The Milla Times Journal

• the household: i received a rather pricey bill from the County of Los Angeles last month, called a “supplemental tax bill” (since property taxes don’t tax homeowners enough). the bill unsettled me — particularly its amount — so i paid a visit to the tax assessor’s office to get a few questions answered. after standing in three different lines in various offices, talking to countless people who couldn’t help me, a not-on-break employee finally noticed that the bill was not prorated as it should have been but instead was billed at the full amount for the fiscal year, meaning i was being taxed for a time period when the bank who repoed the house owned the house. County assured me it would repair the mistake and i would get a new bill in the mail for just my portion.
  
  a few weeks later, i received the new supplemental tax bill in the mail. the bill was for the same amount as before but now included a refund check that covered the bank’s portion. i called the County and asked what happened? “the refund is to help you pay your bill,” they told me. “why didn’t you just deduct the amount of the refund from the total?” i asked. “because that’s not how we do things.”



• that earthquake: in case you missed it, LA was rattled by a 5.4 a few weeks back. i was at work when it happened, on the 33rd floor of a downtown highrise, talking to a coworker in New York when the trembling started. when i’m faced with frustrating, frightening situations, my impulse is to start swearing like a goddamn cocksucking motherfucker, so that’s what i did — while on the phone with a virtual stranger. “fuck, shit, goddamn motherfucker. it’s an earthquake happening. I NEED TO CALL YOU BACK!!” then i dove under my desk and stayed there until the shaking subsided. first call went to Mo, who’s stationed at home during the day, “how’s the house???” Mo said house was fine, held up well. we hung up a moment later and i realized i forgot to ask him how he and the dogs held up. fuck.



• those Olympics: at first, i was resigned not to watch them because i knew that watching them would mean becoming obsessed with them. now that i’m obsessed, i’ve become slightly depressed over the fact that these young athletes have accomplished more in their short lives than i ever will with the remainder of mine. i used to think that being a rock star was the greatest profession on earth because it meant never having to get up early, but now i’m convinced that being an athlete is the way to go, because even though athletes need to rise early, they get to eat a lot and spend their days popping off endorphins. i’m also convinced that i will marry Michael Phelps.



• the day Juice went missing: i swore far more that day than i did the day of the earthquake. but yes, there was a day the other week when Juice got out and got gone. she was found an hour later a block away with some kind neighbors who took her in, but fucking hell, that hour Mo and i spent scouring the streets looking for her was the shittiest hour of my life. i actually held it together quite well until the moment i saw her again, at which point i started bawling like an asshole, at which point she started licking my face. i spent the rest of the day in such a state, my only relief lying on the floor cuddling with both dogs while my heart tried to reconstitute itself.

Labels: dogliness, home, money

that look: it’s the look she always seems to be wearing, particularly when i’m busy doing housework, checking email or — heaven forbid! — giving Juice a morsel of attention. that's when the stink eye comes out in this look that screams, “what are you doing, woman? don’t you know that I am the puppy? give all your attention to ME!!”


inattention: but the moment i pay attention to my special needs child i become irrelevant. i could be sitting with Pinko, scratching the sweet spot on the side of her neck that seems to paralyze her with pleasure, causing her to lean into the embrace and look up at me with the sweetest eyes. it’s a rare moment that could become my favorite of the day, maybe the week. and i’ll bend down and get all cutsie-poopsie in her ear and plant a kiss on her snout. then Juice will walk by leisurely on her way to the water bowl. and BOOM — Pinko will leap off my lap and trot alongside Juice like they had long-standing plans to meet at the water bowl all afternoon and her visit with me was only to kill time.


fusion: i’m fully expecting to come home one day to find Pinko’s skeleton fused into Juice’s. i hope they make special leashes for that. Pinko’s like an extra appendage already, the way she’s attached herself to Juice like a bunion. bright side for me is that i only need to ever look for one dog at a time, since the other will always be a step behind.


is that asparagus? for the record, i’m not one to get all weird about dogs sniffing each other’s asses. i understand that it’s a simple gesture for them, akin to a handshake. but imagine shaking your sibling’s hand up to ten times an hour, each time you both enter a new room, just to, you know, get reacquainted.


