Where did you go?

No posts for two months. No apologies. No excuse. No motivation.

Here's a brief update on how everything has been going. My body always feels like this:

But people think I'm this:

So my grades look like this:

This is always in my head:

While this is always in my heart:

And I can't believe that this got married:

I don't take all the exercise that I should, so I look like this:

That's how life is, so if you're inclined to judge, get the hell off my blog. Yes, my life and your life can be hard at the same time; it doesn't need to be a contest.

I'm failing school. I hate my grandparents because they choose not to do anything for themselves. My harp teacher refuses to give me the benefit of the doubt, and I always feel like a goober around her. Everybody wants something from me. I don't have a place to live or enough money to live off of. I'm tired of Utah. I hate being put in a box by most everyone around me. I don't respect myself because I'm playing the victim. And I hate not having my little boy with me.

Before the straw breaks the camel's back, I'm moving away. I don't know if it will be before the winter semester starts or after it ends. I'm still deciding on what place will be most affordable. Let me know what you guys think. Vote on a city from the list of places I've wanted to live in on the left.

Make time for life

Over a month since my last post...

It shouldn't get to me. It's no skin off my gluts if I don't write a thing or two for a while. But I get so frustrated when people don't update their blogs. This is the only way I keep in touch with some people, and seeing a new blog posting is like Christmas. I just about jumped up on my chair, screaming (nut-bag-Tom Cruise-on-Oprah style) when I saw that Crystal had updated her blog after moving to Florida. Granted, the woman had other priorities for a month and a half, but I was dying for any word on how she and her little family were doing. And TA-DA! One day, there it is.My dilemma? Life. It just gets in the way. That's interesting to me, how there are 30,000 students here on campus, and probably half of them hate what they do. You almost never hear school referred to in a positive light. People ask, "So how are your classes goin'?" And others respond with a look of death on their face. Why?!! Why the hell to we do this?!! It seems so stupid. We all only get one life; so why should we let one minute go by doing something that doesn't particularly make us happy? Somehow, we think that there's a trade-off. We have to slave away at school, trading our peace and health for a degree--a ruddy bit of paper and calligraphy. Those who think the trade-off is an acceptable one might end up doing the same thing for the rest of their lives: "I have to work this crappy job so that I can network and get a better job." Well, I'm done with it.

I felt so good about skipping class the past two days. On Wednesday, I woke up a little later than I wanted to. I had just enough time to shower, shave, and run out the door to class. Usually, I get up, get showered and dressed for the day, have a warm breakfast and hot tea while watching Frasier or The Golden Girls or Bargain Hunt, then I do my two and a half hour harp practice before leaving for classes. It's that unhurried morning time that gives me peace during the day, that leaves me feeling fulfilled with what I've done with my life. Now, when I have to rush out the door to make it to class in time, I just don't feel satisfied. I leave the house with anxiety, not hope.

I decided after a few minutes that there just wasn't time in my schedule for school, and I didn't go. Well, I did go to harp ensemble rehearsal yesterday, but that was only because I really wanted to.

It was so lovely. I gave my being what it needed in order to feel fulfilled. Perhaps on other days, school's not such a bad option--but only if I've taken care to give myself the essentials, and if I can be interested in the material.

How do you tell someone that you love "no?" Any suggestions? I would love to have them.

So, three weeks ago, I took my grandpa to have some minor, outpatient surgery. When we got him home, he was so loopy from the anesthetic that he ripped out his catheter and gave himself a near-fatal blood infection. We got him to the ER just in time to save him, and I threw my back out in the process of trying to lift him. He's been in rehab for the past three weeks trying to learn how to walk again.

This is the part where you think less of me, everyone. We'll just acknowledge that between us so there's no pretension in the rest of my post.

As a young person, I just don't have the time or energy to take care of these people like they want. It's not that they need everything done for them. They just want everything done for them. It's easy to see why; they think there's a big, strong man in the house that can pick up the slack. But, I have FMS, I'm going to school, I'm trying to work on my music. Young people are trying to establish lives for themselves so that they can support themselves financially and be very secure and happy occupationally. I just don't have what it takes to do everything that they want. It would serve them well to do more for themselves.

But could you say "no" if your grandma was asking you to do something for her in a desperate, weakened voice? See, it's just not that easy. It's a hole I've dug for myself that I have to get out of before it buries me alive.

