Apologies & Giving Huge Thanks and then, well, Not So Much...

I have great great news for the people who loathe and resent me and must pray daily for me to die (mostly my poor sister and brother who generously send me money even though they loathe me, well, because they pity me, and even though they cannot grasp how hopelessly fucked my brain is now and how often I am not the me of me. Believe me, I understand the loathing mixed with pity. I'm no day at the beach when I'm "healthy", well, healthy for me.) and a hopefully somewhat funny tale of a best of time, worst of times -- God, I love Dickens -- Thanksgiving. Mostly worst of times, which makes for better material and a heartrending life.

First post I've been able to create in a long long time. So many seizures and strokes in a 10 day period. This time I was sure I would lose language altogether. For now, I can use my limited Rainman vocabulary/expressions. Or, and this is the miracle, I can talk into a tape recorder in my stumbling way and an extraordinary friend transcribes it for me. Which allows me to slooowly and painfully and extremely imperfectly edit what is there. My skills are limited and we end up with several versions of whatever I was trying to convey. And then there is the reality that I live mostly in the past, especially when I'm having lots of seiz-strokes, that old events seem current and active to me, that old language presents itself as what I thnk and feel now and that I have huge trouble keeping track of transcribed versions vs. edited ones vs. even more edited ones.

Bottom line being that my brain literally loses chunks of life experience. For example, knitting, which I adored, is lost to me. Gone. Vanished. My poor chubby wonderpups have to wear overtight crop-top sweaters in this cold because I can't make them larger versions. And cooking is gone!! (This will become relevant when I finally get to the worst part of Thanksgiving.) I was always a terrible cook, lucky enough to find men who could/would do it and who would, inevitably, come to resent and loathe me for not cooking well.

All of which means that I get to express myself, well, really myselves, since the past and present live side by side for me, and I have to apologize a lot. This week is about apologizing sincerely and, this time, not defensively, thanks to my miracle friend, to my sister for calling her a c--- of a sister in the Mental Health Checklist, apparently in the Gratitude section, which is an awful awful thing to do, even for someone with a fucked brain. So frustrating too that, as much of an asshole as I am, my fucked brain causes me to be even more so.

My sister and I were estranged for almost 20 years, for excellent reasons, so I got in the habit of calling her the c---sister. C--- is an ugly word that I use for people who are emotionally withholding, for whom it is challenging to be warm, or, God forbid, effusive. I called my father a withholding SOB for years after my longterm college boyfriend broke up with me for a blond physical therapist. I was sobbing hysterically, in huge pain, and my poor psychiatrist father was incapable of comforting me or telling me I was pretty when he brought up, out of nowhere, my looks. I was, he said above average looking and shouldn't worry about finding someone else. Thank God for the downstairs friend/neighbor, who ran upstairs with a valium and her vibrator. So this is old old business for me. And my father was so generous in myriad other ways. I'm 55 years old and should be so so over all that crap. I was actually. My late husband was a safe safe place for me, made almost everything possible. But now my nameless dread of a brain has pulled me back in, a la Al Pacino. I joke because I can, but it is truly hideous.

Out of old/new/past habit and hurt, I used that word for my sister on the tape of the List that got transcribed, and I feel guilty and horrified by this. I know I edited that out once I realized I'd spoken the c--- word into the tape and I know I sent her that version and that I had every intention of posting the edited version because it is inappropriate at best to talk about my sister that way because she, amazingly, overcomes her antipathy and sends me money and because this is old old business for me and probably has little to do with her. And because, while I may be okay with the word, many women/men are not.

But I chose the wrong file out of those labeled MHC, Mental Health Checklist, MHC, versions 2,3, etc. and posted the unedited version and truly only realized it when sister and I were just fighting via email subject lines and she pulled it out of her bag of ways in which I could not suck more. Big big big big bag. Don't know if she saw it a while ago and was letting it fester while a huge resentment built up and up, which hurts my heart to think about. She, understandably, can't forgive me for the vile and insulting things I did and said in the past so I know that this will go right into the bag of suckitude. Or if she, for some unknown reason, wanted to read something of mine, which seems so unlikely. Doesn't matter. I did a bad and hurtful thing out of old habit and did not fix it as I thought I had, and she busted me and I owe an enormous amends and apology!!! Once again.

