A tail of two puppies

Today, Maggie is six. You know, probably.

So in honor of same, she got a Jumbone, and her very own blog post. Here's the story of how I got Mags (with a lot of gratuitous pictures).

Once upon a time, I moved into a big house all by myself. Well, okay, that's not true. I moved in and my sorority sister from college moved in for the first semester. But then, she finished her internship at the engineering firm she was working at and went back to college. And I was a first year medical student, single, alone, in a big empty house that backed up to a trailer park.

So I got onto the Internet and started looking for a dog. And I found Wolfie.

Wolf was a Husky/Akita mix who was supposed to be 4. Well, they said later, maybe 6. The vet thinks he was somewhere closer to twice that old. He was a good, good boy, though. Oh, gosh, such a good dog. 90 lbs of snuggly, devoted, good, good dog. But what he wasn't was a well dog. The vet and I theorized later that he probably had metastatic cancer when I got him. I drove almost to Iowa and picked him up two days after Christmas, and he started having seizures about two days after that. He lasted almost a year, and it was a rough year. Once, when having a seizure, he bit me and I ended up in the hospital for three days. We had to clean his ears out twice a day because he had this horrible chronic infection. He had to take pills every day. Ultimately his liver failed and he got so sick he couldn't stand up and I had to euthanize him probably hours to days before he died a worse death. Aw, but he was just the best dog.

By then I was a second year medical student and was like, wow, this would be stupid for me to get another dog.

But then, my third year, my third roommate moved in, and he brought his dog, Kedzie.



Kedz? Also a good boy. Now such an old man. And I'd been longing for another pooch, so I thought, okay, this is good. I can get a vicarious puppy fix. And Kedz spent a lot of time down in my part of the house. But, although he liked me a lot, he was clearly Jeremy's dog.

I held out all the way to September of my fourth year. I started looking around and toying with the idea and even "interviewed" at this shelter in Naperville, who decided I was an unfit parent because I worked too much and denied me. And then one day, this woman my dad worked with said, hey, you know anyone who's looking for a dog? We've got a good one down at the shelter.

Well, that did it. I went down to see her. And I actually walked past her cage, because she was so timid and quiet, and all the other dogs were barking and making themselves known. But I stopped, and I said, oh. She's smaller than I was expecting. I want a big dog. And I was kind of thinking I wanted a male. But....she's awfully cute. And her tail started to wag.



And I said, well, is there a place I can take her for a walk or something? And the volunteer said, sure, and she picked up a leash. And wow, all the dogs went nuts. Barking, jumping...there was this big St. Bernard in the next cage who was banging on the cage door and just slobbering everywhere.

Maggie wagged her tail harder.



So we went outside. And she was so shy, and so timid, and so beaten down. And I scratched her head and played with her big velvety ears and she wouldn't look me in the eye. And Mags is part Greyhound, right, so she's a skinny gal as it is, but she was so thin you could see her ribs through her full fluffy Husky winter coat. She was clearly a damaged little soul. I rubbed her back, crouched down to pet her. And she leaned. You know how they do that. Knocked me over, actually. I laughed really hard. She hid behind my dad. And I was in love. This little girl? Was my dog.



So she couldn't come home with me that day because she wasn't done healing from her TAH/BSO (sometimes known in the non-former-OB/GYN community as being spayed). And it turned out that they adopted on a first come, first served basis. Which was a PROBLEM. Because she needed to be my dog, and I? Was taking step 2 of my medical boards on the day she was available for adoption. Crap.



So I gave my dad a letter, saying how much I wanted this dog, and that I had a nice house, with a big yard, and a dog run (that both my Husky Houdinis have had no problems getting out of, so it wasn't very useful, but I didn't mention that), and wow, I really wanted this dog. But you know, first come, first served. And when they opened the doors, three people were waiting for MY dog.

They ended up disqualifying one lady because she didn't have a fenced in yard or something. She had a little girl with her. So they put the other two names in a bowl and let the little girl pick. And because God, Allah, Vishnu, the Fates, and all the other ethereal powers knew that this was MY DOG, my name was on the paper she pulled out. I left the test, and there was a puppy waiting for me at home.



Oh, and ew, did I mention her name was Sweet Pea? Now, my girl, even before she recovered from her past life, even before she was the smart, funny, happy dog she is today, was so very not a Sweet Pea. So for the first three days of her new life she was named "Dog." And then one day, we were out in the back yard with Kedzie (whom she initially wounded but grew to love with reckless abandon), and I looked at her and I said, "Your name is Margaret, isn't it?" And she licked my face. And so it was. From then on she was Margaret Mae (like Maggie May, the Rod Stewart song).