stuffed animal: now imagine viewing your sibling as a security blanket that must be in contact with your own body at all times. if the security blanket should ever fall off the bed or inch away from you as you sleep, imagine the horror such a discovery can bring. for Pinko, it means waking up in a flurry, crossing the room to find her beloved Juice and collapsing on top of her before returning to sleep.


from chopped liver to paté: though i’ll likely always be first runner-up, Pinko has warmed up to me tremendously. she’s not quite as affectionate as Juice, which bugs me a bit, but i’m trying not to take it personally. Juice is the type of dog who insists on taking every single nap in your arms, whereas Pinko only needs to lay her head across your foot to feel close. it’s clear she craves contact, but too much contact, like a hug, seems to smother her into a recoil.


pobrecita: i forget that Pinko was mistreated in her first few months of life, especially now that she’s grown so vibrant. it’s heartbreaking to think of some bastard abusing my puppy. and infuriating. it doesn’t happen much anymore, but at the beginning, whenever i would place my hand on her for some petting, her whole body would twitch, maybe from surprise, maybe from fear. to get her past her discomfort with contact, i got into the habit of resting my hand on her while she slept.


the crazy hour: i think Pinko might be part werewolf because, come sundown, she acts totally insane. it’s her “crazy hour” when she runs circles around the living room, ricocheting off furniture and jumping on Juice’s head like a hyperactive kid who’s upset that bedtime is approaching. my systematic research has discovered that crazy hour will occur no matter how much exercise Pinko has engaged in during the day. we could have spent the entire day hiking runyon and chasing balls at the park, but at the first sign of dusk — BOOM! — crazy dog.


the miyagi method: when Pinko becomes nutty — whether at night and often when guests are over — i try to reassure her that yes, Pinko, the sun will come out again tomorrow and no, Pinko, these people are not your new owners. when contrasted with my past strategy of exasperated frustration, reassurance is a winner. the trick, i’ve found, is to find that rare moment when she is still and gently place a hand on her belly or neck and leave it there. this acts as a sort of kryptonite, sucking out her nervous energy until she drops to the floor in a sleepy stupor. sometimes just holding her paw will do it. i think it helps her to know that mom’s here, baby, and it’s safe to go to sleep. (so fucking go to sleep!)


matriculation: best news is that Pinko has finally become a fully integrated member of the household. the novelty has worn off. she’s here to stay, and she knows it as much as Juice and i do. at this point, Pinko’s lived with me longer than she’s lived anywhere else, about half of her 10-month-old life.


the new sheriff: but with this newfound security, Pinko has decided to let her flag of mischief fly high and proud. before, she was trying harder than ever to conform to house rules, but now that she sees how hypnotized Juice and i are by her charm, she’s getting more brazen, as if she’s the one making the house rules.


rule #1: i am never allowed to leave the house. only when i am putting on my shoes do i become the most important creature in Pinko’s life. then comes the whining, the jumping, the pawing. and on those special days when Pinko’s at her most ballsy, she’ll pop into the yard and return with a stick in her mouth — a firmly established no-no — and lay it at my feet with a look that seems to say, “if you leave the house, i might be tempted to misbehave. and you wouldn’t want that, right?”


not good enough: as i’ve burned through my sick day stash at work, i can’t really call in to say i have to stay home because i fear my mischievous puppy, so i get up and go to work as usual, always uneasy about what i might see upon my return. once, i made the mistake of leaving my laundry hamper in Pinko’s reach only to find my clothes strewn throughout the house, covered in dog hair. as i leave the back door open for the dogs when i’m gone, lots of clothes were also scattered across the yard, including a lacy pair of panties that Pinko buried in the dirt.


rule #2: when i am at home — which is more often than not nowadays — all my attention should be focused on Pinko. this means playing with Pinko and her dirty dog toys and stuffing Pinko full of dog treats. any deviation from these two activities causes her to snake around my legs, wagging her tail so hard that it looks like it will break off her body. then comes the “talking,” which is not quite a whine or bark. it’s more of a constant vocalization that really sounds like there could be words in there. the speech generally falls into two categories: there's the low, guttural pre-bark growl that seem to say, “bitch, you better not be leaving the house again”; and the high-pitched pre-howl cries that translate to, “why, oh why, won’t you play with me? please, please, please!”


