woof

My dog is the same color as my couch. There is a rule in the dog world (don't worry, I didn't know this either) that you own any piece of furniture that you match. The upshot of this is that, though she knows she is not supposed to be on it, she spends a large portion of each day--while I am at work, working, working hard--stretched out in doggy bliss on my beloved couch. I know this because when I come home at the end of the day she has rearranged the cushions in a more dog-friendly fashion, pulled the slipcover all to hell, and left a Doberman-head-sized imprint on the pillow. I also know this because my beloved off-white couch is now more of a dirty yellow-grey. I also know this because she gives me a baleful glare whenever I dare to sit down.

Somehow I have managed to incorporate this, too, into my life, along with the dog gate in the bedroom doorway and the hours of walking and the MIA cats. It is amazing what you can adapt to when you have convinced yourself that you are doing something noble, or when you realize that you have made an irrevocable choice and can't go back.

I always thought that when I had a dog, if I had a dog--a prospect that seemed to dim significantly when I fell into obsession with my cats--it would be a shepherd or a shepherd mix. A male, obedient, well-behaved, beautifully colored and just a bit shaggy. He would walk to heel even off-leash, respond to the slightest command, but be comfortable on his own and good with other dogs. I did not expect this, this sleek pale cancer-ridden female with her eyes that glow red in the dark and her sunburned nose and her stomach stretched from years of puppy-milling. She knows nothing, barely more than "sit," and pulls hard at the leash. Dogging my heels every minute, she hates being left alone and loves, loves, loves me and hates, hates, hates meeting new dogs. And, of late, the whole "bathroom outside" issue has come into question.

I thought I was prepared for this, but every day brings a new challenge. It does not get easier. It gets more complicated. One hurdle cleared, two more appear. Adjusts to cats, pees on the floor, gets a stomach bug (?). Find a toy she will actually chew, she gets into the trash when we're gone.

The scariest thing is that I don't know when to worry. I don't know dogs well enough to know what is normal and what might be the cancer, sneaking in, taking over. Do any of us really know cancer symptoms? If we did, the survival rate would be so much higher. So is our poop-smeared patio a victim of worms, something she found in the trash, something much more sinister? Do I spend $50 to ask the vet each and every time she acts erratically? Or just let it go until it is bad enough to do what we know will need to be done, inevitably, sometime but we don't know when?

I always have buyers' remorse, with everything I do--the job, the house, the animals, college, new jeans. Whenever I make a choice, I mourn the lost chances, the possibilities the other choice presented. It is a curse, maybe sometimes a blessing. I have to keep thinking I did the right thing, bringing this girl into our home for the time she has left, however long that is. I have to keep thinking she's happy, it's worth it, she's better off than the alternative. Otherwise it makes the early morning walks, the uncleaned bathrooms, the utter grossness of my backyard...well, an exercise in something resembling futility. And I hate futility.

Also, I do not know how to clean up my own yard. Which is a shame, because I need to water the plants.

"you just gotta keep livin, man, l-i-v-i-n."

Eleanor and I were talking yesterday about work, and life, and careers and changes and all of that. She and I came to the agreement--it was so refreshing to find someone who agrees with me on this!--that you spend too much time at work, too many hours, too much effort, to not love it. To not enjoy it. Or at least to not find it meaningful or important in some way.

I have always felt this way, but it was a sneaky dirty secret in the back of my mind, a shameful suspicion that I was different somehow. I would always pretend that things were great, I loved my work, I was so glad I went to grad school and got to do this FOREVER until I died. Then, when I was comfortable with someone, when I felt safe, I might tentatively foray into the truth. In a tiny little voice: I hate my job. And always, without fail, one hundred percent of the time I heard "Nobody likes their job. That's why they call it "work." " For a very long time I felt that I was the one person in the world destined to be unhappy, that there was something wrong with me, that I couldn't fit into the real world and the way you were supposed to be and that I would never be a fully functional adult. But I wasn't just mildly annoyed by my job. I wasn't just a little nostalgic for the days that I managed my own time and had free time during the day and sometimes got to see the sunlight. I felt caged, restless; I was trapped behind a desk and in a routine and the world was going on without me and as long as I was working I would never, ever get to know what a spring afternoon in DC smelled like or lay on my couch with the windows open late into a summer evening and not have to worry about mentally preparing for the next day of torturous empty mind-numbing work or sleep late on a weekday and go to the grocery store when it wasn't crowded.