My little boy weighs 48lbs. That's twice as much as he weighed when I got him. The family tells me that he no longer chews on his food; he just inhales--literally. He eats at three times the pace of his cousin, then he goes over to Tristan's bowl and starts eating his food too. I need to go home for a bit, just so I can see his face. I usually don't dream, I just nightmare. But when I do dream, he's always in them lately. I love my Pistol.

I'd like to always have posts that are upbeat, where I make especially clever jokes about how people are idiots, I write precious little haikus on the changing seasons, and I make observations that bring out the supraliminal in life. Be patient with me. We will get back to those.

A brief update

I'm feeling really irritated that I feel really guilty for still feeling crushed. I explained to my mother that I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl that got pregnant out of wed-lock and had to give her baby up for adoption; I made a choice that would make life better for the baby, but it doesn't mean that I won't feel like hell for a while.

Life is better for the baby, you know. My poor little boy had to endure an extra two and a half hours on the plane because of weather delays. When he finally landed in Amarillo and was signed for by my mother and sister, he was so happy. They let him out of his kennel to play for a bit, and he couldn't have been more excited to see familiar faces. He slept the whole way home on my sister's lap. My mother, being the good and conscious mother that she is, had to call me to ask if he normally snored.

This is Tristan--Pistol's new friend at home. They just sat and sniffed each other at their first introduction. There was some concern that the bigger dog wouldn't know how to play gently with a puppy. My little brother stood by the two of them, ready to pull Tristan off of Pistol or scoop Pistol up and take him away. But Pistol turned out to be quite the tease. He would wildly nip at the bigger dog's neck or leg, then dart back between my brother's legs for protection.

But Tristan is a champ. My mother texted me this morning to let me know that he shared his dog house with my little boy last night. I couldn't ask for more. He's such a patient soul. My family tells me that when the dogs aren't sleeping, they're playing. Tristan likes to come up to the rocks at the bay window, lay down, and feel the warmth that the rocks have absorbed from the sun as he sleeps. Yesterday, he did so with one leg hanging over the edge of the rocks. Apparently, my puppy wasn't ready to sleep yet, and he started nipping at Tristan's leg. Tristan just opened his eye (he's only got one), looked around to acknowledge the situation, then raised and released the leg to send Pistol rolling across the grass. Clearly, it was time to rest.

He's doing so well at home, just happy as much as he was unhappy here. He has great company, a twenty-four hour companion, and a back yard full of mischief to get into. That's all anyone can hope for.

It doesn't make it easier, though. There's too much I will miss out on with the kid. For now, I carry his leash in my backpack as a security blanket, just until the intensity of the loss can pass.

And as much as I hate directly addressing you readers in my blog, almost as though we were having a conversation (it just feels weird), I do have to thank everybody for sympathizing both verbally and in writing. Yes, all of this is just about a dog. But everyone has been so respectful enough to realize how important it's been to me. And every time I blog, I'm just going to expect Crystal to be reading it at the same time. You've commented on the last few posts as I've been writing the next one. It's great to have that little connection with another friend I miss.

Sorry for the disconnected writing and thinking. My form will improve as my head clears.

Requiem for my puppy

A friend of mine wrote letters to her unborn daughter on her blog. I think that's the only way that I know how to format this one and have it bring some type of consolation.

My dearest Pistol:

You're such a good little dog. Everyone that has seen you comments on what a cute puppy you are. I'm guaranteed at least five "precious puppy" comments every time we walk into the vet. You're always too stressed to notice. Even though you don't like the shots, the cold stainless-steel surfaces, and the rectal thermometer, you never fight; you just sit there very quietly and let everyone try to make you healthy. See? You're such a good puppy.

I absolutely love the way you stare at me through the sliding-glass door, following me with your eyes, waiting for me to come give you my attention. Sometimes you stand at the window, other times you lay down on the patio stairs, resting your little face on the top step. Other times you whine as you claw at the glass. I walk to the door and reach for the door handle. You know the routine, and your eyes follow me every step of the way. Then I open the door, and you go crazy. You make my heart melt, kid.

I laugh so hard when we get to play. I take your chew toys and drag them across the grass, and you pounce. It's such a simple game, but you just love it. You love to win. You just flop down on the grass and enjoy your victory... until I start dragging another toy across the grass. You keep the one toy in your mouth and try to catch the other. Never mind the fact that you already won; you just can't stand the idea that another chew toy would get away from you. You have to run at it with your front legs apart so that you don't trip on the toy you have in your teeth.

