Finding Our New Beau

(Additional back story available at “Puppy Love?”)

The beginning of my mission to find my old mama dog, Indica, a new boyfriend turned out to be a little harder than I'd first anticipated. Amigo was a great dog and Indica got along with him just fine but it didn't take me too long to realize he'd be more comfortable staying where he was, at Hope Rd. Vet Clinic.

From there I, along with my mother, ventured out to the Humane Society who shares a building with Amarillo Animal Control. My hopes for adoption failed there as well but I'll write more about that at another time.

By the time we got to the SPCA it was near closing time so we really didn't get to spend the time I wanted looking through the kennels. I found a small, black and white, male pit bull who seemed calm enough (which is rare in a kennel setting) but when I asked if I could take him for a walk a woman told us he'd already been adopted. Fiddle-sticks.

I think all that happened on a Thursday. Although slightly disappointed that I hadn't found Indica a new boyfriend, I knew that the pieces would fall together when it was the right time.

This is Indica -

On Saturday, I headed up to PetCo where a rescue group from Dalhart (about an hour and a half away) does adoption events every weekend. I had called them earlier in the week but they never called me back. Instead of making the drive, I decided to wait until they came to me. I had looked at the dogs available for adoption on their site but knew better than to think they'd bring the ones I wanted into town. I had specifics in mind: I wanted a male (because 2 females won't get along as well) slightly larger than Indica (so she doesn't beat him up) who was past the puppy stages (for a multitude of reasons) and I wanted him to be a pit bull.

Before I continue, I feel the need to explain the necessity of the pit bull part. I never thought I'd be the kind of person who sought after “a dog like that.” When I was young, I didn't know much about them other than the stereotypes the media has so generously bestowed upon society.

Somewhere around 15 years ago, a man (er, well, an upright walking mammal with a penis whom I affectionately refer to as 'The Nazi') came into my life who fit those stereotypes to a T. Just a meat-headed, ignorant piece of shit who wanted tough looking dogs to distract people from seeing his own multitude of insecurities. He was as mean to the dogs in his life as he was to the people who tried to care. Before I knew of the evil that seeped to his core, he moved in with me and brought Indica and her 5 newly-born puppies. She was only about a year old. I'd always had a dog at one point or another in my life, but having pit bulls in my house was a whole new level of responsibility. I had to learn the hard way – and so did they.

Four of the puppies eventually found new homes. Because of The Nazi's relationships with people of very little moral character, I'm almost positive 2 or 3 of them wound up being fought. I didn't know the signs to look for; this was a whole new world to me. Once the puppies started teething, Indica whapped one of them on the head. I guess it cracked his tiny skull because his head started swelling. That poor little baby screamed bloody murder for days. The swelling only got worse. Eventually, The Nazi finally felt bad enough for the puppy that he drove him out to the country and shot him in the head with a .357 – that was one of the only times I ever saw that monster cry.

Along with Indica, he brought Houdini, her boyfriend. Not only was Houdini small (maybe 35 pounds) his face also bore the scars of being fought. The Nazi said he “rescued” him from a shelter in Hereford. I'm still not too sure how much of that story I believe. He always kept them chained up to poles in the back yard. Normally I would have fought this but there was about a 6-8 month stretch where I was in a drug induced coma. Not only was I not thinking rationally, I was more concerned with my personal safety than that of any pets; I was being beaten on a regular basis, sometimes to the point of hospitalization. The dogs would have been too, so in a weird way it was actually safer for them to be in the back yard. Honestly, I kind of forgot about them – they weren't MY dogs. During that winter, both dogs figured out their chains were long enough to reach the chicken coop for a fractional amount of shelter. Houdini froze to death in that chicken coop right next to Indica and is now buried in my back yard. The moment I realized what a horrible shell of a person I'd become and the unintentional misery I'd inflicted, I sobered up and vowed that no animal under my watch would ever have to suffer like that again.

About a year later, one of The Nazi's friends had stolen a batch of pit bull puppies, but he was homeless and was living with them in the back of his truck. One kept following me around the yard, never leaving my side. He just wanted to be in my lap and I could tell when his eyes met mine that he could see into my soul. I decided this was my new dog. He was soon stricken with Parvo; luckily, a stripper The Nazi was boffing on the side offered to pay for the vet bills to help save him. The vet told me on three separate occasions, “I'm sorry, but this dog isn't going to live.” For weeks while he was on an IV, I went to visit him every day at lunch and took off early every evening to go sit with him and cry and wallow in his vomit until the vet's office closed. He DID live and I named him Darwin.

I was closer to Darwin than I had been to any animal in my entire life. He had a better temperament than Indica which wasn't really her fault – The Nazi had trained her to be aggressive, to attack, and to kill random things. She's better now that she's old and I've been working to regress the negative influences for 15 years. She and Darwin were like Bonnie and Clyde – they got into EVERYTHING together, especially trouble.

