Sloppy Seconds

Adopting a Second Hand Terrier -- or any dog, for that matter -- is not for the feign-of-hearts. It's an immensely challenging act, but one with enormous rewards. I'm not the most patient person around when it comes to life in general. But when it comes to my three terriers, I'm more than a Softy. I'd say I've reached Sucker by this point! The phrase "My dog walks all over me" was written with me in mind.

Isn't it funny how a person can dislike children, but can tolerate and embrace a sloppy, slobbering, get down in the dirt then up in your face dog? Now, when I say I dislike kids you have to understand something: I live across the street from a day care center. An undisciplined day care center. The church was renting out the parish house after the death of their pastor and we were reassured that the committee would find a nice elderly couple to fit in with our mostly older folks in this neighborhood. That didn't happen, of course, I've already told you what happened.

I've never had kids and to be honest, I never wanted kids. Never. I just never saw myself as the type to nest. But when I had first moved to Los Angeles (at the ripe old age of 33), I encountered more than a little resistence to my age and lack of experience. Actually I think it was the age more than anything. I received my Master of Film Arts degree at a pretty decent university, but not in California. And although I was the first person to make it out of the department with MFA in hand, it didn't seem to matter much. I lacked the most important piece of the Hollywood puzzle. Connections. Didn't matter that I had changed my life's direction, up-rooted myself from the city (Toronto) to the middle of nowhere at a football crazy school complete with rifle-totin' baseball cap wearin' riding in the pickup kinda place. Shit, talk about culture shock! I quickly found my way to the University Psych Student Services, a place that would help me to deal with the sudden lack of Vittel mineral water and my abrupt sense of alienation. Yes, Vittel was a very big issue back then. I had a wonderful therapist who summed up my issue (we called them problems back then) succinctly: I was trying to make sense out of totally insane illogical situation. Grad school. I now joke that the MFA stands for More F**king Aggravation!

To Be Continued...


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