You're such a beautiful dog. I've wanted a St. Bernard since I was ten or eleven. I would check out books on Saints from the library and read up on their history as rescue dogs. I would beg my parents for one. I would draw them at school. I even had a piggy bank in the form of a St. Bernard. I loved their faces, I loved their form--I loved how they were like little bears. I've always wanted one. You're a dream come true, kid.

I love that just last week, you got so comfortable with sitting on my lap. We would go sit out on the front yard in the morning while you watched all the lovely people walk by on their morning walk. You love people, and if they wouldn't come to you, you'd always go to them. Then, you come galloping back to me, diving back into my lap. As humans get older, life holds fewer joys. Those moments when you came running back to me, almost tackling me as you jumped into my lap, will always be one of my fewer joys.

But kid, I failed you. Right now, we live with my granny and grandpa, and as much as they love you, they don't like dogs in the house. I looked for and found a place where we could live together. It took a while, though; not many people like the idea of a St. Bernard coming to live at their property. They put too much stock in movies like Beethoven and Cujo. They expect you to tear up the house and drool everywhere. They don't know that you only dribble when you eat or drink or when it's hot outside. They don't know how obedience is in your blood.

I spent last week moving in to our new place, and I got so excited about not having to close the door on you anymore, that I wouldn't have to draw a line that said, "Even though I love you, you have to stay there." After all, love isn't about drawing lines; it's about getting rid of them and feeling better for it.

Then, the weekend. Nobody could see that coming, kid. I had no idea how uncomfortable you would be with the place. Even though you liked watching TV, you just hated everything else. It was hell, buddy. It was absolute hell. I couldn't understand you to give you what you needed. And you couldn't seem to find a way to communicate with me. We tried, and tried, and tried to make it work. I cried so many times because I just wanted you to be happy. I cried when we went to sleep. I cried when we woke up. I cried when we went out for a walk. I cried when you wouldn't eat. I just couldn't help you at all. Everyone said, "Oh, give it time. He'll adjust. You just gotta give him time." I couldn't give it anymore time. I was cracking.

So, Pistol, Grandma, Grandpa, and I decided that it would be best to send you down to Texas to live with them and the dog at home. He's your cousin, Tristin. He's lonely for company too. You both whine when dogs walk by because you both want to play with them so badly. You're both such good dogs, and you'll be like two peas in a pod.

But kid, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry to put you through all this. I didn't think I was going to be the kind of pet owner that the Human Society targets when they say, "It's not just for Christmas; it's for life." I thought I was fully prepared to take care of you. I am such a fool--truly. Everything about this is a stressful and burdensome mess, except for you. I just can't seem to make you happy, and that makes me so sad. I tried to love and take care of you, I failed, and now I've lost a part of myself. We might say, "you're only a dog," but it meant so much to me to be able to take care of you and have you be a happy dog. I just feel so ashamed and so very sorry, kid.

Tomorrow, we'll take you to the vet to get your health certificate, then we'll put you on the plane to Texas to be with family. I'm sure you'll be a happy dog there. But me? My heart will break every time I walk by the back door, and I don't see you standing there, following me with your eyes. I'll cry every time I grill chicken, and I don't have you there to enjoy it. And my face will fall every time I go outside, and I don't hear the jingling of your ID tag against your collar as you come bounding up to meet me. I love you so much, buddy. You will always be in my heart.

Always,
Aaron

A moment or two to breathe...

I got the bad boy home last night. From Erda to Provo, it was quite a ride for both of us. He took the whole situation like a champ, bless his heart. It was his first time away from his siblings, his first car ride, his first time to wear a collar. It was my first time to be responsible for another life. I was so stressed out.

When we got home, I unloaded the pup and took him to the back yard. He wasn't too sure about his new surroundings. Even though I had things to unload from the car, I wanted to stick around for a minute or two while he adjusted. I laid down on the grass. Two seconds later, he was curled up beside me, panting away in the kind of deep, heavy breathing that comes from being tired out of your mind.

After feeding my grandpa, I turned off the nightly schedule on the sprinkler system, then I took my blankets and pillow out to the back yard. It was a while before we fell asleep; he kept opening his eyes to see if I was awake, and I kept opening my eyes to see if he was still there. Every time he'd move, I'd wake up. Every single noise seemed to alert him. He was just so scared.

I woke up on the lawn at about twenty minutes to six. It was still half dark, but I could see his eyes through his black mask staring back at me. I wonder if he really slept much at all. He was just so tired today. He didn't want to go on walks, he only played for about five minutes before taking a nap, and he didn't really look amused at anything. In the middle of all my worry, I kept having to remind myself that he's probably reeling from the big change.

