Update: The Desk is worth at least $3,200. There is one on Ebay right now for that price that has been refurbished and half the drawers don't work. I found out it is Asian Rosewood. An Asian Rosewood Partner's Double Pedestal Desk. Un-freaking-believable.
Moral? Good things come to those who wait. Hooray! :-)
Cherstin and Desk, out.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
The Desk.
If I were a superstitious person, I probably would have given up yesterday. I would have turned around in the parking lot of the 7-11 and just come home.
I have been searching for a desk for quite some time, utterly convinced that the L-shaped, glass monster in my office was giving off nothing but bad mojo. If it wasn't the desk, it was definitely the chair. It was in the style of a tractor seat. Plastic. No arms. Plastic.
Did I mention it was plastic?
When I left the house yesterday morning, nearly a half-hour late, I stopped in at the 7-11 to pull some cash out of the ATM. Okay, I can't lie: I also wanted a Starbucks Frappucino (in the glass bottle) and two Krispy Kreme donuts. I pulled into the nearest available parking slot and grabbed my planner from my purse, flipping through the plastic "customer loyalty" cards to find my bank card. It wasn't there.
I checked the entire contents of my purse: there were a pair of sunglasses with one lens popped out, but no bank card.
Hmm. This was a conundrum.
I realized there was a Publix behind me, and I had a check book. Terrific. I knew "cashing a check" was pretty old-school, but I always remembered that Publix had a Check Cashing service back in the day, so I pointed the truck in that direction.
Publix does, indeed, cash checks, but they only cash a personal check up to $75. Not good, as I needed exactly twice that, and there went my idea of Krispy Kreme donuts.
Back to the truck I went, headed to the bank. If anyone in town knows what an upstanding, responsible citizen I am, it must be the bank. Indeed, I was able to cash a check at the bank, although I admit I had to ask the teller how to do it. ("Write it out to 'cash' or to yourself, then sign the back," she said politely, smiling as only bank tellers do.)
I pulled out of the bank at the same time I was supposed to be arriving to pick up the desk, so I decided it would be a good time to call the shop and let them know I was on the way. The guy I was meeting answered the phone -- I asked him, "Hi, is this Mister X?" (Not his real name.) He said, "Yes." I said, "Hi, this is Cherstin, I'm the one who is picking up the desk this morning?" (I'm not sure why I said that as a question, but I did.) He said, "Yeah, okay, I'm on the other line right now so I'll have to call you back." All I could say was, "Uhhh, okay, bye."
Now, I'm not sure about you, but at this point, I really questioned why I was about to drive 30 miles to pick up this desk. So far, everything in its entirety had been working against me. Was there even a desk? Was I walking in to some sort of Craigslist trap? Should I alert the authorities? Should I stop to set up some kind of Last Will and Testament? Even better: I decided to stop at Dunkin' Donuts. (I'd written the check at the bank for $50 more than what I needed for the desk. Brilliant.)
Eventually, he did call back, and when I finally found the Auction House where the desk was located, I did have an initial "second thought" when I first saw this monstrosity. It sat alone in a packed warehouse full of other people's discarded items, and it was huge. Was it too big? Is there such a thing? I wasn't sure. I just knew that I'd come to far and been through too much to turn around. I said, "It's perfect. I'll take it."
We--the desk and I--made the trip home and I only had to stop once to fix the straps so one of the three desk pieces wouldn't fall out of the truck bed. I say I only had to stop once, but in reality, it was a double-duty stop: I also had to turn around because I was headed the wrong way on the interstate.
If that was fate telling me, "DO NOT BRING THIS DESK INTO YOUR HOME," I pretended not to notice.
After some cussing and heaving by me and some rolling of eyes by my husband, we managed to get the desk inside to its new home, where it belongs. Now I might be biased, but after a nice coat of furniture polish, I'm fairly certain we got this desk at a steal. It's solid wood (which goes a long way to explain why it nearly broke my arms and back), it is a double desk for two, complete with drawers all over the place. It has carvings and wooden handles that are also carved and it is absolutely the bomb. It is the desk of all desks. It is a behemoth. If I were going to sell it, I'd ask around $4,000. I'm not even joking. It's 72 inches long, 42 inches wide, and it is going to keep me happy for years and years and years. I love it, and that's what matters. :-)
The moral of this story should be something like "don't give up on your dreams," or "never settle for less than the best," but it could also be "big desks rock."
