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.