So today it was off to the vet, with Pogisa sans diaper. I decided to take my chances and stuffed a roll of paper towels into my purse like a good Girl Scout, preparing for the inevitable. I just couldn’t bring myself to sit through 4 or more hours of humiliation, to say nothing of the diapered dog’s.
It was really unnecessary to begin explaining the reason for our visit because Poe, ever accommodating, illustrated the problem the minute the vet greeted her by promptly flipping onto her back, assuming the position, and spewing forth her liquid offering of submission. The vet came to the same conclusion I did--Pogisa is neurotic and has a self-esteem problem. In an effort to ferret out solutions for this, it was concluded that I need to brush up Poe’s resume and get her a job. Evidently, having a job is quite an image elevator for dogs. (I guess being a stay-at-home pet just isn’t fulfilling enough.) This in addition to spending untold amounts of money on agility or clicker training so she can flaunt her newly acquired skills in front of her peers, and lastly, I am also to have her listen to self-hypnosis tapes every night that tell her she’s good enough, smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like her. (Okay, that last bit might just be an elaboration on my part.) The absolutely worst thing we can do is punish, yell, demean, shame, reproach, abase or otherwise call attention to The Dog’s “little accidents,” to which Dave’s response was, “But it makes me feel better,” and I had to agree. Instead, we are to avoid eye contact, quietly mop up the puddle or trail of pee, whichever the situation may require, and tell her she’s looking very pretty today.
As a very last resort, we would have to put her on an antidepressant or benzo.
To be honest, none of this was a revelation to me. I was frankly just hoping the doctor could give her doggy Detrol and send us on our way. I mean what are doctors for anyway but dispensing those life altering substances that we all know and love? Cause goodness knows that the majority of the time everything they tell me I’ve already figured out from WebMD (or in this case the multitude of dog advice sites on the World Wide Web). I’m just too lazy and impatient to do the self-treatment and await the results. Like any good American, I would much rather pop a pill and be on my way. Worthless quacks.
Now, excuse me while I go search Monster.com for positions for puppies.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Doggie Depends
(By the way, Morgans, this is what our kitchen floor looked like after we ripped it up. This is the original linoleum.)
I have decided to do what I do best and procrastinate. Since it’s the weekend, and therefore, I’m working, and since the job of sitting in the vet’s waiting area for hours on end falls under the category of Mommy Duties, I’m waiting until Monday. In the interim, in one last ditch effort to prolong Pogisa's life span, I had Dave go out and purchase her some doggy diapers. We now have 2 living beings in our home that wear diapers (at least Vaughn's is just at night). This is truly desperation.
I remember seeing these diapers before we got the dog while we were shopping for puppy paraphernalia in preparing our nest for the arrival of our bouncy bundle of fur. They were in the "house training" section of Petco, and needless to say, these are what sprang into my mind last night in between death fantasies of Poe. (These fantasies ranged from the more humane just encouraging her to run away scenario, which wouldn’t work because she’s microchipped and forever bound to us by association, to playing ball on the busy boulevard that’s adjacent to our street, but then that would force me into the whole death controversy again with Vaughn.)
Dave bought the largest sized diapers Petco had (which look like preemie size), but we still had to add diaper pins in an effort to keep the things on because evidently large dogs don't have incontinence problems. I'm trying not to think about what a nut job I'm going to look like sitting with my diapered dog in the waiting area of the vet's office on Monday. (I wonder if these come in black, or maybe a leopard print.) I'm not sure who will be more embarrassed, me or the dog. She seems to have an unusually heightened sense of self-awareness and now walks around the house, diapered bum in tow, head hanging, looking like we have humiliated her beyond repair. I think it’s a good bet that this is not what the Dog Whisperer would recommend, and the minute he’s willing to come over and clean my floors, I’m all ears.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Code Yellow
Okay, this incontinence problem of The Dog's has reached crisis proportions. We can't even look at her sideways now without a stream of urine springing forth. Our house has been doused with Nature's Miracle from ceiling to floor. I have run out of paper towels and any other absorbent materials, short of sacrificing our toilet paper. An inordinate amount of my day is being spent absorbing pee puddles and their attendant pee trails that inevitably follow. The remaining amount of my free time is spent laundering pee soaked cloths and towels.
