Tag: Dog Mom

Houston, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, On the Town

Musings in a Storm; Hurricane Beryl

RaeAnna

One Week Later…

On Sunday, July 7, 2024, I started taking pictures as the bands of Hurricane Beryl started to sweep over Houston. Alone in my house, I went to bed wondering what condition my world would be in when I woke. The power went out while I was on the phone with my fiancée (who lives in Australia) at seven in the morning on Monday, July 8, 2024. She went to bed for the night, and my weather watch began. Two hours later, I lost cell reception and internet. As an avid read, writer, picture taker with literally nothing to do, I decided to document the storm. I’ve been through my fair share of hurricanes, storms, tornados, and derechos at this point in my life. But, for the first time, I was bored during it.

I spent Sunday night and Monday taking pictures. The following pieces I wrote over three days in a notebook; then transcribed on my tablet in a note that I, later, turned into a .doc, which is now my first post in months. Each piece stands alone; though there are likely themes to be found. Some bring levity, and some are quite dark. They’re all very much me. The photos separate piece from piece. So, enjoy.

Open front door of Pearl Bar onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.
Pearl Bar’s front door opens onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.
  • Laying, clothed in very little, with the windows open: I’m hot. The kind of hot that feels like it’ll never get better. The kind of hot that makes air heavy in the lungs. If this isn’t nostalgic, it would be misery.
  • Laying on a sheet-covered couch—because cotton is cooler than brushed velvet—my underwear and bra stick to me. I’m glistening with sweat. I’ve read three-quarters of one of the best novels I’ve ever consumed. I realize: I’d be working if it weren’t for Hurricane Beryl shutting down the fourth largest city in the United States. A category one. No internet. No power. No communication with the outside world. It took a natural disaster for me to have my first real day off since the day after I put my dog to sleep… three months ago. There’s literally nothing to be done but pick up sticks and read. And I’m not about to go pick up sticks.
  • Laying on the couch, the only breeze I can feel is the hot breath from the dogs who love me so much they can’t find another spot to lay except my lap in all 3,000 square feet of this damn house. My day was spent reading and writing, the old-fashioned way. I love days like these. Ones where I lay by an open window, reading, drinking tea, and listening to nature. Today, doing just that, Instead of the birds, beach, breeze, city, leaves, I’d normally find lulling, I’m currently being serenaded by my much too nice neighbors’ generator. I hate them. But they’re too nice to hate, even in this heat.
A friend walking her dog as the storm started to roll in Sunday, July 7, 2024.

I have so many unanswered questions. | Does my mother believe in heaven? | What is the worst lie I’ve ever told? | Why do fascia confuse scientists so much? | Does Beau resent me for rescuing Tessa and the Puppies? | Why didn’t he protect me? | What will I regret when I lay dying? | Will she still think I’m beautiful in 50 years when she walks into our room after brushing her teeth to find me reading on the same side of the bed I’ve slept in for the majority of our lives? | Why did that question make me cry? | How did performing on stage go from being my whole life to a place I haven’t been in a decade? | Does he know he’s the villain in my story? | Why do I like Peach Rings but peaches not so much? | Do my dogs know how much I love them? | There are happy-sad people and sad-happy people and sad-sad people, but are there happy-happy people? | What’s even the point? | Why do I think I’m interesting enough to be a writer? | Can she remember the smell of the space between my shoulder blades the way I remember her? | When we leave the house, do our pets think we’re going for pupcups and dog walks and pet stores and beach adventures because that’s all they do with us? | Do they feel abandoned? | Am I capable of writing a book? | When does it get better?

Beau and Bear anxious over the thunder.

As I drive through my neighborhood, there is a ton of damage. Trees felled. Roofs in streets. Families raking yards. Neighbors calling on each other. Hands being lended. Bayous overflowing.

The general post-natural disaster mahem and comradery.

Beau’s head hangs out the passenger window. Soaking up the breeze as much as the sun. She’s always loved a car ride. I drive slowly as much out of safety as curiosity.

As we slowly creep down the street, the decimation of homes, trees, and fences allows us a public viewing into private moments. On the main road, a backyard fence lays half across the sidewalk, half across the street. A multi-generational Asian family sits around a table on their back patio. Mom, dad, and grandma stare with a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. Martini in every hand. All the while, their ten[ish?] year-old son flits around the backyard with the joy of a kid in a world devoid of technology.

Using the dictionaries I loved so much in college to look up the gender of a noun. #old #nerd

Sometimes, I feel like Pyoter, my robot vacuum—named because a) I like men who clean b) I can yell at a man when it fucks up c) I speak Russian d) it just felt right—who is currently sat, wheels run-up a dog toy, in the corner where the hearth meets the wall.

