Robbed

This is the prologue of how Zabriskie Dog came to live at Chez StanMinn

As most of you are well aware, I am a cat person through and through.
The Crazy Old Cat Lady way back when I was still in my 20s and finally living on my own able to house as many kitties as my heart desired was a moniker I wore proudly.
I grew up only with felines, but that didn't even start until 5th grade when a Denison student came down to our after-school group at the 1st Baptist Church looking to rehome her Tabby cat before she left for South America.
My inner sucka goes way back, too.
Mom said I had to clear it with Bob (my grandfather) as we lived in a house owned by him.
Really? What grandfather refuses his granddaughter anything? That's what I thought.
So we scooped up Phidias from under the nursery room furniture where he'd been hiding to join us that very night.
Poor dear probably didn't think his situation had improved much from a college campus to a mad house of 4 young children, but damn if that cat didn't stick around a long, long while.

We lived next door to paternal grandparents Mimi and Bob until I was in the 7th grade, then moved into the village.
When I was very young, I vaguely remember their dogs Happy and Sam, but by the time the 3rd kid (Brother David) came along, those pups were gone, not to be replaced.
And so it stood for years, until David brought home Lucy for a day.
We don't talk much about that unfortunate matter even decades later because it remains a sensitive topic.
Suffice it to say, he wasn't able to keep up with *his* dog well enough to keep her, so MORE CATS!
It was only after I'd left for college that my parents took in Ernie, a sweet golden retriever, from an older couple needing to relocate to warmer climes.
I found the gesture curious in that at no point during my upbringing had either of them expressed any interest in opening their home to a dog, but it was an excellent decision.
He would accompany my dad to platform tennis matches and chase down the balls, keep my mother company and play forever with my siblings still at home.
Whenever I'd return for visits, he was always kind and kept a respectful distance knowing deep down I wasn't really into him.
Nothing personal.

After hooking up with CAM, he told stories of his beloved Gelert, and I knew a dog in our life together was imminent.  Not that CAM didn't come to love the cats, he just wanted to add to the menagerie.
It was easy to hold him off while we rented apartments in Seattle, but once we moved to The Boonies, with all the room in the world to run and poop, it seemed refusing him was just thoughtless.
But neither was I actively pushing for it.
Frankly, I was still holding out for MORE CATS!
Even going so far as to envision a yurt placed on Bramble Island to begin the shelter sanctuary I'd always dreamed of founding.

That all came to an abrupt halt.

We moved into the house April of 2010, having looked for months unsuccessfully.
Pressured by time, loan limitations, and an impatient realtor, we went ahead and purchased this quirky thing too close to the road, but with potential, a nice back yard and creek.
It was considered rural, and though most appealing to CAM who'd wanted desperately to return to his roots, proved more difficult an adjustment for me, who it turns out, really is a city girl, after all.
Owning for the first time in the place we'd always wanted to live was exhilarating and rewarding, but also stressful and daunting.
We'd begun to settle in and map out plans prioritizing projects around The Homestead.
I'd finally come to terms with our decision and was starting to embrace this radical lifestyle change we'd actually gone and followed through on.
It was too long a drive to get to our jobs, but bearable in that we carpooled and the scenery was blissfully pastoral.
On one of the few remaining nice, fall Fridays right before the seasons change, instead of commuting together as usual, we'd each driven to attend to separate errands after work.
Mine included a final, luxurious spa pedicure, lasting through the holidays and into the new year.
Pedis are a decadence I can't justify having too many of, so I was really looking forward to this, especially after a long week.
I'd gotten the massage chair setting just right, grabbed a trashy magazine and submersed my toes in whirling water when CAM called.
"We've been robbed!"
Hearing that for the first time ever in your life really knocks the breath out of you.
And less than 6 months after moving in.
Some Welcome Wagon.
I began sniffling, tearing and twitching as he retold his story, confounding the poor gal hovering over my cuticles. "Too hot?" "Too hard?" "What wrong?"
As he'd pulled up to the house, he saw that Barrett was in the yard, and then so were Moose and Dodger.
It's funny how your mind tries to make sense of things it knows aren't quite right.
He figured we'd left the door ajar after leaving for the day, but it became clear that wasn't the case at all.
I doubt those inside-only cats would have lingered close by for so many hours.
They'd certainly make a run for the border, never to be seen again, leading us to believe villainy was recent.
The back entrance had been kicked open; only the reinforcements he'd made to it had held.
The jamb was severely messed up.
While roaming through the house taking in the offense, it never occurred to him the bastard could still be there.
Fortunately that wasn't the case.
Likely, it was a fast smash and grab and out.
No one was ever implicated in the burglary, but we've our own theories.
The house had been on the market a couple of times for a long while.
In order for our VA loan to go through, a number of upgrades and repairs were required: replacing the roof and painting the entire building being the big and obvious ones.

