog that doesn’t know his name and is getting the first taste of freedom in a while. He investigated everything thoroughly again, did his business, and I fixed us a bacon and egg sandwich for breakfast. Chester took his bites oh so gently.
I felt that he was ready for his first field trip.
My friend Angela, that lives just over the hill, couldn’t wait to meet him, so we picked her up because she’s obviously a glutton for punishment. First, Andre/ Rhett/ Chester barked at her very menacingly. Then he pooped in her yard. Then when we all piled in the car he licked her ear, so I guess all was forgiven on both sides.
I’m ashamed to say our first adventure was Tractor Supply, but it was Sunday so Co-op wasn’t open. He pulled me around while I attempted to look at beds and flea meds for him. We found a rope bone he liked, so I purchased that. There was a lady who fell in love with him and suggested the name Hoss, I guess due to his size. It just reminded me of our Sherriff. I wanted something that fit his personality. I was sweating by the time we got to the cashier. We ran into my cousin, Mike, who gave him a rubbing and complimented me on my choice. His dad was the one who gave me Crockett all those years ago.
When we made it home (after an escapee incident at Angela’s- boy, is he FAST) we settled back in. I kept looking at him and thinking that Rhett didn’t suit him just exactly right. Rhett is a name for a distinguished, reserved canine, particularly one with black fur.
I started fishing.
After close friends suggested several good ones (Reeder, Booker–dismissed ’cause it sounds like booger when said aloud–Finn, Hank, Hawk, Chester) I put a vote out on Facebook and got a great many more to choose from, including Redford, Toby, Jasper, Moose, Huck, and Oliver to name just a few.
CHESTER’S DIARY, Day TWO (11/1/2020)
EVERYTHING HERE IS SO SOFT. AND THAT WAS A FUN TRIP TO THE GADGET STORE. I HOPE I GET TO GO BACK.
Monday came, and so did his first trip to the big city. We hung at the office all day and he got to meet Sam and David. They were both heavily invested in LB’s final days and my ongoing search for a furry friend in the weeks following. David and my new boy made fast friends over a few games of tug of war and fetch. Sam preferred to admire him from afar.
After work, we stopped by the Co-op for food and maybe a few toys and treats. You know, the necessities. He got to meet another cousin (Tammy, of course- sister of Mike he met at TSC), and a few former co-workers and momma Robin. It was an adventure for sure. He had a great big time. He also exhibited some great big barks, but everybody just wrote it off as excitement, because it was. Word to the wise: never go to the pet department at Co-op without having a very clear idea of what you want. Tammy could sell saltwater to the sea. A good friend gifted me some money to put on some fun stuff, so that saved me from having to get a part-time job to cover my bill.
We got back home and I had finally settled on (the least popular choice) Chester. Several people that I tend to think know me well agreed. He just LOOKS like a Chester. I only liked Rhett because it’s obviously southern and I’m a nut over Rhett Butler. So, on November 2nd, after three full days in residence, he became Chester Johnson.
Chester’s Diary, Day Three (11/2/2020)
The place we were today for an eternity was not as fun as where I sleep but I like the action. Too bad Princess Glitter and Sparkle doesn’t let me chase squirrels. I could really make a dent in the population. It appears that they are overrun. I REALLY REALLY liked the gadget store we were in today. LOTS OF NICE PEOPLE AND THEY ALL KNEW ME!!!! I felt like a CELEBRITY. I hope I don’t need to get plastic surgery for my jowls. I think they make me look dignified, when I feel like such a dork. There were so many things to play with. A WHOLE WALL TALLER THAN PRINCESS SPARKLES!!!! AND THE FOOD. MY GOSH. IT WAS LIKE DOGGY HEAVEN. Maybe that is doggy heaven??? Am I dead??? I don’t remember dying….Oh well. I’m having a good time, no matter.
Tuesday, another trip back to work. All was well. I decided to risk it through a drive-thru. I’m all about testing boundaries. I called in some wings. Their drive-thru is low-key, unlike, say, Chickalay.
He raised immortal hell. But the girl was undeterred and still gave him a great big doggie biscuit (well, technically, she gave it to me to give to him).
After we ate I decided it was time he spent some time in the basement so he wouldn’t be all freaked out when I had to leave him down there sometimes. He still wouldn’t go down the stairs, but he seemed perfectly at ease being down there and laid at my feet after an initial perusal. I remembered that LB learned about the stairs by first going up them a few times. So I decided we’d work on that. Chester isn’t dumb, he’s just goofy. And after all, he’d been doing nothing but learning and adapting the last few days. Who was I to rush stairs? But after less than five minutes of coaxing, he came right on up. And I made a HUGE deal out of it and he was so pleased with himself, prancing around and twisting his body as his tail wagged furiously. But he still wouldn’t go down. No matter.
Chester’s Diary, Day Four (11/3/2020)
Back to the other place today. It was pretty boring today, other than when we walked out to the street. But then we went on a mission for chicken on the way home and I barked and barked because this hole slid open in a wall that wasn’t there when we pulled up and a lady popped her head out like a Jack-in-the-Box. Those things are frightening!! Ask any three year old. She did give me a bone for startling me. I think she thought I was cute. I may be nicer next time. Princess Sparkle Pants will not give up on me walking the planks to get to the tall level so I finally gave in and DID IT today. She was so excited, you would have thought I swam the English Channel. So that was no big deal. I’ll probably do it again tomorrow. I’m curled up tight in my bed now with my soft blankie.
The big milestone on Wednesday was I let him off-leash in the yard. The frosty mornings don’t agree with me, and besides, he’s going to have to learn to come to me and how to behave when not tethered. So I let him go and I felt like I was a mother at a playground as I watched him with an eagle eye. He trotted tentatively at first, I guess expecting me to have an invisible cord to keep him in his boundaries. Once he figured out he had the whole yard, the serious sniffing commenced. I knew he was hot on the trail of a rabbit by the brushpile and as I thought of all the things that could go wrong, I called him back to me. He looked up momentarily, then back to the business at hand while my heart hammered. I squatted down and tried again in my “fun” voice.
And here. He. Came.
It was like a furry missile, headed straight for me. I just knew he wasn’t gonna get stopped.
Miraculously, he did, and stuck right by my side up the steps and into the house. He was rewarded with treats, of course.
What a good boy.
Chester’s Diary, Day Five (11/4/2020)
It seems that there is a general unease surrounding the humans today. I was just my charming self and tried not to let my hairs come out more profusely than usual. That tends to add to Princess Sparkle Britches stress, I have noticed. But otherwise things are GREAT. I didn’t have to be tethered on my walk this evening, and I got to push through some brambles at the fence. I had a good time. I bet, since I was so good, that I will get to do this more now. I sure do like it here. Everything I do I get a treat and a rub for doing. It’s the easiest job ever.
Thursday was library board and I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave him alone at work after hours like that, especially since we hadn’t been apart at all so far. So I put him in the basement when I left. I missed him desperately all day, and all I could think about was what was going through his mind. It isn’t very cozy down there; only one part has carpet. Of course, I had put some blankies in his crate, but would he think it was just a very quiet, very large shelter? That’s why I had been trying to get him used to it.
I got home and immediately went around to the back door so he could go outside as soon as I opened the door. He might be one of those dogs that accidently pees when excited.
He started barking as soon as I came into view. It was dark, and I would expect no different after he’s watched the door all day with no change in scenery.
“Chester, it’s me. It’s me, Chester,” I said as I reached to slide open the door.
