Monday, June 25, 2012
We don't need one ourselves.
So much work.
They're like another kid.
Now that I have a dog, I realize, I was absolutely right.
Except for the bit about needing a dog.
She's a great little dog. She learns fast, is quiet and mellow, great with the kids, and falls asleep about 8pm every night.
A month after we brought her home, she broke her knee. Running around the house as if it were a NASCAR track. A month to heal while we kept her "quiet".
That was a little problematic.
A few months later, we enjoyed an early spring. J and the kids took the dog to a park to run around. She found something to slash open her front leg with. Initially the vet thought it wasn't that bad a cut, but it went all the way down to the bone.
Being an incredibly persistent dog (perhaps that's why I empathize with her?) she figured out how to use her Cone of Shame to gouge and scratch at her wound.
We called this the Elizabethan Embarrassment. It worked briefly. Then she figured out how to get her muzzle under it to pull off her bandage. Much to our great relief, once she was able to lick the wound, she left it alone more and eventually it healed.
On the first really hot day of the spring, I took her to play with a dog friend. They found some water and Sebago emerged with her front leg bleeding. Again. This time we were thrifty and bound it up ourselves.
She pulled the bandage right off. We replaced it. She removed it. I mentioned she was persistent, right? It managed to heal without a vet visit.
About a month later, J asked me if Sebago was limping. I watched her at the dog park. Yes. On the leg she'd broken. Then on the other leg. I got cross eyed watching.
The vet agreed. Both legs. An x-ray the next week confirmed that the pins and wire put in to hold her knee together had shifted as she grew into her full size. It evidently cut off circulation to a small bone in her knee and it disappeared. Yes, disappeared.
The other back knee has its own problem, which the vet explained along the lines of bones failing to fuse, which it should have done at her age. At least that's what I think he said. He used terms like "OCD" and "osteocircumpherence" and "arthriticular" in contexts that I didn't understand. I began humoring him after a while, "Oh, right." "Of course not." "Will she need anti-anxiety meds for her OCD?"
I didn't say that last part. He clearly had no idea what OCD means to the rest of the world.
His real answer was: he has no idea what is going on there. We agreed the best treatment would be to give her the dog version of Tylenol every other day.
This was very liberating. I was feeling great about my limpy dog. I even started to call her Limpy affectionately, like the characters in 'Fried Green Tomatoes' call their kid 'Stumpy' when he lost his hand in an accident. Or maybe it was 'Lefty'?
Yesterday she stopped wagging. Entirely. I felt her tail. There seemed to be a bulge followed by a limp tail. Speaking of Limpy. It just dropped to the floor when I let go.
I felt sick. We broke her tail. One of us must have stepped on it. Or shut it in a door. Or the cat finally had her revenge and gnawed on it when Sebago was sleeping and it has gangrene.
I posted my newest heartbreak on Facebook. A friend responded with a cheap diagnosis ("Swimmer's Tail" which I keep typing as "Swimmer's Tale"). A google search confirmed that since she learned to swim the day before I noticed the problem, most likely she strained her butt muscles. Treatment: the same pain killer she uses for her gimpy legs.
I happily anticipate that she will be the butt of many a joke for the next few weeks.
Today she wagged at me.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Bizarrely it worked. Noodle didn't complain about the distance even once.
About half way through our walk, there is a lovely little waterfall with a bridge. It's been dry lately, so the waterfall is just hypothetical, but the kids like to teeter on the guardrail like the illustrations from Madeline's Rescue from my childhood. (Right before Madeline plunges into the Siene and is saved by a pregnant golden retriever.)
This is the same idyllic scene where I asked Q to kindly walk more quickly so Noodle wouldn't fall, evoking his hubris, causing him to run, in flip flops, and naturally slip and scrape the inside of his thigh in a manner which brought to mind road rash. Not even chocolate could comfort him. Although for reasons beyond me, Q doesn't like chocolate and the melty pieces from my back pocket that I'd saved as a treat for the kids was apparently less than motivating, much less a treat. It tasted just fine. I don't know what his problem is.
So this is where I am walking, yet again, with my children.
I try to not watch to carefully because it just invites disaster. I'm afraid of heights and nothing makes a kid wobble like someone saying, "Be careful!" They might fall the 18 inches to the ground and require carrying the half mile home up hill.
I glance back at Noodle. There is a large ant walking on the rail toward her.
