I Hate This Dog (Part I) posted 12/30/2007 2:19:46 AM | 2 kudos what's this?     report abuse tagged: dog, pets

Daviator

The title pretty much says it all doesn’t it? I hate this dog and I hated her for all she represented. Her name was Flower. She was a Pekingese or a “Swiffer on steroids.” And she was purchased by my mom’s evil caregiver (the caregiver so evil, I dare not speak his name). Flower was the focal point of everything I hated in life: That the caregiver had once again tapped into her bank account to get something as useless as a dog. That this caregiver had already gone through two of mom’s accounts (which was perfectly fine with the police since she had given him her PIN). And, probably most important of all, that I had let it happen.

I would come down once a week to check in on mom, buy groceries for the house, check the mail, pay bills, etc. On one trip down, the evil caregiver announced that he had bought my mom a gift. First of all, I had to ask, “Is it really a gift if you use that person’s money to buy it?” Second, “My mom can’t take care of herself. You have enough trouble taking care of her, so, who’s going to take care of the dog?” And finally, “What’s going to happen to the dog when your kids get a hold of it?” The evil caregiver had two kids (or is that spawn?) that seemed to be the terror of the neighborhood. The older of the two was not the sharpest tool in the shed. He had an interest in animals and every Christmas, I’d try to buy him books about animals. Unfortunately, I don’t think he knew how to read very well so I always chose ones with lots of text and pictures to hedge my bet. The younger of the two was a chip off the old block. I never trusted him as he always seemed to have some underlying motivation. He was definitely the “Eddie Haskell” of the two. And even though he was only nine, I always had the feeling there was some nefarious plot inside his head to con me out of money.

So, I ignored Flower. Resented her, hated the fact that I had to buy food for her. In fact, there were times when I didn’t buy food for her. She could share the cat food or live off the table scraps. She represented everything that I didn’t want to deal with in my life. And by this time in my life, I knew “denial” was way more than a river in Egypt.

I had toyed with the idea of moving mom into a nursing home but had told her long ago that I would never do that. I wanted her to stay in the house she grew up in, the one we lived with dad in. And so I did what I could to keep her there. She had originally chosen the evil caregiver over my protests. He had lived next door in an apartment complex and would come by and talk to mom about the problems he was having in his marriage. The main problem was his wife didn’t like him hitting her, so he would come over and tell my mom how misunderstood he was. When his wife kicked him out, mom took him in. She was always taking strays in off the street and he was the pick of the litter. Him and the kids. Before he arrived, I had tried a number of caregivers and mom always found something wrong with them. She either got rid of them or they quit. Usually one good bout of accusing them of stealing something and they were history. The one person who probably was stealing, she didn’t accuse. He was the only one she liked.

There was always questionable activity when I came down for my visit. People I didn’t know hanging around the house. He would claim these were friends and/or family and I, being the good Catholic boy I was, would smile politely, say hello, and scan each one of them with my mind’s eye, much the way Arnold did as The Terminator. And, always underfoot, there was that darned dog.

The evil caregiver finally went to jail. Something about defrauding another elderly lady out of some money. Shortly thereafter, I was visited by the Social Worker who had been called out on occasion to ensure mom was not suffering any type of elder abuse. She had to lay it on the line with me. She said she didn’t like the conditions in which mom was being kept and, if I didn’t do something about it, she would take legal action to make sure I did. Well, you only have to hit me upside the head six or seven times for me to finally figure out what’s going on. I made provisions to move mom up where I lived. She would stay in what’s called a Residential Care Facility (RCF). I never knew these existed but, essentially, they consist of a house with a team of caregivers who watch over a small number of people unable to care for themselves. It’s not as intensive as a Skilled Nursing Facility (SNF) or nursing home. It’s much more homey.

I found a very nice RCF close to my home. There was only one problem…they didn’t take animals. Now understand, as much as I hated the dog, and as much as that dog reminded me of everything I had failed to do with my mom, she adored my mom. She followed mom everywhere. When mom slept, she slept. When mom ate, she ate (mostly what mom didn’t eat). When mom went to the bathroom, uh, well, Flower, did the same…they were inseparable. Where mom went, she would go.

Moving Flower was not going to be simple. We took her to the vet to have her checked. She had one of the worst cases of flea infestation the vet had seen. It actually caused a skin infection and they had to shave her. Now those of you who know the breed, know that Pekingese can be pretty ugly. Actually they can be “ugly ugly.” They have a smooshed in face and enough hair to make several coats. And once they’ve been shaved? Really not all that to look at, really. But, to her credit, Flower had the face of an Ewok. I kid you not, people would say it all the time. It was true. It was as if George Lucas had posted her picture in the Star Wars dictionary next to “Ewok.”

Now I live in a very small, simple cottage. I prefer the term cottage because “converted garage” just doesn’t have the same cachet. I was not allowed to have pets. There was barely enough room for me. How was I going to hide a dog? Since time was of the essence and mom had to be moved immediately, I made the decision to put Flower in a kennel and would, on bended knee, beg my landlord to let me keep her. So, I took Flower to the kennel and that’s where it happened…

As we took her to her cage she seemed apprehensive. Once in it, she went to the farthest corner. She cowered there and it broke my heart. That was the very instant we bonded. Leaving her was hard but dad had always taught me to play by the rules and I needed permission to keep her or find her a good home. The next day I had received permission and went to pick her up. She literally jumped into my arms. From that day forward, we were a team.

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Blogs by Daviator: Let's Get Together A Trip in Time Saves Mine The Summer of Love Stars and Stripes Forever Jog My Memory – Why Am I Doing This?! On The Nose! Saving Ryan's Privates I Hate This Dog (Part II) I Hate This Dog (Part I) The End Is The Beginning?