I carefully broached the subject with a few close friends, wondering if it is possible that I just wasn't cut out for the 9 to 5. The general consensus was that the 9 to 5 world sucks, but you learn to deal with it. Sure, we'd all be happier not working, but such is life. Bills need to be paid. I still couldn't shake the suspicion that this went beyond growing pains, beyond not wanting to work; that the yearning for sunlight and flexibility, the desire for challenge and variety and meaning in my work went beyond just a little boredom with office life and that maybe just maybe there were people who weren't cut out for desk jobs, weren't right for the part, needed to find something a little different.

As it turns out, I was right. Eleanor and I were discussing this, as I mentioned, and we were talking it over early in a warm spring evening as we drove up to Ellicott City with a Bullmastiff named Lexie in the backseat. The sleeve of my shirt was damp with Lexie's enthusiastic drool and the sun hit the top of our heads and we listened to music and gossiped about work and talked about animals and their welfare and ways to do better in our jobs. We were checking out a dog rescue group that we want to start working with and they offered to take this dog and yes, I got home a little late and yes, traffic was a bitch but when I saw that gorgeous dog stretch her legs out and bound through her new yard I laughed, and I thought "I don't know why they call this work."

Sometimes I work through the weekend. Sometimes I miss things like bridal showers and parties and sleeping late, things I would like to do but can't because I have to work. And there are late nights and hard decisions and it is work, people, every day with the decisions and the critical thinking and the difficult conversations and the tricky interactions with the public and the constant struggle between non-profit resources and ambitions. But I get to be outside sometimes during the day, and I get to play fetch with dogs, and I get to do weird and crazy things like get interrupted from my tedious computer work to go help evaluate a dog's behavior or figure out how to get a half-wild cat out of a cage. And I have days off during the week and I can run errands or watch daytime TV or do anything I want. Now that I don't need two hours to mentally prepare for the next day my evenings are so much freer, I can go to Lowes or do laundry or hang out with friends and my time is my own, I'm living the whole day now and not just waiting for the weekends. This job that demands so much more of my time has given me so much more time to live.

I was not cut out for the 9-5. I wish I had honored that thought earlier, wish I had not doubted myself and listened to others for so long. I am so much more alive now. But I am glad that I figured it out, that I took this chance. In looking back, I realized now that I should have known years ago, when I seemed to be the only person in any office I was in that couldn't understand the basic fundamentals of the business-casual environment. The ingredients were so simple: black pants, cardigans, blouses, polo shirts in neutrals, flats and boots in black and brown. Perhaps a belt or two. I had all of these ingredients; why was I never able to pull it together? Fifty million lint rollers in my house, and from the knee down every pair of black pants I owned were covered in cat hair. Nobody else seemed to have this problem--I know, I looked. Right then, it should have occurred to me to find a job in which heavy-duty navy blue police-issued cargo pants were standard attire.

It is Friday night. I work tomorrow. I can't wait to get there.

on a brighter note

I have become comfortable enough in my new job to start feeling feisty.

On Sunday we packed off a group of hamsters to a rescue group. I don't know much about hamsters, just enough to know that they are little and furry and that we don't adopt them out; we give them to rescue groups. I give the groups as much information as possible based on the information that is given to me, and they come and get them and adopt them out or keep them or erect shrines to them or whatever it is they do.

Today I got an email from said rescue group. It said,

"Kate,
I just wanted to let you know that one of the hamsters was pregnant and went into labor this evening. Also, there was a male in with a female. I just wanted to let you know so you could take steps to prevent this. Thanks!"

First, I'd like to note that I'm not responsible for caging the critters or determining their sex or pregnancy status. But soon I will be, so I forwarded the email to my boss and the shelter director with the following addendum:

"Oops. I guess the first thing I should learn is how to sex hamsters. I guess at least we're giving them more bang for their buck. However, I suppose a little less bang would have prevented this from happening in the first place."

Does anyone know how long hamsters gestate for?

stress relief

So there is all kinds of crap going on.

Moving is stressful. Living with piles of boxes and trying to figure out how we will get the couch into the new house and wondering when I will have a day off to unpack...well, it is hard for me. The idea of entering into a situation where everything is not EXACTLY where it belongs really screws with my OCD.

Starting a new job is stressful. Even though I am awesome and smart and learn quickly and am very much enjoying myself, it is a hard job and it is taking its toll on me, more so than the usual "I don't know anyone's name or, even, where the bathroom is" new-job phase does.

There are other things kind of stressing me out, too, things that I think about a lot but are not anyone's business but the people to whom they belong, so we will acknowledge the stress and then we will move on.