I got so stressed out just thinking about him, whether or not he would have been better off back with the breeders. I've never felt so freaked by responsibility before.

We both need time to adjust.

Neurotic Parents

Picture a family of whacks, dressed up in their matching cashmere sweaters for a photo that will appear on their Christmas card, with some cheesy message about "Wise men still seek him" inside. The kids aren't allowed to eat anything that isn't organic. The children aren't allowed to sleep over at someone's house until they're 12. And none of them have seen a horror movie before they enter high school. It seems like a family situation straight out of a movie. Everyone rolls their eyes at the paranoid parents (quite often, just an overprotective mother) and wants to scream, "Back the hell off and let the kid grow up!"

I went shopping for Pistol on Wednesday night. I had to get a collar, dog food, crate, etc. in order to be able to bring him home today. As I started shopping, I found myself understanding those overprotective mothers. I looked at the ingredients on each of the doggy treats. I asked myself, is this organic? Are these ingredients going to make the kid overweight? I looked at the puppy foods and thought, is there too much calcium in this brand that will make him grow too fast and give him bone problems? Is the kibble small enough that he won't choke? I looked at the chew toys and put down the ones that he could choke on as well. I looked at the doggy crates and asked myself, is this one going to break his teeth or hurt his mouth if he starts chewing on it? Is there anything that will pinch his poor little body if he tries to get out? My mind ran through all of the dangerous possibilities.

I woke up today feeling really excited that I get to bring my boy home, but mostly, I just get so scared when I think about it. I've never been solely responsible for another life like this. Most people can accidentally kill a goldfish and not bat an eyelash, but this is a dog. There's more of a connection to a mammal of this kind. I just don't want to screw up another life. What if the poor boy gets lonely? What if I don't feed him the right stuff? What if I don't give him enough exercise? What if I spoil him and he never learns the kind of discipline that makes a truly happy dog?

I'm glad I'm being opened to new perspectives in life--the kind of perspectives that I used to scoff at. It's lovely to be able to develop that respect for different feelings and viewpoints.

Wish me luck. The kid is fully mine in less than three hours.

Baby Pistol

Has anyone ever heard of Erda? It's a quaint little place--a small gathering of farm homes rather than a city or town. Golden wheat fields wave in the wind, streets don't have gutters, homes have porches large enough that you can actually entertain on them, every one owns at least one horse and knows how to shoe it themselves. It's a nice place to see, then get the hell out of because it's too quiet and small. Places like that always seem to make me sad. Some personalities can feel so peaceful and beautiful in that kind of setting. I always feel really small and alone.

I'm tired of being alone. I live in my grandparents' basement, and I mostly sleep. I have goals and pursuits to carry me, but I don't feel quite as fulfilled as I'd like. I feel most fulfilled when I have someone to take care of. Rather than talk to myself all the time, I'd rather talk to a dog.

I remember begging my parents for a Saint Bernard since the time I was ten or eleven. Mind you, this was before that movie "Beethoven" came out. But my parents, remembering our latest and only family dog we had as a child, couldn't bear the thought that another dog might be neglected. Plus, they didn't like the bugs that animals sometimes attract.

I'm twenty-six, for kripes sake! What's holding me back?

As far as I know, there are only two Saint Bernard breeders in the state of Utah: one in Cache Valley and one out in Erda. Erda is a half-hour drive from Salt Lake. I usually have to go to Salt Lake on Tuesdays for my harp lessons, so I figured I would go out to Erda beforehand so that I could see the puppies.


I passed by the Salt Flats and the Great Salt Lake on my way. Can you believe that I had never seen either? It was really fascinating to see a place like that in Utah. It was also really dangerous; I was driving and talking to my mom on the phone at the same time. It doesn't make sense to stare and multi-task in the car. Don't do it, guys.

In the past two months, these breeders have had two different litters. He opened the gate to let them out of their kennel, and the twelve puppies scattered like mice--so intent to explore the world and play. I sat down on the grass, and two puppies came up to sit on my lap, one started nibbling at my hand, another started chewing on my shoe, and the rest just ran around me, chasing and tackling each other. You've never seen a cuter bunch of nuggets.


Anyway, this is my boy, and nine week old male that I'm bringing home this Friday. I get really irritated when breeders will name their puppies, only to sell them away. What right do they have to name a dog that will spend the rest of its life with someone else, just because they happened to be there when the litter was dropped? These breeders don't name their puppies. He's all mine, and I decide his name. He's Pistol.