Consistent.

            At times the hardest part of being in a relationship is knowing that there are parts of you that are difficult, trying, stressful---and knowing there is no control.  My mother, throughout my childhood, often turned around to find me gone, leading a wayward steer named Jackson back into his stall by his ear--I'm sure she barely mitigated a heart attack simply by knowing that if she ran into the pasture in a frenzy, he may react.  Luckily he didn't and she didn't, and I was able to usher him back to safety.  These things often popped up---a flying squirrel that curled up on my doormat and found a home in my hoodie pocket, a very pregnant cat behind the Outback Steakhouse that would ride home as quiet as a mouse in my Mustang and have 6 kittens on our porch, a motley colored dog in our yard that would find sanctuary from the Florida heat.

          It was just---divine----the animals.  As easily as the automobiles came to me, so did the animals find me.  And the facts were facts.  The shelters killed them, this I knew inherently. And so---I know that I have subjected those in my life to the stress of extra paws and fur.  I know, and while I'm sorry that it makes life harder, I can't possibly imagine that letting them die is worth the---what?  Convenience?

        I can't even put together a comprehensive list of animals that have benefited from the patience of my mother, brother, and yes----even those horrible exes that have come and gone.  And now---the patience of my boyfriend who endures the lifesaving rescue of one very big, very sweet Pit Bull named Tyson.

     Here's what I've learned about Pit Bulls in the short time I've been involved with their rescue.  People see the breed first, and then the dog.  They see the stance, the head, and they cut a wide berth around them.  I can't help but to liken this to racism---isn't it really similar? It's judging by misconception alone, by appearance.  It's saying, "a handful of pit bulls were used for crime, therefor, we're going to lump them all in to this stereotype."  Instead of looking at his attributes:  knows basic commands, great with all other dogs, calm, hardly barks, wants to play and walk with you but desires to snuggle on the couch as his primary directive, intelligent, young, strong, clean bill of health, good with cats---people see "pit bull" and that's that.  That's one hell of a list of great attributes to simply disregard.

       That's like getting a fantastic resume for a job that fulfills everything you could want for that position---and then making a judgement call against the individual because of someone's ethnic background.  It's just...ignorant.

         So here are some things that are consistent about what I'm garnering from my current rescue situation: people consistently fail me, but never surprise me; animals tire me out, keep me exhausted but give me something to work for and something to believe in; despite the hurdles they throw into my life and my wallet and my personal life and relationships, they are the reason I'm here.  These things are never changing.

       Cheers to being consistently covered with fur, consistently the crazy pet lady, consistently tired and consistently giving comfort to the small army of previously unloved creatures that call my house their home.

Past, present, and adopted animals.  Foster kittens were thankfully all placed into amazing homes.

Past, Present, and adopted animals.  Bottom left: Circe, my angel, may she rest in Peace.  Bottom right, Dexy---the 11 year old Shepherd dumped at East Valley that lived her last year in happiness with me.  

Past, Present, and Adopted animals.  Bottom Left, sweet 22 year old Yoko, may she rest in Peace.  Top Right---tarantula rescued from rushing river in Puerto Rico.  I've been told it's not "native" and I don't argue spider geographics, but I didn't want to see her die. My sweet foster kittens and adult foster cat were placed into amazing homes. 

Tyson, with Joplin, about whom I blogged a few years ago when I pulled her from East Valley Shelter.

My fosters, Sheila and her 6 babies, Luna, Berkely, Squishy, Tyra and her 3 kittens, Tinga, Fontana, Cary Grant, Onjie and her 5 kittens, Dexy, Lily and her 6 kittens were all incredibly loved.  I didn't go looking for any of them.  Just like Tyson---running down my street, through my yard---they found me.  Consistently.

Skeptically Yours.

Salvation.

