Countdown to #5

I didn’t know about the ticking clock.  Or the divider.  Blissfully unaware of the crying.  Ditto the rapid, repeated bladder emptying.  When signing on the electronic dotted line to become a K9 foster family, I knew puppies were cute, and, well, that’s about it.

Now, a mere 11 days later, it’s almost go time.  By Sunday, Georgia Puppy #5 will arrive, be bundled into the Subaru, and driven home to join our fledgling foster family. 

Georgia Puppy #5

Okay, a quick glance at Georgia Puppy #5 reveals he is ridiculously cute.  To borrow a phrase ever-popular with our monkeys: “It’s not fair!”  Really, how exactly does one care for such an adorable creature, then merrily pass him along to a forever home?  Why couldn’t we start off with an ugly puppy?  Is there such a thing? 

On a recent visit to the shelter, the volunteer foster coordinator joked about ”foster failures“, counting herself among their ranks.  Foster failures become attached to the pets in their care, and opt to adopt.  The coordinator has 6 dogs (7 counting her current foster charge).  If I chose 6 dogs, would end up with 0 husbands.

As a mildly (perhaps moderately) Type A personality, really want to know how this is all going to shake out.  Will #5 make #1 and #2 immediately upon being let out, or will there be prolonged periods of waiting?  And how do I know if he actually needs to go, or is just wondering why we happen to be standing outdoors at 2:00 am on a freezing February night?  Is it really, really true they cry nonstop the first few nights?  And how does a liberal, attached, co-sleeping with her babies kind of gal endure that and not pluck #5 from his crate?  Where is he supposed to ride in the car?  Do they make puppy harness seatbelt devices?  Does he ride around in his crate?  Can puppies be worn in slings to keep one’s hands free? 

Truthfully, though curious and a tad nervous, I am not overly worried about these matters.  That said, still believe this puppy business will be more challenging than welcoming home our newborns (never had to get out of bed then – breast + fresh dipes were always onhand – plus, even as babies, our kiddos never pooped at night).

What really worries me is how our clan will feel once #5 is living at #10.  Will we fall in love?  Will only some of us fall in love?  Will we joyfully pass him along and delightedly exchange sleeping on the floor next to his crate for sleeping in our luscious organic SavvyRest?  What if we fall in love but it’s too late and another family has an approved adoption application? 

We were too slow on the draw for Toby, who was adopted before he even arrived.  This resulted in many 6-year-old tears and the plea: “Can’t we offer them more money for him?”.  Followed by last night’s heartbreaking question at dinner: “Mommy, do you think the people adopting Toby lied on their application and they’re going to hurt him?”.  No mistaking our eldest fell hard for Toby.  Or that I was right behind her.

Mr. Toby

So in the wake of Toby heartache, how do I play the cards for #5?  We definitely were not looking for a puppy.  Really enjoy sleeping through the night.  But #5 is painfully cute and likely very lovable.  Our monkeys have been told this is just a foster pup.  But should I tell the foster coordinator we might want to put in an adoption application?  Further complicating matters, fairly certain we have an option on Otter, our 2/21 foster arrival:

Otter - potential big brother material for #5?

It would appear the best course of action is to sit back, relax, and see what unfolds.  To worry less and trust more.  Bears mentioning I am complete rubbish at said approach.  Before this foster experience is complete, just might learn a few things that don’t involve crates and piddle.

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• ducking out of a pleasant enough, but tiresome, evening Chamber event to get home early, where our little monkeys and their dad were snuggled in a mountain of blankets on the couch, alternately engaging in pillow fights and watching Wild Thornberrys
• yoga
• community
• hearing the secret business plans so many mums have filed away for someday          

Avalanche? What avalanche?

There are plants in our gear room.  Something is amiss.  Typically, gear room entry is granted only to really useful items.  The kind of fun stuff one might wish to have when clinging to the side of a mountain.  In winter.  With temperatures so far below zero that zero feels downright tropical.  And winds gust beyond 150 mph with frightening frequency.