Pyotr does a great job. A real go-getter. He’s aged, but his battery isn’t suffering. With the right care, he does as well as he ever did. His years show in the collection of dust and scuffs. He’s reliable and beloved. But he’s stuck. He’s not out of battery. He’s not full either. Nor is he empty. He’s kind of in the middle phase of vaccing the floors: where enough progress has been made, it seems like things could be done. Nowhere near perfect, but definitely above the expectation people have when I tell them, “I have five dogs.” Pyotr has the capability to do a great job, not just the average state my floors exist in now.

But he’s stuck.

I’m sitting on the couch engrossed in a book about a rich, lesbian writer who’s suffering from severe depression, childhood trauma, depersonalization, derealization, some delusions, and can’t finish her novel—that’s actually a memoir—which has put her in a trust funded [see what I did there] psychiatrists’ office not to feel and do better but to write again. Same. But I’m too poor for a psychiatrist to help me finish my damn book. Also the protagonist(antagonist?) is younger and further in her book than me. Fuck her. Now, I’m realizing, I am genuinely jealous of a genuinely ill and equally fictional woman. Then, again, I’m also (mostly undiagnosed) mentally ill. I mentioned I’m too poor for a psychiatrist? yes. This tracks.

Anyway.

I promise these two are related as to why, sometimes, I feel like Pyotr.

He’s stuck.

I’m stuck.

He needs me to get up, move him, push the button so he can be unstoppable. The problem therein lies: I won’t get up.

My brain is home to: CPTSD, childhood trauma, rape, violence, audhd, stripping, and more. At 33, like my floors, I’m doing better than you’d assume. To the outside world, I’m doing great. But I have so much energy. My mind is only getting more interesting. I know there’s potential. Somewhere. What’s been done is good enough; it really is.

It’s not good enough for me.

I’m wheels up on my own metaphorical dog toy. Therefore, I have no—completely devoid of metaphor here—no ability to stand up and press Pyotr’s button so he can go do great things for my mental health through dog glitter confiscation.

Which is a symptom of my own being stuck.

I need a me to come in and unstick me, so I can unstick Pyotr. So, he can finish the floors. So, I can finish my bestselling book. So, I can afford my wife’s dream job of being a rockstar. Then, I’ll be unstoppable. And maybe, but probably not, have a little more money. (I plan on my wife’s first tour eating up the $37 advance I get from that “bestseller.”)

But, I’m going to go back to reading.

MOM! It’s wet!

I know I dated men for so, so, so many reasons. It’s something I’ve written about loads. Thought about far more. Why did I spend a whole lot of years dating a gender I have literally zero attraction to? There’s a bit to it I hate and don’t admit to often. But it’s also true and part of it.

Dating men is inherently traumatic. (For all women, yes. They are our natural predators. I’d choose the bear, but no one is asking me.) But for me. As a gay woman with years of sexual Trauma with a capital t. Sex, every single consensual time, was traumatic. Some more. Some less. I was walking a tightrope above a flowing lava river of memories I am deeply afraid of and equally curious about. I have an entire lived-life that I don’t really remember so well. It’s there. But not. I know I can. But do I want to?

With the right circumstances, those memories come back. Do I want them? Nope. Do I need them? Healing is a long, painful journey. I quickly realized… The easiest way to remember the memories living in my body and not so much my mind was sex with men. With the force of a freight train going down a hill with no brakes or conductor, every new rememberance would chug right over my mental health. 

To be clear, this was all done consensually and unconsciously. It took me a long time to figure out what I was doing. Eventually, sex with men didn’t bring back memories. I think I’d collected all the Trauma I could the old fashioned way. 

I took all the puzzle pieces and put them together. My puzzle was definitely found at a rummage sale because pieces are missing. I have enough of them to have a really clear understanding of who I am and where I come from. Then I took the time to heal. Like really heal. I’m not healed. Clearly. But I’m better.

Then I came out. Not because I hadn’t known I was gay before. But I needed to reTraumatize myself over and over and over again to uncover the hardest truths I needed to know so I could get to a place where I wasn’t so actively trying to die.

Too many years into an already full life. I’m out, I’m proud, I’m a functional calamity. At 33, I’m really fucking happily engaged to the most incredible woman. And I think… deep down, I might actively want to live.

The anxious ones were kept in their safe spaces.

With generators and chainsaws and bugs and children and dogs and sirens and storms, the world has never seemed louder. More intrusive. More in my space. 

So, I put in earplugs to drown out the noise. I try to find sleep laying on the couch with all the windows open in a breezeless night in July. There’s still a ringing. A haunting that won’t go away. It’s louder in my brain than any of the aforementioned noises could ever be loud in real life.

I wish this were just tinnitus. But no. 

Not new, but particularly jarring tonight. As a little girl, I used to think of it as an alarm sounding. That voice my mom told me about. It told me when I was doing something wrong. When I was being bad. It didn’t take me long to learn: that alarm never relented.

So, it didn’t take long to know: I was just bad. Most of the time, I still believe it. That I deserved it all. Every malintent, violence, shame. 

But some days, more than there used to be, I think: maybe it’s all the alarms I didn’t listen to, warning me of all the people I believed.

