thorvalson.net : babble ether

Raindrops on Roses

I was hoping for a more well-written, snappier comeback, but I'm afraid me little neurons have been fried and will do the best I can.

Someone broke into our house last week; those of you in the fam are already aware and can probably skip reading this entire entry. Earlier that day (last Tuesday), I had been lamenting two things: 1) that I couldn't come up with much to write about that day, and, 2) I had no money. Ask and ye shall receive.

I've repeated the story about six times now, so there's little steam left for the blog, but... long story short: a guy walked right in our front door while Maddie and I were home and stole my purse off the kitchen table. I saw him - only his hand - and ran for the phone and Maddie, then out the front door. There just happened to be an unmarked squad in the area when I called 911, so they spotted the guys right away - three teenagers drinking 40's in a stolen car - and chased them a reasonable distance before the kids crashed their stolen vehicle through one moving car, two parked cars, a porch, and finally colliding into/being stopped by another house. The whole debacle lasted until 5 in the morning, with cops here and detectives, Greg walking purposefully from room to room with baseball bats and nailing windows shut, and me drinking coffee trying to piece together what had become all too surreal - Were there just cops here? Did something happen? What did I miss? - and trying to keep my mouth shut. Humor is a very effective defense mechanism that I have honed to a sharp point, but I sometimes forget that other people have their own ways of dealing with the sudden unannounced, uninvited intrusion. Half of me wished Greg had been home - as if it wouldn't have happened, which is ridiculous - and half of me was thankful he wasn't here, if only for fear of what he might - no, would - have done to anyone breaking into our home. Shout out to would-be trespassers: Beware of Boyfriend. Now, that's the sign we oughta put on the front door.

In other closely related news, we have a new member in our family. Greg and I had a very minor and quick disagreement known as the Dog Vs. Glock Argument, with myself fighting for the former and himself for the latter (hell, both), and I won. Not because Guns Are Bad, but because if I had only known my parents' safe combination when I was 14 years old, I wouldn't be here to entertain you all right now, and because Maddie will one day be 14. 'Nough said.

Her name is Ada. She's a spry little six-month-old Shepherd/Collie mix, and absolutely loves her new home (although she wishes she were the boss of it). Between last Tuesday's fesitivities and the resulting addition to our family, neither Greg nor I have enjoyed a full night's sleep in over a week. She's not housebroken - yet! - but is dutifully trying. Greg is the WalkMaster, while I am doing what nerds do best: reading. I have two books at the moment, only one of which even mentions housebreaking, and the advice sounds suspiciously like the stuff I read when potty-training Maddie: encourage her, and she'll do it when she's ready, which is a trainer's way of saying, "Take her outside every hour or two and stand there half-asleep and hallucinating in the rain/wind/snow/hurricane, pray she'll do her business, watch her like a hawk... and when she squats, throw a party." So that's what we're doing.

I'm finding that, like my sister told me when she first got her dog, Fletcher, there are a lot of similarites between puppy-raising and child-rearing. For example, this past Saturday. Greg and I were both scheduled to be at work from 9 a.m. until 3 a.m. and 10 p.m., respectively. Puppy no stay home by self. So we brought her with (read: diaper/goodie bag filled with treats, plastic bags, and leash), and, MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, she did not piss all over the lobby or receptionist's desk. In fact, she did not pee AT ALL, which led to me crying "GOOD GIRL! GOOD GIRL! GOOD GIRL!" all the way home that evening in an effort to encourage the Lying Down in Car part while discouraging the Getting Up to Squat and Pee action. THAT'S RIGHT! LIE THERE! DON'T! DO! ANYTHING! GOOD GIRL! It was eerily much like Maddie's first car ride, home from the hospital, minus the Pee Panic and substituting Is She Still Breathing? I'd Better Look.

While obviously irresistably cute and furry, Ada is a hands-down, bets off the table, HORRIBLE guard dog.

Note: I am publishing this information on the assumption that most burglars are not bloggers. If you are thinking of robbing my house, the following information will be of no use to you whatsoever. You can just, ya know, look at the pictures. Go take a hike.

Ada. She does this thing, this disgusting puppy thing, called Submissive Urination. Basically, she knows you're the boss ("you" being anyone human, animal, or inanimate) and, upon greeting, will submissively - literally! - BOW DOWN TO YOU, your majesty, and make a little piddle on the floor. Not full-on peeing, per se, not even a puddle, but a piddle. As in, "I, meek little bastard, bow down to you, oh Great One Your Highness, and humbly swear my allegiance to you and will fight (do I really have to fight?), okay, OKAY! TO THE DEATH! (gulp) for all present and future gains in the interest of Your Great Empire."

The night after we got her, I got locked out of the house. My keys, which had been in my purse the night of the burglary and had wound up in the car wreckage, were still at the City Tow Lot, waiting for me to come get them. Greg was understandably in Omega Beyond the Omega sleep mode, exhausted from Everything, and would not wake up no matter what I tried, which included but was not limited to: doorbells, calling him by phone from a different location, and shouting, "TIME FOR SCHOOL!" through the bedroom window (should've known that one wouldn't work). I ended up crawling through a window. This was also the One Single Time in my life I actually thanked God for making me so skinny.

And what did Ada do? Lazily approached the window. Sniffed. Cocked her head to the side. Sniffed again. Welcomed me! Me, hanging halfway into the house through a window! She welcomed me with a warm, inviting greeting, then went straight to the bar to fix me a drink. One olive or two?

Like all women, Ada also has an instinctual love of shoes. This was perhaps encouraged by Greg optimistically believing that Ada could differentiate between his One Single Black Chuck Taylor and All Other Shoes, but hey. A girl's gotta have her fun. I have since diabolically replaced the Shoe and Furniture Eating with Rawhide Bone Gnawing, but she has been known to steal a shoe if it's left lying around. So beware.

All's well that ends well. Greg is drifting back from Big Bad Boyfriend mode and becoming gradually more his usual self, with both of us reassured that his inner Bad Ass Motherfucker hasn't weakened from lack of use nor buried itself too deeply to be useful (you still got it, kid! I love you). Now that my maternal skills have been tested and awarded a Badge of Merit, my inner Psychiatric Inventory Check List is leaning more towards "Gets Along Well With Others" and less towards, "Laughs Hysterically at Inappropriate Times." Maddie is blissfully ignorant of much of what happened, and I'm sorry, were you saying something? Because I GOT A PUPPY!

Sugarplums dancing, guards posted at the watchtowers...

Hey! We didn't get raped! BA-doomp, CHING!

Posted by stephanie at June 21, 2006 10:14 AM