Slowly But Surely

Once I had Cheyenne home, she blossomed quickly. I made an effort to take her to parks, to the beach, anywhere where she would be exposed to numerous people and thus work on her fears. She quickly developed a tenative trust with friendly strangers, and though a raised voice could still scare her into a submissive squat, she no longer submissively wetted. Her leg healed wonderfully and within a few months her cast was off and she was running laps around the living room with my lab. The rescue group decided it was time to make her available for adoption. As much as I had fallen in love with her, I was renting a home, and it had taken considerable effort to convince the landlord to allow my 80 pound lab to stay. I knew another dog was out of the question.

A week or so later the rescue group contacted me to let me know they had a family interested in Cheyenne. Because of her special circumstances, they asked if I would go along on the home visit to help explain to the family her special behavioral issues, ie: why a stern voice was all that was needed to discipline her, why she may develop arthritis later in life, etc. I met another representative from the rescue group that Saturday morning and we headed over to meet this new family. As soon as I walked in the door I felt something wasn't right. While not very large, the home was clean, and seemed well tended, the two children were old enough to listen and understand as I explained what had happened to Cheyenne. The father however, made me distinctly nervous. He was not loudspoken, which was a plus, but he seemed uninterested in any of it. He didn't care to hear any details about the dog, insisting it would be the children's dog, and they would be responsible for it. When I explained to he and his wife that full responsibility would fall to the entire family, the wife was quick to assure me all would be well, and that he husband simply sought to explain to the children that there would be duties involved, such as taking the dog out, making sure she was fed and her bowls were clean, etc. The fact that they had not previously owned a dog also made me nervous. Before the interview was over, a few neighbors stopped by, wanting to let us know how wonderful the family was and that they would be ideal owners for a sweet dog such as Cheyenne. I remained unconvinced. We told the family we would let them know in a few days, as was policy. As soon as I got into the car, I turned to the other rescue rep and voiced my thoughts.

"No way. I'm sorry, but they don't seem like they would be able to take care of her properly. I can't put my finger on it exactly, but it just doesn't FEEL right."

The other rescuer looked at me. "They seemed pretty nice to me. They meet all the requirements on the home visit sheet. The dad's a little standoffish but I think they'll take good care of her. And the kids! They're so excited they could hardly sit still, didn't you see them?" she gushed, starting the vehicle and backing out of the drive.

"It doesn't matter. They don't fit." I insisted.

She sighed. "Okay, I'll make a note of it on the report I turn in. It's ultimately up to the director though, you know that."

I sent her a sideways glance but said nothing.


A week later, I walked in the door after work and tossed my keys carelessly on the counter. My lab, Abigail, came running to meet me.

"Hi sweetie! How's my girl? What have you been up to today? Any wild parties?" It took a moment for me to realize that Cheyenne wasn't trailing along behind her like usual. "Where's Chey, Abby?"

I walked through the house calling Cheyenne's name. I checked my bedroom where Cheyenne liked to commandeer the bed for naps, and the living room beside the sofa where she liked to hide her toys. By the time I had made my second pass through the house my stomach was tying in knots. Where could she have gone? Coming back into the kitchen, I went to grab the phone and found a note taped to it.

"Couldn't reach you at work today, never got through. Picked up Cheyenne at about 2pm. Adoption went through. Will give them your numbers for any questions." The director of the rescue had signed the note. The fact that she had been in the house was no shock. As soon as I had signed on to occasionally foster I had given her a key, mostly in case I had a late night at the clinic and needed someone to come out and feed the dogs. The shock came in that she had deliberately avoided me because she obviously knew how I felt about this particular family. I was beyond fuming. Crumpling the note in my fist, I quickly dialed her home number, ready to give her an earful. Instead I had to settle for giving her machine an earful and then hanging up in disgust. What could I do? I couldn't very well go over to the adoptive family's house and demand her back. If the rescue group had finalized the adoption than a legal contract had been signed. As a foster mom, I did not have any official rights to the dog, the rescue group did.

A few hours and some depressingly overcooked mac and cheese later, I sat on my couch absently flipping through channels as Abby snored at my feet. My mind was still jumping around, searching for any options, but I had none. I could only hope that this family really would take care of her, and that hopefully my attachment to Cheyenne had been clouding my judgement.