Sometimes, it hurts being alone in my own head.

So, I take the earplugs out. Letting the sound of crickets and generators drown out the alarms I didn’t know how to listen to.

A lot of sniffing and following me around the house.

Stuck in a house with no electricity, no air conditioning, no reception, no internet, and no help at the height of southern Texas summer is a lot like camping. Except terrible. 

If I tell you it was a first. I’m probably lying to you. 

When I think about the unedited version of my whole life. The one common thread has been lying. Changing the narrative of my history. Sometimes, as it’s happening.

I tell firsts as if they’re not really seconds or thirds of fiftieths because they are more palatable. Cleaner. Easy. 

Because, the thing is, the first time… well, that’s the first time I’ll write about. 

But 

To friends who know me, there’s the first time I talk about like it was a passing thing because looking at the threads that wove my Trauma, it hardly even feels like it matters. 

Then 

There’s the first time that felt like the first time. Only three people have seen that pain. 

However

There’s the first time that was the real first time. I’ve never spoken it out loud. To even think of it pulls all the air that ever was from my lungs. Even writing—admitting to it here—scares me so much. I want to run. I want to hide. There is pain I so instinctively don’t want to be true that if I never speak it, never share it, maybe it’s not. But lately, in traffic, on walks, alone, in the moments where my mind wanders… I keep being led there. I’ve had to stop writing three times so my eyes could see the spelling errors I’ll edit out through tears sometime between me writing and you reading this. If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t edit this one out. This is hard. This is brave. This feels like dying.

Telling firsts which weren’t actually firsts, I’m lying to you. I’m not lying to myself. I was there. I know the truth. I always have. I just wish I didn’t. So I tell the firsts I’m comfortable with. Because I’m better. But I’m not fucking healed.

A lot of naps.

My love for you is a very well tended garden.

It’s an allegory I like because I like gardens. Not a perfect one since I don’t like gardening. In this figurative garden, I have no problems being a figurative gardener. Although, my darling dearest, the literal garden is your literal responsibility. 

When a garden is planted, watered, tended, weeded, watered, tended, weeded, planted, so on and so forth, it will grow and thrive. New things will come. Some things will wither. Sometimes, it doesn’t *seem* to be doing so well because of winter or drought or too much rain or not enough sun, but a very well tended garden always survives, coming back stronger and more beautiful each time because the soil keeps getting richer. It is always growing and changing because it was never not well tended.

My love for you is that. A bit simplistic, but you get the idea. 

An Observer

Ludicrous! Not the rapper. The idea!!!!

The idea! at one point in time… a very, much too long point in time in my life, I thought it was important to carry a small suitcase on my shoulder everywhere I went.

They’re known as purses.

Highly helpful for the ladyfolk in a world where the ladyfolk are legally not allowed functional pockets [if pockets at all—depending on your state and county legislation]. Not really, but that’s how it feels shopping.

Anyway. I carried a large purse because I deemed it necessary to carry every single item anyone could need in events ranging from a wedding to a natural disaster. True fact. The pouch-thing I carried inside my purse was so well stocked with all sorts of odds and ends, it really did come in handy at both weddings (two friends) and a natural disaster (hurricane Florence). It was hefty! Lifting the damn thing, which sits utterly-and-quite-suddenly-forsaken, dusty, and on the top shelf in my entryway, put down never to be picked up again until… now, when it feels like something between training for an Iron Man and giving up completely.

I had purses—yes plural—big enough to carry the well-stocked pouch-thing, wallet, phone, a tiny tripod, book, pen, tablet, all my friends’ things, and a brush every single time I left the house.

It is baffling to me.

I don’t even brush my hair anymore. 

I was very lucky.

I don’t like my body.

I don’t think I see what other people see.

All I see is endurance. Not the long-distance running kind. The servived kind.

I look at my body and see every flaw. Every dimple. Every stretch mark. Every varicose vein. Every lump. Every wrinkle. Every sag. Every scar. I’m vain. Sure. But…

I see pain. I see a body I didn’t think belonged to me, had control over, a right to. I see a body that I think of as not me. What happens and happened to this body… that’s not me. It’s just a body. Because if they did that to my body and I am my body, they did that to me. And they knew me. And they still did it. Then looked me in the eye and called it love.

I don’t want to look at my body and see that.

I don’t.

But, I take beautiful pictures of my body in beautiful places. They call the place beautiful. They call the body beautiful. But I just want to keep a record. I want proof. I want to know that I was there. I did it. This body did enough to get to those places.

But also…

I hope one day I look back on all the pictures I’ve taken in beautiful clothes in beautiful places with beautiful people and think, maybe, ‘I was beautiful once.’ I guess, that’s how I’ve always—well, not always—known to not give up yet. That’s hope, an emotion I’m rarely accused of. I haven’t lost it. So, maybe, one day, I will look back at all the art I made with eyes that somehow found enough self-love (it hurt me far more to write than for you to read) to think: ‘As much as I hated it every singe time, I deserved to be called beautiful.’

