All About the Dog Who Came to Stay

A year and a half ago, I wrote a blog about fostering dogs, ending, of course, with Thunder, who had at that point been around for a tumultuous six months.  In the subsequent year and a half, he resolutely refused to be adopted by anyone.  And I refused to adopt him.  We seemed to mutually agree that we belonged to each other, but nothing was official.

As we've been moving over the past couple weeks, we've talked about how to transition Thunder to a new home (with a bigger yard and less stairs!), and how to change our lives so that we could still take care of his needs with a longer work commute for us both.  He had been slowing down lately, had arthritis, and couldn't do the stairs to the basement anymore.  But with the painkillers he was now on, he was seeming to become sweeter and more tolerant (well, for him).  He still loved going on walks, wanted to be nearby, and wanted lots and lots of petting.  I hadn't given up on him in the over two years he'd been around (in spite of his innate ability to be a jerk when he wanted), and I wasn't going to start now.

In my blog, I talked about how I liked fostering because I didn't have to deal with the death of a pet.

Well, that's no longer true.

My temperamental, lovable, fuzzy jerk passed away early Saturday morning, after a late night trip to the emergency vet clinic Friday night.

We'd gone for our usual walk that morning, but when Mark got home around 3:30 Thunder didn't get up.  He still didn't get up when I got home at 5:30, except briefly.  We thought he just wasn't feeling good, so left to take another load over to the new house.  When I came home later, he seemed even worse and was barely responding to anything I did, so I called the emergency clinic and took him in (with some help, since I had taken NyQuill and couldn't carry a 70 pound dog down the stairs anyway).

The vet there told me that he was severely anemic, had fluid in his stomach from bleeding internally, and that his blood pressure had been too low to register.  He thought he saw a mass in his stomach, which was probably a tumor.  I got to say goodnight to him, then left him there for monitoring.

In the morning, I got a call from Stray Rescue telling me that he had stopped breathing at 3:30 that morning while the vets were trying to give him a transfusion.  He'd had cancer that no one knew about.

I spent the next three hours crying non-stop while trying to pack.

He wasn't officially my dog, but he'd all but chosen me nearly two and a half years ago when Stray Rescue first decided to have me meet a dog "who didn't really like anyone."  Thirty seconds after they brought him in the room, he was rolling in my lap.  We've pretty much been together ever since, through heartworm treatment and failed trial adoptions and him eating an entire hambone and being the laziest dog known to man.  We've snuggled, been pissed at each other, and eventually figured each other out.

I loved the jerk.  He was my jerk.  He was my snuggle buddy, my shadow, and my big cowardly baby.

I miss him.  I miss his goofy face, and the way his butt would sway when you scratched it.  I miss his droopy sad ears when he watched us eat dinner.  I miss him curling up on my yoga mat while I was using it.  I miss his 70 pounds of snuggle crushing my sternum when he'd lay on top of me.

I'm glad he didn't really suffer.  I'm glad I got to say goodnight to him.  And I'm glad he got to go on one last walk that morning.

Most of all, I'm glad I brought home the big jerk when I'm sure few other people would have been willing to do the same.  I'm glad I took a gamble on him, and gave him the home he probably never had before, even if it was only for a short time, and even if he ultimately broke my heart in the process.

I wouldn't change a thing.

2 AM Crisis: A Comprehensive Guide

How do you act in a crisis?

Most people respond differently to sudden threats or perceived threats.  There's that "fight or flight" instinct.  There are the people who run towards the danger, and those that run away.

Luckily for me, I don't face a lot of imminent threat anymore.  My ex lives in a different state, I'm a compulsive door-locker, I know a decent amount of self-defense, and if all else fails?  I'm really, really good at running in heels.

Sometimes, though, there are unexpected bumps in the night.  Or, as the case was two nights ago, a loud crash at 2 AM.

There were three of us home: me, Mark, and the dog.  And each of us responded in very drastically different ways.

First, there was Thunder, the ever-cowardly dog, who could be heard immediately after the crash running away.  (Excellent in a crisis, that one.)

