Puppy love hurts...and heals

Today I cut a hole in Riley's side.

It was an accident.  I feel terrible.  Riley is my dog, and he now looks like a mangy mutt.  A mangy mutt who I love dearly by the way, even if current circumstances may point to the contrary. 

Three and a half weeks ago, when I returned to school from Thanksgiving break, I left Riley at home, in the care of dear Sister and the Parents.  I left detailed instructions on his feeding schedule, basic commands, potty needs, and even when to rotate his toys.  I forgot to mention that he also needs routine brushing. 

A week or so ago, when I came back home for Christmas break, I discovered (to much dismay) that Riley's once luscious long, white coat had become a tangled mess.  The damage was pretty much irreversible.  It wasn't just one or two patches of clumpy fur, oh no.  He had become an energetic, white, unbrushable ball of filthy fluff.  I waited a week, until after the very-much-anticipated family ski trip and the ever-exciting Christmas eve potluck and Christmas day gift openings before attempting to fix the mess.  A thorough shave seemed the most efficient, effective solution, but I couldn't bear to leave the puppy with no hair at all.  A short cut, I decided, should do the trick.  For the most part, Riley is a most tolerant little puppy.  Shots and nail clippings incur minimal disruptive behavior, and we already had a couple of successful trims under our belts.  This, I thought, shouldn't be too terrible an endeavor.  Never a good thought with puppies...never.

The cut started off okay, just like all our other trims, but shortly thereafter (okay, maybe more like 20, 30 minutes in), Riley was beginnging to get restless, and I realized that this little Shih-Tzu/Toy Aussie mix  had much more fur and tangles than I had bargained for.  Much, much more.  Our previous trims had consisted of a few swipes of the pet clipper and minor fixes with trimming scissors, but this time, I couldn't pull the clipper through the fluff without stopping every few minutes to chop off obstructive tangle balls.  Furthermore, chopping off the balls left patchy spots all over the poor puppy's body, and I was sure he would take one look in the mirror and hate me forever.

Turns out, he would have even more reason to blame Mommy before the hour was up.

I finished one fluffy side with relief and hurried to complete the cut on the other side of Riley's now squirming, jumpy body.  As I attempted to attack a particularly large mass of ridiculous knots and twists, the little bugger leapt forward just as I cut through the last bit of fur.  Pulling my scissors back in semi-victory, I looked to see, in horrific shock and disbelief, that there was a hole in my puppy's side.  It was a perfect pink circle of naked flesh, already bloodied at the edges.  Granted, the hole was small, no bigger than a dime, but I couldn't get over the fact that, I made that!  He didn't yelp, didn't whine, didn't even try to run away, and I sat there and held him and apologized with more emotion and profusion than I thought a non-human could evoke.  He peered up with disinterest and licked my hand absentmindedly.  I just cut into your flesh!  And all I could do was hug him tighter. 

We finished the cut, somewhat.  His fur is now patchy and uneven, and he has a bright red circle in his side, but Riley is still suprisingly trusting of me.  It might have been that I guiltily fed him half my lunch as he sat beneath the table or that I pulled out all his favorite toys shortly after his surely painful trauma, but to have him forgive me with such little thought and convicted certainty was one of those moments of understanding from which people think, "This is why I have a dog."

When I first got Riley, some friends joked that he was like a therapy dog, as he came at a somewhat trying time in my life.  Adjustment and relationship issues were constant distractors.  For the first time in my life, I was thrown into a permanently strange, new enviornment without firm relational support and learning how to recover from romantic love, loss and unhealthy ways of coping.  I like to think the hurts were accidents.  And still, it felt terrible.  Riley was meant to be the cuddly friend to love me through it all.  He was, as it always happens, anything but.  Riley's puppyhood naughtiness is a topic for its own blog entry to be titled, "The rise of the Demon Dog," but he has truly matured and fully bonded with me over the course of a few short months.

As I look at him now, sleeping in his favorite corner by the front door (he likes the cool marble), I still feel deeply indebted and regretful of this morning's incident.  He has grown to be therapeutic, I've realized.  He endured my hurts with me, my moods, tears, and complaints, suffered in my sadness, as I yelled and spanked and taught him to mind.  He reaped the rewards of my being happy, as I hugged and rewarded his inclusion in my life.  Hurts heal.  Love much.  Hi little one, I'd like to say, I hurt when you hurt.  I'm sad when you're sad.  Even in your patchy, mangy, ridiculous mess, I love you little bugger, very much.  Get better soon.  And next time you're tangled...two words: professional groomer.
    

Before cut

After cut (the side without the hole)

"I'm going to be a psychologist when I grow up."