Ice axes.  Crampons.  Gore-tex over R1 fleece over Techwick.  Avalanche beacons.  Avalanche shovels.  Avalanche probes. 

I consciously ignore the avalanche dangers on Mount Washington.  I picked a husband whose favorite volunteer hours are spent patching up the nutters who think they can ski Tuckerman Ravine.  I find ignoring avalanches to be a very helpful adaptive skill.  Besides, they have Cutler, the avy wonder dog.  He is very capable.

Neither rain, nor ice, nor snow, nor avalanche...

Of course there are moments when, despite Cutler’s proven skills and intelligence, I might toss a thought to avalanches.  Thankfully, the Mount Washington Volunteer Ski Patrol spends a lot of time thinking about, training for, and sometimes responding to, avalanches.  The U.S. Forest Service Snow Rangers maintain the Mount Washington Avalanche Center.  They test, survey, and post snow conditions, remaining ever vigilant.  Truly, they are superb at their jobs.  

Knowing all of this helps me confidently ignore avalanches.  Here’s what doesn’t help: E returns from a day spent on Mount Washington, invariably a bit stinky, sunburned, and tired.  He greets the monkeys, then they run off.  When I inquire how the day went, he, obviously devoid of any common sense and forgetting entirely how my mind operates, this man opts to tell ME (of all people) that while responding to injuries from a slide, a secondary avalanche passed 3 feet from him.  Really not terribly helpful information to share.

Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah…fingers inserted into ears…eyes scrunched closed…gear room is really for plants (well, at least until my parents move + take back their greenery which was banished to the gear room since our cat won’t stop eating the darn things)…searching for that happy ignorant place…aha!…found it…avalanche?…what avalanche?…oh, isn’t Cutler just the cutest K9 companion?…so sweet they have a dog to keep everyone company while they lounge about on sunny Mount Washington, munching baked goods and sipping hot chocolate…really, if the mountain was even an eensy bit dangerous, would they allow the novice, completely-lacking-in-any-outdoor-skills, ill-equipped Flat Stanley to visit?

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• heard faintly at 4:30 am over the click of laptop keys from my downstairs perch: “Mommy?  Mommy?”  Proceed upstairs, where our littlest monkey continues, “Mommy, will you sleep with me?”  Join our little guy, who wiggle-wiggle-wiggles into my side, clasps my hand to his heart, then lets loose an: “Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.”
• a beautiful bowl of artfully arranged mixed fruit magically appeared on the table (which has never before hosted a fruit bowl), designed by our 6-year-old whose latest favorite is House Hunters
• rediscovering favorite childhood books with our monkeys – yesterday our littlest monkey and I read But No Elephants over and over while his big sister was in choir practice – so thrilled that time and growing up have not dimmed my love of this book

Breaking dress code

Yesterday morning I did something I had never done before.  Something I thought I would never do.  Something others do all the time.  Something I had been longing to do. 

And guess what happened?  The world didn’t stop turning.  Frankly, no one really noticed.  So I plan to do it again, perhaps as soon as next week.

I wore jeans to church.  They were nice-looking jeans paired with new Danskos and a moderately dressy shirt, topped with a wool coat.  But still.  Jeans in church.  Wow.   

Understand this is a less-than-impressive announcement for most.  However, for one who spent the better part of the last 3 decades thinking ixnay the eansjay each Sunday morning, this is huge. 

For all those years, I believed crossing the sanctuary’s threshold with jean-clad legs would be disrespectful to God.  That God wanted me to make an effort in the wardrobe department.  That God preferred dresses to capris, smart suits to khakis, and certainly snazzy dress pants to jeans.

Not really certain when these ingrained thoughts developed.  Never heard Sunday School teachers rail against jeans.  Don’t recall any sermons devoted to the evils of jeans.  My limited biblical knowledge never revealed any passages devoted to khakis vs. jeans.  Perhaps it was just that growing up, no one wore jeans to church.  No one.  Ever.

