Found

I was remodeling an animal hospital when I met Van. A pregnant dog had been rescued from dodging traffic on the freeway, and brought into the hospital after giving birth to thirteen puppies.

Twelve of the puppies looked like black lab puppies. One was about twice the size, tan, with large floppy ears and giant paws. He had an Eddie Munster-like black marking over his eyes, a wrinkly forehead, a black mask on his mouth and it looked as though two-thirds of his tail had been dipped in black paint. I stood at the small pen surrounding this litter of wiggling cuteness in the lobby, ooh-ing and aah-ing with every one else while on break.

I was immediately drawn to the freak of the litter, the oversized tan puppy who looked like he had been dropped into this baker's dozen by accident. I asked if I could pick him up and was given permission. I held him close to my chest, his face toward me. He wiggled those giant ears and just stared at me. I smelled his puppy breath and kissed him on his Eddie Munster forehead, then sat him back into the mess of paws and tails and wiggling puppyness.

I had barely turned around to go back to work when the receptionist said, "Kris, you have a little shadow." The puppy had scaled the pen and had followed me to the door. I picked him up and placed him back in the pen. He quickly scrambled over his brothers and sisters and the pen and clumsily bounced toward me. Again, I tried to place him with his brothers and sisters. Again, he found me.

 "Well," the receptionist said, "I guess he's decided he wants to hang out with you."

 "He can come with me if he wants," I said. "I'm just cleaning the walls to prep for painting. He can't get into too much trouble. Is that OK?"

 "Absolutely," she answered.

So off I went to scrub some walls with my new adorably clumsy assistant, who tended to trip over his gangly legs and paws with every step as his ears bounced so much I thought he was going to take off in flight. The rest of the day, he followed me from wall to wall, sitting by my feet and looking up at me with his ears spread to their full cuteness, just watching me. At the end of the day, I walked back toward the front desk to drop my assistant off with his siblings. But when I arrived, a vet tech met me with two pieces of paper stapled together. She held them out to me. "Adoption papers," she said. "I think he has already decided you're his person."

 I laughed. "I'm not really ...prepared ... to have a puppy," I said.

And then the puppy sat. On my foot. And looked at me with the sweetest eyes and  giant ears like airplane wings fixed on each side of his wrinkly Eddie Munster forehead. "Really?" I said to the puppy. "You're playing the cute card?" He stared at me. I think his eyes got bigger and his face became cuter.

 After I re-solidified from the puddle I had become on the floor, I signed the papers.

I was in my  twenties, and quite frankly, a bit of a mess. I was kind of drifting through life with no idea what I wanted to do. Not to say I wasn't having my share of fun, or that I didn't have good people around me. I did. But I was struggling, too. I had no idea what I wanted, no idea what I was even capable of, and fairly sure I didn't really know how to truly and properly love another being. I had social anxiety, suffered from  depression, I was an insomniac, a daydreamer who rarely followed through, and I had a deep fear of commitment of any kind.

I had always expected myself to be one of those people who moved from town to town throughout the world on a whim. I expected to not settle down anywhere. But I had fallen in love with Austin, TX and I had been there a while. This confused me. I knew I needed to grow up, commit to a job that would force me to put down roots. I needed to think about the big picture, the long run. But my instincts told me to run from such things. So I did. Without really going anywhere.

And then, there was Van Costello Schultz. The puppy with the big paws and ears, the wrinkled forehead, and a tight grip on my heart.

I quickly learned I may have been terrible at many things, and decent at a few. But I was really good at one thing, and that was loving that goofy puppy. He was not a perfect puppy, and he did not become a perfect dog. And of course, I was not a perfect dog parent. In his early years, he chewed a 2.5 foot diameter hole in my mattress. He chewed through an entire CD wallet full of CD's.(Oddly enough, not damaging the Van Morrison or Elvis Costello CDs, though.) He was not even close to being the smartest dog. In fact, I often said he got through life on looks and personality .. .because he had no other options. He was house trained quickly and easily, only to proudly poop beneath my sister's Christmas tree and poop "with conviction"( as Van's step-dad says) in the middle of the garage. He fell over a fence at my parents' house while chasing a squirrel, talked roommates into double feeding him, and tore the stuffing out of more than one pillow.  Later on, he always stepped in between his sister Pru and I when I was petting her, stole his step sister Sandy's bed, and had a serious and lifelong humping problem at the dog park. But he had the sweetest soul. He loved one hundred percent, and his love was pure and drama free, and unconditional. And that was exactly what I needed in my life at that time.