I returned to work, and soon found myself foster mom to four three week old kittens. These furbabies were not associated with the rescue group, but had merely been brought in by an animal loving citizen who had found them on the road, mewling around their deceased mother who had apparently been hit by a car. I avoided the rescue group at this point, making sure I was unavailable when they called needing something, or busy in the back when they arrived with new dogs. A few weeks of bottle feedings every three hours left me with very little time or energy to worry about Cheyenne. I reasoned that she was fine, that the rescue group would be doing post adoption visits like usual and would assure that she was being well taken care of. When the kittens reached six weeks and were on strictly solid food, I began to find loving homes for them. Each of the potential owners were clients of the veterinary hospital and within a few weeks each of my precious charges were headed to their new homes. A few hours after I had sent the last one home with a sweet elderly man who had recently lost his wife (and who now lets "Bessy" eat off a plate at the dinner table with him), the receptionist paged me to let me know I had a call. I picked up the phone in the back, assuming it was a question regarding the kittens or their care. It wasn't.

"Hello?"

"You have to come. Cheyenne isn't feeling well. She doesn't want any of her toys." The voice was young and female, and I recognized it to be the daughter from Cheyenne's new family.

"Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can."

The thought never crossed my mind that I still had four more hours of work, or that I should probably contact the rescue group. Something was wrong with Cheyenne, and that was all that mattered. I begged one of the other techs to cover for me and dashed out the door. My stomach was already tying in knots. What was I going to find? Why hadn't the parents called me? If Cheyenne was sick, why wasn't she at the vet hospital? What in the HELL was going on anyway?

I pulled into the driveway and literally ran to the front door. I knocked furiously, then rang the doorbell twice. Let them think what they wanted, just let them open the damn door. I got no response. There were no cars in the driveway, and I did not hear Cheyenne's tags jingling or any barking. Shit. I stepped back and let the screened door slam shut. This didn't make any sense. The kid had only called me about 20 minutes before. Where had everyone gone? Not caring what the neighbors thought, I made my way around the back of the house to make sure they weren't perhaps playing in the backyard. No one was there. As I came further around the corner I noticed a shoddy screened in porch with the paint peeling off it. I stepped up onto the stair and tried the screened door. Latched. I was just about to step back off the porch when I heard a small whine. Pressing my face against the screen I saw Cheyenne. She struggled to get to her feet, whining softly, and began to slowly hobble towards me. In that moment my gut twisted as if I had been sucker punched by a heavy weight.

"Son of a ...."

I grabbed the screen door again and pulled with all my might. After a few of these tugs, the latch came free from the rotting wood and the door swung open. Screw 'em, let them sue me. I rushed in and fell to my knees in front of Cheyenne. She didn't appear to have any wounds, but she was noticably limping and her left side was caked in dried mud. I gathered her to me and crooned nonsense to her, my eyes traveling over her soft head to bare spot where she had been laying. Two bowls sat nearby, both completely empty and filled with insects. Nearby an open bottle of paint thinner sat with a filthy rag stuffed in the top. I shook my head in disbelief, then scooped Cheyenne up gently and carried her back around front to my car. I placed her gently into the passenger seat of my pickle green buick and grabbed a scrap piece of paper out of the glove box.

"I have Cheyenne. We will be contacting you to discuss this matter."

I didn't bother to sign the note, and stuck it in the screen door where they couldn't miss it.

A Ray Of Hope

The afternoon before I was scheduled to take Cheyenne home, I once again headed back to Cheyenne's run to bring her outside with me. It had become my habit to eat my lunch while watching her roam around the fenced in backyard of the hosptial, even though she would inevitably roam for a bit and then simply lay down, staring into nothingness.

Thus it was with great surprise that I found Cheyenne sitting at the front of her cage, wagging her tail and actually looking AT me when I came to let her out. She followed me dutifully out the back door and found the perfect corner to relieve herself. As soon as she was done she came bounding (well, more like clump/hop, clump/hopping) towards me, tail high and tongue lolling from her mouth. The sight took my breath away. She was still entirely too skinny, but sometime over the course of that week, her soul had started to slowly sneak back in, winding a smoky pattern around her heart until it (figuratively of course) began to beat in hope again.

I found myself talking to her as if she were a person and would somehow hold up her end of the conversation.

"I see we're feeling better today!"

She plopped in front of me and sat down.

"You're going to have to wear that cast for a while though, so no tearing it up, okay?"

A steady tail wag.

"I'm bringing you home with me for a little while. You'll like my dog Abby, she's very nice, and she shares everything."

