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Archive for December, 2011

Meet Maxi. 

After five years of volunteering at the local no-kill shelter, no one was more surprised than me that this little guy barked his way into my heart.

He’s a Chiweenie.  I know, I’d never heard of it, either, but apparently the Chiweenie is a “designer dog”, a mix of Dauchshund and Chihuahua.  Now, Spawn has been crazy for Chihuahuas ever since Beverly Hills Chihuahua came out.  I’ve never seen the movie, but I know every line of it because the kid watched it over and over in the car during a thousand-mile trip a couple of years ago.  I suppose I should be glad that Beethoven isn’t a current movie.

So Spawn wanted a Chihuahua and me, well, I’m not so crazy about ankle-biter dogs.  I’m more of a terrier girl.  And definitely a cat person.  And damn those folks at the rescue center for putting a crate of tiny puppies in the cat room.  Every time I walked by, he went berserk.  So I got him out of the cage, and he snuggled up in my lap, and fell asleep.  And that was the point at which I knew I was in big trouble.

The thing about a new puppy?  It’s like having a newborn in the house.  Crying in the middle of the night.  Potty breaks at all hours.  Baby gates up.  A general upsetting of the household apple cart.

Four days into it and he seems to have acclimated pretty well.   First order of business was learning about cats.  He seems to be a quick study.  And he’d rather be in someone’s lap than just about anywhere else.  He’s pretty sociable, which is a big switch from the cats and something to learn to appreciate.  So other than trying to impress upon him that the world (and not my house) is his toilet and what NO means, so far so good.

If you’ve been keeping a tally of the Moxville Zoo, the population now looks like this:

  • Four cats in the house
  • Three cats outside
  • A turtle
  • A gerbil
  • About a million guppies
  • And now, a very small dog

I keep telling myself that Spawn will always remember Mom’s (mostly) willingness to have pets, and those memories will be golden someday.  Of course it helps that I like animals anyway (with the exception of things that slither) and have the capacity to care for them.

And I suppose it helps that I am a crazy person.

 

 

— Mox

 

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(Editor’s note:  if you came here looking for happy-feel-goody sentiment, you may just want to skip this post.) 

My mother has the maddening trait of telling me, “someday you’ll understand.”  It’s maddening because she uses it as a club to beat me and my feelings about something into submission.  She also says things like, “I’m sorry if you’re mad/sad/hurt/etc.” instead of just apologizing for whatever it was she did/said.

To me that’s just a lot of passive-aggressive twaddle.  I try really hard not to pass that particular legacy on to Spawn.  Some days I’m more successful than others.

Given this fact, more often than not I’d rather eat glass than admit when she’s right about something.  Y’know, except here, on my anonymous blog.

Of all the things that I will supposedly understand “someday” I have arrived at one such understanding.  That understanding is this:

The older you get, the less you handle change well.

Here lately I have seen a mountain of change.  Most of it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans, especially taken as separate events, but taken all together it’s just enough to really depress me.

I am unfamiliar with being depressed over change.  And I don’t like it.  I don’t like change, and I don’t like feeling depressed about change.

Of course the big change that is staring me in the face is the end of my job.  I think that’s probably the one thing that all this hinges on.  If you’re read here any time at all, you know that I am Planny McPlannerson and I like my plans to be planned out.  I like to know what to expect.  It’s probably one of my worst character flaws, because it keeps me from trying new things a lot of the time.  I have never been, nor will I ever be, the sort of girl who can just “wing it” through life.  So the fact that the job is ending, but I don’t know how or when (though all indications tell me that the first of the year will find me jobless, hooray), or what lies in wait after that… well, to say that I am unnerved is a bit of an understatement.  No time is a good time to lose a job, but the holidays seem to be the worst time to face unemployment.  And the manner in which this job is ending — by my boss being sick — just is the cherry on top.

So, I’m packing that horse-collar around, trying to orchestrate a small Christmas (by staying within my means), and little things have just been piling on.  Things like my next door neighbor dying.  My mother’s best friend’s husband dying.  (Two funeral homes in one day is not fun, folks.)  Local family businesses succumbing to the economy after two and three generations.  Shifts in the local news media that have resulted in a good many people I know losing their jobs.  War, famine, pestilence, stupidity… stir until well-blended.

Oh!  And I’m sick!  Yay!

I’ve really been surprised by my reaction to all of these goings-on.  I’ve noticed that stuff that would ordinarily roll right off my back is instead getting on my last good nerve.  And it’s a little alarming, to realize that I am turning into a crusty little old lady, except without the old-lady trappings.  All this change is making me crotchety.

And I can tell you this, if it were not for Spawn I probably would not have put up the Christmas tree this year.

Humbug!

 

— Mox

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