Shit, I'm so exhausted now from once again having to ponder at length the extent to which I am the giant asshole I am. I'll give a snapshot of the Day of Thanks and write more later, after one more nap with the girls and p.kitty. Bottom Line: the dinner I ordered, that I was so excited about and grateful for, was not only Not Good, but it also required cooking! Arrrrggghhh. Years ago, when Richard and I indulged ourselves with a pre-prepared meal from Zupans, there was no cooking involved! There is no cooking in baseball! Re-heating is something I can do successfully and that is about it. The turkey itself came in an unwieldy thick plastic form-fitting bag. It took two of us -- me and the friend who took me to pick the dinner up at Wild Oats, which I thought was the same as Whole Foods, which is so not true as I/we painfully realized -- to wrestle the slimy supposedly pre-cooked bird into the roasting pan. Said pan was to be supplied by the store, but, hey, it wasn't Whole Foods.

I had naively invited a few friends and reed students to chow down immediately when we got back, still living in the past with the wondrous Zupan's meal. The dread turkey had to be cooked for 2 hours by the non-cook. The garlic mashed potatoes I'd been fantasizing about did not exist in the box o' food, and even if it did, would have had to have been heated on the stove for half an hour, actually cooked. Got two containers of not at all good stuffing. The sweet potatoes with the apricot glaze were almost inedibly sweet and I, when I can afford it, consume way too much sugar. The brussel sprouts with whatever on them were horrible and I actually love brussel sprouts! Even after all the freaking preparation that all of this crappy stuff required. There was none of the promised maple herb butter to baste the turkey with and the pumpkin cream cheese pie was, so horribly sadly, covered and overcome by some brown sugar/nuts/whatever topping. To which I was, as I am to almost everything these days because of my seriously compromised immune system and insane hormones, horribly allergic.

Had to leave the dread cooking to the guests while I retreated to the bedroom with the usual high fever, swollen glands, logy and achy feeling crud that comes over me whenever I eat or inhale or, I swear, stagger by any of the countless things that make me ill. What is so ridiculous is that the regular brain tumor symptoms/side effects don't bother me that much. The massive headaches, the dizziness, the exhaustion, the lost chunks of skills, even the seiz-strokes, this is all part of the deal. It's the cards I've been dealt.

I was supposed to die a year or more ago. I'm supposed to drop dead any and every day. And I live with that, in pain and in poverty -- the money my siblings so generously send me is only a small portion of what it costs me to live, can't even begin to afford to eat the healthy food I'm supposed to be eating or to get any decent healthcare but, shit, that is not anyone else's responsibility. It's that of the fucking politicians, the fucking administration that vetoes healthcare for children and Michael Moore -- one day at a time, keeping my daily gratitude conversation going with God.

GD and I have an extremely contentious relationship -- I will withhold the language I use to him when I'm in despair and confusion -- but it goes along with my theory that he/she/it is so very busy and that you have to be very specific about what you ask for . I did specify a delicious dinner, oh well, but I forgot to mention that it should not involve real cooking. And, shit, I did manage to nag some good-doers to death and line up some low income housing, so, GD willing, if I can get a last chunk of money for cleaning and moving expenses, I can live on the disability funds I get and no longer have to be a burden on anyone but the government. Please, GD, I could actually have a tiny bit of a life with affordable rent, surrounded by other seniors with pets (they are allowed!!) and, at last and hopefully, the time to have cawfee and tawk, a la Mike Myers channeling Linda Richman.

Okay, I"m sorry, this doesn't even begin to be funny. Just bitter and cynical and angry and sad, probably because I am still battling the fever, glands, logy, achy crud/crap and when this is going on, I get so severely depressed that I pretty much just want to die die die, which does not lend itself to anything but the blackest humor. I will edit and add to this later and, hopefully, make it funny and accessible and will put in the best of the day that all happened before we got the food home. Well, the guests said the turkey was good. who knew? and the puppies and p LOVED it. so that is what matters after all. I still wrote a Jay Leno's father you-should-be-disembowelled letter to both the Wild Oats store and Whole Foods corporate because I can't stand to and I cannot afford to waste money on anything that isn't up to par. or above. This was, was supposed to be, the first real whole delicious dinner I've had, never mind gotten to serve, in so long I can't remember. Hey, the turkey was okay.

