Barnmaven

Its just what I do

S asked me the other day why it is that I like having so many animals.

I had a really hard time answering that question.

They certainly complicate life, and fostering (especially fostering highly energetic puppies) makes even the standard daily routine a lot more difficult.  Its not as if I don't have enough on my plate to begin with.

 

I've always loved animals.  We had a dog growing up, a german shephard mix my folks adopted from the Humane Society.   Queenie was a big furry baby sitter to me.  When the big kids were playing too rough, she would pen me in the corner of the yard and not let me out, despite my rather vigorous protests.  If my mom's hands were full with groceries, she would herd me from the car to the porch to the slider door.  She tolerated my attempts to treat her like a horse without ever once losing her temper.  She was my father's dog, loving him the best of all, but she was my other mother.  She was always there, for 15 years, and I can still feel the tug on my heart when I think of how much I miss her. 

When we moved from the city to the country, my parents set the bar for me when it comes to farm life.  We went from being a one-dog city family to a one dog, three cat, five duck, one (and at times two) horse, ten chicken and occasionally a donkey and a steer or two country family.

Rescue and having a large contingent of animals was never something I planned to do, but for whatever reason they just kept showing up.  With one exception, all of the animals who found their way into my life were either strays, adopted from a shelter, or adopted through a rescue.  Its not that I need to have them all - its that I can, and that the need on their part is so great. Each and every one of them is an individual, with unique personality and traits.  Hercules wiggles, Roscoe can be counted on to tolerate the loving abuse of children with equanimity, Juliet rules the house like the little princess she is. 

 

T-Bone, his job is just to follow me and make sure I don't get lost.

I see no reason why people should be irresponsible with the lives of animals.  With dominion comes great responsibility, and it is my fixed opinion that a great number of people have been terribly lacking in their duty to properly care for our planet and the animals who inhabit it.  The best leaders are the people who understand that leadership is not power at all, but a terrible burden.  In the same way, being at the top of the food chain doesn't mean that we ought to be sitting on our front porch having target practice with the neighborhood squirrels or killing animals simply for a trophy set of horns.  We are stewards, and we ought to be mindful of that.  I'm not against hunting and I'm not against eating meat.  What I'm against is the irresponsible decimation of animals for no other reason than sport.  Killing for the sake of killing.

We have, over thousands of years, formed a partnership with dogs and with cats.  We have bred them to be loyal, loving members of our household.  All recognized breeds have a purpose for which they were created, and there are a number of breeds whose only job was to be human companions.

I've seen dogs treated horribly by people, abused, neglected, starved.   They come in to rescue with no reason whatsoever to retain any loyalty to the human race and still they trust us to care for them.  Back in New Jersey we'd get dogs surrendered by the puppy mills in Pennsylvania (there are Amish farmers in PA who use those great big barns as breeding facilities) who had never in their life been out of a crate.  They'd never been OUTSIDE.  Or seen a vet.  Or played with a toy.  Elderly dogs, sick, taken to shelters by owners who couldn't be bothered to care for them in the last days of their life.  Abandoned dogs, starving, barely alive.

I've never been able to see an animal or a child suffer abuse without feeling all the way into the center of my being that I should do something about it.  Now, my therapist has told me that is an emotion I should be on the watch for, as it apparently connotates something unhealthy.  Frankly, I beg to differ.

My mom said in passing a while back, "You know, you really need more acreage for all these animals."  Then she looked at me and laughed and said, "I take it back.  If you had more room you'd just have more animals."  She's right.  I'd run a horse rescue in a heartbeat if I had the acreage and resources.

While browsing one of my favorite horse blogs, I clicked on a link that led me to this story.  I'll warn you that if you click through, you'll see some graphic photos of a horse that was terribly abused and near death.  The person who responded to the craigs list ad for her realized how poor her condition was and convinced the owner to let him take her away for a decent burial.  She couldn't even stand up, and had to be loaded onto his trailer by being carried on a plywood board.

Miracle's story has a happy ending, she has made a remarkable recovery and just last week made the trip to her new adoptive home.  Sadly, for many animals who are abused or neglected, there IS no happy ending.  The people who volunteer for the rescues, who donate food and supplies, who foster, who give us air time and feature our adoptable animals on the news or who write articles about us in the paper, they are the ones standing in the gap. 