Second, there was me.  I jerked awake immediately, senses on automatic alert for potential murderers breaking in.   In my half-asleep state, I realized that the dog had most likely knocked something over.  But, being me, I also knew full well that I wouldn't be going back to sleep until I made sure Mark and I weren't about to be murdered.  Did I have a plan for what I would do if we were about to be murdered?  No, but I'd at least like to know it was coming.  I am, and always have been, a "I have to check it out" girl.  I had childhood (and, okay, some adulthood) compulsions for looking in the basement and behind the shower curtain after getting home to make sure no one was hiding in there.

Then there was Mark.  He didn't move when I jerked awake.  I wasn't even certain he'd woken up.  He had, apparently, already done the mental calculations of time elapsed during crash-vs-skittering dog toenails and come to the (admittedly correct) conclusion that Thunder had knocked something over and then run from the scene of the crime.

Well.  I wasn't having any of that, and I obviously needed a backup noise investigator, so I made him come check it out with me.  Sure enough, Thunder had caught his harness on a drawer in the bathroom, panicked, and yanked the entire drawer out, spilling the contents.  With the 2 AM crisis averted, we went back to sleep, and I was ready to let that be the end of it.

Mark, however, was not.

Yesterday, I came home to find he had bought and set up a system so that we can turn the lights on and off through our phones.  The previous night's experience with bumps in the night made him realize that there is currently at least one night a week where I'm home by myself with only a giant cowardly dog for backup.

With this new setup, I can make sure there are lights on when I come home alone from working late, and I can also turn all the lights on from the bedroom the next time there's a 2 AM crisis and my noise investigator isn't around.  So far?  I'm a pretty big fan.  We've already been enjoying turning the lights on and off (particularly on each other) and setting different "scenes" for which lights come on when.

Even if my boyfriend isn't always the first out of bed to check out a noise, he's the first to care about me enough to make the life we have better, even if it takes time, effort, and money on his part.  He's the first to think of a way to improve on a situation I was content to just deal with.  And he's the first to worry about me and my safety and do all he can to look out for me even when he's not around.

I know that he has my back always, even in the middle of the night, and even when he's 100% certain that the bump in the night is the dog and definitely not a murderer.

Personally, that's the best response to a crisis that I could ever hope for.

Let's Taco 'Bout It

When in doubt, tacos fix everything.

At least, that seems to be the case this week, so I'm just going to assuming this is a multi-platform solution.

It hasn't been the greatest week, again.  Thunder's trial adoption did not go well, to say the least, so I picked him up on Sunday.  He was pleased.  I was annoyed, as pictured below:

Furthermore, last week's funk carried over into this week, leaving me somewhat of a depressed mess by the time Monday came around.

I slept a lot over the weekend.  I mostly failed at accomplishing much of anything besides baking challah for the first time.

I started taxes on Saturday.  I encountered problems with said taxes.

I finished taxes on Monday afternoon, which is when I realized that I made 10 grand less in 2015 than I did in 2014.  Which is understandable, as I was mostly unemployed for part of the year.  But it reminded me again, and so very acutely, that I'm more than getting by on a significantly smaller amount of money than at any time while I was married and allegedly had money problems.  (Well, I did have at least one actual money problem, but it was the problem I married.)

It still completely baffles and infuriates me how it's possible that I have more money now on one, smaller, salary than I did for years on two similar and larger salaries.  In January alone I spent several thousand dollars on new stuff, a car repair, and basically a new winter wardrobe.  And I went on an out-of-the-country vacation.  And I still can afford things and pay my bills.  I could never have done that while I was married.  Never.  Maybe the car repair.

Maybe.

There just... was never any money.  And I still don't get it.  I just don't.  I don't know where it went.

And, really, I never will know.  And I need to get over that.  Obviously not today.  But maybe one day.

(Honestly, I wasn't going to dwell on this, but there are apparently two things that are certain in my life: divorce and taxes.)

Regardless, those thoughts did not help the mini-depression, and the mini-depression did not help the thoughts, and so I was not in a great state when Mark got home.

Unfortunately, neither of us really knows how to deal with me when I'm feeling sad and sorry for myself.  This isn't surprising.  I don't know what I want; how is anyone else supposed to know?  I want to be alone but don't want to be left alone.  I want to be held but don't want to be pitied and therefore act stand-offish.  I want to wallow and I want to snap out of it.  I don't want to talk about it, because I'm not even sure what there is to talk about, so I bottle everything up until I pass the breaking point.

It's ridiculous and probably why I used to drink to deal with it, because I don't have any better ideas on what to do.