Coco just woke up and, God, I am so grateful for her beauty and sweetness and all around excellent company. Softest copper/chestnut/mahogany coat in the world. Ella's in her crate and her tiny apple half-chihuahua head just popped up.

Now I edit the ugly c--- out of the damn checklist and then take more painkillers and allergy meds and, hopefully, zone out physically and mentally.

Tomorrow I will be funny again. Time, rest and GD willing.

My Mental Health Checklist -- Desperate for a Hip/Clever Name. Please help!!!

MENTAL HEALTH CHECKLIST (until I think of new hip title)

These are some tips, in no particular order – and I have lots of other material to add if anyone but me thinks that this stuff is useful or funny or whatever – that I put together to share with some of the Reed students who walk my dogs for me when they feel like it. (I’m a bit bitter right now because they are slowly falling off, as was bound to happen due to the incredible academic load they all carry. I just miss them. Which I can handle, but the wonderpups miss them badly and that is tough for me. Very.)
Anyway, a couple of the Reedies seem to have pretty serious mood disorders, but I’m not a professional so I will just call it emotional challenges. Hope this is PC enough. So I began writing down some things that help me when the mental illnesses are kicking my ass. And, well, just to get me through Life (which I have personally always felt is overrated.)
I wanted to make the List accessible for very busy people with short attention spans and so began adding in humor and anecdotes. Started to think that maybe I was on to something. I would be so very grateful for any and all feedback, for your sharing any practice that helps you with your demons and, well, any ideas about what I could do with this if it is Something. New blog, website, zine, whatever. Anyone? Bueller? Huge gratitude from me and the pups in advance, of course!!!

THOSE CRITICAL VOICES

Really hear and acknowledge the Critical Tapes that run in your head (what Anne Lamott calls KFuck radio, the shit that plays constantly, telling you that you are NOT OKAY, that you are less than, which is BULLCRAP. In my case "you are a piece of shit and I want to die" figure prominently and are so not apt or helpful when I’ve forgotten to go to the post office. The goal here is to slowly begin to talk back to those tapes. Tell them to fuck off, that you don't need their input, that they are wrong and mean and useless. Or that they have bad breath. Whatever gets them to shut up and whatever comforts you. This is incredibly empowering and powerful.
Writing your responses down is even more potent and is part of what Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is all about. Which I recommend highly!! So highly. Google CBT during your vast free time (this is directed at Reedies and workaholics in general.) For me, working with a partner in every aspect of my life has helped me so much with this. KFuck radio has so much less power when you are collaborating with someone who supports you. Works with study partners too.
I moved to Oregon partly because of my late husband and partly to find a writing partner. My bitterness over the self-absorption of the writers here knows no bounds. I work hard every day to morph that energy into humor.


HUMOR ROCKS

A deep laugh is like an internal massage. The healing powers of laughter are unquantifiable. Read and watch funny stuff in your vast free time. Make fun of your professors amongst yourselves (substitute bosses for those who have graduated) -- look for specific words or gestures that particularly bug. And the idiotic, deeply insecure and fucked up Superior People. Form your own Clique/Motley Posse (there is nothing I love more than a Motley Posse. I'm going to make one of you read the children's screenplay I wrote with a c--- of a screenwriting partner -- and she still helped me so much!) You will see how essential a posse can be.
You and your MP (applies to work situations too) need to band together and mock the Cliques in class and out. if they all dress a particular way, you all dress that way too in an extreme form. Play the equivalent of drinking games in a boring class: again, look and listen for habitual odd behavior and all put your heads on the de sk at once or whatever. Giggle amongst yourselves and boost your endorphins. Knitting does this also, ladies and gentleman. I used to call it "turning anxiety into clothing" before it left my subsected brain. (wow, a trigonometry reference?)