During one of our later break-ups, I left Indica with The Nazi (because I was positive he'd never let me have her) and took Darwin to my mother's house. I came back home to get some clothes for work the next day, intending to stay at a friend's house and he asked me where “his” dog was. I said, “He's not your dog.” I got thrown onto my bed, pinned down, punched in the face, and asked again, “Where's my dog!?” I answered again indignantly, “He's not your dog.” This time, he took a lit cigarette and began to burn my eyelashes after another punch. “Bitch, I'll fucking kill you. Where's MY DOG!?” I stayed calm although my teeth were clenched, not really caring whether I lived or died, “HE'S NOT YOUR DOG.” I got punched again and could smell the the lashes of my other eye being singed with Camel ashes while I felt its red-hot cherry growing ever closer to my eyelid. He asked yet again. As the blood from my face intermingled with the spit and tears running down my cheeks, I said one more time, “He's. Not. Your. Dog.” This continued until he realized I would not be broken. Not this time. Bruised and battered once again, I finally escaped the prison-type confinements of my own home.

When I finally got rid of him for good, The Nazi eventually made the only humane decision he's ever made in his life. He knew that Indica and Darwin were inseparable and to take one from the other would only cause them both harm. As a compromise, he decided to take one of the puppies from their last litter together (she only had repeated litters because he refused to let me get her fixed; the last batch of 11 puppies was born 3 days after the SWAT team blew my house up and she got fixed while he was in jail for that). Not surprisingly, that dog is now dead. I heard he made his son dig the hole in which that dog would be buried – while the young boy had a broken arm. I can only assume this was to teach him how to be a “man.”

Darwin and Indica flourished for over a decade together. They were happy and so was I. I had not only learned an otherwise unattainable amount of knowledge about their specific breed, but also of humans and how they treat this particular kind of animal. I had now saved two dogs from an inevitable destination of fighting pits and my soul rested well at night knowing that they had wound up with the cushiest lives they could have ever imagined. Turns out, they're actually the ones who saved ME.

One day at the vet, I noticed a lump on Darwin's side. I had taken him in to see about something on his ear (he had a multitude of health problems but always seemed happy, no matter what) but as soon as the vet walked in I said, “Our priorities just changed.” While I was on a road trip the previous week to visit my brother, Darwin had developed a tumor. We gave him all the medication they could think of and he just kept getting worse. He finally went into surgery and on that day a tech called me. “You should go ahead and come up here.” I broke no less than half a dozen laws speeding to the vet's office that day. They kept his heart beating and his lungs pumping until I showed up. In as little as two weeks, the tumor had eaten its way through his ribs and into his lungs. There was nothing more they could do. Although he was knocked out from the anesthesia, I prayed to every god imaginable that he could hear me say, “It's ok, buddy... mama's here... I love you... you don't have to hurt any more.” When they unplugged the machines, I cried like I'd never cried before. I've lost family members without missing more work than the time it took to go to the funeral, but when I lost Darwin I called in for 2 straight days. “I just can't do it.” I lost him on December 8^th, 2009.

Rest in Peace, Buddy-

These two dogs had been the most loyal, dedicated and loving animals I never knew existed. The problem is, because of their stigma, they have nowhere to go in this town. Animal Control puts them down, no questions asked, without so much as a temperament test. Even the SPCA has gotten to where they won't take any in because of liability concerns.

Once the popularity of any specific breed gains attention for being dangerous, more people seem to want them. They get bred beyond reason and control and their incident numbers skyrocket. It began in England with the Bloodhound in the 1800s, then moved onto the Doberman after World War II because they were so prominently displayed in propaganda as being vicious alongside the actual Nazis. The fear mongering pendulum soon swung toward the German Shepherd and eventually, in the late 1970s, to the Pit Bull. They multiply exponentially due to back yard breeding by people who want to make a quick buck from the “tough guy” up the street who will most likely in turn abuse, neglect or completely abandon them once they figure out they're not as mean as they expected. Now, I had a chance to save another one.

Back at PetCo, they had a circle of pens lined with hay out in front of the store, each containing a variety of cute little furry faces. They repeatedly hopped up and down making tiny, yippy puppy noises as if to say, “Take me home!” A little female black lab nearly leapt into my arms. She was deliciously sweet and obviously starved for attention. They all were. One of the adoption event's coordinators came up to me and said, “She wants to go home with you!” Of course she does. But she's adorable enough that anyone would adopt her. She had hope. I was looking for a much more difficult project.

I explained to the woman we'll call Amber (because I forgot her name and that sounds close enough) my list of wants and mentioned that I'd seen 104 adoptable males on their website. I'd narrowed my selection down to about 2 or 3 because I specifically wanted a pit bull since it's so hard to find them good homes with responsible owners. I said I knew they'd only bring the cutest puppies because it was impossible to transport a couple hundred dogs, most of whom nobody wanted. She looked at me and said, “We have A THOUSAND.” Are you serious!? The Dalhart Animal Rescue started with some 4^th grade kids who began picking up strays, taking them to a local vet to get vaccinated and fixed, then gave them shelter and food. I know their hearts were initially in the right place but now it's clearly overwhelming. Amber told me that there are nine volunteers who work there. NINE people taking care of a THOUSAND dogs. She said when she started she had a section where she cared for about 60 dogs; now her responsibility has easily more than doubled. Those dogs can't possibly be getting any significant amount of individual attention. They're probably lucky if they each get fed daily. I wanted to be able to help them but it was unreasonable to think I could make that drive every day.

She told me about a few dogs she thought we'd like but none of whom actually fit my description. Indica gets to make the choice here, not me, and I'd rather not make a 3 hour drive on a “maybe.” I decided to keep looking around town.

