February 22nd, 2013
Did I not tell you?
I don’t think I told you. Maybe I did but I’m too lazy to go back into my own archives to check.
Anyhow, last December, early in the month, we brought this little guy into the family.
His name – savor this, because this is the only family member without an alias – is Wolfgang von Stulpnagel.
I mean, he’s a German Shepherd. How could I not give him a German name? Especially with me being HALF-GERMAN? So, he has my German last name, and I chose Wolfgang because I like it, and I can call him Wolfie for short now that he’s a puppy, and Wolfgang when he’s older and I want him to bite the shit out of somebody. The kids insist on calling him Wolfgang von Stroppenheimer because they cannot pronounce von Stulpnagel properly, which I’ve explained is absolutely unacceptable since it’s PART OF THEIR HERITAGE AND THEREFORE THEY WILL BE TESTED ON IT UNTIL THEY CAN GET THAT SHIT RIGHT.
The long story that ended with Wolfie’s arrival in our home is one I cannot go into right now for the sake of my blood pressure. Suffice it to say that he was purchased from a breeder but I feel more and more like he was rescued from a disreputable breeder. Not that this guy was necessarily a BAD person, I can’t go as far as to say that without more evidence. But at the very least, he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, and Wolfie suffered for it, and may still be suffering for it. I don’t have a full workup on him yet to see if he has hereditary conditions that are going to affect him later – things that a good breeder would already have tested for. Shit, this idiot couldn’t even tell me when the dog was fucking BORN. See? I’m starting to get pissed already. Not because we paid, but because I don’t like seeing dogs mistreated.
The fact that Wolfie was so thin when we got him makes me feel, in some ways, better about getting him. I know there are loads of dogs in shelters waiting for homes, and I was always one of those people who preferred to rescue one than pay through my ass for a purebred, which Wolfie supposedly is. (Although I did not pay through my ass for him, thank God.) But I really feel like we rescued this dog, if not from abuse, from sheer neglect. He was about 20-30 pounds underweight, and of course with such a weight deficiency comes lack of energy. He was as meek as could be. But now, he’s come into his own, and although I’m still trying to bulk him up with the help of a recipe for a supplement with the absolutely hilariously suggestive name of SATIN BALLS, he’s already doing a lot better on the weight front.
So yeah, this is my new baby.
The other baby, the human one…I’m still on the fence with that one. And I know the fence is going to come down pretty soon and that’ll be the end of it, and…maybe I’ll be okay with that. I waver a lot. Sometimes I think it would be absolutely wonderful to have another little one, because my first two are SO FUCKING AWESOME. But the very things I miss are also the things that can tire you out: diaper changes, nursing…do I want to go there again? Or is it time to let our two munchkins grow while we re-focus on each other and the millions of things we want to do?
It’s not an easy decision. I’m also scared that, at age 43, my chances of having a baby with a health problem are higher. I’ve been so lucky – my kids don’t even have peanut allergies, for God’s sake. With the exception of Pudding’s respiratory issues, which are pretty mild, these kids are A-OK on the health front. What if the next one isn’t? Do I want to take that risk? It’s like I’m on Let’s Make a Deal: do I stick with what I have or go with seeing what’s behind door #3? Not to mention that having a baby now while running hither and thither with Punksin and her swimming…I don’t know. I always thought two would be great, but part of me wants to be outnumbered now. I get a lot of love and laughs from my munchkins. A little more…would be wonderful.
But for now, we have Wolfie and…the rest remains to be seen.