Anger management

I seem to have an anger management problem. Or control issues. Or both.

Maybe that’s where most anger comes from, the loss of control you feel when someone else messes up your plan.

My plan was to TRY to keep things clean out here in the dust, mud, and dirt of nature. It was a struggle during the first year of vandwelling, but I managed not to lose my shit most of the time. The old van’s seals needed replacing, so it was a constant, losing battle against dust.

Still, it was in my control. I could clean or not. Everything, including dirt, would stay where I left it, even if I couldn’t remember where that was.

Then I got a puppy.

The thing about puppies is that, like children, they are unpredictable. You lose control pretty quickly.

They bark. They track in mud. They shed. They whine.

Meanwhile, you are trying to focus. You need to get some shit done (like say, a podcast) but the puppy keeps whining incessantly until you finally realize she is trying to tell you she needs to pee or poop. Or both.

But by the time you finally get the message, you have already yelled at her several times to SHUT UP because you are working on this Very Important Thing.

So you put her on the leash and put on your shoes and go out for a short potty walk, feeling like a terrible person for yelling at this poor creature who only wanted to tell you she had to go. (Which is proof that she is housebroken at last, and you should be glad about that.)

Really, how could anyone be mad at such a sweetheart?

And you also wonder if anyone heard you yelling like a banshee, and what do they think of you? Because what YOU think of you is not good.

Maybe you are not cut out to have a dog. Maybe this was all a mistake.

She goes nuts barking at something outside in the night (a squirrel, most likely) waking you out of a deep sleep and, heart pounding, you scream at her to BE QUIET and you get out of bed and drag her by the collar away from the covered windows that she manages to peek through anyway, and you lie back down and try to get back to sleep but then you feel something silent in the dark — a cold, wet nose — so you reach out and run your fingers through the soft fur on her head and you can feel the apology by the way she nuzzles you, but you know that you are the one who should be apologizing.

I’m sorry, she is saying, but I can’t help it. I’m a dog.