All I Need to Know in Marriage and Motherhood, I Learned from My Dog Trainer-
A progressive revelation of life and dogs
Step One: Admit It
I am not sure how it happened. I am not certain of the time and place that I lost control f my home. I will tell you this: the evening before I gave in and placed a phone call to my current dog trainer, I walked into the kitchen to find, Max, our family’s “gia - normous” Yorkshire terrier on top of the counter high kitchen table attempting to wrestle a hot dog from my four year old. One end of said hot dog was in each of their mouths and the four year old was attempting to scream through gritted teeth at Max, who in turn was in a full hind-end-down pull position. I stood frozen attempting to process the hot dog war in front of me. “Impossible “ I thought. It is official. I’ve lost control. I need help”
Max has been a part of our family for the last six years. If it was not for his furry little Ewok face he would never have survived my husband. Bad dog? You have no idea.
We purchased Max from a reputable breeder. We are cursed with bad dog luck and our older (adopted) sheep dog, Oberon, had to be put down. He was no walk in the park either. Think “Clifford”. His ever- growing intimidating size gave way to his ever growing intimidating grouchiness. After he chased the neighbor up on top of his truck, decided to rip of a man’s pant leg (I guess he didn’t like him), herd the babysitter subsequently sequestering her on top of the couch ( despite her teary screams, the kids were asleep and could not rescue her ) , and finally “nip” a kid on the bottom ( guess he didn’t like the kid either), the vet urged us to put him down. He was an aggression time bomb. Oberon spent his last day happily devouring a Honey Baked Ham bone. My husband loaded the 120 pound “unpredictable and aggressive” sheep dog into the Suburban and stayed by his side as he crossed the “Rainbow Bridge”. I have to say, that was a very sad day. But the vet assured us it was the right thing to do in face of Obie’s increasing random aggression.
Eight months and two attempts at Old English Sheepdog foster rescue , a houseful of urine stained carpet ( should never have gotten the white Laura Ashley ) and two sad and puppy needing kids later, we found Max. Finally! a dog of our own. A designer dog at that! A sweet little dog our kids could grow up with and better yet, he was “ on clearance” from the breeder.!! Sadly, Max’s teacup champion bloodline parents were 1-3 pounds. At six weeks, Max was tipping the scale at 4 pounds. Not teacup material.
But he was ADORABLE. Truly, he was like a little four legged Ewok. A stuffed animal (the floppy kind!) come to life. The day Max came home was an exciting one. We were ready! Armed with smiles and love and arms, we couldn’t wait for Max . All the research was done! We found the newest furry addition to or family and he was about one fifteenth the size of Oberon… how could we go wrong?
The breeder sent a puppy packet and lists of instructions and directions. Do you know the number one cause of Yorkie puppies’ death is falling out of an open car door? Concussion. Number two is being squeezed to hard or being dropped by small children. Suffocation and concussion respectively. Do you know that small breed puppies need to be fed often? They could go in hypoglycemic shock. But these things aside, our home with two small children and a Suburban, was perfect for Max.
Who could have told me that that mostly sweet puppy (he refused to be crate trained, chewed and destroyed, yapped incessantly, ran away frequently, was a bed hog) Max, would take over my life? The hot dog incident was proof. I was out of my league. As the Trainer commented on his first visit, Max had “taken over and was running” our house.
Max only came when he felt like it, walked himself when he felt like it, barked incessantly when he felt like it, ate when and where he felt like it, slept where he felt like it and recently peed where he felt like it ( most often on the living room couches and carpet). Max was out of control. I had no control. This wasn’t behavior training, this was crisis triage!
stay tuned for more!...
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Long Run
I began my first marathon training almost three years ago. As a professional fitness trainer I actually believed I could train for those 26.2 miles all on my own. I lasted until about mile 15. The longer the runs became, the more I wished for company – a running partner, someone to pass the time with. I enrolled in a local training group with a chip on my shoulder and expectations set way too high. The weekly workouts were more than do-able but the long runs…those were my demons. I couldn’t let go of my competitive nature. I pushed harder, longer, faster and paid no heed to the coaches’ advice of “easy runs.”
Looking back, I ran that marathon for all the wrong reasons. I ran like I had something to prove, someone to beat. The closer race day came, the more pressure I put on myself to come in under my goal time. I was a strong, committed runner – hell, Why not? Looking back, I realize my greatest obstacle was myself. I finished that race. Painfully. Overtrained and injured and most of all angry with a sense of failure. It was not enough for me to complete it. I wanted more.
