Mondays With Stella

Written 1/4/16

I brought Stella home late at night on the Monday before Thanksgiving and from the very beginning, I was wholly unprepared for her.  

I had mysteriously developed a case of puppy fever and had been obsessing over it for weeks, constantly looking at adorable puppy pictures, checking online for adoptable small dogs that were NOT Chihuahuas, asking friends and family what they thought about me getting a dog (most common response: “Are you crazy???”) and at one point, seriously considering spending my entire bonus on the online purchase of a pomski puppy from out of state.  Seriously.  

I researched and analyzed and obsessed.  I completely ignored the reality that I’m not a dog person.  I proceeded on my search oblivious to the glaring obstacles: that I don’t really have time for a pet (much less a puppy), I certainly don’t have the right environment (small upstairs apartment) and I have rarely met a plant I couldn’t kill (including a cactus).  I could not be hindered by logic or swayed by reason.  It’s entirely possible that I went temporarily insane.

From this slippery slope of poor judgment, I proceeded into even more dangerous terrain…the harmless Facebook post seeking feedback.  “I’m thinking about getting a puppy…advice?”  The opinions poured in.  Don’t get a dog.  Dogs are the greatest.  Get an adult dog that is potty trained.  Adopt a mutt.  Get a pure bred. Don’t get a dog, they are a ton of work.  It will be your best friend for life.  A friend private messaged me.  “I’ve had two shih tzus and they are great dogs.”  She followed up with several traits that were very appealing to me: minimal shedding, don’t need much exercise so great for apartments, not yappers.  Hmmm.  

So at 7 pm on the Monday night before Thanksgiving, I google “shih tzu puppies” and get bombarded with adorable pictures.  I NEED ONE OF THESE!  I add “in Las Cruces” to my search and find a female for sale.  I text the number on the listing.  The number immediately texts me back.  Yes, she is still available.  I ask for a picture.  Moments later, a picture of the cutest little ball of fur pops up on my screen.  I text to see when I could see her.  The response comes back that this stranger from the internet can meet me in about 15 minutes.  Wait, what?  This seems like bad judgment.  I go get cash out of my secret stash and call my sister.  She lives just down the street and has the best dog I’ve been around.  I figure she can both provide expert dog information assistance and keep me from being kidnapped and murdered.  I pick her up and we head to Wal-Mart.  

It’s cold out, so we end up meeting Jose from the internet in the back booth of the McDonald’s just inside the super store.  It’s now just after 8 pm.  He reaches into his coat and pulls out a tiny ball of black fur and puts her on the table.  The fur is so black it takes a moment to find her giant sad eyes.  She quivers but doesn’t move or make a sound.  My sister asks reasonable questions like what has she been eating, is she old enough to be weaned, how big are her parents, how old is she, etc.  I barely pay attention and gaze deep into those huge soulful eyes.  Ignoring all reason and good judgment, I pull out my cash and bundle her up in my arms.  After thanking Jose, we head to the pet section for essentials.  I have no idea what these essentials are, but my sister saves the day, selecting a few items to get us through the night.

For the first 24 hours, I’m really worried about this tiny quivering mass.  She hardly eats, she doesn’t go to the bathroom, she doesn’t make noises or move around.  I try giving her milk using a medicine syringe.  I wonder if something is wrong with her legs because she doesn’t walk, just kind of scoots along.  I take her to the vet Tuesday.  Turns out Jose from the internet has taken her from her mom weeks before she was ready to be weaned.  She doesn’t even have her puppy teeth.  I feel like a horrible person and wonder which is the lesser of evils – keeping her or taking her back.  But the vet finally gets her to eat at little and sends her home with wet dog food.  She starts to move a little.  She occasionally emits a squeak.

Everyone who sees her loves her immediately.  She is adorable beyond words.  I pray that we can do this and that she will be ok.  I name her Stella (star).  I look online and find an Irish “middle name” – Neve (bright).   I buy her a striped puppy hoodie and more toys than most toddlers have.  I only feel slightly ridiculous.  I honestly can’t help myself.

She still won’t go to the bathroom.  I call the vet.  I try giving her the recommended warm water enemas with a tiny syringe.  I try massaging her little bum with olive oil. [Yes. This happened. We will never speak of it again.]  I wonder who the heck I’ve become.  I don’t even like dogs to lick me.  I start to panic because it’s after hours the day before Thanksgiving and I have no idea what to do with this poor little constipated puppy.  

I call Petsmart and ramble on about how I know nothing about dogs and I’m a new pet owner and I’m worried and she won’t poo and I don’t know what to do.  I speak to an angel disguised as an employee who recommends feeding her some pureed pumpkin.  I drive to three different stores to find pureed pumpkin.  Apparently pureed pumpkin is a hot commodity at 10pm the night before Thanksgiving.  I take Stella with me in a tiny bag I carry like a purse because I can’t leave her alone.  We go home and I feed her disgusting pumpkin puree from my finger because she won’t eat it otherwise.  We do this every few hours. All night long.  I stress.  I pray.  Finally, and with no little struggle, she goes number two.  I feel like I’ve won the lottery.  I log it in my answered prayers list.

Since that first night, she’s won over my co-workers, my family and just about every stranger she’s met.  She’s made friends with a couple sweet labs and been tolerated by several cool cats.  She’s done horrible disgusting things like eat her poo and irritating mean things like try to bite me on the face.  She wakes me up sometimes in the middle of the night to clean up messes and occasionally somehow manages to fling/scatter tiny pieces of you-know-what across the whole little area where she’s confined.  

But more often than that, she looks deep in to my eyes and lets me know she truly understands what I’m going through.  She tilts her tiny head and really listens when I talk to her. When I'm sick, she lays with me and comforts me.  She makes me laugh every single day and she’s always excited to see me.  Occasionally, she even lets me hold her in my lap without trying to gnaw off one of my fingers.

Today was a long, hard Monday.  The holidays are over.  Work was crazy.  I was tired and cranky and I feel a cold coming on.  Stella and I have been working for three straight days on potty training and she was doing awesome.  But today, every time I came back to check on her after a few hours at work, I find she has made mess after mess after mess.  Even when I was home, she was a complete terror, barking (she never barks), running around like a dervish, lunging and snapping at my pant legs.  But then…when I was nearing my wit’s end, she stopped.  She looked deep in my soul, tilted her head and listened as I whined about my day.  Then she returned to running around like a crazed furry pinball with my sock.  And I laughed and laughed.  

Stella has taught me that love is hard and messy and exhausting and requires unending patience and rolls and rolls of paper towels.  She’s also challenged me to grow – she’s got me thinking about going out on my own (so we can work from home), buying a house (she needs a yard) and being content with the life I have right this second (instead of waiting for a husband come along and complete me).  She is forcing me to be less controlling and selfish and lazy – all things that have needed to happen for a long, long time.

I really don’t know how someone like me – definitely NOT a dog person – has so completely lost my mind…and my heart.  I’ve spent hundreds of dollars, endless hours and completely sacrificed my freedom for the next 12 – 14 years (hopefully, at least!).  And still…I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for these Mondays with Stella.