ParaNorman

I don’t know if it’s because it’s easier in a house, or it’s just easier with this particular canine, but Norman is the most non-stress, non-drama dog I’ve ever had as a houseguest. Harry is probably the only one to really come close to the ease of fostering as Norman has.

Norman is housebroken, doesn’t make a peep, and as it turns out, is rather annoyed by the concept of chewing and not eating something, which means I never fear leaving him alone with my things.

I’ve introduced toys to him, and he’s expressed that he just doesn’t get what the big deal is about. One day I came around the corner to see the ropeman toy in his mouth. I was delighted! I walked over to discover that he hadn’t been chewing it at all; the one stray string that had once held the tag was still on the toy and Norman had found it irritating enough to cut it off for me.

Our outings have been few since Shakespeare. My friend Ben has been over on numerous occasions to help out with things (help lift the patio doors into place after I stained them, bring me food when I was ill early in the week, and just to stop by to say hi.) I’m pretty sure Norman thinks Ben is his estranged dad.

Saturday night Ben and I got tickets to Eat-See-Hear. Neither of us had ever been, but for $10/ticket we thought we’d give it a try. It was a 5:30pm to 11:00pm of food trucks (eat), an outdoor screening of Ghostbusters (see) and two live bands (hear) that took place in a baseball field in Beverly Hills. 

Norman did amazing, given that this was a new experience and a cacophony of smells and sights for a canine. Tons of people picnicking, other dogs about, and all surrounded by a ring of glorious-smelling food trucks.

As I waited by one of the food trucks, the owner was outside and asked about Norman. I had Norman’s Adopt Me bandana on, just in case someone might have an interest in him. The owner of the truck said Norman looked a bit thin. I agreed. I had packed Norman his own picnic of dog food, treats, and a travel bowl, so when he asked me, “Do you want get some chicken for him? We can cook up some chicken,” I politely declined. (I wasn't going to pay $8 for Norman’s meal when I had already brought his dinner.)

“Well, I would feel better if I gave him some chicken. Can I give him some chicken?” he said sweetly.

The rephrase of the question prompted a bright affirmative from me. “Sure! If you would feel better giving him chicken, I’m sure he’d be quite happy with that.”

Within fifteen minutes of being in the park, Norman had already scammed his first free meal and downed the roasted chicken breast (freshly cooked) in about 12 seconds.

On our picnic blanket, Ben lay on his back to listen to the music and I did the same. Before I even fully hit the ground, Norman saw the two of us, and like a two-year kid happy to have his divorced parents back together again, Norman flopped onto his own back and wiggled up between the two of us with his goofy grin.

“He’s not your daddy,” I explained to him.

“Totally not your daddy, kid,” Ben said. “You’re cute and all, but  not your daddy.”

Norman was calm and serene (perhaps digesting the chicken) just up until the opening credits of Ghostbusters at 8:30pm. Granted, it’s a loud movie with much noise-effects, but I was surprised he didn’t just settle in. He had been for the previous two and a half hours; perhaps he had just hit his limit.

The heat during the day this week has marooned us indoors for the most part. Even the afternoon walk is just a race to the back tree to pee and come back into the air-conditioned room to his new favorite spot: the fireplace.

Granted I had been contemplating what to do with this big, beautiful defunct fireplace, and Norman gave me a great idea – the best indoor doghouse ever. I had swept and mopped out the area prior to his arrival, but it was still a bit dusty in there. I laid down a dogbed inside. Norman refused to go in. I put down a towel instead. He lay outside it. I left it open with just the cold bare brick, and alas, the dragon returned to his lair.

Norman is learning to cuddle a bit more. Since his bath (quite traumatic for him), it’s been more enjoyable for me as well. 

I was popping Claritin every day for awhile there due to being allergic to whatever Norman had rolled in during the past month. 

He’s still awkward in that he has no idea how to be helpful in allowing someone to pick him up, and once placed down, he merely lays right in that position never to move. He might groan in displeasure once his leg falls asleep, but rather than stand up and move about, he wiggles on his back and makes a dramatic spectacle of it (okay, I guess there is some drama for this dog.)

 

Thursday was the first day that the temps in the valley were below 80 degrees. I took Norman out back to get some sunshine, as he seems a bit down and depressed to me. Now that he’s not sleeping 24/7 from sickness, and he doesn’t play, there’s not much for a dog to do unless there’s other dogs around. He’s already mastered Sit, Down, Stay, Paw, and Come (whether or not he wants to abide by each request is a wholly different matter.)

I hate having a dog on a leash in my own backyard. Especially because they should be able to come, go, and lay down as they please. Otherwise, I end up standing in the driveway repeating, “Norman, come on, you wanna go for a walk,” as he lays there, coyly thumping his tail on the dusty earth, imitating the dead grass around him (I know, I know--working on saving up for a sprinkler system... and some lawn.)