Never in my life have I been greeted with such exuberance. The dog was over the moon. I was legitimately concerned that he was going to have a stroke. He jumped, he wiggled, he circled me a thousand times. And then the short zoomies commenced. He was going so fast and doubling back on himself he turned a flip. It was something to behold. I should have filmed it.
So I guessed that the time we had spent together in the basement didn’t have much effect on him and he thought this was it. Just when he’d gotten a home of his own, he gets left again. The only thing worse than constant racket of other dogs and cats would be complete and total silence. BUT HERE I WAS, RETURNED FROM THE ABYSS.
Poor Chester. I wonder if he didn’t tear something from all that excited movement. What a reunion. He didn’t let me out of his sight the rest of the evening. And, it bears mention, that he did not have one accident downstairs all day. He tore up the corner of a cardboard box I had been saving (don’t ask me why, I don’t KNOW why I keep boxes). I couldn’t believe he didn’t mark his territory at all. What a good boy.
Chester’s Diary, Day Six (11/4/2020)
Oh, woe is me!!!! Today has been terrible. I am so depressed. I have been abandoned down here in the dungeon all day. First the sun woke up. And I watched the birds out the door. I barked at them but they didn’t even fly off. Then I sniffed everything down here twice. Then my nose was tired so I lay on the blankets that smell like the lady I love so much that has left me because I’m not perfect. I don’t know what will become of me. I am definitely dead. I guess I only got a few days in heaven and now what? Do I have to try out the other place? What if I’ve just been asleep and when I wake up I’ll be back at the place with all the other dogs that never shut up barking and I have to wait my turn to go out on the grass and WAIT. WHO IS THAT?!!?! WOOF WOOF WOOF WO——-OH MY STARS AND PLANETS IT’S MY MOM!!!!!!! SHE CAME BACK FOR ME!!!!!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!!!!!! I AM NEVER LETTING HER OUT OF MY SIGHT AGAIN, EVER EVER EVER
****It is worth noting this is the ONLY day I haven’t taken a single picture of him.
The next day, Friday, I had taken the day off work for the groundbreaking on the Seymour library. And I had scheduled him his first appointment with my vet.
How does one dress for a political event such as a groundbreaking, as well as a trip to the vet with their 70# dog, you ask?
Well. It wasn’t easy. And this is when I found out that he doesn’t like hairdryers. He barked the entire time. I tried to show him all about it, but he wasn’t having it. No matter, I don’t use one very often, and besides that, I bet he would change his tune this winter when it’s cold and wet outside.
But back to the vet. Chester is not a very patient dog. The entirety of the time we sat in the car he barked at all the comings and goings. It did no good to scold him. I also thought he might have believed he was at yet another shelter. It was annoying, sure, but he eventually settled down. And one of the techs comes out to get him and he just GOES WITH HER and never gives me a second look. What the heck, Chess??? Thanks a LOT. At this point, I had to run back home because I’m a flake and forgot to bring his papers the animal shelter gave me that showed his vaccination and worming schedule. The tech asked me for them and I was like, “Yeah, I’ve got them right h—-” and frantically start digging around in the passenger seat, where they clearly were not. But it was fine. I’m less than ten minutes down the road.
When the vet comes out to speak with me, the first words out of her mouth were, “What a big, STRONG, happy boy you have!! Thank you for adopting him and allowing us to treat him!” And of course I’m like, “What did he break? Whose arm did he jerk out of place? What is my bill now???”
And it was then she delivered the best news possible: Chester tested heartworm free. Hallelujah!!! That was an enormous weight off my shoulders because y’all know what an ordeal that was with Lightning Bug and how they ultimately killed him prematurely by weakening his heart way back when. I was so relieved tears welled in my eyes as I thanked God. She goes on to give me more good news, the clinic waives the office visit for shelter pets. ISN’T THAT WONDERFUL???? That’s their appreciation for you not adding to the population. So she thanked me again for adopting him and made sure to say they all thought I’d got a great dog, and sorry again about my sweet boy LB. They all loved him.
I choked back a sob and managed to thank her back. She wasn’t even LB’s vet. They are all so incredibly kind and empathetic there. I know I could have had him treated elsewhere that would be less expensive, but the staff is really the best. And every time I talked to Dr. Bixler during LB’s procedures, she acted like she had all the time in the world. You really can’t put a price on that kind of service.
And so they brought me my enormous, strong, exuberant boy out. He was very glad to see me; I think he must’ve just gotten carried away in the moment “MY TURN!!!! MY TURN!!!!” and didn’t realize till later I didn’t come in with him. We drove home, the pair of us smiling from ear to ear.
Then I had my gig at the library, and I debated on leaving him upstairs since I would only be gone for a few hours, and he had done perfectly the day before. But I didn’t, just in case. And good thing! He must have decided to spite me, because he certainly didn’t bother holding anything in. And obviously it’s achievable, since he had for 12+ hours the day before. It is hard to stay mad at him, though. I scolded him, but not too much because that poor dog has flawlessly coasted right into this new life. Just imagine leaving the only home you’ve known, the only place you ever got your belly full and people to talk to you and rub your noggin, and your very own, brand new cozy bed, to get in a car (for only the second time EVER). You then ride 80+ mph for two hours and you’re in a completely new place with no other dogs or anybody you’ve ever seen before, nothing you’ve ever smelled before, nothing familiar at all. And you have to learn about toilets and lights and stairs and ice makers and coffee pots plus new sounds for stuff you can’t see. But otherwise it’s pretty quiet- there aren’t any other dogs here baying or causing a ruckus, nobody in and out, no train right outside the door. It would be an adjustment, to say the least. But he settled right in and has done every thing I have asked of him. So when he climbed up on the couch and laid his head in my lap and promptly went to sleep, who was I to make him go back to his bed on the floor?
Chester’s Diary, Day Six (11/5/2020)
I don’t know what that thing was attacking Princess Glitterpants but she almost looked like she didn’t mind. She certainly didn’t push it away like she does me when I’m trying to lick her face in appreciation. And I’m not even loud when I go about it.
Hmph.
Then she takes me to this place with all these other dogs about; they’re everywhere. And there seems to be two humans for every dog. Then it’s dum-DUM MY TURN. If that’s the way she’s gonna be, then I’m just gonna go with them…WOW LOOK AT ALL THIS COOL STUFF!!!! Come on, lady!!! I need to smell this!! And this!!! AND OOOOO WHAT’S THAT?!?!?! And then there was a crowd of people around me all rubbing me and cooing at me like I was a KING, and they were discussing who I was, and I heard them talk about Lightning, who was my human’s last dog, and then I got to looking around and realized she wasn’t even in there! Why did these strangers have me but not my human??? What was next??? I got to sniff some more new stuff, and then I went back outside and THERE SHE WAS!!! And we went back home, and we ate breakfast and it looked like it was shaping up to be a really awesome day when she locks me back in the dungeon. And is gone and gone and gone.
So I left her a little treat to clean up. Actually, two little treats. And I sulked in my crate until I fell asleep. And when she came home and got situated and saw what I had done, I felt sorry that I had done it. I shouldn’t have. The Princess has shown me more love than anybody else so far and that’s how I thank her? Not very gracious of me. So I climbed into her lap on the couch (where I’m not supposed to be but I really just wanted to be so close and WOW no wonder she sits on it, it is so squishy) and before I knew what happened, I was sound asleep, dreaming of rope bones and soft blankets and all the little treats one pit bull could ever hope to eat. I yawned and stretched and barely opened my eyes but I felt her gentle hand stroking my head and I knew it wasn’t a dream.
