The Wormlips Scrapbook

October 15–18, 2006

Poor little Coco: not needed. I’m trying not to identify too much.

Coco is probably the most trying dog I’ve fostered. Part bullet and part barnacle, she relentlessly flew at me and then stuck where she landed. Try walking down a flight of stairs, vision blocked by the 40-pound laundry bucket in your arms and a 30-pound projectile tangling in your legs. I was not amused.

I tried to get a good picture of her, initially without much success.

Before taking her back to Milo today, I wrote a description for their Web site. I hate the idea of her being adopted and instantly returned by some old fuddy duddy who doesn’t like walking around with a dog strapped to his left leg, so I tried to be diplomatically honest.

Pup #9973

More about Coco Bean from her foster mom: It’s amazing how quickly dogs can emerge from their shyness. Within the first 24 hours here, Coco — at first afraid of the stairs — was running up and down as though she’d been here all her life. She immediately got along fabulously with my dog. At first she ignored my cats, but soon realized they could be fun to chase. However, she was never aggressive toward them.

She’s such a cute thing, with her little fawn-like spots and that chevron (or Star Trek?) design on her forehead. She is housebroken, but other than that I don’t think her former family ever set a boundary for her, which is so unfair to her. As a result, her sweet, waggy temperament is often overshadowed by her excessive enthusiasm: she jumps up constantly and gets tangled under your feet. But she’s smart, responsive to voice commands, very eager to please and people-oriented, so she should prove a good learner once she gets the idea.

It’s really important that her new family expect to begin training right away so they don’t OD on her non-stop exuberance. The rewards will be huge.

October 19

Oops. Milo must’ve thought my painstakingly crafted description was a case of TMI after all. (No wonder I can’t sell stuff on e-Bay.) Here’s what ended up on the Web site.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I still get my feelings hurt by the editorial process, no matter the venue. That, of course, is because it’s all about me.

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September 13–18

By the time I met Figaro, his wife had left him. Unfortunately for Stella — not the subtlest of romancers — it was a case of unrequited love.

I can’t imagine what my neighbors thought. For the better part of a week my backyard was a symphony of “Stellaaaaaas” and “Figaro, Figaro, Figaroooooohs.” Here’s my friend Beth again, during intermission.

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July 21, 2006

Around 5 o’clock this afternoon I was yacking with my visiting friend Beth when I had the sudden urge to go to the pet adoption store. She indulged me. Needless to say, I left with an overnight foster dog.

Jack is a huge, blonde, shepherdy-faced dog. I asked Beth, who knows a lot about animals, if she thought he was purebred. “Uh … purebred what?” she answered with infinite diplomacy.

Stella’s only half Jack’s size …

… so Stella spent a lot of time mashed to the ground.

But Stella can outdo Jack on agility any day. I’m not saying she’s graceful, mind you. She careens into fence railings. She runs so fast that she tips over and continues parallel to the ground before gravity gets the better of her. It’s like me and Irish dance: my leaps are fine; it’s my landings that suck.

Anyway, one moment she’s running full-on toward Jack, but just as their snouts are about to collide she loops around under him, he slams on his brakes, she dashes out between his front legs, and he looks confused.

He spins to catch her and she vaults over his back.

After more running Jack discovered humping. Then Jack asserted his right to eat both their dinners.

They galloped more. Jack humped more.

Overall, fun was had by all. I think.

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