After moving away for college and staying away for work, eventually returned to my birth city.  When walking through the doors of that growing-up church many moons later, I now had 2 monkeys and occasionally 1 husband in tow.  Very quickly, it became evident things had changed.

Blue jeans now dotted the congregation.  Jeans shyly peaked out beneath the robes of choir members, and confidently graced the legs of some vestry officials.  Our church publicly, boldly, and passionately threw open its arms to the community as: “A place to belong.  Whoever you are.  Just as you are.“  Jeans were okay.  Really.

Despite an ever-growing confidence that my heart and my intentions and my actions mattered to God, but my pants didn’t, it still took a couple of years to get comfortable with blue jean legs.  Nearly ready, tossed jeans on our littlest monkey last week.  No biggie.  He was cool with it (of course), and nary an eyebrow was raised from the pews. 

Yesterday it was my turn.  Breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to unearth a lint-free (oh, the joys of line drying – we perpetually battle lint – well, I battle lint, the monkeys + husband don’t care) ”work pants”.  That I didn’t need to find the dark brown socks to match the dark brown pants.  That I could grab yesterday’s still-clean jeans from the upstairs railing, and be good to go.  That we were only 7 minutes late instead of the usual 12.

Sitting in church yesterday morning, I was fully present.  Listening, singing, praying, experiencing, pondering.  Sharing the peace, receiving communion.  Quietly reading Berenstain Bears during the offering (par for the course with a 3-year-old pewmate).  Rejoicing, feeling, thanking.  I wasn’t distracted by rogue lint.  Wasn’t concerned my shirt would untuck and reveal that upper underwear strip when kneeling to receive communion.

If sporting jeans leads to more presence and focus, I am good with that, and think God just might be too.  This is my story, this is my song.  Yesterday’s processional hymn resonated.  Blessed Assurance.

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:            

• after a long, whining, drawn-out plea to keep his dead beta “as a decoration”, C has relented to bury the fish
• our public library and the children’s room staff rock
• the 3-year-old footie pj-clad snuggle bug in my lap
• our 6-year-old has fallen hard for perhaps the most adorable dog ever – chocolate lab/basset hound mix “Toby“
• by the end of today, the rear windshield wiper will be back on the Subaru
• fresh warm blueberry bread
• the mountain of fresh produce that erupted in our kitchen following yesterday’s long overdue trek to the grocery store
• every day our monkeys ask awesome questions – this morning from 3-year-old C:  “What happens if the submarine driver falls asleep and the submarine drives right into a shark’s mouth?”

It’s a family affair (woof! meow!)

Yesterday I brought the monkeys to check out the animal shelter organizing our foster pup care.  We fell hard.  From a rockin’ friendly volunteer staff to gorgeous sweet dogs to darling soft cats, we were hooked.  Spent quite a bit of time playing with Butter:

   

Butter was rescued from Baltimore where she was living with her 9 puppies, her brother (also the puppies’ father), and a homeless man who couldn’t access a homeless shelter with the pups in tow.  Butter is super friendly and fun, and just might have hitched a ride home with us in the Subaru.  Alas, her cat manners are nonexistent.  A fact our feline Monster Minot would have found quite offensive (and fair is fair, he was here first).  Hoping Butter finds a cat-free permanent home soon.

Right after our shelter visit, pointed the car northbound for a bowling birthday party.  With many of our family members in attendance, seized the opportunity to sing the praises of the shelter and its four-legged wonders.  Whipped out the iPhone and pulled up requisite cute animal photos.  The iPhone circulated quickly, ripped from my hands before new photos had fully loaded. 