In lieu of alcohol, Mark resorted to holding me until I finally cried, and then buying me tacos.

Because what else is there to do when your girlfriend is depressed for no apparent reason?

Well, it worked.  We went to Taco Circus.  We ate tacos.  We came home and watched Today's Special on Netflix (a great little film that I highly recommend) and snuggled on the couch.

And so I have arrived at the brilliant conclusion that tacos fix everything (which I have already suspected before now).

Okay.  Obviously, it's not just the tacos (though really, they're amazing tacos, so their contribution should not be overlooked).  It's spending quality time with the person I love.  It's physical touch.  It's being alone together.  It's being forced to break down and be vulnerable and cry even though I hate it. 

Basically, he followed the steps of "How to Care for a Sad Person" without realizing it (minus rolling me up like sushi).

Thankfully, I've been better the past two days (though we had Mexican again last night, just in case).

However, now Thunder seems to have caught whatever weird vibes have been going around.  Or he's just mad that I tried to get rid of him.  Or that he hasn't gotten any tacos.

Can't say I blame him.  Because if you haven't been to Taco Circus, like Thunder, you probably should go.  It's the best little hole-in-the-wall street taco place I've been to in the area.  We keep meaning to try the burrito (which is allegedly enormous), but keep getting stuck on the Tour de Taco (we substitute one ground beef taco for a second pork), because it's perfect to split.  They've got a whole fridge full of sauces, including a Burnie Sanders sauce, and pretty addicting queso.

So there it is.  Taxes, depression, tips on dealing with sad people, and a taco shop review, all in one blog.  Even I didn't see that coming.

Bad Attitude, No Waiting?

It might be time to spring clean my attitude.

(Not to mention my apartment.)

I've been in a mostly-self-induced funk for what feels like a week.  Part of it is being tired and busy and having too-little down time.  Part of it is Mark is also in a understandable funk over the loss of his family dog, and since we're apparently psychically linked, it's tough to be in a good mood when he isn't.  Part of it is being a Benedryl zombie for part of the week.  Part of it is I'm stressing about Thunder getting (hopefully) adopted this weekend.  Part of it is... I don't know what.  General malaise?  Not enough introverting? A pathetic lapse in my yoga practice?  Not eating well? Not getting a selfie with my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator at Comic Con this year?

It all adds up. (Particularly that last one.)

"Blah" accurately describes the way I feel right now.

So.  Cleaning is needed.  There are cobwebs hanging around, keeping the light from getting in.  All the things I should be excited about seem duller than they should be.  And it sucks.  Because there's a lot of really exciting things going on, or potentially going to be going on.  There's been a lot of good news and big decisions and things to look forward to.

There's so much more than this drab week.

The very thought that Thunder has gotten far enough along in the adoption process to be going on a trial adoption this weekend should be nothing less than amazing.  This is the dog I've had for over a year.  The dog who I often wondered would ever get to the point of being adoptable.  The dog who truly earned the nickname "fuzzy asshole." The dog who has become so much better of a dog than I thought possible.  The dog who always insists on being my co-pilot.  The dog who I'll miss in spite of myself.

And, even though I tragically didn't get a selfie with my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator, I did get to return to Comic Con as the Girl Wonder (and work with Mark, who is better than any Jack Sparrow, real or otherwise).  We got to spend 4 hours Sunday wrangling nerds (my favorite people) into the Fish Eye Fun White Screen booth, and then wander around the convention and gaze upon Daredevil and Foggy from afar.

Another really awesome thing that I should be pretty damn excited about?  I've officially been the Fish Eye Fun project manager for a whole year, as of yesterday!  (I knew I wasn't done celebrating anniversaries.)  It actually seems hard to believe that I've been doing this for so long.  I guess time flies when you're ridiculously busy and generally like what you do.

So yes.  This week kindof blows.  But it happens.  It's not the end of the world.

Besides, with any luck, by the time next week I'll be living in a temporarily dog-free apartment for the first time in over a year.  Weird.

Maybe then I actually will get some cleaning done.

No Fairy Godmothers, Please

I've never really known what to do with kids.  I was an only child and was never around that many kids younger than myself growing up.  So little kids have always been this enigma, wrapped in diapers and tiny shoes and spilled food.  They have a language all their own.  They're generally loud in restaurants.  They don't exactly have much interest in books.  They watch the same thing on repeat.

