Finding Patience

For most of my adult life, I've been afraid: afraid that I don't have the patience to parent. I'm not sure where it came from. I also don't think it's strange. I mean I'm not eating household cleanser (hat tip to "My Strange Addiction" on TLC).

Even fostering a dog, the thought of it, gave me the jitters. Anxiety. Didn't sleep the first night. Thought I might do it wrong. Things are nice, neat and orderly. Manageable. Safe and routine.

And then Daphne arrived, and part of me thinks, for all the aforementioned thought bubbles, it's just the right time. I told my mom today that even after day four, it's pushing my limits. Testing my abilities, with an animal that has ultimate forgiveness.

Truthfully, no one in this condo was more nervous than her.

So I have to lead and be willing to make mistakes, like I did today. Crossing Wabash, I stepped on her paw. She screamed. Daph has been abused, neglected, left for dead; you get the picture. My heart sank. I stepped on her paw because she walked right in front of me, it's cold, we're moving quick. And I scolded her.

She sulked. I lost my patience; felt sad. Wondered if she would ever enjoy walks again (it took a couple days for her to hold her tail up while we strolled). We'd come so far (in four days). Things got tragic. Quick.

And then I came home and sat with her and thought: this will happen. I will make mistakes and I will evolve with this dog and maybe another in the future. I will learn to forgive myself for those mistakes (I should have kept the leash on a shorter lead; had her next to me). Otherwise, I'll never find patience. And Daphne will always forgive me.

I write this with her, in a puddle of black and a red sweater, by my side on the couch. Just breathing. And loving.

For now, I'll follow her lead.

Canines

The letter ended with "P.S. If I can't get a dog, I'll settle for a cat." Date stamp: 1986, scrawled on loose leaf, with "Dear Mom and Dad" as its salutation. . . and slid ever so tenderly under their bedroom door while they slept. I made several attempts at this sort of coercion. After all, my happiness was on the line. Nevermind my allergies, I wanted to cuddle with something furry (therefore my parents' suggestion of guppies had me appalled). I am an only child and though friends sprang up on my block like dandelions, I wanted a real companion.

I've often romanticized walking a dog. It may have something to do with a certain Whisperer, but there is a power in a partnership that spans the centuries. The earnest and genuine doting a dog does for its owner, the impossible happiness they feel every day. . . it's simultaneously perplexing and magnetic.

We are thinking about becoming foster parents for an amazing local shelter. Up until now, we've only arrived with leashes, dog treats and poop bags to take a couple bumbling breeds out on the streets of West Loop. Some have caused blisters from tugging and pulling along the way. But the ones who connect with an upward gaze, respond to your tempo and tone. . . those are the ones I want to dognap and nestle in our home. Gertie comes to mind. Nick too.

Fostering seems low risk, and by risk I mean the risk of me getting annoyed and regretting the decision to invite fur, chewing and spontaneous bowel movements to the crib. A way to sample the litter, so to speak. We want to be the transitional parents while the dogs go through quarantine before heading to the shelter.

I did get a cat, by the way. It caused me great pain, as in sinus pain. Wound up having to get surgery after inhaling his dander for years. He was cute and furry, but Marc and I both agree. . . he's the cat, I'm the dog. And so it goes. After a childhood of pining and poking, a job as a zookeeper and every intention to major in pre-vet upon entering undergrad it might just be time to relax and reap the benefits of being around a funny pup in the name of not settling this time.