So in between crate training and working on the computer, I stand up, grab my keys, and exit, then stand there for 5 to 10 seconds, walk back in, put the keys down, ignore the dog, and sit back down to work. The idea is to make leaving no big deal. By the third time I’d gone out, Daisy got smart and positioned herself in nap mode in front of the door.

I don’t blame her for how she’s feeling. She’s a rescue and was literally scooped up one day by her former owners and dumped off at Animal Control with the order to “just kill her.”  This after they’d never let her go outside and fed her up to an enormous 85 pounds. The ride across country and a few days of kenneling and a new environment has no doubt had an effect on her.  No wonder she’s reacting to my own emotional circus right now, too.

The dogs and I have a definite psychic connection. I found out just how strong it is when I left them with a friend to attend Marianne Williamson’s latest lecture here in LA. Five minutes before I returned, both of them started jumping up and down, barking and getting excited like they do when I come home.  It wouldn’t have seemed nearly so strange except for the fact that I didn’t drive my car ~ it’s obvious they weren’t reacting to hearing that familiar sound from 2 or 3 miles away.

Daisy’s clearly responding to whatever separation anxiety I’m feeling. And here I thought I had that whipped. I mean, this isn’t my first move out here and it was that detached, lonely and disconnected mindset, real or imagined, that always did me in. That combined with very tangible logistics of starting over, including everything from changing jobs and making ends meet to becoming adept at navigating a city where it can take 20 minutes to go one mile, left turn green lights barely exist, banks don’t have drive-through ATMs and every single intersection requires the ability to observe pedestrians from one side of your peripheral vision to the other. Don’t even get me started on the fact that you just can’t do a quick stop at a fast food restaurant if you need go to the bathroom. If you do find a place, there won’t be any parking. After being forced to pee myself ~ twice ~ I’ve learned to ration my fluid intake. That, however, is another story for another time.

My point is that the same emotions and upheavals that affected me back then are still present now. Though tempered by experience and maturity and trust that all really will be fine, they are partying their ass off at 4 and 5 am when I wake, when I check the bank account, when I sit here too long in my own little space. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that I’m brave or bold for coming out here, leaving what I know behind, coming to a city that is known for being a difficult place to meet people, starting over.

No. I am not these things. I am not brave, or strong, or bold or courageous. I think those words belong to those people who sacrifice something of themselves for the good of others, even in the midst of their own terror. Brave is fighting against drug or alcohol addiction. Courageous is giving everything you’ve got up against cancer. Bold might be walking half a block in sight of a starving, deranged looking stray pitbull, which I did earlier tonight. But I think that’s probably more like stupid. What I am is more difficult to define than those honorable adjectives and not nearly so admirable. I came out here because I got tired of being scared. I got tired of being depressed and feeling hopeless and hating myself for being all of those things. I came out here because I got tired of ignoring the nagging pull on my soul that tells me there’s some sort of path I’m supposed to be following. I came out here because I knew in the core of my being that if I continued to live a life that in my eyes felt like I was playing it safe and practical and therefore cheating myself out of whatever unknown wonders lay ahead, then I might as well be dead.

There is nothing practical about this move and that is the first thing I tell people when they ask me why I came. It wasn’t for a job, it wasn’t for the weather, it wasn’t for a guy (though I don’t seriously know if I call that practical either). I’m here because I decided to throw logic to the wind and listen to intuition and meditation and all the illogical, unexplainable miracles and forces at work in my life. I came, ultimately, because for over 16 years I’ve lived with one foot on each side of the threshold, watching myself go in and out the door of yearning. It was simply time to make a choice before all doors closed and there were no choices left to make. I came because I was tired of hearing myself bark. It was time to start believing in myself, logic and practical, straight and narrow be damned. The truth is, we can do anything if the yearning is strong enough.

Turn On Yor Light.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

Helping the cable guy install internet.

Daisy is a barker. Fine in our old neighborhood, not so cool in the close quarters of this Los Angeles sprawl. Now that I’ve moved into a building with 19 other apartments on two floors, it’s become the problem of the day. Talk about shaking up that status quo.

We’ve lived here for almost a week and I’ve left her and Lollipop alone only once, for an hour or so, long enough to run with M., the resident manager, to pick up a chair and a bookcase. We could hear her howls halfway around the block ~ she is a Beagle, after all.

M. took an ass-chewing from Jazzman next door, and I took to realizing that I inadvertently created this mess by always allowing her to do what she does naturally when I’m not at home to hear it. Consequently, when I go out anywhere I’ve been taking them with me. They’ve been to Trader Joe’s, the 99cent store, and PetCo. They’ve ridden across town on the freeway in pouring rain to the thrift store. They’ve been to Runyon Canyon and on the plus side, they’ve begun to hike Runyon Canyon. I tend to underestimate my dogs and I didn’t think they could do either the hills or the city atmosphere.

I’ve always treated my dogs like cute, slightly pitiful little people. They are spoiled and loved and indulged. They greet me at the door like I’ve been gone for weeks, jumping and barking and running back and forth like they’re on crack. They tell me when they want to go outside. They sleep where they want on the furniture and I’m normally relegated to a corner of my bed. They are rescues and they’ve been through hell so it’s natural I’d want to make their life easier, comfort them, and give them the world. Pearl was quiet and it seemed to work fine. The same with Lollipop. Unfortunately, with Daisy I’ve created a brat. An insecure, obsessed, whiney pain in the ass brat. And unless I plan to live my live within the confines of those 8 foot walls, somebody’s gotta change.

According to Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, that somebody’s gotta be me. Dogs need structure and discipline and order and lots and lots of exercise to feel secure and well-balanced, but until now all Daisy and Lolli have had is the lovin’ and touchin’ and squeezin’. Cesar compares raising a healthy dog with our human interactions and relationships; if you’ve ever tried to love, coddle and protect someone through their issues you know firsthand that they don’t grow and they don’t change. Dogs, like people, innately don’t want to be somebody’s victim. They react best when they have your strength to emulate and when they’re made to wear their big-dog panties.

In the midst of starting over with an empty house, dwindling funds, waiting on the internet so I can get back to work and well, the overall stress of moving across country, not to mention the heavy rains LA is experiencing right now, this bump in the road has the potential to throw me into a ditch. Hiding indoors with my dog just isn’t feasible and it isn’t desirable either. Though I normally go without, right now, I’ve got to wear my panties front and center too, because it’s my energy and state of mind that matter most and ultimately affect Daisy.

The sonic collar she’s currently wearing around her neck has helped squelch the barking a bit, but I have to let her know that staying home without me is okay. Likewise I have to acknowledge that living life in a big, basically new, city is ok too, and put aside any trepidations I have both about leaving her home and venturing out. Daisy barks less with the collar on, but she still whines and scratches at the door, and when she does bark it’s a muffled howl followed by an ear-piercing screech: Bark BEEP! Bark BEEP! I’m just not sure that’s an improvement in the ears of my neighbors.

That’s a shame because Daisy is a great little dog. She’s sweet and she’s smart and she’s lovable. She carries her stuffed “babies” around with her and flops her fat body over for belly rubs and plays dead and rolls over . . . after several attempts. She’s also a major social butterfly ~ and right now that’s our downfall. While I don’t care much for Jazzman’s attitude or his way of handling the situation, the reality is that my neighbors in the building deserve the quiet, Daisy deserves to feel safe and secure, and I deserve a relaxed and happy home. Daisy’s gotta learn to be alone because as much as I love this new place, there’s a whole big ol’ world out there, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here with only my dogs and the internet for company. Now where’d I put those Big Girl Panties?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.