Over the sound of rolling balls, falling pins, and cheering children, worked to convince each relative they really, really needed to adopt some of these animals.  G fell in love with Emma and Oreo, a package deal whose owner was deployed overseas:

 

So we tried to convince my aunt she really wanted to adopt these lovely ladies.  For my cousin, casually pondering a 2nd dog, we pitched Toby:

And for my uncle who might have quietly mentioned an interest in a large cat, there is one-eyed, 21-pound Tubby:

Not content to let my relatives ponder animal acquisitions on their own, we organized a sure-to-be-fun group outing to the shelter slated for this afternoon (honestly think everyone is excited - no arm twisting was required).  After our respective church visits (ack - need to have G at church, vested, + ready to sing in 15 min.), our extended clan will gather here.  Our convoy will depart for the bestest shelter ever, where the monkeys and I will do our darndest to play matchmaker.  Fingers crossed we find success…

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• our littlest monkey is currently sporting a blueberry moustache
• our bigger monkey diligently recorded a list of possible cat matches for her great aunt while perusing the shelter’s website this morning
• E actually looked at the batch of foster dogs coming up on 2/21, + (a bit grudgingly) admitted his “favorite” is Otter:

Give a little bit of yourself…

The new Saturday morning tradition round these parts is answering the question our 6-year-old posed after Haiti’s recent earthquake: “How is our family going to help?“  We found many answers to aid Haiti, then expanded our helping possibilities to the whole big world. 

Now we greet the weekend gathered round the breakfast table, poring over images of situations needing help, of people delivering aid, and of just really neat things for which we are grateful.  This morning, our attention was drawn to this image:

  

The preemie was featured on the Human Milk Banking Association of North America’s website.  HMBANA, a multidisciplinary collection of health care providers, aims to promote, protect, and support donor milk banking.  This is a timely topic, as our local hospital recently launched an initiative to provide donor milk, free of charge, to patients.  Human milk is best for human babies; kudos to those making sure fragile or sick infants needing supplementation have access to easily digested human milk offering the best possible nutrition and immunologic protection. 

How is our family going to help?

While my milk producing days are quickly fading in the rearview mirror, I will promote donor milk banking through my leader role in an area breastfeeding support group.  Our family, with 2 breastfed monkeys, can let the local hospital know we firmly support their initiative to offer donor milk as an alternative to formula supplementation.  We can also make financial contributions in support of the initiative.   

Have been pondering the very personal gift of donor milk, and the thread of selfless love and kindness running through this month (even if it’s born of commercial interest in Valentine’s Day).  As a result, think our clan will focus February’s answers to “how is our family going to help?” on learning more about how people can, quite literally, give of themselves and potentially save lives in the process. 

From donating blood to sharing a kidney, from gifting cordblood to registering as a bone marrow donor, nothing beats the gift of life. 

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• this remix of Elvis’ A Little Less Conversation - cranked it UP on my office PC a few days ago – provided the 180 my afternoon desperately needed
• the animal shelter we hooked up with for fostering is almost entirely volunteer run – week after week people are giving of their time to save these furry beasts - well done.      
• there are lots of other crazies to pick up the slack by jumping in the Atlantic to help Special Olympics tomorrow while I sit snug-as-a-bug in a pew watching G sing in her choir performance (hoping my record of plunging buys me a pass this year, though we will throw some $ to the local team)

Staging Our Curbside Recycling

Occasionally mildly neurotic?  Yep.  Overly concerned by inconsequential matters?  Uh-huh.  Sometimes silly?  Oh yeah.  Moments of nonsensical action?  Guilty.

But willing to own it.  And ready to admit I stage our curbside recycling bin. 

 

The idea first surfaced one day not long after we moved to the city.  I was still delighting in the novelty of someone coming to my house to take away the garbage and recycling.  If one has never lived in the country where one’s own garbage and recycling must be loaded into a vehicle, driven to the next town 25 minutes away, and unloaded at the tri-town transfer station, which is open only the 12 most inconvenient hours of the week, the pure joy of pick-up service is incomprehensible.

