There's Always Room for One More

Those of you that know me, know that I love dogs almost more than anything else in this world. I grew up with dogs, my parents instilled in me a love of them. So, I guess it's my parents' fault that I got involved with rescue. Although my mom will argue that an it's all because of one of my aunt's that I'm dog crazy!

My 'real' introduction to rescue was a gorgeous pitbull pup named Ruca. My good friend had 'rescued' her from a crack house. He saw her on the front porch with a man that was clearly high and not caring for her. My friend approached and complimented the guy on his pup. The exchange ended with my friend walking away with the pup, his wallet a little bit lighter. But his heart much fuller. Ruca was my introduction to pitbulls and how misunderstood they can be.

Later, when I discovered that I couldn't be without a dog any longer, my search for one began. I wanted what my friends had in Ruca - a constant companion, well trained and obedient, cuddly and goofy. And so I scoured the internet. I haunted the Kjiji and Craigslist listings, I Googled Ottawa area rescues. I wanted a dog and I didn't care about where it came from. Ideally, I wanted a pitbull pup. I hit a wall when I learned that these wonderful dogs have been banned in Ontario since 2005. Instead, I ended up with Remi.

Remi is a brindle mutt that captured my heart from the moment I spied him. His sisters galloped towards me; Remi checked me out and then casually made his way toward me. My heart belonged to him as soon as he planted his front paws on my legs. It wasn't much longer after that, that he was sitting in a friend's lap as we drove the three hours back to Ottawa.

My very own dog. Finally.

I filled my Facebook page and Instagram with pictures of him. I showed him off every chance I got. I answered questions from strangers on the street about where I got him. "What breed is he?" is a question that I got a lot. Lots of them were surprised when I said that he was from a rescue. "But he's so well behaved!" was the response I got to my answer.

Looking back, I shouldn't be surprised. Some people don't have a great perception of rescue dogs. But I am continually surprised by the questions that I field on an almost daily basis about my foster dogs. I've fostered two dogs to their adoptions. I've temped several others. And I'm fostering the most wonderful dog now, Nigel. Like my other foster dogs, he's a pit bull dog. He isn't available for adoption in Ontario, and while that's pretty terrible, I'm so thankful that I work with a rescue that values these misunderstood dogs and is willing to care for them while we find homes outside of Ontario.

When I first started fostering, many of my friends and co-workers thought I was crazy to bring an unknown dog into my home. They questioned how smart it was. What if it was sick? or vicious? or old? None of these concerned me. I was reassured by the foster coordinators that the dogs were assessed before they left the shelter and they were vetted; in short, there was nothing wrong with these dogs that love couldn't fix. Every dog that I have fostered has been a wonderful dog. There have been hiccups - Mango had allergies, Peyton needed to be housetrained, Nigel is fearful of everything - but the benefits have far outweighed the trouble.

And yes, it is tough to let them go. But every dog deserves a forever home. I cry a few tears when I get home without my foster. I crawl into bed with Remi and we cuddle. And then I get a message shortly afterwards, "We have a new foster for you!" and my heart leaps! I do a load of laundry and make sure we are prepped for the new arrival. And so the foster cycle starts again: the introduction between Remi and his new foster sibling; a walk with my new dog; a short run through of basic commands and before I know it- another wonderful dog is ready for their own home.

There is nothing wrong with rescue dogs. They aren't broken or unworthy. They deserve love and a soft bed. They deserve soft hands and cuddles on the couch; car rides to the cottage and so much more. So even though letting go means tears and a slightly bruised heart, it also means another wonderful dog gets a second chance. I'm so blessed to be part of a rescue organization. It's filled my heart and my home with love and joy and dogs.




*For more information about Sit With Me check out the website at www.sitwithme.ca. For information about the foster program email foster@sitwithme.ca. Sit With Me is a registered Canadian Charity.

Homemade Decongestant versus Life Brand Decongestant

I've spent the last 4 days home sick. There's nothing worse than being sick in my opinion. I hate it. I get cranky and grumpy, I can't breathe through my nose and I lose my voice. I develop a hacking cough that sounds kind of like a goose mated with a chainsaw. It's terrible.

I am also the person that will try anything to get over a cold/sickness faster. Homemade remedies, old wives remedies.... ANYTHING.

This time, I decided that I would make my own decongestant. I had read about them last year when I was sick, but I couldn't be bothered. This year... I decided I was doing it. I was all in. I found the recipe that I was curious about last year. Did some research on the ingredients and read hundreds of reviews of it. It seemed legit. I found the recipe on a blog called Titus2Homemaker. I figured any woman who willingly made and gave this to her children could be trusted.

I shuffled off to the grocery store. I bought the onions, lemons and the radishes. Honey and garlic. I got a lot of weird looks. I'm pretty sure the cashier thought that I was stoned. I shuffled back home hauled out the blender and mixed up a batch of this. I strained it, it's pulpy and gross looking. And although my nose was out of commission, my eyes functioned perfectly and they cried. A lot.

I quickly downed 2 tablespoons.

So. Much. Regret.

It was like my throat was on fire. My eyes were now watering for a whole different reason. I thought I was dying. After suffering through that, I sat down on the couch and waited for relief. And waited. And waited. And nothing.

The decongestant did nothing for me. I waited several hours to see if maybe it needed more time to work. I even took a second dose. After 9 hours of nothing I headed out to good ol' Shoppers Drug Mart to purchase some relief.

Lesson learned: not everything you find online works. Even if several hundred people say that it does.

