Merlin: our fostering experience.

Two months. When you read it, it doesn’t sound like a long time. When you see it on the calendar, it doesn’t look like a long time.

But I learned that it is, in fact, a significant amount of time. Sixty days is enough time to feel a million emotions with great, almost unmanageable intensity. It’s enough time to fall in love, learn things about yourself you didn’t know and feel pain you didn’t think you were capable of suffering.

This is my story about Merlin the dog. It’s not a long one, but it’s an important one. It’s inside of me, begging to come out. This story is for me. My therapy. 

He came into my life when Mikhale, the head of the dog rescue group, sent me a photo. “He’s tiny.” she said. “You’ll love him.”

I’ve fostered dogs before. I’ve loved lots of other dogs before. I’ve had to say goodbye before too, but I had forgotten how much that hurts. So when Mikhale said she had a new foster dog lined up for me, I said yes.

Let me get something clear before I go any further. As a foster parent to a dog, it’s your responsibility to provide temporary shelter, care and love, until it finds its forever home. Temporary. (A word I would later forget, or just choose to ignore.)

The last time we fostered a dog, it was a bit of an unplanned disaster. It wasn’t Lola’s fault that things blew up—it was mine. My heart opened up when I saw her face and on some level I knew it wasn’t going to be a good fit. But I committed anyway. No one else was stepping up and her time was running out. She was a full-grown Labrador puppy. We live in a small townhouse—sans yard—and possess very little dog training skills.

Enough said.

But saving Lola was a good choice—one I’ll never regret. She went on to become a narcotics and bomb-sniffing dog, helping law enforcement in Michigan. I knew she had it in her. The ability to be a great companion and the skills to be a well-minded gal. 

The day I said goodbye to her was only a month before I met Merlin. I cried for a lot of reasons. One: the unknown. Would she be ok, or would she end up back in a shelter? Two: selfishness. Even though she was a pain in the ass, left poop stains on my bed and scuffs on all the wall, she was a love. She kissed me with such gratitude the day we pulled her out of the shelter. Just before she ran me over (giving me a black eye) and nearly popped my shoulder from its socket. 

This is what I thought every dog-fostering experience would be like. They’ll come to my house, cause havoc, beat up my dog, make a mess, give me a gratitude kiss then find a home that’s a better fit.

Oh how I was wrong.

After the Lola experience, or calamity, I made some better decisions about how I’d go about fostering in the future. The main thing: I’d only commit to smaller dogs. I just don’t have the muscle, skill or room to house a young, large pup. I told myself You can’t save them all, but you can save some, and you can try to do it with a little more grace and a lot more logic. Be effective.    

I drove downtown to meet Mikhale on a Monday. She let me know over the phone that Merlin was a tiny prince charming who minded his manners, insisted on tummy rubs and tolerated other dogs.

When I first saw him, I was stunned by his size, overall appearance and attitude. He was small, well-groomed, toenails trimmed, rolling happily in insects he’d found in the grass. He didn’t act like other shelter dogs I’d met. He had this air of confidence (or apathy?) about him.

I loved that. It meant he wasn’t as traumatized as he could have been. We don’t know much about his background or where he came from—only that his previous family gave him up because he marked their baby. Imagine that. An unaltered dog lifting his leg on new things he sees in their home.

Anyway.

Mikhale handed him to me and as I walked to my car, Merlin looked back at her. His sassy attitude was gone and he acted a little scared. Even though he’d only been with her for one night, he had formed a bond. Maybe it was because he knew she saved him from the shelter. Or because she had given him a cozy place to sleep the night before. All I know is that he was nervous.

I did everything I could to calm his nerves. Kissed him, pet his belly and baby-talked the hell out of him. It worked. Within minutes he’d made himself right at home in my car. He lay, belly up and eyes closed in the passenger seat, enjoying the air conditioning and massage.  That air of confidence was back.

My dog Sam hasn’t exactly been thrilled with all of these strange animals coming in and out, but he’s socialized so he tolerates it. It wasn’t any different with Merlin, at first. Sam became a little jealous with the attention Merlin received from me, Chris, neighbors and friends, but he was just fine. Sam will share his food, toys and rawhides—overall he’s a great host.

