Lately my existence has been about the dog. Phoebe has separation anxiety. Badly. She apparently barks insanely whenever I leave the apartment. Which, needless to say, is pissing off the neighbours. So, I am confined until further notice. Well, that isn't entirely true. I get to leave in increasing increments while I teach her that it is OK for mummy to leave - the world will not, in fact, end. I *am* coming back.
I also, when the vet's professional opinion concurred with my thoroughly not-professional but fairly Internet savvy opinion, made the decision to medicate her. Yes, my dog also has The Crazy and is on meds for it. Sigh. But I was reassured that it was the right decision (and got a little warm, fuzzy feeling) when she told me that not a lot of people would go to the lengths that I am going to in order to keep this kind of dog. Also that if I did have to give her up, she thought that Phoebe would be in and out of the pound for the rest of her life. The vet may have had a hidden agenda by telling me this (i.e. keeping another dog out of the pound), but I actually believe her. Phoebe is capital letters NOT EASY. As much as I love her, she should never have been allowed to be adopted out to me based on her breed alone. Every dog-related website in creation states that "Catahoula Leopard Dog is not a city dog". But unless someone shows up and offers to give her a great home on a farm, there is no way I am giving her up.
So, here I am. Again. Training the heck out of this dog and making adjustments to my life. But as I am likely never to have kids of my own (yes yes yes ... I know I am "only" 34 and I still have years ahead of me for kids, but let's face it: I got no man and no immediate prospects for a man, so kids could be a teensy bit difficult to create). This dog, for now, is my fuzzy substitute for one. My fuzzy, crazy, nutbar, lovable, hyper, ADHD-afflicted, totally endearing child substitute.
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