And that concludes Chester’s first week.
I can’t tell you about LB dying, not yet. Let’s just say it effectively broke my heart. I didn’t realize how much I depended on him for companionship and entertainment. And pure, uncomplicated love.
Ok, that little bit already has me crying so let’s move on.
After a few weeks of people gently (and not so gently) pushing me to get another dog, I started half-heartedly searching. Because the fact of the matter was, I was miserable. And I hate to throw away leftovers. It was either going to be a dog or a pig. And places aren’t as friendly about letting a pig in as they are a dog. I looked on Young Williams page. They’re not far, and they’re well-known for having dogs that are staring hard at the end of the line. I wanted a male pit bull, anywhere from 2-5. He had to be house trained. I didn’t care if he got along with kids or other pets, because I don’t share my space with anybody. He could be an unlucky dog, fixing to change his luck. I really wanted to just walk up to the counter of a shelter and say, “Hi. I’m the answer to your prayers.” But that would be arrogant, so I tried to be cool when I messaged about one of their dogs, a pit mix named Arnie.
Arnie was available for meet and greets on Saturday without an appointment. So I screwed up my courage, sliced up some cheese, and went to meet this guy.
I pulled in and got pretty excited about the people waiting outside. I thought, “Wow! All these people here wanting to adopt dogs! That’s so great!” Turns out, the line was for lost and founds or surrenders. And then I wanted to cry. I strengthened my resolve to make good on my promise to LB that I would find a down-on-his-luck pittie to love.
There was a sign on the door to text that I was there. I did so, keeping my required distance from a mother and daughter nearby. The people inside responded with a link to their application. Pretty standard: do you have other pets, do you have other people in your household, do you have a fence? AT LAST, this guy walks out with a big guy on a leash. He was much bigger than I had anticipated, and was shedding profusely. I knew right away he wasn’t “my” dog, but I had come to meet him, so I took the leash and we set off. It was good just to be around a dog again. Arnie didn’t care about me in the slightest. He was obviously glad to be out and about stretching his legs and smelling the world, but he wasn’t trying to win me over. He did appreciate the cheese bits, though. He was a strong puller, but we made our way back to the doors where a young guy leaned against a concrete pillar. Arnie went and leaned against him, which, I will admit, hurt me more than it should have. The guy bent to scratch Arnie behind his ears. “Are you getting him?” He asked me. “No, we didn’t hit it off. He seems to like, you, though. You might give him a try.” He told me he was looking for something smaller. I handed the rainbow leash to the girl working.
“How’d it go?” She asked me.
I hesitated. “Well, honestly, he couldn’t care less.”
“Arnie!” She admonished, leaning over. “You have to sell yourself! We can’t do it all!”
We giggled a bit and I just told her what I had observed. She nodded sagely. “Unfortunately, that is a by-product of dogs that spend a lot of time in and out of shelters. They just become indifferent.”
I nodded my understanding. “Survival mechanism, no doubt. I don’t blame them.”
We exchanged rueful smiles and I drove back home, blinking back tears.
I began my search in earnest, then. I had seen enough in an hour’s time to know that I was being selfish and had wallowed in misery long enough. Too many desperate dogs out there and I had love and means to care for one. Several friends hunted with me and sent me link after link, screenshot after screenshot. My closest buddies were all in this with me and I was so thankful for their support and unfaltering confidence that I was ready, whether I knew it or not. I sat in the Lowe’s parking lot for a time, poring over the dogs sent my way. I found something I didn’t like about every one of them, which, in my mind, meant that I didn’t really want one bad enough. I sighed.
When I got home I stumbled upon a guy who was in Johnson City. He had the misfortune of being named Bob, but he looked like a lot of fun. I needed fun. I emailed through the Petfinder app but then I got ants in my pants and decided to Facebook message the shelter directly. Maybe I would get a quicker reply for more information about his age and heartworm history. Wonder of wonders, they immediately answered me. He was around six and on heartworm preventative. I told the person I was on my way, see them in two hours, and she was like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You gotta fill out an application first, and once it is approved, we can make an appointment.” And that is when my balloon deflated. I wouldn’t get to meet him today for sure. I was already cutting it close if I had left right then. So I filled out their app and got approval within an hour. I decided to wait till the following Sunday to meet him, since I would already be halfway there, visiting a friend in Greeneville, and plus, that way I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with him while I was away from home for the Apple Festival. I selfishly prayed that no one would adopt him before my appointment.
Sunday finally came. I pulled up to a sparkling new, sprawling facility. I was impressed right away. This would go off without a hitch, I was sure.
I was shown to a meeting room and took a seat on the floor. Through the glass, I could hear a full range of dog voices. It would be hard to get any rest here if you were a dog. It was clean, though.
Finally, a guy brought him in, with an explanation of his tail being bent. I was less worried about his crooked tail and way more concerned with the urine that he was projecting all over the floor as he did zoomies.
“Uh, he’s peeing everywhere….isn’t he housebroken?” The ad on Petfinder said he was, but besides that, they had a sign on the wall to let a staff member know if they had an accident so they could clean it up before it stained the concrete.
The guy kinda shrugged.
“Is there anyone here that would know for sure?”
“Not really….” he said evasively.
“When was the last time he was walked? Maybe I should take him out.”
“Well, it’s feeding time right now, so he’s probably upset about missing that.”
And that’s when little veins inside my head exploded. Why would they schedule my appointment during feeding time? “So….how long has it been since he was walked?” I asked again.
“Uhhhh….maybe an hour? Hour and a half?”
“That doesn’t explain the peeing all over everything now.”
He looked at me blankly.
Two girls walked down the hallway.
“Uhhh…maybe they would know,” he said as he looked over his shoulder at them.
“So are you gonna go ask them?”
He gave me a long glance, like I was going to steal this dog, and reluctantly went out the door. Bob clearly liked him, as he watched him go and sat by the door most of the time he was gone. Bob was playful and friendly, but he also had something going on with his eyelid. I had noticed it on his intake pictures from several months ago. They evidently weren’t as concerned with it as they were his bent tail.
A few minutes later Mr. IQ rejoins us with a clearly rehearsed little speech about sometimes dogs that are in shelters for a while forget their training and revert to messing in their kennel. That makes sense, especially if they haphazardly schedule visits during meal and recreation time. Oh well. As I mulled this over, he peed some more. Not like cocking his leg, more like a puppy dribbling from excitement. This would not do.
“Do you have any other dogs I could see that ARE housetrained?”
The blank stare. I decided to supply him with a name. “How about Dozer? I looked at him online, too.”
“Oh, Dozer is absolutely NOT trained. His kennel is always a mess.” Finally, something he was an authority on. I waited.
“Well, do you have any others? I’m looking for a male pit, that’s out of puppyhood but no older than seven. It doesn’t matter if he hates other pets or people, I live alone.”
He stares into space, pushing his glasses up his nose and breathing through his mouth. “All our other dogs are pretty energetic…” he says.
“Okaaaaay….I’m not opposed to hyper, but I AM opposed to a dog that can’t hold his bladder.” I’m wondering if this guy is majoring in customer service.
After a moment to process this, “I might have one…maybe two.” He’s counting on his fingers.
I wait.
“Uhhh…..lemme go ask.” He holds up a finger. Bob and I look at each other after he goes out again.
“Sorry, Bob,” I tell him.
Bob doesn’t care. He takes another treat from me as we both watch the door expectantly.
Finally the dude returns.
“Okay, so we’ve got three…the first one is about three years old we think and she’s-“
“No females, remember?”
