The Little Pack

Tick Checks. Back when I was a camp counselor in northern New York, we were strongly encouraged to do daily tick checks. They went so far as to recommend finding a buddy to help you look in hard to see places. This of course sparked the ultimate pick up line of the summer: “Hey baby, need a tick check?” Years later I delighted in Brad Paisley’s song, Ticks, as it brought back memories of an idyllic summer spent holding onto my youth just a little longer. Back when I rolled my eyes at the suggestion of a tick check and refused to be scared into submission by the threat of these mini vampires. I admit it, I thought of them as these mythical pests that everyone liked to complain about about but didn’t exist nearly on the scale that “grown ups” liked to warn us about. Oh I heard about them in vague terms but saw maybe one my whole life. Until. This summer. When they officially became the bane of my existence. Suddenly they were, quite literally, everywhere. We found them on the dogs everyday, I found them in the house, had them crawl on us, and even found one in our bed. I barely let the dogs outside to pee, it was so horrific. We applied Frontline Plus, we combed the dogs every single time they came inside,we sprayed the yard as best as we could and yet there was no escape. I have learned more about ticks, their life cycle and mating habits then I ever wanted to know. I assume that this is just karma for my ignorance. I keep reading how tick season lasts all summer and into the fall but the vets tell me it should end soon. Then flea season begins. Of course I have also always regarded fleas the same as ticks: you know, someone else’s problem. Heaven help us now.

While I have been gushing about my son, Cheyenne has been… well, Cheyenne and doing the types of things that only Cheyenne does. See, Cheyenne has always thought that she is a baby. The real baby’s appearance has thrown her for a loop. Don’t get me wrong, she loves the baby, but she is a bit disappointed to discover that she is not human after all. She is still trying to convince herself otherwise but deep down is the truth she can’t deny: she is actually a dog. Yet this is not stopping her from stealing the baby’s blankets and burp clothes and curling up with them as if her proximity to them will somehow make her more human. And then yesterday, I caught her playing with one the baby’s toys. Not a stuffed animal, but a toy that stands up and whirls around. She was pawing at it to make it go around. I saw the look on her face and it clearly said, well, maybe if I just test this out, they will carry me around like that and sing to me and rock me…

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My day started with poop. Not poop in a diaper where it belongs but poop shooting out of my son’s butt during the first diaper change of the day. There was no warning, just poop shooting quite literally everywhere. All over me, all over him and the changing table, and the towel I had covering the changing table. Clearly his jammies got covered and needed to be changed. Jackson got scared and hid and Cheyenne felt the need to be involved. Hubby’s solution was to throw about a thousand wipes towards the Little One’s butt. Then after he ate he pooped again and it shot up his back, so jammies #2 were covered with poop. Meanwhile he slept a little later than normal and my boob was ready to explode–it was backed up to my neck (that’s not really an exaggeration) so I tried to pump but didn’t have the pieces together exactly right and milk got all over my clothes… And now I just found a fruit fly that drowned in my coffee. Awesome. But truly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I woke up this morning with the pain of losing Dixie still raw, said goodbye to Baby Titten (who is going to live with my parents), and prepared myself for a day of sadness and tears. Instead I received an unexpected laugh. Last night we gave Cheyenne her first rawhide in almost 2 years. Dixie was not allowed to have them any longer because we needed to adhere to her diet so strictly to slow the growth of her stones as much as possible. Cheyenne was so happy and proud of that bone. She carried it all over the house, looking for a safe place to keep it. We assured her no one wanted her bone, certainly the cats were not interested and Jackson has never chewed on a rawhide even once in his 9 years of life so she was safe there. Or so we thought. This morning, Jackson stole Cheyenne’s rawhide and would not give it back. And he has been chewing it all morning. It is so bizarre, I have no idea how to react, other than to die laughing. So while there has been a lot of change lately, and certainly there is more to come as they figure out their new dynamic, I am reassured in one constant: where Cheyenne is concerned, laughter is never far away. Although our little pack has become a mini pack, these guys continue to bring such joy to our lives, even during times of sadness.