Pass the Sugar

Allow me to introduce you to a friend: my sister and the author of Sugar Dish, a blog about baking cakes that are beautiful inside and out. If you like baking and making stuff and generally just rocking your shiz, check it out. And in case you think this individual sounds entirely too cool and clever (and good at photography) to in fact be related to me, I offer this evidence. Rest easy, FIYers, Sugar Dish is a kindred spirit!

Perfect Nonsense

So the dog trainer came last week and showed me everything I was doing wrong, which was fine because I was paying her for that after all. And after nearly an hour of training, tips, and treats, she drops this bomb on me:

“You’re the perfect owner for this dog.”

This is almost the worst thing she could have said. The worst thing she could have said is, “you should never have adopted this dog,” but using the word perfect is almost as bad. Perfect is dangerous for me. Perfect is poisonous. Perfect is bad news bears. Perfect drives me to what I have been told are “maladaptive coping mechanisms.” Perfect stresses me out.

So I kind of keep digging, and I’m like, “really, that’s so surprising, I never expected you to say that, what does it mean what does it MEAN?” And she just says, “some folks can’t get their heads around how to train a very alert, energetic dog.” So to me this sounds like, “you aren’t the worst person for this dog.” And I calm down.

I have decided that I am an appropriate owner for this dog. My skills are adequate for the task. That’s all I need to know, and it’s plenty to be excited about. It’s ok if I lose my patience when he tries to bite the neighbor’s face through the mini blinds, and it’s ok that I am terrified of clipping his toenails. I’ve shown him the clippers twice, and he smelled them both times. And that’s enough for now. In the meantime, we will learn stay and come and down and toss around the squeaky rubber chicken. It’s totally cool. Not perfect. No pressure.

Failed Foster

Once upon a time I gave private swimming lessons to a child who did not want to learn how to swim. It wasn’t quite her fault; she was really too young for lessons. But her mother wouldn’t listen to reason and instead stood by the pool bribing her daughter with candy every time she even considered putting her face in the pool. I focused on the cash I’d get for putting up with both their nonsense but also found myself unbelievably amused by what was going on in the deep end.

The woman’s Labrador retriever gleefully flung himself off the end of the diving board for the duration of the half-hour lesson. I swear to you, that dog was laughing at the rest of us. He was so stupid smart and cool, it’s not even funny. Not that I didn’t already love dogs or anything, but I pretty much knew at that point that I really, really wanted a dog.

I did always kind of think that eventually I’d develop a different lifetime wish, forget the amazing diving-board wizard dog, but no. It just hasn’t changed. But it has been, like, 14 years. Fourteen years of looking at pictures of dogs and thinking about what I’d name my dog and perusing dog rescue websites and being jealous of my sister’s dog, and doting on (and killing half of) my succulents instead.

When I got the opportunity to work from home last year, part of the appeal was that I could possibly get a dog. But I still waited nearly six months to even find out if my landlord would approve it. I couldn’t believe it when he did, and instead of running out and getting a dog I just kept looking at petfinder.com and thinking about it and doting on the few remaining succulents that were not dying.

I came across a posting for this little dog named Thumper who seemed to be pretty energetic and hilarious. He seemed to be just what I wanted: small enough for my hovel of an apartment but hardy enough to go hiking. But I waited to email the rescue organization for one reason or another. I was travelling, I needed to be sure the job was going to work out, and such other silly excuses. But one day in October, his listing disappeared. And so did the excuses.

Without thinking about it any further, I emailed the rescuer and inquired about Thumper. He was still available, and I could see him the next day. At this point I’m pretty much sure I’m going to get this dog unless he’s like, not the dog in the picture or something. But he is the dog in the picture. And he’s hilarious and boisterous and quite agile! I mean really, who knew a chuggle could jump that high? I’m told he doesn’t like to swim, so he’s not a diving-board wizard dog, but he’s basically a twelve-pound ninja on land.

So after like 20 minutes, I’m pretty sure I’m taking him home, but still I hesitate. And I’m asking the rescuer if she has ever let a first-time pet owner adopt a dog, and she’s like, “only a hundred times,” and I’m still like, “ummmmmm.” So she says, “Do you want to foster him? You’re under no obligation if it doesn’t work, you just bring him back.”

