Ponderous Morning Thoughts

Semi-serious post here, so if you're looking for giggles, hold tight and I'll post something funny later.

When it comes to wolfdogs (or any dog, really), most people have their favorite look. My favorites of the woofer varieties are the black phases, like Bast, and the Arctics. I'd love to have another dark werewolf someday, or a lovely tan and cream Arctic-type like Bast's beautiful little sister.

With as nuts as Bast is, I'm really not interested in any higher level of wolf content than he is. Lower mid content is just about perfect for me, since I like house pets. I want my dog to be able to come in and chill out on the couch with me without constantly worrying what they're up to or if they've peed somewhere. With Bast, he has more dog than wolf and is thus more mellow and trainable, but still has the beautiful, exotic looks and capricious personality of a wolfdog.

I like my pets to have solid centers but be a little fay around the edges.

I recently found out hat a breeder I greatly admire has a litter of lower mids mothered by one of my very favorite Arctic-types. It's like everything conspired against me to create a creature that would most tempt me - lower mid, beautiful parents, lovingly raised and socialized by an attentive breeder. Be still my beating heart, etc.

My mind whirled trying to see how I could make it work. I'm moving soon to a place with a yard, Bast needs a friend his own size and age, I need this, go do it yes.

But as I was envisioning trying to finagle a puppy, into my head popped the image of a recent rescue that's been tugging at my heart. A little 9 month old boy, covered in mange and scabs, scared, abused, emaciated and malnourished; I couldn't help but see the similarities to Bast in the pound when we found him - the same dog, terrified, shutting down, in desperate need of love and a good meal, flinching at every sudden move and never smiling.

And then I realized why the idea of a puppy was bothering me. Not that getting a puppy from a responsible, ethical breeder is a bad thing - far from it. I wish more people would research and take the time to buy their animals from people who care what happens to them.

But if I'd had a puppy from a breeder, I couldn't have gotten Bast and made sure he never had to worry about going hungry or being afraid again. Bast does need a friend, yes, but I want the opportunity to give a home to some dog who needs a bit more kindness in their life, because I know that unarguably, I can provide a good home some day to another dog in need.

This may mean I have to wait a bit longer - rescues are notoriously exacting in their standards for homes, and many may not think me a good option for a variety of reasons, but when the day comes when I can be there for another Bastas, I don't want to be short on space because I just desperately needed to have a dog that looks a certain way.

Apex Predator

I haven't had a lot of time to write lately - I apologize about the dearth of posts. Rest assured, Bast has done a lot of stupid things to report, but I thought I'd give a mini-entry of one of my many failures instead and give him a break.

This afternoon I was preparing Bast's raw food for the week, which involves separating everything, setting aside enough for the week, and then packing up and freezing what I'm not going to use in the next few days. I usually like to do this with gloves on because of a bad experience with salmonella poisoning when I was young. For those who aren't aware of what all salmonella does to you, I'll give you a summation: you vomit and shit yourself until you become afraid you might die. After several days of this, your fear shifts, and you're terrified you won't die and will instead live out the rest of your miserable (and hopefully brief) days being wrung out by violent contractions that expel everything moist in your body.

So yeah, gloves.

I was in the process of trying to shake out an empty chicken bag and needed my bare hands. Since my other hand was, of course, coated in gore, the only logical option my tired mind came up with apparently was to grab the chickeny glove with my mouth and tug it off.

I stood there for a moment, meat-splattered, yellow glove dangling from my bare teeth, raw chicken fluids trailing down my chin, and briefly contemplated my supposed position as the most intelligent creature in the house.

Please, lord, I hope I die quickly.