The mystery of the hamster box in Zumba class

My mom discovered Zumba last year, and could not stop raving about it.  She encouraged me to join her, but I wasn't sure how I felt about hour-long classes of gyrating and body pumps to sexy Reggaeton music.  It just didn't seem like "me."

When I went through a difficult breakup earlier this year, I decided it was time for some changes.  I was going to try new things and take care of myself--mind, body and soul.  Step one was to try Zumba.  Immediately, I was hooked.  There's really nothing like shaking your shoulders, hips, and booty freely, without the fear of judgement--we all looked ridiculous together.  Granted, brushing my shoulders off and doing slap-a-booty dance moves side by side with my mother still feels odd at times, but overall it's a blast.  I started going 2-3 times a week and was feeling on top of the world.

When our favorite Zumba instructor moved to New York, my mom and I were devastated.  The other classes were good, but we just weren't getting the same sense of fulfillment.  My mom discovered another studio close by, and we decided it was worth a try.  The class sizes were supposed to be smaller, and the instructor was getting great reviews.

During the first class, as I took a water break, I noticed something peculiar in the back of the studio near the ballet bars.  It seemed to be a tupperware-type storage box, but it was filled with something that looked strangely like the shavings that people use as bedding in hamster cages.  I was intrigued and alarmed at the same time, but as I stepped closer to inspect the contents of the box, the instructor began the next routine, and my investigations had to be put on hold.

I couldn't stop thinking about this hamster box.  Was there really some sort of rodent in there?  Each time I took a water break, I tried to get a better glimpse, gather more clues.  I discretely searched for a running wheel, some tubes, a colorful plastic tunnel, but all I could detect was the thick layer of the wood chip-type material.  There was also a large label on the lid.  "Rosie."  I lingered for a moment to see if Rosie would come claim her box so that I could see what she would do with it or even ask what was in there, but then decided that I was starting to look a little suspicious and left.

When I saw the box again at the next class, I really started to feel tormented.  I just couldn't come up with any logical reason why this particular object was inside a dance studio, taunting me with its mystery.  I couldn't focus on the choreography anymore, and found myself dancing in the wrong direction, apologizing for bumping into people around me.  Wild thoughts ran through my mind.  Why a hamster in Zumba?  Was it a service hamster?  A seeing-eye hamster...  An anxiety-ridding hamster.  My dog certainly helps me with my anxiety.  If I could fit her in a box, would I bring her, too?

Then my mind flashed back to the days when I taught middle school in inner city Los Angeles, and our school launched a teen pregnancy prevention program.  A select number of students who participated were required to carry around a baby doll that simulated the cries of a real infant.  The crying was obnoxiously loud and occurred at random times, including during my grammar and vocabulary lessons.  The students had to then insert a key in the doll's back for a specific amount of time to soothe the baby (5 minutes for something like "burping" or "changing a diaper," 20 minutes for something like "feeding," and 35 for something like "comforting.")  As a teacher, this proved to be an utter nightmare.  There were times when I had four or five babies crying at once, their 7th-grade "parents" trying to comfort them, their peers teasing and others threatening to start a riot in the classroom.  There were moments when I was seriously tempted to grab all of the dolls and toss them out the window, but any "rough handling" would alert the instructor of the program and result in an automatic fail in the class.  The program was called "Baby Think It Over." 

Now I wondered if some parent was practicing a similar tactic with a teen in Zumba class.  Hamster Think It Over.  Perhaps some kid had begged her parents for a pet, and in attempts to teach her how much responsibility went into caring for an animal, they asked their daughter to carry around a hamster box 24-7 to cause her to change her mind.               

Today at the end of class, I figured it was time to put an end to this conundrum.  I was going to wait as long as it took for Rosie to come pick up her hamster box, and I would demand to know why she kept bringing it to class.  I inched closer to the source of perplexity and stood very purposefully.  I was on a mission.  Students filtered out of class, and soon it was just a few older ladies chatting, the hamster box, and me.  Not what I was expecting.  Where was the teenaged owner of this container?  I peered over to examine the box more closely and saw that, in fact, the label said "ROSIN," not Rosie.  Rosin.  Hadn't I used rosin to wipe down my bow when I played cello in high school?

You dancers are laughing at me now.  I see from the omniscient Wikipedia that ballet dancers use rosin on their feet to prevent slippage on hardwood floor.  I know synecdoche and onomatopoeia, but I do not know dancer's rosin.  Now I do.  And now I can focus on my Zumba dance moves again. 

A little taste of pear-adise

My pup started showing signs of gastrointestinal problems recently, and I couldn't figure out what was causing it.  It started with some pretty offensive gas that she would release in her sleep.  After a couple of days of clearing out rooms, the problem became worse. 