Over the weeks, though, Sam began to do more than just tolerate Merlin. He started to initiate playtime by growling and flashing toys in Merlin’s face. Merlin preferred to stay on my lap, taking full advantage of the baby talk and tummy rubs. He’s considered a senior (he’s about seven years old) so his energy level isn’t in line with Sam’s. 

But recently Merlin started surprising me by responding to Sam’s invitations to play. Over the last three weeks, the two of them acted like best buddies. Snuggles, tug-of-war, everything.

This thrilled me to no end. This foster experience was so perfect, that sometimes I forgot that Merlin was just passing through. He fit into our lives so well. He went on rides with us, slept in our bed, played with our dog. It almost felt as if we hand-picked him as our own new little companion. 

He knew how to make me feel special. I was his whole world. The one he followed like a shadow around the house, the one he reached for when someone else picked him up and the one he snuggled close to at night. I accidentally started calling myself his mom. Oops.

I couldn’t help it though. It was like a white, fluffy Merlin cloud moved in and blurred my vision, and I lost sight of what this relationship was supposed to be.      

“Lost” is a good word, actually. I knew I was getting in deep, falling in love with this little furball that learned to trust me and forgot about his crappy past. I was lost about what to do. Keep him for myself? Or continue with adoption efforts? Stay close to him, keeping up the baby talk and constant loves, or start to detach a little?

It’s a good lost to be, though. Like, when you get lost in the back roads of a charming, unfamiliar town full of big trees, or lost in the eyes of a person you love.

I was confused, and lost, but I was set on one thing: keeping Merlin and avoiding negative thoughts about the future.  I went with the let whatever happens, happen adage. 

Well, Thursday something did happen. Mikhale received an email of interest on Merlin. We did a meet and greet and everything went well. After a short trial period, we’ll know for sure if he’s found his forever home. So far, he’s fitting in well and I have a strong feeling that this is his forever home.

But wait. I haven’t told you the cool part. His new home is a senior living center chock full of folks with nothing to do but love on him all day.

Can you imagine a better scenario for a mister prissy pants? 

This senior center has a policy that incorporates one dog per 20 residents. They usually adopt from shelters or rescue groups. I DID NOT KNOW PLACES LIKE THIS EXISTED.

“Can I live here, too?” I asked the Allie, the director (who, by the way, was super pleasant and dressed in tie-dye, which earned her instant cool points with me). 

This place is amazing. It’s not smelly like you’d expect an animal-friendly old folks home to be. It’s kept sparkling clean. The overall aura was unbelievably upbeat. I wouldn’t have left Merlin there otherwise.

Mikhale and I chatted about Merlin for a while and Allie gave us a tour of the facilities. There was dogs running around everywhere. I absolutely loved it.

A sweet wheelchair-bound woman with Alzheimer’s politely asked me to put Merlin in her purse—a purse she’d later forget about and deny belonged to her. 

It was easy to see Merlin would be popular there, and very well taken care of.

I walked to my car to grab his vet records and his bag of belongings (which included a tiny teddy bear squeaker, Sam’s elephant toy, bacon treats and a tiny rawhide). 

I left Allie with specific details about Merlin’s routine. Every time I talked I choked a little, trying not to burst into uncontrollable tears.

Hold them back till you leave. Just wait till you’re at your car. Don’t let him see you sad. It’ll scare him.

I grabbed mister prissy pants from Allie one more time, removed his harness and leash and puckered up. He licked me with his mini tongue and tried to stay close to my chest. He was acting nervous, the way he did the day I took him from Mikhale. 

“You’ll be alright here, I promise. They all love you already. Please don’t make this harder on mommy.” I talked to him like no one else was around. Some might not believe it, but they understand us. Words help ease their nerves and they’re experts at reading our faces.

So I smiled and comforted him and assured him he’d be ok. Then I left him.

