My Rescue Dog (Part 2)

Diego, Cocoa, and Cappy were so good their first night. They played well together. Ate their food. All three little dogs snuggled up on the dog bed I bought. It was precious. Absolutely precious, until I heard crying, yelping and screaming at 5 a.m. Cocoa had this cry that was more of a scream. I had gone to bed at 2 a.m. What the hell was wrong? I ran out where the dogs where and found they just wanted attention. Why they wanted it at 5 a.m. was beyond me, but it didn’t really bother me. It was their first day. They just needed to get adjusted.

And then Cocoa puked. I cleaned it up. Cappy had diarrhea and Diego walked in it. I cleaned it up and then cleaned the dogs. Cocoa puked again and Cappy rolled in it. I cleaned it up. Then I cleaned them. Crying. Yelping. Puking. Yelping. Crying. Puking. Diarrhea. I cleaned it up. I cleaned the dogs. I cleaned myself. I fed them. I cleaned them up. I walked them. They puked. They cried. I didn’t have a minute for anything except to take care of these dogs. What the hell was going on?

I brought all three dogs to the vet. While sitting in the waiting room, I had all three dogs on my lap. They were small enough. This woman sitting next to me said, “Where did you get all of those puppies?” She was all smiles. Then she heard the words “pet” and “store,” and her face twisted in disgust. There’s a reversed snobbery in Manhattan regarding where you get your dogs. You’d think the Manhattanites would like if you spent money on your dog, but it’s just the opposite. If it’s a rescue dog, people think you’re a wonderful person. If it’s from a pet store, that same dog makes them disgusted.

The vet wasn’t too thrilled either that Cocoa and Cappy were from a pet store. One of them had some kind of bug, and now they all had it. The vet figured it was one of the “pet store” dogs. I knew nothing about dogs. I didn’t know it was bad to get your dog from a pet store. It was as if I had been living under a rock, not knowing about the hierarchy of acceptable dog purchasing in Manhattan.

Three sick dogs. It had been a only a few days, and I’d been up around the clock caring for the dogs. Trying to bargain with the dogs. Wishing they didn’t have liquid shit coming out of their asses every 5-minutes. Hoping one of them wouldn’t step in it if they did. Praying they’d go to sleep. But they continued to be sick. They continued to step in each others mess. They continued to roll in each others vomit. The only time they slept was when I wasn’t home. Otherwise they were up. Up. Up. Up.

After a week it started to become a nightmare. No sleep. My apartment smelled like a combination of diarrhea and puke. I never wanted to go home. I ran out to do shows, but then worried about the dogs, and would run back to take care of them. I was afraid something would happen.

When I have a problem, one of my favorite things to do is to throw money at it. Since I couldn’t take care of the dogs on my own, I figured I’d pay someone to help me, but once I told dog walkers or day care centers that the dogs were sick, they were unwilling to help. Money wasn’t working.

I looked like hell. My whole job was cleaning up puke and poop all day. Plus don’t forget about all of the crying. I called the pet store, and told them what happened, but they had no remorse. They told me the puppies must’ve gotten sick from Diego. I knew that wasn’t true. Damn pet store. What did I expect?

My BFF called me from her trip and could tell I was about to have a break down, but there was nothing she could do. Love Him But Hate Him also knew I was having a hard time, but he hadn’t found a home yet for Diego. I was in Puppy Hell. Sure they were cute, but I had done this to myself. I love shopping, but who buys a dog as an impulse purchase? They weren’t tic tacs. They were living, breathing things! But now that I had these dogs, I had to do the right thing. The responsible thing.

TO BE CONTINUED...