Freddy didn't start out as a dog. When we picked him up from Farfel's Farm & Rescue on July 16, 2020, he was nothing but a quivering, biting diarrhea-producer. (You can read about those early days, when his name was Nolan, here.)

He would barely come out of his crate. He would barely eat. Every toileting excursion (with a leash because we had no enclosed yard at the time) was either harrowing or exhausting—usually both. He would spin around and try to escape his harness. He would fearfully listen to every noise as if it were an approaching lion or bomb squad. He always kept his tail tucked firmly between his legs and would shrink away if you tried to touch him.

This went on for a long, long time. When Freddy finally dared to emerge from his crate, he wouldn't walk more than a few feet. He was terrified of hard floors, so he stayed on the carpet. Carpet that he soiled more times than I can count.

After something like a week, we saw his tail start to go up. After about a month, he was bold enough to go into our kitchen. The first time we heard him bark, we were utterly shocked.

Slowly, slowly, over the months, he continued to improve. He learned to sniff around the kitchen floor to find all the bits of food that seem to fall there. He learned the joys of a belly rub. He began to tolerate walks. Eventually, I was able to pick him up.

In March of 2021, we moved to a house with a fenced-in backyard, and that made a tremendous difference. Freddy started to explore. He began playing with the squirrels who love to taunt him. He ate things he shouldn't. He rolled around in substances he thought smelled beautiful. He got baths. 

Last month, he survived a night of boarding when we went out of town. He went to the vet and got immunizations without incident. And about a week ago, he got his final dose of Prozac, which he'd been on since the early days.

There remained just one more hurdle.

Both the condo we used to live in and the house we're in now have more than one story. But Freddy had never once made it up or down an entire flight of stairs.

Until this past Sunday, July 11, 2021, that is. On that day, my husband and I sat on the basement stairs together and encouraged Freddy to come down a few steps. Oh, but he wanted to. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Until later that night, when I was in the basement doing laundry, and I noticed that I had surprise company: a little thirteen-pound terrier mutt who had conquered his final limitation.

​Congratulations, Freddy! You were worth the wait.

Look, it was a long time ago. It was a decision made with my heart, not my head. And Lisa Perez didn't deserve them.

Here's what I remember.

I must have been something like six years old. Lisa Perez, who was about my age, had two adorable new puppies with her in front of her house—a black one and a beige one. Were the puppies in a box? Was Lisa holding them? I'm not sure. What I recall is that she claimed to have found them, and she told me in a sort of braggy way, "My mom says if I don't find who they belong to, I get to keep them."

Oh, no. That could not happen.

Lisa Perez shouldn't simply get to keep two tiny, out-of-the-blue, windfall puppies. And her mother probably hadn't actually given her permission, anyway. Lisa was a known teller of falsehoods. She had once pointed at some velvety moss growing on a rock and assured me it was gravity.

So, within a matter of seconds, I took action.

I started running down the street toward my house while calling, "Here, puppies! Here, puppies!"

And they ran after me! Clearly, they sensed who would make a better owner.

I don't know what ensued between the Perez parents and my own, if anything. All I know is that my Great Dog Robbery was successful, and I got to keep that pair of scruffy little curs.

My much older brothers named them Ralph and Floyd. But I often continued to refer to them as simply "puppies."​

​My career as a criminal was short, but it served me well.

Like just about everything else "in the time of COVID," adopting a dog is tricky. No more casually visiting shelters and interacting with a multitude of pups in person. You have to search online and make appointments. You have to meet dogs with half of your face covered and the smell of sanitizer on your hands.

And because everyone is stuck at home, a lot of people—particularly in Colorado—are adopting dogs right now. Inventory is tight. Dogs are flying off the proverbial shelves.

For example, a month or two ago, my husband (Bob) and I found a dog we liked down in Denver. Right before we got in the car for the long drive down (which would prove particularly trafficky and unpleasant that day), we called to make sure the dog was still available. He was. But by the time we arrived at the shelter, the dog was gone.

There were technical troubles with the application. There were emails and phone calls. But before too long ... success! We were deemed fit dog-parents. Before we could even meet this 14-pound creature (he was still in New Mexico), I paid $509.66, signed a contract, and began counting the minutes until we could pick him up.

We knew he'd be exhausted when we went to get him from Farfel's Farm & Rescue in Boulder. He would be coming straight from the vehicle transporting him and other dogs from Texas and New Mexico.