Juice! still a cutie.


Pinko!: just as cute — despite her destructive tendencies, talking back and divided attention. there's not a day i don't look at her and grin. she was the right dog at the right time, exploding with that hot pink personality that endears as it puzzles. i have no buyers remorse. you may put a fork in me. i’m done; i’m sold. i love this dog.

Labels: dogliness

i know what you’re thinking: but i swear i’m not pushing their heads together to create these syrupy look-at-the-darling-puppies-cuddling photo opps. swear!


they play, too: yes, when they are not nuzzling or staring into each other’s eyes lovingly, they are playing tug of war. like nonstop.


no toy? no problem! Juice’s neck will do. it’s far more elastic than any silly toy. warmer and chewier, too.


i almost want to try it: it does look pretty chewy, like a hairy piece of taffy. downside is that all the neck pulling is turning Juice into a sharpei.


dreaming of the pre-puppy days: a few people have remarked that Juice seems “calmer” with Pinko around. i think she’s just tired. hell, i’m tired. but we’re making it work, together. our relationship has certainly evolved with the addition of Pinko, like we’re mom and dad now trying to raise this kid right.


juice’s dog: i’m convinced that Pinko is convinced that the sun rises and sets in Juice. she cannot bear to be two inches away from Juice before panic sets in. she follows her room to room, sleeps right on top of her, and just seems better natured when Juice is in close range. and me? i just provide the food — i’m the caterer to their love affair.


see? i wasn’t lying.


juice don’t mind: she loves to spread the love. she will face-lick homeless people. i can learn a thing or two from her, because on many days when i arrive home after a full day at work to find the speaker wire chewed through, the broom eaten, the tissue box shredded, i’m ready to hang the puppy upside down by the tail and skin her alive.


san jugo: contrast this with the jesus-like Juice. she tolerates all the terrorizing — the neck pulling, the shadowing, the theft of toys — and never lays down the iron paw in the way her 75-pound body can on this 30-pound squirt. and honestly, i never expected anything else from her. because with a dog as full of love as Juice, Pinko is just another lucky recipient.


could it be? is it my imagination or does Pinko’s face look sweeter than it did in the first round of pictures? i think she’s softening, finally! all my hard work of not killing her day to day when she misbehaves is really working! or maybe i just said her name in a super high pitch when i snapped this.


i jest, i jest: Pinko ain’t so bad. in fact, i can barely remember the life i had before she entered the household. i know it wasn’t as fun. and certainly not as active. Pinko’s done much to pull my fat ass outdoors, as we hit up the dog park each day for ball-chasing and runyon canyon each week for hikes.


a welcome alarm: my favorite Pinko is morning Pinko. that’s when she’s the ultimate cute cake, sitting by my bedside with tail thumping the floor uncontrollably, ears back and eyes full of excitement. it’s that face that makes it hard to leave for work each day. and she’s full of these drawn-out yawns and stretches that result in the greatest little howl, like “roo-roooo-wooooo.”


“Ju — i mean, Pinko!” i’m doing that mom thing now where i get their names mixed up. you know, that thing i’d never thought i’d do. the one that drove me crazy when my mom did it with me and my sister.


boobs: i don’t recall the exact moment when “boobs” became their current collective nickname, but i’ve gotten into the habit of calling them that. i suppose it’s fitting — there are two of them now; both warm, cuddly and soft; they look alike; and they’re mine.

Labels: dogliness

i had been thinking about and talking about getting a second dog for years. i knew it would happen eventually, though timing and circumstances never made it easy. i had looked at a few dogs in the past, even had one stay the weekend with me, but it never clicked in the way i knew it would need to. then one day about a month back while i was cruising the pets section of craigslist, something i do regularly, something did click. i spotted a puppy and felt the familiar pinch of cupid and his damn arrow again:


deep dog: this might sound lame but there was something in the pup’s eyes that seemed deep and irresistible to me. she had been named Pebbles and her history involved a sad story about being rescued from a crackhouse in palmdale, where she had been mistreated, malnourished and left to suffer with a broken leg. a nice foster family took her in and nursed her to vitality. by the time i met her at an adoption fair a month later, she had made some mighty progress — putting on weight, learning basic commands and getting good with the housebreaking. i was impressed. but of course my interest meant nothing without approval from the big J.