A tilt of the head before inching closer.

"We're going to find you a great home in no time, I just know it."

She leaned over on her good leg until she finally slid into a happy heap in my lap.


I sat in the backyard and laughed.

Cheyenne

After leaving you all with that last tidbit I find my mind swimming with memories. I felt it only fair to you, and to my sanity (which walks a very fine line weighted with pregnancy hormones these days)to give you the whole story. I will also post pictures of her as soon as I can get them uploaded.


CHEYENNE

When I first laid eyes on her I knew she had somehow lost her soul. She had given up, her emotions drained until she was dry as dust inside. The veterinarian suggested she was between a year and eighteen months. A delicate little female of blonde and white who was pulled from animal control with a badly broken front leg. At the pound she had been thrown in a cage with three larger dogs who felt it necessary to continuously attack such an easy target. The rescuer simply couldn't walk away. Knowing she would never be adopted when she was so obviously injured, animal control released her to the local animal rescue group, one I also worked with on occasion. Working as a veterinary technician for the vet who handled most of their intakes, it was impossible not to get involved. This little girl was carried in and placed on the scale in front of me, her little leg twisted at an odd angle and her gaze completely empty. When the rescuer stepped away, the dog didn't so much as twitch.

"I'll leave her with you, just give us a call and let us know what she'll need," the rescuer told me, already halfway out the door. "Oh, and she'll need a name. They didn't know what it was at the pound." The bell above the door chimed as it closed.

"Cheyenne. Her name is Cheyenne." I told the vet, and the suggestion was accepted with no arguement.

Through the entire examination, Cheyenne barely moved. The bony protrusion of her hips from each side revealed her lack of proper nutrition, that she was seriously underweight, and her coat was dingy and flecked with flea dirt. The leg had been left without medical care for weeks, and her tiny bones had begun to heal back in the wrong direction, making it look as if her foot was trying to somehow escape from her knee. To ensure she would be able to walk correctly again, the leg was rebroken and set. Though she was not concious at the time, the procedure nonetheless had the rest of us wincing in pain. When she awoke a few hours later, I had already fitted her with a clumpy green cast to hop around on. After a few days of rest, a few good meals and round of vaccinations, it was time for Cheyenne to leave the hospital. It was discovered during her stay that Cheyenne had some serious trust issues. She was deathly afraid of anyone loud, and would submissively cower and wet if someone approached her head on. Her absolute fear and misunderstanding tugged at my heartstrings. I called the rescue coordinator to let her know I would take Cheyenne home with me as a foster. It was going to take some serious work and lots of TLC to help destroy her demons.


*As I get further into this story I realize that it may take some time to complete. I will return with the next installment tomorrow. - Dixee

A Day In The Life

With a massive head leaning over my shoulder and Animal Cops Houston echoing in the background I begin to wonder if I could honestly live life without animals around. These animal cop shows blow my mind. You wouldn't think that there were that many ignorant people out there, but you'd be wrong. Of course it only takes one instance of looking into the eyes of a thirty pound dog who's been shot for no reason at all to make you wish you could return the favor to the a**hole who did it. And that experience was NOT from television, that is something I did in person. That dog lived. If I could have gotten my hands on the shooter, he wouldn't have.

A Flurry of The Feather Quill

Amazingly enough, I find myself with a few new freelance projects awaiting my attention. I have become something of an expert on keyword articles. Who knew it would actually be profitable to write about something while writing about nothing at all at the same time? Lying patiently in the background I have the beginnings of my first novel floating about my hard drive. It is content to amble around aimlessly, waiting for some honest attention, or at least a late night burst of creativity to add to it's girth. In the meantime, my pen skitters frantically across the page seeking an end to whatever contracted piece I might then be working on. In the midst of the creative genius taking place today, I also took some extra time to wash all the baby clothes. Doing something so obviously effeminate and nuturing turned my already hormonally overdosed insides to mush. Yes, I will be one of THOSE kind of mothers, the kind who believes you cannot spoil a child enough in the first year, and the same kind that changes diapers with a smile, no matter the horrific contents. It's almost a shame I'll also be the kind that curses a blue streak throughout the labor process. Almost.