One suggestion was that I look at Craigslist. Some of you may be thinking “that's dangerous!” but since Amarillo is nearly a decade behind the rest of the planet on any social curve, I really don't think we have a section of people about town who want you to pee on them before they rape you. But I was gonna be careful anyway.

The amount of pits people were offering on Craigslist was staggering. People either just couldn't keep up with them anymore or they were moving and couldn't take the dogs with them. I made several inquiries via text and got few replies. Most people had already gotten rid of the listed animal and seemed slightly irritated at my attempts. Well, if you'd take down the add, maybe people would quit contacting you!

One woman called me back and the story was such that I couldn't ignore her pleas for help. It was late in the third week of November; her neighbors had apparently skipped town and just abandoned 2 of their 3 dogs. Rent was due on the 5^th and when their land-lord showed up they weren't there. This neighbor lady didn't figure out the dogs had been locked in the garage until the 12^th. They had no food, what little water they had was frozen, and they were covered in piss and shit, as was the garage. Did the owners just leave town with hope someone would figure it out eventually and save them? Due to the circumstances, it seems to me they essentially left those dogs there to die.

According to Texas State Law:

42.09. Cruelty to Animals
(a) A person commits an offense if the person intentionally or knowingly:

(1) tortures an animal;
(2) fails unreasonably to provide necessary food, care, or shelter for an animal in the person's custody;
(3) abandons unreasonably an animal in the person's custody;

[etcetera]

(c) For purposes of this section:

(1) "Abandon" includes abandoning an animal in the person's custody without making reasonable arrangements for assumption of custody by another person.

(d) An offense under Subsection (a)(2), (3), (4), (9), or (10) is a Class A misdemeanor, except that the offense is a state jail felony if the person has previously been convicted two times under this section.

If I knew how to get these people prosecuted, I would. Unfortunately, I don't know who they are, where they went, or how to even go about the paperwork. Rest assured, one day I WILL be working with Animal Cruelty investigators and I WILL figure out the hoops to jump through. Probably not for the aforementioned shit-bags but for someone equally deserving.

The neighbor lady and the land-lord had no choice but to chain the dogs up in the back yard of the vacant house. They had little igloo houses for some shelter (when they hadn't knotted up their chains too tight to get into them) and the lady had been bringing food and water to them on a fairly regular basis. She had 4 dogs of her own and must have been spending a fortune on feeding them.

I had mom, my little sister Heather, and Indica in tow. I took Indica back to meet the 2 dogs and naturally, they were more than wound up. They had no way to release any energy aside from running in circles until they choked themselves out. They were only about a year old, one male, and one female. The female was immediately aggressive towards Indica and that just flat-out wasn't going to work. I handed Indica to Heather and decided to take the male for a walk to see if I could calm him down. Nope. I was gonna have to have at least a two mile jog in me to make a dent. Not only must our new companion have an acceptable energy level for me, Indica wasn't going to stand for a puppy jumping on her non-stop. It broke my heart to take that little boy back to his chain.

The neighbor lady knew we couldn't call Animal Control because the dogs would be put down immediately. I told her, “Well, as a last resort, we could call the SPCA.” She said, “I already called them. They won't even come out to look at them.” (This is how I discovered they, too, were abandoning this specific breed.) The Dalhart Resuce place will take a pit but they're clearly over capacity. She said she called every other resource either one of us could think of, and that the closest pit bull rescue group was in Dallas but they'd already decided that the 4-5 hour drive was “too far to just pick up two dogs.” I told the woman I'd help spread the word as much as I could. I couldn't help them and there was nobody to call. I cried a little bit on the way back to my truck.

When I got home, I remembered a message I'd failed to return from a friend of mine we'll call Faye. She'd been trying to get a hold of me for about a month concerning her neighbor's dog. I didn't know how to help when she'd first contacted me but now that I was actually looking for a dog, I gave her a call.

Faye and her soon-to-be-husband, Joe, had been watching this dog wither away in their neighbor's back yard with no attention and very little food for about a year. The household consisted of mom, dad, and three young boys. The seven year old was in charge of feeding the dog and I think we all know how responsible a kid that age can be. Most times when parents put their children in charge of feeding an animal and the child forgets, someone more responsible steps in and feeds them. That didn't seem to be the case here. He was also covered in bald, bloodied, scaly patches of mange and had received no medical treatment.

I loaded Indica into the truck and went to scout the situation. I pulled up in my friend's driveway and Joe came out the door. He said, “Nobody's home right now, let's go visit.” The dog was surrounded by a 4 foot chain-link fence visible from the street and wasn't tied up, so he didn't seem to be a fence-jumper. That was good news. He was super friendly and not aggressive AT ALL. Faye and Joe would go next door to love on him when they could and assured me he was just as sweet as he seemed. He put his front feet on the fence and let me love on him too. There was nothing in the back yard but a tree and a lot of dirt. I said, “Where's your water, buddy?” Joe said the kids had told him he eats and drinks in the garage. I said, “But the door's shut.” When they remembered to give him food and water, they denied him access to it. I brought Indica over to the fence to see how she'd react to him. There were lots of new smells to discover along the way, so she didn't seem to interested in him at first. His eyes lit up and his tail began to wag – he was desperate for a new playmate. I asked Joe what the dog's name was. “Bevo.” Well, that's weird but we'll go with it.

Operation: Repo-Bevo was now in effect.