“Oh yeah……”
Nothing follows this.
“And the other two???” I prompt.
I don’t think he even elaborated on them, but at this point, I was so frustrated I wouldn’t have adopted a dog from them if they were the only place in the hemisphere with dogs.
“So, how does Bob do riding in a car? Not only would we have a long drive home today, but I’d be taking him to work and he needs to be able to ride without acting crazy.”
“I really don’t have any idea,” he says truthfully.
I emit my final sigh. “Of course you don’t,” I mutter, looking at Bob with pity. I was more than slightly irritated they weren’t more prepared for my visit since I had already expressed my concern in the email when I made the appointment. “Well, good luck. I may come back for him if I can’t find one I like in a week or two.”
“Okay,” he says, turning to lead Bob away, his tail wagging joyfully.
Bob chose that moment to jump up on the guy, front paws landing expertly on his crotch.
Guy immediately falls to his knees, instantly turning green before he turns his head away from me.
I smiled like the Grinch stealing Christmas.
“On second thought, may be Bob IS the dog for me,” I marvel thoughtfully, rubbing my chin and trying not to laugh demonically.
It took the guy a good ten minutes to recover. I would have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t been so indolent.
At least the facility was clean and the single dog I met was happy, but this was a disappointment, to say the least.
This entire visit could have gone much differently. They could have let me walk the kennel, maybe a dog would have stood out to me. You never can tell. They could have told me Bob would be seen by a vet about his eye or dribbling (a symptom of UTI in adult dogs) and they could email me with an update. In my application, I mentioned that Bob would be going to work with me regularly and so it would be beneficial if he could ride in a car. They didn’t do their homework to place this dog. And even if they didn’t have anybody to run him down the road or out on a few errands, they could have offered to let me take him for a spin. They didn’t even offer to let me walk him–inside or out.
As I let myself out (seeing as how none of the three workers clustered around a computer could be bothered to unlock the door for me), there was a mother and daughter trying to get in to see kittens. I asked if they had an appointment. They didn’t and I told them that was the only way they would be permitted entry. They turned away.
I came home, slept on it, and then wrote an email the next day to the shelter manager (who made my appointment. There was no email for the director or a board on the website, astoundingly) detailing my experience, and ending with this:
“I know that funds are limited. I know that is nearly impossible to find people to volunteer that have more than a pulse. But I also expected someone to be on hand that could answer my questions. I’m also concerned about his eye, It is leaking at the eyelid, and has been since the pictures taken of him this spring. Has this been looked at? Let me stress, I am not looking for the perfect shelter dog. But I am looking for a dog that can hold his bladder, and if he does have health problems, you all are aware and have a cost estimate to have him treated. I wouldn’t mind having him seen for a UTI, that’s easily medicated. I would have liked the opportunity to spend a little time with him away from the employee and in my vehicle. I would have gladly left my credit card for collateral. It’s not like I’m fifteen minutes down the road if it doesn’t work out. Dogs are a commitment, and I like to think if everyone were conscientious, dogs wouldn’t be constantly moved from shelter to shelter, or put in a shelter at all.
I have looked over your Facebook page last week and noticed that you have several dogs that have been there for YEARS. While I am thankful you don’t appear to euthanize, it seems that your employees aren’t really trying to place these animals. They need to have some knowledge, or at least have somebody there to step in when it’s a situation like mine. There were people being turned away that wanted to look, simply because they didn’t have an appointment, but I observed several employees grouped together on my way out. The problem doesn’t seem to be lack of staff, it seems to be lack of knowledge and gumption. I found it hard to believe I wasn’t offered a chance to even look at the rest of the dogs, and that I was immediately judged on my criteria of “housebroken male pit” that I didn’t want a hyper dog. What good did an appointment do when I wasn’t allowed to take him outside, or away, or get any of my questions answered? Sure, the application weeds out a lot of people that don’t have the means to have a pet, but what’s wrong with letting them fill one out outside before they come in? If they won’t take the five minutes to do that, then they probably aren’t serious about adopting in the first place. I understand about restricting visitors due to Covid. But what about letting one in each room and one in the kennel? Limit it to one adult and one child together at a time. These are just suggestions that I have seen working for shelters closer to home. You can, of course, implement a procedure that fits your needs. But it seems with all the space and staff you have you could absolutely let more people visit. Overall, I am disappointed in the way the shelter appears to be run and I am heartbroken that Bob missed a ticket out due to the inadequacies of staff. I hope that you can forward my email to a board or the local government and possibly make a difference in the lives of shelter pets.“
I never received a reply.
Back to the drawing board. I reset my filters to include dogs more than a hundred miles out.
And there he was.
A beautiful male red nosed pit, red with a white chest scattered with speckles. He was three, and it said he needed to warm up to strangers. Best in a home with no other dogs. Perfect.
In Charlotte, North Carolina. A mere 210 miles away. Four and a half hours. And they only did local adoptions.
“Well, we’ll see about that,” I thought, and began typing out yet another email. Third time’s a charm, right?
I tried to address their concerns about me being out of town, offering to have an accredited adoption agency or the Humane Society complete my home visit. I emphasized my pit bull experience, and what LB’s life was like. I went ahead and included my vet’s information so they could call and check on that.
I had anxiety the rest of the day and the entire next day while I waited on word. Hearing nothing, I began to harass my new friend, who has strong ties to the world of rescue. She advised me to be patient, as most rescue groups are run by volunteers who work full-time jobs.
Patience is a virtue, and one that I’ve been working on for many years. I’m ashamed to say I’ve only gotten more impatient. Please don’t pray for this to change, because if you pray for patience, God sends you trials to practice on. I’m not interested in any additional practice.
So anyway, around nine o’clock that night I decided to check my google email, just in case I’d accidentally cleared the notification. There definitely hadn’t been anything through Yahoo.
And there it was. The adoption agency had emailed me around 10:30 that morning, wishing to speak with me in the evening.
I cussed and immediately emailed her back that I was just now seeing it, I was so sorry, and of course I was available to talk from 8 am to 8 pm.
And then I commenced to banging my head on the wall because I’m a flake and had turned my Gmail notifications off for some stupid reason that I can’t remember now. I sent them a message on their Facebook page as well, just in case they saw it there first.
Nothing.
The next afternoon, I was downstairs hanging curtains in my laundry room because now I have neighbors and I’m not always appropriately dressed while doing laundry. My phone began to ring. Upstairs. I made a mad dash for it. A North Carolina number.
“This is Amy,” I gasp. A fine first impression I make.
“Hi Amy, this is S- from CTCD. Is this a good time?”
“Yes, I’m sorry I’m out of breath, I was downstairs.”
“Ok. Well, I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes. I got your email and it gave me pause. We don’t typically do out-of-town adoptions, but you just had a way of speaking to me….”
I tried not to gloat. Another one bites the dust.
So we start to talk about Holden. He evidently had an incident where he bit someone who came into the house while the family was out.
I stay silent, waiting on the rest of it.
“I just wanted you to be aware that he has a bite on his record,” she said, clearing her throat.
“I’m just waiting on the rest of it,” I replied.
“Well, that was it.”
“I don’t have anyone that would be coming in when I wasn’t here. If anything, that just makes me want him more.”
“Well, just so that you’re aware, if you’ve got someone coming in to do home repairs you would need to crate him.”
“Gotcha,” I say, crossing my fingers that she’s going to say ‘When can you come meet him?’
We discuss my house, my fence, my schedule, and my previous dogs. And then I got to ask some questions. I was concerned about food allergies, of which he has none, and of course the dreaded heartworms. She consults her chart.
