The dog phobia days of apartment living.

I’m a huge dog person. Always have been. I grew up with and around them, raised and trained one of my own from 6 weeks, and now am raising a second with May–who also happens to be a huge dog person. So this apartment building was, in that respect, a perfect fit for us. Very relaxed pet policy, and no shortage of places to take the pups for walks or other reasons. The people? Could use some relaxing.

I took Lacey on one of those afore mentioned walks for other reasons yesterday, and both leaving and coming into the building, I must have ran into at least 6 people who have a decidedly very large issue with my admittedly a little hyper, but ultimately harmless, dog. There’s a family with a rather large dog issue on this floor–actually, pretty much across from the elevators. Which, escentially, means especially in the mornings, we try and time our taking the pups out to avoid them. Because not doing so produces a reaction not entirely dissimilar to one you’d see on, say, Nightmare On Elm Street. If the dog even looks in their direction, they wig out. Backing away, occasionally screaming, and generally proving that not every grown adult is physically capable of actually acting like a grown adult. Also somewhat amusing in that even if I make the dog sit, the very act of whichever dog I’m walking doing exactly that prompts them to hit the cieling. If they and we are destined for the same elevator, I’m expected to hold the dog back until they get on the elevator, and–if they can get away with it–to wait for the next one. I’ve decidedly been doing a significant amount less of that, however, simply because–hey, pet friendly building. Dog who’s most deadly weapon is occasionally her morning breath. Chill.

While that’s the most consistent example, it’s not the most recent–or the most amusing. As I said earlier, I ran into a few while taking Lacey on one of our little walks yesterday. One of them was already on the elevator when it got to my floor, and it was heading for ground level already. We got on, as we normally do, and this lady backs herself into the corner of the elevator opposite where we are. She stands there, sounding like she’s about to burst into tears right there on the spot, while I make sure this particular elevator is, actually, going to drop me off where I need to be dropped off. It was, which only confirmed she was going my way. So logic would dictate since we’re only another 5 floors up that she just stay put, right? Of course if she did that, there wouldn’t be a need for mockery–so we’ll just leave our logic at the door, kay? Kay.

No sooner am I away from the door and getting Lacey into a don’t you dare move because I’m not extracting your nose from the door position, then does this ladey make a run for it. Out the door and across the hall just before the door’s about to close. Pretty sure she didn’t actually go into the apartment across the hall with the rest of the phobia clan, as we were just heading downwards when the elevator next to us opened. So she very likely ended up on the main floor at the same time as me and the dog for about 5 seconds anyway. Objective, failed.

Now, I get that people have their reasons for being afraid of dogs. Even to the point of going out of their way to avoid them. I don’t question that–hell, to each their own, I say. But here’s the thing. You live in a building with over a hundred other people. Quite a few of them, if our occasional nosing around the building is any indication, are dog owners. Said dogs, unless they can fit in the palm of your hand, will likely need to be making regular trips outside. That, unfortunately, means you’re likely going to be sharing some common ground, at least temporarily, with something that goes woof. Knowing this as you likely, hopefully, do, why would you 1: act all surprised/shocked/horified/traumatised every single time a dog gets within 20 feet of you, and 2: put yourself in a situation, in this case a building, that pretty much guarantees 1 is going to happen with some degree of regularity? And why would you, having put yourself in that situation and knowing precisely what that situation is, expect the people with the dogs to go out of their way to make sure you’re not put in that situation?

I can be accomodating. I can, out of respect, minimise the dog’s interaction with you–yes, even if the said interaction would usually be limited to trying to lick you to death anyway. what I cannot do, or rather will not do, is shift my entire routine–and the dog’s with it–so as to avoid you even having to tolerate that minimal or nonexistent interaction between you and dog. I have a problem with 10-year-olds that think it’s funny to send random elevators to just about every floor in the building–especially if one of those elevators happens to be requested to take me somewhere, like to ground level with a dog that needs out–but I’m not going to insist you keep your kid on a short leash until I’m safely on the main floor. to do that would be absolutely ridiculous, and I’d expect no less than half a dozen people to call me on it for that very reason. People’s reactions, in this building at least, to having to breathe the same air as a dog for as long as it takes to drop a few floors are equally ridiculous. You are in a pet friendly building. That means there are pets. Probably lots of them. If you don’t approve of this, then pick a less pet friendly building. Your right not to be traumatised does not trump my right to do as I please freely, with or without something firry attached to my wrist. You do have the right not to be offended, but please, don’t be offended somewhere else. There are things that need doing and you’re kind of in the way.

Signs of spring: my mailing address is now my parents’ front yard.