They figured she was about eighteen months old when I got her. So I designated her birthday as six months for the day she came to live with me. Which is today. I've had Maggie for four and half years, and she really is the best puppy ever. We still don't really know what she is (except for the best puppy ever). She definitely has some Husky. She probably has some Greyhound. She may have some Shepherd. And the more I find out about them, she really seems to have a lot of Coyote (and they're rampant in the suburbs of Chicago). So my working theory right now is that her mom was probably something of a Husky/Greyhound mutt, and I'm guessing Dad was a Coyote who was passing by. I base this parental designation on, she had some training when I got her, so she was probably born to a domestic dog. Who was less likely to be a Coyote, because people generally don't have those at home bellying up to the water dish. Although I did try to pick one up on the side of the road once and take it to a vet. Because it looked like my dog, so it took me a second to realize, um, no, not somebody's errant pet.

But regardless of her roots, or whomever treated her poorly in the past, Maggie's been the best pal a girl could want. She went to New Hampshire with me. She came back to Chicago. She went on vacation to Florida. She went on interview trips with me. She even went to work at the yarn store with me and became our shop dog.



And now we're here. People criticize me often for being a "single mom" who works so much, and I'm not going to pretend that Mags wouldn't prefer I gave up my job and stayed home all day (actually, I think her Nirvana would be us both moving in to Daycare). But she's a very happy little pup, and she knows she's loved, and I like to think she wouldn't ask for a different life (with the exception of the afore mentioned Daycare clause). And I couldn't ask for a better companion through these last crazy years. To anyone who says money can't buy love, I would say, go down to your local shelter with $75. You'll get devotion, adoration, dedication, plus a leash and probably a bag of food. Spring the extra $3.50 on a Jumbone, add a little walk and a belly rub and you're guaranteed a friend for life. Shelter dogs are the BEST EVER. I have yet to meet a purebred who was as good a dog as my Wolfie and my Mags.


Love you baby. Happy 6th birthday.

Wired

I have had way too much caffeine today.

But at least I've been productive. I left the hospital, went and picked up the Maggie, and then we stopped at Starbucks. I came home, loaded the dishwasher, swore at the Treo for a while, and then gave up and went to Circuit City, where I hemmed and hawed and was very indecisive for a very long time about what navigator to get. Then I went to the grocery store, stopped and got lunch, came home, took the trash out, swore at the Treo some more, and now, I'm babbling on here. Good times.

Someone said to me, back when I got the VZNavigator on my phone, if you get the navigator, you'll never learn your way around. I said, nonsense. I'll just not get as lost when I do get lost. But I'll know the town just as quickly. It'll be fine.

Now I say, alright, fine, shut up.

I lasted three days, and one of those days I was on call. I got so rip-roaring lost on Friday coming back from lunch downtown that it was ridiculous. Especially considering there was another physician with me, who also works there, who didn't know where the hell we were, either. And "downtown" is neither that big nor that far from the hospital. For all the IQ points in that car on Friday, I'm just sayin'. But alas, no. The only reason we didn't get lost on the way to lunch was because I was following Mike, who, a, gets out more than I do so he knows his way around "out" better than I, and 2, lives four blocks from the restaurant, so, he really ought to know where it is.

So, adding to the gadgetopolous in which I live, came the TomTom.

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth over this vs the Magellan. Because I can talk to the Magellan. And the sales guy thought it was easier to use overall. But I couldn't get into the interface, and I really like the look of the TomTom maps. And I got the stripped down version, because I concluded that was really all I needed. But, like, it couldn't find the grocery store. So I ended up googling the Fresh Market on my Treo and then entering the address into the TomTom and feeling a little like the bionic woman. Especially now that I've taken to wearing both my phone and my pager on my hip (because I'm not leaving anything as expensive as the Treo in the pocket of my labcoat). I'm wired for sound, baby.

And I had immediate buyer's remorse as soon as I took the TomTom out of the package. D'oh, I should've gotten the Magellan! Except that this was all triggered by my inability to find the Fresh Market, and who's to say that that Magellan would've been able to find it, either?