I walked her one day, and at first she did a very normal, healthy poop.  Then after a few minutes of more walking, she crouched down into ready position again.  I panicked.  I only had one poopy bag with me, and it was already filled with her noxious contents.  Then when she went into a fit of diarrhea, I really began to sweat.  Cars drove by, witnessing this unpleasant release of slush, adding pressure.  I didn't dare turn around to see if the inhabitants of the house I stood in front of were watching from the window.  If I made eye contact, I was bound to poop-scooping responsibility.  Perhaps I could just make sure that my already used poopy bag was clearly evident and then I wouldn't be the victim of any blame should anyone spot me.  I clearly couldn't pick up the mush if my bag was already full.  I lifted it a bit higher into the air to increase visibility.

Then my conscience got the best of me.  I would feel awful if someone happened to step into this stuff, although its putrid odor was detectable from a mile away.  I untied the poopy bag and thought hard about a strategy.  How would I wrap it around my hand without dropping the already bagged poop and still avoid touching the new poop with my bare fingers?  Slowly, deftly, I inched my fingers through the outer side of the plastic to try to get some of the slop in.  I felt like I deserved an award for being such an adroit baggy user.

When the diarrhea didn't improve over the next couple of days, I thought maybe Hannah was developing an allergy to her food.  I put her on a different brand of all natural kibble and canned food that she's done well with in the past.  Still, no changes.  The pungent gas continued.  The days of unsuccessfully attempting to pick up a puddle of poop in one handful persevered (it's impossible).

Finally, one day, I found the culprit by chance.  I happened to peek out the window as Hannah was playing in the backyard, and saw that she held something lovingly in between her paws as she nibbled and licked and paused to periodically examine it.  It turns out that my neighbor's pear tree, which hangs over my side of the fence, was shedding itself of tons of fruit, many of which were beginning to rot on the ground and serve as a sweet afternoon snack for my dog.  The one she had in her mouth looked particularly shriveled and black.  The poop mystery was solved.

By the time I got outside to firmly put an end to my slop-picking-up days, Hannah was on her back, writhing and groaning in utter joy on her bed of rotten pears.  Her tongue hung out of the side of her mouth and she panted gleefully as if in disbelief of her good fortune.  For a moment, she didn't even see me standing there, watching in shock. 

The minute she caught a glimpse of me, she promptly jumped to her feet and looked up at me with her chin tucked down to her chest.  Something in her bones told her she wasn't supposed to be rolling around in this bed of pears and freely eating from the endless supply, but of course she just couldn't resist herself.  She picked one of the pears up in her mouth and tentatively walked over to me with her tail between her legs.  She was offering me one of her treasures.

"See, Mama," she said with her eyes.  "This good.  You try."  The gesture was so sweet that I just couldn't find it in me to scold her.  Instead, I tried to reason.  "Hannah," I said as I gently took the rotten fruit from her mouth.  "This is yucky."  I shook my head furiously.  "This," I held up the pear,"equals that."  I pointed to the closest mound of diarrhea in the yard.  "This," (point to pear) "make you owie" (point to her tummy).  I combed through the grass and tossed the remaining pears over the fence.          

The next day, when I looked out the window, Hannah was tossing another pear around and then chasing it.  My dog, who can't open doors that are already ajar and eats old, moldy fruit until she makes herself sick, had taught herself how to play fetch with herself.  Pretty ingenious.  Once again, I removed the fruit on the ground, and until the seasons change, this pup will remain on strict pear watch.

Can't teach this new dog new tricks

I was pretty concerned when I came home this afternoon and found that my pup Hannah was stuck in my bedroom for a couple of hours while I was gone.  The door was slightly cracked open, and any sound-minded dog could have easily stuck its paw or snout out to nudge it open, but my Hannah hasn't acquired that skill yet.  The wild thoughts of a typically paranoid parent blazed through my mind.  What if a fire started in there and she wasn't able to escape?  What if she got bored and ate all of my nicest shoes?

My brother, who has really helped Hannah with the "come" command after hours of training and pounds of milk bones, was conveniently with me.  He agreed to help me teach Hannah how to fully open a slightly ajar door. 

Armed with a handful of treats, we lured Hannah into my bedroom and closed the door enough so that she could see us on the other side in the hallway.  Then we beckoned.  "Come, Hannah!  Come!"  We waggled the treats in plain view and promised much more if she would just tap the door with her nose to release herself into freedom.  Hannah peeked through the small opening and cocked her head to the side.  She didn't whine.  Her breathing patterns didn't change.  She just stared dumbly back at us.