When an ending is just a new beginning

My roommate turned best friend moved out of our apartment yesterday.

And while it was an exciting event, at the same time it was one of sadness for me.

There was much joy because she was moving into her very own space- one that she had purchased. There was happiness, because how can you not be happy for someone who is gaining their stride and chasing their dreams and ambitions?

There was sadness as I loaded boxes onto the truck. There was sadness as I returned home last night to an apartment that while still full of furniture and things, felt ever so empty. There were tears (only a few, maybe 7 total) as I realized that my ending was her beginning. Home suddenly felt lonely and quiet to me.

Today, waking up alone in my apartment, I was suddenly filled with a sense of beginning. This is another new beginning for me. A new roommate, a potential friend, will move in. And we will muddle through the first few weeks until suddenly, hopefully, we click. And that sense of home that I feel is missing will return.

I know there will be times where I miss her lots, but those times will be made better with a text. And I know I will still see her, especially since she moved just a hop, skip and jump away. There will be dinners at her new place, and afternoons spent knitting. It's not an ending. Just a new beginning.

Until my new roommate moves in, I'll be spending my time alone watching Netflix on the couch, pant-less, and listening to the Frozen soundtrack on repeat. Loudly. (Sorry neighbours!)

I'm also bringing back the pop in. If you're in the neighbourhood, feel free to pop in. Don't text, just come. If I'm home, we'll visit, if I'm not.... well, better luck next time.

The case of the missing laundry

There are times when the laundry machines in my building are in high demand. So, I have to plan my laundry times precisely. Of course the best time to do laundry is during the day when everyone, including myself, is at work. So, the easiest time to do laundry is late-ish in the evening. This would be excellent except I work at 5am and so I'm in bed by the time the laundry machines are free. Thursday night, I decided to do laundry. I popped in my first load, and then my second, and then my last one. By this time, it's going for 10. I had started my day at 4:30am and so I was sleepy.I did what any sleepy person would do: I just left my last load in the dryer to get in the morning. 

Friday morning, I bounce down to the laundry room to grab my load, and discover that it's gone. *Poof* Vanished. Somehow in the night it has disappeared.  I stop dead. Dread is clutching my heart.

It's my one of my nightmares come true.

My laundry is gone. Someone took my clothes. Where are my clothes?!

I bounce right back up the stairs to tell my roommate, K, what has happened. She is just as befuddled as I am. My rational roommate, the logical one in my life, has nothing to say other than, "Well, that's interesting. You better talk to George."

George is our landlord. An immigrant from Greece, he's a character and he loves us. Luckily he is in the building. I find him and ask him if he maybe took a load of clothes out of the dryer this morning. He looks at me strangely. No, he replies seriously. The dread has returned and is clutching my heart again. My last hope laid with George. What am I to do?

I decide to leave a note on the front door of the building and the laundry room as well.

To the person who took my laundry- Please return it to the basket in the laundry room or apartment 4 ASAP. You have my work clothes and I need them back. 
Thanks, Ashley

 K and I head out for breakfast. As we are starving and one of the things we excel at is brunching/breakfasting. By the time we return, someone else has set up shop in the laundry room. I am beside myself. My laundry hasn't been returned yet. WHY HASN'T MY LAUNDRY BEEN RETURNED?

I spend the day anxiously checking the laundry room several times for my clothes. I take my dog for a walk. I drop my work keys off to a colleague. I come home, convinced that I am going to have to go to the mall and replace my work wardrobe. K, manages to convince me to wait until everyone has a chance to see my note/ gets home from work.

I spend some time online, alternating between raging over the theft of my clothes and looking at cute dog videos. Time well spent taking my mind of the tragedy that has befallen me.

Suddenly, I hear voices in the lobby and like any Islander worth their weight I tip toe to the door and listen to them. Hark! These folk are talking about my laundry and.... SOMEONE MENTIONS THAT THEY SAW CLOTHES ON THE TABLE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM!

I wait impatiently for these folk to move on. I am not leaving my apartment until they are gone. What is taking them so long? How long does it take to say hi and talk about the weather, and MY MISSING CLOTHES?!

They leave. I boot 'er down and there are my clothes. But wait, there is a note on the door replying to mine.

Dear Fellow Tenant, 

Here are your clothes back. You did such a great job of sneaking them into my laundry that I didn't even realize they were in there. The next time you need to dry your clothes, just knock on someone's door & ask to borrow $2. Its alot less creepy.

I stop. I read it again. And again. My blood starts to boil. The injustice burns me.

"The next time you need to dry your clothes just knock on someone's door  & ask to borrow $2. Its alot less creepy." ALOT LESS CREEPY?!

Besides the terrible spelling in the letter, the fact that this person was not able to see that there was a full load of laundry in the dryer before they put their own load in there, made me insane with rage. I briefly envisioned how I was going to rain my fiery ire down on that individual.  I composed 362 responses to that note, all starting with "Dear Passive-Aggressive Bag of Dicks". I run back up the stairs and burst into the apartment. Rage making me feel like I can fly. I celebrate the return of my clothes with a dance in my bedroom. Remi, watches with a face that says that I am crazy.

It isn't too much longer after my dance that I remind myself that I can never actually respond to the note. I cringe. I wish I was the type of person to stick up for myself. It's so much easier when it's someone else. Alas...

20 minutes later, finds me still trembling with rage. I clearly am not going to get over this easily. So I do what every angry girl does: I text friends. Their responses cheer me considerably. Thank goodness for these people who believe that I am justified in dubbing the thief Passive Aggressive Douch Bag.