My Furry Boy

The summer of 2005 was a hot one.  My husband put up a split-rail fence around our entire back yard which must be about ½ acre.  He did it all on his own, despite the half-hearted commitments a couple neighbors had made.   Dave did everything from digging the post holes to concreting the posts to putting up the chicken wire.  He did a professional job, in my humble opinion.  The fact that he did not keel over from heat exhaustion or a heart attack was the added bonus.

Dave and I had discussions about getting a dog, now that Zach was a little older.  We were by no means going to get one anytime soon because we could not agree on an age, let alone a breed or where we would look to get one.  I knew that when the time was right, our canine would come into our lives, one way or another.  Now that the fence was done, we would be ready, right?

Back in the days of a larger financial cushion, Dave, Zach and I would go out to dinner at least once per week, and usually go to the same place each time.   We would go to Lupie’s in Huntersville.  Dave could get his Bongo Burger (super huge slab of ground beef with everything on it) along with a G-Whiz (Busch in a can) for $1 each.   I could get a piece of the quiche-of-the-day with a side salad and fruit.  Zach would get his usual as well, a hot dog.  Zach loved going there because he had a crush on the owner, and we loved going for the food.

After splitting the best banana pudding this side of the Appalachians and paying the check, we made our way out to the car.  Parked next to us was a Suburban with 2 Great Danes peeking out of the windows, while their owners were getting out of the car for their turn to eat at Lupie’s.  As the passenger shut his car door, I saw “The Great Dane Rescue” magnet sign on his door.  I had been meaning to look into volunteer opportunities there so I took advantage of the situation and introduced myself. 

The man was very friendly and told me his wife was actually the owner of the rescue.  They were always looking for volunteers.  He joked that I could even take one of the dogs home with me.  I laughed it off and he proceeded to say, “We have more than just Danes, you know.  We got Sheppards, Poodles, Boxers, a couple Labs.”  He then turned to his wife walking towards us and said, “Honey, what kind of dog came in yesterday?”  His wife replied, “A Great Pyrenees.”  My eyes got as wide as saucers, and I gasped. 

What were the odds?  Growing up, my parents owned and showed, and sometimes bred Great Pyrenees.  Our family pet, Paco, won Best of Breed at the Westminster Dog Show one year.  I always vowed I would someday have my own.  Unfortunately, pure bred Pyrenees sell for anywhere from $800 -$2000 a piece, and there was no way I would ever convince Dave to spend that kind of money.  The fact the Great Dane Rescue had a Pyr who just arrived and I just happened to run into the owners was my sign.  Dave knew it was my sign too.  “Looks like we’re getting a dog.”  I laughed.  “Dave, can’t we just go meet him?”  The Great Dane Rescue holds an open house every other Sunday afternoon for the public to come in and look at all their tenants available for adoption.   The next open house was in 4 days.

At home that evening after putting Zach to sleep, Dave said to me, “Mery, you know if we go meet him, you are going to want him.”  What did he know.  It was completely possible that I would meet this animal and not connect with it.  Just because he was a Pyrenees, a male, and already house broken?  Please.

Sunday came and we were at the gates of the Rescue promptly at 1pm when they opened.  I even had a friend meet us there to be an objective observer.  We parked and walked over to where all the dogs were playfully meeting perspective parents.  I looked all around, but no sign of a Pyrenees.  I caught the attention of the man we had met a few days prior.  He told me “Chuckie” was in a run and he would go get him and asked that we wait where we were.

I was so nervous.  To meet a dog.  What was the matter with me? I then saw the man as he was cresting the hill.  Then I saw the leash.  Then I saw him.  A gawky, underweight, limping, shaved white dog.  Were they sure he was a Pyrenees?   They came over to us and I got down to the dog’s level.  He jumped on me and we fell to the ground.  I laughed out loud and at that moment Dave said to our friend, “Take a look at our new dog.”  Why would someone let this fella get so undernourished and dirty and bald?  I asked a lot of questions.

“My wife got a call that there was a Great Dane up in Statesville, NC who got picked up by Animal Control so we went up to get him because they are a kill shelter for animals under the age of 2.  When we got there the guy asked if we wanted to take the Pyrenees too, since he was so sweet and his owner gave him up.   After he escaped so many times from his home the owner decided he wasn’t worth the hassle.  They guy at Animal Control didn’t have the heart to put him down.”