So I will tell you a story.

There is a beautiful six-year old German Shepherd mix in the shelter, with one floppy ear and one perky ear, and he is timid and scared and a little goofy because I don't think he ever got out much. But he's kind and gentle and sweet and I love him, and I stop and say hello to him when I walk down the kennel, and I noticed that recently he has been kind of loud. All the time. Constantly. I stop and say "hello doggie, how are you today FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOULD YOU PLEASE SHUT UP" and then my ears start to ring and I run back to my office where it is quiet and sane and only the rooster crowing or the hens clucking disturb my work.

He went to an adoption event on Sunday, and as the volunteer walked him out to the van I noticed that he IMMEDIATELY stopped to relieve himself. Which made me think "oh yay, he's housebroken!" But today, with the barking and the nonstop noise and the barking and oh my god the barking, I started to think, wait, he's housebroken. So housebroken, perhaps, that he won't even use the outside part of the kennel. And maybe he's trying to tell us that he needs to go out. Like, NOW. So I grabbed a leash and walked to his run and there he was, barking and jumping and barking some more. I took him out, and he bolted for the field, and immediately began to relieve himself all over the place. I mean, all over the place, like, seven different times. And he looked at me, and he looked so grateful and relieved and happy that I puffed up with pride and self-importance. I was so proud of myself for taking time out of my day to help this dog feel better, for stepping away from my desk and doing something that's not necessarily in my job description, for going above and beyond and oh, wait.

Because it had just occurred to me that, now that the contents of his stomach were deposited all over the dog field, somebody had to clean it up. And that somebody was, yeah, the recent yuppie Banana-wearing desk-jockeying metro-riding new girl, aka me.

I looked at the dog, the field, the dog. He looked back at me, ear flopped, eyes curious. I sighed, picked up a baggie, stretched out my hand. Gagged a little. Seven different places, for the love of god. I did what I had to do. Returned him to his run. He flopped over on his bed, happy, sleepy, and thank god, quiet.

This, I think, is why I have cats.

with everything going on, i have nothing to say

I warned you the blogging would suffer.

It's a very different thing, my new job. Instead of getting all of my work done by noon and sitting aimlessly at my computer searching for jobs and occasionally throwing in a blog entry to kill time, I'm actually so busy the day flies by and sometimes I forget to eat lunch.

My coping mechanisms are taking a beating. I haven't sat in on a euthanasia, yet, but a few animals to whom I felt a personal connection have been put down and that's hard, it's sad, it bothers me but it also bothers me that it doesn't bother me as much as I feel like it should. If that makes sense. What is starting to get to me is that it seems like every time I go up to the front desk to make a copy or put something away, someone's up there giving up their animal. "She bit me." "He smells bad." "There's nobody to take care of it." I don't interact with these people; it's partly not my job but it's also partly that I can't trust myself not to judge them, scorn them, scowl at them. And I'm not sure at all how I'm going to cope with possibly years of seeing it day in and day out, how it will affect my impression of people, how I will stop myself from assuming the worst in everyone off the bat, guilty until proven worthy. Today I walked past the front desk and there was a dog, a little white terrier, cowering sick and dirty and scared and shivering in a ratty cardboard box, its sunken eyes rolling and the stench of neglect and despair filling the room, and I kept walking, eyes averted, suddenly very busy. And I felt awful--I should have stopped, stroked its head, spoken softly, given it a moment of comfort before its inevitable end. That's the point, that's why I'm there, that's why I took the pay cut and make the commute and let my life get eaten up by this job: to provide what comfort I can, to make an animal's life just a little better in some small way. But I didn't.

Meanwhile, I bought a house. This is insanity, really. My absentee landlord has decided to sell our current abode and now I have to figure out how to convince him that he shouldn't sell it until after we're gone because I cannot fathom how I will make this place presentable while I am trying to move out of it.

And all I can think about is my complete inadequacy in what has never seemed an imporant facet of adulthood but now looms dramatically in my future: decorating. My new house (!!!) has hardwood floors in the main level and I feel strongly that there should be, like, rugs but I have no idea how, or where, one goes about purchasing rugs. What colors do I pick? Are there superior and inferior fabrics? Is there math involved?

It is a very good thing that February sweeps are over with because I can't do all of these things while there is good TV on.

Two Things

First, Mr. Important YuppieMan on the Metro, men should not carry purses. If they chose to carry bags, they should be of the structured and manly macho variety, not the crocheted slouchy variety.