“He was successfully treated for heartworms,” she tells me, and my stomach drops.
But everything else sounded just right so maybe it won’t affect him like LB’s ultimately did. She tells me she’s going to speak to the director and let me know. She says again that it’s highly unusual for out-of-state adoptions to take place but I wasn’t a typical candidate, either.
I thought, “Lady, you have NO IDEA.”
I kind of thought I would hear something that night, but I didn’t, and I didn’t the next day, either. It was all I could do not to gnaw off my fingernails.
In the meantime, I bought a new leash, harness, two dog beds, and toys. I drove all of my close friends completely bonkers, including my new rescue pal. I’m sure they were praying just as hard as me that I would get the dog. I sorta have a one track mind when it comes to stuff I want. I likened this whole experience to online dating. Not sure which is worse, as I have no experience with meeting men online, but this was pretty awful.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore and emailed her the following day to check if there were any updates. She finally answered me late that afternoon to fill out an application. Which I had already tried TWICE to do, on my own before they could ask, but the link was broken. Finally got it on my iPad and WOW. What an application. They are exceedingly thorough. Among other things, I had to list every pet I ever had with details about them. Thankfully, I didn’t have to submit a blood sample or my tax records for the last five years. But I probably would have agreed to it. That’s how badly I wanted that dog.
At the end, there was a big box for comments.
And this is where I shine.
So I typed, “Rambo, listed above, was my Saddlebred horse. I owned and showed him for seven years. He got into a nest of copperheads and swelled intensely and immediately. He was put down on site. I grew up on what is commonly referred to as a “gentleman’s farm”. We had a little bit of everything. Horses, cattle, sheep, dogs, cats, rabbits, reptiles, and I had a couple of hamsters. On a farm you learn a lot- about growth and paybacks, hard work and late nights, cancelled plans, emergency health care, budgeting and loss, breeding and birth, and ultimately death. The animals listed above weren’t just farm animals, they were my dearest pets, the ones that I still cry about when I think of them or see their pictures. All are buried here, except LB (Lightning). He resides on my dresser in a custom cherry box. I can provide pictures of any of these animals and also a list of at least twenty people who will vouch for my morals and standards, personality, and the fact that I’m not one to have a crazy big social life. Every one of these animals was treated and cared for at least annually by Seymour Vet Clinic, with the exception of Lightning. He was technically my ex-husband’s dog until two years ago when we divorced and he left his dogs with me. He moved to a place that he couldn’t take them. Sugar, the female pit, was already being treated for mammary cancer and was euthanized a couple of months later, per my former husband’s direction. It has just been LB & I for two years. I took him everywhere with me, including a nine hour drive to the Outer Banks in August. If my dog couldn’t go, then I didn’t go, either. I have been planning a trip to Memphis this spring and have already looked into places Holden will be permitted. The Peabody welcomes him, but not the Guesthouse at Graceland. I do not take pet ownership lightly. I believe if more people were conscientious and honest with themselves there wouldn’t be as many pets in shelters. I don’t have children, children are not welcome in my home. I don’t date men who have children. This probably makes me sound like a grumpy old woman, and perhaps I am. But I’ve never been able to tolerate them. This is the first time since I was six years old I have been without the company of a dog. I am quite lonesome and at loose ends. I don’t know how to BE, I don’t know what to do with my last bite of food, and I don’t have anything to look after or talk to besides some plants. I lead a pretty mild existence. I have a county government job, I serve on both the local and regional library boards, and I have a little hobby of writing on the side. I have an associate’s degree in agriculture. I worked for the local Co-op for thirteen years, during which time I broadened my knowledge of animal nutrition and health by attending various conferences and trainings all over the US. I cannot imagine you will find a better home for Holden if you searched the remainder of his lifetime. I don’t mind that he’s aggressive towards strangers, that’s most definitely a plus in my book. I have experience with grumpy pit bulls. I don’t throw big parties and I will absolutely keep him restrained in public settings. I have already bought a harness that I think will fit him and two new dog beds (home and office). Thank you for considering me, especially since I am out of town. Again, I would submit to a home visit from an accredited agency in my area or animal control. Thank you for this comprehensive application and most importantly for your compassion to place animals in the best possible homes. I am serious as a heart attack about this particular dog. Many friends with good intentions have sent me dozens of local dogs in the last couple of weeks, knowing that I am an ideal home for down-on-their-luck pitties. But when I saw Holden, my search was over. I don’t want a family dog, I don’t need to take a dog that’s super laid back out of the shelter when my needs are just as specific as a hard-to-place pit. I want Holden. And he needs me.”
I figured if that didn’t make them cry and call me begging to take this dog, nothing would. I hit submit.
It took me to a page where I could print my application, if I so chose. I don’t have that capability at home because I am too lazy to hook my printer up (that I have had for going on four years). But I was reviewing the document just the same when I noticed that the comment box was blank. BLANK. No heart-wrenching words.
I broke out in a cold sweat and immediately emailed the girl I had been communicating with that if it was blank on their end to please let me know, I’d had a lot to say. Then I got the email that my application would be reviewed from another person so I decided to just go ahead and re-type it as best as I could remember and sent it to both of them. I am aware I am crazy. But crazy gets things accomplished, and S- emailed me back with a smiley face that she had sent it on to the powers that be.
Three days later, I get an email from yet another person at the agency introducing herself and outlining the steps in their adoption process. This felt a little backwards, but at least there was some work being done. Then I get an email from S– that afternoon requesting pictures of my house and fence. I took them the minute I got home and she set up the virtual home tour for that very evening. I had dirty dishes in the sink, my bed was unmade (a sign of my depression, I have determined), and Uncle Dale chose that moment to call for some chore that couldn’t wait.
But it all worked out fine. She says, “Okay, show me around.” It was a little weird showing off my plain ol’ house but we got through it. It took about thirty minutes (including me walking the majority of the fence line and putting my grungy basement on full display. Plus I showed her the EMPTY dog bed). She asked me where his food and water were going to go and obviously the same spot where LB ate, next to the basement door. Kind of a strange question for people who have owned dogs previously, but whatever. All she had to say about anything was, “That’s great,” and “Very good” or some variation of that theme. I showed her the library. “I don’t have a dog bed in here yet, but I’ll get one.” “Of course you will,” she giggled. She asked me why I wanted a dog. I repeated for what felt like the fiftieth time that I hadn’t been WITHOUT a dog since I was six years old, and frankly, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’m just adrift. “I’m just looking for a companion, someone to hang out with and fill my days. I guess what most people look for in a man, but I’ve already been down that road and I just feel that I’ll be better off with a dog.” She tried not to laugh but didn’t really succeed. She asked me how I planned to keep him away from strangers when I vacationed with him & I explained that I kept LB on a short leash and if anybody approached I told them he wasn’t friendly and I’d never had a problem. She’s like, “Huh. That never works with me. People still come up unless I have him muzzled,” and I said, “Well, I evidently have resting bitch face because it was rare for anybody to even come up.”
That may not be the best thing to say during a dog interview, but leave it to me to say it.
Then she asked me a bunch of the same questions I had answered when I talked to her previously, and on the application. “I know it’s repetitive, but just humor me,” she apologized. No problem. Then at the end of the call, “I just wanted to say I love your dining room table.” OF COURSE YOU DO.
And I felt like the deal got sealed.