So strolling down a nearby street in the city one recycling day,  I began tossing glances into others’ bins.  Hmmm, well that family could benefit from reading Michael Pollan’s What to Eat - look at all the Kraft Mac & Cheese containers.  And the next house, hope they don’t think that Sponge Bob yogurt is terribly healthy.  Across the street, think someone has an addiction to fudgesicles.  And their neighbor must have enjoyed a smashing party – look at all of those high end wine bottles.  Oh, wonder if the guy at the end of the block went on a bender, that’s a LOT of Miller Light cans.

And so it went.  I unfairly passed judgment on the neighborhood based on the contents of their bins, and realized with a jolt they might be doing the same.  And so it began.  

The following Wednesday, any processed food cartons made their way to the bottom of the bin.  Big containers from Stonyfield plain organic yogurt were placed on top.  Breyers ice cream containers to the bottom, organic milk containers to the top.  Trash magazine gifted by a friend to the bottom, NY Times to the top. 

Nutty as it sounds, schlepping the bin out to the curb each week, I invariably gaze inside and wonder what it says about our family.  Aiming for healthy eaters, environmentally conscious, regular entertainers, exciting palate, fun family (with perhaps the slightest whiff of good-naturedly neurotic mumsie).

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• ski day!
• free crate for foster pup.  foster pup is delayed a week – more time to prepare, + figure out how the heck we give it up (photos reflect a ridiculously cute k9 – ugh).          

Beep-beep-beep…grrgrrgrr…crash!boom!bang!

Three years ago we fled 7 quiet country acres for a city house.  The soundtrack of singing birds (with an occasional thwump! as bird met window) and chattering chipmunks was replaced by, well, mostly chattering chipmunks (who apparently find the 8 trees on our itty bitty city lot to be adequate) and an occasional barking dog.  Though we can easily meander pedestrian-style to the heart of downtown, our one-way street is pretty quiet.

Except  on Thursday mornings.  Every Thursday at 5:36 am my peaceful early morning writing oasis is rudely interrupted by: beep-beep-beep-beep…whoosh…grrgrrgrrgrrgrrgrrgrrgrr…crash!boom!bang!…grrgrrgrrgrrgrr…slam…whoosh…squeak. 

Invariably, at the first set of grrgrrgrr, our 3-year-old wakes up in a panic, always with the same question: “Is it trash day?”  The distress emanates from his fear we have forgotten (um, once again) to get our purple bags and green recycling bins to the curb.  There is another story there, perhaps to be shared tomorrow (unless I am the only neurotic one who stages her recycling bin).

 

At 5:37 am, our 3-year-old is reassured when reminded trash day is Wednesday.  Thursday, oh Thursday, is just the day our friendly local accounting firm has their dumpster emptied.  Without fail.  At 5:36 am. 

Orange or green, powered by natural gas or reclaimed cow flatulence, I won't get excited until the day arrives when dumpsters can be emptied with lower noise pollution (or our littlest monkey soundly snores through the 5:36 am weekly show).

Those poor, sad sacks who still live out in the country, their children snoozing through 5:37 am Thursday mornings.  Luckily, there is hope they, too, can experience the exciting reality of city life.  Thanks to technology, to YouTube, and to those folks who enjoy covertly videotaping garbage trucks, the city experience can be enjoyed vicariously for 1 to 6 minutes at a time.

This Superior Pak Pegasus was shot from atop a parking garage (let’s stop here for just a moment to reflect on the name; perhaps someone could talk me through the connection between pegasus and garbage truck, between mythical winged horse and real-life large lumbering stinky truck).  This BFI Garbage Truck was clearly recorded for someone’s truck-loving little guy. 

If you are forced to watch just one video, let me recommend this high quality production starring a driver who hops jauntily from the cab, sporting a fashionable flourescent tee, and deftly manuevers the behemoth dumpster-on-wheels into precise position.  The onscreen action is matched only by the upbeat, fast-moving, get-you-grooving-in-your-chair soundtrack.  My only warning is the gorgeous cinematography glorifies city life, casting dumpster emptying in a golden glow, glossing over the harsh realities.   

Who needs Oscar-nominated filmmaking when YouTube garbage truck videos are where it’s at?

