This one’s going out to my well-intentioned mother, who I’m pretty sure still doesn’t quite get why we insist on having animals in our house.
So right. Nothing from me since August. And I have no excuses worth sharing — same old working-mother-back-to-school-gotta-go-pumpkin-picking bullshit.
A lovely lady I met at a baby shower sent me a note today asking for the link to my blog. I winced with great shame and considered not responding, because then I could feel even more sorry for myself and pine away with professional embarrassment… as any proper, no-good-quitter would. Then I thought, hells no. I’m going to write a blog entry like a big girl who knows she should be writing — not in spite of her self-loathing and procrastinating ways, but because of them.
Sadie and Dub? The dogs are all good. Dub continues to poop in my house from time to time, which I find annoying but oddly forgivable. Poor guy. I think he’s actually so hyper and excited to play he forgets to poop when we take him out. Then he loses it around 4am. He does this usually on the mudroom tile. A lovely package to find on a chilly fall morning, while padding about in my UGG slippers.
Hey, it’s fall! I didn’t even write about our summer vacation yet! Wait for it.. wait for it…
So it read on the back of the dump truck in front of me in morning traffic: “Do Not Push.” After 7 days alone with the kids and the dogs, it came as a divine intervention.
I’m exhausted, and it ain’t over yet.
First things first. Dub is fit as a fiddle, far as the vet can tell. He has the resting heart rate of a champion and the dog can catch a frisbee mid-flight with the grace of a gazelle, IF said gazelle could catch a frisbee and as far as I know, gazelles are not nearly that capable or entertaining.
Our fine vet, Dr. H., thinks the seizure was a fluke; he hasn’t had another. The blood work came back clean. And the vomiting was likely unrelated. Or as I summarized for DH on the phone the night he called from Pune, “he’s a puker.”
But I am growing rather attached to the puker. He takes his cues from his humans, following us everywhere, resting when we rest, running when we run. Bam-Bam is learning this lesson the hard way – he knocked her down during an overzealous game of — and I quote — CHASE! ME! DOGS! He has a cold black nose and looks so very interested, when he cocks his head just so, in what I have to say.
He also barks his head off at anything that walks, rolls, or glides past our house, and we live on a very busy corner. But I’m just moving into day eight of ten home alone, and the dump truck has spoken. I won’t think about that now. I’ll think about that tomorrow.
Yesterday DH left for India for ten days.
An hour before he left, I held Pebbles on my lap while she received four immunizations, two in each thigh. I will forever hear her screaming “don’t let them do it to me, Mama!”
Six hours before DH left, Dub had his first seizure. He just crouched like the Sphinx, unblinking, drooling, helpless on the office floor.
Twelve hours before DH left, I was on the phone with the on-call pediatrician begging him to call in a prescription for Bam-Bam, who has pink eye. In both eyes.
Twenty-four hours before DH left, I was certain I could handle everything just fine!
Now I’m waiting for the vet to call us back with the results of $300 worth of blood work. (Since the seizure he has played two extended games of fetch and gone for two walks.) I’m administering Bam-Bam the pink-eye medication in four doses daily for five days. Pebbles is proudly explaining to everyone she encounters that her body is now fighting off the diseases the ladies shot “into her bones.” That is to say, everything seemed to be settling out, until I came home from work this evening and learned that Dub vomited and had diarrhea all over the house.
Under the piano.
Again in the corner.
In the mudroom, dripping down into the air vent.
In the family room.
All over his dog bed.
And our blessed nanny cleaned all of this up, only to vomit HERSELF mid-way through the cleaning job.
I hope the dog doesn’t die. I hope the nanny doesn’t quit. I hear New Delhi is lovely this time of year.
I just discovered a blogger after my own heart and wanted to share with all 17 of you, my dear readers: My Puppy, My Self.
I somewhat question whether the blog title, “My Puppy, My Self,” accurately reflects the content, catchy though it is. The intentional separation of “my” and self” may lead a casual reader to believe that the author sees his puppy as one with his “self.” But I don’t think this this is the simplistic case at all after reading a few of his articles. For example, on July 16, 2010, blog author Lee Charles Kelley writes:
One of my main themes here is that, for most species (excluding cetaceans and some primates), animal consciousness should be described economically, through the laws of physics, not through higher-order intellectual thought processes. (This is why I think Freud — whose psychology was based on the conservation of energy — is more relevant to dog training than Pavlov and Skinner.)
From post titled “Canine Communication, II: “Calming Signals & the Mel Gibson Tapes“
It’s good stuff! This is the kind of guy who experences transendence reading books like My Dog Tulip. Therefore, I respectfully suggest he rethink the blog title. Something more cerebral, perhaps? (If I come up with any brilliant notions, I shall of course suggest them to Mr. Kelley directly.)
I’m reminded of the translation issues over Chekov’s Lady With a Little Dog. Since the Russian language doesn’t use articles, what meaning are we superimposing by chosing “a little dog” over “the little dog.” And what does it mean if we change it to “The Lady?”
Check it out. “My Puppy, My Self ” contains some good ideas about dogs and people… that is, of you’re into dog psychology, human psychology, and intersections of the two.
You could call it a hiatus. Or you could call it being really fucking busy with two kids and two dogs during the hottest days of Summer 2010.
Sorry readers, for being MIA for a week. I have a few bits of breaking news. Or perhaps I should say, as we do in the biz, “lessons learned.” (The “biz” to which I refer is, unfortunately for my spirit and my soul, IT consulting. Information Technology consulting. Makes me want to light my hair on fire, but it does pay the bills.)
Lesson Learned #1: Do NOT Leave Treats in Pocket of Running Shorts (see Figure 1)
I walked into my closet and surveyed the clothes in a heap on the floor, pulled on a pair of shorts thinking I would go for a run, and discovered them to be… wet? Odd, right? I mean, the sweat from 2 days ago would have dried by now… so I look down and… am immediately reminded of my grey fleece. Samson (The original Brittany, if you haven’t been following) ate both pockets of my grey fleece when he was about 2 years old, probably going after the cheddar cheese we used to train him. So having the reaction only a dog-lover could understand, I smiled and laughed and had my daughter take this picture. Silly dogs.
Never mind that this set me back at least one week of running — which I have to say, worked out in everyone’s favor. Kids went to the pool after work more frequently, and I wasn’t dragging one of the poor dogs down the Arlington bike path in 90+degree heat. (A week? A whole week? You don’t have any other shorts? Those of you asking these questions must not have children and may God bless you for taking time away from your quiet weeknight to try and understand, but I just don’t have the energy to explain it right now.)
Lesson learned, Sadie and Dub. Lesson learned.
I now have my eye on a new pair of lululemons.