We tried to convey more excitement in our voices, which soon turned into high-pitched squeals.  If she could just figure out a way liberate herself, we'd have food and hugs and love waiting on the other side!  As our implorations became more pathetic, Hannah just cocked her head even more in curiosity.  When her head approached a near 180° turn, I became concerned that if we kept this up, she would seriously pull a neck muscle.  At this point, it was pretty clear that gentle verbal coaxing wasn't getting us anywhere.  We needed to model the behavior we were looking for.

My brother and I began to jerk our heads to the side to suggest that she do the same to nudge the door with her nose.  "Use your nose, Hannah!  Like this!  Like this!"  Hannah seemed nominally interested in our theatrics, but was still not getting the point.  She looked down at the treats in our hands.  She only knew that she wanted them.  Meanwhile, my brother and I were beginning to look like we suffered from violent tics as we continued to swing our heads back and forth.   

My brother even went inside with her at one point and guided her nose to the door to push it to the side.  He did this over, and over, and over again.  Each time, there was a treat, hugs, and lots of praise waiting on the other side.  Still, there was no progress.  She just wouldn't do it on her own. 

The one time she did get free by herself was when she just charged for the tiny open space, the force of her movement getting her pudgy body stuck in between the door and the frame.  She then rocked back and forth until she was able to wiggle her way out.  She had a pretty triumphant look on her face when she broke free, but I'm thinking that for now, all flammables and expensive footwear need to be promptly removed from the bedroom.


"You just open thees door and gives me the treats, please?"

The Poop Chronicles

My other dog is a 16-year-old terrier mix named Pochi who mostly keeps to herself except during thunderstorms or when she's hungry, times during which she'll become an absolute terror. Pochi can smell a thunderstorm approaching hours before it occurs. She'll do everything she can to alert you of the impending doom that only her hypersenses and Doppler radar technology can detect. This is the typical progression of events:



1) She starts by walking around aimlessly, making click-clack noises on the hardwood floor with her outgrown nails that she refuses to let anyone clip (she flails around in a type of tantrum that most people aren't aware dogs are capable of)
2) Then she'll make desperate attempts to warn anyone around her, "It's coming! The storm's coming!" Her tactic is to get as close to your face as possible and pant her 16-year-old hot doggy breath into every orifice of your face. With the combination of the food particles encrusted in her terrier moustache and years of oral hygiene neglect, this often smells like rotten fish or sometimes raw sewage.
3) If you are sleeping, she will lift her rickety self up onto the bed and spin in circles or claw you with her eagle-like talons or simply sit on your face in further attempts to to express the gravity of the situation. If you try to offer some sort of solace by holding her or stroking her as she trembles violently with her eyes ping-ponging in their sockets, the odiferous panting usually prohibits you from continuing to do so.
4) Pochi's final resort is to seek protection in the bathtub. Lately, her deteriorating muscles have prevented her from having full use of her back legs, so she usually gets half of her body in, with her hind legs clambering against the outer edge as she struggles to get the rest of herself into her makeshift fallout shelter. She ends up stuck, looking like a towel draped over the ledge, until someone comes to rescue her.



Along with the muscle failure has come loss of control of her bowel movements. During the last few months, in moments of exertion, like when she's trying to get unstuck from the bathtub, Pochi will unintentionally release a poop. At first the poops were showing up in the bathtub or around it. Then as she began to struggle with keeping her back legs propped while eating from her doggy bowl, she would lay a few bombs in the kitchen, too. This has given her the appearance of having the supernatural ability to digest the very food she's eating instantaneously as it goes in one end and comes out the other within moments.



As time goes on, Pochi has begun to pepper the rest of the house with her poops. They come unexpectedly now--it could be from the excitement of having a guest over or while lazily traveling from the couch to her doggy bed--and I've plowed through dozens of canisters of disinfecting wipes as I follow her fecal trail.



The other day, I found Hannah sleeping in one of the doggy beds with her nose precariously close to a pile of poop. Pochi must have laid a bomb while getting up from the bed, and as Hannah took her spot, she was left with a fresh batch of doo doo. My friend Amber often calls animals angels or little Buddhas. I think you'd certainly have to be to be able to sleep under those conditions without any complaints.

The Poop Bandit herself

Teenage dirtbag puppy

Two weeks until grad school begins, currently FUNemployed (as my new friend Irene says) and I haven't been able to sleep past 6:45 am all summer. It's not pre-school jitters. Or a faulty alarm clock. It's my pre-pubescent pup.

