Rhymes with Safari

Getting a tattoo, it turns out, is a lot like buying a house or a used sectional couch.

When I first saw our blue sectional couch in the corner of the townhouse where it was living with college girls, I thought it was in near-perfect condition. But when we got it home, I noticed that there were more tears and areas of wear than I had seen upon first look. Oh, it’s not as good as I thought. Have I made a terrible mistake? In that case, actually, I didn’t mind the wear and tear, because I knew it was just a matter of time before Leo ate the couch. No point starting out with something mint.

Had a similar experience with my house. With every house I took a second look at. There’s so much excitement at having found, perhaps, The One, that the mind overlooks all those little things, like mismatched window sills and frames, and cigarette smoke stains on the ceiling. Once the commitment is made and there is no going back, all the imperfections leap out and leave doubt. The stakes were higher with the house, of course, since it cost 1,000 times more than the couch. We repainted the ceilings before we moved in, but left the mismatched windows. I don’t mind them so much.

While the monetary cost of my tattoo was less than both the couch and the house, the commitment was more serious.

I shopped around for a tattoo parlor where I felt comfortable. The two places that were recommended to me by big dudes with big tattoos intimidated me. I went with the place that catered to first-time tattoos for young women. Private rooms. Maybe a little more expensive than the others, but this wasn’t the time to skimp.

In hindsight … I might have done it differently. Which is not what one wants to feel about a permanent life decision that she does not plan to make again.

Because my tattoo was so simple, I may have been assigned to the least experienced guy. Even though I purposely went to the kindler, gentler place, the dude wasn’t at all concerned about my comfort. Not that my nerves were overly wracked or anything, but I asked if I could lie down and he said, Sure, as long as my foot was still right in front of his face, two feet from the end of the bed. Which actually meant no, because in that case, there wasn’t enough room for my head on the bed. Rob offered to sit on the edge of the bed to prop up my leg, but the guy said he found that kind of distracting.

Was that a point when I should have said, “You know, maybe I’ll do this some other time. I don’t want to be permanently painted by a guy who is so easily distracted.”

The process was quick, but oh. my. god. It hurt. I had heard that the foot was a painful place. I have nothing to compare it to, but I can’t imagine it hurting any less on a fleshier part of the body. I was thinking: acupuncture, blood draw, along those lines. No, it felt like a chainsaw was carving into my foot.

I didn’t scream or cry or writhe or anything. What would the point of that have been? I merely gritted my teeth and turned my head away. Rob said later he couldn’t tell from my reaction how painful it was. I am such a champ.

Afterward, I was happy. It looked just the way I had envisioned. It hurt that evening like a bad sunburn, and it might itch more later, but the healing hasn’t been uncomfortable so far.

However, the next day, I experienced the second look phenomenon.

I had been under the erroneous impression that the artist would design the lettering himself. Several weeks ago, I decided on the style of writing I wanted — a lowercase calligraphy. I found it online and traced the letters from my monitor, carrying around the slip of paper in my wallet to show as an example.

My tattooist merely traced what I had traced, imprinted it on my foot and followed those lines.

Here’s where I had just the slightest tinge of … regret. Had I known my tracing was going to be followed precisely, I would have taken more care to make sure each i and s matched the other one. Instead, they’re not exactly the same. I was bothered by that the second day. Rob says it’s kind of cool, because it’s like real writing, not computer generated. And it’s cool that it’s “my” writing.

By the end of the third day, the buyer’s remorse was gone. Like my house, and my couch, I love my tattoo. It’s perfect.

The other day, while Mia and Leo were tussling on the back patio, I heard the tone of their conversation change. Mia’s growls sounded meaner; Leo let out some hurt-sounding high-pitched barks. I looked outside and saw that Mia’s jaw was tangled in Leo’s collar.

I know that you’re supposed to separate dogs by grabbing from their hips, but what do you do if they’re stuck together? Probably not stick your hand in their faces and try to disengage their mouths. I felt Leo’s teeth bite down on my hand and pulled it back. His collar was pulled tight against his neck, but fortunately, the clasp was on the back of his neck where I could release it without endangering my hand further. As soon as the collar fell, the dogs went back to normal. My hand had blood on it (mine) and hurt like it had been slammed in a door.

I rinsed off my hand and grabbed an ice pack. He broke the skin in two places, but nothing that required medical attention.

My mother, who is visiting, walked in the room from the other side of the house, unaware of what had happened. I told her there had been a little incident, but everything was fine now. Meanwhile, could she chop the vegetables for the skillet meal I was planning to make?

