31.

Mature: Started cleaning this bright and early the next day.
Immature: It took me most of a week to bother finishing
and I drank out of my hand in front of the sink when there
were no more clean cups.

The beginning of this month marked another year of  my continued existence, and for the first time since teenagedom, I threw myself a little shindig. It wasn't as big as our Christmas party and didn't require as much prep work, but it was really nice to try out the back"yard" and have some folks over.

Lily surveying the post-get together scene
(read: searching for dropped Doritos)

In the past, when birthdays rolled around, I would make entries about how "old" I felt at 21, 23, 26. I made those posts knowing full well that my life's work would be to build a time machine for the sole purpose of slapping those versions of myself in the face. And y'know, now that I'm in my 30s, I'm more okay about aging than I was then. Not that I'm peachy-keen on the mysterious marks that have shown up on my alabaster skin or the parts of my hair that are more "just for men" than I'd like, but I'm not too perturbed yet. I was never really a raving beauty, y'know? I'm not saying that to fish for compliments, I mean, I do okay with what I was given, but having never had a conventionally-envied face or body, I don't feel as bad as I might about "losing" any of that. Now, we'll talk in my 40s, but for now, the 30s feel pretty good.

And the past year has been kind of a big deal, really. I bought a house, moved in with TB and adopted a Hoover dog. And every one of those decisions gave me at least 2 mini panic attacks, but in retrospect, I'm so glad I went through with all of them. Our place really feels like a home now, and we feel more like a team than ever. Granted, 1/3 of our team doesn't pay a single goddamn bill, but she eats most of the stuff we drop on the ground so it pretty much evens out.

When I was little, I was always torn between this ache to be grownup and this fear that all the fun stuff in my life would disappear once I became an "adult". As the owner of a mortgage and a barbecue, I think I can officially call myself a grownup now, and I have to say, besides the early mornings and the bills, the overtime and the eating vegetables, being an adult is pretty awesome. Here's to another year of cocktails, dirty jokes, board games, Rock Band, pretty frocks, meaningful work, mini-vacations, deep talks, picnics, jello shots, fancy-ass dinners, lovely family, sexy shoes and perfect friends.

Bring it on, 31.

But first, a nap.

A Wrinkle in Time: Pugstock 2013

Okay people, I'm ready to talk pugs.

Frankly, I'm always ready to talk pugs.- I'm one of those people now. We pretty much all saw that coming though, so let's get over our shock and onto our genetically questionable little mushfaces, shall we? 

We shall.

This post is going to be light on writing because that's not why you're here. You're here to see pugs. Pugs playing, pugs panting, pugs wagging their little donut tails. And who could blame you? That's why I went to Pugstock, too.

I'll just say this: Pugstock is a great thing. It's a well-organized, well-attended, welcoming event that made me feel like I belonged even though I'm definitely new to this "pet ownership" game. The organization it benefits, "Under My Wing Pug Rescue", is a small, dedicated group of folks who are committed to finding homes for these little morose-faced cuddlebugs and they've been great to us - going so far as to help find Lily when she pulled a runner. They've answered our questions with good-natured patience and even gave us a bed to put her in when we picked her up. If you're looking for a good group of people to donate to, these guys could definitely use the cash. Anyway. Let's get down to brass tacks:

We bought Lily a fancy dress a few days before the event so that she'd look her best for all the 2-legs and 4-legs alike. She took the dress-up, like most of the things we throw at her, with good humour and a little bit of depression.

But then she realized we were taking her in the car, so all was forgiven. We can't tell if she likes the car or if it stresses her out, but she always wags her tail and pants like me during a 5K as soon as the engine turns over so we're going to side with "positive experience" for now.

 When we got there, it was basically my dream come true. Pugs (and pug-friendly people and animals) as far as the eye could see! These little fellows (and ladies) are the pugs that were up for adoption at the time. I fell in love with Shandu - one of the larger pugs in the green harnesses. Lucky is the person who gets to wake up to her insane, smiling mug every morning.

Lily was really well-behaved, especially considering the amount of noise and action that was going on in the community centre. She even made a few friends!*



*sniffed half-heartedly at a few dogs' back ends. But she did seem rather fond of this little guy, who she went over to immediately. ---->

There were competitions for oldest pug, best trick, longest distance travelled, etc. This one was for "cutest wrinkles" - a tough field, to be sure and great contenders, all of them. We considered signing Lily up for "best head tilt" but she really does it best when I sing the first two lines of Chicago's "If You Leave Me Now". It was too loud for her to hear my voice above all the others, so I decided to leave my Peter Cetera impression for another day.

While my unbiased opinion is that our little lady had the cutest attire, I definitely was fond of the "mama's boys" shirts on this dashing duo.

I have nothing of substance to add to this photo of an adorable chubby pug wearing a scarf.

