And who must hate me.

The weekend was great.  We hiked along the Hudson River, we pet her neighbor’s goats.  We watched as one of the nine remaining  Araucana hens her landlord keeps laid an egg. (Coyotes had gotten to nearly 40 chickens this fall, leaving only the nine survivors, fighters all. ) The kids bounced on the trampoline in the backyard with their cousins.  We went to a farm stand, had pie.  At night, the only sound was the waterfall outside my window, and the wind, rustling through what was left of the leaves.

City girl that I am, I found myself thinking that my sister was right to leave the hustle, bustle, stench and crowds of the city. Who needs to worry about what you wear to walk the dog? Or whether or not your neighbor can hear you screech at your children to turn off the computer?  Who wants to worry about bedbugs and botox when you can worry about ticks and Timberland jackets? All I need, I thought, is a lovely old farmhouse with a fire burning in the living room, a pie baking in the oven, and an omelet only an arms reach away in the neighboring barn.  Maybe, I thought, it’s time for me to pull a Green Acres and head out to the farm, where life is simple, where skies are blue, where no one urinates on your stoop.

And then my dog killed a chicken.

Imagine, if you will, the perfect Arcadian wonderland: trees laden with red and gold leaves, a waterfall flowing noisily into a bubbling river, and a few regal hens, pecking around the compost heap which no doubt will yield mulch for an organic farm where they will use it to grow heirloom vegetables. Which they will feed  to inner city youth deprived of decent produce in their overpriced supermarkets. Who will then not turn to drugs, but instead to rutabagas, and all will be right with the world.

Then imagine pure inbred animal rage, the instinctive attack.  The shocked screech of fear.  A battle of the beasts.  My fifteen pound Yorkie mix against….a chicken.

I had opened the front door to start loading up the car when suddenly, in a streak of straggly fur, Bentley tore out of the house and went straight for the chickens. I am used to the sound of sirens.  I am used to the sound of screaming drunks coming home from a night on the town.  I am used to the screech of subway cars as they pull into the station, the rants of crazy preachers on subway cars, the banging of NYC Sanitation workers at 7:15 on the only morning of the week that my children have slept past 7am in months.

I am not used to the sound of a chicken fighting for its life.

I ran to the flurry of fur and feathers.  I screamed at my dog to stop, to stay, to sit, to down, to do anything other than what he was doing. Every time I reached for him he’d slip out of my none-too-coordinated hands (writing yes. hand-eye — not so much)  And all the while the chicken squawked a terrified squawk, until at last, panting, I pulled what I had always thought of as my sweet little puppy off the battered chicken, who lay on the ground like Lyndsey Lohan after a rough night out.

Bad enough that my fifteen pound dog – the kind of dog who wears a yellow rain slicker on bad weather days –  had managed to kill a chicken that had survived multiple attacks by vicious, wild coyotes,  worse, he had not really killed the chicken, only left it half dead, moaning, unable to move. (see Lyndsey Lohan, above)

Someone was going to have to put the chicken out of her misery.

I went inside to talk to my sister.

“Bentley attacked a chicken.  But it’s not dead. We have to kill it.  We can’t just leave it like that.  It’s in pain.”

“How do you kill a chicken?” we all wondered. Cooking a chicken I can do.  Killing a chicken?  Not my forte.

We all walked outside to the scene of the crime. It occurred to me that I hadn’t just lost a chicken, I’d lost a dozen free farm fresh eggs!   I mean, when your dog kills the neighbor’s chicken, you can’t exactly take that chicken’s eggs.  Great.  I’d have to kill a chicken, and give back the eggs.  Life in the country didn’t seem so Arcadian any more.

But when we got there, the chicken was gone. I don’t know anything about chickens….do they go off somewhere to die?  Do they stagger their way to a favorite nesting place as a final resting place?  Or had a coyote already gotten to the fresh-killed bird?   The dog now safely locked in the car, we scurried up the hill to the chicken coop to see if we would find it there.

And there she was.  Still making disapproving clucks, but pecking around the barn like all the other chickens. She was clearly pissed off; if I understood chicken I probably would have heard things like “So I escaped those hormone shots for this?”  or “Hey city girl, here’s a tidbit: terriers kill birds. Newflash!” Or simply “Get a leash!”

I saw no blood, no visibly ruffled feathers.  And  I couldn’t get back to the city fast enough. Because I figured, my dog was trying to tell me something.  In NY, we already have it all: a fire burning somewhere at all times (I hear the sirens), a pie baking in someone else’s  commercial oven so I can buy a pie, and not have to clean up after baking one myself , and an omelet, only an arms reach away.

Hey, the chicken was alive, wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t I have taken the eggs?

After a dinner of omelets and toast,  I went to bed, lulled to sleep by the sound of sirens, honking horns, and drunken sports fans. And as I dozed off I thought – in this dog-eat-chicken world, it’s nice to know there are still some good eggs around.

