Pit happens when you're raising the woof

I currently find myself living a non-fictionalized account of Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children except it's called Savannah Mosiman's Home for Traumatized Dogs. First out of the gate (although, to be fair, all six attempt to lunge out of the gate simultaneously), is Daisy. Stroking her head, I mourned her missing ears. As I ran my hand down her silky throat, I encountered the raised, angry scar from her restraining rope. Daisy was a reluctant participant, thrust into the unsavory dark shadows of the pit bull underworld. However, like her pacifist predecessor Ferdinand, sweet Daisy preferred flowers to fighting. Rescued from what would have been sure to be a brief but ugly career as a sparring partner, Daisy desires nothing but naps and reassuring human companionship. Timid topaz eyes, like two healing crystals, gaze hopefully at you, attempting to elicit a promise that you will keep her safe. She breaks my heart (and hurts my nose...let's just say she isn't as "sweet as a daisy," packing QUITE the punch when she loudly passes gas)...a four-legged reminder of the unimaginable cruelty that exists in this world. I imagine and pray for the person lucky enough to adopt this dog whose tail continues to wag despite her tumultuous past.

Daisy is one of four foster dogs available for adoption from Savannah Mosiman's Home for Traumatized Dogs although I have to say, I believe I'm the most traumatized occupant in the residence right now. Having successfully fostered and adopted out dozens of dogs, Savannah, Lisa, and Sydney (almost) make the process look effortless. Deciding to walk (wrangle and wrestle) six dogs at a time should become an Olympic event or a segment on American Ninja Warrior.  Teddy, Sydney's chunky-monkey chi-weenie, throws all his weight against his harness, practically dislocating my shoulder as he huffs and puffs his way, like a disgruntled tugboat, toward the front of the line. Dylan, Savannah's sweet dog who reminds me of a Pharaoh hound, chirps like a bird and her paws rarely grace the pavement. Lisa spent half her time alternately carrying one of the two sibling fosters like cord wood, their impossibly long legs thrusting out at impossible angles like  canine versions of Ker-plunk. Lisa was convinced that we just had to settle on the right order. "Maybe we should have Dylan and Daisy be partners and let the puppies in the lead." Arms aching from holding the tugboat back, I yelled, "Do you think Santa had this much trouble arranging the reindeer?" We were QUITE the spectacle...loud, obnoxious, but ridiculously happy. Relieved, we finally made it back to the house and unanimously vowed to NEVER do that again.

I awoke this morning to the lulling sound of metal dog bowls striking a stone floor followed by the melodious rainfall of canine kibble. Burrowing under my pillow, I faintly heard Savannah mutter, "What is that smell?" I begged myself to succumb to sleep. I tried self-smothering but my preservation instinct kicked in as I faintly detected Savannah screaming. What kind of mother ignores her child in peril? I peered around my bedroom door to see Savannah, frozen in horror, staring at a prone (and poopy) object on the floor. I gasped. "No!" I cried, "Not DJ Roomba!" I stood straight and saluted this valiant soldier who had done his duty but inevitably lost his life in the, now historic, Battle of the Bowels. Scooping up his remains, Savannah raced to the exit as DJ Roomba continued to "bleed" out (btw:  It wasn't "blood"). "Open the door! Open the door!" she shrieked, getting struck by friendly fire along the way. I wrestled with the locks and then the stuck and swollen door as Savannah momentarily lost her mind and forgot I was her mother. Where on earth did she LEARN such language?!?

DJ Roomba expelled from the house, we turned to face the carnage that remained on the floor. Lisa emerged as the clean-up crew, gently reminding Savannah how the purchase of a Swiffer Wet-Jet would have really been helpful in this instance but, for some reason, Savannah was not in the mood for helpful suggestions. The air quality of the house really took a hit. "I'll light a candle," I offered. "Wow," said Sydney, observing this early morning train wreck with the dead eyes of one who has seen it all, "you have a LOT of faith in that candle." With a firm hand, I held the lighter to the wick. "Right now, this is the only thing that makes scents to me."