Lily took her first (for charity!) nail clipping like a champ. At first she didn't know what was going on. Then she did. Now I doubt we'll get her to submit to it so easily again.










There were other awesome dogs there, too, including Charger, below on the left, who counts cell phone and remote ingesting among his finest talents. The Great Dane on the right looked like Gulliver among the Lilliputians for most of the day. So great.

But, all good things must come to an end, so after a few hours of sniffing, wagging and petting, we trotted our little Miss back to the car for a well-deserved nap. 

Oh, and apropos of nothing? We also saw this sign that same weekend and it is, by far, my favourite garage sale sign of all time.

It's also printed on the back of a Labatt Blue beer box. Game, set, match.

Everybody's working for the weekend

Whew! Life has been kind of hectic around here and I admit that I haven't spent time stopping to smell the roses*. Almost all the chaos has been positive, though, so I can't complain. I've half-written a couple of posts on my very recent, very stellar weekends but the general fast-pace of life (read: lengthy naps) has kept them from being polished and posted.

Let me take you back, waaay back to the May 2-4 weekend, which was the first of many lovely breaks. I gave it some serious thought while drinking sangria and sniffing lilacs and I think Victoria Day is my favourite long weekend of the entire year. I mean, most holidays there are some spectacular expectations placed upon you: family get-togethers, lavish parties, time-consuming meals - but not Victoria Day. No, no. Queen Vicki asks nothing more of you than to walk down to the liquor store, put a folding chair in your backyard and sit in the sun until you crisp like a Frito.


Well, Ms. V, I like to say I did my part for Queen and Country.

The weather was gorgeous here that weekend. My back area is nothing special to look at (that reads dirtier than it did in my head), so my family very kindly offered to help me tidy it up. My dad and TB put together the remainder of our patio furniture (delightfully called a "chat set"), my mom and I weeded and planted, my sister... well, I'm pretty sure she just bothered the dog, but the company was nice. We added earth to the front yard so that it looked less like it did back in February and more like an actual thing you'd want to look at. I'd insert a picture here but it's still in rough shape and, frankly, I keep forgetting to snap a photo on my way out the door.

In the back we were faced with a plethora of options for planting, but we settled on tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, peppers, lettuce, strawberries, dill, basil, irises, wood violets, and some other plant I've already forgotten the name of; I'm equally excited about all of them. Okay, maybe a bit more excited for carrots because TS has recently gotten into canning and I love pickled carrots more than anyone under the age of 75 should have the right to.

I got a killer sunburn, for which I am entirely and regrettably responsible, and relaxed the days away in asphalt-covered comfort.

They were pretty relaxed, too.

Tune in next time to read about young men selling their youth, a sideways-walking dog, and the glory, the unspeakable happiness that is: Pugstock. Yes, Pugstock. I'm almost moved to tears just thinking about it.



*a lie. I've pretty much only been smelling roses, I just haven't blogged about it, lucky for you.

Not that I don't still do it, of course.

Changed for Good

This will be my last post about the dog for a little while, I promise, but I just wanted to give y'all an update on how she's doing.

Since her one-night-only performance of "Runaway Bride", Lily has been pretty much amazing. The night after her escape she laid a sweet douce down on the rug, but since then she's been good as gold, no accidents inside, tail curled and wagging, eager to be patted and adored (usually) and fed anything you might want to offer (always). After a slate of difficult days, I was basically praying that Friday would be a good day. "Just one," I pleaded, partly to her, partly to any higher power that covers canine behaviour (Moses?), "Just one good day. That's all I need."

And I got it.

TB went to see Ironman after work so that meant that I was going to be the first one home for a change. As I took the bus home, I cringed, my stomach hardening at the thought of what I'd find when I got there. What I found was a pug. A little pug with her paws and face up against the inner door (we have an "airlock" system in place now to stop her from running), whining and crying to be with me.

Dafuq?

I opened the door and petted her as she rubbed her face against me, tail wagging madly, devocalized bark squeaking away. I thought maybe she needed to go outside, so I put on her leash and took her on a quick walk but she was just as happy to be with me when we returned. She went to the bathroom outside (for which she was praised like she'd just cured parvo), was sweet to me all evening and slept most of the day.

By the weekend she was letting us give her a bath and being sociable with visitors. By Monday she was greeting TB the same way she had greeted me on Friday.

Not every day is going to be perfect, I know, and we still need to teach her that 6am is an ungodly time to be up, and that "sit"ing and "stay"ing will result in copious amounts of treats, but... holy crap you guys. Our cowardly pee machine is gradually turning into a goofy cuddlebug and it's remarkable.

Panic! In the Household

So.

So.

As you can see by the recently reposted previous entry, we got a dog. After some confusion over transfer dates, she came to our place on Monday night.