 A year later, I would adopt his previously mentioned sister Pru, a Heeler mix. They were polar opposites. Pru was (and still is) extremely intelligent, eager to please, and was usually very well behaved. She needed a job to do and Van needed guidance. She proved to be just what Van and I both needed the day after I adopted her. Van broke his collar and took off after a squirrel. Pru took off after him. As I wondered how I was going to get them back, I saw what Pru was doing. She had caught up to Van, cut his path off with her sturdy body, causing him to turn around. Then she skillfully herded him back to me. And just like that, we were a family of three.

 If those two sweet but very different souls had not entered my life when they did, I honestly don't know where I would be today. They taught me how to really love, and that I was capable of love. They drew me out of my daydreams and helped me live in the present. They brought me out of my shell. And though I had always been a loyal friend, they taught me how to go the extra step in loyalty to the point of not being afraid of commitment, whether to a job, a place, or another being. I haven't figured it all out yet, of course, because I think only the four legged beings REALLY have life figured out. But I have figured out a few things. And those things have led me right here. To a place where I spend my days making a living by loving and caring for four legged creatures who bring me happiness. I know that I am capable of much more than I could have imagined all those years ago. I have made some mistakes. Because I am human. But those have led me here, too. And even though it took me a while longer to figure those things out than it did many of my peers, I did figure them out. But I wouldn't have even gotten to that point without that wrinkly-faced puppy who climbed a fence to get to me and decided we belong together and never gave up on me.

Boolola's Big Adventure

I am supposed to meet Kirsten at 9:30 to introduce her to some dogs that she will soon be walking on a daily basis. But I can't find the gauze I bought last night, so I call Kirsten.

“I might be late, because I have to dress Vernon, and I can't find the gauze.”

“Ok,” she says.

In case you're wondering, Vernon is my injured toe. Kirsten named him after an attempt to dance like the Jackson 5 went horribly awry, teaching me that one should never attempt such a dance while barefoot.

Halfway through the walk with George the Boxer-mix and Lois the Beagle, Vernon sheds the outfit I had worked so hard to make for him. He just leaves it on the sidewalk, as if he were a snail that had outgrown his shell, or a snake shedding his skin.

Around this time a pool of blood starts forming in my sandal – the only footwear that was accepting of Vernon in this state. Also around this time, I get a text from my friend, saying her house sitter just informed her that her pit bull is missing from the yard. The dog's official name is Lola, but Kirsten and I have only known her as Boobies, a fact that more than confused the staff at a boarding facility where Kirsten picked her up a couple days ago. So since then, we've started calling her many variations of the two names when referring to her. Boolola. Bola. Boolies. Boloola. Lolaboo. Loboolies. Lolabies.

Kirsten takes off to search Boolalie's neighborhood, while I stay behind and finish the walk with George and Lois, who are now very interested in the scent of blood wafting from my sandal. Trying to keep the dogs untangled and away from Vernon is a bit of a challenge, but we make it through, and a few minutes later, I'm joining Kirsten in Lolabies' neighborhood.

Kirsten mentions on the phone that she's asked everyone she saw, even the mail man. I ask her what area she covered, and while specific, I don't know exact boundaries, so I just start making the rounds.

I don't think either Kirsten or I realized ahead of time that we would be wandering around a neighborhood calling, “Boobies! Boobies!”

I describe Boolola to anyone I see outside, asking if they've seen her. For the most part, people are very helpful, asking if there's a number to call if they see her, offering to keep an eye out.

As I get further south, I simultaneously realize Kirsten must have been here before and remember I am a twin. It's something I forget often. It's never really in the forefront of my mind. Usually, I just think of Kirsten as my sister. Just like Denise is my sister. I tend to forget the fact that I knew her before we were born and we kind of look alike.

But moments like this, I remember. And boy, do I.

I stop to ask a guy standing near a cable company truck if he's seen any dogs matching Lolaboo's description. He shoots a strange look at me and says, rather angrily,“I told you, NO!”

“Okay, thank you,” I say, realizing that Kirsten must have been here moments earlier, asking the exact same thing. He must have thought I was her.

I'm just thankful he hadn't stared at Vernon and given him a complex. Poor Vernon is covered in blood now, and pieces of dirt are dangerously close to him. I shiver, despite the warmth of the air, thinking of infection. I definitely don't want an infected Vernon.