I came home and called mother for a briefing of the situation. She said, “Ok, well, let me know when you need me.” A couple days later I went to her house to borrow an additional leash. I couldn't find Darwin's old one anywhere and figured I'd probably donated it to someone in need and forgotten about it. While mother was rounding up equipment I got a text from Faye, “No one's home right now, btw.” Shit. “Mother, it's go-time.”

Armed with merely an old leash, dirty jeans, a bag of sandwich ham from mother's fridge, and my senior-citizen accomplice, we loaded up in my truck and drove into the sunset to find us a dog.

Gravel and broken tree limbs creaked and crunched under my tires as we crept up the alley. I parked a couple houses down in order to more efficiently conceal my vehicle. In a surgeon's “scalpel” tone, I barked at mother, “Ham!” and instructed her to move into the get-away-driver position.

As I snuck up to his enclosure, I heard the dog bark, but only once. He could probably smell the ham as soon as I exited the truck. I tore off a chunk and fed it to him through the corner of the fence. As I moved toward the gate I realized he was still eating it and I'd probably given him too much. Now he doesn't give a shit that I'm at the gate. Dammit. Once I opened the gate he finally cared enough to come check out what was going on. He was thoroughly appreciative of the ham but every time I reached for his collar to attach the leash, he would run away. He doesn't know me and dogs can sense tension. He couldn't tell I wasn't there to hurt him. I went back to the truck and said, “Mom, this isn't going to work.” We figured it might work better if I wasn't trying to hold ham in one hand and grab his collar with the other while trying to leash him. We went back to the gate and mother continued the ham-feeding. He gobbled it up like he'd never seen ham before. He might not have. No matter how wide we opened the gate, he never would come past the fence line. He ran away one more time and I heard something in front of the house. I didn't know if it was the neighbors making noise or if it was the residents of the lot returning home. I smacked mother on the ass, “GO!” She either didn't hear me or her reflexes are getting slower because she just stood there trying to feed the dog some more. “MOTHER! It's time to LEAVE.” She finally said, “OH! Ok.” We trotted back down the alley and drove away.

A few minutes later I got a text from Faye. “How's Operation: Repo-Bevo coming?” Sadly, the mission has been aborted. She told me her neighbors had indeed returned home so it was a good thing we got out of there when we did. I explained there were just too many things that weren't right about the situation and I felt horribly guilty. Honestly, I had begun to think about just going up to the people's front door and simply asking them if they didn't want the dog. But then if the dog in question should happen to come up missing, I'd pretty much just made myself the main suspect. I'll sleep on it and get back to you.

On the afternoon of November 22^nd, Faye called again. She'd just spoken with the neighbors and they were more than happy to relinquish custody of the dog. Thank Gawd! I got Indica loaded up, went to fetch mother and we were on our way.

When I pulled up in the neighborhood, I first walked up to Faye's door. I had forgotten they were moving that day and didn't realize they wouldn't be home. Bevo's owner came up to me and said, “Are you here about the dog?” Yes, I am. He took me straight back to him. It was love at third sight.

Apparently dude's sister asked him to dog-sit for a while and just never came back. The family never wanted the dog in the first place and with three children, he'd become too much to handle. I saw the sincere regret in the man's eyes and could tell he wasn't a bad person – he was just in a bad position. I asked him if I could take Bevo for a walk with my mama dog and not only did he agree, he handed me his leash.

I had mother walk Indica while I tried to wrangle Bevo. The man told me “I only get to walk him every once in a while.” You might not be a bad person but you're a horrible liar. I don't think this dog has ever been on a leash before but I did my best. Within a span of about 3 blocks I was winded and in pain. I wouldn't consider myself anywhere close to peak physical condition but this was, without a doubt, an extra strenuous exertion. It's time to turn this party around.

When we got back, Faye and Joe were standing out front along with the man, the mom-person and three boys. I hugged Faye and said, “I've finally got my new boy!” Because the energy was completely different, the dog was more than ecstatic about the exchanging of owners. The mom-person looked at me and said, “I was just praying last night that Jesus would send us a miracle, and here you are!” Well, I wouldn't call it a miracle as much as I would good timing, but you're welcome. I thanked them for being so kind and assured them that he would be very well taken care of.

As soon as we dropped Indica back off at the house, I took the dog to my vet to make sure his mange wouldn't spread and schedule an appointment to get him neutered. I don't think I realized how huge he actually was until he was in my lap.

The vet needed to make an additional file for my new fella. “What's his name?” Mother answered, “Bevo.” NO. No, no, no. We are NOT keeping that stupid name. He was used to answering to it so I didn't want to pick something completely different like “Charlie” or “Hank”. After about a 3 second deliberation, I figured out something that stuck.

“His new name is Beau.”

Puppy Love?

(previously posted on November 16, 2011)

I usually watch Indica while she's outside because she's been known to be less than polite to passersbye. I've disposed of one too many a cat to not be on alert while she's past the boundaries of the house walls. I've spent many a winter's day standing in the back doorway in my robe and slippers with snow in my face, cursing the cold and wishing I weren't so responsible. 