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Cherstin and Desk, out.
I have been searching for a desk for quite some time, utterly convinced that the L-shaped, glass monster in my office was giving off nothing but bad mojo. If it wasn't the desk, it was definitely the chair. It was in the style of a tractor seat. Plastic. No arms. Plastic.
Did I mention it was plastic?
When I left the house yesterday morning, nearly a half-hour late, I stopped in at the 7-11 to pull some cash out of the ATM. Okay, I can't lie: I also wanted a Starbucks Frappucino (in the glass bottle) and two Krispy Kreme donuts. I pulled into the nearest available parking slot and grabbed my planner from my purse, flipping through the plastic "customer loyalty" cards to find my bank card. It wasn't there.
I checked the entire contents of my purse: there were a pair of sunglasses with one lens popped out, but no bank card.
Hmm. This was a conundrum.
I realized there was a Publix behind me, and I had a check book. Terrific. I knew "cashing a check" was pretty old-school, but I always remembered that Publix had a Check Cashing service back in the day, so I pointed the truck in that direction.
Publix does, indeed, cash checks, but they only cash a personal check up to $75. Not good, as I needed exactly twice that, and there went my idea of Krispy Kreme donuts.
Back to the truck I went, headed to the bank. If anyone in town knows what an upstanding, responsible citizen I am, it must be the bank. Indeed, I was able to cash a check at the bank, although I admit I had to ask the teller how to do it. ("Write it out to 'cash' or to yourself, then sign the back," she said politely, smiling as only bank tellers do.)
I pulled out of the bank at the same time I was supposed to be arriving to pick up the desk, so I decided it would be a good time to call the shop and let them know I was on the way. The guy I was meeting answered the phone -- I asked him, "Hi, is this Mister X?" (Not his real name.) He said, "Yes." I said, "Hi, this is Cherstin, I'm the one who is picking up the desk this morning?" (I'm not sure why I said that as a question, but I did.) He said, "Yeah, okay, I'm on the other line right now so I'll have to call you back." All I could say was, "Uhhh, okay, bye."
Now, I'm not sure about you, but at this point, I really questioned why I was about to drive 30 miles to pick up this desk. So far, everything in its entirety had been working against me. Was there even a desk? Was I walking in to some sort of Craigslist trap? Should I alert the authorities? Should I stop to set up some kind of Last Will and Testament? Even better: I decided to stop at Dunkin' Donuts. (I'd written the check at the bank for $50 more than what I needed for the desk. Brilliant.)
Eventually, he did call back, and when I finally found the Auction House where the desk was located, I did have an initial "second thought" when I first saw this monstrosity. It sat alone in a packed warehouse full of other people's discarded items, and it was huge. Was it too big? Is there such a thing? I wasn't sure. I just knew that I'd come to far and been through too much to turn around. I said, "It's perfect. I'll take it."
We--the desk and I--made the trip home and I only had to stop once to fix the straps so one of the three desk pieces wouldn't fall out of the truck bed. I say I only had to stop once, but in reality, it was a double-duty stop: I also had to turn around because I was headed the wrong way on the interstate.
If that was fate telling me, "DO NOT BRING THIS DESK INTO YOUR HOME," I pretended not to notice.
After some cussing and heaving by me and some rolling of eyes by my husband, we managed to get the desk inside to its new home, where it belongs. Now I might be biased, but after a nice coat of furniture polish, I'm fairly certain we got this desk at a steal. It's solid wood (which goes a long way to explain why it nearly broke my arms and back), it is a double desk for two, complete with drawers all over the place. It has carvings and wooden handles that are also carved and it is absolutely the bomb. It is the desk of all desks. It is a behemoth. If I were going to sell it, I'd ask around $4,000. I'm not even joking. It's 72 inches long, 42 inches wide, and it is going to keep me happy for years and years and years. I love it, and that's what matters. :-)
The moral of this story should be something like "don't give up on your dreams," or "never settle for less than the best," but it could also be "big desks rock."