Once I gave it the address, though, it did find it. And I fulfilled what's become my Sunday routine...go to the Fresh Market when it opens, buy produce and yogurt and other random (usually impulsive) things, then go to the Char-Grill next door, and get a very yummy burger for me with mustard and onions and a plain cheeseburger for the pup. Today's burger was especially good, and they have the best fries in town. I also made three particularly good finds at the FM. One was vanilla chai, which has become my new addiction at the hospital coffee shop. I also discovered that my new favorite wine also comes in a red, and the other...oh my gosh....I was in the cheese section, getting shredded Parmesan to go with the salad fixin's, and I saw this little half-pint deli container with a really white, softer looking shredded cheese, and I thought, huh, I wonder what kind of Parmesan that is....but it wasn't. It was...are you ready for it? Mizithra! Which is this dry, salty Greek cheese that I could live on. No, really, a little butter and some Mizithra on pasta is the best thing going. It's the food of the gods, I'm telling you, Athena herself invented that dish. It has to be new this week, because I look for it pretty much every time I go past their cheese counter. And there it was! I let out an audible gasp in the middle of the cheese section this morning when I discovered it. There may even have been a Mizithra dance. I'm telling you, this is exciting news. Especially after having conquered the TomTom to get there in the first place.

If I could figure out how to sync the effing Treo, by the way, I'd show you a picture of the TomTom taken with the Treo. Because I thought that was funny. But, alas, I still can't get the laptop to talk to the phone. It was a fluke, one-time deal, apparently. At least it worked long enough for me to load a couple good pictures of my dog onto the phone, so I could show her off at lunch Friday.

Technology is my friend...

Lunch, as an aside, was very nice though. Sarah took Mike and me (Betsy was post-call) out for Thai food to celebrate our surviving the past two weeks (the attendings rotate off service after two weeks, so we'll have a new attending tomorrow. I'm hoping this mellows Betsy out, but, none of us are optimistic). It was very pleasant. The food was excellent, we had a very good time, it was very laid back, and I still left early. Very nice. Plus, Sarah and I have intentions for a doggie play date shortly. She has two dogs, one who she picked up at the roadside after he got hit by a car - a German Shepherd who's probably about twice Maggie's size - and a Leonberger she rescued from the shelter who was so little when she brought him home that he used to sleep in the cats' bed...he's now close to 200 lbs, and he's not done growing. He gets his head stuck in the cat bed now because he doesn't realize he doesn't fit there anymore. He barely fits in her car. I can't wait to meet this big furry mountain.

Those two are going to terrify Maggie, though. She likes cats and little dogs. Unlike my old dog, Wolfie, who was this ninety pound Husky-Akita mix and had a heartbreaking, pining crush on the 125-lb older-than-God German Shepherd next door, Bob. Wolf would run over to the fence when Bob was out and just watch him, awed, tail wagging like crazy. And then he'd look over his shoulder at me all excited, like, "It's Bob! Do you see? Do you see?? Oh, Kate, it's Bob, it's Bob!!" But he'd never bark, and he never dared actually approach Bob, who, incidentally, was this very sweet, toothless, grumpy-old-man kind of dog. No, my dog was a groupie.

Bob died shortly after Wolfie did. And then the big mean old Rottie they had got stomach cancer or something (I told my neighbor, it was probably someone he ate), and he was put down. So shortly after Mags arrived, they got this very obnoxious pit bull puppy. Maggie and Kedzie, my roommate's dog (who's like 13 now or something and is a TOTAL grumpy old man) were both sort of like, what the hell did you bring him here for?

The best Wolf story, ever, though, was when one day we were out for a walk. And these six little rat dogs come tearing out of the house down the block, like, in formation, barking and snapping and squealing and they start circling Wolf, nipping at him, barking, huffing, growling. And Wolfie, bless his little poochy heart, stops, and looks down at these little knee-high (to him) annoyances with this quizzical look on his face. And then he calmly looks up at me, completely baffled, like, "Dude. Really. What the hell are these things?" And he kind of watches them for a minute (in contrast to his owner, who's flailing about yelling "Get out of here! Go! Go! Stupid little shit dogs, get!") and then looks at me again like, "These things are stupid, and noisy. Can I eat one?" Fortunately, their owner happened to notice about then that they were missing and called them back into the house. And he - I'm so not kidding - watched them go back into the house, looked at me, shook his head, and then started back down the road towards our house. I totally would've let him eat one.
That's my Wolfie. He was such a good boy.

Well, Mags and I are going to go spend some quality time napping, and then there more dishes to be done and laundry as well and I still have two discharge summaries to write up. Mi vida loca...