Monday, May 6, 2013

Ollie


No shit, there I was at Target.  I could probably start a lot of stories this way, but the rest of them wouldn’t be worth telling.  It was a warm summer evening; August 17, 2012 to be exact.  My cousin had something to return and I had nothing to do.  We went in, returned the something, and then wandered, as you do in Target.  Because you “need” things: a new bathing suit, a $5.00 DVD, a pack of thank you cards you’ll forget to send.  Forty five minutes later, we stepped out into the night with full bags and empty wallets.  As soon as the glass doors slid open, my left ear heard my cousin say, “Do not look over there,” while my right ear heard a stranger ask, “Do you like puppies?”  Of course, I immediately turned to my right and saw slightly ragged couple, the woman holding a scruffy Yorkshire Terrier who was furiously licking her face. 

“Do not go over there,” my cousin cautioned, laughing, already lining up behind me to pet the squirming fur ball.  Without thinking, I asked, “Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Name?”

“Royal.”  I cringed, wondering if this woman had an obsession with monarchs or whisky.  After a quick inventory of her teeth, I decided the latter.  “We have to get rid of him or we get evicted.  We live down the way.  We have three kids.  I just want to get my money for the vet bills.”  I looked down at a crate full of every manner of food, treat, toy, and shampoo.  “He comes with all his stuff.”

“How old?” I asked.

“Eight months.”

“He’s really cute,” I replied, “but I’d have to talk to my boyfriend.  We have another dog.  She’s about the same age.”  No way.  I hate little dogs.  They’re yappy, require constant grooming, you can’t take them outside, they don’t play ball.  I want a real dog.  A big dog.  One for Pippa.   Probably a female.  Males pee on stuff.

I looked at my cousin, “He’s really cute,” she admitted.  I pet Royal again, letting him sniff, lick, and nibble my fingers.  How did these people get this little purse dog?  How can they afford to keep him?  Why doesn’t this woman have any teeth?  Where are her kids?  Do they know their parents are out here getting rid of their dog?  Before I could come up with any answers, I told the couple I’d be right back.

When I got home, The Bear was on the front steps.  I trudged up the stairs, “Just tell me no.”  He looked perplexed.  My cousin was giggling and juggling her Target bags.  “There’s a puppy,” I started, watching his eyes brighten.  “He’s at Target and he’s little and he’s cute and these people are trying to sell him.  Pippa’s adoption fee was $250.00 and they want less than that!  I know you wanted to get Pippa a sister sometime after the elections, but you just have to see him.  He’s cute!  I know he’s a little dog, but you just have to tell me no.  We don’t have to go back.”  I rambled on and on, my mouth verbalizing every caution of my brain and every yearning of my heart. 

We loaded Pippa in the car, and headed back to Target.  I wanted The Bear to drive by the front of the store first.  Just to make sure the dog was still there.  I saw him pulling at the end of his orange Harley Davidson leash, tail wagging at every patron entering and exiting the store and felt my heart jump, thankful that some sucker didn’t impulse-buy a Yorkie in the last fifteen minutes. 

“Just tell me no,” I repeated, this time hoping The Bear wouldn’t turn the car around.  He was silent as we walked across the parking lot.  Pippa pulled like a sled dog as soon as she realized what was happening.

“You’re back!”  The woman looked genuinely surprised that I had returned as I had promised.  That made two of us.  I watched as the pup excitedly dodged The Bear’s attempts to pet him, bouncing from The Bear to Pippa.  As they greeted each other the way pups do, Pippa took the opportunity to pee approximately six inches from the pup’s feet.  He was hers.  I laughed and watched both dogs chase each other in a circle.  He was ours.

After we loaded the pup and all his belongings into the back of the car, we went to dinner with friends.  The topic of conversation?  Changing his name to anything other than Royal.  By the time we finished our meal, Royal had become Oliver; Ollie for short.   


I remember everything about that day.  And I will never forget the 258 days that followed.  Ollie was the best kind of crazy. He got excited about everything and was afraid of nothing.  Before we moved, he’d figure out ways to escape from the backyard.  Not because he wanted to run away, but because he wanted to see what was happening on the other side of the fence.  When we finally did move, the shop vac became Ollie’s arch nemesis. 

 
He was headstrong and determined.  If it took him fifteen tries to jump up on the bed, he didn’t care.  If he had to run faster just to keep up with Pippa, he didn’t care.  Ollie was a big dog in a little body full of tangles, leaves, and thorns.  After we got him, I remember telling my mom that Ollie smelled like garbage and hillbillies.  At Thanksgiving, I used the term, “Chinese whorehouse” to describe how bad he smelled.  My grandmother was not amused.  But Ollie didn’t care.

Ollie was happy: happy to play, happy to cuddle, happy to put his paws down a girl’s shirt.  Like that pink bunny with the drum, he kept going and going.  Sure, he’d stop to smell your shoes or bite Pippa’s face, but then he’d be on to the next thing.  Though he only knew how to sit on command, Ollie wasn’t stupid.  I think maybe he was smarter than the rest of us.  He was too busy to learn commands.  He had to know what The Bear was doing or why Pippa was getting all the treats.  He spent all of his time joyfully bouncing from one person to the next.  His happiness and love were contagious.  Let a puppy lick your ear and try to tell me you didn’t smile, even if you were a bit disgusted.