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Cherstin and Desk, out.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Et tu, Brute?
While my mind swirls around thoughts of "Emergency Management and the Terrorist Threat" (that's chapter 9 from Introduction to Emergency Management, 4th ed.), I have come up with a short list of, oh, about thirty household projects to distract me from the joy of schoolwork. One of these projects has come in the form of an office renovation.
Thanks to a new book I haven't even cracked yet, Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, I have decided that the majority of my procrastination episodes have to do with this uncomfortable desk and chair I've been using for the past year or so. The L-shaped, glass-top corner desk seemed like it was going to be the right desk for me, as did the plastic, modern-looking white armless chair I decided to order at the same time. Let me tell you: If you spend more than 3 hours a day sitting at a desk, do not opt for the modern, minimalist look. It's all about comfort, baby. You don't see commuters driving a plastic bicycle with a steel seat to work, so don't kid yourself that a plastic chair is going to be comfortable even if it does have a built-in butt groove.
In all reality, this beast of a desk I am going to pick up today at 11am could probably not be more wrong for this space. My office is approximately 8' by nothing, and I'm putting in a six-foot desk. I'm not even sure how this monstrosity is going to get through my front door. But the picture and accompanying photo on Craigslist says it all: ornate, vintage, $150 or best offer. These are all things I can work with.
Finishing the painting and baseboards in the office? Ehh, not so much.
Why is it thatwe I can become so excited about the out-of-the-ordinary tasks, like driving to pick up a new desk that probably weighs 300 pounds, but I can't seem to finish the mundane, boring tasks I start?
Probably because I'm so awesome, that's why.
Anyway, I'm on the hunt for an Allen wrench to begin the taking-apart of my current desk. I think I have the perfect spot for it in the kitchen, replacing a small table I spray-painted last evening. Now where am I going to put this table?
Cherstin, out.
Thanks to a new book I haven't even cracked yet, Daily Rituals: How Artists Work, I have decided that the majority of my procrastination episodes have to do with this uncomfortable desk and chair I've been using for the past year or so. The L-shaped, glass-top corner desk seemed like it was going to be the right desk for me, as did the plastic, modern-looking white armless chair I decided to order at the same time. Let me tell you: If you spend more than 3 hours a day sitting at a desk, do not opt for the modern, minimalist look. It's all about comfort, baby. You don't see commuters driving a plastic bicycle with a steel seat to work, so don't kid yourself that a plastic chair is going to be comfortable even if it does have a built-in butt groove.
In all reality, this beast of a desk I am going to pick up today at 11am could probably not be more wrong for this space. My office is approximately 8' by nothing, and I'm putting in a six-foot desk. I'm not even sure how this monstrosity is going to get through my front door. But the picture and accompanying photo on Craigslist says it all: ornate, vintage, $150 or best offer. These are all things I can work with.
Finishing the painting and baseboards in the office? Ehh, not so much.
Why is it that
Probably because I'm so awesome, that's why.
Anyway, I'm on the hunt for an Allen wrench to begin the taking-apart of my current desk. I think I have the perfect spot for it in the kitchen, replacing a small table I spray-painted last evening. Now where am I going to put this table?
Cherstin, out.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Resolutions: 2013
Is it too late to begin?
My stomach hit the floor as I checked my blog, the stark reality hitting me square in the jaw: I haven't written a blog since November of 2012.
Ouch.
So much for "daily updates." So much for "just shut up, grab some coffee, and write." Those words have fallen along the wayside, right next to "keep the house clean" and "everyone pick up their own mess."
I had the best intentions.
Realizing I hadn't had the opportunity to sit and write anything in a while, I had planned to get a few stories down on paper in 2013. Maybe bring the characters in my novel back from my self-imposed limbo. But 2013 hit with a vengeance and hasn't let up one iota since the calendar flipped.
I write: oh, yes, I write. I write papers about Quality Management. I write discussion posts about Computer Crime. As a matter of fact, over the last five weeks I've written a total of 30,000 words...but not a one had anything to do with anything related to fiction. No plot, no characters, no dialogue. So I sit, I plan. I tell myself to schedule time for writing...and here I am.