And by Wednesday afternoon, she was gone.

Life hasn't been easy for Lily, either before the adoption or after. I think we see videos and photos of loving animals and it's easy to think they're all these little furry balls of unconditional love. Had a bad day? Dog or cat will take care of that! Bored and want to play? Hey, so do they! But that's not always the case. And with a rescue animal, it's certainly not likely to be the case, especially not right from the start.

I'm learning that. But it's a hard lesson.

Since Lily's had some issues going to the bathroom outside (or at all, really. Little girl has my camel bladder) TB asked if I wanted him to come home at lunch and let her out. I said, sure, if he had time. He did, so he did.

Lily has this thing about people right now. She won't leave our side, but she also cowers when we try to pet her sometimes. Same with the door, she bounds towards it, but then backs away whenever someone enters. I mean, granted, we'd only had a chance to open the door a half-dozen times with her so far, but it pretty much always went the same way: excitement, back away, retreat. Except for this time. As TB gently opened the door, she backed away then darted around his legs and ran out the door. And her stubby little legs might not show it but she is a runner, that one. TB is pretty quick too - he's all leg - so he ran and ran until he had no more breath in him and stopped. She was gone.

And she didn't have tags yet. And she's so small. And she doesn't know how to get home.

TB called me, and it had to be one of the worst calls I've ever received, up there behind the phone call I got when my grandmother died. Even just recalling it now makes my chest tight and painful. He was so upset, and his voice and words were equal parts furious, heartbroken, worried and despondent. I've never wanted to hug a phone receiver harder.

He'd asked a bunch of strangers if they'd seen her but no one had. He went back to the office to make posters while I had to continue working, deadlines looming and a coworker to cover for. I did not produce my finest work that afternoon, let me tell you. In between printing jobs, I emailed the rescue organization and asked for any help they could provide. They Facebooked and Tweeted Lily's information and contacted the Humane Society - they were very quick, it was great. I shared the information on my Facebook wall, all the while letting my mind wander to the terrible things that could happen to her. Balanced with a healthy dose of self-pity for her hating this place so much that she had to run, of course. TB was worse, apoplectic anger at her, teary at the whole situation, blaming himself for the escape. I never blamed him for a second. How could I? She wasn't really "our" dog yet, just a fuzzy roommate, feeling her way. We didn't know how she'd act - and we had no indication that she would make a run for anything that wasn't made of beef. And he'd done everything he could - run after her, asked strangers, made and hung posters - I was so proud of how he launched into action.

Finally, at 3pm I finished what I needed to, peaced out, and took a cab to meet TB and his mom.  A hug never felt so good, or so sad. We put up posters and people wished us luck, asking if we'd contacted the Humane Society, smiling sadly. Friends shared my status on Facebook, coworkers texted me to help look for her - after TB's frustration at the dozens of people who didn't stop her from running, we shared wobbly smiles over the kindness people can show in times of trouble.

I know that in cases like this the first few hours are really critical if you want a happy ending. And as the unseasonably hot sun beat down we started to lose hope. Then, around 4pm, as we reached the end of our poster stash, TB got a call. As soon as I heard the first "Really?!" I felt like all the blood returned to my limbs. Someone had found her.

We started texting and calling people who were on their way to help, letting them know all was well, typing (and talking) in all-caps. And as she came prancing down the street, tongue out and ears flapping, I felt like I was waking up from a terrible nightmare. I've never been so happy to see something I was so irritated with.

It turns out, she'd done this before. In fact, the woman who found her had been her first foster parent and during the transport from Montreal she'd pulled a runner into the woods and was only picked up because two guys on snowmobiles managed to snag her. They said it was like a movie. I kind of wish that this information had been passed onto us, frankly, because I had no idea a) she could run so fast b) this is sort of her M.O.

I mean, it makes sense - if I had been cooped up my whole life then I'd want to run as soon as I got a taste of freedom, too. Well, probably more like a canter. Speed walk at the very least.

We got her home, let her drink all the cold water her smushed face could handle and then pretty much collapsed. We ate our packed lunches for dinner around 9pm and were in bed by 10:30. Somewhere in there she peed on the floor (instead of, y'know, the backyard, where she'd been for an hour with us) but we scolded her like pros and cleaned it up even faster. We're getting the hang of this.

And we told ourselves in sniffly voices, that tomorrow will be better, that things will get easier and that this is the kind of stuff that can happen when you take a chance on a dog with a past. But make no mistake, it is hard. It's hard accepting that some of the stuff you really like will be, if not ruined, then at least negatively affected. It's hard watching a dog shy away from you, when all you do is give it food and attention. It's hard waiting for things to improve.

And I know we have to be patient, and I know she's trying her best, and I know it will get easier and I know it's worth it. But I like things to be good RIGHT NOW and like everything else I've wanted to excel at right from the start, I get super frustrated when things aren't simple and easy.