Kids have usually liked me, though.  I blame this on the fact that I wear bright colors, lots of jewelry, and generally look different from most other people in the room.

But even if they did like me, I still had no idea what to do with them.  What do you talk about?  What do you do?  What if you drop them?  Do they bounce?  What if they get ahold of one of your poison apples?  What if you build a house out of candy and accidentally lure them into it?

Anything can happen, you know.

I played Cinderella's stepmother in my college production of Into the Woods.  So I know how this is supposed to work, in fairy-tale land.  The stepmother attempts to ruin her stepchild's life with menial, pointless chores that keep her from having any fun whatsoever.  In return, the stepchild gets a makeover, a new car, and a celebrity wedding.  The stepmother, in the end, starves to death.  Cheery.

So, when I found myself with a boyfriend who happened to have a kid, I was understandably a little concerned.  What if she didn't like me?  What if the first words out of her very small mouth were, "You're not my mom"?  What if I unwittingly force her to sweep the cinders from the fireplace and cause her to miss the king's ball?

(Enough with the wicked stepmother/witch comparisons, already.  I don't even have a fireplace.  Yet.)

So.  The three of us have been hanging out, off and on, for a while now.  And it didn't start out perfectly.  She was not one of those kids who instantly thought I was the coolest thing since sliced bread.  On the other hand, she didn't run away screaming, and I haven't noticed that any woodland animals help her do her chores.  So there's that.

She's shy.  I completely respect that.  I don't generally start talking to people I just met, either.  And if I could, I'm sure I'd hide behind Mark when meeting new people.  Unfortunately, that behavior is generally frowned upon once you're out of elementary school.

Lately, however, she's decided that she likes me.  She even wanted to sit by me at lunch on Sunday, which is a far cry from her peeking at me from around corners.  And I've finally figured out that I don't need to worry so much about what there is to do or talk about.  She generally figures out what we're going to do for us.  And she's almost five, so there's no end of things she wants to talk about.

For someone who previously never felt overly comfortable around kids, I'm enjoying weekends with her and Mark.  We have bookstore adventures, we eat a lot of Chick-fil-A, we color in the coloring books I bought for my birthday party (and which have obviously come very much in handy), and we have sword fights in the aisles of WalMart.  We also went to a three-year-old's birthday party, and the three of us struggled up the biggest bounce house monstrosity I've ever seen.  And I have half of Monsters, Inc. basically memorized now, which is obviously a useful life skill.

And, shockingly, Thunder likes her.  Thunder doesn't like anyone right off the bat.  Especially people who are unpredictable (and what's more unpredictable than a small child?).  But they met a few weeks ago, and he was an amazingly well-behaved dog.  He galloped around after her.  He played gently with her.  He didn't snap at her when she picked up his toys.  It was... unexpected and awesome.

Really, none of this is what I expected in life.  Believe me when I say that I never thought I'd be doing anything remotely like this, much less doing it willingly and liking it.  Being a stepmom-in-training was about as high on my to-do list as being a 29-year-old divorcee.  Then love came along and changed everything.  Like it does.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that life gets in the way of our best-laid plans, and of our worst-laid plans.  We find ourselves doing the opposite of what we intended, often with people we never expected.  And, it works, strangely enough.  It's not always easy, and it's not always fun, and you're not always sure how you got here or if you did the right thing along the way.  But, in general, it works.  (At least for now.  I know better than to make much in the way of definitive statements towards the future.)

But I really hope this kid never shows an affinity towards glass slippers or talking mice.

Daily Affirmations with the PVG

It's been a weird week.  Unexpected problems have thrown itself in the path of what I intended to accomplish, and my apartment is currently the home of the walking wounded.

Mark cut his hand on Sunday, glued himself back together, and is still bleeding every time he changes the bandage.  Then Thunder decided to be brave and try to chase a cat under the fence.  In the process, he cut his neck on the only goddamn pointy rock in the area.

Which leaves me as what? Ward nurse?  I don't seem to be a very good one.  I've handed Mark band-aids and attempted to take care of Thunder, which isn't easy because he's a giant asshole of a dog when he's hurt.  Mostly I've just tried to keep him from scratching at his neck and dropped him off this morning at the vet clinic.

And what did I intend to accomplish this week?

