When I was a kid, my parents had to rush me to the ER several times. I was asthmatic and the drugs sucked back then, there was really no "prevention." Here's how I hear the routine went: 1) I stopped breathing and turned blue, 2) my mother fainted, 3) they gave me a shot of adrenaline and I promptly hurled in my father's lap. I felt guilty about this for years, until I made the connection between my hypoxia and my dad's chain smoking. Not so guilty anymore.
While I now know I was set-up for asthma by the exposure to second hand smoke (which hadn't occured to anyone in the sixties. Really. Watch Mad Men), the white coats discovered that I was very allergic to animal dander. It would start with sneezing and itchy eyes, and end up in a full blown asthma attack when I was exposed to anything furry. So, my mother had to give up her cat when I was two (after a couple of these trips to the ER had already happened). Which she is still pissed about.
Even less guilt.
Add to that the fact that I had eczema, which the doctors said was aggravated by chocolate, citrus, exposure to wool of any kind or anything with feathers in it like pillows or warm sleeping bags.
And I was allergic to Christmas trees.
So yeah, bit of a deprived childhood, right? (I do recognize that is a ridiculous statement for any middle class white kid growing up in the hyper prosperity of the US in the sixties and seventies) Of course, all I wanted was all those things I wasn't allowed to have. I remember the night before my 7th birthday a cat climbed in my window and curled up on my bed for the night. Of course I didn't shoo her away or tell my parents.
I spent the morning of my 7th birthday in the ER.
Over the years, I missed out on enough things because of asthma that I eventually started pretty much avoiding animals. I had a brief stint where I adopted cats, but my doctor convinced me that was beyond stupid when I got pregnant with A. Both my kitties went to live on an acquaintance's farm where one immediately disappeared and the other lived a long and prosperous rodent filled life.
However, when I bought my house in 2005, I decided that my small family of two needed pets. We started by adopting two feral cats (in Berkeley they are trapped and fixed instead of euthanized, then re-released, which keeps the overall population under control). They live outside and have been doing great for 5 years.
But I really, really wanted a dog. My grandparents always had dogs and I lived with them for a while in Mexico with two German Shepherds that I loved as only a homesick 13 year old girl can. I still remember the adolescent Heike providing hours of entertainment on those long afternoons when everyone else in the entire town was having their siesta.
So in the fall of 2005 we adopted two adult female mutts from the animal shelter. They were both on death row and the German Shorthair Pointer mutt, Ute to us (pronounced "Uta"), was literally going to be put down the next day. I'll tell the story another time of how we went to get a dog and came home with two, but really, I knew we'd be gone most of the day and two seemed better than one. They are pack animals after all.
It worked out great to adopt adult dogs as our "first" dogs. A was 11 and it was just the right time for him to have the responsibility for walking them and feeding them, etc. They are good dogs, though they have some shelter issues (not so much dog park material). We basically lucked out with Phoebe and Ute.
So, I really, really don't know what demon was in possession of my good sense when I caught myself longing for a puppy in early 2009. We had two dogs. Oh. And two cats.
And yet.
I had a month long sabbatical in April and a part of me always wanted to raise a dog from puppyhood. I had two sets of friends that were getting puppies. And then I saw a picture of this guy:
Check out the size of those paws.
Seriously. The cutest boy I had ever seen.
So we adopted Omar. Now, here is what you need to know about American Bulldogs. In jurisdictions where pitbulls are outlawed, these guys often are too. They are not terriers, they are mastiffs, but they are a"bully breed." They were bred for guarding and working. These are the dogs that were bred with pugs to make the shorter English Bulldogs, so they are a very old breed. These dogs do weight pull competitions and can pull 30x their bodyweight. They can be very aggressive and many AB owners don't take them to dog parks; the problem is that it is very hard to get these dogs to stop (playing or fighting) if their excitement gets to a certain level.
I was ready for a big tough guy. I live ghetto adjacent and I wanted a dog that sent a message.
What we got was Omar.
When we got him home, it took 2 weeks before he would cross the street. He was afraid of the street. And the cars. And the garbage can.
I learned that American Bulldogs do things in their own time. Not yours, or mine, or any say REASONABLE time scale.
I am a very fast and efficient person. The universe has sent me this big lump of slow moving love to teach me a life lesson.
Have any of you EVER met a puppy that you have to pull on the leash? I shit you not.
He is now 100# of solid muscle. Dogs hump him. Phoebe, our 12 year old female, humps him. (which reminds me, the girls' first meeting with Omar was hilarious, Phoebe sniffed between his legs and whipped her head around to Ute as if to say "Looky what we got here!" She humped him CONSTANTLY those first few weeks. Cougar.)
He squats to pee.
He trips over his own feet.
Also? Not so much with the intelligence. Or the spidey senses. When I yell from my bedroom to the back yard, the other two look up, excitedly wagging their tails. Omar crouches and looks wildly around, you can see the wheels turning "Holy Shit! Voice of God!"
It's ok, he was hired for his looks, not his brains.
He also, unfortunately, had hip dysplasia on both sides and so had surgery at 6 months. I won't bore you with the details. It was hard on us all and he missed a big chunk of his puppyhood.
Which he is reclaiming now, in his adolescence. Ok, so I hadn't totally thought through what it would be like to have a 100 POUND puppy. When he plays, furniture moves. Ute is completely freaked out by his playing (she hasn't really accepted that he lives here) and she starts barking, which makes him do that thing puppies do where they jump straight up in the air in front of you? Which COMPLETELY freaks Ute out since he weighs twice as much as she does.
And the Christmas tree (which I get every year now that I am an adult and the drugs are better): not a good idea. First I got the toddler play yard and circled the tree with that. We came home to finely shredded glass and glitter all over the couch and also the shattered remains of the "baby's first christmas ornament." So the next day we also placed the dining room chairs around in front of the toddler gate.
Which made it easier for him to reach the higher ornaments.
So the next day we upended the coffee table in front of the chairs in front of the gate. That worked.
But he chewed up one of the chairs and my christmas tree was not the joyous symbol of the season I had envisioned. Our living room looked like Fred Sanford's front yard.
But still, oh this dog. He is my heart. He is hilarious to watch. He is the sweetest, most gentle dog I've ever had. He wakes me by placing his chin on the side of my bed while wagging the entire rest of his body. If I am home he is always within ten feet of me. When he has to go out he gives one bark and then sits and waits for me to come. His wiggle when I get home form work is the best part of my day. He nuzzles my ear when I hug him. He likes to hug.
And anyway, I just can't be mad at this
Here's one where he is backing away from the camera. That he is afraid of.
And here's one of him with the long suffering Ute
Big Love.
