Oz

It's puppy season again.  That spectacular time of the year when all fuzzy goodness comes bounding awkwardly through our front doors.  At the hospital, we're starting to see all the new puppies brought in for their first vet visits and vaccines.  Some come from shelters, others from breeders, but they're all adorable.  And their new parents are full of joy.  And questions.

The routine is the same for each visit.  I usher the parents back to the scale for a weight check, they hold their squirming puppy on the scale and then they giggle as they watch their Fuzzy Wonder navigate into the exam room.  As soon as I hear the click of that door behind us, I exhale.  I know what's coming - the Questions.  I have been asked questions about nutrition, potty-training, crate-training, chewing, teething, baldness, bodily excretions, itching, ears, nail-trimming, wet vs dry noses...  The list goes on and on.

I've been a vet tech (although I prefer "vet nurse" as it more accurately describes what we do) for almost 7 years, and I've heard ALOT of questions.  Some are more surprising than others, some I've had to research the answer for, but I love each and every question.  The more questions, the more involved the parents seem as they welcome home their new puppy.  I love those parents that have done the research long before adopting or buying that special puppy the most.  They can tell me all about training, and their puppy's breed disposition, but are wanting to confirm what they've learned.  They're invested in doing the right thing behaviorally, medically, and emotionally.  And they want to truly partner with their vet team to do what's best.

The parents that scare me the most are those that have no questions and are very quiet throughout the exam.  I'm always wondering if they're really ready for the onslaught that this little Bundle of Joy is about to unleash on them.  I know I wasn't prepared when I brought home my first puppy.  In retrospect, I wish I had kept my veterinary tech and vet in that exam room for at least another 45 minutes!

The ones that really terrify me are the ones that seem truly disinterested in their puppy.  The man who seems irritated to be there, whose wife bought the kids a dog of a breed he would never want.  These are the puppies I want to spirit out the back door into the arms of the nearest stranger because they might get a better chance at life.  In these cases, I find myself praising the puppy endlessly, and trying in the short visit to teach a few basic commands like "sit" and "down".  Maybe if he sees me do it, he'll find some merit in the pup.  Maybe.

The majority of the puppies that come through our doors are lucky.  There will be insurance provided for them, daily cookies and walkies, and trips to the dog park.  Life will be good.  The hope in the eyes of each parent and puppy's eyes is palpable.  It's the promise of new life brought into our homes in the season of blossoms and green grass.  Fertility, infancy, renewal.  

For those lucky parents that are opening their doors to new puppies for the first time, and to all the hope they bring, I salute you!  The world of dogs is a magical, joyful, slobber-filled Oz.  So for now on, when I close that door to the exam room, I think I'll just turn to the new parents and say,

"Welcome to Oz.  We have cookies!"

Incidents

Nyxie has a fascination with sprinklers.  Obsession, really.  We have the kind that magically and unexpectedly pop out of the ground.  The kind that get sucked down into the earth with a foot tap.  Each night they come on and she seems restless to seek them out, hearing them with her satellite ears from inside.  If we're outside and they're on, her ears rotate  forward, her shoulders stiffen, and she pulls toward them like they're a slab of bacon.  She'll play bark and dance about, desperate to get to them.  She wants to bite them.  There's something about the water splashing in her mouth that gets her wonky.

The first time she showed interest in them, we laughed and let her investigate the sprinkler heads.  Then the attraction intensified.  Now, a walk is further complicated by errant sprinkler heads that haven't automatically been pulled to their earthly depths.  I can reset her with a yummy freeze-dried chicken treat (of course my girls aren't spoiled).

I was talking to a client at the vet hospital just the other day, who was explaining to me how she walked and jogged with her 2 Australian shepherds, one of whom is newly adopted.

"Well, it's not without incident", she revealed.  I couldn't help but laugh like a mad woman at this understatement.

This morning, my daughter slept in, tired from a late night and still enjoying the last few weeks of her summer vacation.  I quietly fed the girls, which was a challenge with Arwen's "WOO, WOO"-ing at the edge of the kitchen.  I slipped on my workout clothes, grabbed my phone, poopy bags and treats, and out into the great unknown we went.

When I take the girls out, this is our time.  My mind is focused on the terrain, the breathing of 2 creatures bonded and in sync.  We take one step at a time, eager to explore "our" domain, as the girls most certainly believe it is.  We are doing the most primitive of acts.  This is what people have done for a trillion, billion, gazillion years.  I'm quite sure poopy bags and clothing were not involved, the idea of a leash absurd in any truly pack-oriented, symbiotic relationship.

No two walks are ever the same.  They are never "without incident", good or bad.  Something new is always experienced, whether it's watching Arwen do her balancing tightrope walk on every short wall, or Nyxie's careful, gradual approach to giant construction equipment.  Something new happens, hurdles are surmounted, new poo is sniffed.  All urine-sprayed signposts are read.  And all this has a sense of urgency - we race the rising temperature of the Texas heat scorch.  (It went up to 105 today)

And for just a brief exhale in my busy life, I am one with my two wild things.  It's all simple for a moment.  They are working with me on the common purpose of movement, exploration, protection.  We return spent - the girls in full panting mode, me dripping in sweat.  They lay about exhausted and calm, content.  

My day is just beginning.  I need to check my email, get some coffee, "oh, honey, you're awake!..."  And a new day unfolds, surely "not without incident".  I suppose that's what it's all about.    

Thanks and welcome!

Arwen, Nyxie and I would like to thank everyone for visiting and posting comments on this little blog.  This is all fairly new to us and the girls are excited to share their adventures and infamy with everyone.  I marvel at the thought that there are so many of us that love our beasties in such a fanatical way as to share their lives with others of our ilk.  The more of you I meet here, the more I think how fun it would be to bring everyone together in one place for a festivus of sorts.  I know this would be nearly impossible, but still a fun thought.

Hugs to you all and ear scritchers to your furkids!

Stress Relief

My arrival from work is greeted with much jubilation and exultation.  And sniffing.  My entire person is sniffed thoroughly, every inch of my scrubs thoroughly examined.  As some of you know, I'm a vet tech, or veterinary nurse, so just being at work covers me with smells of all kinds.  They range from the soft, soothing aromas of puppy breath to the harsh, fearful smell of anal gland excretions.  It's nothing if not glorious, folks.

Really though, I love what I do.  I love being able to provide comfort to the pets in my care.  At times they're scared, anxious, hopeful and sometimes painful.  Every last, little one of them wants to be well.  Every last, little one of them is a fighter.

When I was a social worker, I found myself lending my ego to the patients in my care.  Human brains are experts at behavioral rationalization.  We can explain away our mistakes and flaws - blaming anything from timing, parents, our environments, to our astrological moon and sun signs.  I'd come home exhausted and spent, frustrated by the poor choices of my patients.  Not now, though.  My furry patients are tough.  They're little warriors.  They just want to keep going -  eating, drinking, scratching, playing - living.  Even pain is masked when possible.  Impressive.

So I come home wearing all these odors.  I'm some kind of other-worldly pet ambassador, as far as Arwen and Nyxie are concerned.  In a single day they don't even see that many other animals.  What must they think?  All I know is both girls are riveted by these smells, taking them all in usually with tails wagging wildly.  The tails wag more slowly when there's a particularly sick patient I've held that day.  As though excited to "meet" them, but sad for their predicament.  They just know.  But how?  I suppose it doesn't really matter.

I've learned from the girls to live in the moment, so that stress stays at work.  And it feels good to be reunited with my family, furry and otherwise.  The girls greet and then examine me with such ardor - I'm kind of like their super hero.  But stinkier.