But I guess that’s healing from being treated like an ugly thing for so very long.

The water was high.

Life is an exhausting to do list. 

Blog + Dog

Beau Is Back at the Beach

RaeAnna

Mom guilt is a real thing. I suffer from an acute case of dog mom guilt. Particularly when it comes to my original love: Beau. 

She is so beautiful

I adopted Beau six years ago. So she spent more than three years living her best life as the sole proprietor of double-income parents. Then her mom—that would be me—had to go fuck shit up for her by bringing home a very pregnant tiny tot of a dog, and by tiny, I mean, Tessa is 35 pounds. 

Poor Beau. Her home had been invaded, and now, she is the proud matriarch of five underlings. She does love the fear she strikes into all their hearts. She also loves having built in playmates to torture. I will never know how my eight year old dog runs the shit out of four three-year-olds. She is aging well.

I realized last week, Beau is in fact aging. My once energizer bunny who would zoomy all across the beach and any free space, preferred sitting on the beach, watching Mommy and a friend play in the water. She ran around, digging and playing, but she was calmer and far better behaved than she’s ever been in her entire life. As proud as I am, I hate it. She’s getting older. She’s far from old, but her age is starting to show. She used to bound into the ocean, sticking her entire head under water. She would dig a huge hole and roll around in it. She would leap to catch sand, yes sand, in her mouth. She would run as the waves came in and chase them out again. When I would run out into the ocean, Beau would be on my heels. At one point, I was standing a ways out, about knee deep, for ten minutes or so. Eventually, Beau decided I’d had enough deep water time, so she swam out, poked me with her nose, and made it clear I was to come back to the safety of the shore. 

The mom guilt comes in because, well, it’s always there about everything. Yet, I hadn’t taken Beau to the beach since before the pandemic. She loves it there so much, and I forgot to make time. Three years is such a long time in a dog’s life, and I deprived her of a great love for three years all because I forgot to make time. 

There is no one more precious in all the world.

What in the actual fuck, RaeAnna?!

I am an absolute failure of mother. Absolute might be a bit extreme. They’re loved, healthy, sheltered, and well-fed. Feeding my girl’s soul? That’s also important, and I forgot. I’ve forgotten to feed my own, but that’s my fault. Beau doesn’t have a voice or a choice. It’s my privilege to make her life the best it can be. Pre-pandemic, pre-puppies, Beau was on the go 24/7 as we traveled the country together. She has lived an adventurous life, but her life got small in the last three years, and that’s on me. 

So I’m going to do better by Beau and all the others. Unfortunately, Beau has less time. It’s the reality of dogs’ lives, but it’s the reality of her being the oldest. The days are ticking. They always have been. Going to the beach last week reminded me just how precious every single moment with her and her siblings is. 

She does not put up with my shenanigans.
Blog + Dog

Cost of Being a Dog Mom to A Pack of Six

RaeAnna

I love my dogs so, so, so much. All six of them. I have no favorite. They each have my whole heart because they are uniquely and perfectly themselves. 

People, who are not me, tend to fall into two categories: 

  1. Oh my God. That’s too many. You need to find new homes for some of them. 
  2. Oh my God. You are living the dream. 

To the people in the two categories, I say:

  1. Fuck you. It’s a good thing it’s not your life.
  2. I KNOW! IT’S THE BEST THING EVER.
Boys, Duke and Knight, relaxing before the vet comes in.

Life changed extravagantly after I adopted one dog. Life changed completely when I rescued fourteen and kept five. It wasn’t the plan, but I’m so happy with what is. Six dogs complicates life a bit. From travel to going out to having handy people over, there was some adjusting. Things run smoothly now, but there was a learning curve to knowing what works and what does not. They all bring their own personalities, preferences, and quirks to each and every day. We honor those but also maintain boundaries and rules to ensure the house, family, and pack are safe, happy, and healthy. 

Today I want to talk about the adventure that is going to the vet. It used to be a simple and seamless experience. One dog. Once a year. With check ins if something was out of the norm. It was easy and as inexpensive as having a rescue dog can be. 

Having six dogs… Going to the vet is an affair. When the puppies were puppies, we would load all thirteen in laundry baskets and head to the vet with Tess in tow. As they got older, we would pile them into the back seat, two at a time, until all thirteen were in. Then the same on our way into the vet’s office. Now that I have six permanent dogs instead of one, I have an entirely new process of spacing our vet trips out for two reasons: 

  1. They’re huge. I can’t imagine trying to wrangle 408 pounds of dog into the vet all at one time. It would be a nightmare. Also my car isn’t big enough. I have enough self respect and self worth to not attempt. 
  2. Money. Financially taking all the dogs to the vet at one time is extravagant.