Since Darwin died (next month, it will be 2 years ago) she hasn't been nearly as intent on her distruction of other life forms. Maybe because she doesn't have back up. They were always kind of like a tag-team, with Darwin being the "dur-ta-dur" follower. He was never naturally aggressive, he just did what his girlfriend showed him. Unfortunately, Indica was bred and taught to be a fighting dog. (In case you're wondering, NOT by me.) She was encouraged to seek and kill things. Once you get that into a dog like her, it's REALLY hard to reverse it. I learned this the hard way when I was young, ill-informed, and unfamiliar with her strength and temperment. I hold firm in my belief that we're both lucky that she's snuggled up on my couch right now instead of where her fate would have otherwise led her... to a fighting pit, and most likely dead by now. 

Because of her, I learned more about dogs AND people than I probably ever wanted to learn. I know I'm a better person now for it and it's something that will NEVER be reversed. 

Back to the point: I've trained myself that if I'm momentarily distracted from directly watching her while outside, to listen for barks, growls, and other random "flags." Today she was outside when I turned around to pick something up in the kitchen. 

There aren't alleys in my neighborhood, we leave our trash out front for the people to pick up. There is only a chain-link fence and some now wilting grape-vines separating my house from the one behind me. There's a German Shepherd who keeps showing up back there... I don't know if the people own this dog or if that's just where he likes to hang out. The other day I saw them spot each other and I waddled out in my flip-flops to redirect them both. I gave Indica a slippered nudge accompanied by the standard, "Back off the fence," and waved to the Shepherd and said, "Ok, go on." He put his head down and sulked away. 

Today, while briefly distracted, I heard no barks or growls. I looked outside to see them both at the back fence, face to face. To my surprise, she showed every indication that she wanted to play with him. Not eat him - PLAY. There were absolutely NO signs of aggression. She was smiling and doing the "play-bow" and wagging her tail. I watched this go on for several minutes and finally called my mother. "You're not gonna belive this..."

Since Darwin died I've often contemplated whether or not Indica was lonely or if she was happier having a complete run of the house. All the attention, all the treats, all the belly-rubs, and getting to hog the entire couch. I eventually assumed she was happier with the latter and figured she might be stressed with the incorporation of a new dog into our tiny house. As some of you know, she's been VERY sick lately and I'm trying to keep her as comfortable as possible during her last days... but today my whole view-point shifted.

In her vain attempt to play through the fence, I saw her friskier than she's been in ages. Really, since Darwin died. She IS lonely and I honestly belive now that she DOES want a new boyfriend.

While talking with mother I decided to call out to Hope Rd. Vet clinic and see if they had any male pits who needed a new home. I know the dogs out there are well socialized and non-aggressive, and that the vet staff does as much as they can for as long as they can but that they can't feed them all forever.

They have a black and white pit mix named Amigo who's up for adoption and who needs a special home because he's shy; he was badly abused. They said he needs to be an inside dog, which he would be. I haven't really ever worked with a shy dog, but now's as good a time as ever. He's super mellow, which is a bonus because Indica's so old. I don't think she'd appreciate puppy energy hopping all over her. He's also bigger than she is, which should keep any potential bullying to a minimum. (Whether we like it or not, she's gonna be the dominant one in this equation.) At this point in time, I'm pretty much home all day, so now would be the opportune moment to be able to supervise the new adjustment.

So much about this feels SO right, but then again, I know that once I put my heart into something I'm usually disappointend. I'll be taking Indica out there today to see if Amigo is indeed intended to be her new boyfriend. SHE's the one who gets to make the decision - not me. If it works out, YAY! If not, we'll keep looking.

If having another four-legged companion is what my mama dog needs to keep a spark in her through her last days, that's what I'll do. Right now, having another mouth to feed isn't really the optimum ideal but if it brings us BOTH some happy, I don't really see how it could be wrong.

Back to School

I always did pretty well in school... until I stopped giving a shit.

San Jacinto Christian Academy was my elementary school. My father was raised Southern Baptist and he deemed it necessary I get me some Jesus learnin'. In addition to our daily Bible lessons, we had Chapel Day every Wednesday. The girls donned our Sunday best dresses and the boys all wore a tie. I always wondered why Jesus cared if we were dressed up or not, but the school demanded it. I earned a ribbon in every Bible Drill competition and was a regular on the A-B Honor Roll.

Shortly after my father died, my mother and new step-dad could no longer afford to send me to private school. At the end of elementary, I was plopped into the deep end of the public middle school system. These kids are different. Why are they all judging me? Why are my clothes important? I'd never been exposed to any “cliques”. One day, a girl named Katrina started making fun of my shorts, “Those came from K-mart!” So? It took me about a month to figure out the only reason she knew they'd come from K-mart was that her mom had taken her shopping there too. She was only making fun of me so that the rich kids wouldn't know her family wasn't. I don't think she ever evolved into a better person than she was in grade 6. Not many of the shallow people did.

I wasn't preppy, I wasn't athletic, and I couldn't play an instrument worth a damn so I stuck to studying. In my 7^th grade Honors English class, I remember staring across the room at my best friend, Hope. She was wearing a Tribute to Randy Rhoads t-shirt she'd “borrowed” from her big sister, and I was wearing a tattered Metallica shirt someone else had given me. We stuck out like scientifically abnormal growths in a sea of polo shirts, khaki pants and brown, leather loafers. I didn't fit in anywhere and thus, my disdain for the system began to grow exponentially.

I did so well in Science that my 8^th grade teacher decided I should skip a grade once I got to high school. By doing so, I missed the introductory year that taught me the basics of every following class. I wasn't ahead of the curve anymore. I was lost.