Through Internet searching (what else?), I understand this is what is called submissive peeing and that yelling or otherwise becoming upset with the dog only makes the situation worse, which is what has evidently happened, but I would have to have the patience of Mother Teresa to endure this onslaught of urine that I am now encountering multiple times a day (to be precise, anytime I look, glance, or pass by The Dog) without having the uncontrollable desire to perform puppy's last rites.
It now seems that whatever free time I have this next week after cleaning up, no doubt, more puppy eliminations, will be spent at the vet's to see if perhaps we can put her on doggy Detrol. "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now..."
Through Internet searching (what else?), I understand this is what is called submissive peeing and that yelling or otherwise becoming upset with the dog only makes the situation worse, which is what has evidently happened, but I would have to have the patience of Mother Teresa to endure this onslaught of urine that I am now encountering multiple times a day (to be precise, anytime I look, glance, or pass by The Dog) without having the uncontrollable desire to perform puppy's last rites.
It now seems that whatever free time I have this next week after cleaning up, no doubt, more puppy eliminations, will be spent at the vet's to see if perhaps we can put her on doggy Detrol. "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now..."
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Pee Saga Continues
In continuing to analyze Poe’s incontinence problem, there is one interesting observation I have made: There is something about the male voice, or just the male appearance in general, that particularly intimidates Poe. Dave especially seems to be able to elicit Poe's urinary reflex. This is peculiar given that he is her biggest advocate and has very little to do with training her.
The following is a perfect example of him trying to get her to go for a quick van ride:
First, he calls her. “Come on, Poe. Let’s go for a ride!” She pees.
He's wiping it up, naively thinking the worst is over (I mean, how much urine can one dog’s bladder contain?), and calls her again.
From my position on the bed upstairs, I then hear:
"Poe, come on. Let's go, come on....OH, GEE WIZZ...Come on, Poe. Come on. Don't cha wanna go for a ride? Come on...OH, GEE WIZZ. Come on, girl, let’s go for a ride. That’s it!...OH, GEE WIZZ, each of the gee wizzes preceded by Poe letting forth a seemingly endless fountain of pee as she makes her journey from the upstairs to the downstairs.
To give Poe the benefit of the doubt, wizz is a euphemism for pee, so perhaps she was just following commands.
The following is a perfect example of him trying to get her to go for a quick van ride:
First, he calls her. “Come on, Poe. Let’s go for a ride!” She pees.
He's wiping it up, naively thinking the worst is over (I mean, how much urine can one dog’s bladder contain?), and calls her again.
From my position on the bed upstairs, I then hear:
"Poe, come on. Let's go, come on....OH, GEE WIZZ...Come on, Poe. Come on. Don't cha wanna go for a ride? Come on...OH, GEE WIZZ. Come on, girl, let’s go for a ride. That’s it!...OH, GEE WIZZ, each of the gee wizzes preceded by Poe letting forth a seemingly endless fountain of pee as she makes her journey from the upstairs to the downstairs.
To give Poe the benefit of the doubt, wizz is a euphemism for pee, so perhaps she was just following commands.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Lethal Weapon
Poe in Armed and Ready Position.When do a dog's assets continue to outweigh their pissets? I fear The Dog's are coming dangerously close to an end, drowned by an uncontrollable flood of pee. This seems to be yet another consequence of our vacation--our dog has come back from her respite at my parents' with a heightened neuroses.
As I have explained previously, our dog does not have the best understanding of what it means to be house-trained, but it had become better, at least in terms of the peeing. She seemed to have been developing more control and being able to hold it for longer periods of time, but since coming back from my parents', her self-esteem (which was nebulous to begin with), appears to have been shaken. I don't know if she thinks we sent her away as a punishment and so now she is even more submissive in an effort to please us or what, but it's manifesting as some kind of urinating defensiveness.
Take this morning, for instance. I catch her down in the basement committing one of her few acts of disobedience, sneaking cat contraband. Anytime she gets the opportunity, she sneaks down to the cat dishes and inhales whatever food is there, and I mean inhale. It is truly a feat of nature the speed at which she commits this act. One minute she is standing there with two full bowls of cat food in front of her, you blink, and the bowls are completely licked clean, with Poe barely uttering a doggy belch. So, it was I caught her, bowls empty, and I yell. Now, yes, the yelling may not be adding to her self-confidence, but she knows she's done something verboten, and she is trying to flee the scene the minute she hears my feet on the steps. I tell her to go to her room, which, normally, she does, but this time...
