Limbodacious

General (Psychiatric) Hospital

This is Murphy.  We are not keeping her.  The 800 pictures I took of her are for "Found Dog" flyer-making purposes ONLY. 

She's cute though, huh? 

Over the few weeks we have had her, a major melodrama has unfolded before my eyes.  First, this strange and mysterious woman came into an already overburdened home, with no memory of who she was or where she had been.  This resulted in a series of unfortunate relationships chock full of unrequited love. 

Murphy loves Hank, and who wouldn't?  (Hank is, after all, accustomed to women's ruthless obsessions)  Cute, athletic, I mean come on.  But he can't be bothered with Murphy.  He tells her that he is too busy with his Very Important Activities, like leading expeditions and being spoiled by his overbearing mother.  But the truth is, Hank's heart forever belongs to that one special someone something. 

Murphy did not take this news very well.  She now erupts into pure rage directed at Hank, for no reason and without any warning whatsoever.  It is the dog version of  giving a wedgie to the boy you have a crush on. 

Meanwhile Cooper is madly in love with her, following her like a little, er, puppy, wherever she goes.  Unfortunately for Cooper, though, no self-respecting GirlDog would be caught dead with him.  He is the canine equivalent of Woody Allen and Kevin Federline's illegitimate love child.   I love him and all, but what a skeeve.   

So the result is a star-crossed love triangle in which all parties are miserable.  After being summarily rejected time and time again, Cooper finally gave up, and has taken to lying around in self-pity (well, more than usual.  Before it only took up about 80% of his time, now more like 90%).  Murphy whiles away the days by trying to look simultaneously dejected and adorable, a look that must take an amazing amount of energy to maintain.  And Hank, well, Hank pretty much goes about his business as usual, except having to live under the constant crushing pressure of knowing he really is too sexy for his own good.  I guess 2/3 of the love triangle is miserable, at least.

And like grains of sands through an hourglass, so, too, are the dogs of our lives.

Update: Life Still Sucks

It would be quite an understatement to say that my year-and-a-half cancerversary did not go well.

I have a very sick dog, and a boyfriend who seems to think that nursing very sick dogs falls squarely into the "Womenfolk Responsibilities" category.  Combine these two facts, and you will begin to get a sense of why I have been up for 28 hours straight scrubbing vomit and urine out of every conceivable textile product in our home.

So why am I up, writing on the internet about this if I haven't had any sleep?  That's because I have to take aforementioned very sick dog back to the doggy hospital tomorrow morning for yet another ridiculously expensive procedure*, so I have to sleep tonight.  If I sleep now, I will be up all night, thus resulting in an encore performance of  the critically-acclaimed "If you were a Pediatrician and treated a CHILD like this, you would have your license revoked and you are a disgrace to all... Oh god, I'm so tired, please help me."

So yeah.  That's how the 18-month mark was spent.  And will also be how the 18-month-and-two-days mark will be spent.  Combine those two facts, and you'll begin to understand why I am very, very cranky.

* Did I mention we are officially out of money?  And we close on our house one week from tomorrow?  Huzzah!

Hey, You're Right, I'm Not a Whiner! And to Prove It, Here Is a Story That I COULD Be Mad about, But Instead I Find Totally Effing Hilarious. With a Random Techno-Question Thrown in, Too.

Even though I don't have any obligations during the day, I try to keep a routine.  Structure comforts me. 

One of the more enjoyable parts of the routine is blasting my favorite Southern Rock mix CD at eardrum-shattering volume.  I have to do this during the day, because That CD cannot be listened to in the presence of Boyfriend, something about my ex-boyfriend making it for me and naming it the Love You Forever Mix blah blah blah (you can't blame the guy for having good taste in music and women!).  Then I pick Hank up, and we dance to the Black Crowes' "Hard to Handle."*  Well, I dance, and he looks down at Cooper with a look that clearly says, "See, she likes me better.  Off to the pound with you!"

Now, whenever the song comes on, Hank gets very excited and begs to be picked up (Did I mention my dog is terrifyingly smart, and I do believe I am just a patsy in his Grand Scheme to Conquer the Universe?).  On the day in question, the song started playing right after I got out of the shower.  But Hank gave me that look, That Look which works like kryptonite on me.  So, clad in my bra and panties, I picked him up and we danced.

If there could be a worse time for the maintenance man to walk in, I can't think of one.  I screamed at him for not knocking, since he knows I am home during the day.  He said he did knock, but apparently the 170-decibel music drowned it out.

"Your neighbor said you might have a fire on your balcony."