Nothing for three days. During this time I made plans to go pick up Holden Saturday and debated having his blanket monogrammed. Around noon on the third day I get a text from yet ANOTHER member of the adoption group grilling me about Crockett, why he was outside. She had spoken with LB’s vet at length and said everything looked great (OF COURSE IT DID, I SPENT A WAR PENSION TO KEEP HIM ALIVE FOR TWO MONTHS AND I SOBBED ON EVERY MEMBER OF THEIR STAFF) but evidently the records at Crockett’s vet had been destroyed since I haven’t used that practice since he died seven years ago. Anyway, I finally wore her down with pictures of Crockett doing his thing in the snow and whatnot so she could see his double coat.
At this point, I updated my resume with “I passed a 100 point inspection and audit with CTCD out of Charlotte in October 2020.” Because this was getting ridiculous.
At 8:30 that night, I get a call from the director herself. She asks me if it was a good time & I’m like, “Anytime is a good time to talk about Holden, I’ve been waiting for this for almost two weeks.” She apologizes, evidentially they had a board member that’s been out of pocket. But I passed all their tests with flying colors. I am expecting a trophy after all this, or at least a certificate, but I guess my prize will be the dog. She wants to talk to me for a few minutes, then bring Holden’s foster mom on. I am all for this plan.
After she grills me some more about my fence and how often Holden will be left out in the elements (she asked if I had surveillance cameras on my property so I could watch him when I wasn’t home) and I finally get a little short and explain, once again that I planned to have Holden with me as the norm, and that if he was “left” he had access out of the weather into my basement. While it doesn’t have an inground swimming pool, it’s not bad digs. ESPECIALLY FOR A DOG.
Then she says, “And S– told you you was highly reactive, right???”
I had the eerie feeling this is what it sounds like when a bomb is dropped. I could practically hear the air whining around the force of it.
“Ummm…..she said he had an incident where he bit someone who came into the house while his family was out…and I didn’t see the problem.”
She then gets all authoritative voiced and goes into NC state laws about three bites and put down, no matter the circumstance, and I’m like, “In Tennessee, if somebody enters my house without my permission, that’s breaking and entering and I EXPECT my dog to do something about it,” and she says, “well, nobody wants a dog that bites,” so I just held my tongue because, again, I DO, under the right circumstances. And being in my house without me being here is definitely grounds for getting your ass eat. Anyway. She’s building. He doesn’t like his foster brother. When he’s in his crate and his doggie brother walks by, he tries to get at him by eating the bars of his crate. Ok, well, I don’t have any other pets sooooo….He doesn’t like puppies. This gave me pause. What kind of adult dog sees puppies as a threat? No matter. I have no puppies. Then she tells me that when he hears something suspicious he has this out of body experience, where he goes into a trance-like state, but barking full-throttle. If his foster mom touches him while he’s out of his mind, he bites her. He BITES his foster mom. The woman who feeds him and plays with him and has had him for several months. And they’re all okay with this. And evidently it’s a pretty severe bite, enough to bring blood. So you just don’t touch him while he’s crazy and let him wind down. That doesn’t sound like a workable plan to me. The latest time he lost his mind she was moving an ottoman and it bumped him and he bit the ottoman.
I am practically breathless absorbing this information. I’M going to be the new person. There won’t be time for him to acclimate to me. So I swallow and say, “I’m sorry, but I’m bowing out.” I can’t have a dog like that. He’s four or five years old and set in his ways at this point. Something is very wrong with this beautiful baby and I can’t fix it. And I’m not saying that if I lived closer I would still have this opinion. I would probably go visit him regularly for several months and then take him home for a trial period. Of course living five hours away this isn’t feasible. I cried. I just knew he was The One. She assured me he was safe with them, they’ve had him for “a very long time” but it concerned me that they might not be safe with HIM. I was so disappointed. And not only that, I was supremely frustrated that I patiently jumped through every one of their hoops and put all my business on display only to have them wait till the eleventh hour to divulge that Holden had some major behavioral issues. She did apologize and say that I should have been told up front. Dang skippy I should have.
So then I say, “Well, do you have any other dogs that would be a good candidate for me since I’ve already passed all your requirements?”
She says she will review their files and talk to the fosters.
At the time I am writing this, it will be two weeks tomorrow and I haven’t heard another word out of them. And of course that’s just fine because y’all know my story has a happy ending, but I am once again astonished by these people that supposedly have the dogs’ best interest at heart and yet, here I sit (for all they know) ready and able to come get one and ZERO follow up.
Well, actually, that’s not true. They called my personal reference the next morning which makes no sense, since I had already declined Holden, but I thought maybe they were lining up another dog. But all she asked her was how long she’d known me and where we’d met (the funeral home hahhahaha But maybe that spoke some of my character). Also, the application says they don’t call your reference unless communication cannot be established with your vet. This doesn’t sit right on many levels with me because what keeps people from jotting down your best friend who would say anything to make you sound better? And they did talk to my vet. I don’t know, sounds like the left hand doesn’t know what the right is doing. I never heard any more from any of them.
I resume my searching on PetFinder. I go back to the dogs I had favorited while I waited to be approved for Holden.
There was the one at the Unicoi County shelter. I had emailed about him, and had gotten a quick response. I went back to read it and refresh my memory. It mainly said he was very big, very energetic, and very strong.
Hmmm.
I gazed at his picture.
They had named him Andre the Giant. They estimated his weight as a “very solid 75#” I mean, that’s not so big, really. As long as he would fit in my car I didn’t see a problem. LB was 72# at his last wellness checkup before he got sick. This feller looked pretty hairy to be a full pit. He almost looked like he was part chocolate lab. Eh, what could it hurt to go look at him? It would be nice to get out and drive. I didn’t think I’d ever been to Unicoi County.
I sent my newly minted (in the face of dog searching drama) friend a message that I had decided to meet this guy next. She’d been through the wringer right with me over the Holden catastrophe. She got all excited. She knows the director there, and said she’d text him the next morning to give him a heads up. Cool. Never hurts to have a connection.
I slept fitfully, aggreived over the loss of a dog that was never mine.
The next morning I visited the website for the shelter and went ahead and filled out an application. I didn’t want any surprises.
I was cramming grapes in my mouth at lunch when my phone rang. The display read, “Unicoi County Animal Shelter,” which was weird enough. Maybe it always shows the name when people call from landlines, but I wouldn’t know. Everybody just texts me if they want a response. I tried to answer around my chicken salad.
“Herrugh?”
“Hey, this is Kevin at the Unicoi County Animal Shelter, is this Amy?”
“Yeshh…I’m sorry, I’m eating lunch.”
“It’s ok, I just wanted to talk to you really quick about Andre and a couple of other dogs we have that you may be interested in. I’ve been reviewing your application and everything looks perfect.”
“Okay, great!” I agree, thinking THIS is how things should have been handled at the Johnson City shelter. THIS is service.
So Kevin starts telling me all about Andre, which, unfortunately, wasn’t that much. He’d been getting calls about him for about a week back in the summer but hadn’t been able to be at the same place as him until this old lady called and said that he and another dog had her trapped inside her house. So Kevin goes and picks the two of them up. No problem, they jumped right in his truck. The female was a Doberman, and she was in heat. Andre was severely underweight. He took them to the vet to have them scanned the next day. No chip. He had them vaccinated and wormed and then waited for owners to come forward. None did, and the female was adopted out. But not Andre.
He got some weight on him and had him neutered and another round of shots and worming.
Nobody took an interest in him. He’s not friendly to other dogs but he likes people, even though he has a big scary bark. He doesn’t pee in his kennel, but he sometimes poos.
Kevin launched right into the description of two other dogs. I took notes, but I already knew they weren’t the dog for me. One was a female and the other was a climber.