High School wound up being a completely different nightmare. People didn't just make fun of me for being different – some actually spat on me. Then there was the “incident” where 2 boys from the jocko circle tried to run me into the ground with their truck but they didn't know I was a ninja. “Die or fight back” was coming at me head-on and as the truck accelerated towards me, I jumped up onto the hood and grabbed the windshield wipers. Cursing through the angry foam that began forming in the corners of my mouth, I climbed up the windshield, jumped, and came crashing down on the cab's roof. As they sped away, I hopped off and landed on my feet, only to discover somewhere around 200 spectators. I wasn't worried about being vindicated right that second. I was scared, I was embarrassed, and more than that, I was PISSED. Unbeknownst to me, the two boys who – in my eyes – had just tried to kill me, drove around the corner and started bashing in the passenger side door and broke the headlights, then got every member of the football team, baseball team, basketball team and every other ball yielding sport to say I was the one who attacked them and caused every bit of damage. Then they called the authorities.

When my mother showed up to escort me to the principal's office to speak to the police, she looked at me and said, “What have you done NOW!?” Because I had no witnesses on my side, that was my introduction to Prozac and probation, coupled with additional psychotherapy. Needless to say, I hated school now more than ever.

From then on it was a struggle to keep my grades above failing. I started smoking, doing drugs and skipping school. I wanted to be anywhere but there. When I did manage to show up, I spent most of my days in the quarantine trailer out back for ISS – in school suspension. “We just don't understand why she's so defiant to authority.” It's not that I wasn't smart enough to ace my classes, I just didn't give a shit. I wound up in summer school, got kicked out, knocked up, and sent to the school for “special kids”. We were the rejects society didn't want to deal with any more.

The benefit to “special school” was that you could learn at your own pace. Naturally, this plan was developed for the kids with learning disabilities who had to take it a little slower but left to my own devices, I excelled. I felt more at home with the misfits. I finished a year and a half of school in 3 months. Against the odds, I finally graduated.

When I enrolled in Amarillo Community College at the age of 19, my outlook was slightly brighter. I had overcome my fear of being bullied and was looking forward to taking the classes I wanted to learn about. I lasted A semester. Who makes a D in pottery? This girl. Turns out, you actually have to show up to those classes too. In my defense, my classmates were a bunch of old bingo playing ladies who showed up maybe a third of the time. I was only following their bad example. It was a night class and I had other things to do. Anyway, I loved my psychology class. Wound up with a B. In government, my teacher was a staunch Conservative who didn't like me for sitting in the front row and disagreeing with him. Rather than take the F I knew was coming to me, I dropped out. So much for college.

Now that I'm in my mid-thirties, I've decided to give school another shot. Honestly though, do you know any teenager who made a sound career choice at their time of enrollment straight out of high school and actually stuck with it because they're still happy? I don't. They might exist, but I find it just as likely to stumble upon a unicorn.

When I made the decision to work with dogs, I had no idea where to start. A friend of mine named Jim works with the Dell City Humane Society and started giving me ideas. He's an animal cruelty investigator and I knew I couldn't handle that. I'd wind up shooting someone. He told me there were some openings at the Animal Control department in my area. Gahck. I don't want to be the guy in the uniform who goes to pick people's animals up just to take them to die. One day, he finally sent me the link that made everything click – Animal Behavior College. I did some research on it and enrolled that same week.

I finally found a career that would make my heart happy and fill my soul with the knowledge I was doing something to make lives better. And – bonus! - I don't have to take calculus or a trigonometry class in order to get my certification. It's a win/win, really.

Due to its title, Animal Behavior College, I initially believed my studies were steering me to be a Canine Behavior Specialist. Well, the steering's still there and I'm headed in that direction, but I'm just not on that particular road yet. The class I'm taking now is to become a Certified Dog Trainer. In order to work with dogs at a level beyond that, I at least have to be able how to teach them some manners. In addition to the “manners” portion of my studies, it actually has taught me quite a bit about other so-called behavioral issues. Your dog isn't “bad” because he's barking or digging; there's actually some psychology behind it, which, as previously stated, I find fascinating. Dog psychology is a lot easier to understand than people psychology. People create most of their own problems – dogs don't. People also create a majority of their dog's problems. Jumping isn't a behavior problem, it's a natural instinct to gain your attention. It becomes a “behavior problem” when you as a person decide it's become one.

When I started school this time they said it would take about a year and a half to complete the class. To begin, there are approximately 8 months of book learning before you move on to the hands-on portion of the training. The book was a 3 ring binder, fatter than any dictionary I'd ever seen. At times it was drudging (especially towards the end) but I managed to keep the bigger goal in mind. I finished the book portion a month ahead of schedule with straight As. My lowest grade was a 92 and I'm still positive that particular test included a trick question of some sort.

After I submitted my last test and essays for grading, I was contacted by a coordinator for the school. According to my contract, I was expected to drive between 100 and 205 miles to meet with a “Mentor Trainer” for the hands-on portion of my schooling every week for at least 21 weeks. Shit. As daunting as it seemed, I was dedicated to the task at hand. A couple days later the coordinator called me back and said, “I just found a trainer FIVE miles away from you!” Thank you, Mr. The Baby Jesus. Not only does that cut down on the gas money, I don't have to find a dog-sitter for my babies while I'm traveling unreasonable hours AND the “mentor trainer” I've been paired with holds multiple classes a week so I'll be able to double up on two segments of my three sessions and finish in 14 weeks instead of 21. YAAAY! (That last sentence has a high probability of making sense to no one else, but it seems perfectly logical in MY head.)