Claim: ZTR5A4THKWDK

Want more gory details of life with a dog in NYC? Read on.

1. The Infant Feeding Mom – Every morning, this mom shows up with her infant in a stroller.  She then proceeds to take out several jars of baby food, (non-organic, I might add!) and spread them out on the bench so she can feed her exactly-at -the-right-level-for-dogs-to-sniff-her baby and eat her baby’s food.  Except when the dogs do sniff the baby, and do go after the food she goes ballistic.
“Your dog! Your dog!”
Well, yes.  IT”S A DOG RUN, LADY!
How ‘about this? Feed the baby on the bench OUTSIDE the dog run, and then come in?
Brilliant. I know. You’re welcome.

2. The My Dog Doesn’t Like Anybody People – I say people, because there are SOOOOO many of them. What’s up with that? Just yesterday, an Irish Setter almost set off a doggie riot when he got into it with a pair of yellow labs.  Yes, yellow labs.  They don’t get into it with anybody.
To be fair to the owner (not that I have to be fair, it’s my blog) she got him and took him out right away. But this is a dog who is ALWAYS getting into it.
“Is your dog a puppy? He doesn’t like puppies.”
“Is your dog a male? He doesn’t like other males.”
“Is your dog four-legged? He doesn’t like…   Well, you get the picture.
Face it, lady, your dog doesn’t like other dogs.  And guess what?  Maybe – just maybe – it’s not like I’m a professional dog trainer here – but maybe that means that perhaps the dog run isn’t your best bet?  You know with all those DOGS that go in there. How about a nice long walk instead?

3. The I Can’t Control My Dog Person
There are a lot of teeny tiny people out there walking humungous dogs. Which might be fine in the country, you know, where there aren’t many people, but not here in NY, where, if you have a humungous dog who likes to lunge, walking him down the street will mean several chances to test your ability to reinsert your shoulder into your arm after its been dislocated.
One day this summer, I was walking my 15 pound dog out of the dog run.  A teeny tiny woman was walking towards me with two HUGE rotweiller’s.
“Could you!  Could you!!!!!?!?!?” she was apoplectic.
I was confused.
Could I what?  Not walk? Not have a dog? Not slug her for yelling at me for no apparent reason?
“Could I….?” I left it to her to fill in the blank!
“Your dog! Your dog! I mean really! Could you?!” she was SCREAMING.
I was still confused.  Because maybe I wasn’t clear: my dog weighs 15 pounds, and she is walking about 300 pounds of combined dog. And I’M the one who needs to do something?
“So sorry. I didn’t realize your dogs were so vicious.” I said nastily. (see, I admit. I was nasty.) But not as nasty as she was:
“You’re the vicious dog! You’re the vicious dog!” She ranted.
And that’s when I realized…ohhhhh she’s a nut job! That’s OK, New York is filled with those! I picked up my dog and walked away.

The “My Dog is My Child” Woman
“Is he your only dog?” the woman of a certain age asked me, petting my pooch.
“Yep. Just him.” I answered.
“Oh, you should get him a companion. He’d like that.”
“I’m sure he would.  But I just can’t do it.  I’ve got two kids! Two kids, one dog.  Works for me.”
“Well that’s just ridiculous!” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“He deserves someone as much as you do!  That’s just selfish.  You’re a selfish, mean woman, that’s what you are!”

OK.
Yeah.
Moving on.

Only it’s hard to move on when there are people who bring their dog’s favorite ball to the dog run and then freak out when another dog runs after it. Um.  They’re DOGS.  That’s what they do.
Or when they say that their dog is NEVER aggressive unless another dogs tries to get their ball. In which case he’s a foaming-at-the-mouth uncontrollable monster.

There are people who insist that their dog is just playing, while your dog – pinned under theirs – is whimpering and looking at you with terrified eyes for help. People who smoke at the dog run. People who let their dog poop directly in front of your table at the sidewalk cafe. Yes. Yuck.

And still, I wouldn’t give up my dog for anything. He’s annoying.  He sometimes smells.  But he’s the only one who is ALWAYS happy to see me when I come home. The only one who cries whenever I leave.  And yes, the only one whose poop I will ALWAYS have to pick up.

Can’t have everything.

Here’s how.

6:50 am – Wake up. Stumble into bathroom. Throw on workout clothes. (It’s a fact that just wearing the clothes confers exercise points, whether or not you make it to the gym.

7-7:35 am – Say “get dressed, brush your teeth, eat your breakfast” over and over and over and over as if it were a mantra, instead of just a daily battle to get the kids out of the house.

7:35-7:45 Walk kids to bus, realize we are late. Run to bus. Marvel at how, once again, neither of my children has seen fit even to say goodbye before getting on the school bus.