This first year has been rough. I wouldn’t have it any other way [unless healthy dogs was an option, then I would have it that way], but it was expensive. A lot of the expense was expected, but there was a good amount that wasn’t. Tess was heartworm positive when I picked her up off the side of the road. Duke had to have dental surgery to fix his face and give him a good quality of life. Both expected expenses. Makeda ended up getting a very serious eye infection and had to have lots of tests to ensure she wouldn’t lose her eye. Good news, she’s totally fine. Duke ended up having repeated x-rays and MRIs because he has some skeletal issues. Upside, he will grow out of them, but it’s been both painful and frequent for the last ten months and will continue for eight more. Tessa had emergency surgery because she got a cut too close to her shnoot. Knight has SEVERE allergies, which did not present as allergies at first. Many tests later, it’s an easy but lifelong battle we both get to enjoy. Duke [that boy is chalk full of problems], is having mouth problems again, so back we go to the doggy oral surgeon. All of these were unexpected, but we made it work because they’re our babies. And what was I going to spend that money on anyways? Probably fancy restaurant food. I like my dogs more than fancy restaurant food. Worth it. 

Knight protecting Duke from the mean, mean vet with the pokey stick of health and wellness.

I did the math. Just to cover costs of heartworm prevention, vaccines, and check ups, it costs almost $1600 a year in Houston, Texas for six dogs. In my house, yearly vet check ups are non-negotiable. I decided to spread out the check ups to two a month in the summer. Knight and Duke in June. Bear and Makeda in July. Tess and Beau in August. It makes it easier to wrangle at the vet and easier to wrangle my wallet. 

Budgeting is super important when it comes to having six dogs. From food to supplements to saving for the inevitable yearly check ups to saving for the oopsies. I knew all of this when we decided to take on five more doggos. I have made budgets, plans, and adjustments in our life. I wouldn’t call the things I’ve given up “sacrifices;” they are adjustments. We adjusted. I gave up some trips and some fancy restaurants, but we have gained so, so much more by including them in our family and life. Even Beau loves having them around; I never thought I would say that.

I don’t want anyone to think this is me complaining. This is 100% me not complaining. BUT it is me being honest. Honest about the financial commitment of properly taking care of six dogs. Adopting is more than just bringing home a cute dog and feeding it and taking it potty. Like children and adults, they require training, medical check ups, vaccines, medication, and attention when things happen. Just like humans, dogs can and will get sick, have injuries, and more. Those take both time and money. So often, people think and talk about the time commitment that must be made when taking on a dog or two or six. We don’t talk about the monetary aspect of having a pack and the things that can and do come up. 

Celebratory “it’s all over” puppaccinos for the very goodest boys.

I count myself lucky to take on the joys and challenges of raising six fur babies with my awesome co-parent. We share the responsibilities, financial, time, and physical, of raising and tending to them. There’s a give and take for both of us; a balance we have happily managed to find. 

So if you’re contemplating adopting a dog or growing your pack and want to chat about what that means, I’m always here! I love talking about my babies and hearing from passionate dog parents.

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., Lifestyle

11… Habits I’m Trying to Re-Form This Summer

RaeAnna
A picture I took of Beau and I even before COVID and the puppy invasion… We were hiding from responsibilities then, and I we didn’t know what was coming yet.

Rescuing Tess, raising thirteen puppies, keeping four, dealing with rare doggy disorders, and surviving the pandemic did not ruin my life. BUT it did give me a really good reason to put off all my good habits. 

In my defense, I’ve been busy. 

The reality: I am no longer motivated to do all the good things I had been consistently doing in my life before becoming a pack mama. That’s right, I’m no longer a dog mom. I am a pack mama, which I can only equate to the feeling of being the very stressed Polar Express conductor as it mercilessly careens across the ice. If you haven’t seen the movie, the Polar Express does safely make it across the frozen lake… I think I see land. 

Back to my point. I had been working on developing really solid, unbreakable, healthy habits for myself in 2019 and 2020. Then Tess arrived. Then puppies arrived. Then COVID arrived. Then life stopped. Not stopped, slowed, drastically. Life changed very suddenly in very concrete ways. I stopped doing so many things I had worked really hard at doing on a regular if not daily basis. 

I had the goal of having a consistent routine before I turned 30. Hello, 30. You came exactly when you were supposed to, and yet I was completely unprepared. I wanted a routine of healthy and good habits before I turned 30 because it seemed like a good milestone. Creating a lifestyle is hard, but once it’s been done, maintaining it becomes a lot easier. I wanted to have a lifestyle I could maintain with relative ease by the time I hit 30. 

In a way, I did! Not the lifestyle I want, but an easy one to maintain. Wake up. Feed and let the dogs out. Work. Read. Eat. Enjoy exorbitant couch time with the dogs. See very few people. Sleep. These are easy things. A very manageable lifestyle, but not the one I want. 

I’m actively living my best life… aka not wearing any pants and barely managing to keep the dogs alive.

So this summer is about reforming the habits I lost in 2020 and maybe even forming some new ones!