So the next day I come back and get Thumper, and I bring treats and a squeaky mallard toy and take him home with me. It’s terrifying. And I take, like, a thousand terrible pictures of this little yellow dog bouncing all over my house until one of them turns out ok.

Thumper, Le Mutt

I foster him for three weeks, and I learn a few things. He really doesn’t like men. Like, at all. Sometimes, he will try to fool me and not bark or lunge at a man immediately, but he’ll soon bare those fangs. I also learn that a woman with a white bed spread must wipe her dog’s paws after every single walk. And I learn that even little dogs have a lot of dog hair.

But I also learn that taking your dog on a hike earns you the most adoring, enraptured, exhausted gaze you will ever see for as long as the ride home lasts. And I learn that a walk in the middle of the day is probably the closest thing to a cure for any malady or melancholy. And I learn that fetch is incredibly amusing for everyone involved.

Still, I fret. Will he ever stop barking at the neighbors? What do I do when he throws up and I don’t know why? Can I even do this if I kill half of my succulents? And then, the really crazy questions. Am I weird for getting a dog while I’m still single? Am I just doing this to distract myself from my own eternal loneliness? Is this a futile attempt to alleviate my existential anxiety? Also, he really hates men; what if I never have sex ever again?

Then I realize that I’m pretty much always afraid of that last one even without the dog.

But what really worries me is that if I fail at owning a dog, I’ve failed the dog. The poor thing is only two years old and has spent time in a kill shelter twice and had countless owners. I can’t let him down. But what if I’m not up to that task? I’m not the most patient person, nor the most knowledgeable. If I’m not the perfect person, can I even be a good enough one?

About three weeks into my fostering adventure, I go away for a weekend to Big Bear, and the rescuer keeps the dog for the three days I am gone. I am worried that Thumper will not remember me when I go to pick him up, but instead he is actually wild with excitement and cries and wags his whole body with joy when I arrive.

When you adopt the dog you’re fostering they call it a failed foster. And I failed this foster so hard. I adopted Thumper right there and took him to his forever home, where failing is practically de rigueur. I’m trying to convince myself that failing a foster is the beginning of a very great success. I’m only sure that it’s the start of quite a journey.

We have an appointment with a trainer this week so we can sort out some of the barking at men and other sundry issues. The trainer asked me to have plenty of treats on hand so I can bribe him to do what I want with dog candy.

I also haven’t looked at my succulents in weeks. Oops.

Patience Is a Virtue

So maybe I rushed to conclusions with this whole baking bread in the Dutch oven thing. It turned out pretty great.

Also, I bought butter when I bought instant yeast. I’m so good at thinking ahead! And I will brook no delay for anything … Unless it’s posting to this blog, for which I will wait a good eight months without blinking.

Instant Failure

I haven’t even finished failing this one before writing about it.

I decided (I don’t know why) to bake bread in my Dutch oven. I’m seriously trying to remember why I wanted to do this.

Oh I remember. I wanted to make biscuits. Knowing that I didn’t have buttermilk, I checked this post to see how I’d done it before. Upon finding the recipe and checking the fridge, however, I realized that I had no butter. Well. There’s got to be something else I can whip up in a jiff that does not require butter.

It occurred to me that some people bake bread in their Dutch ovens. Or rather it occurred to me that the Internet wanted me to believe so. In a quick search, I found the recipe. Which called for instant yeast. I only had regular, curse Fortuna.

So. I put off my baking concerns for the time being but harbored (for about 12 hours) a secret wish to make bread in my Dutch oven and finally (less than a day later) bought instant yeast.

Then I read the rest of the recipe. Ok. So it takes at least a day to make this. There’s mix it all together, which takes 10 minutes, then let it sit for, oh, 18 hours. Then there’s double it on itself (also, what?), wrap it in towels (I had to search to find clean ones, yet another delay), wait another two hours, then put it in the oven.

Wait. No. Then preheat the oven and the Dutch oven, because what good is a hot oven if the oven in the hot oven is cold?

Finally, it’s in the oven. Yes, I burned myself once getting it in the hot oven inside the hot oven. But what really concerns me 40 minutes later is that it doesn’t smell like baking bread. It smells like burning dough.

So. I have, according to my timer at this exact moment, two minutes, 19 seconds to wait for what is sure to be a rock hard chunk of burnt bread that, while it only took a day to make, at least required no kneading. Excellent.