I started my first class tonight. ABC has strict guidelines as to your appearance, so much so that you're even graded on it. “Hygiene is VERY important.” Makes me wonder what kind of people they've been working with that they have to TELL you to bathe and brush your teeth. Got it. “Students must wear the ABC Student polo shirt provided in your introduction packet neatly tucked and belted into pressed khaki pants.” Ok, the polo shirt I get, but the khakis? First of all, I don't own any. Ok, maybe one pair but they're flared at the bottom and certainly not utilitarian. “Wear the lightest color possible to insure ALL the dirt shows up on them, and make sure they're thin so they'll rip as soon as rowdy little Fido decides to jump on you.” I wore jeans and crossed my fingers.

Class was great. It counted towards my “observation” segment so all I had to do was sit and watch. I happen to already be awesome at that. We had 2 students, both of which had already attended 2 classes; Durango, a 6 month old bundle of energy who looked mostly pit but could have had a little bird dog in him, and and older Scottish Terrier whose name I already forgot. Something like Buffy. Whatever. Both dogs were already pretty comfortable with “Sit” but we went ahead and went over that anyway. When Buffy wouldn't sit and her people just kept yelling it louder at her, I wanted to go over to them and say, “If you move the treat from in in front of her over her head, she'll look up at it and her butt will go down...” but this is the “observation” portion so I kept my opinions to myself. Then we moved to “Down” which is a little trickier. We also covered heel, focus, come and break. It may not be standard to have covered all those in one class but I'm happy to learn early.

After the dogs and their people were dismissed, I went to talk to the trainer. She asked if I had any questions and the only one I really had was regarding the schedule. Breaks for holidays and what-not. I also mentioned the khakis, hoping she wouldn't hold my lack of them against my grades. Not only did she not care, she said, “Look at what I'm wearing,” which was a blue hoodie, jeans and sneakers. “I stay covered in dog spit and since we use bleach to clean the floors, if it's wet, you're probably going to get it on your pants so please don't wear anything nice.” Thank GAWD. I also told her that my polo shrank when I washed it and it had become nearly untuckable. I'd never been so happy to see a person roll their eyes in my direction.

I can hardly wait for my next class!

Radio Is Dead

Every weekday for five years I heard Eric Slayter's voice in my head-set, “Amarilloooooo's Rock Station, Rock 108! This is Eric Slayter OF The Morning Rock,” followed by my sometimes unenthusiastic and usually hung-over, “And this is The Shea.”

Ever since I was a kid, I imagined what it would be like to be on the radio. Throughout elementary school, a pal of mine since kindergarten and I would jumble mixed tapes and record introductions to every song just to hear our voices emitting from the crackled speakers. Most of it was a warning not to continue listening to the tape because there was “dirty” stuff on it like Samantha Fox. She wore leather and must've been a sinner, therefore, I was fascinated.

One day, the new General Manager of the Cumulus stations decided The Morning Rock needed a new feel. He told the guys on the show they needed to find a chick – smart, funny, and able to hold her own in a mostly male format. Since he'd known me as quite the girl about town, Slayter said, “I know someone we can call.” He took me to lunch and explained they usually got their interns from the local college but it never really worked out. “You can teach any idiot how to push the buttons but you can't teach 'em personality. We thought maybe if we found someone who fit in well, we could teach them how to push the buttons later.” Radio had finally come to ME. Sign me up.

On May 16 of 2006 I started out as a street-monkey, working two days a week. They'd send me out in the Rockmobile with sign up slips for concerts or other trinkets, Rock 108 bumper stickers, and occasionally a box of donuts. I didn't think my job was very important at the time but I was super stoked about it. I got very little air-time but the guys in the studio started getting calls. “Who's that girl out there? She's great!” I wondered how they could possibly be impressed by the unfamiliar voice on a random street-corner; I wasn't doing anything but handing out donuts.

Before I knew it, I was working four days a week but still just on the morning show. I had also been working the switchboard for a car dealership and finally got fed up with it. Five years of “Thank you for calling Shit-Hole Chevrolet,” immediately followed by “hold please,” had finally taken its toll. I quit there and told the radio station I needed to work full time with them. They added “Promotions Director” to my list of duties and gave me an office which I immediately decorated like a teenage boy's clubhouse, complete with movie posters, collectible tin lunch boxes, and Cat Butt Gum.

I turned into Slayter's right-hand-man. He pushed the buttons to make everything go and built the spreadsheets to document the necessities, and whatever he couldn't handle was put on my plate. Filing random paperwork, scheduling interviews, helping to corral people at backstage meet-n-greets for concerts, taking pictures of the bands, and all the rest of the what-not.

I loved my job. But just as with most things you love, that relationship can turn to hate real fuckin' quick. Every time I had a complaint, Slayter was quick to remind me, “Shea, we're not out there digging ditches; we talk into a stick for a living.” Point noted.

