Thanks again everyone for your continued support as Jean-Luc, my little bichon, recovers from his wounds.
|Yeah, I’m having a bad hair day. Something tried to eat me.
Today was a better day. He had another very quiet night in his soft crate by my bed. He was very inactive all morning but towards his dinnertime came out and was fairly sociable. He actually followed me around for awhile and attempted some annoying begging which encouraged me quite a bit. He’s also moving quite a bit better now.
With apologies to my other children, I thought I’d tell the story of how Jean-Luc came to be my third child.
I spent my 40th birthday on Clomid. Anyone who has ever taken Clomid maybe has some idea what that might have been like. For those who have no idea, the best way I can describe being on Clomid is that it is sort of like being simultaneously possessed by Medusa and Natalie Portman***. The math goes something like this:
CHLOE ON CLOMID
The Clomid didn’t work (neither did the subsequent IVF) and no new babies filled my empty womb. I was devastated at the time, although I can’t say now that I’m particularly upset that I don’t have 9-year old quintuplets. In fact, this is one of those things where I can happily say in retrospect that all things worked out for the good. But at the time it certainly didn’t feel that way. At the time I was really, really, really, really upset. And fat. All those hormones make you fat. And depressed. All those hormones make you hormonal and depressed. Oh, and failed infertility treatments also make you depressed. And broken out. All those hormones are really bad for your skin. And ugly. And a dried up husk of a woman who had reached the end of her biological usefulness. Oh, and God had forsaken me (I think this was the very worst part of it honestly.) I really had no reason to live. Well, except for the two wonderful children God had given me. I was still happy about them.
So, after all was said and done and the final diagnosis was “BARREN”, I told my husband through wracking sobs that all that was left for me to do was to accept my haghood and get a little white fluffy dog and name him “Poopsie Doodle”.
I wasn’t serious about the dog thing, but my husband, ever on the lookout for ways to pull me away from the edge of the cliff when he finds me there, grasped onto this idea and began to water and feed it until I thought it was my own.
And thus came little Jean-Luc into our lives. And while his official name is Jean-Luc because he is just so French, he is known to those of us in his family as The Doo.
It is lucky that he isn’t a human kid. He’s spoiled rotten and isn’t 100% housebroken (That’s not my fault, Difficult to housebreak
is a well-known bichon trait). He doesn’t have accidents. He has on-purposes. When I work a lot or go away he poops in the living room. What can I say? He’s housebroken for me.
We drove all the way to Santa Monica to pick my little guy up from a breeder and his gorgeous boyfriend, Charles. I had to swear on a stack of GQ Magazines that I would only feed this little doggy a B.A.R.F
. diet. And not just any B.A.R.F.
diet. My little 5 pound Bichon Frise puppy apparently needed to eat this special diet of ostrich and buffalo because, as the breeder very seriously told us, and I quote, “That’s what he would eat in the wild.”
I didn’t care. I would have sworn to raise him Jewish if I’d had to. I fell in love with The Doo at first sight because there isn’t anything on the earth cuter than a little bichon puppy.
My loving and doting husband wrote the check as I scooped Doo up to carry him to the car. On our way to the car, well out of earshot of the breeder, my husband did ask me though, “How many bichons do you think it takes to bring down a buffalo?”
***ETA: Apparently it is up to me to inform you all about the “Natalie Portman Cries A Lot” meme. Here she is, doing what she does best, crying a lot: