Heather, How Did Your Mommies Do It?

BY AMBER LEVENTRY

My partner, Amy, is in California for a business trip, and instead of feeling like a bachelor as I eat Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner one night and beer the next, I feel like a single parent.  Taking care of our Golden Retriever is getting the best of me.  I am able and willing to care for him, but it demands a lot of time.  I am responsible for both of his daily walks, his feedings, and playtime.  I am the sole provider of discipline, preventing him from eating old food or trash on our walks, and hissing at him when he licks himself to the point of my annoyance.   I have been getting up an hour earlier than normal, have yet to put away three loads of laundry, unload the dishwasher, or make the bed since Amy has been gone.  I don’t even have the energy for a workout at the end of the day.

Now I realize these are trivial problems to have, but I am spoiled.  I have a wonderful teammate in my partner and together we have been caring for Bailey since he was eight weeks old.  Seven years ago, we drove two hours to Canada to ‘look’ at puppies; three hundred dollars and a trip through Customs later, and we had our first dog.

Our love for him grows stronger each year, but he is good at testing that love, and I have renewed appreciation for single parents who are able to balance work, pets, and parenthood without wanting to give it all up for a job in Vegas as a blackjack dealer.

Bailey and I have muddled through three days together, both missing the third member of our family, each feeling a little off.  And it has been snowing for 24 consecutive hours, dumping 12 inches of new snow.  I had heard the storm warning, but I was in denial, not wanting to admit that our Vermont winter still had life in her.

This morning, when I grabbed the newspaper off of the six inches we got overnight, I hoped one of our lovely neighbors would look beyond my Carharts and through the stereotypes of being the masculine lesbian of the couple.  I wanted them to ignore all assumptions that I am a strong, capable woman.  I wanted one of them to steer their snow blower in my direction and clear our driveway.

Bailey and I geared up and went outside.  He in his snow booties and I in the corduroy jacket my partner hates.  I’d show her for being in beautiful California while I am stuck in winter’s last grasp!

Bailey grabbed his favorite toy and perched himself on a snow bank to watch me and the neighbors dig out but suddenly remembered that he had to pee and began to cry and bark.  He is 80 pounds and stands thigh-high, capable of maneuvering through the snow, but he won’t go to the bathroom if any of it is touching his undercarriage.

I shoveled a path in the backyard for him and got back to work.  As I pushed the slushy mess to the end of the driveway, my shovel hit the uneven part of the sidewalk that I have yet to memorize and jammed into my pelvis.  This is when Bailey jammed his toy into my ass, ready to play.

“Not now!  I’m running late!”  I grabbed at the toy, foolishly hoping he would drop it so I could throw it and he would leave me alone for a few minutes.

Bailey has never been the kind of dog who enjoys a healthy game of fetch.  He prefers playing tug.  But with the arthritis in his back legs, he does little tugging and simply wants you to hold the other end of whatever he has in his mouth, engaged with you in a holding hands sort of way.

“Leave it,” I said to him nicely.  He shook his head and bumped me with his snout.

“Leave it?” I implored.  He backed up and came at me again.  I tugged for a few seconds.  That was a mistake.  I was trying to ward off his advances; however, he saw this as a sign of playtime.

I held the toy with one hand and tried shoveling with the other.  This worked for about 30 seconds.  I was tired, late, and a new inch of snow had already covered the spaces I had cleared.

I lost it.  “I can’t play right now!  Mama has to go to work so she can make the money that pays for your treats!”

He didn’t understand.  When I left for work he happily hopped up on the couch and kissed me good-bye.  And when I got home, all was forgiven; we were ready for round two.  I cleared several inches of snow, took Bailey for a short snowshoe, and got home to see the plow had snowed us in again, leaving the end of the driveway a vague memory of the work I had done an hour before.

I felt defeated.  Hungry.  And I want to take a long shower and shave my legs.  Really shave them, not just a quick, up to the knees shave.  So instead of playing with Bailey, trying to make up for ignoring him that morning, I grabbed the shovel and told him we’d play in a minute.

He was patient for about five and then wanted my attention.  But he didn’t allow me to go through the routine he had tolerated earlier.  Once he knew I was not going to play, he acted out.  He sulked to the backyard and, on cue, I followed him and watched him go to the only corner of the yard that wasn’t covered in snow.  It’s a spot next to our deck and in the summer when he wants our attention he digs at the mulch there.

“Bailey!” I called hoping he’d come to me.  Instead, he looked at me, trotted to the corner, and dug a massive hole.  I grabbed his collar and paraded him around the yard, hoping the snow would wash off some of the mud.  I toweled him off, but he had so many snowballs stuck to his fur, that all I was doing was pulling his hair.  I was tempted to cut them all out, but my partner would have a fit if she came home to a dog with clumps of fur missing from his legs.

I tried breaking them up, but nothing worked.  So I gave up and we went inside.  Soon I noticed that the snowballs were melting into puddles of mud around the house.  I groaned, huffed and puffed, and cleaned up the mess.

And now as I settle in to check my e-mail and get some writing done, Bailey stands next to me and whines.  He has to go out again because he continuously ate snow for the two hours we were outside.

I grab my coat, count the hours until Amy comes home, and plan to dig a hole of my own.