#2A.2 of 16: Dos Perritas

Here we are, the second-to-last post, broken into three--well, technically four--parts: 2A.1, 2A.2, 2B and 2C. New posts but with old stuff thrown in. This is #2A.2: The Dogs (Bandido and Rosita).

Pre-Rescue.
I knew we wanted to rescue a dog if we ever decided to get another party pup. (No poodles or chihuahuas. All others welcome. Hold that thought…) Enter serendipity. Quite by accident, we learn about Texas-based Tracy's Paws Rescue. Without expectation of being chosen, I apply for the August Chicago Event and then let it go. I put the entire thing in the Universe's hands and went on with my life...

....for twenty four hours. Within a day, TracysPawsRescue called my references, my vet and then me.

I was SHOCKED when the Adoption Manager called. When asked about the perfect dog, I provided a description that the wife had given me: under 20 pounds, young but not a puppy, non-shedding, female and with no awful medical issues. Bonus points if the dog has two eyes. While interviewing me, she paused (no pun intended) and then asked, "would you consider a smaller dog?" So, now I'm being interviewed AND I'm being asked if I would consider a smaller dog.
Could this get any better? The Universe was out of control.
A small white female,
some non-shedding type pup.
A poodle, perhaps.
Eight pounds of fluff, to be exact.
Perhaps two or three years old.
If I had to pick something for the wife, this would be it.
By the end of the conversation, we were approved for adoption (she had already talked to our references and vet) and we were put in touch with the foster mom.

 (Hmmmm… a poodle. Wait, didn’t we say we didn’t want a poodle? No, we couldn’t have said that. We love poodles.)

Foster mama had lots to say, which helped paint a picture of the pup in question. I’m giddy. Then, the Universe took a turn of yet another thing I hadn't seen coming: the little white dog had bonded with a scruffy brownish chihuahua-ish street dog and they had been inseparable since being picked up together at a high kill shelter. She said, “They share a bone at the same time, they eat out of the same dish, they sleep in the same bed.”

The Universe morphed this into a two-for-one scenario. I knew there was no way I could separate them. None. Zero. Zilch. If I wanted the white ball of fluff, the scrappy brown dog would have to be in tow. I dreaded telling the wife this. It was hard enough for her to consider having a dog again. Having to consider TWO dogs might push her over the edge.

(Hmmmm… a chihuahua mix. Wait, didn’t we say we didn’t want a chihuahua? No, we couldn’t have said that. We love chihuahuas.)

I didn't know what to do. After talking to the wife by phone, she said I should come home and we could talk about it, decide. I warned her I was all in.

I guess she was all in, too as on the counter were two little dog baskets, two dog food containers and two squeaky toys. I contacted the Adoption Manager and secured our new little furry friends. They are now officially ours. Paid in full, posted as adopted.

We have won the lottery. 
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Week One.
The wife and I quickly learn we know not what we are doing.
Our new pups do not understand the concept of leashes or collars or going for a walk.
Rosita demonstrates that walking on tables is normal behavior.
Bandido does not understand the concept of toys.
Neither know how to navigate stairs.
They certainly do not yet know their names.
Bandido likes to pee on top of Rosita's poop.
Rosita likes to poop in the house.
Thankfully, Bandido does not pee on Rosita’s in-house poop.
Bandido has yet to make a peep.
Rosita always has something to say.
Bandido is scared of everything.
Rosita is oblivious and indifferent.

 Yes, Bandido is a girl with a boy’s name. I named her. Of course I did. Her given name was Beatrice. Nope. Not a Beatrice. Her full name is Maritza Bandido, not Beatrice. The wife named Rosita. She named her after the singing pig in Sing! I deemed her full name to be Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia. Her given name was Amelia, so I kept that part. And yes, I do call her Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia.

They are so little.
Bandido is afraid of the water bowl.
Why does Bandido lift her leg to pee?
Why is Rosita on the table?
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Week Three.
We've had a case of diarrhea (Rosita, not me), a trip to the vet (to get an official diagnosis of: diarrhea), 21 hours without peeing (Rosita, not me--I can't go without peeing), an escapee from the harness (Bandido, doing something of which I didn't even think possible), undisclosed injuries (mine) and an Olympic-worthy runaway romp (Rosita).