Wait, they also had to drill a new well, so that would be an attention grabber.
Unbeknownst to us, The Redneck Shire was a hotbed for crystal meth activity, though that's since abated.
My opinion is that the local sketchy dudes were keeping an eye on all the activity surrounding the sale which would have been hard to ignore since we are butt up against the main road from Eugene to the coast.
They might've known the previous occupants, who were not the community pillars they'd like everyone to believe, therefore successfully casing the joint beforehand. 
The reprobates had mistakenly presumed we buyers were flush with cash and when that fence went up between us and the highway (paid for with the 1st time owners Gov't. tax credit), made their illicit move.
We'd (stupidly? naively?) yet to put a lock on the gate and since there was no 'parker' that day, criminal activity was optimal.
Stolen were a video camera my dad had recently sent, a computer monitor, and most regrettably, the tobacco jar CAM kept his spare change and other misc. items in belonging to his grandfather- the only item of his he'd inherited (and not worth a thing other than sentiment.) The loot was then stashed away in a yellow pillow case. It wasn't until much later I'd noticed they'd also made off with my rune stones, though surely they thought the clinking noise in the pretty pouch was some sort of jewelry or monies.
Mother fuckers.
The sheriff was called and after a long wait appeared to take statements and collect evidence.
We could follow the trajectory of their short rampage and the thought of those degenerates rifling through personal items in the bathroom presumably in search of drugs, was nauseating.
They had to have been disappointed by their false assumptions.
We've no TV, let alone a Playstation. No usual electronics to be pawned, bartered or sold for quick cash. There aren't bedside tables full of treasure because we have no bed- we sleep on tatami-like mats. We don't even own much furniture.
We have very little period, you stupid fucking idiots, as you now well know. So be sure to pass along this insight to your other douchebag pals that the hippies who just moved in really are poor.
I gladly gave up my feminine hygiene products container for fingerprinting.
My box of altar items in the 'library's' Billy case had also been partially emptied- I can only hope the perps stopped not because there was nothing of great worth, but that the resident witch would cast a wicked spell.
There'd been stories circulating at how this area's law enforcement were plain terrible: terrible at their jobs, terrible interpersonal skills, just terrible people.
I was thankful that wasn't the case with our officer, in fact, he couldn't have been more empathetic and patient, despite knowing there would be very little, if anything, resolved.
Then out of his mouth came the words that we'd hear a lot in the next weeks-
"You need a dog!"
Seems he used to work at County and got to know the thieves, 9 out of 10 who told him they'd never enter a house with a dog.
As word got out, sure enough, "...dog...dog..you...dog..need...dog..." became the ever so helpful mantra.
From the salesman at Jerry's who sold CAM a new door.
From a random visitor not a week later bringing out of town friends around to show where he'd grown up as a child.
(That was especially disappointing in that he was probably a wealth of knowledge and could have answered our many questions had we'd been in a better frame of mind and less suspicious.)
From the insurance adjuster.
From our neighbor (who doesn't have a dog, but does have unlocked guns.)
*Security* was what I needed.
And peace of mind. 
Not a dog.
The violation of having one's sanctuary breached really messes with you.
Indeed, my cars have been broken into on several occasions, which also sucks.
After the first time it happened, at college in Cincinnati, I learned not to leave valuables therein.
(Coincidentally, my tampons were also tossed aside that day, too. Hmmmm.)
The West Eugene Welcome Wagon hit us up  >2 months after we'd relocated.
Guess the bag of bags used for groceries must've looked too appealing for that vandalizing loser, so now, I hide or remove ANYthing in vehicles.
But having someone force their way into your home, walk and look and fumble around and *take* things was too much to process.
That night while waiting for the deputy, I sat in our own car outside the fence because being inside felt so dirty and I was angry, sad, scared and scarred.
In fact, years on, I'm still affected by the crime and most likely will never fully recover.
It informs when and how I leave the house and approach it upon returning.
At first I dreaded being there, but was drawn to it; paralyzing me to go anywhere else, as if protecting what little was left from the initial promise of our hopeful future.
Totally distrustful of everyone I encountered and drove by, wondering if *they* were the ones so bold to compromise my mental health with such disregard for private property let alone my presumed safety, weighed heavily in my psyche that my actual physicality began to suffer.
I also didn't tell anyone what had happened for a very long time; ashamed and embarrassed by the event.
As if acknowledging being victims somehow implicated us for questionable decision making by moving here to begin with.
To this day I'm unable to adequately articulate the crush of emotions and reactions I experienced and the roller coaster of those following later.
But it was clear in order for me to stay put, and had no feasible alternative not to, things must change and fast.
Despite all this "dog" talk, other options were considered.
We lived too far away to hire a home security system company and the camera surveillance packages sold by Costco and the like were both pricey and wouldn't work with our lame Hillbilly Cable connection.
Motion sensor lights, individual door and window alarms, and a game trail camera from the sporting goods store were purchased and installed, as were more locks, reinforcements and a bad-ass back door to replace the ineffective one now ruined (and ultimately sacrificed to the purging burn fire that also eliminated residual creep on the second yellow pillow case. Occasionally I wonder why I can't find those anymore while vainly searching the linen wardrobe before the sick answer reveals itself.)
Up went 'No Trespassing' and 'Beware of Dog' signs that we told were both a deterrent and smart for liabilities resulting in contentious legal allegations and proceedings.
That might explain the glut of them along our road; I always thought they were so unfriendly and off-putting.