I suspect that large ant has a mother on the ground covering her eyes and muttering something about 'Don't come crying to me when you fall 18 inches to the ground,' which in the ant world must be 18 stories.
Noodle has no perspective. She sees the ant scampering toward her pink sandal and screams, "Mom!"
I watch her wobble and try to decide if telling her just to stamp on the darn thing is heartless or practical.
Noodle decides this is the perfect time to panic. She lets out a scream so loud and shrill the neighbors are going to flood their yards expecting to see a coyote attacking a small child. I scoop her off the guard rail and deposit her on the ground. She examines her sandal suspiciously, then walks down the side walk unphased by her near death experience.
I look around to explain the situation to the neighbors, but not a single person is on their lawn.
And that is what is wrong with America. Coyotes can attack small children, ants are dying, and no one even pulls up a lawn chair to watch.
Also we saw a small bunny.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Unfortunately, we did not build a room onto the house, so we had to mash our bedroom down the stairs, through the living room and into the former den. To make room for our bed, we shoved the futon couch (ie: Luxury Guest Bed) into the living room, and piled bins of items we can't bear to throw away but don't know if we really like around the bedroom so it will feel cozy.
We have kind of a hoarding issue. Some of the problem stems from being scavengers. And when I say, we, I mean "I". I don't like leaving anything I can get for free that looks remotely useful. I also hate throwing anything away that might be useful in the future. This results in saving some really crappy stuff. Jonathan is an advocate of ditching crappy stuff, but our problem is that we disagree on which items are crappy and we need a UN certified mediator.
This whole rearrangement is about as interesting as listening to someone you've never met gush about their grandchildren, but it's key for understanding the following conversation which I had yesterday morning.
I bought an Ikea Poang chair for Father's Day. We couldn't afford the matching footstool, so we borrowed the footstool from the fake fancy name swivel easy chair that Jonathan loved until it collapsed on him. That chair moved to the workshop until we can drag it to the dump.
"I'm going to take some things to the Essex Recycling Shed." I say this quietly. If the kids hear me, they will first beg to come so they can salvage other people's crap to come rot in my house. Then they will realize I am trying to ditch beloved toys and immediately play with every ignored toy in the house.
My beloved understands these facts without reviewing them. Further validating my unspoken concern, Noodle enters the room.
"What are you planning to bring?" He matches my tone and I watch Noodle out of the corner of my eye.
"The C-A-S-T-L-E and the D-O-R-A H-O-U-S-E."
There is a long pause as Jonathan makes his way through my spelling. I do a mental spell check. I can't really spell out loud which it makes it much harder to communicate by spelling.
He nods. "Got it."
"Would you like me to take anything else?"
He raises his eyebrows. "Do you have something in mind?"
"One of the things cluttering up your workshop?" I am trying to be nice. Honestly.
"Like....?" His tone implies I should be careful.
"Maybe the chair?"
"But I'm using the footstool that goes with that chair."
We look at the footstool that nearly, but not quite, matches the Poang chair.
"Okay. I'm not suggesting we get rid of the footstool. Just the chair."
"But they go together."
I bury my eyes in my hands so I won't roll my eyes. Rolling your eyes is really bad for your marriage.
"If you bring the chair to the recycling shed, no one will know that it had a footstool. They'll just say 'Cool! A chair!'"
Jonathan, plaintively, "But the chair is so much more comfortable with the footstool."
I stifle a sigh. I'm very patient. "Okay. We take them to the shed together and you can use the tapestry footstool."
He shakes his head. "No. No, it's not the right height."
I abandon my suggestion. Jonathan distracts Noodle as I lug the large plastic castle past her out of the house, return for the large Dora House, lumbering in a tiptoe. I am a ninja of plastic house removal.
En route to the toy store where Q will spend his birthday gift card, I stop at the Essex recycling shed and drop off the two houses. Q emerges with a remote for an antique vcr that has dials. I think this is an excellent trade. Maybe Q will take it apart, figure out how it works and become the next Bill Gates. I green light the addition to our home junk.
After subtracting the mobile homes from the hoarding stash, I can nearly get to the other side of the laundry/sewing room/treadmill room/dog's bedroom/closet. Noodle has not noticed the loss of her plastic doll houses yet, so I feel smug.
(Laundry and Miscellaneous Room - See how much larger it is now that I've removed the plastic real estate?)
The really good news is that I am an early morning ninja and Jonathan hasn't noticed the missing easy chair.