People ask me “Why didn’t you just keep him?” and the answer to that is long and complicated. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think seriously about how we could keep him. We talked about it often. But if we had chosen to adopt Merlin, we wouldn’t be able to foster any other dogs—at least not while we’re living in this house. The other deciding factor was that in our community, there are strict covenants, codes and restrictions concerning dogs: only one pet per household is allowed. We received special permission to foster dogs, but technically we can’t own two dogs while we live here.

I hate that rule, and probably wouldn’t have moved in here had I known about it before we started to build.   

The main reason Merlin’s not in my lap right at this moment is because I am sure he will have a better life at Silverado (the senior living center). Yes, I gave him a lot of love and everyone could clearly see our attachment to one another, but at Silverado he won’t be locked in a crate for 10 hours a day. In fact, he’ll never be locked in a crate. His little paws won’t ever hit the floor. He’ll be gracing the laps of old folks as they pet him all day long. This is what he deserves. He’s social and now he’ll have a chance to polish those skills while he makes new friends and forms new attachments to the members of that community. 

I received an update from Allie yesterday:

                Merlin update: he’s covered with lipstick from all the kisses. 

So here I am now, with Sam snuggling at my feet, feeling much better now that I’ve documented some of Merlin’s story. I’m filled with warm fuzzies at the thought of his tale. He went from a family that didn’t deserve him to a home brimming with people who will endlessly appreciate his company. Now his real life is just beginning. It may be morbid to think of it this way, but it’s the truth: Merlin will keep those residents company in their last years, and vice versa. 

Aside from the warm fuzzies, though, I’m suffering from my personal loss of a friend. His presence, his affection and all of his quirks: the way he chased flies and growled like he was tough during playtime. There’s a certain emptiness here now.

He came into my life for a reason, and he’s leaving it for a reason. I know this. But it still hurts to wash his blanket and to see his short white hairs in the car. The good news is I’ll get to visit. It’ll be best for both of us if I wait, I think. But some day, I will go see him basking in the glory of his brand new life.   

Yeah, you.

A short story.

Here's an excerpt from a short story I'm working on. (If I post it on the web, it'll help it feel real and will force me to keep working on it.)

She sat down in the shower as the water sprayed from above. She closed her eyes, crossed her legs and put her head down. She reached in front of herself and turned the knob as far left as it would go. Then she just sat. Water drizzled down her face, but mostly her back. Her long, dark hair gathered smoothly to a point that ended at the small of her back.

Working with writers.

My friend Lee Horton, sports reporter for the Peninsula Daily News, recently wrote a letter to a group of fellow former copywriters that included a great description of what it's like to work with writers. So accurate, so endearing:

If we never had a conversation about [ending a sentence with a preposition], I guarantee we could have. Jessica would probably be okay with using them at the end of a sentence, but Crystal might have some reservations. I haven't decided what Jordan would think about it, but he would express his view passionately. Then somebody would bring up the next potluck. Amanda would be excited about that, but she would be against placing prepositions at the end of a sentence. Jessica doesn't care, she's still okay with it. Kenneth would then take his graduate degree out and place it on top of his desk. He would then eloquently explain the arguments of both sides, including their origins. He concludes that we are all free to end sentences with prepositions, even though he never does. Crystal reminds us that it is time to talk about potlucks, and Emily screams.

Brilliant and accurate caricatures of some of my favorite people. Our lives were driven by potlucks and grammar.

I stole this entry from my other friend, Kenneth. Follow his blog. It's good.

For the record, I fully support ending a sentence with a preposition. To quote Churchill,"This is just the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put."

Tackless.

Today I was reminded that I am tackless. Thank goodness I am not covered in tacks, like this girl.

I think that would hurt. At the very least, it would be annoying. I guess there are some instances when being tackfull would come in handy. Like if I were making cute fabric-covered tacks, like this.

Or if I wanted to make a mountainous pile of gleaming tacks, like this.

So, in closing, being tackless is probably for the best (except in these few rare situations).
Image credit: 1. Pinterest, when I searched for "tacks." 2. How about orange. 3. Yay Hooray.

Ten reasons why I love writing.