Perfectly timed, my mother's house warming gift, as it had been to all 3 of my younger siblings (I'm a late bloomer) was a screen door! I sent her a picture of what we'd chosen after CAM put in in- no small feat given this off-plumb foundation and  his lack of construction skills.

But I'd yet to tell her why we'd bought such an industrial strength model.
Slowly, I felt more comfortable unloading our bad news and was quickly embraced by friends' and family's love and concern, some even sharing similar stories of their own- I'd no idea.
And my precious Mimi always sick with worry, seemed so unfazed I had to repeat myself and make sure she'd heard me correctly.
It took a lot of sage smudging, chanting, visualization, candles, and general majik energy to clear out the residual filth left in the wake of such heinous transgression.
It wasn't the mere theft of a few items, it was the fracture of everything I took for granted.
A sort of trepidation and fear cast a long, dark shadow over what once had been so bright and simple.
Now I try to get back to the joy of those early times and move beyond this incident.
I am, but it's been slow.
Admittedly, we were lucky it wasn't worse, but who's to say something more awful won't happen still?

So this niggling "dog" thing remained.
But I didn't feel right -using- a living being solely for self-serving purposes.
I wanted to welcome another Beasty into my world for more reasons than that one.

Besides, I was still canine dubious.
My compromise? The barking alarm. Genius! Until I heard a sample.
There was no way in hell any self-respecting bad guy would ever confuse this artificial nonsense for the real thing.

Thus, the inevitable, logical next step was made...

My only question to CAM in all of this is: "Why couldn't you have at least waited until my pedicure was finished?"