Everything with Izzie was going OK, except for her barking. She barked a whole lot. I did some research on good apartment dogs (a little too late for that) and I found that beagles are horrible apartment dogs. Apparently they are known for their barking. They are a really needy breed, and love to be around people or other beagles. And if left alone for too long, they will bark to just hear their own voice, and sometimes they will self-mutilate. I couldn't see Izzie acting like a teenage girl with a razor blade, but maybe it happens.
To curtail her barking, we considered getting a shock collar or a collar that would spray her with dog Mace every time she barked. We ultimately decided to forgo both of those options. Instead, we covered her kennel with a mattress pad and blankets in an effort to muffle her cries. We even got her a hormone-soaked collar that supposedly smelled like a momma dog, which we made her wear when she was in the kennel. It slightly worked.
We had gotten into a nice routine. Anthony would wake up in the morning and walk her and feed her. He was the one to put her in the kennel when he left for work at three. And then on his dinner break from 7:30-8:30 he'd come home and do the routine all over again. He even hooked up a little TV to play Psych on loop to try and make her think she was with people.
Life was good with our little pup. Despite my reservations, I really did love her.
When Saturday rolled around, I decided to take her to Mom's house in Baton Rouge so I could do free laundry and show her off. My mom, sister and everyone else loved her-- but that was to be expected.
My plan was to properly crate train her when I was there, meaning I'd let her sit in her cage and whenever she barked I'd ignore her, and whenever she was quiet I'd reward her. We figured the house, as opposed to our apartment, would be ideal for this. And it was, but it turned out I was not a good teacher. I felt bad leaving her in there when Mom's 2 dogs and 4 cats got to roam free.
So Tracy and everyone else took turns playing with her. I didn't walk her because Mom's got a big fenced-in backyard. And she also ended up eating a lot more than usual- including cat food, which -- I found out the hard way-- makes dogs have to use the bathroom a lot.
Her new lack of structure undid everything we had taught her. She pooped everywhere!
Sunday was my breaking point. We came home from lunch and there was Izzie... in her kennel... covered in poop. She had danced all in it. Sprayed it everywhere. James saw it and busted out laughing. I did not laugh. I tried to clean it, I did, but I just couldn't. I puked a lot. Tracy had to clean it for me. She was really good with Izzie and I was impressed.
I gave Izzie a bath, which she hated, but desperately needed. I dried her off with a towel, but she was freeing and shaking really badly. I didn't know what to do for her. I giggled because she looked cute, and her shaking was really unnecessary. But Tracy didn't miss a beat. She swooped in, scooped the pup up in her new robe, and cuddled her and kept her warm.
I was impressed, but also let myself down. I could never be the kind of mom Izzie needed. Somehow it seemed to come naturally to Tracy. Not to me though.
That's when I realized that I could never be a single mom. Anthony is the one who does all the work with the dog, and I could never do it on my own. I wanted to leave Izzie and rush the two hours back to my apartment. I should have. But I didn't think that Anthony had said a proper goodbye to her. So we put her in the kennel and loaded her into my car.
I had driven half a mile when I smelled it. It was the most foul odor I have ever experienced. That's when I lost it. She had pooped in her cage in my car. I flipped out. I started yelling, crying, cursing and then hyperventilating. I pulled into a church parking lot, threw open the back of the car and yelled at Izzie for ruining my life. Why did she have to poop in the car? And of course she had somehow missed her puppy pad, and pooped all over the cage and her bed (which I had just washed) and it had splashed onto the carpet too.
Also, I had no paper towels or anything, so I had to use old McDonald's wrappers to clean it up with, which I left in the church's parking lot. Sorry God. The poop even got on my hand. That was the major breaking point.
I threw her back into her cage, doused my hand in sanitizer, and called Anthony. I berated him for making me get this dog I didn't want, I called him names, I told him I couldn't handle her and didn't want her and resented the sight of her, which also meant that I resented him. I was in hysterics. I then realized I left my favorite pillows at the house and that I was going to go back and get them and dump Izzie. He told me to do that, if it was causing me so much stress.
But I didn't want to get rid of his dog. Then he'd resent me. He promised he wouldn't, but I knew he would. So I told him I was bringing Izzie back with me, I just wanted him to know I hated him for putting me in the position. He didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. I was being irrational.
On the way back, I called my mom, freaking out, asking her to protect my pillows. I couldn't understand why her pooping had set me off so badly. Mom's insight helped me to realize it wasn't the poop that was freaking me out (although it played a part), but it was my new responsibility that had me scared. And I think she was right.
It had suddenly hit me that I was responsible for a living creature, and that meant that my freedom was being taken from me and I wasn't ready for that. I couldn't handle it.
The next day, though, everything was fine. I still loved Izzie and didn't resent her. Mom said that's what being a parent is-- sometimes they make you so angry and frustrated that you just can be near them, but then in a little while you're over it and are glad to have them.
That's how it was with Izzie. But that weekend changed me. Izzie was so happy frolicking in the backyard with Brutus (a bull mastiff who is easily 100 lbs heavier than she is). She loved having everyone's attention. She's a dog that needs a yard. Anthony did the math and decided that we kept her in the cage for like sixteen hours a day (including sleeping time) and that just wasn't fair to her. After seeing her loving a yard, I realized that I was stunting her and wasn't giving her the life she should have.
I told Tracy that she and her roommate, Casha, could keep her until Anthony and I have a house with a yard. Our lease is up in April so maybe we can rent a house then. I don't know. It was really hard giving her up. Mom was nice, and drove the two hours on a Wednesday to come get her. I was a wreck. I cried all day before work. I was mopey at work. And then on my dinner break at 7:30, Mom arrived to take my little girl.
Giving her up was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I'm actually crying thinking about it.
But she gets a lot of attention with my sis in New Orleans. She has a backyard now, and it rarely in her cage. It's better for her this way, but I'm not so sure it's better for me. Actually, I know it's better for me. On the 23rd, which was Anthony's birthday (4 days after we gave her up), we spent the night at a hotel casino to celebrate his 25th. We never could've done that with izzie, and I wouldn't have even felt comfortable leaving her in the cage for a day trip.
So everything worked out. I learned a very important lesson from little Izzie: I am nowhere near ready for kids, and I don't know if I'll ever have any. I certainly learned that I don't have what it takes to be a mom. My friend, Catherine, said that if it were an actual child I would've acted differently-- I hope she's right. Either way, I don't know how people have kids. How do you take care of them? You can't leave them in a bathroom or a cage all day. I have new found respect for my mom, who was pretty much a single mom (we only got to see our dad during the summer and other school breaks).
It's not a "goodbye", though, it's just a "see ya later".
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