I acquired a 40ft tie out to use for now. I wrapped it around one of the trees and then attached the other end to Norman’s harness. The night before I had attached it to his collar, much to my horror he felt exuberant enough to race so hard he almost gave himself whiplash when the tie line ended. Perhaps he had learned a lesson from that. This time, he didn’t want to run around. 

My lap was sufficient. Why run in the big backyard when there’s a lap to be draped across (because this is where I placed him—why would he move)?

Having a backyard is the entire reason I’ve wanted a house. I want to open up the sliding glass door and allow a canine to leap out and off the deck and run around like a maniac. Granted, my backyard isn’t an open space with no fences, but it isn’t secure enough for me.

“Where is Norman going to go?” Ben asked when I told him how my heart stopped beating the other night when I walked out the kitchen door, arms full of stuff, and Norman raced out under me and into the yard.

“I don’t know. But it was terrifying. He could have run down the driveway and out into the street.”

“I really don’t think Norman wants to be anywhere else but with you.”

Perhaps Ben is right. It’s not like Norman has an escape plan (that I know of.) The moment I urgently whispered his name he turned to me with a “What?” expression and then returned obediently. I wasn’t yelling; perhaps he could see it was fear, not anger, that was motivating my request.

Norman is an independent little guy, but I’ve noticed that he’s been following me around more often. He doesn’t seem upset when I leave, even if it’s for a few hours. I always return. I wonder if he’s ever had a family, someone he could count on to always return.

Mary Ann emailed to say that there was a hit on Norman’s adoptapet page; someone was interested in him. I hadn’t even thought to bring him to the adoption fair, first off because I didn’t know where and when it was, but also because I was still looking at my end goal being that he lives with Katya. But now I’m wondering if he’ll even get a chance to do that. Perhaps he’ll go straight from here into his forever home.

Norman’s a sweetheart. He’s a good dog; a great dog even. The easiest dog and the best energy to have as my first canine guest. Right now as I’m writing this on my laptop, sitting on my deck, drinking a glass of hard cider, Norman is beneath my chair snoozing.

Norman deserves a great family to call his own; one with a real dad and a real mom who are together (or two moms or two dads—I don’t discriminate and neither does Norman--as long as you have good lawn of course) and maybe children or at least another furry companion for him to spend his days with.

I’m going to miss this little man, I admit it. Katya returns on August 28^th, so he is free to go to her at that time so he can have beagle time with her dog, Ophelia (yes, her dog‘s name is a Shakespeare reference—yet another reason why she is one of my favorite people.) Norman deserves that time to be with others of his kind. Maybe he’ll even bark and whine and have something to say. If each neighbor’s lawn is like a canine’s Facebook page, Norman has had plenty to say in his graffiti urine. Maybe once with other dogs, he can speak his mind rather than write it.

Katya was right: this is a special dog. He will bring joy and laughter and fun to whomever is blessed to be called his family. I feel blessed to have had him under my roof, sharing my space and time with me even for this short spell. I mean, how can I not miss that beautiful Norman grin?

Norman's potential adopter isn't written in stone; they still have to meet him and whatnot. So, here's a link to Norman's page again, if you or someone you know believe that this special soul is your canine lifemate:

 http://www.adoptapet.com/pet7649741.html 

(Norman says, "Goodnight, folks.")

Never a Good Time, but Always the Right Time

“It’s not a good time,” is an excuse quite overused in this society, whether the topic be something as joyful as having a baby or falling in love, or as tragic as someone dying or breaking a limb. Is there really a good time for anything?

The past few months haven’t been a good time for me to take in a dog. As much as I wanted to, and it pained me each time I had to turn one down, my house and I were simply not ready. Contractors were in and out completing floors and windows; I was rushing between them at the house and being back at the apartment packing up the last 15 years of my life.

And I was exhausted. I just couldn’t do it. It was supposed to be a joyous time of finally getting what I’ve wanted for so long: a house. But it was stressful at every turn: from securing the loan, to saying yes to the house despite its flaws, to then dealing with one flaw after another and wondering how anyone could possibly neglect and abuse a house in this manner over the years.

I had high hopes, but the money ran out quickly. Fixing the backyard just isn’t in the cards right now. I need the inside completed first. And when Katya emailed me early last week to take in a special dog she had met at South LA, my place was far from completed and it was simply "not a good time."