No question in my mind.  Chuckie was ours.  First order of business was going to be to change his name though.  Chuckie?  I think not.  We changed his name to Kody, and I think he liked his new name too.   He was our little bear and an instant member of our family.

Once we got Kody home, we set up an appointment with the veterinarian to make sure he was in tip top shape.   Turns out “Chuckie” must have spent a lot of time on his own.  Most of his teeth were broken from chewing on rocks.  He had a nasty cyst on the pad of one of his front paws, and three (yes three) types of worms.  Hookworms, ringworms, and roundworms.     He was a mess.  Thank goodness for doggie drugs.  He was in much better condition after a couple weeks.

Here’s where the fence comes back into the picture.   After Kody had been treated for his ailments, he felt much stronger.  He felt so strong, in fact, that he was able to climb our fancy new fence and escape.  So this is what he would do to his previous owner.  No worries, the Blanks are smarter than the average Pyrenees.  Dave went out and bought an electric fence wire to go around the top of the fence.   After Dave installed the wire, he felt the need to test it out.  “I am not going to subject the dog to anything that I wouldn’t be able to handle.”  He tested the wire by touching it.  Nothing.  He then grabbed the wire and…ZZZAAAAAP!  Dave was knocked to his knees.  “It works.”

It only took one good shock for Kody never to try to jump the fence again.  After a few months we turned it off all together.  As most Pyrs do, he continues to walk the entire perimeter of the fence as a way to protect, or maybe e is just looking for flaws so he can escape.  I like to think it is the former.  That isn’t to say that he doesn’t still escape.  Anytime a door is left ajar, Kody sees it as an opportunity to go explore.  I cannot tell you how many times Dave and I have screamed at the boys for leaving a door open. 

More than a handful of strangers have pulled into our driveway, opened their back door, and Kody came out grinning from ear to ear.  One Saturday afternoon, a white Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway.  I was watching Zach ride his bike so I happened to be in the driveway.  A woman stepped out of the SUV and said, “You missing your dog?”  Oh great, he got out and I didn’t even notice this time.  “I am so sorry!  Thank you so much for returning him.”   The woman was laughing and said, “Actually, I was out helping my friend look for her dog.  My back door was open and Kody hopped right in.  He is such a sweet boy!”  I couldn’t argue.  Kody does like to keep us on our toes.

We are so fortunate to have been blessed with such a beautiful, loving, amazing, and stubborn animal.   His family comes first.  Kody is a great protector.  I never have to worry if Dave needs to go out of town for work because Kody is on 24 hour guard of his “flock” sleeping in front of the front door.  He allows us to lay on him like a pillow.  He nudges like a cat until you pet him.  He is a lap dog in a horse sized body.  My mom is convinced he is another pet we had growing up, Rudy, reincarnated.    As angry as he can make me, my love for him will always be overpowering, just like my other two sons.  

Count the Ways

I wish I could say I was the quintessential older sister growing up.  You know, the protector, the confidant, the good example.  It is a miracle my siblings turned out so well, despite my constant harassing and torment.  I could write a novel about the ways I used to torture my brother and sister, but who has the time?  We grew up in a house with 3 children, all 2 ½ years apart in age.  I was the oldest.  Our brother, Grant, was stuck in between two girls.  Our youngest sister, Nikki, came along and I think Grant breathed a sigh of relief that I would someday unleash my wrath on her and focus less on him.  It was almost prophetic.

From a very young age, Nikki was our little guinea pig.  It started around the time she learned to walk.  I would get her to do things for my entertainment.  A puppet or circus monkey, if you will.  I remember putting the Didee Diaper Service pail over her head; empty of course (I’m not a monster…).  The pail went down to her ankles.  I would then spin her around and around then let go and watch her walk into walls or go crashing to the ground.  It was hours of entertainment, and she loved it.  Grant and I would fall to the ground at the same time from laughing so hard.  She would wiggle out of the diaper pail and start to try to put it back over her head.   Of course, I was there to help.