Years ago, indescribably, a 1976 Nova and a Rottweiler formed a foundation for me to rise from the ashes of depression, fear, self-harm.  They did so by giving me something to do with my hands in the form of repair and restoration with the car, learning how to revive something from the past that frankly no one else would have noticed.  The Rottweiler---well, she was my savior in the form of protector, moral North, and governing director of responsibility.  Going from invisibility to boisterous and frightened to safe and secure was empowering.

I've often made the comparison between myself and the Nova, the lessens of self to those of the car.  It perhaps sounds shallow and banal to someone who doesn't give a damn about cars or classics, but here's what I say to that: the Nova isn't a classic, and this week, she transcended the status of "car." Lessons come in so many forms.

Everyone that knows me, actually KNOWS me, knows that I drove that thing in high school, through college, out to California, and in daily traffic in LA.  They know that it was once taken from me by an ex who thought he had the right because he had put some work into the car with a shitty magazine that needed a topic.  Six months and a flat bed later, minus an engine and interior, etc, I got it back.  She had been gutted, and so had I.

I have replaced three engines in that car, put about 100,000 miles on her, and all in all, she has actually never put my feet in the dirt. That car has outlasted leased Lexus vehicles, apartments, boyfriends, fiances, jobs, the death of my best friend and protector---the Rottweiler, Circe, multiple nights out in Hollywood, and before that, Homecoming, Prom, the expedition to college, the move to Los Angeles, the day I took my first script to Emmett Furla Films.

And she has been the only constant.  She has been an unwavering force of consistency.

The last blog I wrote talked about the gas leak in the Nova and my frustrations with her, and I did, actually, put her up for sale.  I've received a few inquiries on her, and each one I've countered with "no."  The universe, it appears, has sent me a few messages regarding her purpose in my life.

This week, 2 things happened.  First, a massive pit bull appeared on my street at the same time that school lets out, and little bitty school kids and their mothers were scared silly.  Big dogs with gargantuan heads do not frighten me, so I lasso'd the culprit.  After walking him around the neighborhood for hours, it became clear that there was no owner to claim him nearby.  No one recognized this big boy.  He was pliable and amiable, so I postulated that he must have an owner, and the next day we planned to go to the shelter to scan the microchip.  After all, if any of my dogs got out, I would be frantically searching the shelters for them.  It's only fair, I convinced myself.

He spent the night at my house, my own pit bull feverishly trying to attack him through the door, him sweetly ignoring her futile efforts.  The next day, we were going to make out way to the shelter...but...he was too big, and slightly stinky, for the Jag.  So...the Nova...was the chariot of rescue.  As he climbed into the back seat I realized that my girl, Circe, was the last dog to ride in the Chevy, and that the Nova was performing a task that my new---and very expensive----Jag---couldn't.

And she did it flawlessly. 

The dog is fine, by the way.  He was chipped, and the owner was contacted.  If for any reason he isn't claimed, the Nova will fire back into action and we'll go get him and bring him home---errrrr---back to my house for rehoming.  He is, after all, too good not to love.

Next...my boyfriend's "rock solid" Jeep grenaded.  As if on cue, the Nova raised her hand as if to say "You need me.  I am here.  I have outlived all of them, and I always will."  He's never been a fan of the Nova, and in fact, is the person in my stories that said of the Nova at the show years ago, "Why is THAT thing here."  I of course defended her honor by saying, "fuck off."  However, he has never understood her.  Not really.

The Nova carried him diligently to work, no frills, no AC, no radio, no power windows---but when he returned, smiling, he said, "The Nova is kind of a hoot..." and then he wanted to drive it again, and again...it was clear.

She gets under your skin.  She is flawed, and imperfect.  She is nothing if not strange, and underestimated, and infuriating, and wonderful.  She is not beautiful exactly, but something about her makes you look at her.  She has been abused, and lived through so much---and the wisdom and experience she can share is worth the patience of waiting.  She is mine---she is my counterpart.  She has rescued me again this week and reminded me what's actually important---the lives of the helpless, helping those you love, and loyalty.  I forget time to time, and she finds a way to teach me again.

Skeptically Yours.