I Feel Ya, Ma


This week, Ace disappointed me for the fourth time in the four months I have had him. The first three months were a perfectly--and surprisingly--smooth ride. And then I guess he started to grow up, and not only got comfortable, but also learned to take things for granted.

The first time was several weeks ago, when I had been in a rush to get out of the apartment, and I snapped at him right before I left. While I was away for an hour, I felt unreasonably guilty, so I was already planning to give him a small piece of rotisserie chicken as a treat--or an apology--upon return. After going up and down the stairs with several loads of Costco merchandise, I walked into the kitchen, and saw a huge mess on the floor. He had jumped and somehow gotten the tied-up bag of food-trash out of the sink, and ate nearly all of its contents: half-eaten tortillas (because I don't eat tacos properly, so they say), saucy Styrofoam containers, browned banana peels... There was a myriad of things that I'm certain dogs should not eat, and he most definitely ate either a little bit of everything, or the whole of some. Needless to say, I was very upset. As I picked up the pieces, I began to feel disappointed instead. While I should have thrown that bag away into the actual trash can, he should have known better than to just jump for trash. I was disappointed that he didn't know better, or worse, that he did, but he consciously chose to do the wrong thing despite that. Moreover, I was disappointed that after three entire months of smooth-sailing, reality had finally hit. These thoughts looped in my mind:

It's not like I don't feed you, Ace.
I'm sorry I yelled at you, but you really didn't have to react like that. But maybe it was my fault for triggering that behavior.
Why did you go after trash?
Is what I give to you and do for you not enough?
What could I have done differently?
I really wish you hadn't done that.
Do you not appreciate or love me as much as I thought?

But then I reminded myself that even though he's five years old, he's still my baby. Further contemplation (can you tell how much this bothered me?) led me to reflect on my own childhood. My mother fed me perfectly fine. In fact, she provided fantastic, healthy, balanced meals for me every single meal; she'd go to the supermarket and buy fresh fish and vegetables every day, and she'd pour her heart and love into each dish. And yet, between each of these meals, I'd inevitably sneak "unhealthy" snacks--peanut butter, bread, Cheetos, Jolly Rancher--that my mother had forbidden me from eating because of my diabetes. Granted, she was vastly overprotective, but that isn't the point in this particular case. It wasn't like I wasn't full after each meal. I just wanted the forbidden fruit(s). I did think that what she cooked for me wasn't good enough, wasn't enough. I wanted more. I wanted what I wasn't allowed to have. So I snuck it every chance I got. I truly took my mother's meals for granted.

So then I began to understand Ace's action. I also began to understand my mother's frustration with me all those years. Day after day, she provided what she thought was best for me, and she tried so hard. But I never appreciated it, and chose to attain lesser things (upon reflection) because of that. And that very likely hurt her feelings; that very likely disappointed her deeply. She just acted in my best interests, and I went around her back time after time.

Ace did this twice more. And that was my mistake. I thought that after yelling at him the first time, he would have learned. But then it wasn't like I ever learned any of the umpteen times my mother yelled at me. So again, my mistake--erh, mistakes. But I did start to shut him out on the balcony as "punishment".

So the other day, I shut him out on the balcony. I had stopped leaving any food trash out, so I thought he would be fine alone after that last incident. But boy, was I absolutely furious this time. As I walked through the front door, I noticed a takeout box on the floor where he had been sitting. I wondered where that came from, but then thought maybe I just left an empty box on the table (unlikely). I proceeded to walk toward the kitchen, and BAM--trash all over the carpet, trash can knocked down on its side, lid open. He had figured out (1) that remnants of the good human food he smells go into the trash can, and (2) he could access it with his athleticism.

I summoned him with my angry-at-dog voice (I have variations of angry-voice), "Ace, come here! Get over here." He timidly approached and gazed at me, and I pushed him toward his mess, pointed at it, and sternly said, "NO. NO, NO, NO." I opened up the balcony door, and he already knew the deal, though he was reluctant to cooperate. As he sat still out there and I picked up the pieces, I noticed myself just talking to him--or at him--like a human kid. I started with, "You act like I don't feed you or something, Ace. I just fed you an hour ago, so you aren't even hungry." And I continued rambling about him not appreciating me, about why he didn't think what I did for him was enough, about him having regressed... I actually thought I might be crazy. But then I reasoned myself out of that--because I'm not crazy, duh--and thought back to my childhood once again. My lamentation probably echoed my mother's countless lamentations all those years ago. Despite that I had reflected on this weeks ago and thought I had come to peace with it, I was still utterly perturbed by this instance. It was so much worse than before. He was acting out, and I couldn't understand why.

I left him out there for an hour, and when I reopened the balcony door to take him out on a walk, he was so excited, though the walk was no-frills, no-praise. For the next 48 hours, I felt that my relationship with him had been altered slightly. I had felt that the first and second times that he had jumped and gotten the trash out of the sink, too. Because I yelled at him so harshly (harsh compared to never), and punished him for his behavior, I was afraid that (1) he wasn't what I'd hoped he'd be, and (2) I wasn't what he'd hoped I'd be. And I'm pretty sure he felt my distance in each of these occurrences.

That also brought me back to my relationship with my mother. Each time that she yelled at me big-time, I'd be mad at her for at least a day for being so unreasonable, and would add time to that because I thought she was mad at me, so I didn't want to communicate with her if she was mad at me (for something unreasonable)--see the vicious cycle? And I think that really hurt our relationship at the time, because it consisted of so much wasted time of me being mad, and me thinking that she was mad for longer than she probably ever was.

Having my own dog for the past few months has opened my eyes more than anything else I have experienced. I have a taste of full-time parenthood, its highlights and its disappointments, its endless responsibility and concern... and I'm beginning to see things from a whole different perspective. Or maybe it's the age--I'm also getting old.


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