But how could I say No? I know about special dogs—dogs like Tia and Harry—the ones you don’t just love, but fall in love with. Such it was for Katya and this little beagle/spaniel mix she christened Lennon (after John Lennon of course.) I slept on it, and then replied the next morning that I simply couldn’t take him. The contractors still had to finish drywall and put up the casing around the new patio doors, and my place was a hazard for any being who likes to put inanimate objects in his or her mouth. Outlets didn’t have wallplates, screws and nails were on the floor, and my moving boxes were in various states of unpackness. I couldn’t even sequester a dog in one room of the house as I hadn’t put the doors back up yet, and the doors that were going up didn’t even have doorknobs to keep them shut.

In lieu of being Lennon’s foster, I offered to transport him to wherever he needed to go. And of course, she could put me as the very last resort because although my place was dangerous for a dog, a dog was less likely to be killed here than at the shelter.

Another foster came through, and I was lined up to transport. However, due to some fumbling of paperwork and whatever goes on at the shelter, Mary Ann at Tails of the City (the rescue Lennon was being placed with) found out that Lennon was pulled by another rescue. As it was, there were odd discrepancies in information: he was sick, he wasn’t sick so he could be neutered, and now he was just plain gone. I hoped for Lennon’s sake that he really did go to a good rescue.

The non-event of helping Lennon kicked me in the ass to get back on top of things and keep working toward a safe home. I had to overcome my exhaustion. I had to make this, at the very least, a safe place for canines. The yard would have to wait (I just don’t have the money for a new fence, deck, and driveway gate), but I didn’t have a yard at my apartment and that never stopped me.

It was simply ludicrous to me that a dog might die because I didn’t have doorknobs. So, I got to work on hanging doors, buying doorknobs, cleaning up the drywall dust, unpacking what I could and containing the hazardous material in safe places.

Then on Saturday morning, I got the call. “You’re not going to believe this: Lennon is back at South LA.” It was Mary Ann. The rescue he had gone to either didn’t want him or had received him in error.

The poor little dog who was sick, had been sent to a vet to get neutered, then to a rescue, then to who knows where, and now was sicker than ever and probably wouldn’t make it out again unless someone took him. Unfortunately, the foster Mary Ann and Katya lined up was now booked.

“Well, if he needs a place to go, I can take him for a week,” I heard the words coming out of my mouth before realizing I had spoken. Mary Ann had only asked if I could transport him, although she wasn’t sure where to quite yet.

“Really?”

“Well, I have doors now. And doorknobs. I just need some time to clean up and get situated. When does he need to be out?”

“Well if you’re taking him, any time is fine. They close at 5pm. Thank you so much! I just need some time to find a new foster for him. I can do that in a week.”

I hung up the phone and rushed around, putting the final touches on getting my house ready. My first canine houseguest, and I hadn’t even finished painting the interior or putting away my office. Not the best of times, but in truth, my house was way safer and less stressful than South LA animal shelter.

Four hours later, I was kneeling down on the floor of the shelter, smiling at the little boy who cowered and buried his head into the animal control officer’s chest. “No. No more adventure,” he seemed to say. He looked more exhausted than I had felt in the past month.

 

“Oh come on,” the officer said kindly petting Lennon. “The last place just wasn’t right for you. This is much better.”

Lennon let me put a collar and leash on him, and even allowed me to walk him out of the receiving area.

Once outside he took not one, not two, but three dumps, all of which contained little white squirmy worms, as if he had deposited little coconut-covered candy bars along the shelter’s walkway. So the runny nose and messy neuter job (his balls—not a pretty thing to begin with—were just plain wretched-looking), were not his only problems.

Once inside the truck, I gave Lennon the exemption card—the one that says he doesn’t have to adhere to the passenger seat only on his ride from the shelter. The moment I sat down, the kid crawled up my shirt, glued himself to my chest, and hung his head over my shoulder. I couldn’t drive in that position, but a modified situation was doable.

Once on the road, I wondered if the guy had played me. He looked all too comfortable and happy behind the steering wheel.

A trip to the vet to get some meds for that cough, snot, and oh yes the worms (he wasn’t going on my bed or couch until that much was taken care of), yielded other results. I had noticed that Lennon’s back leg was twitching. He was trembling all over, so I didn’t think much of it, but the vet took his upper respiratory condition and leg twitching as possible signs of distemper.

Really?!?!

Distemper is—and don’t quote me on the specific percentage but I must be close—is about 90% fatal. The only dogs that get it are puppies not yet vaccinated. It’s as uncommon as measles in people—and in fact, is the canine equivalent. The virus attacks the respiratory, then gastronomical, and then hits the nervous system. It’s a full body shut-down and death in only a couple of weeks’ time.

Did Katya just have a knack for finding those about to die? I thought as I remembered Stella. No. This kid just has a cold. I was strangely calm. Granted I had known the little guy for about three hours, but seriously, he just had a cold, was stressed out, and maybe has a nervous twitch. Let’s give him some time to settle down and then we can start diagnosing fatal diseases.

