The Daycare.

I guess you could say there are some plusses and minuses, some pros and cons, some ups and downs to working at a dog daycare. Being the Dog Whisperer, it’s hard for any dog to really irritate me (plus). I enjoy sharing sentimental moments with the four legged creatures who frolic in the wood chipped arena (plus). I also enjoy sharing other things with the pooches. Yesterday I shared an apple with a Westie, German Shepherd, and a Black Lab puppy (plus). That was of course, after I had eaten my share, and then I let them have little nibbles.

However, since my arrival at the canine casa I have found myself realizing a couple things. There is one dog here who is the authentic reincarnation of Satan (minus). Now hold on, hold on, let me explain before you judge my judging. Not only does this dog’s bark make your inner ear cry for the end of misery, but it makes your eyes close, your face contort, and you’re sure somewhere every time this dog barks it’s shrill, miserable, high pitched bark, someone rolls over in their grave. This dog could unleash the forces of the dead with its bark. I wish I was kidding.

And it’s a constant barker. You know the type of dog that has to bark if you open a window? If you have a drink of water? If you stand up from your chair? If you scratch your head? It has to be reported, and people have to turn over in their graves. This is why I want to be cremated, so it’ll be impossible for me to turn over in my grave at the sound of this dog’s call.

And then, when you look at him, he’s always looking at you. And it’s not a kind, gentle, brown eyed love stare. It’s a squinty eyed, up to no good, I’m going to eat your soul before your shift is over, kind of stare. I kid you not he barks as I type this. The leaves are rustling outside. That’s the only sound/movement apart from my fingers on the keyboard.

And I’m sure this particular dog has really great intentions, but maybe he just acts out when he’s at daycare. Maybe when he’s at home he’s not annoying and he’s actually charming. Oh my God. I just looked at him and I think he does want to eat my soul. I kid you not he is the reason I keep a source of water close by. He doesn’t like to be sprayed.

Anyway I apologize for my discrimination of this dog, but for his own protection I’m not issuing the model or make of this dog, nor his name (you can stick to calling him Satan/Lucifer/Death Angel, etc.). It’s a shame because he’s snuffed the whole breed for me. I can guarantee I will never own this model. I fear for my life, my soul, and my eardrums.

Stream of Consciousness

Here it goes:

-- Yesterday, after the sun had set and I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, my 5-year-old child (Basset Hound) asked me for a Popsicle. She speaks with her eyes, people. I had just sat down and was finishing off the blue raspberry portion of my firecracker Popsicle, you know the red white and blue ones. I thought to myself, you know why not? She likes yogurt. YES, keep your comments to yourself, she likes yogurt. And grapes. Anyway, I held out the stick for her and she gave it a lick. Low (loe?) and behold (what does this phrase even really mean?) she licked up that Popsicle like I'd never seen her lick before. And when she was done, two things happened. The first was that her tongue turned a shade of Indian Ocean Blue that I'd only dream of seeing on a Chow. And second, she revealed a joke to me (that was on the Popsicle stick) that confirmed that these Popsicle sticks were made sometime around my 6th birthday. The joke? What is a cat's favorite button on a VCR (yes, I went there). It's paws. Hold your applause.

-- Today at work, a Pug was chasing his tail for a full fledged 120 seconds. I wasn't counting. But what is it that makes a dog want to chase their tail? Do they think it's like some kind of anamorphic phenomenon that is suctioned to their body and coincidentally moves when they think about moving it? And thus it must be eaten/chased? If I could be inside the mind of a Pug for one day, I'd do it. But just for one day.

-- What did people do before texting? Actually.

-- That was such a dumb joke. What is a cat's favorite button on a VCR. Yeah, really funny.

-- My boss took the time to draw designs in her gigantic bubble letters that read: GAS, today before she stuck in on her steering wheel. Before I got in the car. I thought that was thoughtful.

-- If I ever come to own six cats in my lifetime, you have my permission here in writing to come and deal with me. Use whatever actions you deem necessary. Unless all the cats are naming something exotic, like Da Buddha or Iago.

-- Spellcheck made me capitalize popsicle.

God Bless the Dog Park

Oh. My. Gosh. Just ohmygosh.

There I was, taking the Basset Hounds for a nice Thursday afternoon stroll through the dog park. All was going swimmingly, both of the dogs were answering to their names today and both of them were staying with my line of vision. There were no skirmishes, no close calls, no getting caught without a bag, no chasing, no growling, no humping, no stalking of Bernese Mountain Dogs...all in all a really great trip to the dog park.