I can always tell when I'm on a hot streak when it comes to creativity. When I'm working on a story, my mind never shuts off. Those are the nights I'm incredibly thankful for keeping a notepad on the bedside table. My dreams become stories. My bad habits become stories. My brain throws up on paper, and I'm usually prepared to catch every last thought.
When I'm not working on anything, I don't dream. I wait for them, but they don't come. I ask myself why I don't dream. What will I write about if I don't dream? Then I realize it's a catch-22 and that in order to dream productively, I need to write. Start with the writing, and the rest will come.
I'd like to make a resolution--right now--to start writing, but we know where those end up.
Until next time,
Cherstin
My stomach hit the floor as I checked my blog, the stark reality hitting me square in the jaw: I haven't written a blog since November of 2012.
Ouch.
So much for "daily updates." So much for "just shut up, grab some coffee, and write." Those words have fallen along the wayside, right next to "keep the house clean" and "everyone pick up their own mess."
I had the best intentions.
Realizing I hadn't had the opportunity to sit and write anything in a while, I had planned to get a few stories down on paper in 2013. Maybe bring the characters in my novel back from my self-imposed limbo. But 2013 hit with a vengeance and hasn't let up one iota since the calendar flipped.
I write: oh, yes, I write. I write papers about Quality Management. I write discussion posts about Computer Crime. As a matter of fact, over the last five weeks I've written a total of 30,000 words...but not a one had anything to do with anything related to fiction. No plot, no characters, no dialogue. So I sit, I plan. I tell myself to schedule time for writing...and here I am.
I can always tell when I'm on a hot streak when it comes to creativity. When I'm working on a story, my mind never shuts off. Those are the nights I'm incredibly thankful for keeping a notepad on the bedside table. My dreams become stories. My bad habits become stories. My brain throws up on paper, and I'm usually prepared to catch every last thought.
When I'm not working on anything, I don't dream. I wait for them, but they don't come. I ask myself why I don't dream. What will I write about if I don't dream? Then I realize it's a catch-22 and that in order to dream productively, I need to write. Start with the writing, and the rest will come.
I'd like to make a resolution--right now--to start writing, but we know where those end up.
Until next time,
Cherstin
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Geocaching.
Today, we are going geocaching.
It's something I heard about a few years ago. I was pregnant with Caleb, shopping at the outlet mall up in Ellenton, when the cashier asked me where I was from. I told her I'd driven up from North Port to go shopping for my husband's Christmas party. (Read: I needed a maternity dress that didn't make me look like a Christmas tree, which I had no luck finding anywhere in town.)
She exclaimed, "Oh! North Port! We just did some geocaching there."
Some what? It sounded sort of illegal, but she also stated it in such a matter-of-fact tone that I figured I should know what this is.
"Geocaching. Right on." (I'm pretty sure that was my reply.)
Wondering what there actually was to do in this town besides "Be Pregnant," I looked it up online when I arrived home with my new dress.
In layman's terms, Geocaching is an outdoor activity involving GPS coordinates and a hidden box full of trinkets. It's a treasure hunt, of sorts. You pack some supplies, find the box, take something out and replace it with something of equal value, sign the log book, log your find at the Geocaching website, and be on your merry way.
Fast-forward to last night: a backyard campfire, S'mores, some stories about the Myakka Skunk Ape, and we are ready to get out there and Geocache. I'm excited. Aidan is excited. Caleb is still asleep. (Par for the course. He only gets excited about breakfast, lunch, and dinner.)
As much as I love my children, I'm tired of being the only parent on the weekends. No more "waiting around" for dad to get home: we're doing our own fun shit. And we're doing it outdoors. No more cleaning, sweeping, mopping, laundry. We're getting out, we're getting dirty, and we're not coming home until naptime. :-)
Have you heard of Geocaching? Given it a try? Any tips for us noobs? I'll post an update later, hopefully with some pics of our first treasure. Have a great Saturday, all.