Mary Ann decided to go ahead with the distemper test, and because that was a possibility his antibiotic wasn’t just a normal doxycycline that kennel cough kids get: it was some crazy broad spectrum antibiotic that although boosts the survival rate of dogs with distemper, could give me bone marrow cancer if I touch it.

Later that night, I looked it up online. Yes, it does cause DNA or RNA modifications, but guess what? It’s still given out to people in third world countries. A little precaution like not touching it with my fingers is acceptable but I’m pretty positive that not going end up with cancer for having it in the house.

Now that Lennon’s medical was taken care of (and I could ponder the distemper test for four days while we awaited results), it was introducing my first canine houseguest to the house.

Lennon appears to be an outside dog. He enjoys the outside, and enjoys looking at the outside when not actually out there. Once outside, he enjoys the art of lawn-diving as much as Harry did. 

Inside, he learned about television and seems to enjoy it. When it was time to take him out for his before-bed bathroom break walk, I had to shut off the TV; he couldn’t be torn away from it.

I had to explain to him about dog beds. He tried to avoid them, perhaps thinking they were off limits. Although, perhaps given the extreme temps in the valley as of late and him running a fever, the hardwood floors were just way more comfortable.

Strangely, he appears to be housebroken. I don’t worry that he’ll piss on anything inside the house, and he always waits until he gets outside to do his business. In fact, after only a couple of days, he understands that the quick walk midday into the heat is just to pee at the far end of the backyard and then quickly run back inside.

Having him here has proven one thing: that the yard is indeed a priority over remodeling the interior of the house. My major project of converting a stand up shower into a laundry closet will be put on the back burner. Not having a washer and dryer has caused me two hours of annoyance by going to the Laundromat once in the past two weeks; but not being able to open up my sliding glass doors and allow a dog to go bounding outside to the backyard to pee, to chase a squirrel, or do anything—that irritates me about fifteen times a day.

Lennon didn’t know his name anymore than his namesake. Day two I awakened after a fitful night listening to him sniffling, reverse-sneezing, and trying to get comfortable on the beds and floor, to a name in my head: Norman. I looked over at the sleeping guy and said, “Lennon?” No response. I hesitantly then questioned, “Norman?” To which he raised his head. “Your name is Norman? Okay. Norman it is.”

And so, the peaceful Lennon became Norman... Norman the Nut.

As Norman regains his health he comes out of his shell more, but he still hasn’t quite gotten a hang of cuddling yet. He still prefers to lie next to me, rather than on my lap. 

And no matter what happens, if he’s confused on what I want or he’s not sure how to get what he wants, then his default move is to simply show me his balls (or what’s left of them.) He likes to lie on his back, but the man needs some common decency sometimes.

Norman is quite smart, and now that he’s agreed to his name, he’s taking to training a bit. Hardwood floors do offer their own set of problems, but he seems okay with it. He walks well on them, but when he awoke the other day and instinctually shook himself, I didn’t even see his body fall through the air—one shake and boom, he was down on his side in a collapsed heap of canine. (He wasn’t hurt and recovered quite well.)

Now that Norman is no longer leaking green fluid from his nose or worms from his butt (and the distemper test came back Negative – yay!), I’m starting to take him out into the world. His first Shakespeare play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream went well. He watched, as he does with TV, or snoozed when things got boring. He didn’t bark as some other dogs did in the audience, and people commented on how well-behaved he was.

I did learn one thing: the boy needs boundaries. He has no qualms about trying to take a bite out of whatever you have in your hand while it’s also in your mouth. So, we’ll be working on that.

Oh, and of course there’s a change of plans. The fact is, moving a dog who’s been sick can lead to another bout of sickness. If I have no job (although I really really need one), there’s no reason I can’t keep him until Katya comes back on the 28^th. He’s a super easy foster, and now that I have my own house, I don’t mind leaving for a few hours at a time. He’s not destructive, and since I haven’t finished unpacking, there’s not much out for him to destroy even if he wanted to. He’s proven to be a quiet companion for events as well we an easy dog to leave at home should I need to go out for a bit.

So the house wasn’t ready for a guest. It wasn’t a good time. But it was the right time. Because the right time, not matter if it’s good or bad, is when someone needs you. Norman needed me. And, let’s face it, I needed him.

Norman, congratulations on being the first guest in my house. May you be one of many in a long line of canine guests to find peace, solace, and fun, here on the Ave of the Beautiful View.

Here is the link to Norman’s ad on adoptapet, should you know someone who would like this nutty, yet peaceful, little guy as a companion:

 http://www.adoptapet.com/pet7649741.html