  1. Exercise I don’t like exercise. Actually, I quite loathe it. But moving is so important. It helps just about everything. From sleep to mental acuity to aging to mood. Exercise is the key. I’m not looking to lose weight or really even change the way my body looks, I’m good with all that, but I put in the effort for my mind. My mind is the most important thing, the thing I love best about myself, the thing I want to maintain for the entirety of my life. Moving, exercise is the way to do just that. I am going to get back into doing yoga and pilates and barre and ballet. I slowed down because of the dogs, but I stopped when I got COVID. My lungs are starting to get back to a place where moving is an option again.
  2. Writing Book Critiques As a blogger with a big focus on books… I have done very little book critiquing even though I’ve been reading very regularly. I need to write like it’s my job… Oh wait, it is.
  3. Sticking to My Diet This isn’t a diet that I want to stick to. It’s a diet I need to stick to. I have a whole lot of pretty serious health issues. Staying on my diet can be hard and inconvenient and unfun, but it helps my body continue doing its job, which is staying alive. I fell out of being really strict about it because with everything going on it was just another thing on top of all the other things, and so I stopped being diligent. 
  4. Not Turning On the TV I used to be so good at waking up and not turning on the TV. Once I turn that sucker on, I have a hard time extricating myself from it. I started turning the TV on in the morning while the puppies played. I couldn’t leave them alone because they were very chewy. So TV was the easiest way to keep an eye on them without being distracted. So I’m going to start waking up and not turning the damn TV on.
  5. Maintaining A Sleep Schedule I lost my sleep schedule because of the puppies. I’ve always been bad about maintaining sleep patterns anyways; I do whatever my body wants. The problem: with my unfortunate health issues, sleep is essential. So I need to sleep regularly and enough even when my body and brain don’t feel like it, which is always.
  6. Reaching Out On Birthdays and Anniversaries I was pretty good at remembering birthdays and anniversaries for friends and family with cards. 2020 ruined that. I need to be better about it again.
  7. Getting Dressed I haven’t had many reasons to get dressed let alone get dressed up in 2020 or 2021… Or really since 2016 when I moved to Houston and became a full-time freelance writer. I love getting dressed up and wearing all the pretty clothes I’ve spent too many monies on. So I’m going to work on taking the few extra minutes to put effort into the way I look again. I do miss it. 
  8. Journaling This is not something I have ever done. As a writer, I’m a weirdo. I don’t like journaling. As a writer, I think it’s important. I’m also hoping it will help me process my anxieties, depression, life, and all those other things. 
  9. Going for Walks I used to go for walks with Beau and/or friends on a regular basis. I love walks because they get me out of the house and let me be in nature. I’ve always enjoyed walks. Plus this will help me leash train the puppies. Having a backyard has not beneficial to leash training. 
  10. Seeing Friends Again COVID really put a dent in my social life. I have missed so many friends because of social distancing and staying inside. I’m hoping as more and more people get the vaccine and restrictions are lifted, I can start seeing my people again. They’re wonderful and I miss them all.
  11. Working Regularly I used to be a bit of a workaholic. I worked a lot. Like a whole shitload. After the puppies were born and COVID affected a giant percentage of my clients, I have only been working the bare minimum. If I don’t have to do it. I don’t. This is not getting me ahead in any ways. Being a workaholic isn’t necessarily sustainable but neither is being a couch schlub. I need to find a balance between the two. 

I started slowly adding some of these habits into my life after the New Year to varying success. Starting small with the ones that are sustainable. I know I can’t make huge and sustainable lifestyle changes and immediately jump back to and improve upon what my life was before the puppies and COVID. That will only end up with nothing at all changing. I’m working on slowly adding the changes and habits in, guilt free. I’m giving myself grace to fail and sit in front of the TV for a day because change and habits don’t happen overnight. But I’m striving to do better, be consistent, show up, and work at getting into a new normal. Life will never be what it was with only one dog. That’s okay, I don’t want it to be, but I also can’t continue being a bare minimum human. 

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., Lifestyle

11… Ways I’m Forgiving Myself

RaeAnna

I can’t believe a third of the year has already passed us by. I was really hoping to make some positive changes in my life within 2021’s first few months. Unfortunately, I have been struggling to even come up with a modicum of productivity. 

Just out here looking for forgiveness…. | Black Dress |

I am going to lay a lot of that blame at COVID’s figurative feet. Not just COVID existing in the world. I haven’t talked about it on this platform yet, but COVID entered my home right after Christmas. My partner ended up in the hospital for three weeks and on oxygen for another three. I really struggled to make it through the worst parts of it myself. More than three months later, we’re both dealing with the aftermath of COVID. Breathing is still difficult. I get fatigued so easily. Life has slowed down significantly as we recover. I am not able to go-go-go the way I like to or am used to. So a lot of things fell by the wayside. Pretty much anything that has not been an absolute necessity has gone untended, and even some of the necessities. So fuck you, COVID, my year could have been better without you!

