Bubba from the Bronx

Bubba was my first foster dog. No, he wasn't even really that—just someone else's foster dog that I watched to see if I wanted to commit to fostering dogs. Bubba, a chow chow about three years old, was found as a stray in the Bronx, taken to Animal Care and Control, where he was placed on the euthanasia list. Luckily, a wonderful woman from New Yorkers for Companion Animals pulled him off the list and placed him with a kind foster mom.

Bubba’s in pretty rough shape. His list of ailments includes malnutrition, kennel cough, and an infected ear tumor. Looks are not his strength. His fur was so matted and stinky that he's now shaved, and his nose runs. His gait is slow with a slight limp, which is probably from a car accident and lack of medical attention.

Given his history of abandonment, not to mention his ailments, I can't blame him for not warming up to people too easily. I'd be a downright bitch. While he's not an outright friendly dog, he probably wouldn't bit a flea if he'd even bother to acknowledge it.

Bubba won a place in my heart because I had to work for his affection. When I first met him, he ignored my existence and, simultaneously, crushed my dreams of playing fetch in the dog park. He listened to no commands, but he gently follows on a leash and waits by the door when he needs a walk. Yet, since I got him, he slept by my feet and followed me when I stirred.

Today, his foster mom picked him up. Earlier, I took him for a walk and bought him a treat of cold-cut roast beef. When his foster mom arrived, Bubba didn't acknowledge her. Finally, when she called him over, he came over to me. I reported that Bubba started to come to me when I called and stay when I asked. That he ate five small meals a day: two breakfasts, one lunch, and two dinners. That he whined when I went in the other room but wagged his tail when I returned. Then, the worst part: she looked at me in disbelief. “Really?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied. “How did you get him to eat?” she finally responded. I told the trick to getting Bubba to eat: he only can eat small amounts at a time—a common side-effect among starving people.

With that, Bubba was gone. Although I would have loved to continue fostering Bubba, I know that he is going to be a loyal pet to someone. His fur will grow back fluffy and soft. His energy will increase once he begins to feel better. And, I am sure that he eventually will bond with someone else.

That said, I am still sad that he’s gone. I loved having him around. I was nervous about fostering at first because my loyal Molly died recently at 15 yrs, and I still miss her dearly. Yes, I know that she was just a dog. But, she was MY dog. Yet, I didn’t compare Bubba to Molly until now. It’s different. It’s like comparing an old friend to a new friend. Any similarities are completely superficial because the comparison itself is forced. At the same time, I feel a pang of guilt about blogging over a dog that I only knew three days, rather than my pet of fifteen years. I like to think that she’s too special to capture with words.

On that note, I guess I’ll have to see about fostering more dogs. It’s not the actual experience of fostering that’s problematic but the logistics of work, money, space. So, we’ll see…

(PICTURES TO COME)

An Extra Bedroom

Yesterday, I read a lovely article from the NYTimes discussing personal libraries of the rich and famous. What I share with these people, across a vast ocean of wealth, is a love for books bordering on romantic sensuality. It comes right down to the smell-- ranging from a vintage musk to a playful earthen scent. Like a lover, I fall asleep dreaming of them while they lie on the pillow beside me.

Like any addict, I surround myself in my obsession. An "open" bibliophile, you'll find piles strewn here and there, pairs tucked into totes, with the most prized ones in the most frightful conditions. A recently purchased bookcase attempts to create some order out of the chaotic clusters of reason and rationality strewn about my apartment. A majority of the books, I have read at least once and possibly a dozen times. In conversation, I find myself scanning the catalog of my collection to recommend a relevant source. Oftentimes, I'll scamper away and return seconds later with a sacrificial offering to our friendship.

However, the ocean between myself and the rich and famous starts here. Beyond our lust, I have yet to obtain fortune or fame through the wisdom of these piles. As the most obvious consequence, I lack an elegant library to store my books. In fact, my closest thought is the realization that a library equals an extra bedroom in Manhattan real estate, which remain an unfathomable notion to me as I struggle to pay rent.

However, I remain comforted by the bibliophilic insight (idealism?) that possibility the rich and famous, or at least one of them, once was a struggling student with piles of beloved books filing their minuscule Manhattan apartment.

To all my friends that I have loaned my sacred treasures: Please return them. Thank you.

Summer Reading

Philosophy:

• Fanon, F: The Wretched of the Earth; Black Skin, White Masks
• Said, E: Orientalism
• Husserl, E: Crisis of European Science; Cartesian Mediations
• Beauvoir, S: Diaries of a Philosophy Student, Vol. 1
• Williams, B: Moral Luck; Problems of the Self
• Deleuze, G: The Fold

Non-Fiction:

• Dawkins, R: The God Delusion
• Pollan, M: The Omnivore's Dilemna

Fiction:

• TBA