Leo came inside and kind of cowered behind my mom’s legs while she sliced. Leo doesn’t know my mom well, but she was there the day he came to live with us, so maybe he remembers this nice lady who kept him safe after his unhappy first interaction with a different adult female shepherd.

Later that evening, something happened when Mom was in the kitchen and Rob was walking from the computer room to the TV room. The dogs got into it in the kitchen until we separated them and put them both outside. They were fine after that.

They slept in the same room with us as usual and were lying on the floor nose to nose when I got out of the shower the next morning. Before I left for work, Mia was inside and Leo was outside. I reached for Leo’s collar to lead him past Mia to his crate. Duh, right? It reminded him of having her pulling his collar and she was right there. They got into it. This time I used the hip-grabbing method, but had a hard time breaking them up. Eventually I got Leo into his crate and Mom and I left for the day.

After work, I let Mia out first, and then got Leo out of his crate. As I opened the sliding glass door so Leo could join her, I thought, “Oh, I should take their collars off,” but before I could even reach for them, the dogs were fighting and it was bad. I redirected them to the main part of the yard, thinking they’d settle matters and move on, but the fight intensified. This was something I didn’t think I had to worry about anymore. They’re best friends! They don’t fight!

I couldn’t get them apart. Rob wasn’t home. I didn’t want my mom and aunt inside to even know there was a fight going on. I grabbed one dog by the hips and tried to pull them apart. The other dog held on. I tried grabbing the other. I couldn’t get between them. Finally, I moved them inside the dog run and managed to shove Leo to the outside of the gate. I took Mia inside. Leo continued barking at her, but it wasn’t the panicked spastic barking that Isis used to do. More like, “Oh, yeah, come back over here and let’s finish this!”

Rob pulled in the driveway. I went outside and sat down on the ground between our two cars to tell him what had happened without alerting my mother and aunt.

He said, “Maybe I’ll take them both out back and see what they do… wait, is Mia bleeding?”

Yes, she was, she had a puncture wound on her front leg. I took her to the vet where they cleaned it up and told me it would heal on its own. They also shaved around it, which is charming since she still hasn’t grown back the fur on her other leg where they shaved all the way around to anesthetize her to have a tooth pulled. Does fur grow slower in older dogs?

I kept them apart until Rob was done with his class. Mia in the bedroom, Leo out back and in the kitchen. I had a lovely dinner with my mother and aunt, feeling stressed and upset the whole time. I am a master of keeping dogs separated, but I didn’t want to have to do that anymore.

Leo sat very calmly on the kitchen floor, smiling. Yesterday, he did that with Mia right next to them. Were they not going to be able to be in the same room together like that anymore? Mia whimpered from the bedroom. I realized she’d never had a chance to relieve herself so I took her for a short walk.

After Rob’s class, we decided to try reintegrating them. Collars off. Mia was inside, whining because she wanted to be with Rob and Leo on the other side of the dog run gate. Both dogs had calm looks on their faces and wagging tails. Leo did a few play bows and pounces for Rob. They both looked like they wanted to play. We let Mia out. Leo did not charge the fence like Isis used to. I opened the fence. They ran up to each other and resumed their best friend play dynamic.

And all was right with the world again.

My parents have each asked me not to get a tattoo.

“Don’t get a tattoo, don’t get a tattoo,” my mother chanted when I broke the news and tried to explain my rationale.

Big surprise. I didn’t think they’d be all, “Yay, tattoos!” But tattoos are so mainstream at this point, I didn’t think they’d be so opposed to it.

It makes me feel bad. I don’t ever want to do anything that my parents disapprove of. But sheesh, I’m almost 36 years old. They’re lucky I didn’t get a stupid dolphin on my ankle when I was 18!

I dressed up as Sporty Spice for Halloween when I was about 23. I got some temporary tattoos for the occasion, including a tribal design that goes around the bicep. I loved the look. Less so the faux gold tooth and the magnetic nose stud.

Around that time, I bought some Japanese symbols that I stuck to my ankle here and there. I remember trying to decide what, if any, Japanese word I should have permanently inscribed on my flesh. Maybe I should get the Libra scales…

Boy am I glad that thought process never moved beyond a fanciful musing. That’s the kind of tattoo a person might regret…or if not regret, at least think to herself, “Gee, I wish I didn’t get the Kanji for ‘love’ tattooed on my ankle like everyone else my age.”

I have never seriously wanted a tattoo before. Here’s why I want one now.

I’m going to love many more dogs in my life. I feel a need to memorialize Isis permanently. A reminder of her, recognizing the special relationship I had with her. I want a small tattoo of her name — four little letters, or more precisely, two letters twice each — on my foot, forever.

