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.
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.
posted by TheodoraK at 2:58 PM
0 comments