He asked me if I could come at twelve, before the shelter opened, because they were having an event and he wanted me to have a little bit of quiet time before all the excitement started. I’m telling you, SERVICE. He also gave me a tip on using my GPS. It was obvious this guy was dedicated and very passionate about the work he does.
In the meantime, I’m ashamed to say, I continued looking. I was not going to make the mistake of putting all my eggs in this dog’s basket like I did with Holden. I found a sweetie in Kentucky I liked the looks of and submitted an application for him. Late Friday evening I got an email from his current owner. She couldn’t keep him for one reason or another. She sent several more pictures. He looked promising. I asked about heartworm history and about two hours later she replies, “I think it would be better if I called you?” Fine by me. She was taking too long to reply to suit me, anyway. I had already told her I would like to meet him the next day after my appointment at the shelter.
She didn’t call me that night or the next morning. I tried not to be too disappointed. Not everybody’s life revolves around me getting a dog, I reminded myself.
And so, on Saturday, which was Halloween no less, I fried some bacon, ate half, and put the rest in a Ziploc bag. And then I drove to the backwoods sticks of East Tennessee. It was a gorgeous drive! I cut across Greeneville and through Tusculum. Just being out to enjoy the valley with all of its farms and vegetable stands, with the backdrop of the mountains in full color, a clear day with fluffy white clouds. Just perfect. And then driving through the Cherokee National Forest along the river was really something special. I must say I enjoyed every mile.
I arrived at the shelter, got out, and stretched. I’d been on the road right at two full hours but, like I said, it was a nice drive. A pair of girls were setting up a table adjacent to the parking lot. I walked over and greeted them and told them I had an appointment with Kevin, but I was early. He had already checked in with them and was due in just a minute or two. True to his word, he pulled up just a few minutes later and jumped out to introduce himself. He had a dog with him and he said he’d get him squared away and bring out Andre. I settled on a bench with my baggie of bacon.
In just a moment, here comes this exuberant chocolate colored dog bounding around the corner, pulling Kevin along. He was sniffing and peeing on all stationary objects with glee. I grinned.
“So, this is Andre,” he says, watching for my reaction.
“He’s not THAT big,” I said, for the first of many times to come. I leaned over and let him smell me.
He booped my nose, tail wagging furiously, and continued on.
He was beautiful.
And he was so, so happy.
Kevin attempted to get him interested in me, but you know how dogs are. Especially dogs that are kept cooped up a lot. He was almost too excited to even care about the bacon.
After a minute or two: “You wanna walk him?”
“Yes!”
“Ok, you can go pretty much wherever. He might have to poop. It’s fine.”
We set off. I determined pretty quickly the road we were on was basically for the Public Works division of the County. I had passed the Highway Department on the way in, and the Water Treatment Plant was just past the shelter. The river ran to the right, and a train sat on tracks up a little incline to our left. Andre was intent on smelling it all. And I was just the one to indulge him.
After he took a dump, he was more intent on listening to me. I got a sit, and he even doubled back to me a few times when I kissed at him. Sure, he had more hair than I really wanted but…I was pretty sure this dog was checking all the boxes.
And let’s face it, I was lonely and tired of driving over hill and dale to find a companion. “Best I can tell, Andre, you’ve just landed yourself a home.” I told him, and gave him a piece of bacon.
He took it so incredibly gently and wagged his tail energetically.
We’d been walking along the train tracks for several minutes and it occurred to me exactly how alone we were. In a strange place. On Halloween. This is how Unsolved Mysteries always started.
“Uhhh, maybe we should head back,” I told my new best friend.
Andre had no complaints.
As we rounded the bend in the road, it looked like every employee they had was out front, awaiting our return. Were they afraid I wouldn’t come back? Are there often murders on this little stretch of road?
“So, we were all discussing the other dogs I wanted you to meet and we collectively decided that Andre is really your best match,” Kevin says to me when we skidded to a stop.
I smiled. “That’s ok, I didn’t want to burst your bubble yesterday but I had no desire to meet them.”
“What’d you think of Andre?”
“I like him a lot.” I made no move to relinquish his leash.
We took each other in, eyes measuring.
Kevin turned to one of the girls. “Get his cape and start his paperwork, he’s going home.”
And that’s the moment I burst into tears.
He looked to another girl. “Do you care to put him in your car and make sure he rides okay for you? Just to the end of the road and back.”
SERVICE.
“Will you put him in the backseat, please? That’s where he’ll be riding.” I handed her his leash.
“Sure!”
“Does he know his name?” I asked the only employee remaining. “Please say no,” I stage whispered.
“No, not really.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “We all just pretty much call them ‘sweetheart’ or ‘baby’ or ‘come here, boy,’ you know.”
We went inside to sign paperwork and I played with some absolutely adorable kittens. It wouldn’t have taken much for me to get one of them, too.
Kevin shared with me some truly alarming statistics about pit bulls in shelters. It’s staggering. In many cities they are euthanized within hours of intake simply because of the sheer numbers of them. Nationwide, they are the most bred dog out there. It makes me sick to think of their demise. Big, scary, slobbery, loving dogs. It’s not their fault. They are so eager to please. They are just too exuberant and too big for some people. But they’re not too big for me.
And so that’s how I finally got a dog.
CHESTER’S JOURNAL, DAY ONE
I GOT MY OWN PERSONAL HUMAN TODAY!!!!! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO CALL HER MAYBE PRINCESS SPARKLE PANTS I’LL DECIDE LATER SHE SAID THERE WAS MORE BACON.
AND I RODE IN A ROCKET!!!!!
THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.
Today was the Waynesville Apple Festival. I have attended this particular event before and found it wonderful. My good friend Tammy Lynn Huffstutler introduced me a couple of years ago. We made the trek again today.
In preparation for the festival, I stayed the night at their very homey hilltop home in Greene County. Tammy Lynn so graciously offered to fix us breakfast, but remembering festivals from days of yore, there were lots of decadent food truck options offering many savory, dripping in fat, smoked and fried delicacies. This is in addition to the many restaurants and cafes lining the Main Street of downtown Waynesville. So upon the offer of breakfast, I politely declined, gently reminding my dear friend of all the gastric options that would be available to us in short order. But she mentioned she thought she could eat an egg, so we opted for an egg apiece on tiny toast. And off we went.
We got pretty excited to find parking at the bottom of the hill for $5. Until we walked to the TOP of the hill and found parking for $5. #winded
So we figured out the “system” and joined the masked masses clumped up and traveling down Main Street.
We were among the minority of unmasked, and dogless. Or catless. We saw a tabby cat on a leash wearing a Halloween tutu-type collar, being carried around the neck, much as one would wear a fur stole. I did try to get a picture of THAT, because it was put down near a hydrant and sat placidly. The song lyrics “I’m just a freak on a leash” did enter my mind 🎶🎵
But this is a story about food, not cats.
So we were automatically scanning, checking out our choices. So far, it was looking like kettle corn and pretzels. But we remembered last time all the food was on the far end. So we pressed on.
We visited the bakery, housed in a cool old stone building. But no, we would wait. The possibilities, we were sure, were endless.
At the end of town we found a barricade. No apple pies, no bar-b-que, no italian sausages or philly cheese steaks. There was a food truck with hot chocolate.
Ok, we gotta formulate a plan at this point. So the first restaurant we came to looked pretty good after perusal of the posted menu. But there was a line out the door to be seated and so we pressed on, sure of other places on our route, mere steps away.
We continued.