Sometimes I'd go on benders and show up still drunk the next morning. Slayter tolerated it (to an extent) but for some reason, the people who listened to us every day LOVED it. I think it helped a lot of people on their way to work with a hangover when they knew I was feeling it too. Most of our fans don't know who Tom Waits is but when I came in sounding like him in the morning, they knew I was gonna have a story to tell about the night before. I eventually recognized I was living up to a caricature I'd built of myself and knew I needed to pull in the reins before it killed me.

One day, everything changed. It was Friday, June 10 and I was trying to carry myself through another 4 star hangover. Wearing no make-up and a hat had pretty much become a standard but I was lucky I made it in with pants that day. It had been a while since I'd done that to myself but I was probably angry about something and had once again taken my most logical route – just drink it away.

At 9:00 that day when the show ended, I went outside to have a cigarette just as I did after every other show on every other day. When I came back into the jock lounge, I noticed two members of upper management talking to Slayter and everyone had an unsettling look on their faces. No one would look me in the eye. No one would tell me what was going on. I thought, “Ohmigod... do we have another funeral to go to?” Kind of.

Slayter started putting his things from the studio into boxes. He still didn't want to tell me but the pieces were starting to come together. I said, “Holy shit. Is THAT what just happened?” He said, “Yeah. I just got told there's no more morning show come Monday.” I froze. I didn't know what to think or do. It wasn't sinking in. This couldn't possibly be happening. Slayter came over to me and wrapped his arms around me and I began to sob. Hard. My knees went weak and I fell to the ground in an uncontrollable heap of shit. It can't be over. It just can't.

I went outside to smoke again and just paced the parking lot, up and down the alley. As I began to hack/sob/vomit against the wall of the building a friend of ours who sometimes cuts commercials for us pulled up into a parking spot. Not knowing this was a couple octaves above my normal disgusting behavior, he shouted, “Cough it up, Shea!” I ran up to his truck with tears streaming down my red, puffy face and said, “Jeff, it's over. We're done. We gotta pack our shit. Slayter too. There's no more morning show.” He, too, sat frozen in disbelief. He finally stuttered, “I'm so sorry, Shea.” It all kicked in a little harder as I stumbled to the median and fell in the grass. I couldn't stop crying. I could hardly breathe. There was snot running down my face and I was now sitting in a puddle of my own vomit. And not from the hangover.

Once I collected myself as best I could, I headed back inside. It was time to find some boxes. I met Slayter in the hallway and he said, “We had a good ride, kid. I know it hurts like hell and I hate to leave it too, but I'm glad that when I walk out that door it's gonna be with you.”

It took me a while to gather all my posters and trinkets. I didn't know whether to pack my “Employee of the Month” plaque and take it with me or throw it through the glass doors of the building. Getting arrested that day wasn't gonna make anything better so I tossed it in the back of the car and waved goodbye for the last time to the Rock 108 studios.

I came home and drank away the weekend in solitary confinement. Monday rolled around and people started calling and sending texts. “Where ARE you? What is this shit on the radio?” I didn't know how to answer any questions, especially the latter since I was NOT turning on my radio for any reason whatsoever. Turns out, we got replaced with “The Free Beer and Hot Wings Show” out of Michigan. Fucking Michigan. Who the hell gives a shit about what's going on in Michigan? And what the hell is free beer and hot wings? People started thinking if they called in, that's what they were gonna get. Nope. It's just a stupid name for a stupid show. My people say they hate it. I really don't know the extent of its alleged stupidity because I'm still not gonna turn it on. Ever.

I didn't leave my house for what seemed like weeks. I paced the floor and cried and drank. I most likely eventually started crying tears of pure Shiner Bock. You're gonna drink this pity parade right into a ditch if you keep this shit up. Pull it together, woman.

I never really had a plan as to what I was going to do past radio. I knew in the back of my head it wouldn't last forever but I had gotten too comfortable. I couldn't depend on my book sales to keep me afloat because it's a novelty at best. I'm barely selling enough of them to make the payments on the loan for the paper I took out to get them printed. (By the way, “The History of My Vagina and Other Sordid Tales” is now available on Amazon.com – digital downloads coming soon.)

As I paced the floor and cried and snotted on myself some more, I called my BFF, Hope. “I have to figure out what the hell I'm doing with the rest of my life. NOW.” She talked me off the ledge as she often does when I'm at my most critical moments. Sometimes it just helps to have some logic on the other end of the phone. She's good at that. I don't remember most of our conversation but it started leaning toward “What else do you love, more than entertaining people?” My dogs. It seemed silly and pointless right that second but my pacing became more rapid and my thoughts quickly evolved into, “I want to learn how to teach dogs. I want to learn how to teach people how to teach their dogs. My heart's never gonna not be in that. THAT is how I'm going to make the world a better place.” “Well, then, that's what you should do.”

It took me a long time to shift my train of thought from the loss of radio being a tragedy and turning it into an opportunity to do something else I really loved. I was bored. I needed something new. In hind-sight, it was actually a gift. It wasn't the end of my life – it's the beginning of a new one.

I am now enrolled in Animal Behavior College to become a Certified Dog Trainer which is really just the beginning of my studies. I want to do SO many things beyond this now and have a solid vision for the future. I will eventually become a Canine Behavior Specialist. Teaching. Rescue. Rehabilitation. Managing aggression. Making better homes with happier lives. I finally found my place in life.

Radio is dead.

And I am calm.