Shocked, we ran to the balcony.  I should mention that at this point I was still in bra and panties only, I mean when someone says you have a fire somewhere, your first thought isn't, "Hold on, let me grab a tracksuit."  I did keep the dog across my chest for modesty, though.

Don't worry, there was not a fire.  There was just a cloud of black, billowing smoke from an unextinguished cigar (Boyfriend sometimes smokes one in the morning) which caused the ashtray to become a smoldering stinkbomb.  He ran to get a bucket of water, since I was not properly attired for running frantically with a heavy load.  Once the smoke cleared, there it was.

A huge fucking gaping hole in my balcony.  An ashtray-sized hole.  A four-inch diameter piece of wood, vanished.

The maintenance man left hastily, god bless him.  I called Boyfriend frantically, to see if we can speed up the whole moving-out-of-this-mortifying-place thing. 

"The maintenance guy saw me naked and there is a hole in our balcony!!"  After a considerable pause, I added, "Those two things aren't related."

I am getting a job to pay for the balcony.  And we are calling the real estate agent to see if a short sale is possible.

Good ol' things that come by the dozen

That ain't nothing but drugstore lovin

Hey pretty thing, let me light your candle

Cause mama I'm sure hard to handle now, yes I am

* If you don't know the song (because you live on another planet?) or haven't heard it in a while, DOWNLOAD IT IMMEDIATELY.  You won't regret it.

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And a totally random question to end the night.  Does anyone know how to have a link to a picture instead of showing the picture itself?  Julie always does this and I am so very jealous.  Nerds, reveal thyself!  And email me.  Oh, and can you tell me how to write like her as well?  That would be very helpful.

All Creatures Great and Small (Are Having a Very Bad Day)

It is raining today.  Really raining. 

I went out on the balcony to have a soggy smoke break.  In the lake behind my apartment, the fish were freaking out and trying to jump out of the water.  Their little two-dimensional, man-made world was being assaulted and literally turned upside-down by some external force they didn't understand. 

The metaphor was obvious, and I felt sad for them.  I wish I could explain to them what rain is, that it always ends, that trying to escape the water is suicide.  But when you're in the pond, the pond is all you know.  Poor fish.

Then, there is Hank, who is arguably having the worst day of all.  He woke up yesterday looking like this: 

Ye-owww!  The picture doesn't even do it justice.  I hope that's not considered puppy pornography or something.  I only include the picture to remove all doubt that it is all in my maternally-paranoid head. 

Even worse, I have to yell at the poor little bugger every five minutes to stop him from scratching/biting himself.  It's become kind of a game.  I will hear him scratching behind me, and turn around really fast and stealth-like to catch him in the act.  He is sitting there, leg in the air, mid-scratch, looking guilty as if to say, "What?  That wasn't me, that was that other dog that looks like me."  Hank does not have a good poker face for sure. 

Oh, and by the way, we had the rash tested at the vet, and it is scabies.  Somebody's got some 'splaining to do!  (Actually, that is a joke and he got it from the park dammit!  WE ARE NOT DIRTY SCABIES-HARBORING TRASH PEOPLE!)  Of course, even after some intense oatmeal baths, antibacterial ointments, and cleansing techniques of every variety, we all caught it, too.  We are one big, itchy, disease-ridden family.

So yeah, all God's creatures are having a  rough go of it today.  So for chrissake, hug an animal today.  Unless it has scabies, in which case  just think some nice thoughts for the animal while fleeing the area.

Hi, I'm Your Neighbor, And I'm Prone to Mini-Nervous Breakdowns

Let's start at the end.

I spent the entire night berating myself before I decided to cleanse my soul by frantically writing a card to my neighbor saying, "I am so sorry if our dogs bothered you last night.  I have been training them not to bark, and I hardly ever go out without them, so it shouldn't be a problem in the future.  If it becomes a problem please call us at <phone number>.  Please accept my apology and know that we are trying our hardest not to disturb you.  Your neighbor, Rae"

Whoa!  What horrifically awful thing did my dogs do to warrant this apology?  What tearful words were spoken by my neighbor to inspire this kind of contrition?

Well, ummm, the respective answers to those questions are: probably nothing, and not a thing.  I wrote this impassioned plea for forgiveness because... my neighbor looked at me when I came home from being out for a few hours.  It wasn't even an evil, I'm-annoyed-with-you-look.  Just a glance, really, an acknowledgment of my existence.

But somehow in that look, I saw the clear, seething hatred of me in her eyes.  And I felt like shit.  I wrote the apology, tears welling up in my eyes, and I put it in her door, knowing that it could never come close to making up for my rude thoughtlessness and gross inadequacies as a neighbor and human being.