Tammy Lynn made best friends with a couple who were leading around a pair of Irish Wolfhounds.
I bought the sheep I’d been eyeing, and due to anxiety I acquired as a very young child over a certain stuffed parrot, I had to purchase it ASAP.
After that, we checked back at the restaurant and learned from exiting patrons they had an hour and forty-five minute wait.
Next. We were positive we were mere minutes away from food.
An hour-ish. No.
We decided we’d get a pretzel to tide us over and we’d find something down the road because we were noticing a trend. But the pretzel line was long. We then happened upon a slice of pizza but I’m picky about pizza, and I had pizza this week, so I hated to ruin a perfectly good meal that I was sure to be eating within an hour with greasy-heavy-on-marinara-sauce pizza. We pressed on.
Lobster rolls. This sounded appealing. I especially liked their inflatable lobster and small stuffed lobsters spaced strategically around their booth. Chowder. Yes. $22…..let’s think about this realistically. We’re not in Maine. We’re in the Southern Appalachian mountains. Unless these were ACTUALLY crawdads, chances were that it wouldn’t be exactly primo. And $22 to eat out of styrofoam while walking around with hundreds of other people and no sink….I’m not sure about this.
We continued on.
Back at the truck, we explored options via Google maps. And settled upon Haywood Smokehouse, quite agreeable to both of us.
Off we went the short mile and a half to a neighborhood bar-b-que joint.
And you could get in the gravel lot, but you couldn’t find a place to park it. And the wait, according to one grizzly gentleman perched on his tailgate, was 40 minutes. But by the looks of things, it would be over an hour, for sure. IF you could find a place to park.
“We can be HOME in forty minutes,” TL says.
“Let’s just go to Sagebrush in Newport.”
Home, James.
We’re at the interstate and she says, “You ever heard of a place called The Woodshed?”
I was never beaten behind the woodshed, and it just so happens (even though I’m from “below the tunnel”) I DO know about The Woodshed. And it was decided we’d eat there. We were pretty excited.
It had been determined that Toyota’s GPS is about as trustworthy as Nissan’s, so we used my phone. It was just a few minutes and we were exiting and mere seconds away from a delicious late lunch. And good thing, we were both borderline hangry.
“There it is,” I say, pointing out the wooden sign. My GPS confirmed we were at our destination and I turned it off.
It certainly wasn’t much to look at. Gravel lot, right on the highway, a little trashy. BUT, we are in Cocke County.
“I dunno about this place…” Tammy Lynn wheedles.
“Oh no, it’s fiiiiiine, all the best places are holes in the wall,” I tell her, vividly recalling that little Italian place in St. Augustine that served up the best clam linguine this side of the Atlantic. It had grass growing up in the concrete outside and a poodle sitting at the hostess desk. It was rated #3 of ALL restaurants in St. Augustine. And I almost passed it up because of what it looked like on the outside. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Book by its cover and all that.
We park right up front, “like we own the place,” my friend declared. It wouldn’t be much to own. She also decided “this is my kinda place, dogs laying around”.
There is a fairly aged, heavily tattooed, very hairy, motorcycle gang member looking fellow on the front porch. I’m think he was playing checkers with his lady friend. There was a younger version of them to the left. There were kids running barefoot all around with a small pack of large dogs. And one small, mangy looking grey kitten at the edge of the porch. TL is making conversation with the younger couple and is playing with the kitten. All I can think about is food. Any food. Saltine crackers and a can of tuna. Whatever. And she’s talking with everybody, as usual. Telling them how she’s heard great things about this place, and how we’re so excited to be here.
In addition to the people of the porch, there were also two tables full of rocks. I’m perusing them, inching towards the door, hoping she follows my cue. I’m thinking it’s kinda quaint, like when you’re at the beach and some restaurants sell little shells and trinkets in their lobby.
We enter.
A long bar stretches across the back wall with a beer cooler behind it. Lots of glass cases with more rocks and crystals and agates. TL used to work at the Rock Shop in Gatlinburg so I knew she’d be all into this.
A girl pops up from behind the bar, half giggling.
She is missing a front tooth.
“What can I do for y’all?” She asks with a little giggle.
“Uh, we were hoping to eat,” I say, thinking, ‘what else?’ and wondering why there was no beer in the giant beer cooler. I peer into adjoining rooms, seeing a makeshift bedroom to my left and untold things to my right. I am still undeterred, thinking it’s like Ye Olde and their labyrinth of rooms. I was sure people were dining just beyond. Weird that it didn’t smell like food, though….it just smelled like patchouli.
“Ohhhhh….y’all are looking for The Woodshed!” She says, and for the first time I notice her dreadlocks.
I squint.
“It’s behind us, up on top of the hill.”
Of course it is.
“It sounds like we’re not the first ones to make this mistake,” I remark, trying to save face.
“Oh no, not at all.”
We’re in some sort of hemp shop/ CBD dispensary.
But Tammy Lynn says, “But we’re gonna look around while we’re here!”
Let me remind you, we have eaten exactly one egg on mini toast at 10:00 this morning. And one small sample sliver of toffee. It is now nearly five o’clock. I am getting mean.
I sigh and pick up a very smooth, perfectly oval rock off the counter closest to the door. It is very nice and I appreciate its perfection. There are two. I do not need a perfectly smooth rock, and neither does Tammy Lynn. I hear the shopgirl saying, “It’s a wand…it’s made from {extinct tree wood found in the most remote portions of the rain forest, inlaid with the pinfeathers of a twelve year old bald eagle, burned with the ashes that came from sacrificed Salem witches, and blessed by the Dali Lama himself} so it’s the real thing.”
I whip around to get a load of this sacred stick.
I’m thinking it’s funny, because on an adventure with my aunt during the Christmas season last year, we found ourselves in a similar shop. Why does this keep happening to me? I have no spells in need of casting.
I point out the smooth rocks to Tammy Lynn. I knew they would appeal to her nature. She does love them and has picked one up and is caressing it lovingly. She compliments the shopkeeper.
“That’s actually a fertility stone,” she tells us.
TL dropped the stone like it was lava.
Meanwhile, I’m eyeballing the wall of marijuana.
And just when I thought we were home free, she picks up a crystal by the front door and is telling the girl about the one she owns that has a water bubble in it.
I all but pull her out by the hair on her head.
The scene on the front porch has not changed.
I’m trying to hold it together.
We got turned around and headed up the steep graveled incline to The Woodshed as we try not to pee our pants from laughing so hard.
Then I about couldn’t get their door open.
We get the sweetest waitress ever and order our food. The sweet tea was perfection, so we were off to a good start. We manage to pray between bouts of uncontrollable laughter. Clearly, we are surrounded by locals who think we’re drunk. In actually, we are starved, rabid foxes.
The waitress brings out our food. I’m taking a picture to commemorate the meal I’ve literally been waiting for all day, and when I look up, Tammy Lynn is methodically rolling up the sleeves of her flannel shirt.
I giggle.
“I hope you don’t embarrass easy,” she says, and I lose it all over again.
In my state of hunger, I knock my container of au jus and spill some. I see the puddle, it’s not a big deal, it’s not going to slow me down.
But at the end of the meal, when I go to stop it up and move my plate, it comes to my attention that my plate had been all but floating in the lake of au jus. And TL knew it but never mentioned it.
Luckily, she’s not the type that embarrasses easily.
So. If you ever find yourself in Cocke County in need of a good meal, I strongly suggest The Woodshed. Make sure you go to the one on the hill, not the blue building closest to the highway. If you see a bounce house, you’re in the wrong spot.