we had one meeting at the adoption fair and another playdate at my house that went exceptionally well. they played, they laughed, they loved, they cried. and the planets aligned. with Juice onboard, i adopted the sweet puppy, who’s now six months old with leg fully healed, and renamed her Pinko after her pink cast and my communist roots.


co-pilots in crime: Juice and Pinko have become fast friends as well as sisters, united no doubt by their common enemy — me. i smell a mutiny on the horizon, with these two colluding against me during their huddled embraces. but what can i expect with three bitches in the house?


mystery meat: Mo says Pinko looks like she got her face caught in a car exhaust, that she fell for the old exploding cigar trick — a charcoal face characteristic of the Belgian Malinois. to me, she looks thoroughly shepard-esque mixed with the same mystery breed that gives Juice her floppy ears. but Pinko’s little with little, breakable bones. vet says she won’t grow to more than 35 pounds and that she might have some chihuahua in her.


Juice & Deuce: for being new, this runt sure has a lot of nicknames already. they include the very apt deuce, crazy, the little one, pretty in pinko and squirt. i had actually considered making Squirt her official name but then rethought that upon realizing i would forever have to introduce my dogs as Squirt ’n’ Juice. too much fluid. so yes, Pinko Jews is way better.


crazy in love: thankfully, Pinko is just as affectionate, cuddly, loving and warm as Juice is. unfortunately, none of this goodness is directed toward me, the evil dungeon mistress who occasionally drops kibble in the bowl when she’s not busy yelling “put that down! don’t eat that! off the bed! come back here! settle down!” it’s like chasing after a toddler. so most of the time, i get the cold shoulder, the dirty look, the silent treatment. and Juice the protector — who literally puts her big body between us when i’m trying to discipline the naughty puppy — gets all the unconditional awe and admiration a little sister could ever have for her older sibling.


still a sleeping cutie: and what a sibling Juice has been. i well up with treacle each time i consider how patient and welcoming she has been with this rat-faced terror whose favorite pastime is nipping at her neck and stealing toys from out of her mouth. but Juice never flinches; she totally gets it and even helps me out by modeling the perfect behavior each time i utter a request to Pinko, who turns constantly to Juice for direction.


hijacked: i will confess that i’m a bit jealous of their relationship. i sometimes think that Pinko is less my second dog than she is Juice’s first dog. she shadows Juice at every turn, needing to walk in her pawprints to sniff the same blade of grass that Juice sniffed. not that Juice minds having this captive audience of one who thinks she’s the center of the universe.


double the dirt and trouble: but oh my, the mess that two dogs leave behind. like Juice, Pinko has the shedding shepard gene that leaves a whole other dog behind, in hair, whenever she gets up. and there’s also Pinko’s proclivity of bringing in sticks from the yard to be eaten on the couch.


the twins: these two really have taken to each other in a way i couldn’t have predicted or planned better. Pinko simply lights up whenever she looks at Juice, just like she did the moment they met. and Juice is so fiercely protective of Pinko that she supervises Pinko’s interaction with other dogs at the dog park to make sure no one is picking on her kid sister. meanwhile, i'm still chopped liver.


the secret: behold the well behaved pupperonis who sit on cue and smile for the camera. i am the beastmaster! yeah, yeah, with some treats in my hand.


the temperament: this puppy is one tough cookie. she’s deep, she’s seen some shit, and it’s written on her face and imprinted in her eyes. like Juice, she’s smart and stubborn. like me, she’s full of needless pride. she’s a survivor — fearless and independent in a way that’s surprising for a six-month-old puppy. but with a bit of time and dedication that will all melt into love.

welcome home, Pinko.