UNCENSORED WRITING

Do some freewriting daily, just writing whatever comes into your mind for at least 10 minutes. This is so powerful and can give you access to feelings and memories and insights you didn't even know you knew/had!!! And it gives the damaged, sad, angry parts of you an uninhibited voice, which they so very badly need (and we all have them, no matter how "healthy" your family of origin was. 10 minutes a day, folks. That is all. It's frustrating but until you recognize, acknowledge and process (this most often requires professional help at at least some point. Are there counselors at Reed? Can Alumnae access them at all? Seriously, kiddos, something to look into.) For now, 10 minutes unedited writing a day. At least. Or get a tape recorder and talk into it while walking (see Exercise below) or whatever. It can only improve your rep as Eccentric at Reed.) My beef, being a comedian: why is something eccentric and not just funny to asshole s and/or Republicans and/or oregonians? No wonder I fit in with several of you Reedies.

SIMPLE ABUNDANCE

And/or keep a Gratitude Journal. Helps me enormously. I can't even tell you. GJ means writing down every day at least 5 tiny things, little abundances, for which you are grateful, thankful, whatever. These days I often talk to God directly to say thank you, but this is much less effective. (Oh, bitter and cynical people) you do not have to believe in God or any higher power to do this. For me, Obi Won Kenobi was my HP for years and years and I still find the thought of Alec Guiness so so comforting. Thank the Universe, tell it how grateful you are for the gorgeous sweater-wearing puppies you saw that day. Someone famous once said that if the only prayer you ever pray is Thank You, that will be enough. And what you focus on is what grows in your life. Which is why my life sucks and has sucked with the clinical depression and anxiety, and I don't want that for anyone I care about except pedophile, rapists and serial killers. And my mother.
Your brain loves a habit and will begin to look for and record every positive thing that happens during the day. Expressing gratitude is very very very good for the soul. On a bad day, it can be that you're thankful for breathing in and out, grateful this day is over, for Teddy's wonderpups, etc. :)

TAKE A DEEP BREATH

This could not be more important and I should have put it at number one. It is physically impossible to feel really anxious when you are breathing slowly and deeply. Recognizing your breathing is key to managing anxiety and other mood disorders and life in general, not to mention Superior People and Assholes. If and when you feel anxiety coming on, immediately pay attention to your breathing! This will take practice and it's imperative you start doing this now. It will improve the quality of your life
enormously and you deserve the highest quality of life (if you are not a pedophile, etc.) Slow your breathing down and breathe from your abdomen.
Google this and learn about various techniques. I get overwhelmed easily and have so many other majorl Looney Tune/Outpatient issues, so I just breathe in for 4 and breathe out for six counts, making sure my abdomen is rising and falling, rising when you breathe in and falling when you breathe out. A powerful practice to do as much as possible, especially if there is social anxiety or phobia, is to, before you say anything or freeze or leave your body because someone else is talking to you, and as soon as you hear the Critical Voices begin to fuck you up and your breath to quicken, breathe in for 4, hold for 4 and breathe out for 4. Take that nano time to Recognize that this is anxiety/panic attack, that it will not kill you and that the other person/people are more focused on themselves than on you. See next step for help managing social anxiety.

BECOMING FASCINATING

In the case of social anxiety/phobia or just misanthropy in general, do your 4 4 4 breathing, continue to calm down your breathing and to tell KFuck radio to shut the hell up and then ask the other person about him/herself! People find themselves infinitely fascinating. Seriously. Even if they are walking Ambien. They will find you fascinating for really listening to them. Being a Great Listener is a fabulous fabulous thing. You learn so much, so much more than you do by talking (some of us listen while talking and exhausting others, but you have to have a unique brain to do this well so i don't recommend it to novices.), while you accumulate great material for your present or future writing career, and you become a more compassionate and empathetic person by realizing that Everybody Hurts, badly at time, and that REM is very very wise. And for the present, you take the focus off yourself. Wonderpups, Service Dogs do this too but I am severely biased.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

