Boffice

Borderline, Boundaries and Bernedoodles

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I spend a lot of time in bed. So much so that I now call my bed my Boffice™. I don’t have to explain that because you’re smart.

In my Boffice I do all the things any WFH human would do, but more comfortably, with less hypocrisy and slightly more shame. It took a little while for me to surrender to the Boffice. I went from the dining room table to the sofa, while the bed beckoned.

She’s a kingsize memory foam hussy, draped in pima cotton, silk and velvet. She easily welcomes Nyla, Coco, my laptop and me.

At first I thought, No Elise, you can’t. You’d be a loser to crawl back into bed at eleven AM. You have to be active. Civilized.

But then, I don’t know. I just said fuck it. I’m done feeling guilty for being me, when “me” will never be a balabusta. Honestly I’m more of a stylish schlep, which is a bit of an oxymoron. But I’m also a Gemini.

I even took off my “street sweats” and put on my “indoor sweats.” I committed 100%. Then again, I don’t have many shades of grey in my life, let alone fifty.

I bring this all up for a couple reasons. One, I think in many ways I live the life of a depressive. I self-isolate. Nap. I fear one day I’ll be known as the weird lady who never leaves her house, not that they’d know I even exist.

This why I have dogs. They get me out of bed, and out of the house, every single day.

Outside with Coco, September 2019. Yes I would like a medal.

Equally vital, the emotional support my little lap dogs offer is real. The loyalty, devotion and soulful eye contact are all like a childhood do-over. Security signals were in short supply when I was a little girl.

So I thought it might be a great idea to adopt a puppy.

Rationalizations revealed: Nyla and Coco are seniors. They’re fourteen. A puppy would revive, reboot. A puppy would get me moving again, focus efforts, energize static existence. Wake the zombie I’ve become, what with the empty nest, the last two tumultuous years, my recent orphan status. Oh and menopause.

Mister Miller moaned in opposition but that never stopped me before. He also knew I needed to see it through and the less he said, the more space I’d have to maybe not get a puppy. It was the same with Miss Miller back when she was still in high school and insisted I allow her to explore her trans-masc identity.

“Mom,” she’d warned. “I’m way more likely to change my mind if you don’t constantly tell me not to do this.”

And she was right of course.

It all happened very quickly. At a bartending gig I met a 6-month old Bernedoodle named Carmella Soprano who stole my heart. I petted her between cocktails and threatened to sneak her home with me. That night in my Boffice, in the glow of my laptop I mooned over designer doodle puppies. (Here’s where you allow me to love the dogs I love without butting in to tell me how terrible doodles are. Love you!)

I was sure I’d struck gold the very next morning when I found Liona, an 8-week old mini Bernedoodle at a local rescue. Instead of $3500 she was $750 and required no flight nanny. She’d been surrendered by a puppy mill along with her brother. These evil enterprises get fined if they have too many unsold pups.

Virtue seeped from my pores.

This puppy was Meant To Be. Right? Of course! Nyla and Coco would adjust. Over the years they’d tolerated four fosters and a dopey pug we’d dog-sat. My girls showed them the ropes, kept them in line. It would be GREAT.

I applied for Liona and to my delight, got a call back within hours. I was just the type of adopter they were looking for—a long-time homeowner who never left the house. And I have a fenced yard.

Then things slid sideways. I call this God’s Grace. Because I was IN IT. I used to call them all-consuming obsessions until Miss Miller taught me that they are hyper-fixations, which can be a symptom of borderline personality disorder¹.

Cue unreliable narrator!

I found out that the rescue neuters its dogs before homing them, no matter the age. They spayed a baby. It broke my heart. While I understand the need to prevent overpopulation, I can’t reconcile sacrificing the healthy development of a dog—or child for that matter. I knew too much about arrested pubertal development to let it slide.

It was already wounding enough to know the little dog came from one of those nightmare places—an Amish puppy mill. Who knew what diseases, temperament issues or genetic disasters lay dormant? To impede mental and physical development as well? Suddenly Liona didn’t seem like the best idea.

Then came the emotional blackmail.²

The rescue volunteer, Barb*, texted me about my upcoming meeting at the foster’s house:

“Ok Nikki* usually only likes meets when someone is pretty certain they want to adopt. She is a single mom with like 7 dogs so when I have people that just wanna meet dogs, she tells me she doesn’t have time for that but if it’s somebody that thinks they want to adopt then she’s more than happy to do that so nothing you have to decide tonight but just let me know what you’re thinking and I know you can’t really commit until you meet a dog, but it would be like if you’re really think you want to adopt her”

This was a sixty year-old woman. (I looked her up.) A thousand selves ago, I would have responded,

OMG, I totally understand! That’s so amazing Nikki does all that, what a big heart! I’m 100% sure! No worries!

But I wasn’t that self anymore. And I was no longer desperate, which was refreshingly empowering. I responded:

I have to meet her first to be sure, and to see how my dogs interact. I cannot promise anything without that meeting.

Barb texted back,

Ok

Those two punctuation-deprived letters seethed with resentment, from my perspective anyway.

An hour later, after an emergency Boffice Board Meeting, I backed out of the deal. I couldn’t go through with it.

Maybe you should go to the next person on the list. I'm not comfortable with any type of pressure regarding an important decision like this. Thanks for taking the time with me. I wish you all the best.

No response from Barb. She just listed the puppy again.

After, the loss shocked me. Really it was the loss of a fantasy. The collapse of an obsession. But I’d orchestrated the whole scenario. I knew the dance by heart. Hope, then hollowness. Euphoria, then emptiness. I’d set myself up with a fantasy that seemed too good to be real, only to see it deflate in the face of reality. It used to be my religion.

I almost met a second puppy a few days later. The fixation wasn’t quite finished with me. I had to see what it might be like to buy a carefully bred, lovingly raised, ridiculously expensive puppy. But it was over before it began. She was a looker for sure, but the night before I planned to drive four hours (!) to meet “Peppermint Patty” I couldn’t sleep. The Boffice tossed and turned me until I sat up and grabbled my laptop, called to yet another emergency meeting, suddenly terrified of what I was about to do—upend the quiet, routine, controlled environment I now enjoy despite my complaints—with a puppy.

Reddit supplied ample reason to wait, and to consider getting an older dog when the time is right. So at 5:12AM The Board texted Jackie* that we wouldn’t be coming after all.

Her lack of response shamed me—my adolescent impulsiveness. It’s like I always say, you’re never done learning.

Eventually though, with Nyla and Coco snoring softly at my side, I finally fell asleep, no money lost, and possibly a whisker wiser.

Nyla in Mommy’s Boffice.

1. Only recently did I realize I probably have BPD. Too many symptoms fit the bill—abandonment fears, intense relationships, unstable self-image, black and white thinking, aching emptiness, rage… Interestingly it was detransitioner Prisha Mosley who got me thinking about it. I brought it up to a former shrink, and he agreed, though I’ve not been formally diagnosed.

2. Boundaries—crossed, built, broken, fortified, thickened like arteries—define me now. In the past I’ve disrespected my own boundaries many times because I’d been trained as a child—by my mom, dad, brother, sisters. Throw away your own comfort for another’s entitlement. You’re not as important as they are, as worthy. It’s no coincidence that emotional blackmail is what trans activists, race hustlers and the Democrat party employ to empower themselves.