Let me back up a bit. I was 34 years old at the time and a mother of 2 children, ages 6 and 3. I battled constantly with the need to be the best in all I did. I was one of those Mom’s all the other Mom’s hated. I exercised obsessively through both pregnancies and once the kids were born, they were no strangers to the jogger strollers. I completed my second triathlon only 6 months after my second child was born. Granted, the nature of my profession requires me to be active, physically fit and motivated. My clients, mainly females and 30 something mom’s expected that from me. Then I hit the wall.
After the birth of my second child I was diagnosed with severe depression with a post partum onset. I became the incredible shrinking woman. I lost weight faster than was fathomable or healthy. I lost my drive and my spirit. I lost complete knowledge of who I was. I, the driven multi-tasker extraordinaire, lost the ability to handle the day to day needs of my children and family. I isolated myself. Struggled to stay afloat as the jaws of this unknown creature called depression sucked me deeper and deeper down and awa y from my own life. Doctors, therapists, psychiatrists. I saw them all and still do to this day. I resigned myself to taking daily antidepressants so that I could be a mother, a wife and a professional again. There was no medication, however, that would ever allow me to be ME again. The only thing I didn’t lose was running. Running was my sanity. I couldn’t plan ahead enough to make dinner on a daily basis, but I could always run. As the saying goes, I didn’t my know head from a hole in the ground, but I knew how to run.
I cannot describe the relief and joy I felt as my feet hit the pavement. Their rhythm was soothing, captivating. I felt free of my body and mind. I felt like I could fly. So I began to run more and more seeking that freedom, that release, the one thing I could still count on, my body’s ability to perform. It was with this desperation that I entered my first marathon. It was horrible. I wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t centered. I did not really know why ,I was running that race. I know now that I wasn’t really running that marathon I was just running away.
With a less than desirable finish time, injured and disheartened I vowed to begin training again. I would slow down, take more time to plan workouts and I would run that marathon again. This second time around is when I really discovered the value of the Long Run. I came to understand that it was the weekly long run that would test my metal. It was the weekly long run that would challenge me to define exactly why I was running. Over the weeks, I learned, albeit slowly, to let go of my single minded drive, the need to beat the clock. I listened to my coaches “Pace yourself. Run your own race. Take it easy. Enjoy.” My body embraced the distances, my mind relinquished the suffocating control of the clock and I ran. Once again free, ecstatic to feel my feet beneath me. My monster , “Depression”, remained with me. She was there as I laced my shoes in the dark of the early morning. She was with me on every run on every mile. She under-estimated me.
This marathon was different. I was training for distance and endurance, not for time.
Depression and I had the same talk every morning I would wake before my family began the day. Quietly the voice introduced fear, doubt and anxiety, “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?” The same questions repeating again and again as pulled on my shorts and shoes, inhaled a cup of coffee, swallowed my 100mg of bottled sanity, put my headphones on and headed out the door. Just one mile I would pray, just let me get through the first mile. And I would turn the volume on my portable CD player up as loud as it would go and let U2’s yearning melodies provide my feet cadence. Please, just one mile. “Where the streets have no name…”
I do not know if it is the same for all runners, but I know that my first mile – whenever, wherever, it is – is always the hardest mile. Perhaps it is even worse than the “final mile”. There is no hope of finish, only distance ahead. There is no euphoria or relief, just stiff legs and joints as the body warms to the pace of the run. I always feel like a puppet with missing strings during the first mile. Disjointed. Disassociated from the pavement and from my feet. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
But I kept running. Gradually loosening and owning my body as the pavement streamed beneath me. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
F- you I would answer. I am RUNNING.
The weeks and months went by in a blur. Training runs fell in place and provided me with a structure By which to live my life. Daily Agenda: 1) Run 2) Take care of the kids 3) Groceries 4) Car Pool 5) Dinner 6) Breathe 7) 8) Go to bed so I can run. At the end of each week, there it was. Glittering. Every Sunday morning for six months – it was on the training schedule! - The Long Run.
I came to long for the Long Run. The weekly test of strength and commitment. A demon that I could see and feel, The Long Run is tangible. It is miles and sweat and tears. It is life and I chase it. I realize. I refuse. I accept. I define.
I am not the sum of my prescriptions.
I began my first marathon training almost three years ago. As a professional fitness trainer I actually believed I could train for those 26.2 miles all on my own. I lasted until about mile 15. The longer the runs became, the more I wished for company – a running partner, someone to pass the time with. I enrolled in a local training group with a chip on my shoulder and expectations set way too high. The weekly workouts were more than do-able but the long runs…those were my demons. I couldn’t let go of my competitive nature. I pushed harder, longer, faster and paid no heed to the coaches’ advice of “easy runs.”