7:45-8:30 Walk dog. See? That’s exercise….ish.

8:30-8:45 Shower/Dress

8:45-9 Coffee, breakfast, email. Multi tasking is my friend. Except when I spill my coffee on my computer as I email. Then mulit-tasking is a multi cursing, multi-hours on the phone with customer service enemy.

9-10:30 Do breakfast dishes. (yes, email takes priority over dishes in the sink.) Make beds, straighten up. Notice the kitchen floor feels sticky. Don’t want to know why – just mop it. Ditto for the Dining Room, which needs sweeping and mopping.

10:30-11:15 Get Fresh Direct delivery. Open up pantry to put everything away, and nearly get killed in the avalanche of cereal boxes, pretzel bags, and precariously balanced cans of Organic canned tomatoes that falls on my head. Re-organize pantry. Find food I probably should have thrown away in 2007.

11:15-12:15 Research our next vacation: Africa. Ok, I admit, this is the fun part. A bit overwhelming, perhaps, but fun. We are going on a big trip for my husband’s 50th birthday, and I’m responsible for putting it all together. The number of companies offering Safaris is astounding. And each one looks better than the last. Hey, somebody’s gotta do it.

12:30-1:30 I forgot to mention that during the entire day, I’ve been short of breath. Seems my lovely swine flu/pneumonia experience has left my lungs a little less than perfect. Spend this hour at the Dr.’s office taking a lung capacity test, reading ancient magazines in the waiting room (I think I saw an advertisement for that food I should have thrown away in 2007!), and being handed a handful of prescriptions. Fun Fun Fun.

1:30-2:15 Walk the dog again. Take him to the Pet Store to buy more poop bags and more training treats. Use said poop bags on the way to the pharmacy with the dog to pick up my prescriptions.

2:15-2:30 realize I haven’t had lunch. Eat, standing up in front of the refrigerator: a tangerine, a hunk of cheddar cheese on a piece of leftover Challah, and a chicken leg.

2:30-3:00 Receive package with new bedding for my bedroom.( Note to readers: do not get new bedding just before getting a new puppy. Your new bedding will instantly become old bedding, and you will need to get new new bedding way too soon.) Take dog stained and chewed old-new-bedding off the bed, replace with new/new bedding. Spend at least seven minutes trying to figure out if it’s worth saving old-new bedding, and if so, where I can store it. Decide to toss it. Dog pee and puppy-teeth sized holes just don’t say “sleep comfortably” to me. Call me crazy.

Hey look! It’s 3:00 already. Time to get the kids, start dinner, help them do their homework (the evening mantra: sit down and do your homework/sit down and do your homework, sit down and…), etc. etc. etc. See how busy my day was? And see how much nothing I did? A lot of nothing. Plenty of nothing. And after a day like that, I’m not so sure that nothing is plenty for me.

If you liked this post, share it! Tweet it! Stumble it! Leave a comment! Do something! (not nothing!)

Thank goodness there’s room in the freezer.

My dog, however, loved the meatballs, and, while I got the kids started on their homework, he wasted no time licking the plates I had put in the dishwasher. Did I mention the meatballs had a lot of turmeric in them?

Now, my dog has a yellow face. Truly yellow. Bright, looks like I dyed his hair like the people in this New York Times article yellow.

The picture doesn’t really do the color change justice.  But trust me: it looks like I he’s in the middle of his adolescent rebellion.

I’m just hoping that next time, he doesn’t come home with a tattoo.

I remember the olden days when my children would cry and carry on when I left the house to go out. “Don’t go Mommy! Don’t go!” And when they would rejoice at my return, running to the door to smother me with kisses….even if I had only gone downstairs to get the mail.

But alas, they are only memories.  Now, when I leave, I’m lucky if they look up from their book, or – let’s be honest here – one of their many screens.  Instead of “Don’t go Mommy.” I get something that’s a cross between a grunt and a goodbye.  Kind of a good-grunt. When I return, I wander around the apartment until I find someone. “Um, hello?” I say. Instead of kisses I get…well, I get nothin’.

That’s what dogs are for.

Read the rest of this post on NYC Moms Blog!  Click here.

Yes, it’s true. The baby days will be over and you will enter a new phase with your family. A phase in which you can reason with your kids, hang with them, even. Family outings will not be of the barely tolerable Chuck E. Cheese variety, but will be to do things you all enjoy – like skiing, or seeing PG movies, or really, anything that doesn’t include insipid music, costumed characters, and a “theme.”

When you reach that blessed day, when your kids stop having to go potty at the exact moment you’ve passed the last rest stop for 50 miles, DO NOT DO WHAT I DID.

What did I do?

I went and got a brand new baby. One with whom I’ll never be able to reason, or have a coherent conversation. One I’ll never be able to take him to any restaurant, any time. And I will forever be cleaning up his poop. Because I got a dog.
Read the rest of this post, and find out why I can’t believe I got myself into this at NYC Moms Blog.