When Nikki was around the same age, I once dared her to put an entire unpeeled orange in her mouth.  By golly, she did it.  It was very impressive.  My mom walked into the kitchen to find Grant and me gawking at Nikki, who was so proud.  I bet she was smiling, but the orange was in the way.   Our mom freaked out, justifiably so, and had to perform an orange-ectomy.  Using a small knife, she sectioned the orange to remove it from Nikki’s mouth, all the while, Nikki was gagging.  Yep, we got in trouble for that one.

As Nikki got a little older, say 4 or 5 years old, it was not as easy to convince her to do silly or foolish acts.  It was at that time the psychological warfare began.  Think back to the early to mid ‘80s.  Remember the “Save the Children” commercial with Sally Strothers?  It was a very depressing advertisement soliciting money for dying children in Africa.  One day, as the commercial was showing a sad bloated little boy with a fly landing on his eyeball, it hit me.  “Nikki, that’s where Mom and Dad got you.”  Of course Nikki was not buying it.  “Really, Nikki.  Look at me and Grant.  We have freckles and light skin.  What do you have?”  She was blessed with olive skin like our father.  Grant chimed in, “Yeah, Nikki.  Mom and Dad got you from Africa. That’s why you don’t look like us.”   Nikki was starting to buy it.  “Mom and Dad sent a check to that lady on the TV to adopt you and the lady sent you here to live with us.”  OK, she was now convinced.  Nikki burst into tears and went running screaming into the other room looking for my mom.  “I’m adopted from Africa?!  Why didn’t you tell me, I’M ADOPTED???”   My poor mother.  She had a heck of a time trying to undo what I had done.  No matter what my mom said, Nikki was NOT buying it.  She even broke out the photos of my parents bringing Nikki home from the hospital.  Not one of my finer moments.

The next year Nikki was so excited to be like the big kids when she started Kindergarten.  She had her Care Bear Trapper Keeper and everything.  Each morning she would go out to the front of the house and wait for her bus.  Her bus driver’s name was Mr. Minnow.  He was a stout, friendly man and the kids all made a song about him to the tune of “Where is Thumbkin”.  Nikki adored Mr. Minnow and always talked about him after school.  How was I not supposed to exploit this situation.  I made up a little verse of my own and it went a little something like this:

Mr Minnow, Mr Minnow

Where are you, Where are you

You are nice and plumpy

I am going to eat you

Drive away, Drive away

Even thought the tune was “Where is Thumbkin”, I used the voice of Phil Anselmo, lead singer for Pantera.  It would scare the daylights out of her.  To this day, if I sing it, she calls me one of the many explicatives in her repertoire.

I had always had a knack for passing blame as well.  Fast forward to the early ‘90s.  My parents would go out of town over night and leave me as guardian over my siblings.  As any responsible teenager would, I threw parties.  Big parties.  So much so, that at my wedding, 10 years later, we, the 3 Pollock children all asked our next door neighbors who had the craziest parties.  They looked at each other, and at the same time said, “Mery.”  At one party in particular, I broke the ½ inch glass top of my parents’ coffee table.    I had jumped on the couch and when I landed, my foot hit the glass, breaking it in two.  I convinced my sister to take the fall for me by saying she and I were wrestling and she broke the table.  I knew she would be in far less trouble than I would have been.  Years later, after a couple libations, I finally confessed, and told my parents what I had done.  I needed to clear Nikki’s name, and my conscience. 

The next year I went away to college and the relationship between my sister and me changed dramatically.  I’m not sure if it’s because I grew up a little being away from home, but something definitely transformed our relationship.  Today she is my best friend.  More often than not, I cannot even make a decision without first consulting her.  I am not saying I always take her advice, but I do always ask.  I’d like to think Nikki has forgiven me for most of my abusive acts in the past, and I am so grateful to have her.  Thank you, Sally Strothers, for bringing her into my life.  I love you, Seester!

Fire Drill

I remember my mom saying that I would have made a perfect only child.  She said this because in the first 2 ½ years of my life I was a sweet little thing.  I was not one of the brats in the grocery store, throwing myself on the floor, screaming for a toy or candy, having tantrums in public.  Then my brother Grant was born.  Something in my sweet little head switched, and I became what my mom called, “The Queen of Negative Attention.”  I never really understood what she meant, negative attention, until I became pregnant with my second child.