Looking back, I ran that marathon for all the wrong reasons. I ran like I had something to prove, someone to beat. The closer race day came, the more pressure I put on myself to come in under my goal time. I was a strong, committed runner – hell, Why not? Looking back, I realize my greatest obstacle was myself. I finished that race. Painfully. Overtrained and injured and most of all angry with a sense of failure. It was not enough for me to complete it. I wanted more.
Let me back up a bit. I was 34 years old at the time and a mother of 2 children, ages 6 and 3. I battled constantly with the need to be the best in all I did. I was one of those Mom’s all the other Mom’s hated. I exercised obsessively through both pregnancies and once the kids were born, they were no strangers to the jogger strollers. I completed my second triathlon only 6 months after my second child was born. Granted, the nature of my profession requires me to be active, physically fit and motivated. My clients, mainly females and 30 something mom’s expected that from me. Then I hit the wall.
After the birth of my second child I was diagnosed with severe depression with a post partum onset. I became the incredible shrinking woman. I lost weight faster than was fathomable or healthy. I lost my drive and my spirit. I lost complete knowledge of who I was. I, the driven multi-tasker extraordinaire, lost the ability to handle the day to day needs of my children and family. I isolated myself. Struggled to stay afloat as the jaws of this unknown creature called depression sucked me deeper and deeper down and awa y from my own life. Doctors, therapists, psychiatrists. I saw them all and still do to this day. I resigned myself to taking daily antidepressants so that I could be a mother, a wife and a professional again. There was no medication, however, that would ever allow me to be ME again. The only thing I didn’t lose was running. Running was my sanity. I couldn’t plan ahead enough to make dinner on a daily basis, but I could always run. As the saying goes, I didn’t my know head from a hole in the ground, but I knew how to run.
I cannot describe the relief and joy I felt as my feet hit the pavement. Their rhythm was soothing, captivating. I felt free of my body and mind. I felt like I could fly. So I began to run more and more seeking that freedom, that release, the one thing I could still count on, my body’s ability to perform. It was with this desperation that I entered my first marathon. It was horrible. I wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t centered. I did not really know why ,I was running that race. I know now that I wasn’t really running that marathon I was just running away.
With a less than desirable finish time, injured and disheartened I vowed to begin training again. I would slow down, take more time to plan workouts and I would run that marathon again. This second time around is when I really discovered the value of the Long Run. I came to understand that it was the weekly long run that would test my metal. It was the weekly long run that would challenge me to define exactly why I was running. Over the weeks, I learned, albeit slowly, to let go of my single minded drive, the need to beat the clock. I listened to my coaches “Pace yourself. Run your own race. Take it easy. Enjoy.” My body embraced the distances, my mind relinquished the suffocating control of the clock and I ran. Once again free, ecstatic to feel my feet beneath me. My monster , “Depression”, remained with me. She was there as I laced my shoes in the dark of the early morning. She was with me on every run on every mile. She under-estimated me.
This marathon was different. I was training for distance and endurance, not for time.
Depression and I had the same talk every morning I would wake before my family began the day. Quietly the voice introduced fear, doubt and anxiety, “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?” The same questions repeating again and again as pulled on my shorts and shoes, inhaled a cup of coffee, swallowed my 100mg of bottled sanity, put my headphones on and headed out the door. Just one mile I would pray, just let me get through the first mile. And I would turn the volume on my portable CD player up as loud as it would go and let U2’s yearning melodies provide my feet cadence. Please, just one mile. “Where the streets have no name…”
I do not know if it is the same for all runners, but I know that my first mile – whenever, wherever, it is – is always the hardest mile. Perhaps it is even worse than the “final mile”. There is no hope of finish, only distance ahead. There is no euphoria or relief, just stiff legs and joints as the body warms to the pace of the run. I always feel like a puppet with missing strings during the first mile. Disjointed. Disassociated from the pavement and from my feet. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
But I kept running. Gradually loosening and owning my body as the pavement streamed beneath me. “Where are you running to, Girl? What are you running from, Girl?”
F- you I would answer. I am RUNNING.
The weeks and months went by in a blur. Training runs fell in place and provided me with a structure By which to live my life. Daily Agenda: 1) Run 2) Take care of the kids 3) Groceries 4) Car Pool 5) Dinner 6) Breathe 7) 8) Go to bed so I can run. At the end of each week, there it was. Glittering. Every Sunday morning for six months – it was on the training schedule! - The Long Run.