We had a painting made from one of her photos. I have a wristwatch with her picture on it. We have her ashes in a box with a photo of her. A stone engraved with her name near the spot where she died. These are keepsakes that will last a long time.

She’s also still the desktop wallpaper on my laptop, and the photo on my cell phone and iPod. (Well, the lock screen is a family photo of me, Rob, Leo and Mia; but the wallpaper is Isis.)

At some point, I’m going to get a new phone or iPod and maybe I’ll use a photo of a different dog. Maybe there will be a point when I don’t incorporate Isis in the header for this blog.

But a tattoo of her name on my foot. That’s forever. Something special just for her. Just for me. It’s something that I think will help me in my grieving process.

I don’t see how you can argue with that.

The doggies were in the backyard yesterday afternoon while I was working at home. They started barking like crazy at the fence, and I figured the golden retriever next door was giving them the business. But then they ran inside the house and started barking out the front window. Then they ran back outside and went into what I like to call their “hidey hole.” It’s the space in the blackberry bushes that they used to escape the yard on the creek side of our house. We put up some chain link so they shouldn’t be able to actually get out of the yard that way.

I went out the front door to look along the side of the house from that direction, expecting to see the doggies sitting on the other side of that chain link. As I opened the door, a little red and white dog, sort of like a King Charles Cavalier, bolted out from under my car and ran toward the street.

Well, that explained the ruckus. I walked down the driveway to see if I could catch the little guy, but he had moved so fast he was long gone.

I went back to the side of the house, where I found Mia sniffing along the bank of the creek. The chain link was flat on the ground. Leo was still on the yard side of the gate. I resituated the chain link and brought the dogs in the house.

Several hours later, they started barking out the front window again, and I saw TWO dogs running down the driveway. The same red and white one, and this guy:

Rob says word must have gotten out that I’m adopting doggies.

Neither of them had collars. The red and white guy ran away, but this guy hung around. He wouldn’t come to me when I offered him treats, and seemed more interested in playing in the creek.

I went back inside and the dogs started barking at the back door. The little white guy had wandered into the dog run. He was dirty enough that he could have been a stray, or he could have just gotten that way from the creek. I closed him in the dog run, where he cowered in the corner.

My first thought was to figure out where to take him so someone could read his microchip, if he had one. Rob, who is much more hospitable than me, offered him food and water. The animal shelter and our vet were closed, so the thing to do was call 911 and have the animal control guy on duty call me back.

Meanwhile, Rob, who is also a better detective than I am, remembered that the old lady three doors down has little dogs, so he went over to check with her.

He was gone a long time. The animal control guy called and said he’d be right over. I saw the red and white guy running next to our neighbor’s house, so I rang their bell to make sure they didn’t have any little dogs I didn’t know about. They did not, but they said that those dogs had been running around all day.

I remembered seeing the animal control truck on our street earlier in the day. Had this been a daylong doghunt? Boy was I clever, to be the only one to contain one of these elusive creatures.

Rob came down the driveway of the old lady’s house. A woman about 70 years old pulled up and Rob went up to her car window to show her a picture on the back of his digital camera. “Is this your dog?” “Yes it is.”

Seems easy enough, but what I missed was that this woman was actually the daughter of the really old woman who lives in that house. Rob had rung the bell and stepped far back on the porch. He didn’t want her to think he was running some scam. “Hey, I’m looking for my puppy, little girl. Do you want to come with me in my windowless van to look for my puppy?”

He asked her if her dogs were missing and she said, “Noooo.” He showed her the picture on his camera. “Nooo, that’s not my dog.” I’m paraphrasing the rest, since I wasn’t there. She said she has four dogs, but that wasn’t one of them. Rob asked if she wanted to go take a head count and make sure. “Oh, maybe that is my dog…”

So good thing her daughter got there when she did. We returned the little white guy, whose name is Trigger, and told the nice animal control guy that we’d found his owner, and apologized for his having to come out.

“But, uh, there’s a little red and white dog running around that’s theirs too. He’s really fast. I couldn’t catch him. So, uh, if you want to go over there and help them out with that.”

He called a few minutes later and said that they got that dog back home too.

… OK, OK, I know this isn’t the most dramatic or exciting dog rescue story. But every time I see a loose dog, I want to make sure it’s safe, because I’d hope someone would do the same for me. Maybe Trigger and his buddy would have wandered home eventually, but they’d been out and about all day, so maybe not. I’m glad we were able to make sure they got home.