Basically, I'll be fine if I have kids because my bargaining techniques and attention span mirror that of a 4 year old.

So we keep on keepin' on. I found myself taking my voice to new heights of falsettoness today as Lily dutifully peed outside by herself in the backyard this morning. I even did a little happy dance when her droopy tail curled up into a perfect spiral and then wagged back and forth. And I'm choosing to ignore the peanut butter it took to get it there. One paw in front of the other, little girl. Until you reach the baby gate. Then back the hell up, hound.

The New Arrival

**NOTE: This entry was up (very) briefly yesterday but then I got a heart-stopping call at about 1pm while I was in the middle of editing so I never put it back up. I will now, and everything's fine, but yesterday was kind of insane so reposting it slipped through the cracks. Next entry will deal with that. Just so's ya know.**


I haven't updated lately on purpose. I'm not the best at keeping big news (either happy or sad) to myself and these last few weeks have been no exception. I'm usually annoyed whenever a blogger announces they have a "huge, fun thing that [they] can't talk about!" and then fails to follow up on it -either because it falls through/turns out differently then they'd hoped or because they forget. I didn't want to be that person so I kept waiting until I could absolutely say everything was settled.

So, since everything's been finalized at this point, I feel confident when I say: Welcome home, furry housemate!

She's the canine answer to "Grumpy Cat"

After much agonizing name-yelling back-and-forth (a post for another time) we're calling her Lily, but she came to us as Lin Lin. We got her from the good folk at Under My Wing Pug Rescue, a lovely little organization that is run by 2 (yes, only two) people working with a group of loving foster families to give homes to pugs in our area.

We spotted her about 3 weeks ago on their website and fell in love with her little face. We'd been talking about getting a dog for a while though we hadn't decided on a breed - we just knew we wanted a rescue. Her story won our hearts. She lived her life as a backyard breeder, kept in a cage in an unlit, unheated shed, with other pugs and pomeranians, having litters of puppies that were taken from her and sold once they were 8 weeks old. She's been devocalized which means when she does bark it's the most heartbreaking, high-pitched little whine, barely audible and so adorable you'll wet yourself. She's nervous around people so far (no shaking or nervous peeing or anything but definitely cautious and clingy) but she's apparently come incredibly far from the quivering, hiding mess she started out as, so we're proud of her progress.

When we saw her picture we knew we wanted to meet her. The only way to meet her was to fill out an application. So we did. All 9 pages of it. What followed was weeks of reference checking, cheque writing, nervous pacing, obsessive research, supply-buying and, finally, last week, an approval. 

We drove out to her temporary home and we (okay, I) may have misted up a bit as her temporary keeper said "It's your last car ride, little girl - you're going home!" She was good as gold on the ride home, no carsickness, sat right down even though she was clearly a bit freaked out. Her first night was pretty marvellous, all cuddles and house-exploring, and we were glad to have her.

The next night was a little more challenging as she ended up peeing on the couch (YES THE NEW COUCH FROM IKEA) when a friend's dog came by to say "hi" (ie: jumping up toward her and guiding her into the kitchen with his nose pressed to her butthole). Good news? We're pretty sure we discovered the mess early. Bad news? We caught it early because I sat in it. Sigh. Luckily we'd had the forethought to buy some stain remover "just in case". Thank Jeebus for my pessimism or the whole situation would have been much more annoying.

It's also clear that, like most pugs everywhere, she's a little furry shadow. No bathroom trip or walk to get the mail is complete without the little click click click of her feet (DIRECTLY) behind you.

But I think what's going to prove the greatest challenge is that she's still so nervous. I know, I know, it's only been 2 days, she's doing really well. It's just hard when you're adjusting to a new routine and you have the added stress of an unhappy dog. I mean, have you seen pugs' faces? At their best they're morose-looking. In addition, it looks like she's fonder of me than TB which has been hard on him since he's putting in at least as much work on this as I am, if not more.

We'll survive, and it will get better, it's just a big change, y'know? I mean, in the last 9 months I've gone from living on my own to buying a house with someone else, to being a little family unit of 3. I'd be lying if I said it was all rainbow cupcakes, all the time. But most days, it's at least a rainbow muffin.

She's a good girl, calm, well-behaved (mostly), and through some miracle, barely snores. And I'm convinced that no big decision - moving, new job, new family member- happens without at least a few moments of "WHAT HAVE I DONE??". The good news is, whenever I've been in that situation, I almost always look back a while later and think "Why didn't I do this sooner?"

So that was basically my impetus for keeping my piehole shut. On this, at least. Still running at the mouth on anything else, natch. Any advice on dogs or hilarious stories about pets doing crappy things and you still loving them much appreciated.