I stand with them.  I can't explain to you why - nor should I have to.  Its just something I do.

Qualities that count

When envisioning the type of person I thought would make a perfect caregiver for my kids, there were many obvious criteria.  After checking off "breathing" and "possibly hard of hearing" (helpful for saving ones' sanity in this house), there were several attributes I knew I wanted but was not sure I could find.

I wanted someone who had experience in dealing with kids like mine.  Its hard to put together an ad for a babysitter when you need someone with the patience of Job.  Its not all the time, but when your child has a sudden anxiety attack that makes him start trying to put his fingernails through his eyelids, patience is a big thing.  And I knew full well that when I wrote the terms "ADHD" and "Bipolar" in my ad, I was going to scare away pretty much everyone who might be looking for a part time childcare job.

I wanted someone who either likes big, scary dogs, or at least doesn't mind them, because if they're not comfortable with this:

 (I know, scary, right?)

...then they'd probably quit after the first five minutes.

And really after "Patience of Job" and "Must Love Dogs," there's not that much more to it.  Its not brain surgery, loving my kids.  It just takes the right kind of person.

 

I think I found her.

 

Shhhhhhhh, don't jinx it.

 

I'm not saying any more than this because, you know I was so excited about the last one and we all know how well THAT went.  Suffice it to say, I can check "finding a babysitter" off the to-do list for this week.  God, mysterious as ever, sends blessings in the midst of life-quakes, as if to remind me that I'm not alone in this crazy thing.

So.

The conversation with the school went as well as can be expected.  Not great, but not bad.

I spoke with the principal about my frustration over the lack of communication.  I reiterated the importance of structure and of easing into change. She agreed I had a right to be upset.  We checked with the secretaries to see if anyone had confirmed the transportation department had the correct information.  No.  Of course not.  I guess I was expecting the school to understand that anxiety disorder is a real, actual problem.  That while I am doing my best to appear reasonable and not make enemies at my kids' school, they are really dealing with a pissed off parent.

I left with assurances that

a) The transportation department would be called

b) Any changes in classroom or teacher (which are expected in about a month) would be explained to me well beforehand so that I could have an opportunity to prepare my son

c) Any issues noted at school with my son's behavior or learning abilities would be communicatd to me promptly

I'm still not feeling satisfied, but I didn't yell at anyone ( I may have raised my voice a teensy little bit ) and even if the school doesn't follow through on everything I have asked, at least they are reminded once again that I am paying attention.

It seems at times that the school doesn't want to do more than they absolutely have to.  I don't blame them, they are understaffed and under-resourced.  That's not going to prevent me from seeking the best possible care for my children while they are attending classes there.

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Anxiety Disorder in children, like a lot of pediatric issues, doesn't look exactly like it does in adults.

When C is feeling anxious, he stops making eye contact.  He will have frequent tantrums and will have daily incidents where his sensory issues go off the charts.  For instance, this might involve him slapping himself in the head repeatedly and screaming that his "hair is falling down" or his eyes are "bothering me!"  He had a scab on his head that didn't heal for more than a year because he wouldn't stop picking at it constantly.  His frustration tolerance is nonexistent.  If a toy doesn't do what he wants it to or if it doesn't "look" right, he will scream and throw it.  We've had a lot of really good toys broken that way, so I tend to look for things that aren't breakable any more.

Sometimes I wish that my kids' educators could spend a week, or even an hour in my shoes.  That they could have been trapped in the car with me and my screaming child yesterday.  Maybe then they would take him and me more seriously.  Maybe then they would listen, REALLY listen when I talk about his needs and the best ways that we, his parents and his teachers, can meet them together, ways that we can help him be successful.

I respect our schools, our teachers and our administrative staff.  I think they have a really hard job to do and they do the best they can with limited resources.  But I also think this makes it easier for them to lump me into the "obnoxious parent" category without paying real attention to what I'm trying to convey.  Sometimes I feel like they think I'm making things up just so I can get better services or something.  Maybe that's just my own insecurity talking, I don't know.  But for once I'd like to get the feeling that the listening I'm getting isn't just reflective.

----

The dogs got their paws on the hoodie my mom bought my daughter for school.  Apparently it was used in a tug of war, as I found it on the living room floor, with a sleeve ripped off.  Oh, the tears.  Fortunately they still had it at Sears.  I looked at the price tag - $34.00.  Ugh.  Oh, the tears.