Labels: dogliness

Juice is 5 years old now — and still so terrific. and of course i’m totally objective. but even if i’m not, i’ve heard enough complements from other folks to know conclusively that i have a special dog. even on day one, i knew i hit the jackpot. i well remember that day when i went to the South LA pound to choose my puppy. little did i know that they actually choose you. it was a Friday in mid-July, a hot day, making for one stinky animal shelter. i walked through the kennels and surveyed the barking pups. at that point, i wanted to take all of them home. city shelters are fucking depressing.

but then this little pup caught my eye. she wasn’t barking. she was sitting quietly looking up at me, blinking her dark eyes. in her kennel were two boys, presumably her brothers from the same litter, who were barking wildly and wrestling each other in an attempt to rope my attention. but she sat silent and calm nearby, just staring, staring. so i stared back. cupid must have surfaced at that moment to shoot his arrow into my heart. love at first sight. the decision had been made.

i walked through the remainder of the pound out of obligation, all the while knowing i had already found what i came for. that charade must have lasted five minutes before i turned to find the guard with the keys, who opened the gate, grabbed the lone female pup out of the litter, the runt, and placed her into my arms, creating a moment of sheer cosmic divination. this was the big it. we belonged to each other. she was about six weeks old.


at the shelter, the employees told me i was getting a rottweiler who would likely grow to 90 pounds. she had enormous paws and a black face with brown teardrop markings that are characteristic of rotts. the tips of her paws were frosted white, like a french manicure. and her puppy countenance seemed a touch serious, belying her gentle nature.


as she grew, however, it became clear that she wasn’t a rott at all. she was more of a Shepard with floppy ears and a snout like a lab. her cute face — which i found cutest when she slept — gradually turned brown and sweeter. and she grew to only 75 pounds.


she was crazy affectionate, too — almost bordering on needy. it took a long while before she could be left alone without incident. the first time i tried, i jetted to the grocery store for an hour and came home to neighbors standing outside my door, demanding to know what torture was being conducted inside. apparently, Juice had alarmed the neighborhood with her intense howling. this alarmed me in turn and really drove home the gravity of puppy parenthood. from that point on, everything became about training. and fortunately for me, Juice was a quick study.


people always ask me about the name. i can’t take credit; my ex named her. but it fits. she drools a lot, prompting the groomers i often take her to to call her Juicy Juice. she has a slew of other nicknames as well, which evolve with time. they include pretty girl, patoose, toots, cute cake, pinhead, perfect and bozo. but she is most thoroughly Juice. funny story about the first few years with her, when i lived in the fairfax & beverly area of LA, near the Hasidics, who would traipse through the neighborhood, usually to temple while i chased my pup up the street in a few botched attempts at walking her without a leash, screaming “Juice! Juice!” i got many stares and only realized later that they must have thought i was screaming “Jews! Jews!”


always a social and affectionate dog, Juice had many friends and admirers throughout the neighborhood, both canine and human. Chuck (pictured here) was her main man for a long while, before his owners moved out of state. they spent many a playdate locked in embraces. thankfully, they were both fixed.


but ultimately black Max took her heart. they’ve been best friends and lovers since puppyhood. Max is a year older and lives nearby, so they get to see each other weekly. from Max, Juice learned how to pee like a boy dog and how to wrestle with the best of them.


from me, Juice hopefully learned some of her good manners and how to while away her days by being lazy. she’s fairly mellow now, never aggressive or unruly, and she can walk without a leash. she’s definitely still needy, smiley, sweet, cuddly, gentle and perfect. i can’t imagine one thing that could make her a better dog.

but the question is — can lightning strike twice in the same household? Juice will have a sister soon. it’s my gift to her on her 5th birthday...

Labels: dogliness

i realized that i forgot to post my virtual holiday greeting card for 2005. so, yeah, here's a nice photo of the juice and let's pretend that thoughtful well wishes are written here. well, what i said last year will do. happy new year, y'all.

Labels: dogliness

is that cooking i hear in the kitchen?


is that bacon i smell?


i love when you're a messy eater.


back to being satiated and sleepy.

Labels: dogliness

i adore my dog -- like crazy, apeshit adore her. she's the sweetest thing in the world, everyone says so, and i know i'm being totally objective when i say she's also the cutest dog on the planet. so here's a little ode to my precious juice, who turned two years old this past june.


"look at me! how can you resist my face? now give me your burrito."


"i'll keep staring until you do."


"ah, fuck it, i give up. now i'll just take a little nap by your feet and hope some of that food falls from your plate and into my mouth."


"when all else fails, i'll just go give my mommy a kiss. i loves me my mommy."

Labels: dogliness