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude: 

• E, who spent years fixing commercial airliners, has finally acquiesced and not only admits to a basic knowledge of dishwasher operations, but is now often spotted firing up a load of dishes.  Even when the trays are half-full and dirty dishes still dot the table, even when he leaves the baking soda and vinegar (our green detergent) out, even when inappropriate items find their way into the dishwasher, I dare not say a word for fear of upsetting the delicate balance between manhood and domesticity.
• C’s ongoing amusing musings from his porcelain perch: “Mommy, did you hear that echo?  I think it’s echo location” and C: “Daddy always tells me to shake after I go potty.”, Me: “Do you know why”?, C: “To make sure all the pee crumbs come out.”
• When responding to a cry of “help!” from the playroom (which usually means the Thomas movie is skipping or a driver is stuck in a toy truck), found our 3-year old.  Oh, how to explain?  First, we have a trapeze-style bar with rings in the playroom.  Second, our 6-year-old earlier tied a ball hop around the trapeze bar (the ball hop is one of those concoctions with a ring connected by rope to a ball - the ring goes around your ankle, ball is spun in circles, and you jump over the rope with the other foot on each rotation).  Third, our 3-year-old apparently thought he should insert his leg into the ball hop’s ring (hanging from the trapeze bar).  Fourth, once up to the knee, he could not get his leg back out.  Fifth, he called “help!”.  Sixth, when I entered the playroom, he was hopping on one leg, the other stuck up in the air.  Grateful for the laugh (he was a-ok), the adventurous nature of our offspring, and the marvelous unpredictability of parenthood. 

I said yes.

Excited.  Terrified.  Anticipating.  Trepidatious.  Curious.  Frightened.

At 5:23 pm yesterday evening I opened an e-mail containing just 2 lines:  We are getting 4 lab mix puppies that are 8 weeks old this weekend.  Would you be interested in fostering one?

Random lab mix puppy pic - no idea if our potential foster pup would be as photogenic.

When our family decided to foster dogs-in-need just 3 days ago, we learned the next batch of dogs arrive on February 22nd.  Nearly a month away.  22 days in which I could learn a thing or two or three about dogs (given my childhood was one of those sad affairs where the most exciting pet meowed). 

Then I opened my e-mail yesterday.  And spent the next 5 1/2 hours waffling, vacillating, and if/then-ing.  When the decision was ceded to more knowledgable friends and new acquaintances at an evening function, they were steadfastly, completely, and entirely contradictory in their advice.

There was the woman who fostered dogs in college, and insisted on bringing me a crate the next day, just in case.  There were the married friends who strongly urged against beginning my dog career with a puppy, a situation they personally know is challenging.  There was the colleague who tells all of her friends considering marriage, parenthood, or dog adoption the same thing: there will never be a perfect time – just do it!  There was the friend was said succinctly “NO!“.

I know nothing about dogs.  Had to ask if an 8-week old puppy would sleep through the night.  Where it should sleep.  How often it would need to go.  And whether we could go anywhere without it.  And if it would eat inappropriate things.

Each question, in turn, led to more questions.  To more unveilings of my pathetically lacking puppy knowledge.  To minor panic attacks as this business of caring for a puppy began to seem more daunting than welcoming home our newborns.  I had no stinking idea how to respond to the e-mail.

Then I just said yes.

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude

• returned home last night to find a 3-year-old spider, partially awake next to his snoozing sister + daddy, who looked up as I stepped through the doorway and uttered “Mom?” in this tone infused with incredulity (marathon work/evening events day) and delight
• the chance to get a window into our monkeys’ dreams, our 6-year-old’s apparently literary in nature this morning, as she muttered still sleeping: “we were just at the bottom of page 1-3″
• 14 years after meeting, 11 years together, I would pick my husband again in a heartbeat

“Stickshifts & Safety Belts”, a cape, + some smiles

In 29 1/2 weeks, I run a 13.1 mile half-marathon.  My Saucony-clad feet will pummel the pavement mile after mile, water station after water station, route marker after route marker, in the hope somehow, in a small way, it matters. 