If men such as yourself choose to cary slouchy feminine manbags, they should not compensate for their choices by manfully plopping said bag directly in the middle of the floor on a crowded metro train in the middle of morning rush hour in an attempt to prove their masculine right to space. Because if you do, you lose all right to surprise when I kick aside your masculine manful gesture in my feminine womanly attempt to get off the train at my stop.

And the second thing: I possibly have failed at my new job before I even start. Some lovely nice people came to meet our foster cat this weekend, and were approved for adoption, and in my overeager attempt to give them a thorough picture of the good and bad characteristics of this particular cat, I may have terrified them and made them question their choice to even adopt an animal at all, ever. So, yeah. That's confidence-building.

If Eleanor still reads my blog, she is going to be very dissapointed in me.

i'm going to have to do so much more laundry now

This morning I woke up with the oddest feeling in my right arm. Really, the lack of feeling. Except it wasn't numb; it was heavy, it was tingly, and I had absolutely no control over its movement. Sitting up in panic, I watched it flop into my lap and my heart started racing as I poked and pinched it, wondering how I would make it through the next 60-some years with no right arm. I couldn't lift my arm. I couldn't move my fingers. It was terrifying and yet fascinating and all sorts of things were pounding through my sleep-blurred mind for the few minutes until I fully awakened and the blood flow, and feeling, returned to my arm.

I also had a powerful leg cramp in my left calf--the kind where you're not sure whether to flex or relax the leg, bend or straighten, but it's so painful you're not sure you'll ever recover. And I've got an odd stabbing pain in my right shoulder this morning.

My body is either releasing all the stress and anxiety of the last several months, or gearing up for more. Yesterday I quit my job and accepted a position as adoptions coordinator at a prominent DC-area humane society. I use "humane society" rather than "animal shelter" in order to emphasize the services and programs offered by the organization, in order to reinforce the idea of the humane society as an education and welfare organization and not just a dog pound. Because I will be doing so much more than just helping people pick animals--I'll be participating in humane education, working with volunteers, writing, doing outreach, counseling, training, helping make tough decisions, increasing visibility and understanding.

I am terrified.

And so excited.

I told Joe that this is either the bravest thing I've ever done, or the stupidest. He pointed out that "brave" is what people say when they're too polite to say "stupid." We also considered that "brave" is what people say when something works; "stupid" is what they say when it fails.

I always read about people who "left a promising career in finance" to go non-profit or "walked away from a career in law" to open a yarn store. I never thought I would be a person who "walked away" from something. But I am, at least for now, walking away from the only thing I've ever really done, walking away from my training and experience and background and trying to apply that to something entirely different. It's alarming. And it's exactly the right thing for me to do.

I'm still not ready to write about what it was like to quit yesterday--it was a lot sadder than I expected it to be. But for the next two weeks I will be taking leftover vacation, tying up lose ends, breaking the news, and training my replacement. I'll also be trying to figure out what kind of shoes are best for all-day wear in an animal shelter. Any suggestions?

Oh, and once more, I QUIT MY JOB. I GOT A NEW ONE. I COMPLETED A NEW YEARS RESOLUTION.

What am I going to whine about now?

knit 1, purl 2, kn...aw, hell

Today I was going to post a picture of my first six inches of real knitting. The first six inches of a scarf, in fact, purple with a lighter purple stripe and I actually had the stripe.

These six inches of wool represent three solid days of staring until I am cross-eyed, of trying and unravelling and trying and unravelling and looking at books and buying different needles and trying again.

Despite my luxurious new sheets (Overstock was having a sale) and my soft warm blanket and the fact that my bed is now a cocoon of heavenly refuge against the bitter bitter cold gray winter, I have stayed up late, til all hours, knitting and knitting and unravelling and knitting and knitting.

Last night, as I listened to Studio 60 and stared intensely at my needles, Callie, frustrated and furious with the loss of her rightful place in my lap and fed up with the tantalizing twitch, twitch of the yarn, leapt up onto the couch and tore into my skein of purple yarn, pulling and biting at the thread that ran up to my scarf work. A scuffle ensued, and when I finally removed her claws from my thigh and surveyed the damage, I realized that my knit work was so tangled, pulled out of shape, with loops slipped out and yarn too tight, that it was beyond my almost non-existent repair skills.

I spent the rest of the night unravelling my scarf, leaving me with roughly NO completed knitting to show for three straight days of practice, and wondering why on earth I took up a hobby so clearly incompatible with my family reponsibilities (i.e., sole source of feline entertainment).