So after some trail climbing and water lapping (them, not me), we said our farewells to the dog park as I loaded the Bassets into the back of the car. Uneventful drive home. Get home, unlock the door, take off their leashes, sigh with contentedness and reach into my pocket for my license so I can return it to my wallet. And reach into my pocket for my license so I can return it to...my...wallet....and REACH INTO MY POCKET for my LICENSE so I can return it to my WALLET!!!

My license, is not in my pocket. Instead, the pocket fabric is turned out, obviously suggesting that the my license flew the coop ages ago. Don't Panic.

Okay, panic.

I run outside and look over the ground, unlock the car and look all over the driver's seat and side. No avail. Nothing but a gum wrapper. Let out huge frustrated sigh. Climb back in the car, start the engine, drive BACK to the dog park. It must have fallen out when I loaded the dogs because that's when I reached into my pocket for the keys. Stupidly, the keys and license were in the same pocket.

So I search the parking lot: not there. I go back into the dog park and retrace every.single.step that I had stepped just fifteen minutes prior. I climbed hills and searched through grass, bark, wood chips, and dirt. There were no Bassets trailing behind me, so I must have looked strange just traipsing through the dog park with no dogs. But I don't know if anyone looked at me weirdly because I never looked up from the ground. I walked around that entire dog park again, at warp speed, scanning every inch of the ground for my license: nothing.

Let out huge frustrated sigh as I climb hill to go back to the car. I pause at the front gate and look at the bulletin board a short ways a way. Could someone have found it? Would they put it there? I walk over on my last whim and scan the posters taped, stapled, and push-pinned to the bulletin board. No, no, no. My eyes can't find anything. And then my heart skips a beat as I realize my own face is staring back at me.

There, in the lower corner of the bulletin board is my license held up by a pushpin at either end. Ohmygosh. Try to contain myself. Try not to spin in circles with my arms outstretched. Try not to sing the entire soundtrack of the Sound of Music. Try not to click my heels in the air. Return to car. Drive home. Weep softly. God Bless the Dog Park.

Ramblings.

Question, how many bowls of Banana Nut Cheerios have I eaten today? Answer, totally unimportant.

You see I believe in things like no matter how many bowls of Banana Nut Cheerios you consume in one day, there can't be anything wrong with it because it specifically says ON THE BOX: made with real bananas. Would Corporate Cereal Making Manufacturers lie to me? Do not answer that question. I choose to be ignorantly blissful. Along with many other things.

Did you know that my wit precedes me and often times puts me in sticky situations where I'm almost expected to produce some kind of clever and quick quip to a statement? Well it does. And I have to. But do I? Well, usually.

I also really like alliteration. I got a twinge of delightfulness when I typed quick quip a few seconds ago. Saying it out loud, sort of a tongue twister. Thank you for just saying it out loud. It makes me feel like I'm not the only one who talks to myself.

You know as I was driving up and down Admiral Way for the four hundredth time this morning, I began thinking a few things, as I often do when I find myself repeatedly driving up and down Admiral Way every day for work.

After I swore I thought I passed Brad Pitt driving, I wondered, do you think they (as in celebrities) get spotted driving by like normal civilians. Do you think any teenager has wound up in a car next to Justin Bieber and been like OOOOOOOOOH MYYYY GAW!

That's all, for now.

Note to Self.

Must Remember:

• Must Minimize Justin Bieber Comments In Public - remember, you are actually 20 years old and a relationship with Justien Bieber would actually be illegal. Not like you'd want a relationship with a 16 year old because he'd probably just crash the car driving over to pick me up. No, no, that won't do. Boyfriend is much better looking anyway, and can actually play music.
• To Never Get Old - please tell me I'm not the only one who saw that lady running on 44th today? The one with the Golden Retriever? Oh God, that is destined to be me, isn't it?
• Go to the Store. Get a Pickle Card. - it's Erik's birthday and that's the only substantial thing I can give him because of his unnatural love for pickles. Maybe a jar of pickles? Too much? Too much.
• Be Friendly to Clients' Neighbors - they don't know you're in a hurry to go to 4,399 other houses to feed cats. Take a moment to smile and reply to any/all of their questions. They mean no harm. Try to stay out of the middle of the street during these confrontations; angry drivers.
• To Not Have Such a Need for Speed - stop watching Paul Walker movies. Stoplights are your friend, repeat to self.
• Allergy Pill - unless you enjoy the sensation of a tornado in your nose every time you try to breathe which leads to unrelenting sneezing attacks whilst driving which leads to going ten miles under the speed limit which leads to angry drivers behind me which leads to honking which leads to driving faster which leads to continuous sneezing. Repeat.
• You Love Your Job - did I just have to straddle a cat? I'm getting really good at rhyming things with pets' names. Am I in my friend's house right now, feeding his cat? I did just straddle a cat, didn't I? Oh My God. I just looked at my schedule, am I taking care of a pig this week? Is that pig named after a Mariner's player? Oh My God. I did just straddle a cat.