They’ve learned to navigate stairs.
Bandido has barked once or twice.
She still doesn’t understand toys.
None of us understand Rosita.
Rosita does not care that we need to go to work so she needs to pee.
She pees when she deems it time.
Rosita swims in the water bowl.
Sometimes she just stands in it.
Sometimes she tries to sit in it.
No wonder Bandido was afraid of the water dish.

While on a walk this morning, I scared the piss out of poor Bandido by tripping and falling over her. (The wife was out of town. These things only happen when she is not here.) When I slammed onto the pavement, it scared Bandido so badly that she Houdini-like slipped out of her harness and ran away. From my panicked-sidewalk view, I watched in horror as she bolted down the street. (Thankfully, my glasses stayed firmly on my face and Rosita stayed by my side. Had she run away and/or I didn't have my glasses, this would have been a totally different adventure.) I got my sorry ass up off the sidewalk and limped home as fast as I could, carrying Rosita so I wouldn’t lose her, too. Suffice it to say, Maritza Bandido ran back to our house (yay—she knows where we live!), bound up the deck stairs (yay—smart dog!), and hid in the corner of the open outdoor crate (YAY!--Thank you, Baby Jesus). The poor thing was blurry with shaking. It took quite a bit of reassurance and a whole lot of treats to convince her I am not a psycho mass murderer.

I put five bucks in her therapy fund for the terror I caused her.

The next morning, Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia had her own dog dash. She is FAST. Fast and furious… and naughty. Cunning. How did she get away this morning, you chastise? Well, let me tell you. It’s 5 A.M. We are following our morning routine. We are at the front door, returning to the house after the party pups have done their duty….

I open the door…
I bend over to take their leashes/collars off, as I always do…
Rosita steps as if she's walking into the house and.....
BAM! She streaks around my legs and is G.O.N.E.

I am holding an empty collar. GONE!

Have you ever tried to catch a dog that doesn't know its name? It's not fun. I'm not sure why I bother yelling Rosita's name because she is clueless in that department. I'm sure the neighbors are quite entertained as I'm running across their lawns--in flip flops and boxer shorts and no bra--yelling "GOD DAMMIT, ROSITA!" at 5 A.M.

For the record, I move mighty fast for someone wearing no bra, sporting flip flops, hobbling from yesterday’s tumble and dragging along a terrified chihuahua. 

I'm running,
yelling,
swearing.
I kick off my flip flops so I can run faster.
I’m getting cuts on my legs from the brush.
I just stepped on something squishy.

I actually had to wait until she squatted to pee to catch her. Mid-stream, I picked her up and carried her home. No sense in yelling at her. I didn’t put her down until we were well into the house. I can't do two dog-n-dashes in the same morning.

The wife asked why Rosita looked dirty and scruffy. I'm sweating and not looking spiffy, either. I tell the Wife that it's tough to stay clean when you've been in the brush. I explain how the event transpired. She looks less than amused—with any of us.

There were prickers in my hair.
Cuts on my arms.
Mud on my feet.
Bandido looks terrified, as usual.
Rosita has moved on to table surfing
oblivious to the prickers in her hair and mud on her feet.

As I stand there, my feet are itching like crazy.
Dear god, were we running in poison ivy?

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Three Months.
They know the sound of a peanut butter jar being opened…
the jingle of their leashes…
the flushing of the toilet in the middle of the night (meaning: one of us is awake and we should come say hello).
They bark at everything:
the chime on my laptop,
doorbells on TV,
the actual doorbell,
the opening of the neighbor's garage,
the damn squirrel taunting them on the deck,
the sound of the UPS truck.
They've figured out that when the wife or I go to the basement it means we might be getting them a bone to chew.
They survived their first taste of snow--just a dusting, but a new experience for them, to be sure.
They've made it known they don't exactly love wearing their winter coats.

Bandido no longer tries to pee on her sister (yes, ON her).
Bandido's hair continues to grow--little tufts here and there.
Rosita has expanded her girth.
I swear Bandido is taller.  

Rosita remains on her own mission:
She doesn’t respond to her name unless it’s convenient…
She doesn’t do “tricks” on command unless she feels like it…
She swims in her water dish when she wants to…
She views us as her servants.

We remain unable to catch the "Ninja Pooper" before she ninja poops.
Someone manages to leave us a warm turd in the living room…
A steaming pile in the corner of the bedroom…
A present in the kitchen.
We never see her leave our site and yet, there it is: the ninja poop.

Three months. Already or only?

Yes.

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