Cherstin
It's something I heard about a few years ago. I was pregnant with Caleb, shopping at the outlet mall up in Ellenton, when the cashier asked me where I was from. I told her I'd driven up from North Port to go shopping for my husband's Christmas party. (Read: I needed a maternity dress that didn't make me look like a Christmas tree, which I had no luck finding anywhere in town.)
She exclaimed, "Oh! North Port! We just did some geocaching there."
Some what? It sounded sort of illegal, but she also stated it in such a matter-of-fact tone that I figured I should know what this is.
"Geocaching. Right on." (I'm pretty sure that was my reply.)
Wondering what there actually was to do in this town besides "Be Pregnant," I looked it up online when I arrived home with my new dress.
In layman's terms, Geocaching is an outdoor activity involving GPS coordinates and a hidden box full of trinkets. It's a treasure hunt, of sorts. You pack some supplies, find the box, take something out and replace it with something of equal value, sign the log book, log your find at the Geocaching website, and be on your merry way.
Fast-forward to last night: a backyard campfire, S'mores, some stories about the Myakka Skunk Ape, and we are ready to get out there and Geocache. I'm excited. Aidan is excited. Caleb is still asleep. (Par for the course. He only gets excited about breakfast, lunch, and dinner.)
As much as I love my children, I'm tired of being the only parent on the weekends. No more "waiting around" for dad to get home: we're doing our own fun shit. And we're doing it outdoors. No more cleaning, sweeping, mopping, laundry. We're getting out, we're getting dirty, and we're not coming home until naptime. :-)
Have you heard of Geocaching? Given it a try? Any tips for us noobs? I'll post an update later, hopefully with some pics of our first treasure. Have a great Saturday, all.
Cherstin
Friday, November 16, 2012
Leaving Facebook.
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It's the backbone of the American dream, right? The American Way.
It's bullshit.
Initially, I chalked it up to my 20-year high school reunion. That's when things started getting quiet in the Land of Make-Believe. I imagined reconnecting with old friends, seeing faces I hadn't seen since the days of "I made you a mix tape." I figured life would still be life, just ... better. More friends, more connections, more people to get to know.
But it didn't happen that way.
Then the election rolled around and just like the dividing line which ran through our country, so too did the line get drawn down the Friends List. Facebook became the place for armchair politicians, whether or not they'd ever studied politics. It became a place for people to degrade one another, whether with vicious cartoons depicting the stupidity of one party, or a Cracked article showing the idiocy and ineptitude of the other. Lines were drawn, words were spoken, and you know what I realized?
I don't really give a shit about people on Facebook. My "friends." Really? Friends list? How about "list of people I used to associate with, but they probably wouldn't say hello to me if I ran into them at Walmart today." Or, the ever-popular list of "did her, did him, wouldn't do him, kissed him, passed out at her house twenty five years ago"?
Who are these people, and why are they peddling their problems at my virtual doorstep? Really? You're sick again? Why am I not surprised? Everyone on Facebook jokes that you're the biggest hypochondriac ever. Why are they pandering for advice from people on the internet that they haven't seen in years? Ohhh, you lost your job? And you're upset about it? Really? You've been talking about doing that for years so that you could collect unemployment and stay home with your kids. Why are you pretending to be upset about it now? Where are their real lives? Their real friends? And why, oh why, did I ever get sucked in?
I'm over you, Facebook. I will keep an active account which I'll use to share photos with my family from across the miles, but that's all you'll be to me now: just an online bulletin board. My pictures and page will be private. No more sharing of blogs, no more arguing over which type of America is best for my children. No more funny dog videos.
I feel like a weight has been lifted.
Later, peoples.
It's the backbone of the American dream, right? The American Way.
It's bullshit.
Initially, I chalked it up to my 20-year high school reunion. That's when things started getting quiet in the Land of Make-Believe. I imagined reconnecting with old friends, seeing faces I hadn't seen since the days of "I made you a mix tape." I figured life would still be life, just ... better. More friends, more connections, more people to get to know.
But it didn't happen that way.