I go upstairs, expecting her to be in her bed. She's not there, so I start searching the house for her, calling her. No dog. Okayee… Fortunately, we don't have a large house, so I cover the downstairs in a short period of time. I then head upstairs and see a darker than usual blob underneath the bed. Now, I'm in a tricky situation. I have to call her out from under the bed in an upbeat enough tone that she's not going to wet the carpet, having already relieved herself on the basement stairs when I first reprimanded her. I call. Nothing. Oh crap. This means I'm going to have to somehow drag her out from under the bed, again as positively as possible, in an effort to avoid more doggy waste contribution to our already stained carpet. I manage to coax her out enough to where she has cleared enough of the bottom of the bed to flip onto her back, readying herself in the piss position, and...we have pee...I grab her tail (because I have read this somewhere in all the doggy manuals I have loaned from the library) and pull it up over the offending orifice. This is supposed to make them stop peeing/pooping, as I recall. Another myth debunked. Well, not entirely, it did seem to stem the flow while I dragged her by the collar on her back, while still holding her tail modestly over her doggy bits, up to the point of the stairs. This was not all in one movement. I did make one pit stop on the other side of the bed, grabbing some of Vaughn's "burp rags," (cloth diapers that we still haven't gotten around to getting rid of), and placed one over her still flowing stream of pee. All this time, she has this helpless look on her face, still maintaining her position of submission, belly up, paws resting on her chest, while I appear as if I'm trying to diaper her, which, at this point, seems like a very good idea indeed.
I manage to reassure her enough to get her on all fours, and she heads down the stairs, presumably, finally, to her room. But what's this? That's not the way to her room. She has evidently decided at this point to take a piss tour of the house, like a little Doggy Appleseed, leaving a trail of urine throughout the house, later to grow into an everlasting impenetrable stink. First stop--the kitchen, a puddle or two there and then a beeline for the living room. I'm hot on her heels--by this time, caution thrown to the wind, screaming at her, calling her all manner of dog obscenities, and watching helplessly, as she now heads for Vaughn's room and his, up to this point, virgin carpet. New strategy. I stand at the doorway, and once again, in my sweetest tone, try to persuade her to come to me piss-free. Fortunately, she makes it all the way to the doorjamb before she plants another puddle. By this time, I have lost it, screeching like a harpy, I nearly strangle the dog as I drag/choke her into her room.
And this is how I spent my day while Vaughn was in kindergarten.
Reflecting on this now, I'm sure I have done nothing to build up Poe's self-esteem, and she will probably need a few years of doggy therapy to recover. Maybe we can get a group discount for her and Vaughn, as I'm sure he'll need it, too, if he doesn't already.
As I have explained previously, our dog does not have the best understanding of what it means to be house-trained, but it had become better, at least in terms of the peeing. She seemed to have been developing more control and being able to hold it for longer periods of time, but since coming back from my parents', her self-esteem (which was nebulous to begin with), appears to have been shaken. I don't know if she thinks we sent her away as a punishment and so now she is even more submissive in an effort to please us or what, but it's manifesting as some kind of urinating defensiveness.
Take this morning, for instance. I catch her down in the basement committing one of her few acts of disobedience, sneaking cat contraband. Anytime she gets the opportunity, she sneaks down to the cat dishes and inhales whatever food is there, and I mean inhale. It is truly a feat of nature the speed at which she commits this act. One minute she is standing there with two full bowls of cat food in front of her, you blink, and the bowls are completely licked clean, with Poe barely uttering a doggy belch. So, it was I caught her, bowls empty, and I yell. Now, yes, the yelling may not be adding to her self-confidence, but she knows she's done something verboten, and she is trying to flee the scene the minute she hears my feet on the steps. I tell her to go to her room, which, normally, she does, but this time...
