Crumpacker's Halfway House For Dogs.

Y'all remember Annie? She was one of the symptoms of my what-have-you -- a Mexican puppymill dog I bought in my effort to save the world one dog at a time. I found Annie a good home when she proved too much for us to handle, but my drive to be keeper of the life force remains; and I've found the perfect outlet for it. Meet Willis.

Willis has NOT been adopted by my family, but we're going to serve as his foster home. Willis was rescued from being euthanized for a broken leg; he's an eight-month-old Jack Russell terrier mix. He's having expensive surgery, after which he will need a foster home for a few months with someone who will love him and take him for walks. He loves children and other dogs. And we're going to love him, and when he has healed completely he will be placed with a forever home. Probably not us. But that's okay; there will be other dogs to foster, dogs to love for a little while until someone shows up to take them home for good.

Because this is something I can give. We have two of everything: two dishes, two crates, two leashes. And if I can make a difference in the lives of a few lucky dogs saved from death or abuse by Critter Crossings rescue down in Fallbrook, then I will have made a little difference in my little corner of the world. And that makes me happier than words can say.

Tough And Transparent As Armored Glass.

I've been slowly unraveling the issues that led to the Completely Fucking Mental Crisis, and it's been interesting to say the least. As I said to Ben and to my friend Scott, perhaps there are situations in life when the CORRECT response is to go a little bit crazy, and going a little bit crazy isn't necessarily a bad thing. It forces you to stop and take a look at things, see what needs fixing, see where you've perhaps been lying to yourself.

For example: At one point over the weekend, during a family outing to the canyons of eastern Orange County, I got annoyed with Ben while in the midst of a low blood sugar reaction (one of the features of my what-have-you has been a tendency to neglect such things as eating and sleeping). "Fuck you," I told him, which did not please him overly, but I was angry. Afterward I said to him, "Do you realize how long it had been since I allowed myself to even get angry with you?" It's true. I was working SO hard to convince myself that life was perfect that I didn't even dare raise my voice or retort to an offending comment. GAH! I figured I had to turn into a Stepford Wife to handle all that was on my shoulders. And for a while there, I did a pretty good job of playing the part.

But it's all going to be okay. I'm going to continue to work things out and love my family, and if the house isn't perfectly clean or if I get annoyed or tired or overwhelmed, that's okay too. If, for example, I'm meant to be reviewing medical records but end up spending half the day setting up the computer in the spare bedroom and the other half eating cinnamon bears and reading essays, then I'll chalk it up to recovery and put my nose back to the grindstone in the morning. I'll trip and fall. I'll fuck up royally. And right now I'm going to play X-Files action figures with Sam.

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