Zach was such an easy baby.  He didn’t really cry for the first 6 months of his life, and I would joke that he knew his mommy would tweak out and not be able to deal with the added stress.  He would just go with the flow, happy in any environment.  Even in his infant stage, he was a rock star.  Everywhere we went, people were drawn to him. Heck, even Chuck Norris’ ex-wife touched his little toes in St. Maarten!  Ok, we do not know for sure it was Chuck Norris’ ex-wife, but we were confident enough to tell people it was her when we got home from vacation.  At two years old, he made the local 5 o’clock news, just for being adorable and boogieing to a Big Band on stage at a community 4^th of July event. His daycare adored him and always had amazing things to say about his progress and how bright he was.

In the early spring of 2006, I had the strong urge to take a pregnancy test while at work.  Probably not the most opportune time, but it needed to be done.  I was having difficulty interpreting the results, while pacing the floor of the 4^th floor women’s room and felt I needed a second opinion.  Who better to ask to read my pee stick than my boss?   I restlessly walked into her office and shut the door behind me. “Can you please look at this and tell me what you see?” With a bewildered look on her face, she took the stick and looked at it.  Evidently the results were much clearer now. “Honey, you are pregnant.”

I picked up Zach from daycare and drove home with two used pregnancy sticks in tow.  We pulled into the driveway, and walked in the door.   I had Zach carry one of the positive sticks over to Dave and he handed it to him.  With a dazed and confused look, Dave stared at it for a moment and said, “Whose is this?” I giggled and said, “I found it in the street and thought you’d like it as a drink stirrer.” “Huh?” I laughed. “It’s mine!” Dave was now grinning, but still confounded. “Really, are you sure?” I then handed him the second test.  I was sure.

After the shock wore off, Dave and I were overjoyed to learn that I was pregnant.  In our minds, the timing was perfect.   Our children would be 3 ½ years apart in age, which gave Zach the opportunity to be the baby all on his own without being overshadowed by a new addition to the family.  Zach would be a big brother, and we were so excited to share the news.  At first Zachary was very excited.  Then, gradually, his behavior started to change.

By the time summer rolled around, I was definitely showing the baby bump.   People started focusing more on me and less on Zach.  This was not something Zach was used to at all.  Until this point in his life, he was center stage.   When we would walk into daycare, all the teachers would ask how I was feeling, how I was doing and Zach would be the second in line for questioning.  Something in his sneaky smart brain was not going to tolerate this any longer.  He started acting out in school and misbehaving more at home.

I was at work when I got the phone call. “Mrs. Blank, its Diana at Zach’s daycare.  There has been an incident. Everyone is fine, but we need to let you know what happened. Zachary pulled the fire alarm at school today.” What? “How could he reach the fire alarm? What do you mean it’s within reach of a 3 year old? What happened??” She proceeded with entire story of how Zachary was walking with his class from the gym back to their classroom.   While they were in line, Zach reached up and pulled the alarm.  The entire child development center had to evacuate, including the infant rooms, where all the babies were put into a couple cribs and were rolled outside like freight on an assembly line.  The police and fire departments came.  They had to clear the building before anyone was allowed back in.  Zach was excited because he got a “talking to” by the police and firefighters that had responded.  It was almost a reward in his eyes.

I shut down my computer at work while calling Dave, telling him what happened.  He agreed to meet me at the school and we were both there within 15 minutes.   Zach was sitting behind the front desk in the lobby, hands in his lap. He looked so innocent peering up at Dave and me.  So little.   His eyes were puffy and red from crying. “Zach, what did you do?” I asked.   In his tiny voice he said, “I just pulled the fire drill.” Dave asked him, “Why?” Zachary’s reply? “I don’t know.   I wanted to see what would happen.” He got the attention he was looking for, that’s for sure.

After we got home, Zach was playing with his fire truck and police car reenacting the chaos from earlier in the day.  Dave and I were starting to see the humor in the situation.  Dave said, “I can’t blame him, I’ve wanted to pull a fire alarm my whole life. I am kind of proud of the kid.”