There's a Stegosaurus in My Dinner.

You know how some things just taste better than other things? I’m not talking about the obvious chocolate cake tastes better than eggplant (unless you don’t like chocolate cake or have a closet obsession with eggplant, yikes) or spaghetti tastes better than anchovies (unless you’re cutting carbs and are interested in a high sodium intake). I’m talking about brand versus brand and shape versus shape here.

Earlier in the year, I found myself in the grocery store, my head swiveling and my heart racing as I had to make a decision between Oreos or Store Brand Chocolate Crème Sandwich Cookies. I had to make a decision, and I had to make a hurried decision because my roommates were waiting mere feet away from me, their toes tapping the unmopped, scuffed linoleum floor of our local grocer.

“They all taste the same,” Roommate One said to me.

With beads of sweat dripping down my forehead in anxiety, I reached for the naturally cheaper, store brand sandwich cookies. When we got home, I pried one from its crinkly container and ate it. Devastation. Complete and utter devastation. It was like I could taste the genericosity (yes, I made that word up). I promptly put all remaining sandwich cookies into a Ziploc bag and nestled them in the deepest corners of my desk drawers, never to be devoured by me personally anytime soon.

All that to say: 1) They in fact do not all taste the same, and 2) Brand really truly does matter sometimes!

In conjunction with the brands, I thought of shapes. My Roommate (Yes, One), absolutely insists on eating shaped macaroni, and only shaped macaroni. If she were stranded in the arctic a la Christopher MacCandless and had the choice between regular noodle-y macaroni or nothing, she would definitely choose nothing. Perhaps an exaggeration, but only slight. This is where she says, “It doesn’t taste the same.” To me, all Kraft macaroni and cheese tastes the same whether it’s a noodle or some Japanese anime character. But no, to her there is just no exception.

So all of the above was my thought process today when I stood in Safeway, my mother bustling over fresh salmon and how many yogurts she was preparing to buy as we headed towards the dairy section. But there I stood, staring at not one of the above dilemmas, but two. Yes, two.

Did I get the generic store brand macaroni and cheese, or did I get Kraft. What is this world coming to when a 20-year-old has to make these types of decisions in longer than 10 seconds? I don’t know, but the beads of anxiety were appearing on my forehead again as my mom chugged by me with the shopping cart. Once I’d made that decision, did I get regular noodles or prehistoric dinosaur shapes? Pause and think to self, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen prehistoric dinosaur shaped macaroni. Examine box from at least five feet away so that four-year-old in racing car shopping cart by your feet won’t judge you. Avoid eye contact.

My mom looks back at me and I open my mouth to speak but what can I say? The prehistoric dinosaur shapes are too much for me to pass up. So now as I sit here at work, I want you to understand my subtle joy that in this bowl are all sorts of prehistoric creatures that I’m sure long to be eaten just as much as I long to eat them.

And I just wrote an entry about macaroni. Off to better myself.

Coffee Pouches & Allergens

I’ve come to realize a few things.

Firstly, whoever was the first person to stumble upon a coffee bean, grind it up, then think to mix it with hot water and then drink it (versus pour it on plants or give it to the llamas in the open fields), I love you. I just want you to know, wherever your blessed soul is right now, I love you. I love you, I love you, and I love you. You are a genius and I’m 100% positive I’m not alone when I profess my forever undying love and servitude to you. I love you. Thank you for being there for me at ungodly hours of the morning.

That was actually a tangent, because that’s not something I’ve realized. I already knew I loved that person who first cultivated coffee, that was a given. My real realization is that I love the person who invented Starbucks Via, which my child if you don’t know, is instant, portable coffee in a pouch. Can I ask you for something that is a better invention? I cannot. Words can’t escape my lips, mostly because I’m too busy drinking instant, portable coffee. From Colombia, none the less.

If you haven’t had the glorious opportunity to quench your morning time thirst with instant, portable coffee in a pouch, I highly, highly, highly recommend you put it on your to-do list. I can safely say that it’s not 9 o’clock in the morning yet and I’m on my third cup. Excessive? Maybe a little bit, but when you have to deal with a Jack Russell that deliberately ignores you, a Golden Retriever that thinks it’s a Rhinoceros, another Golden Retriever that wants to sit ON your lap, and a Black Lab puppy that awkwardly gets stuck in awkward places, you would be on your third cup of coffee too. Trust me, I’m an Anthropologist.

And that leads me to another realization.