I go upstairs, expecting her to be in her bed. She's not there, so I start searching the house for her, calling her. No dog. Okayee… Fortunately, we don't have a large house, so I cover the downstairs in a short period of time. I then head upstairs and see a darker than usual blob underneath the bed. Now, I'm in a tricky situation. I have to call her out from under the bed in an upbeat enough tone that she's not going to wet the carpet, having already relieved herself on the basement stairs when I first reprimanded her. I call. Nothing. Oh crap. This means I'm going to have to somehow drag her out from under the bed, again as positively as possible, in an effort to avoid more doggy waste contribution to our already stained carpet. I manage to coax her out enough to where she has cleared enough of the bottom of the bed to flip onto her back, readying herself in the piss position, and...we have pee...I grab her tail (because I have read this somewhere in all the doggy manuals I have loaned from the library) and pull it up over the offending orifice. This is supposed to make them stop peeing/pooping, as I recall. Another myth debunked. Well, not entirely, it did seem to stem the flow while I dragged her by the collar on her back, while still holding her tail modestly over her doggy bits, up to the point of the stairs. This was not all in one movement. I did make one pit stop on the other side of the bed, grabbing some of Vaughn's "burp rags," (cloth diapers that we still haven't gotten around to getting rid of), and placed one over her still flowing stream of pee. All this time, she has this helpless look on her face, still maintaining her position of submission, belly up, paws resting on her chest, while I appear as if I'm trying to diaper her, which, at this point, seems like a very good idea indeed.
I manage to reassure her enough to get her on all fours, and she heads down the stairs, presumably, finally, to her room. But what's this? That's not the way to her room. She has evidently decided at this point to take a piss tour of the house, like a little Doggy Appleseed, leaving a trail of urine throughout the house, later to grow into an everlasting impenetrable stink. First stop--the kitchen, a puddle or two there and then a beeline for the living room. I'm hot on her heels--by this time, caution thrown to the wind, screaming at her, calling her all manner of dog obscenities, and watching helplessly, as she now heads for Vaughn's room and his, up to this point, virgin carpet. New strategy. I stand at the doorway, and once again, in my sweetest tone, try to persuade her to come to me piss-free. Fortunately, she makes it all the way to the doorjamb before she plants another puddle. By this time, I have lost it, screeching like a harpy, I nearly strangle the dog as I drag/choke her into her room.
And this is how I spent my day while Vaughn was in kindergarten.
Reflecting on this now, I'm sure I have done nothing to build up Poe's self-esteem, and she will probably need a few years of doggy therapy to recover. Maybe we can get a group discount for her and Vaughn, as I'm sure he'll need it, too, if he doesn't already.
Monday, October 15, 2007
In Sickness and In Health
There are a myriad of reasons I abhor having a sick child, specifically, my sick child.
I especially hate those times when they're not so sick as to not annoy you and be blissfully semiconscious in their bed in a feverish state, watching their favorite movie for the umpteenth time, but they are exhibiting too obviously the signs of sickness for any parent in good conscience to take them out in public, exposing other children, and consequently, those children's parents, to a possible future excruciating existence of being housebound with a restless and bored child. Ironically, children are most contagious before you even have a clue of what's in store for the next week or more, but we parents still do the polite thing of keeping our children quarantined well past the time of contagion to ease the sensibilities of healthy children's parents and give them the false security that they will not be subjected to this viral abyss.
Vaughn has been seriously sick for the last few days, starting with the stuffies on Friday, peaking with a fever and severe crankiness, and fading out with the sniffies and wet cough today. Unfortunately, it was Dave's days to watch him during the worst part of it, and I'm not saying unfortunately for him, but for me. On the days that I worked, Dave got the fading in and out of consciousness part of the sickness and (oh can it be true?) the truly miraculous development of laryngitis, of all things. It was pure bliss for about 2 days, where the loudest sound Vaughn could utter was a barely audible raspy squeak. It especially came in handy when he was whisper screaming a good part of Saturday night due to a combination of dropping a 10-pound weight on his foot and just the general crappiness he was feeling as a consequence of his illness.