The parental units have found themselves with dogs for as long as I can remember. They’ve got two of them now–yeah, okay, so one’s mine, oh well. They’ve taken off for the weekend to do whatever they do when they take off for the weekend, and left me to keep the creatures from tearing the house apart in their absense. Which comes with its very own, double-edged benefit. The pups are awesome judges of the day’s weather–it could be just barely above freezing, but if it’s forecast to be into the 20’s (I’m using Celsius, for the curious reading from the US side of the border–hey, it makes more sense) at any point during the day, it’s guaranteed any outside time they get today–and they usually get a lot–won’t go quickly. Yesterday, they were in and out an average of 10 minutes. but yesterday, the weather threatened to suck out loud. So far this morning, none of the trips outside with them have been anything less than half an hour–and all of them have ended with me escentially guiding them back into the house. Hey, I gots stuffs to do, here. I’m convinced if I let them, they’ll very happily spend the day outside doing whatever they do when they’re spending the day outside. Only problem is, if they’re outside, so am I–another dog day entry for another dog day, I think. So I’m out there every hour or two, for between half an hour and an hour, until such time as the weather starts sucking again. It’s great–gives me something to do that doesn’t involve housework or draining the laptop’s battery for the millionth time. I’ll just be going ahead and changing my mailing address to be my parents’ front yard, that’s all. Hey, at least the view’s decent.

*yawn, flop, snore*

I’ve been up since 8-ish thanks to two very hyper dogs and haven’t really done squat. Had them outside for a good half hour to 45 minutes, before they got distracted by the neighbour’s dog and had to be reigned in. Or rather, dust mop had to be reigned in. Missy had to be retrieved from their yard. The next hour and a bit was spent either playing with them or watching them play with each other and making sure they didn’t take the place apart in the process. They finally went to sleep about an hour ago… that gives me time to check email, look for jobs (not a damn one, but had to check), and try to wake up. Which I have utterly failed at, so I now go back to bed for a couple hours. If anything with more than 2 legs wakes me up before I’m no longer a zombie, I expect it to go flying.

Because lazy I don’t give 2 fucks mode is in full effect.

I haven’t done squat today, except make a rather pathetic attempt at getting dressed. Mom and dad are out at the grocery store and doing some other crap they have to get done this morning. I’m… well, not. I decided to stay home and mind 2 dogs and a dust mop, because that takes less energy. Lazy in the extreme? Probably. Do I care? No not really. Jessica (samari76) will be boarding the bus at 12:40 tonight, and should be here by about quarter past noon, give or take, tomorrow. Long ass trip, but I do believe it’s gonna be worth it. It is for me, anyway. Hmm. I had more to say here. I don’t now. Go figure.

Even I didn’t think I was that good.

So the last couple times I’ve been letting our muts out, mine’s been developing this nasty little habbit of leaving the yard and either chasing after or barking at those foolish enough to walk past in front of our house. Cute once or twice, but not any more than that and not at 8:00 in the morning when you’ve got kids trying to make their way to school. So I decided the next time she goes out, it’ll be attached to something that doesn’t allow her to leave the yard (either my mother’s dog’s leash, or a walking leash attached to me). I settled on the former, putting my mother’s mut who’s significantly older and so you’d think would be more easy to tire out on the walking leash. I figured I’d walk him around for a bit, he’d do his thing, and eventually want to come inside for the purpose of passing right the hell out. Didn’t happen. Instead, I learned a little something about that dog, and about me. Apparently, for a stupid mut who’s understanding of the phrase “come here” depends entirely on whether or not you have food in your hand, he’s pretty freaking brilliant. Either by accident or design (I still haven’t the slightest idea which yet), we ended up out by the community mailbox area we need to go to out here if we want to get our household mail. I only wish I both knew which one was ours and rememberred to grab my mom’s keychain, which has our mail key on it. Also apparently, either this neighbourhood’s easier to navigate than I previously thought it was, or my internal GPS (read: caneless mobility skill) has managed to maintain a certain level of awesome, even after escentially being ignored for God only knows how long. I walked my mother’s mut around a little bit longer after finding the mailbox, we ended up killing an hour and I still don’t think he’s completely tired out yet, and on the way home I only just barely missed the street the house is on. Not too shabby for someone who hasn’t even been here for more than a week, and hasn’t been walking around the neighbourhood in a small age, even if I do say so myself. And of course, once I figured out where I was getting back to the house was a simple matter. Mut senior promptly got let off the leash and went to fall over somewhere I think in the living room. That was almost an hour ago; I don’t think he’s moved yet. As for me, I’m gonna love my bed tonight, that’s for damn sure.