Oh, lots of things.  I wanted to finish putting away all my clothes and have the bedroom properly organized.  I wanted to clean and reorganize the kitchen.  I wanted to write.  I wanted to get back in the habit of doing yoga.

To be fair, the clothing/bedroom situation is far better than it has been in quite a while.  I started reorganizing the kitchen (to be even more fair, Mark started reorganizing it by moving the microwave and discovering a far more sensible use for the available counter space).

But there's an idealized version of myself in my head that's doing so much better than the real version.  The idealized version gets up when her first alarm goes off.  She does yoga every morning.  She is organized.  She's writing every day.  She's blogging every Wednesday.

The real version sets three alarms, because she knows she won't drag herself out of bed until absolutely necessary.  She hasn't done yoga in two weeks.  She's an unorganized mess who makes piles on every available flat surface.  She hasn't written this week.  She's a day late in blogging.  She's generally distracted.

So, there's obviously a pretty big gap between those two people.  I'm probably never going to be that idealized version of myself, and that's okay.  But I'd like to be a little better than the current version.

I'm also harder on myself than anyone else is.  I know this.  Mark gets after me when I spend my days off cleaning, because I should apparently be relaxing (whatever that is).  But then he's hard on himself when he "only" does x when he wanted to do x, y, and z.  And then I'm the one telling him that he shouldn't be so hard on himself.

So even though I feel like I'm turning into a bit of a hot mess lately, I'm probably really not that bad.  I can grudgingly admit I've made some small progress towards a more functional apartment.  I'm only one day late on blogging, instead of an entire week.  I've managed to put together whole outfits each day for quite a few weeks now, rather than running out of the house several times a week in leggings and a T-shirt.  I've kept Thunder mostly intact.

As I announced back in September, I'm not perfect, and I'm never going to be.  Maybe one day I'll come to terms with that.  Until then, I'm going to try not to be too hard on myself.  And I'm going to keep trying to figure out how to get my life together, if that's even possible.  More and more I'm starting to think that no one actually has their life together in the way they intended.  It's all either a grand illusion or my own false perception.  Or both.  I think the reality is we're all just sitting around wondering why we can't get our shit together the way we'd like.

In the meantime, it's important to remember the words of Stuart Smalley:

PSA: On Being An Introvert

It's no secret that I'm an introvert.

What has been surprising to myself and my boyfriend is how social I often am.  I have a larger group of friends than ever before, am fairly involved in the St. Louis pole dance and burlesque scene, and participate as often as possible in the various parties and gatherings that take place on a regular basis.  I'm a member of Ladybrunch, a book club, and have a standing arrangement of weekend nachos and brunch with Alexis, when my schedule permits.  Plus, I'm usually wrangling party goers at the craziness that is wedding receptions on weekends.

Just writing about it kindof exhausts me.

And that is precisely how I know that, in spite of my busy social calendar, I'm still most definitely an introvert.

I love my friends.  I love that they want me to be included in plans and parties.  I love going out to eat with them, going shopping with them, and hanging out with them, even if this chart accurately depicts the way I feel about most parties.

I still love you all.  Really.

And it's not that I don't enjoy parties.  Or hanging out with people.  Or going out even though I could easily stay home with my dog and read a book.  Or knit.  Or cross-stitch.  (Because I'm an old lady, obviously.)

It just tires me out.  And afterwards, I need to recharge.

And lately?  I don't have a lot of recharging time.  It's busy season at Fish Eye Fun, and I won't be slowing down until mid-November.  And working weddings (and other events) takes a lot out of me.  I have to be "on" and fun and friendly and excited and social.  And that's not quite my usual setting, so it's sometimes exhausting.  And then I try to keep up with my regular social life, and my family, as well as spending most weeknights with my boyfriend (who, being fairly introverted himself, understands and shares my occasional burnout).  It adds up.

But maintaining my friendships obviously means a lot to me, because I keep making plans and showing up at parties and going on trips, even when the thought of going somewhere (particularly when there are a lot of people or I'm out of my comfort zone) can make me a little anxious.

So this is certainly not to say that I don't want you all to invite me or include me or ask if I want to go to dinner or drinks.  Because I do want to.

But if I do turn down your invitation, or ghost out of a party early, or just need to be alone for a little bit on a trip, know that it's not you.  I'm probably just introverting, and will return to regularly scheduled hanging out as soon as I can.