I forget things. I forget important things. Mind you I’ve never forgotten anything like my ID before boarding an airplane (never, in my life …), and I’ve never forgotten to set my alarm before having to wake up for work, and I’ve never, ever forgotten to write a paper and turn it in (Communication Disorders, Fall quarter 2009). I would never forget important things like that. I always, always remember super important things like, what time the season premiere of Teen Mom starts (July 20, at 10pm), and what’s on the menu at Casa Que Pasa so I can plan what I’m going to order next time I go. I remember those things.

Never in my life have I forgotten what day it is, and continued throughout the day not knowing. Never in my life have I forgotten to call someone back who I told I would call first thing. Never have I forgotten what the speed limit is, so guessed instead. And naturally, I’ve never forgotten to take off the parking brake before I start driving.

But most importantly, now I’ve realized that I ALWAYS forget my allergy pill. Always. Never mind the fact that I work in a place that has constant pet dander and fur and slobber and drool (same thing?) and hypoallergenic hair flying through the air at any given second. Curses on my desire to remember my car keys when I’m leaving instead of an allergy pill. It’s amazing the difference it makes too. On the days when I reluctantly remember to take an allergy pill with my morning coffee, I don’t sniff or sneeze ONE time at work. Let it be known that I’ve easily sneezed 30 times in the last hour. And I wonder why I get so many bloody noses.

And I’ve also realized, that I know you want to live vicariously through me as a I spend my days mopping up slobber and breaking Milkbones into equal pieces and distributing them at snack time. It’s okay, I understand your wants and needs. I understand you have the desire to know what it’s like to sit amongst 15+ dogs of all sizes and wonder to yourself, what went wrong? Just kidding! As a dog lover I want to say up front this truly is a great summer job. Even if I do have to keep the spray bottle attached to my belt loop all day and constantly have a tongue on any given part of exposed skin. I’ve decided to thus to a “Dog of the Day” and give you the insight into one of these precious pooch’s best qualities. I do not promise to post a Dog of the Day every day, because I might be in a coma from too much caffeine. There’s really no telling.

Don't. Panic.

As some may (or may not) know, I work at a dog daycare. Yes, child, a dog daycare. Did you know there was such a thing? Surely. There is.

Sometimes, as an employee I oversee going to people who are at work or on vacation's houses to A) feed their cat(s) or B) Walk their dogs. On this particular sunny June day, I was destined to walk Bailey. Bailey the sweet, sweet Beagle. As I pulled up to a very attractive, cuddly cottage in West Seattle, I thought to myself, my this will be a pleasant walk. Do you get the feeling it wasn't?

I approach the door and fumble through my ring of keys (henceforth I am known as The Keeper of The Keys). I open the door, and what doest thou hear? I hear a beep. That is NOT what I want to hear as I'm opening the door of a house I've never been to. NO. Incorrect.

I'm obviously imagining things because surely my boss would have told me if there was an alarm at Bailey's house. So, in disbelief, I close the door. YES, my sweet reader, I closed the door. Why did I do that? Somehow in the vast expanse of my mind, I assumed that if I closed the door the alarm would just, dare I say it, shut off. How wrong my child! How wrong!

Coming to my senses I opened the door again. Surprise, it was still beeping furiously, alerting me that if I did not act the homeowners would be notified and the police, summoned. My heart was beating so loud I thought Bailey might have heard it across the room with her big Beagle ears. What do I do? What do I do? Think, you are a college student, make moves. I pull out my cell phone and call my boss.

Kendall: (Phone is ringing.) Why isn't she answering!?!?!
Boss: (After third ring.) Hello?
Kendall: WHAT IS THE CODE TO BAILEY'S ALARM SYSTEM! TELL ME NOW! IT'S GOING TO GO OFF!!!!!!!! HELP ME! HELP MEEE!

I know how to keep calm under pressure. My boss, bless her, somehow managed to tell me the code over my obnoxious-freaking-out-ness and I punched in those numbers like I'd never punched in numbers before. The alarm went silent. I sighed, deeply, checking my pulse. Bailey stared at me from her crate.

I might have stood for a whole thirty seconds in complete silence, trying to remember what just happened. My breathing was irregular and I heard a siren in the distance. Thankfully, that siren did not show up at Bailey's house. Needless to say, the actual walk was uneventful.

You Know What?

I try and try and try again to remember to update, but this time you'll never guess what happened.

Yes, I forgot my log-in information.

Between changing usernames and universal logins and passwords and getting a new debit card and applying to hosts dogs in my home during the summer and almost getting the police called on me (more on that one, later), I just FORGOT my log-in information here.

Don't judge me for this condemnation that I so absentmindedly set upon myself. The police story is sure to redeem me.