Hannah is one and three quarters in dog years. In human years, that puts her at the peak of that hellish tween period when children discover the power of attitude. It creeps into their systems right around age 11 or 12 as if there's some tweenage god who immaculately times the unleashing of the wrath of puberty fury. It then runs through the course of the veins of little ones who were--up until the day before--obedient and lovable until they begin to convulse with instinctive hand-on-the-hip, teeth-sucking, neck-swinging gestures. They begin demanding things.

My Hannah--up until this summer--would sleep peacefully through the night and would only arise when she thought I was awake. I was so confounded by her considerate and sweet behavior, that sometimes I would test her by staying very still and watching her with my eyes half open. I'd observe her peeking up at me periodically, and assuming I was still asleep, she'd put her head back down and wait patiently for me to make some big movement to alert her that it was time to start the day.

More recently, however, things have been different. Hannah has discovered her voice. It started with an innocuous whine that at first concerned me. I'd get up, thinking she had to be let out to pee or that she wasn't feeling well. Once I realized that she was waking me up earlier and earlier just to get some attention, I resisted giving into her pleas. That's when the howling began. And this is not your average canine howl. This is a multi-toned noise that ranges over several octaves, begins with her mouth barely open for something that sounds kind of like, "roo-ooh--ooh" then sling-shots up to a deafening screech, and settles into a low guttural groan that seems only fitting for a 90-year-old man in serious arthritic pain. She'll do this over. And over. And over again. Until I get out of bed.

I've tried ignoring it and pretending that I'm still asleep. This has no effect on her anymore. I'll cover my head with my pillow and blanket, and she'll just get louder. When I peek at her through the covers, I see her sitting defiantly at the edge of my bed. "I am not budging until you get up," she says with her eyes. If she had hands, they'd be on her hips. If she had fingers, she'd be snapping them. In Z formation.

As I stay up writing this deep into the night, Hannah sleeps peacefully by my side in her little doggy bed, with her pink tongue hanging out of her mouth. I know this is a mistake... T-5 hours until the furry siren goes off. My animal expert friends out there: please tell me this comes to an end after they turn two....?

Look at me, I am so sweet. I like to sleep quietly and look cute and everybody loves meeee.

"I makes your life a leeving hell tomorrow mornings?"

Drawn to this stuff like "a moth" to a flame

As I was pulling into my driveway yesterday, a piece on NPR completely drew me in. A young Somalian woman named Fathia Absie was describing her experience coming to the States as a 14-year-old refugee, how she later sponsored her ten siblings and her parents so that they could also immigrate, and how her teenage sister later faced the threat of deportation. There was an allure to Fathia's accent, the thickness of her voice, the suspense in her story, and I was utterly enchanted. I sat in my car in my driveway listening intently, enjoying the private space to giggle aloud at times and feel my eyes glisten at others until this endearing piece was over. I learned that Fathia was able to share her story in front of a live audience after recording a pitch on www.themoth.org. The Moth is an online forum for real people to tell real stories (you'll find a link to Fathia's story below). I leaped out of my car and made a beeline for my computer once I got inside. I was totally enthralled by this whole story-telling business, and I had to have more.

For hours and hours, I sat magnetized to the front of my computer screen. These storytellers had experienced so much heartache, joy, loss, achievement, bizarreness--it must have been cathartic for some of them to share their lives with others, but I was mostly struck by how touched I felt. The courage I heard in many of the pieces really moved and fascinated me.

Here are some of my favorites. I hope you enjoy and feel inspired by them as much as I did. Warning: you might want to grab a box of tissues before clicking on these links...

Cindy Chupack's Story
Till death or homosexuality do us part--a looming 30 year mortgage proves to be the straw that breaks the camels back.
http://www.youtube.com/user/mothstories#p/u/38/mY885mXK6jk

Mike DeStefano's Story
Mike died of a heart attack on March 6, 2011. We first met Mike at the U.S. Comedy Arts Festival in Aspen, Colorado, where he told one of the most searingly beautiful stories ever told at the Moth. It was a comedy festival, but he had everyone in the audience weeping. We mourn Mike and the stories we won't get to hear, and send our best to his family and friends. Here is footage from that night.
http://www.youtube.com/user/mothstories#p/u/32/N-i5ADmdO4E

Charlene Strong's Story
Charlene Strong is a Human Rights Commissioner and advocate for equality. Her story and fight for family rights were critical in helping to pass landmark domestic partnership legislation in Washington state. Charlene is the subject of the award winning documentary, "For My Wife...," chronicling the making of an activist.
http://www.youtube.com/user/mothstories#p/u/6/6QRv9xy0aUg

Fathia Absie's Story (Segment 2)
http://www.prx.org/pieces/60360-the-moth-radio-hour-402/floating_piece