There has been more and more talk of self-care in the world. Self-care looks different from person to person. I’m really the last person to talk about it because I’m really bad at doing it myself. So this is not a post about that. But in my effort to be kinder to myself and try to reduce some of my mental load and anxieties, I’m going to extend eleven forgivenesses from me to me in an effort of self-care and self-preservation. 

I’m also forgiving myself for not posting this last week/yesterday like I had planned on… because I ran out of time and the physical ability to get it done the day after Easter/yesterday I decided to clean the entire house/the dogs/disinfect dog boxes, which is a chore.

Sending myself flowers as an apology to me. (from Amanda Bee’s because duh)
  1. I forgive myself for the stack of books I’ve read and not reviewed. This sounds trivial, but a huge part of …on the B.L. is book reviews. I started out as a book blogger, and though I don’t identify solely as a book blogger, it’s still an integral part of my platform and life. I quite literally majored in reading real good. Having been depressed, anxiety riddled, and ill for the last year, I’ve done a lot of reading and very little reviewing. So I forgive myself for not reviewing. I couldn’t do it. I did not have the mental bandwidth to write more than I absolutely had to. So instead of writing all the backlog reviews, I’m going to write reviews for the ones I really want to write reviews for. I will do a big post about all the ones I’ve read and am not reviewing; partially because I really like some of the pictures taken. Going forward, I will try—try being the operative word—to write about all the books I’m reading. 
  2. I forgive myself for getting COVID. I have a lot of guilt about this. Dylan and I have been so extremely careful, and yet it entered our home and almost took his life—and mine but I’m ignoring the severity of my own situation. I feel shame over having COVID. Like I need to keep it a secret and not talk about it. I don’t know why I feel this way, but I do. 
  3. I forgive myself for ordering out. I love cooking, but I have found no joy in it the past  several months. So I have found myself ordering in a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like too much. I take solace in the fact I’m supporting small businesses who are struggling to survive through COVID.
  4. I forgive myself for not exercising. I can blame COVID for this one. I had been in a really good habit of exercising [semi]frequently, but then COVID hit my lungs. I’m still having a hard time getting up and going, so exercise has gone by the wayside for now.
  5. I forgive myself for having a short fuse. My fuse has been short for a whole BUNCH of reasons. I wish I had more patience right now, but I don’t. At this point, my patience is being reserved for the dogs. The people who have to deal with my fuse, or lack thereof, understand and are being incredibly understanding. But the dogs don’t have the same ability to understand mommy’s shortcomings and humanity, so I give them all my patience because I’m not going to make them neurotic with my frustrations.   
  6. I forgive myself for not writing. I write for a living both as a freelance writer and for this blog. I love it. I really love my job, and I feel incredibly lucky to get paid to do something that interests and stimulates me every day. But the things I want to dive into and explore more on the blog take a lot of emotional exploration and inevitably lead to breakdowns and breakthroughs, and I love that, but it’s hard. In a year where I’ve raised and gave away puppies while going through a pandemic… I haven’t been able to go there. So, I am forgiving myself for that because it does me no good to dwell on what I haven’t accomplished. 
  7. I forgive myself for not socializing the puppies more. After buying a house, the need to socialize the puppies at the dog park decreased because I have a backyard. They don’t need to play at the dog park the way Beau did when she was an only dog living in an apartment. They have tons of playmates and the space to be rambunctious ding dongs. I still feel bad that they haven’t had that experience but a) we’ve been staying in because of COVID b) socializing five dogs—four puppies—is a lot of work and I didn’t have it in me. 
  8. I forgive myself for not working as much. This isn’t completely my fault, but I could’ve done more to work more. The pandemic hit my work load hard because my clients were hit hard. So the work dwindled. In a way, that was a blessing; it gave me time to raise puppies, rest, and not work when I had COVID. 
  9. I forgive myself for not sending Thank You cards last year on my birthday. I ALWAYS send Thank You cards when I get presents. My 29th birthday landed in the beginning of a pandemic but also in the middle of raising thirteen very needy puppies. I had no time…. And it fell by the wayside. I’m trying not to feel bad about that. 
  10. I forgive myself for being a lesser friend. I try to be a good friend. I try to show up, stay in touch, reach out, send notes, get together, and all those good things. In 2020 and 2021, so far, I have been a lesser friend. I feel bad, but I couldn’t be there for people the way I like to be. 
  11. I forgive myself for putting myself, my happiness, my mental health first. I’m not used to putting me first. And I’m terrible at asking other people to make me a priority, treat me well, give and not just take, and more. I’m not good at demanding the respect I deserve. No one taught me that. So at 29, I’m trying to be better about only accepting and keeping people in my life who are good for me. 

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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Blog + Dog, In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Happy National Puppy Day from A Pack Mom

RaeAnna
Cuddling with three puppies and their mama. The others are somewhere doing something. I’m very attentive, I know.

