Forgive Peli for eating the hot pocket.

My first week at my new job consisted of a lot of the craziness that comes with starting a new job. I had to figure out what it was exactly that I'm supposed to do and the people I'm working with had to adjust to having a human being doing the things that they've been making up for the past couple months. Each day I'm finding out more and more about how the person before me didn't really do a whole lot, which makes me all the more determined to do everything I can to succeed at this job.

Pretty much, my job consists of maintaining the stats, act as landlord for the transitional apartments, make phone contacts with the aftercare clients and also make home visits. I have a large closet of donations to distribute which makes me feel a little bit like Santa, but I also have to be cold faced when they don't pay their rent and don't file an extension of cure and start the eviction process.

Friday morning, my boss called me and told me to dress for the fair. We took all the kids with some of their parents to the state fair, and it was exhausting. Fun, but exhausting. One of the very small children did not like that I wouldn't let them play the carnie games and took up saying, "You suck! Just kidding." Another small child was three and as we were leaving, I asked him to hold my hand so I wouldn't get lost (he started running ahead a lot) and he told me he was excited to see the ducks again (there were ducks at the entrance to the park). I told him he was very smart to have remembered there were ducks, and he said, "Yes. Big ducks. And they have grey faces. I like ducks." A three year old! I was amazed.

Friday afternoon, we were helping a woman move into a new apartment, and I saw some puppies. Me being me, I went over to pet the puppies. There were three of them, brindle, and were some sort of boxer mix. They were horribly skinny. I was petting them and ignoring a box that was right next to them, covered in flies, assuming it was the apartment's garbage. The owner came over and started to herd the puppies away from me, and I asked her what kind they were. She told me they were boxer/shepherd mixes, and when I said they were really cute, she said, "They're just getting over parvo. That one didn't make it." She pointed to the cardboard box, and my peripheral vision told me that a little, dead puppy was laying in the bottom. When I returned to my office (because I have an OFFICE), I called animal control and gave them the address. The dispatcher told me the puppies didn't have a chance, and the animal control officer couldn't take them to the shelter because then every other dog would get parvo. When I didn't say anything, she said she'd let the officer use his discretion.

When I hung up, I cried.

Other than that, though, I really do believe I can be good at my job (fortunately, witnessing innocent little puppies dying of parvo isn't really included in my job description). Tuesday through Friday of this week will be spent in Salt Lake City for a conference on Domestic Violence, and the keynote person is this lady: