Thanks Liz for offering up a forum for my current life predicament — hopefully there will be much more positive posts to follow. And if there’s too much more I suppose I will just have to start a blog of my own I hope the faithful Circle Twenty Two readers enjoy!
For the past six months, really the entire block of time since my move to New Orleans, I have been begging and pleading for a new four-legged furry addition to the Mitchell-Turnage household. I realize I am a grown woman and can make decisions on my own but since we are now sinful co-habitants and we are a “team” that means we’re supposed to agree on major life changes that are under our control. Weird, I know. Basically, I swore I wouldn’t just bring a dog home. Every night while I secretly hoped some sweet stray would wander up to my doorstep, the Doctor Man plagued my dreams with his many reservations about said new addition.. Of which I promptly chose to ignore.
Sure, we have Woody who is a quirky and precious fox-like dog that makes me feel like I am by far the best human being in the entire world every single day. He’s 9 and mostly likes to sleep on my lap and chase his ball a maximum of 4 times per day. He is absolutely perfect and has been my buddy for 6 years. But you see, I couldn’t shake this vision of running down the streetcar line of New Orleans with a big (not to mention intimidating) rescue pup by my side. He would be my running buddy by day and protector by night. And together he, Woody, Doctor Man and I would live in perfect harmony.
Let’s rewind to 96 hours ago when the whole Mitchell-Turnage clan (Woody in tow) took a harmless visit to the Louisiana SPCA. Yes, in a moment of Christmas joy the Doctor Man finally caved and together as a family we decided that in the event that we stumbled across the perfect dog – we would get it! And so it was, we met Bronze – a beautiful brindle-colored 50lb mutt with a sweet face and a friendly disposition. We facilitated a meet-and-greet session for Bronze and Woody to determine if they were compatible. Success! Then and there it was decided – 2 ½ year old Bronze would be ours.
I picked him up on Monday afternoon and brought him home. Woody was skeptical at best – but not the least bit aggressive. We re-named Bronze to a cuter name that is also in line with the presidential theme of Woody (aka: Woodrow Wilson) – naturally he is a Grover. By the time the sun set on what I will now refer to as Black Monday: Woody was angry. A growl here, a snarl there – any time Grover came in the vicinity of anything Woody loves (me, doctor man, bowls, balls, bones) he would shun Grover away. “Eh, it’s okay – just a growl…it’s only been 4 hours…it will get better.”
Blackest of the Black Tuesday brought all out dog fights instigated by the little red fox followed by a nervous breakdown by yours truly. Tears, snot, and irrational thoughts and opinions were splattered all over Willow Street. “Really, it’s going to be OK. It’s barely been 24 hours.”
Here we are today, it’s Wednesday, and I am terrified to go home. What if it’s worse? What if Woody never accepts our new smart, sweet, and adorable member of the family? Would there be anything worse than being THAT person who returns a dog to the SPCA? Yea, I’d have to pony up quite a big donation with that one out of embarrassment, disappointment and the fact that I failed as a dog owner.
Let’s hope Woody lightens up a bit. I am giving him until Sunday and then I’m calling the dog whisperer.