Yesterday was National Puppy Day, and I missed it. Well, I watched everyone else post pictures about their puppies. I was lazy and didn’t. 

The thing is, every day is puppy day in my house. Not only do I have four actual puppies, I have two older girls too. It’s a zoo. It’s chaos. It’s a furtacular event always. There is never a moment, big or small, that does not have something to do with the dogs. I can attribute that to their being enormous, multitudinous, and very attached to me. I go nowhere alone ever, and I love it. 

Even as I write this, I have one asleep on each foot, two are upside down tug-o-warring, one is asleep in their box for naughty reasons, and a sixth is standing up on my wingback chair staring out the window in case of God knows what. That means there are five very big dogs in my small office. It’s wonderful. This is not a complaint. This is a brag. My office is better than your office. 

A year ago, I had a home filled with Beau, the original rescue, Tess, the stray mama, and thirteen three week old puppies. I was determined to keep zero of the puppies. Life and a man had a completely opposing world view of what would happen, and I lost. Fast forward through the poop, tears, puppy breath, teething, potty training to today: I am a homeowner with a house full of six much bigger than expected dogs. 

I would love to tell you this life is easy. It is not. 

Having six dogs sounds amazing, and it is. Having six dogs sounds hard, and it is. Having six dogs sounds a little crazy, and it most certainly is. It was a choice and a commitment. It was a commitment to them and a commitment to Dylan, my pawtner in parenting. We made a commitment to each of our dogs to love, respect, raise, and maintain them until their last breaths, no take backsies. We made a commitment to one another that no matter what transpires between us, we will raise them together; we will not separate them; we will not keep them from the one another; we will share expenses; we will carry the burden; we will lean on the other when things are hard; and we will always create rules and boundaries together for them, no take backsies. Adopting one dog four years ago (wow) connected us in a more concrete way, making it more complicated if things went to go awry. Adding five more rescues to that equation… well, much, much, much more of a concrete connection. Worth it, but a challenge. 

There are more than just the challenges of having six dogs. We did it in a COVID world where both our incomes and lives have been impacted very, very much. Tess was incredibly sick and pregnant when I picked her up off the street. Getting her healthy was expensive and heartbreaking. The puppies have some special needs, which makes it expensive and a bit complicated at times. (No complaint. I knew what I was getting into.) The reality is: VETS ARE EXPENSIVE. Their health is non-negotiable. We went without so they could be taken care of. We took on debt to take them to the ER. We buy their dog food first before our groceries. COVID made things much tighter, but it’s worth it. 

On top of it, a rescue already existed in this home. Beau was the first priority. We made a decision to foster Tess and the puppies. We knew we wanted to keep Tess, but if the rescue in Beau couldn’t handle being in a multiple dog household, we would have made the very hard decision to find Tess and all the puppies their furever homes. Turns out Beau LOVED Tess immediately. They were inseparable and best buds from the beginning. They do everything together and literally hug every morning when they wake up. Beau also loves the puppies. It was an adjustment, but they adore her and she loves to play with them. But she still had to figure out how to be top dog, get attention, and cope with the fact she was no longer the sun, moon, and universe in two people’s worlds. She had to learn to share: time, food, love, attention, bed. Just kidding, she never learned how to share bed; she’s the only one that always sleeps in bed. Some of her neurosis were exacerbated at first, but with love, time, and extra attention, she’s back to her normal neurotic self. 

Is it a breeze now? Fuck no. 

It’s still hard. They’re still young. They’re still growing and learning and making mistakes and getting on each others’ nerves. Most days are amazing, but there are some days I cry. Being a dog parent to one is hard. Being a dog parent to six is still hard. Struggle is a part of taking care of and living with another being, human or not. The happiness outweighs all the negatives, but it’s work. 

It. Is. A. Lot. Of. Work. 

It takes a lot of work just to afford to maintain them and keep them healthy. It takes a lot of emotional work to stay calm in the chaos because I’m not going to fuck up my dogs’ emotional wellbeing with an inability to handle the fact they’re just being puppies. I do my best. Sometimes I fail. That’s okay. They love me anyways. They know they’re safe. They’re in the only home they’ve ever known with the only parents they’ve ever known being loved in the only way they’ve ever known: unconditionally, patiently, enthusiastically, and constantly.

My six dogs have been the catalyst for DRASTIC life changes over the last year, and I’m okay with that. Everything is for the better even when it has hurt like hell. They are and will be my number one priority until the day they die. I took on this responsibility, and no matter how hard it was, is, or will be, I chose to make their lives the very best I can. 

If you ever find yourself in my home, know that you are watching six pieces of my heart and the very best of me walk around our home.

In honor of trying to be the very best pawrent I can be. I’m including six inspiration posters I created from things I’ve said to my dogs in my very best high pitched and happy-even-though-my-world-is-chaos-and-stressful dog parent voice:

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna, Beau, Tessa, 
Knight, Duke, Makeda, + Bear