1. It's my release. My creative outlet. When I get lost in words, nothing else exists.
2. I'm passionate about aesthetics. It's like, if I can make words sound great, I'd better be able to make them look great on a page or screen.
3. I love to marry words with photos.
4. I enjoy creating something significant out of almost nothing.
5. It forces me to use the right side of my brain (most of me is pretty analytical).
6. The rhythm of a sentence, or paragraph, or book, can be beautiful. If I find that beauty and execute it, I'm proud.
7. I learn things about people, subjects or products. It forces me to research.
8. The creativity puts me in a profound, reflective, spontaneous mood. Almost childlike.
9. I'm a writer. It's built into who I am--even if I don't do it for a living anymore.
10. Instant satisfaction. Well, not quite instant. That gratification I feel once I'm done with a piece of writing is honest and unmatched. 

Overpowering

I had a conversation recently about "intimidation." It got me thinking about this odd sentiment. I am interested in hearing reasons why (anyone out there) has ever felt intimidated by another person or thing. Not the "I'm so scared, I don't want to die" type of intimidation. The less threatening kind that causes timorous behavior that makes people alter their real personalities while in its presence. Please don't mention looks. Or any closely-related physicality that might annoy me. Anyone who knows me knows that tawdriness isn't one of my fortes.
Okay—this is a thinker and if I get juicy answers, it might inspire me to write an article. I know it's an odd topic…but I have been thinking lately about those untouchable emotions: jealousy, distrust, etc.
Ok, thanks all.

Part 1: Is writing important…even if you're not a writer?

A discussion between friends/coworkers sparked this post.
I understand that this may seem skewed because I am a professional writer, but I am the only writer in my family, (and group of friends) so I know where other non-English majors stand. Is it okay to express yourself in a messy way via bad writing? My answer: Nope. Never.
We are English speakers who should know the basics about how to correctly convey messages though writing.

I agree that you don't have to be an English major to be a successful photographer, artist, engineer, business owner, etc. BUT, I do believe that one's writing style represents their work, their persona and general life experience. No matter what the profession or line of work, it is crucial to communicate in an educated and qualified manner. Otherwise, people are unlikely to take you or your work seriously. And when I say "people" in that context, I don't mean everyone--obviously there are some who aren't observant enough to care about the fine print. But the general population (I think we can all agree) doesn't want to pay anyone a big (or small) chunk of change for anything that isn't undoubtedly coming from the best of the best in mint condition. That's why people pay big bucks to have professional resumes created. That's why companies hire writers to post their products online.

Case in point: a tanning salon that posts banners and flyers with typos. All the people running the salon are white, they speak English, and they are obviously from around here. So why the random comma splices and/or lack of apostrophes. Or better yet… Random Capitalization of various words In a regular ol' Sentence.
True--some may not notice these things at all. But what if those who do notice decide to tan somewhere else because of the unprofessional representation of the salon? Even though they have the BEST beds in town, this tanning salon is being ran by people who don't know the difference between you're/your. This has me wondering (as the customer) who came up with the pricing system and why? Were they educated enough to research the quality of these beds and to advertise prices that are reasonable? Maybe those numbers are being pulled out of someone's ass. Who cleans the beds after each customer tans? Are they smart enough to know what chemicals need to be mixed to sanitize the most effectively?
Maybe the person who creates the signs is less educated than the person running the money side of the tanning salon. Either way, it makes me question the credibility of a business. ANY business.

Any company offering service to paying customers should be aware that their literacy level affects clientele's opinions. The instant we see a billboard, blog, banner or website for a company, we begin judging it. That is why there are entire seminars, business classes and degrees in this area--it's called marketing and advertising. Customer perception = success/failure.
--SO glad I vented about that--I'm sure that's not the end of my rant.

Just to be clear...

Okay, so I am slowly figuring this out. I still don't get it.
I will try my hardest to use this blog for:

Staying in touch with friends, telling stories, sharing info about events, displaying funny jokes I hear, and maybe sharing some of my writing. Not sure about that though--I am pretty personal about my writing. I will try my hardest to start posting so I can get some feedback. Now that school's over, I feel like I've sort of abandoned the social writer side of my personality.