Only three days left until I leave for Israel, and I've hardly been emotional (I'm not exactly a crier, although I hear there is spotty anecdotal evidence to the contrary), but yesterday I broke down -- because of my dog.
The one last thing I had to do was get my dog's health cleared so he may be shipped overseas. Despite all my best efforts to make sure I was going through the proper procedures, I was told yesterday by a veterinarian that he does not have the proper paperwork to get on a plane or get out of customs. (Nevermind that I called her well in advance because I thought she would help me with the paperwork, which I now know she could've never acquired in the first place -- that's another story.) So now I will have to spend at least a month apart from Sage, which I haven't done since we adopted him. This, my friends, made my eyes nearly gush in public and in front of my dad, two things I try very hard not to do. And trust me, no hormones, steroids or otherwise, were involved.
The worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself. I put my faith in this veterinarian to guide me through the process, when I should've been trusting my instincts and taking the initiative myself. Of course, I hate confrontation, especially over the phone, which is how I dropped the ball in a big way. In other words, my own negligence is the reason why my dog will have to live in the foster care of Tim's mom for the next month.
Indeed, such pseudoparental failings were the reason for my last crying incident before yesterday. About three months ago, Sage attacked a small poodle at the dog park. Sage and said dog had already exchanged mannerly olfactory greetings, so I didn't think anything of it when he went back for a second round a little later. Out of nowhere, Sage attacked. Both made more noise -- Sage growling and the toy canine yelping -- than was warranted; there was no bleeding or broken skin. I can only assume that this snooty, frou-frou pooch said something offensive in doggy language, like "Get your slanty-eyed face out of my butt," which would make the onslaught totally justified. Nonetheless, I felt terrible. I shakily wrote down my phone number for the yuppie puppy owners and took Sage out of the park. I was so visibly rattled that a witness to the attack came up to comfort me as I started crying, telling me it's okay because sometimes dogs just don't get along.
Now imagine your 3-year-old son biting someone's face off at the playground, except he's mute so he can't tell you why he became so incensed. This is my dog at this very moment: licking my hands to calm me and wagging his tail to get the eyewitness' attention, like he wasn't 10 seconds away from being declared a public nuisance. And here I am, feeling as if I have entirely botched puppy rearing.
This clearly tells me I am not ready for children. These two incidents put me out of commission for the rest of the afternoon. Imagine what I would be like if, god forbid, an actual child of mine had to go to day care and bullied someone there. Sometimes having the best of intentions leads to the worst of outcomes. That might be why two-parent homes are cited as more stable. When one starts throwing wild pitches, the other can come in as reliever and earn the save. So the end of this story, of course, is Tim will be bringing the dog to Israel when he comes over in about a month. And the happy ending for all of you is: I will be incredibly far away from your progeny.
The one last thing I had to do was get my dog's health cleared so he may be shipped overseas. Despite all my best efforts to make sure I was going through the proper procedures, I was told yesterday by a veterinarian that he does not have the proper paperwork to get on a plane or get out of customs. (Nevermind that I called her well in advance because I thought she would help me with the paperwork, which I now know she could've never acquired in the first place -- that's another story.) So now I will have to spend at least a month apart from Sage, which I haven't done since we adopted him. This, my friends, made my eyes nearly gush in public and in front of my dad, two things I try very hard not to do. And trust me, no hormones, steroids or otherwise, were involved.
The worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself. I put my faith in this veterinarian to guide me through the process, when I should've been trusting my instincts and taking the initiative myself. Of course, I hate confrontation, especially over the phone, which is how I dropped the ball in a big way. In other words, my own negligence is the reason why my dog will have to live in the foster care of Tim's mom for the next month.
Indeed, such pseudoparental failings were the reason for my last crying incident before yesterday. About three months ago, Sage attacked a small poodle at the dog park. Sage and said dog had already exchanged mannerly olfactory greetings, so I didn't think anything of it when he went back for a second round a little later. Out of nowhere, Sage attacked. Both made more noise -- Sage growling and the toy canine yelping -- than was warranted; there was no bleeding or broken skin. I can only assume that this snooty, frou-frou pooch said something offensive in doggy language, like "Get your slanty-eyed face out of my butt," which would make the onslaught totally justified. Nonetheless, I felt terrible. I shakily wrote down my phone number for the yuppie puppy owners and took Sage out of the park. I was so visibly rattled that a witness to the attack came up to comfort me as I started crying, telling me it's okay because sometimes dogs just don't get along.
Now imagine your 3-year-old son biting someone's face off at the playground, except he's mute so he can't tell you why he became so incensed. This is my dog at this very moment: licking my hands to calm me and wagging his tail to get the eyewitness' attention, like he wasn't 10 seconds away from being declared a public nuisance. And here I am, feeling as if I have entirely botched puppy rearing.
This clearly tells me I am not ready for children. These two incidents put me out of commission for the rest of the afternoon. Imagine what I would be like if, god forbid, an actual child of mine had to go to day care and bullied someone there. Sometimes having the best of intentions leads to the worst of outcomes. That might be why two-parent homes are cited as more stable. When one starts throwing wild pitches, the other can come in as reliever and earn the save. So the end of this story, of course, is Tim will be bringing the dog to Israel when he comes over in about a month. And the happy ending for all of you is: I will be incredibly far away from your progeny.