That reminds me: be kind, compassionate and comforting to others as much as is possible. Everyone is in some kind of pain and Assholes are often in the worst pain (I say this as a Relapsing Recovering Asshole/Agoraphobic.) Say nice things even though no one ever said them to you. Give good compliments. Don't say I like your sweater (which he/she might have received from visually impaired Aunt Esther) when you can say, that color looks wonderful on you!!! I love giving compliments -- it's my way of compensating for having withholding parents. Did i mention this already? Tell older people they look young and cute and someone might want to date them, even when they don't (especially brain damaged elders with dogs).
Well, tell as much truth as possible. I do that, which is why I get huge smiles in response to my compliments. When the anxious/damaged parts of yourself hear wonderfully kind comments, even if they are addressed to your fabulous canine or feline americans, healing takes place!!!!! Seriously. Being kind is as nurturing and healing to yourself as it is to others. and who doesn't want to make a non-pedophile smile. Seriously. (Sorry, i watch too much TV, including Grey's Anatomy.) Again, especially when you are being kind to older brain impaired people with wonderpups who feel old and fat and ugly most of the time, particularly when they are walking at Reed. Arghhhhh.
[Addendum: I received the most lovely compliment yesterday from a stunning and well-put-together woman at Trader Joe's. I was untying the wonderpups from their post. They were wearing pink and olive chia pet sweaters and looked gorgeous. Popular as ever. The woman came out of TJs, looked at the girls and asked, "I knew they were yours. Want to know why? Me: Yes! (Desperate as always for attention/ feedback/ love/compliments.) She: Because you are so beautifully dressed.
Okay, this was an Oh My God/Peak Moment for me. I’m wearing my favorite sweater, necklace and boots. I've lost 15 pounds. I love clothes and fashion. There is a whole rant here about this and about how much I loathe PDX, but that is for another time. I dress carefully because I am poor and because the six-year-old part of me wants everything to match and to look as much Early Kindergarten as possible. This kind kind kind woman made my week. Shit, she made my compliment-deficient year! Just because someone is old and chubby doesn't mean she is past loving a sweet word here or there. He/she needs it more because older people are invisible in American culture – another rant here for another time. And it sucks bigtime. Shutting up now.)]

MOVING IT

Shit, my effing brain. What i had to say is gone. Oh, shit, yes, exercise is extremely important. I know you know this, kids. Boosts endorphins, of course. It is as effective against depression and probably anxiety too as meds are. I have to take meds because I have no serotonin at all. None of the good chemicals. It is worth talking to someone good about meds if there is major suffering going on. Life is not meant to be lived this way, as much awful daily suffering as there is in most of the world. Diabetics take insulin, etc. Many people are serotonin and norepinephrine -deficient. (Please note, even with brain damage, how incredibly well I spell I am a walking Spellcheck!)
Speaking of walking, walking is as good as running, with fewer injuries, if you walk at your target heart rate. (220 minus your age X 75%, up to 85 if you are fit already.) The temptation when you are depressed or anxious is to just sit there and eat carbs. (I have nothing against carbs, especially chocolate crrrrroissants from Trader Joe's, which literally make me extremely sick but are worth it occasionally.) Get your mood disordered ass out there for at least 10 minutes or dance around your room/ apartment when you are feeling lethargic, blue, whatever. Seriously, folks.

That's it for now. I apologize for errors. i was only able to proofread – or preefrude as my damaged brain tends to say it. -- once because the wonderpups/service dogs and I have to put on our raincoats/yellow ponchos and go to the poor people's clinic downtown for health care. Luckily, we are beloved by the recovering addicts and homeless people for being fun and having fabulous canine companions and by the doctors for being high-functioning. And Pearl Bakery is there. They carry brioche bread, chocolate paninis and more. Horrible for me, really bad, but sometimes the soul needs what it needs. And we do walk around the Pearl. J

I’ll be adding more over time. Again, just wanted to say how grateful I am for any feedback and any encouragement at all to continue with this if it’s helpful or entertaining at all.

My Gorilla Soulmate

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Newest photos of Ella and Coco by Annika the Wonderful

My Current Prozac On Paws

The Bad Good Willa Hunting -- a book chapter-in-progress

PART 2: FALLING IN LOVE

Chapter 2

The Bad Good Willa Hunting (second draft)


“You can’t have everything… Where would you put it?”
Steven Wright


So I knew I wanted a Service Dog. I knew that I qualified for one. That I was definitely disabled by my panic disorder and unable to leave my own home without having to rush back almost immediately, crippled by anxiety. All I needed now was the right dog and to find a trainer to help me train it. Shady Lady was my blueprint for canine love and support. I knew I wanted a Lab. Just to be sure I was on the right track and because, as I said earlier, I am only half functional idiot, I called Guide Dogs for the Blind and asked them what breeds they prefer. The representative said Labrador and Golden Retrievers were their top choices.