Every time I come back to my gloriously small hometown, I prep myself for the questions from the adults here who pushed and raised me through childhood with distant communal care and an unspoken watchfulness we second gen kids have all come to recognize and often long to steal away from.  "Why graduate school?  Why psychology?"  And between silent undertones and confused glances, I recognize those "other" questions too: "What happened to that dental school admission we heard about?  Heck, why not med school, for that matter?"  It's an old stereotype.  Asian parents want their kids to be doctors.  Mine would never be so "unreasonable" as to purport preposterous ideas like that and find themselves in any such category.  They are, of course, more open-minded than such stereotypes require and work hard to keep away from said notions.  Of course.  All the same, some of the pressure still creeps in.  

We come from a place where everyone needs to know, begs to know, cannot run away from other people's business, especially especially especially regarding "the children."  We are everyone's children.  We are a community of Moms and Dads and Kids and you know mine and I know yours.  Some can't wait to slip into college life and get away from it all.  I'm not sure what I think.  To "the parents'" credit, it seems that more and more, the intrusive tide of nosiness, swirling whispers, and constant comparisons is waning.  The questions are more supportive, the community more intimate (in the right way).  I would love to think our center has become the Church, not the hierarchy of vocational positions and job placements in the company that all (yes, I do mean all) our parents work at.  I am optimistic.  I still believe in the goodness of small town values that make up this place, this community.

But sometimes, I still falter at the pressure to report back something indisputably positive, impressive even.  "We raised you, watched you, helped you grow," they seem to say.  Life successes have become ways of saying thanks, of honoring our parents, "the parents," and making something of yourself.  Thank you, friends.  I'm going to be a psychologist when I grow up.

This is an unconventional occupation, especially for the Asian community.  The history of professional mental health care for Asian-Americans, Asians even, is short.  And yet there is something about the idea of emotional well-being that is important to me, especially for children and adolescents.  Perhaps, as many may claim, it is still difficult to place full confidence in the field.  This may be true.  Measuring the effectiveness of therapy and counseling is much harder than of medical procedures and drugs on combating germs and viruses.  Sometimes, I want med school too.  How straightforward it is to heal someone's physical body.  How easy it would be to justify the long hours and tireless efforts.  These are thoughts that still occasionally manifest themselves when everything seems vague, when children don't get better and when research shows the dreaded "no significant results."  Still, progress is progress.  Protocols are being made.  Evidence-based practices are becoming emphasized.  School environments and curriculum are shifting.  Pediatricians are recognizing the importance of mental, emotional, and developmental well-being.  Bring in the psychologist.  Lives can be changed.  Etc.  Etc.  Etc.  At the heart of it all, I am optimistic.  I still believe in the goodness of humankind that make up our existence, our world.

Call me corny, call me naive.  I am optimistic.  I will answer your questions.  Thank you for caring, for watching, for asking.  Yes, ma'am, I'm going to be a psychologist when I grow up.

Meaningless movie, meaningless task?

Christmas break is for rented movies and time with the parents.  This has been true for the past six Christmases or so since I've moved away to college and then grad school.  And honestly, I've come to enjoy this more and more over the years.  What began as obligatory first-child-away-from-home and left-behind-feeling-parents bonding time has become, more truly, a comfortably quiet evening in with the folks.

Last night, the parents and I watched Julie and Julia - yes, the one with Amy Adams and Meryl Streep cooking.  Cooking.  I should have known the mother would doth protest against a movie with so many new phenomenons for her: French food, Sen. McCarthy, White Americans with accents, and blogging.  Fifteen minutes in, after the first few parallels were displayed linking Julia's and Julie's lives, she commented (in Mandarin, of course) on the seemingly pointlessness of the opening scenes in which Meryl Streep giggles and kisses marketplace fish and Amy Adams moans about a stressful job and unfamiliar new apartment.  Two hours later, at the movie's conclusion, she stared at the scrolling words with her eyebrows furrowed like squirming caterpillars and asked if there really is any meaning to watching 120 minutes of two women leading seemingly normal lives and cooking.  As I spouted off themes of women's trials and joys remaining consistent over the ages, making lemonade out of lemons, and -most importantly- finding joy and purpose in life, I did feel slightly silly.  What overrepresented, cliche themes.  Yes, this movie did inspire me.  But other than to cook and blog again, it reverberated no deep, lasting emotional chords.  Was my mother right?  Inspirations to cook and blog, meaningless?

The movie was fun, light, a little-affecting, feel-good visual package of good food and supportive friends and spouses...and really, isn't that enough to ask out of a movie?  And as for cooking and blogging, don't these activities represent the same?  Christmas break is for rented movies, time with the parents, and restarting a few old hobbies and interests.  I have some time.  Blogger, let's get reacquainted.