Then the election rolled around and just like the dividing line which ran through our country, so too did the line get drawn down the Friends List. Facebook became the place for armchair politicians, whether or not they'd ever studied politics. It became a place for people to degrade one another, whether with vicious cartoons depicting the stupidity of one party, or a Cracked article showing the idiocy and ineptitude of the other. Lines were drawn, words were spoken, and you know what I realized?
I don't really give a shit about people on Facebook. My "friends." Really? Friends list? How about "list of people I used to associate with, but they probably wouldn't say hello to me if I ran into them at Walmart today." Or, the ever-popular list of "did her, did him, wouldn't do him, kissed him, passed out at her house twenty five years ago"?
Who are these people, and why are they peddling their problems at my virtual doorstep? Really? You're sick again? Why am I not surprised? Everyone on Facebook jokes that you're the biggest hypochondriac ever. Why are they pandering for advice from people on the internet that they haven't seen in years? Ohhh, you lost your job? And you're upset about it? Really? You've been talking about doing that for years so that you could collect unemployment and stay home with your kids. Why are you pretending to be upset about it now? Where are their real lives? Their real friends? And why, oh why, did I ever get sucked in?
I'm over you, Facebook. I will keep an active account which I'll use to share photos with my family from across the miles, but that's all you'll be to me now: just an online bulletin board. My pictures and page will be private. No more sharing of blogs, no more arguing over which type of America is best for my children. No more funny dog videos.
I feel like a weight has been lifted.
Later, peoples.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
A new pup and a young dog: Size matters.
Because we simply did not have enough going on in our lives, we decided a few weeks ago to begin our search for another dog to add to the family pack. I know, I know. How on earth did you get your husband to agree to that? you're thinking. I can't remember the specifics, but what I do remember was hearing the phrase, "...but you'd better find one quick, before I change my mind."
Challenge accepted.
8 days ago, we became the proud, albeit nervous, new owners of an 8-week-old Australian Cattle Dog who we've named "Lola." With two boys and a half-acre of land, she pretty much gives us a great reason to go outside all day long.
It's been 25 years since I last owned a puppy and that was "Tippy," a puppy born at our house to our dog, "Cindy" (named after Cindy of The Brady Bunch. It's true, you caught me.). Back in the day, even Bob Barker hadn't started his whole "spay and neuter" speech, and even if he had, single parents couldn't afford that type of stuff, so we never had a spayed pet. Ever.
Having a puppy is one word: Teeth. Little tiny needles of teeth that always want to explore that which you treasure most, like wedding rings and engagement diamonds. Cords that keep your electronics electrified. The tiny sausage fingers of a 21-month-old child.
We started Lola on a pretty tight schedule that goes something like this:
6:30am - Wake up. Go potty. Eat breakfast. Play. Go potty. Walk to the bus stop. Come home and get a drink. Play. Rest in the playpen.
(Note: "Playpen" is different than "crate." In the playpen, it is acceptable to run around, do somersaults, chew bones, rock out. The playpen is set up half-in, half-out of my office. She can see all the action, but when I can't hover over her like a hawk and no one is actively playing with her, she's in the playpen.)
Noon: Go potty. Lunchtime! Have a few drinks, play like a lunatic. Play some more. Out for potty. Play.
3:30pm: Time to take a walk! Off to the bus stop. Play, grab a drink or two, potty, you name it.
4:30pm: Dinner! Potty! Play play play! Again, with the playpen. IF YOU AREN'T ACTIVELY PLAYING WITH OR WATCHING THE PUPPY, SHE IS IN THE PLAYPEN. Not only does this prevent accidents, chewing, and general bad behavior, it teaches the puppy that it's okay to self-entertain. It's okay to be alone sometimes. It's okay to lay quietly and chew a bone or toy.
9:00pm: Settle down time. A few more potties and some soft play, snuggle, watch some tv.
11:00pm: Out one more time, then bedtime in the crate.
Listen. You want your puppy to love you. You want your dog to be happy when you come home. What you do not want to raise is a puppy who cannot function if he or she can't see you. It's not fair to the puppy, it's not fair to the family, and it's not fair to any other pets you may own. It creates separation anxiety, which is probably the number one reason animals end up in the shelter.
Just like you have to teach a child to be independent, you also must teach your puppy that it's okay to be without you. We've had Lola for nine days now, and you know how many nights she's cried in her crate and kept us up? ZERO. None. Zilch. The transition from one puppy to two has been incredibly easy, which brings me to my next thought:
Make sure you give your puppies time apart! No one wants to introduce their family pets like this: "This is our dog, Bella, and this is Bella's dog, Lola." No. Do not let your young dog raise your new puppy. Yes, you want them to be friends. Yes, you want them to play together. What you do not want to do is to create a situation where each dog/puppy loses their individual identity within the family. You have two dogs. Act like it. When you had baby number two, you didn't give baby number one the responsibility of his or her care: don't do it to your pets.
(Off the puppy primer soapbox.)
So far, so good, and it will only get better from here. For now, I'm out. I'm sure someone, somewhere, needs to go to the bathroom around here.
Cherstin.
Challenge accepted.
8 days ago, we became the proud, albeit nervous, new owners of an 8-week-old Australian Cattle Dog who we've named "Lola." With two boys and a half-acre of land, she pretty much gives us a great reason to go outside all day long.
It's been 25 years since I last owned a puppy and that was "Tippy," a puppy born at our house to our dog, "Cindy" (named after Cindy of The Brady Bunch. It's true, you caught me.). Back in the day, even Bob Barker hadn't started his whole "spay and neuter" speech, and even if he had, single parents couldn't afford that type of stuff, so we never had a spayed pet. Ever.
Having a puppy is one word: Teeth. Little tiny needles of teeth that always want to explore that which you treasure most, like wedding rings and engagement diamonds. Cords that keep your electronics electrified. The tiny sausage fingers of a 21-month-old child.
We started Lola on a pretty tight schedule that goes something like this:
6:30am - Wake up. Go potty. Eat breakfast. Play. Go potty. Walk to the bus stop. Come home and get a drink. Play. Rest in the playpen.
(Note: "Playpen" is different than "crate." In the playpen, it is acceptable to run around, do somersaults, chew bones, rock out. The playpen is set up half-in, half-out of my office. She can see all the action, but when I can't hover over her like a hawk and no one is actively playing with her, she's in the playpen.)
Noon: Go potty. Lunchtime! Have a few drinks, play like a lunatic. Play some more. Out for potty. Play.
3:30pm: Time to take a walk! Off to the bus stop. Play, grab a drink or two, potty, you name it.
4:30pm: Dinner! Potty! Play play play! Again, with the playpen. IF YOU AREN'T ACTIVELY PLAYING WITH OR WATCHING THE PUPPY, SHE IS IN THE PLAYPEN. Not only does this prevent accidents, chewing, and general bad behavior, it teaches the puppy that it's okay to self-entertain. It's okay to be alone sometimes. It's okay to lay quietly and chew a bone or toy.
9:00pm: Settle down time. A few more potties and some soft play, snuggle, watch some tv.
11:00pm: Out one more time, then bedtime in the crate.
Listen. You want your puppy to love you. You want your dog to be happy when you come home. What you do not want to raise is a puppy who cannot function if he or she can't see you. It's not fair to the puppy, it's not fair to the family, and it's not fair to any other pets you may own. It creates separation anxiety, which is probably the number one reason animals end up in the shelter.
Just like you have to teach a child to be independent, you also must teach your puppy that it's okay to be without you. We've had Lola for nine days now, and you know how many nights she's cried in her crate and kept us up? ZERO. None. Zilch. The transition from one puppy to two has been incredibly easy, which brings me to my next thought:
Make sure you give your puppies time apart! No one wants to introduce their family pets like this: "This is our dog, Bella, and this is Bella's dog, Lola." No. Do not let your young dog raise your new puppy. Yes, you want them to be friends. Yes, you want them to play together. What you do not want to do is to create a situation where each dog/puppy loses their individual identity within the family. You have two dogs. Act like it. When you had baby number two, you didn't give baby number one the responsibility of his or her care: don't do it to your pets.
(Off the puppy primer soapbox.)
So far, so good, and it will only get better from here. For now, I'm out. I'm sure someone, somewhere, needs to go to the bathroom around here.
Cherstin.
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