The whole neighborhood has been covered, to no avail. Boolola is nowhere to be found. Not by me, not by Kirsten, and not by the other people who I don't know, but who are supposedly canvassing the neighborhood, as well. I swing back by her house, hoping she had her fun and made her way back home. No luck. I spot a neighbor and explain the situation to him.

“What's her name?” He asks me.

I explain the Lola/Boobies situation, and he snickers. For a moment, I wonder if he thinks I”m just randomly making this stuff up for some reason.

I head to the copy store, thinking I'll make some “missing dog” posters.

But half way there, I get a phone call.

It's a lady who happened to run into the snickering neighbor shortly after I left. Turns out she turned Bolabies in to the shelter, and just happened to mention it to the snickering guy who'd just taken my business card.

So I'm off to the animal shelter, something that always manages to make me sad, because I can't take enough animals home with me.

I walk confidently up to the front door, only to be stopped by a man who says, “We're STILL not open.”

“Oh,” I say, realizing Kirsten must have stopped here a few minutes before. “You must have met my twin sister earlier...” He's staring at me as though I'm growing a Volkswagen out of my elbow. “ Nevermind. Ok. When do you open?”

“Eleven thirty.” he says. “It hasn't changed since last time you asked twenty minutes ago.”

“But-” I begin, wanting to explain, but I realize it's not important in the whole scheme of things.

And as I walk back to my car to wait it out in the A/C, I hear him mumble, “I don't know why people don't listen to me. How many times do I have to tell her that we don't open til eleven thirty?”

It's as if I've stepped into some strange movie where I am following the exact path of someone in perhaps a parallel universe, but on a slight time delay.

I use some peroxide from a spray bottle to try to give Vernon a bath while sitting in the car. Vernon is a little angry, I can tell. He's bleeding more, and he bleeds through one carefully wrapped gauze outfit before I replace it with a new one.

After eleven minutes, I head back inside, where I'm greeted by a woman who sighs after each answer I give to her questions. Finally she says, “Go out the door and find the dog you're looking for.”

I look in every pen twice. No Bololie. Just several temptations to gather all the dogs behind chainlink, pile them in my car and drive home.

I go back to the front office and Sighing lady is on the phone, so another lady helps me. Outfit number three is slowly wriggling off Vernon. I try to correct it with my other foot while conducting a conversation with the nice Non-Sighing Lady.

She asks me a couple questions, and then says, “What' the name of the dog?”

I explain. She laughs. The other lady sighs loudly.

The Non-Sigher takes me to a room where the new dogs are being held until their paperwork is processed. Loolabie is in a large metal kennel. When she sees me, the back half of her body twists and turns into a U shape, her tail smacking wildly against the metal sides of the kennel. She licks my face through the metal bars. It's my first time being kissed by someone in the slammer.

They rush me back to the desk to finish the reclaiming process, which involves a call to my friend's husband so that he can ok the release of Boolabie to me. This reclaiming process also apparently involves more heavy sighing from the Sighing Lady. And Vernon has wriggled out of his outfit without my knowing, and it's nowhere to be found. It's probably in the room where I identified Loboolie. I secretly picture the Sighing Lady sighing over it later when she finds it on the floor.

Another pool of blood is forming in my sandal when the Non-Sighing Lady announces over the intercom that “Lola, the white and brown pit bull in Holding One is ready to go home.”

I wait by the door, excited to see my puppyfriend Bolabie. I'm expecting the wigglebutt happy dance that I'm used to seeing from her, and in anticipation, I'm holding Vernon out of the way, carefully walking the thin line between keeping Vernon safe and spilling blood on the floor of the Animal Shelter Lobby.

The door swings open, and an old pit bull with only a third of its hair slowly waddles into the room. The handler says, “Lola? Who's here for Lola?”

“I am,” I say, “But that's not her.”

“They said Holding One.”

“I'm not sure what that means,” I say, balancing on one foot. “But the Lola I'm here for is younger, with brown spots and greenish-hazel eyes.”

Of course, I'm tempted to take this one home, too. She looks so tired and sweet.

I learn now that I am speaking to Sighing Lady's friend, Eyeroller.

She rolls her eyes and leaves the room. After a few minutes, the door opens and an explosion of white and brown bursts in the door, and a butt wiggling happy dance ensues. Lobiela jumps and does a play bow, sticking her butt into the air, just in case there's any confusion as to how happy she is.

“Boobolalola!!!” I say, scratching behind her ears, and this makes her happier.