I miss my little buddy.   I miss his crooked tail.  I miss the way he looked at you, with his head cocked to one side, not knowing what you were saying, but listening intently to the words spoken only to him.  I miss the way he’d burrow under the sheets at night.  I miss the Gremlin noises he’d make when he played with Pippa or heard someone knock on the door.  There is an Ollie-shaped hole in my heart that will never be filled.   I know that somewhere on some beach in the great beyond, he flies with the angels.

True story.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Hunger


No shit there I was, boiling beans.  For hours.  Black beans in purple water, which boiled over a while ago, leaving a dried puddle of inky starch all over my stove top.  That’s what was for dinner last night.  Cooking those beans took what felt like an eternity.  Which is probably part of this experience.  To feel what millions of people feel.  That empty nagging of your stomach.  I do not claim to know what severe hunger feels like.  I am learning that part of the Live Below the Line challenge is to catch just a glimpse of what life is like for those who cannot afford basic necessities, such as food. 

On Sunday, I successfully convinced The Bear to join me on my journey to raise awareness for those living at or below the poverty line.  The rules of the challenge encourage individuals to combine their money to maximize the amount and diversity of the food they can purchase.  Together, The Bear and I had $15.00 to buy five days’ worth of food.  In the end, we spent a grand total of $13.30 on the following items:



In case you do not believe me, here are the receipts:


The only items we did not purchase were beans, rice, lentils, dried chicken stock, salt, pepper, garlic flavored olive oil, ketchup, mustard, and hot sauce.  We did not want to be wasteful by buying extra food items when we could easily use things we had at home.  The beans, rice, lentils, and chicken stock were priced at the grocery store, then weighed, portioned, and factored into the $13.30 total at home.  The salt, pepper, and garlic flavored olive oil will be used very sparingly and should account for the remaining $1.70.  We stole the ketchup, mustard, and hot sauce from fast food restaurants.  I watched Aladdin a lot as a child, so you can blame the stealing on my misspent youth.  I prefer to think of it as creativity.

As I suspected, we were not able to buy very many fruits, vegetables, or meat.  We also tried desperately to buy peanut butter and cheese, but realized we’d rather spend the extra money on making the staples we bought taste somewhat good.  

So what have we eaten so far?

Day 1 

Breakfast: Potatoes, eggs, and toast

Lunch: Ramen (I turned down someone's offer of fresh veggies.  I also turned down a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.  Ok, I lied.  I took the Reese's, but I DID NOT EAT IT!)

Dinner: Potatoes, rice and beans with hot sauce

Day 2

Breakfast: Eggs, toast, and half a banana

Lunch: Leftover rice and beans with hot sauce

Dinner: Potato, tomato, carrot, onion, and alphabet soup (This was good and filling at the time; however, two hours later, we both felt a little lightheaded and delirious.)

Snack: Hot dog and bread

I will say that after two days, both The Bear and I feel like we are not getting proper nutrition.  I cannot speak for The Bear, but I am having a little difficulty with our inability to simply open the pantry or fridge and grab a snack.  Most of the things we bought require preparation.  I'm a total Pac Man when it comes to snacking, often choosing the most convenient snacks available... and a lot of them!  I know this can be unhealthy, but currently, I cannot even grab an apple.  I am debating grabbing oranges or lemons off the trees out back.  We just moved in, didn't plant the trees, and have watered them exactly once.  And they're just hanging there...


True story.

Monday, April 29, 2013

Living Below the Line


No shit there I was, listening to the radio on the way to work last Thursday, mindlessly humming along, stopping only to ponder pressing issues, such as the correct pronunciation of Ke$ha or how strange Justin Timberlake looks with straight hair.  After sitting through that damn Bruno Mars song for the 28,334th time, the DJs informed me that Ben Affleck would be spending a week living on $1.50 per day.  Not for a movie role, but to raise awareness for the approximately 1.4 billion people worldwide living in extreme poverty.  I began to think.  What could I actually afford if I only had $7.50 to buy a week’s worth of groceries?  How much does rice cost?  Could I afford to eat fruit or vegetables?  Eggs are cheap, right?  When I finally got to work, I went straight to Google.  I learned about an organization called Live Below the Line, which challenges people to live on $1.50 per day in an effort to highlight the everyday struggles of people around the globe.  As I was reading, I thought about the $6.00 jar of diet peanut butter I bought the week before.  I thought about my undying quest for Chicken and Waffle flavored potato chips.  I thought about how much I complain about being poor.  Then I committed.  For the next five days, I will live on just $1.50 per day.  And I plan to tell you all about it.  True story.

In the meantime, I encourage you to do as I do (or if my sermon hasn't inspired you enough, do as Ben Affleck does), and check out Live Below the Line at https://www.livebelowtheline.com/us?lang=en.  There you will find all the rules of the challenge, along with other information regarding charities that support those living in extreme poverty.  I've pledged to help the Happy Hearts Fund rebuild schools and provide children affected by natural disaster a brighter future.  To help me meet my donation goals, visit https://www.livebelowtheline.com/me/pippasqueak.