I came to long for the Long Run. The weekly test of strength and commitment. A demon that I could see and feel, The Long Run is tangible. It is miles and sweat and tears. It is life and I chase it. I realize. I refuse. I accept. I define.
I am not the sum of my prescriptions.
Lunch With Dad
Sometimes when we are not too busy, we go to Dad’s office. We call him and tell him we are going to come see him and then we get on our way. As soon as we get going Mom says “Call your Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “But Mom” we say, “It’s going to take longer than 5 minutes.”
“Just trust me,” says Mom.
We call Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “Exactly 5 minutes.”
Here’s what happens when you tell Dad you’ll be there in 5 minutes.
Dad hangs the phone up and starts to get out of his chair but
He changes his mind and decides to make one more important phone call
The call takes a little longer than he thought it would.
He hurries to get moving but when he stands up, he drops his Blackberry
When he bends down to get it, the phone rings again.
Dad lets it go to voicemail.
He hurries down the hall but has to stop and chat with The Assistant
While chatting with the Assistant he realizes he is thirsty so he detours “real quick”, to the kitchen to grab a Diet coke with ice.
He likes the ice.
He chews the ice as he heads for the elevator.
He pushes the down button but then thinks he better make a stop at the “facilities” before heading down. He walks REALLY fast to the facilities. On his way out, he realizes his ice melted in his Diet Coke. It will “just take a minute” to get more so he heads back to the kitchen. The ice machine is over active today so Dad needs a second to clean up the mess.
Refill in hand, chewing ice, Dad scuttles to the elevator and pushes the Down button. This time he gets on.
Passing floor 23, decides to make a quick stop at his buddy’s office. He hops out on Floor 22 and takes the stairs back to Floor 23 (Whew!) but His buddy went to lunch.
Dad decides he will try to beat the elevator and takes the stairs down.
He has 22 floors to go but what the heck? He used to play football in high school. At Floor 19 Dad says his “bad knee” is acting up so he opts for the elevator again.
He makes it all the way down to GROUND.
He comes waving and smiling out to the car.
Mom parked in the shade.
The baby is sleeping and we are fighting.
“How About Lunch?!” he says.
Mom’s eyebrows go crooked.
“Lunch!” we say “Lunch” and Dad says
“ GREAT! Just give me 5 minutes, I forgot my wallet in the office…”
Sometimes when we are not too busy, we go to Dad’s office. We call him and tell him we are going to come see him and then we get on our way. As soon as we get going Mom says “Call your Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “But Mom” we say, “It’s going to take longer than 5 minutes.”
“Just trust me,” says Mom.
We call Dad and tell him we’ll be there in 5 minutes. “Exactly 5 minutes.”
Here’s what happens when you tell Dad you’ll be there in 5 minutes.
Dad hangs the phone up and starts to get out of his chair but
He changes his mind and decides to make one more important phone call
The call takes a little longer than he thought it would.
He hurries to get moving but when he stands up, he drops his Blackberry
When he bends down to get it, the phone rings again.
Dad lets it go to voicemail.
He hurries down the hall but has to stop and chat with The Assistant
While chatting with the Assistant he realizes he is thirsty so he detours “real quick”, to the kitchen to grab a Diet coke with ice.
He likes the ice.
He chews the ice as he heads for the elevator.
He pushes the down button but then thinks he better make a stop at the “facilities” before heading down. He walks REALLY fast to the facilities. On his way out, he realizes his ice melted in his Diet Coke. It will “just take a minute” to get more so he heads back to the kitchen. The ice machine is over active today so Dad needs a second to clean up the mess.
Refill in hand, chewing ice, Dad scuttles to the elevator and pushes the Down button. This time he gets on.
Passing floor 23, decides to make a quick stop at his buddy’s office. He hops out on Floor 22 and takes the stairs back to Floor 23 (Whew!) but His buddy went to lunch.
Dad decides he will try to beat the elevator and takes the stairs down.
He has 22 floors to go but what the heck? He used to play football in high school. At Floor 19 Dad says his “bad knee” is acting up so he opts for the elevator again.
He makes it all the way down to GROUND.
He comes waving and smiling out to the car.
Mom parked in the shade.
The baby is sleeping and we are fighting.
“How About Lunch?!” he says.
Mom’s eyebrows go crooked.
“Lunch!” we say “Lunch” and Dad says
“ GREAT! Just give me 5 minutes, I forgot my wallet in the office…”
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