 

Nobody's Perfect

Mr. T has been with us for a couple of weeks now.  He has meshed effortlessly with the rhythm of my household and considering that he's still a teenager in dog years, I have high expectations for him after he passes the three-year mark and enters adulthood. 

All of the animals here are special to me in their own ways, each one of them is loved and appreciated for the individuals that they are.  Some of them stand out, naturally.  Mr. T will has an innate dignity and wisdom that are apparent despite his youthful exuberance.  He'll be a fine ambassador for his species.   People who don't even like dogs will meet Mr. T and think about getting a dog.  He will be the worlds most trustworthy babysitter.  He will be the dog I can temperament test my future fosters with, after Hercules retires.

Now that he's been here some time, though, I've managed to identify a few things about his personality that prove he's not a perfect dog, although none of these are bad enough to make me reconsider him living here.

1.  CATS.  Generally, T-Bone is good with the felines.  AS LONG AS THEY ARE SITTING STILL.  A cat in repose holds no interest for him whatsoever.  He ignores them, or gives them a friendly sniff.  But let that cat appear to be running away from him, and suddenly he's all, "HEY!!!!  HE WANTS ME TO CHASE HIM!!!!"  And that he does.  He seems to have an internal radar for it, too.  He'll be sitting there, half asleep or fully asleep.  One cat will walk through the room and he doesn't so much as twitch an ear.  But let Tucker or Mikey come dashing through and suddenly we've got the Charge of the Light Brigade on our hands.  He goes from fully asleep to rampaging after the offending kitty in one flat second.  He doesn't hurt them, hasn't tried to bite them.  He just wants to chase them, and the harder they hide from him the bigger his desire to catch them.  As you can imagine, the cats are not appreciating this in the least.  Juliet is the one cat he's pretty much given up on.  Her badass attitude is such that she doesn't appreciate being chased.  Everytime he's gone after her she's turned on him and reminded him that kitties are sharp.  I have to give it to him, he's a relatively fast learner.

2.  Tennis balls.  I keep lots of dog toys around, and one thing I've got to say to the credit of Mr. T, he is the first dog I've ever had who has ONLY gravitated toward the toys he's supposed to chew on.  The kids love him to death for the simple fact that he has left their toys completely alone.  While its wonderful that the Hot Wheels and the Barbies will have a longer lifespan with Teeney in the house, I'm not a big fan of his favorite game:  Slime the Tennis Ball.  Mr. T LOVES tennis balls.  He loves to have them thrown so he can fetch them.  Instead of bringing them back to you right away, he holds them in the back of his mouth and slobbers all over them, chewing vigorously.  Not enough to puncture them, of course, just enough to really work in the saliva.  Once they've reached the appropriate level of frothy squishiness, than and ONLY then does he bring them back to you to be thrown again.  And again.  And again. He likes to drop the goo-coated object right in your lap, or on your foot if your lap is inconveniently covered by a desk or table or you're standing up.  As its summer and my attire at home consists mostly of shorts and flip flops, I'm constantly being splattedwith slimeballs.  He's chewing on one right now.  It should be landing on my bare foot any moment.  I can't wait.

3.  Bed space.  Yes, he's a BIG dog.  And I let my dogs sleep on the bed with me.  Roscoe and Hercules, even though they are sizable dogs, around 60+ pounds apiece, somehow they manage to curl up into compact versions of themselves when they sleep.  Roscoe gets so small when he's sleeping that I hardly know he's there (until he stretches his head out and licks my nose to let me know he wants me to wake up, that is).  Hercules usually sleeps at the foot of the opposite side of the bed, while Roscoe sleeps up next to me with his head on a pillow.  I figure that leaves the entire middle of the other side for the big guy - except apparently T-bone likes to STRETCH OUT when sleeping.  I know with his size its probably not easy to sleep small, but for crying out loud, I sleep in less space than that behemoth.

Its a short list, to be sure.  And really, no dog is perfect.  Mostly I find Mr. T's "faults" only endear him to me more.  I suppose that's the way it is when you really love someone or something.  Those quirky things that make them unique are all part of the charm.

I have to go now.   SOMEONE is demanding I throw their saliva-choked tennis ball.  Ugh.