Okay, I was on the right track. I knew I wanted a Lab. But that was all that I knew. I felt like I was in a Jerry Seinfeld routine, the one where he says that men are simple: they know only a few things. They know they want beer. And they know that they want women. But that is as much as they’ve figured out. They know how to get the beer, but they have no idea how to actually get the women. So, all that hooting and hollering on the street and the yelling out from cars? Well, we just have to forgive them. That’s all they’ve worked out so far. I was almost that clueless about finding the right dog. Wasn’t yet whistling at cute canines on the sidewalk, but that might have been a more productive approach than the one I did take.

Because, of course, I first found the completely wrong dog. The first Good Willa Hunting. The Bad Good Willa Hunting. The people who hooked me up with this creature could not have been less kind (unintentionally of course).
I don’t believe that most people mean to be cruel. But it’s amazing how insensitive and nasty people can be when they are either ignorant or don’t bother to think things through. Before I accepted that my fate was to live on delivery pizza, I’d left a message asking a friend of mine to go with me to Safeway because I couldn’t get there on my own anymore. Five days went by, and she hadn’t called me back. I had the urge to call and scream at her that food was not optional, but it would have done no more good than it would have with the clueless therapist. Irrational fear is not easy to understand. I barely understood it myself. I didn’t, however, speak to that “friend” again.

So, knowing I wanted a Lab, I called the nearest Humane Society. Was as clear as I knew how to be about what I was looking for in a potential Service Dog to help me Leave the House. That I preferred an older dog, one that was calm and easily trainable and that I would need lots and lots of help with training the animal to assist me in managing my anxiety. The conversation with the Man in Charge (hereafter Dickbrain or DB -- I got very angry over time.) went something like this:

“I want to adopt a female Lab between 2 and 5 years old. Preferably one that has some training already. A yellow one would be great. Less threatening to small children. And I’ll need someone to teach me to work with her…”

"No problem. I hear you,” replied Dickbrain. “I can work with you as much as you need and for as long as you need it. Or I can hook you up with someone who can.”

“Someone near me? In Ventura County?” I was almost panting with excitement and anxiety.

“No problem. I’ll get on it and be in touch soon.”

I hung up. Hopeful but emotionally a dead woman walking with the tension and apprehension.

A few days later I got a call from DB. They had a female puppy. Half Lab, and half German Shepherd. Cute as a button. A cinch to train. Tranquil as a pup could be. And DB would be more than happy to work with me and my new canine companion for as long as I needed him. I sobbed on the phone. I hadn’t been comfortable with puppies or house-training since the traumatic Shady Lady pooping on the oriental rug incident. But Dickbrain reiterated his commitment to me and strongly implied that I was overly concerned and just plain silly.

“I’ll be there when you come get the pup. It will all be copacetic,” he assured me.

When the time came to go pick up my new pal. I didn’t have any actual human friends to rely on by then, so I would have to go alone and during the day and outside of my Safety Zone, which was anywhere outside of Ventura County. I did lots and lots of deep breathing – in for a count of 4, out for a count of 6, slowly, slowly, slowly -- took a little bit of Xanax, prayed hard, chanted some affirmations, feeling more and more like my Hero, the Little Engine That Could (“I know I can. I know I can.”) than a spiritual being, took another bit of Xanax and a beta-blocker, did more deep breathing while visualizing myself being successful.

Somehow, clutching the increasingly unfamiliar steering wheel of my Saturn wagon -- my new used Saturn wagon that I’d purchased with 7000 miles on its odometer and that had now, almost three years later, a stunning total of 7500 miles driven, an impossibly small number in Southern California. Land of the Automobile. I’d become the proverbial Little Old Lady who only drives to the store once a week. For me, it was only at two in the morning when everyone else was asleep, and it felt safer in the world because no one could hurt my feelings. Yes, someone could kill me but so what? That wouldn't be personal.