Our new puppy, Bentley, has been sick – on and off – more or less since we rescued him.  In the past six weeks, we’ve been through three rounds of medication for Giardia, which is a  parasite common to puppies, especially ones from rescue facilities.  Giardia is NOT pleasant — for me or Bentley.  For him, it means yucky and frequent poops, some vomiting, and not a whole lot of energy.  For me, it means cleaning up said yucky poops and puke, and being glad that in addition to that I’m not chasing after him as he, with puppy-like intensity, proceeds to destroy my apartment.

Yesterday, I went to the vet and dropped off what I hope to be the final, non-Giardia infected “sample.”  (You haven’t lived until you’ve walked down West End Avenue with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a bag of dog poop in the other.) But the whole experience has left me wondering: WHAT THE HELL WERE WE THINKING???????

I remember (and if you don’t have children, skip this part, it’ll gross you out) – I remember, when my kids were babies, picking their noses.  Which ought to be disgusting, but at the time, just felt like part of what you did to keep your baby clean and fresh looking.  I mean, let’s face it, no one likes a baby with snot coming out of his nose.  Of course there was diaper changing, and messy poops to clean up, and puke to deal with.  And never once do I remember feeling utterly grossed out by any of it.

Wiping my dog’s poop encrusted butt utterly grosses me out. Because, let’s face it, he’s a dog, not my child.

Now before you sick the PETA police on me,  let me set things straight:  In the six weeks we have had Bentley, I have wiped his butt, cleaned his puke, cured him of an ear infection, force fed him antibiotics, brushed him, walked him at four a.m., cleaned up more poop, knit him a sweater, spent untold money on grain-free organic, human-grade dog-food, stayed in the room with him until he falls asleep in his crate, and not had a hissy fit when a certain canine single paw-ed-ly destroyed a perfectly good pair of evening shoes.  If that’s not love, what is?

It’s just that while I’m doing all that…it’s grossing me out.  I love him.  I do.  Who could resist that face? And he’s making my kids soooo happy.  But quite honestly, if he doesn’t get well soon, I’m the one who’s going to be sick as a dog!

Someone please tell me that, like the sleep deprivation of the first three months of parenthood, that this, too, shall pass.  Someone tell me that I have not turned into one of those people who talks to their dog like a person, as in “Do you think that was a good decision?  To eat my Walter Steiger pumps?  I want you to go to your crate and think about that young man.”  Someone reassure me that I have not, in effect, added another child to my life.

Well, two out of three ain’t bad, right?  This stage will pass — and I do talk to Bentley as if he has the foggiest idea of what I”m saying, and it is like having a baby.  Just a baby that grosses me out more than my biological ones did.

The first few days after it arrived, I told myself the weather was still good, and I should exercise outdoors.  So I didn’t open it.  The next several days, it rained non-stop, and I figured that exercising indoors would just remind me of how awful it was outdoors.  So I didn’t open it.  For a few days after that, I was either very busy, feeling a little under the weather, or just sitting quietly, thinking up excuses for not exercising. It’s been about two weeks since it’s been here, unopened on my desk.

So today, I decided to open it and get started.  I’ve written about this before, but this Wii game (which does not necessitate having a Wii Fit — though it helps) is a brand new, hot of the presses, updated version of Jillian’s Fitness Ultimatum 2009.  This time, Jillian is on the beach, in the jungle, on top of a mountain.  She offers lots of (canned) music choices.  And she yells at you if you mess you.  No kidding.

Recently, the scale in my bathroom has inexplicably showed lower numbers.  Yet I’m flabbier than ever.  So I think it’s the “lose muscle mass/lose weight“  routine, which inevitably leads to the “have lost muscle mass/gain weight” equation.  Jillian, I need you.

So I broke out the game, spent 15 minutes figuring out how to work the Wii with our new hi-tech system (simpler is better, believe me), and pressed A to start.

That’s when Bentley, our new puppy, freaked out.  He has not yet barked in the house (this is day 5 of him being with us, by the way), but something about Jillian sent him into a frenzy.  He dove under the coach, barking like mad, and stayed there.  When I tried to do the moves Jillian was demonstrating (or her avatar was, anyway) Bentley just barked harder.

At first, I figured that Bentley had just never seen tv before, and he was scared.  So I turned off the Wii and (after another endless session of figuring out how the home theatre system works,) turned on the TV. And what did Bentley do then?

Silence.

He sat and watched Frasier.  He sat and watched CNN.  He didn’t bark at anyone.  So I put Jillian back on. Barking?  You bet.

So I can’t exercise.  No matter that it’s 65 and sunny outside. I wanted to do Jillian’s indoor workout today, and since Bentley won’t let me, I’ll just have go to eat something instead!