In unrelated news, it's apparently National Dog Day.  So here's a picture of Thunder, who has gotten much better at being a dog lately.

A Tale of 12 Puppies

Timehop informed me this past weekend that I have officially been a dog foster mom for Stray Rescue for four years.  It has been one of the most challenging, heart-breaking, and rewarding experiences of my life.  I never regret deciding to start fostering, in spite of the variety of incidents and getting overly attached and all the times I've spent chasing dogs down streets and back alleys.

I love dogs.  I've always loved dogs.  I don't remember a time where I wasn't asking my parents to have a dog.  I think I basically wanted to be a dog.

Note: I didn't just wear this at Halloween.

Finally, finally, when my parents bought their first house when I was 8, I got what I'd been wanting: my own puppy.  Barney the beagle.  Pretty much the best dog we could have asked for.  He was smart, sweet, and lazy.  He slept in like we did.  He didn't care if we went on walks or not.  He'd do anything, absolutely anything, for a treat.  He was dressed up for every holiday without complaint.  He went through two knee surgeries and had a tumor removed before we had to put him down when he was twelve.  It broke my heart, and my mom's heart.  Probably my dad's heart too, but he generally shows even less emotion than I do.

Where it all began...

While my mom is fairly determined not to go through such a loss again, I'm clearly a glutton for punishment, because I've set myself up to continually be saying goodbye to the dogs that I bring into my house.  Granted, it's not quite the same.  The dogs I foster are going off to forever homes with people who want them.  But I usually get attached anyway, so saying goodbye is generally still hard.  Especially when you can't explain to a dog (who is just as attached to you as you are to them) why you're leaving them at a strange house.

But I still go back for another dog.  And another.  And sometimes two more.  I really and truly love giving these dogs a home where they can learn (or at least re-learn) what it's like to be a normal dog in a house.  That's the part I love: seeing them change and relax and be happy.  Sometimes there's not much change.  They might not have been at Stray Rescue for very long.  Or they handle change better than some.  

In four years, I've had twelve dogs.  They've all been so very uniquely different.  Some I've adored.  Some I've tolerated.  Some have presented more interesting challenges than others.  Apologies in advance that some of these photos suck, as they were uploaded through old, not-so-smart phones.

First was Madrid, nicknamed Maddie.  I picked her because she was beautiful.  She was a sweet, happy girl.  And very special.  Stand over you and stare at you from inches away special.  Escape through every opening her head could fit through special.

Then Toffee, an emaciated "lab mix" who quickly stole my heart.  I cried when I left her at her new home.

Quill was... cute.  And annoying.  So it was a good thing she was cute.

Gaia (left) was a shy, scared girl who found the perfect family who was willing to let her take her time to get to know them.

Wendell (middle) was a giant, furry dope that stayed a grand total of a few days.

Browning was my own personal rescue.  I picked her up on the street near my apartment. She wasn't micro-chipped and no one ever seemed to be looking for her, so she became my foster.  She almost became mine.  She was perfection, and I carried her around and slept with her like a warm teddy bear.

Cocoa, full name Cocoa Puff Cereal, was a... special dog.  She'd been shot, had her dewclaws removed, and had a tongue that refused to fit in her mouth.  And she looked like a beagle that had recently had a pitbull shoved inside her.

Couer D'Alene (Cordi) was the most beautiful, sweet girl.  We had many, many couch naps together.

Morticia wasn't around very long, but she did have a habit of stealing my clothes.

My sweet, sweet Girlie girl.  She was with me for quite awhile, and I didn't mind at all.

Houston was a giant sweet, dopey puppy who had no idea how big he was.  He was adopted in no time.

And now there's Thunder.  He's been the most challenging foster I've had, due to his difficult heartworm treatments and his very serious fear of people (and sometimes parked motorcycles and stone lions).  But once he realizes people aren't going to hurt him like he's apparently been hurt in the past, his love and desire to snuggle is all-consuming.  He thrives on routine, loves walks, and adores his stuffed toys.  He's become so much more of a normal dog in the months I've had him, and I know he'll continue to improve with the right family to love him.

I adore being a foster mom, and I look forward to many, many more dogs that I'll have the opportunity to help and love.  It can be really hard to say goodbye to all the ones that steal my heart, but I wouldn't change anything.