In the morning, of course, I felt ridiculous for creating this drama in my head, and I cursed the neighbor because "the bitch knew we had dogs when she moved in."  Of course, I still don't know if she was mad at the dogs, or at me, or at all.

The fact is, I am prone to these bouts of madness where a look from a stranger or an unanswered email can hurl me into a spiral of insecurity and self-loathing.  It is an ugly side of me.  A part of me where all logic is thrown out the window and insanity reigns.

For now, I feel better.  But that whispering voice that tells me what a horrible person I am still lurks inside my brain, waiting for me to commit the next social faux pas and start screaming again.

Munchausen by Puppy Syndrome

I went into the ER with a stomach ache and left with a cancer diagnosis.

This fact has left me with a slightly skewed view of usually-innocuous health variations.  Therefore I project my fear of small rashes, slight coughs, and somewhat decreased appetites onto my dogs.  So when something happened that might actually cause alarm to a normal person, I may have overreacted slightly.

My dog was throwing up, once a day like clockwork, for a few days.  Seeing that this wasn't just an aberration but a growing pattern, I bullied the receptionist at my vet's office to make a same-day appointment.  When I got there, I relayed the symptoms to the vet and explained how this was clearly a life-threatening situation. 

He said to me what he has often said to me, "You know, I don't think most owners would have even noticed this!"  which at first I thought was a compliment, but as our vet-owner relationship progressed I realized he meant, "Give it a break lady, we have other work to do around here."

His diagnosis:  Acid reflux. Seriously.  Well, of course I left there in a huff to get a second opinion from a vet who wasn't a two-bit jerk with a dumb receptionist.  At the other clinic, which turned out to be extraordinarily more expensive, they were much more thorough, ran more tests, and came up with the same damn thing.  No ruptured organs, no flesh-eating virus, no bulging tumors, nada. 

It was at this point my boyfriend told me that I was acting crazy, and that we were going home to give Cooper the prescribed Doggy Tums. 

People in the medical world have been known to say, "If you hear hooves beating, it's probably a horse, not a zebra."  When I went in to the hospital, they expected me to have a cyst, or ectopic pregnancy, or something normal and routine.  But I was a zebra, much to everyone's suprise and dismay.

But I guess sometimes a horse is just a horse.  Unless it's a dog.

A Moment of Hilarity

My two dogs are always fascinated by the turtle that we keep in the office.  They will sit and stare for hours, as if making sure the turtle doesn't cause any trouble. 

Today we had the dreaded task of cleaning the turtle tank.  I can't begin to describe how disgusting this tank gets after a few months' time.  This cleaning time also doubles as "exercise" time for the turtle, aka him wandering across the floor while I laugh at him bumping into the walls and such.

When I put the turtle in the bedroom and closed the door, I discovered that my dogs were not so much "interested" in the turtle as they were "fanatically obsessed with killing him."  Especially the older, Cooper, who was mercilessly pawing at the door and making weird high-pitch death sounds which I have never heard coming out of a dog before. 

After about ten minutes of that, I couldn't take it anymore and threw Cooper in the cage, at which point he changed to mercilessly pawing at the cage door and barking incessantly.  Finally the ordeal was over and the turtle could be returned to his private kingdom and go about his life of leisure. 

Cooper, on the other hand, was in full-on psycho mode.  He tore into the bedroom trying to pick up the scent of the turtle (even though he had just witnessed me putting him back in the tank).  He was perching up on his two back legs checking every surface, ceiling, windowsills, curtains, on top of the TV.  Then he somehow decided that the turtle was definitely, without question, on top of the bookcase. 

It has been about five hours, and Cooper is still sitting attentively at the bookcase, keeping an all-night stakeout for the fugitive turtle.  I imagine that as a responsible dog owner, I should probably do something to stop this behavior.  But frankly, I'm still mad he gave me a headache and many scratches, so he can have this fruitless night as punishment. 

I have been trying to curb the urge to kill in Cooper, and have mildly succeeded at least when it comes to dealing with our other dog.  But I have decided to scrap that endeavor and instead enroll him in Go-to-Ground competitions in order to put the homicidal instinct to its proper use.

I love these moments of just "life."  Where, just for a minute, I do not have to wear the scarlet C and I am just some crazy woman trying to tackle and capture my dog in this totally weird yet funny situation.  My dogs actually create most of these moments, and I could go on and on about those but for the reader's sake will not.  The dogs to me represent those pure, innocent, precious times that are not complicated jobs and relationships and stress in general.

Now for another blissful moment, I am going to go take some very potent cold medicine, which, if it works like it did yesterday, should throw me into a small coma.