But things were worse than we'd anticipated.

"There's been a little incident," the woman behind the desk at Farfel's let us know when we arrived for our pickup appointment. The "incident" involved a frightened Nolan and a well-intentioned human trying to pick him up. And, well, a bite. (Dog-on-human, if you're wondering.)

OK. So now we were picking up a "dog that bites." But whatever— we were OK with that. (Just look at his picture.) It was decided that Nolan would stay in his dog crate so we could spare him the stress of taking him out. (And maybe spare ourselves from snapping jaws.)

The next few days were rough. The only way we could take Nolan outside for toileting was to carry him in the crate he stayed in all the time. He was very reluctant to leave it. Here he is on his second day with us: standing with three legs out, one leg in. He stayed in this position for a loooong time.

He developed a hardcore case of "stress colitis." That's fancy talk for explosive, unremitting, horrid-smelling diarrhea. So much of it. So often. Day after day. I've done so much carpet cleaning. (You know, I've never made a penny from affiliate links, but I will happily plant one right here for Nature's Miracle.)

This dog was such a basket case, in fact, I had to check with Farfel's Rescue about his backstory. They had described him as "a bit shy at first," but this he was beyond shy. He was a wreck. I texted the lovely woman from Farfel's and got the whole story.

When Bob learned this, he began indicating that he might not want to adopt this dog, after all. Nolan's brain probably isn't wired for human companionship, Bob conjectured.

But I knew we had a full two weeks to "try out" this dog. And I hoped that with enough affection, safety, peace, and consistency, he might begin to settle.

I wanted more than anything to avoid taking him to the vet for his gastrointestinal issues, because I knew it would only traumatize him more. Could strings be pulled with the Farfel's vets? Could we just give them a "sample" from Nolan (what a euphemism!) and get a prescription?

Nope.

​My sage friend Sara Webster told me what I didn't want to hear about the vet:

Sigh.

I bit that bullet and made an appointment.

By this point, Nolan was starting to make some progress. He'd graduated from his opaque Farfel's crate (see above) to a wire one that let him see out and get used to his surroundings. He'd even ventured out loose in the house a little. I hoped that the trauma of a car trip and vet visit wouldn't take him right back to square one.

On his sixth day with us, we took Nolan to the vet.

He survived.

He got meds.

​He got better.

And Bob's been won over. Nolan is a keeper! 🎉

I'm writing this on day ten. Nolan's belly is all better. He has an appetite. He has energy. He has a personality! Now all he needs is a new name.​ (Opinions of the following and suggestions welcome.)

Pandemic: bad.

Having to put down your beloved dog during a pandemic: extra bad.

Actually, I didn't have to do it myself—thank goodness. The wonderful, compassionate folks at Pets & Pals Veterinary Hospital in Lafayette, Colorado, have stayed open during this outbreak, and they handled the euthanasia. (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Below is a piece I wrote for my husband's dog photography website many years ago. I'll leave it here as a tribute to Little Guy, my funny, handsome, and tremendously comforting friend. ❤️

I've been attending a nifty little series hosted by AIGA Colorado for freelancers and entrepreneurs. Last night, the topic was "Workspace Matters," and the panel of speakers discussed coworking spaces, work habits, and the like.

At the conclusion, the moderator asked us to assess our own working spaces. And so I will.

Many days, I commute a whopping two miles to a fabulous coworking space called Confluence. I take advantage of their "hotdesk" membership, which lets me grab any open spot in a lovely central room. Confluence has free parking (though I may start biking or walking), a great kitchen and dining area, and complimentary coffee, soft drinks, and yes, beer. They host social/networking events where all of the members can get to know one another and learn what each of us does for work. We're going to start doing some volunteer work together, too. Possibly my favorite part about Confluence is the book club they hold every three weeks. To me, nothing beats a good book club, particularly one taking place about 20 paces from where I work. So my assessment of my coworking office is A-double-plus.

Now, some days (like today), I work from home. I love my home office, too. I can nap and fold laundry as needed, and I can work whenever I like—including before sunrise.

The central feature of my home office is my coworker, who shares an office chair with me. Little Guy is a chiweenie (chihuahua + dachshund) who loves to snooze on an old sleeping bag directly behind my back. My husband is chagrined by the ergonomic implications of the way I sit and implores me to invest in an Aeron chair. But if I were to do that, I think I'd have to keep Little Guy and his claws off of it, and I don't think I could bear it. I mean, really: could you?

​