I get her to the car, and she jumps in. I drop my phone into the center of the car, in the space between the front seats which Kirsten has always called the French Fry Holder. And I hear a splash.

I look down and realize the peroxide I'd brought to keep Vernon clean had spilled into the French Fry Holder. I curse Vernon out loud. Bieolaboo looks at me, tongue sticking out, mouth wide open in a doggy smile, and it makes me laugh.

“Alright, Boola,” I say, “Let's get you home.”

I call Kirsten and tell her the good news and text Boliela's people. Then drive across the lake in the center of town to South Austin. We pull up to Lolabie's house. I guide her into the gate and then into the house.

She walks to the exact center of the room, lies down, stretches and lets out a long breath.

Vernon and I exhale, too.

The Understated Um

I'm helping my boyfriend install laminate flooring in his house when my hand gets caught under one of the planks. He's standing, speaking about the grand plan of the floor as he unknowingly steps on the exact board that is covering my hand. 

 I wait until he finishes speaking, and then I say, “Um.... can you step off that board?”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because my hand's underneath it.”

He suddenly jumps back, his eyes widening with concern. He leans toward me, “Are you okay?!”

“Yeah,” I answer, rubbing my hand and trying to shake the pain out.

“Are you sure you're okay?" He asks, " Why didn't you say something?”

“I did.”

“Yeah, but you could have yelled or said 'ouch' or something. The appropriate response when I'm crushing your hand is not 'Um...'”

We'd been together around a year and a half by this time,so he shouldn't have been surprised by my lack of reaction. But to be fair, he comes from a nice, normal family, to whom injury is the exception, not the norm. I guess he's used to people being blindsided by an accident, and vocalizing it.

You see, to react the way he mentioned – by yelling or even saying “ouch”- would imply surprise. And a member of my family is rarely surprised when injury occurs. It's as if it's simply an unavoidable part of the day.

My twin sister, Kirsten, is the Queen of the understated “Um...” Our dad once rolled a broken- down car onto her foot and it took a while to explain to him what was going on.

“Dad, can you move the car?”

“I can't, Kirsten, it won't start.”

“Dad, can you please move the car?"

“It won't start, Kirsten, that's why I'm here...to try to fix it."

“Um, Dad? Please move the car. It's on my foot.”

Now, despite what I've said so far, the Schultz family – including nearly two dozen cousins – has a history of being athletic. I would confidently challenge any other family to a softball or kickball game any day of the week. As long as there was enough bubble wrap to go around. Not because we'd twist an ankle going after a grounder or get popped in the eye by a line drive. That would be highly unlikely. No, we're the kind of people who can play a whole game of basketball without getting hurt, step off the court to get a drink of water and chip a tooth . I have one cousin who accidentally flipped over while putting on a pair of pants.

When I was thirteen, someone in the great state of Kansas thought it would be a good idea to give Kirsten and I a spear and say, “Here, awkward, gangly thirteen year olds, run as fast as you can with this and then throw it!” Well, we survived that, and that spear (a javelin) eventually landed us college scholarships. It was during my involvement with the track team in college that I came to realize that not everyone shared these injury issues. It was, indeed, a trait unique to my family. There were, of course, the pulled hamstrings from overdoing it on the track, and the wrenched back from lifting too many weights. There were twisted ankles due to turning the wrong way while doing plyometrics.

And then, there was Kirsten and I.

The athletic trainers soon began a list of “Top 10 Self Inflicted Schultz Injuries.” The highlights of this list included:

1. Pulling a hamstring while crossing the street
2. Falling into a four foot deep hole while walking in the park.
3. Getting a concussion while jumping on a bed.
4. Spraining an elbow while eating breakfast.
5. Wrecking a stationary bike.

There were more, of course, but almost none of them included the use of a javelin, and absolutely none of them included the use of the javelin in the way a javelin is meant to be used. And for the record, there ended up being much more than 10 in that Top Ten List.

Since college, the list has expanded. There was the collarbone injury after spinning in circles under a giant Christmas tree. I injured my jaw getting out of my car. Kirsten managed to get hit in the face by an awkwardly-flying pigeon.

Not a week goes by without some odd injury or two. And I suppose the fact that I can't remember many of them is either a testament to how unsurprising they are, or the fact that I've landed on my head too many times while moving clothes from the washer to the dryer.

Either way, if you happen to hear my sister or I say, “Um," just grab the First Aid kit, and all will be fine.