Chanting my Little Engine That Could mantra and a teeny tiny bit blissed out on meds, I got myself over the border into Santa Barbara County, to the Humane Society. I was proud, exhilirated, determined and naive. Dickbrain was not there. The first ominous sign. His wife, the Head Honcho of the shelter, sent someone to retrieve the puppy. Ominous sign number two: there was a delay because the pup had pooped all over herself and had to be cleaned up. And it was diarrhea.

They brought her out, cued the violins and I melted. She was seven weeks old, with the softest spiky coal black fur and the requisite liquid brown eyes. Head Honcho made a solemn promise that Dickbrain would call me and hook up with me to train her, so I named her Good Willa Hunting after my favorite film set in my native Boston and prepared to head home. Good Willa had to go potty again – this time she managed to poop all over me. Her own little shout out to the Conan O’Brien show’s Triumph, the Insult Comic dog, the canine version of Don Rickles, whose nasty refrain “…for me to poop on!” was ringing in my ears.

That was as clear an omen as one can get. Triumph is no Lassie. He laughs while he attempts to destroy your self-esteem and has never been seen near a well, never mind rescuing Timmy. But I still so warped from the Poop Envy phase I'd live through with the post-hysterectomy Vicodin that I wasn’t picking up on anything except that this doggie was adorable and, wow, she sure could evacuate, lucky little critter. And now I would have lots of help and support with her, which would lead to my having help and support from her... I would have a Real Life again.

NOTE: The crate I got for Cujo and her crying through the night and my putting her in the kitchen by herself. And how she wouldn’t even look at me or cuddle with me or connect with me at all.

NOTE: Put in backstory to explain why taking her back was so awful. My being abandoned by everyone and not wanting to do the same thing to anyone or anything else…

Within a day and a half, I was at my wits end. DB claimed to have a cold and would be completely unavailable for an indeterminate amount of time. The Petco store animal expert assured me that the pup’s blue tongue meant that she was half Chow, a particularly aggressive breed, not half German Shepherd as I’d been told. (expand all of this to show, not tell, what it was like. Add crate and night crying, etc..) And the miniature hellion who was supposed to keep me calm would not let go of my pants leg or stop growling at me. I was even more isolated than before because all three cats -- Louise, Bobby Seale the Black Panther and even my beloved loyal-to-a-fault Thelma the Love Kitty -- hated the pup and wouldn’t come into the house, never mind sleep with me. They were essentially AWOL.

Five days went by. Very very very slowly. (Draw this out, show the Sloooowly) Five days of growling and yelping and pooping and peeing and clothing nibbling. Good Willa Hunting was now Cujo to me. I was sleep-deprived and jumping out of my skin with anxiety. Dickbrain was supposedly still sick and not able to assist me. The trainers I called were, inexplicably, not drawn to the situation. I hadn’t thought it was possible to feel more alone and isolated, but I’d been wrong.

My online friends tried to comfort me. One assured me that her lovely black Lab Lucy had once eaten an entire leather sofa. Others made similar assertions about their canine companions. But I felt no bond whatsoever with Cujo, and I wanted to reclaim my sleep and the legs of my favorite jeans. Felt like a failure and a quitter, but mostly I had a venomous dislike for this dog, and I knew that something was not right. Thank God for Shady Lady and Algernon and the rest of my beloved Pet Posse for teaching me about unconditional mutual affection.

I sobbed all the way back to the Humane Society, while Cujo howled. Tired herself out totally. When we got to the shelter, she lay benignly sleeping in the Head Honcho’s arms, and I felt like a despicably uncaring witch for bringing her back. I cried all the way home. I now had a Puppy Phobia to go with my Social Anxiety Disorder/Agoraphobia, but the stage was set for me to meet my True Love and Canine Savior. The Good Good Willa Hunting.

NOTE: Add HH insisting that Cujo was half-German Shepherd. Show how hard it was taking her back and how terrible I felt about abandoning her.

NOTE: Add Thelma the love kitty doing the right thing and the contrast between how T&L acted with the pup and with Willa Wee later on.