3:44 AM

There was a time when sleeping naked had been a decadent pleasure for Renee. The cool air sliding across bare skin, the light caress of the sheet across her shoulder. Such things made a woman feel sexy. But laying in the dark at almost four in the morning, unable to fall asleep and plagued by a dull pain in her ever rounding abdomen, Renee felt anything but sexy. A trickle of sweat slithered down her side. Yep. That settled it. Sexy was definately out. Heaving a soft sigh, she rolled slowly over, hoping to relieve the ache that had somehow shifted from her abdomen into her lower back. The movement apparently woke her unborn son, who promptly offered her a quick roundhouse in response. Her hand instinctively began rubbing small, comforting circles across her belly and the baby quieted. Beautiful glow my ass, she thought, and took a deep breath, trying to visualize her body relaxing, just like that bra-burning free spirit on her lamaze tapes had taught her.

A masculine hand reached around her to rest on her stomach, and she felt her husband's comforting form at her back.
"Mmmmm. You okay?" he murmured in a groggy, and completely sexy tone.
Naturally HE gets to be sexy. Giving herself a mental shake, Renee reigned in her wayward thoughts. She absolutely refused to be one of those whiny, nagging, constantly bitchy pregnant women.
"I can't sleep, I feel gross," she whined. Oh for crissakes.
"You're not gross, you're beautiful," he whispered against the back of her neck. "Want me to show you HOW beautiful?" he offered.
Renee grinned into the darkness. Bless him. He had been sick for almost a week straight, was working his rear end off every day so she could stay at home, and now he was willing to give up his sleep as well.
She snuggled back against him and sighed. "No, you get your sleep, I'm fine. I'm sure I'll be snoring again within the hour," she teased. "But I WILL take a rain check on the offer."
"Mmm-kay, but it's your loss," he teased back, his words already reverting to the slurred speech of the mostly asleep. His hand rubbed small circles against her lower back, relieving most of the pressure that had kept her awake. God but she loved him. He knew her better than she knew herself most days. She settled herself deeper into her pillow, let out a slow breath, and as her husband's caring hand came to rest on the curve of her hip, she followed him into peaceful slumber.

The Furkids

To know me and to know my family is to know my animals. First and foremost is Abigail.

She's our black lab, now almost 10 years old, I rescued her from animal control when she was four. Calm, loyal, friendly, and wonderfully behaved, she is the ideal pet, and she doesn't mind reminding us, generally whenever any of the other animals are getting into some kind of trouble.

Second is Diesel, our Great Dane. Diesel is three years old in a few days, and he came to live with us when he was one. He excels at guard duty, and insists on walking the perimeter of any room he enters before setting down. He is very loving, and though he is huge, at about 160lbs, he is fairly certain he's a french poodle. He can be prissy, definately demanding, and absolutely devoted to my husband Nick.

And last, but certainly not least, is Pandora. Pandora adopted us when her extrememly pregnant mother literally walked into a former apartment where I lived and decided to stay. Pandora was born under a bunkbed and despite her humble beginnings she has emerged as the queen of our current household. Pandora allows us to live here in the house, provided we pay the mortgage and cater to her every whim. She knocks the "slober twins" (her nickname for the dogs) around when they need it, demands attention when she wants it, and otherwise cruises around supervising our day to day activities. Overall the three of them mesh rather well. We are anxious to see how they deal with a new screaming, squalling addition that should be here in late January.

"To Sleep, Perchance To Dream" - William Shakespeare

Shakespeare has long been a friend of mine, something of an inspiration to the writer side of my personality. This is my first attempt at setting up a blog, so here's the hoping that my consistently sarcastic personality will keep at least a few visitors amused. I am happily married and expecting my first child in January of 2006. Suprisingly enough, my husband still finds me attractive even with the lovely watermelon floating around my midsection. Go figure.

I have recently expanded my freelance writing career, this being a necessity when I was, for lack of a more colorful and certainly more offensive term, "screwed over" by my previous employer. Apparently the idea of paying maternity leave sent him into hysterical accounting fits, necessitating his constant need to nag at me, and his eventual desperate search to find something that would support firing me. He did eventually fire me, though to this day I have been given no valid reason. Well, at least I know he's good at his job, which is making up whatever might be necessary to get clients out of trouble. Welcome to today's society. What a bitch.

So, in a desperate attempt to keep myself occupied during the days I now spend at home, I am advancing my freelance writing career and setting up this blog. Welcome to the inner workings of my mind. Do try to find a buddy to peruse the grounds with, there are entirely too many dark crevices for single people to get lost in, and truthfully, I haven't the time or the inclination to come find you myself.