That our money will matter.  That our commitment will matter.  That watching a sea of wacky grown-ups dressed as superheroes will deliver a smile and a laugh to CHaD’s patients.  That these kids will know, nutty as we look, we’ve got their back.

Last year my sister and I ran the 13.1 miles as a relay team, a mere 6 1/2 miles each.  This year, we go for the whole enchilada.  Last year I finished the race with Cake’s “Stickshifts and Safety Belts” blaring on the iPod.  This year, I cross the finish line with a cape fluttering behind me.

 

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• listening to the amazing Mr. Mark work his magic with the children’s choir
• my sister was able to hang with our monkeys so they didn’t have to sit through my breastfeeding presentation to a group of mums (and one dad) with new babies
• every few days there is just a whiff of spring in the air (but still plenty of snow on the slopes)
• our family is healthy, happy, and able to help those around us              

Pooper scoopers – standby…

Last weekend our 6-year-old and I fell in love.  Twice.  Both times, the objects of our affections were very hairy, had questionable breath, rudimentary manners, and four legs. 

First came Renee: 

 

Followed swiftly by Courtney: 

 

These two gorgeous furry creatures were listed for adoption on the website of an area shelter.  At this point, it might be fitting to note one elder male member of our family had zero interest in acquiring a dog.  Not because he dislikes dogs, not because he has not previously enjoyed owning dogs, but simply because he doesn’t want the added work at a time when our schedules and lives are a bit, well, full. 

Just because I was curious, phoned the shelter yesterday morning to inquire about these four-legged ladies.  One had already been adopted, and the other was in the process of being adopted that moment.  Very happy for the K9’s and their new families, but also a little disappointed and a tad relieved. 

I have been on the fence, slowly moving toward doggie adoption, for a bit now.  There is no fence for our monkeys; they have been firmly in the dog camp since birth. 

Our 6-year-old on one of many, many, many occasions when she hijacked Grammy's dog.

 

Still have a few reservations though, mostly related to travel flexibility.  Our clan had a very reasonable discussion yesterday during which our 6-year-old, as they are wont to do, promised she and her 3-year-old brother would do EVERYTHING for the dog.  The 3-year-old had decided which poop scooping device he would purchase at Petco (being a total lover of all things gadgety, he had previously perused the fascinating fecal retrieval options). 

Serving in the role of (not-quite-impartial) moderator, I watched with fascination as my husband’s resolve began, very slowly, to waver.  When our daughter mentioned the possibility of fostering for a bit to ”try on” dog ownership, he was okay with that.  I was pretty darn surprised.  And immediately hopped online to fill out the foster application.  And quickly responded to the follow-up inquiry from the foster coordinator.  And booked us for a visit to the shelter next week.  And it seems we will have a new four-legged furry foster friend by month’s end. 

In our role as a foster family, we will mostly welcome dogs from southern shelters.  These facilities are lacking capacity and resources to accommodate all of the dogs in need, and those we welcome would have been in danger of being euthanized.  With that in mind, can easily get onboard with saving some doggie lives.  

Each furry foster friend will hang out with us for about 1-6 weeks; new dogs arrive from the southern shelters at minimum monthly.  We get to meet the potential adopting families; unsure if this will make it more or less difficult to hand over our doggie pals.  

This is going to be one heck of an adventure.  We are all pretty darn excited to begin the ride. 

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude: 

• my 14 preschool/kindergarten-age charges were an absolute delight during Sunday School
• our 6-year-old perched atop the playroom climbing wall, with a retractable cat leash attached to her pants (other end hanging from a hook on the ceiling), practicing for her Bindi the Jungle Girl/Wild Thornberrys-inspired television show
• our 3-year-old’s belly laugh-inducing musings from his toilet perch each morning
• it’s 0830 and tonight’s dinner is done (technically in the crock pot/stove/stove top)