Now lest I come off as a stone cold b---h, let me explain a critical characteristic of Vaughn's. He loathes (and I cannot use that word strongly enough) medicine in any form, fashion, consistency, viscosity, or viscidity. (This is one reason why I spent over $400 to have him knocked out to get his cavities filled--another story for another day.) When I posed this little problem to his pediatrician (and evidently I must have minimized it because she didn't seem to grasp the scope of the situation), she said putting medicine in chocolate syrup always works, and just kind of shrugged her shoulders like--"Yeah, so what? Kids don't like medicine. Everybody knows that," and so has been the general reaction when I have brought this up to other mothers. It's common knowledge kids don't like medicine, but you put up with the resistance, overcome it, and it's over and done. Ah, if only it could be that simple. Among other lamentable qualities my son has inherited from me is my acute sense of taste and smell. It doesn't matter how we disguise the medicine--chocolate syrup, lemonade, ice cream, crack--with the first sniff, he detects it, takes a lick or sip, and then looks at us suspiciously as we lamely try to explain that things just taste different when you're sick. He then refuses to eat, drink, or otherwise consume the fare, requesting something else and hypervigilantly supervising our food preparation from there on.
Now, you might say, "Why don't you just make him take it?" And I would reply, "Are you familiar with the saying you can take a horse to water but..." If you are, I don't need to finish, and if you're not, well, you've lived too sheltered of a life and I'm sorry to add to your confusion. We have wrestled him to the floor, sat on him, pried his mouth open, and poured the offending substance down his gullet, only to have him promptly and ferociously spew it back up, with now the offending substance (which was less than a teaspoon), within seconds multiplied to over a gallon of syrupy sticky liquid blanketing him, the floor, us, and the neighboring furniture and walls. We have cajoled, bribed, threatened, begged, pleaded, bargained, but instead, we end up with a child that is so sick he is screaming and moaning and begging us to help him, but refusing to allow us to put anything in him or on him or close to him that would actually ease his suffering. You can imagine how this makes for a very fun evening. Luckily, this time, his screams were muted by his laryngitis, but being a mother, I could still hear him.
So you see, I am not so sensitive that I'm above trying to mask my child's illness by drugging him and then subjecting him to unsuspecting victims. It's that I am unable to, and consequently, will be spending the rest of my day in this pathogenic limbo, until Vaughn has the appearance of being healthy enough to go back to school--sans medication.
I especially hate those times when they're not so sick as to not annoy you and be blissfully semiconscious in their bed in a feverish state, watching their favorite movie for the umpteenth time, but they are exhibiting too obviously the signs of sickness for any parent in good conscience to take them out in public, exposing other children, and consequently, those children's parents, to a possible future excruciating existence of being housebound with a restless and bored child. Ironically, children are most contagious before you even have a clue of what's in store for the next week or more, but we parents still do the polite thing of keeping our children quarantined well past the time of contagion to ease the sensibilities of healthy children's parents and give them the false security that they will not be subjected to this viral abyss.
Vaughn has been seriously sick for the last few days, starting with the stuffies on Friday, peaking with a fever and severe crankiness, and fading out with the sniffies and wet cough today. Unfortunately, it was Dave's days to watch him during the worst part of it, and I'm not saying unfortunately for him, but for me. On the days that I worked, Dave got the fading in and out of consciousness part of the sickness and (oh can it be true?) the truly miraculous development of laryngitis, of all things. It was pure bliss for about 2 days, where the loudest sound Vaughn could utter was a barely audible raspy squeak. It especially came in handy when he was whisper screaming a good part of Saturday night due to a combination of dropping a 10-pound weight on his foot and just the general crappiness he was feeling as a consequence of his illness.
Now lest I come off as a stone cold b---h, let me explain a critical characteristic of Vaughn's. He loathes (and I cannot use that word strongly enough) medicine in any form, fashion, consistency, viscosity, or viscidity. (This is one reason why I spent over $400 to have him knocked out to get his cavities filled--another story for another day.) When I posed this little problem to his pediatrician (and evidently I must have minimized it because she didn't seem to grasp the scope of the situation), she said putting medicine in chocolate syrup always works, and just kind of shrugged her shoulders like--"Yeah, so what? Kids don't like medicine. Everybody knows that," and so has been the general reaction when I have brought this up to other mothers. It's common knowledge kids don't like medicine, but you put up with the resistance, overcome it, and it's over and done. Ah, if only it could be that simple. Among other lamentable qualities my son has inherited from me is my acute sense of taste and smell. It doesn't matter how we disguise the medicine--chocolate syrup, lemonade, ice cream, crack--with the first sniff, he detects it, takes a lick or sip, and then looks at us suspiciously as we lamely try to explain that things just taste different when you're sick. He then refuses to eat, drink, or otherwise consume the fare, requesting something else and hypervigilantly supervising our food preparation from there on.
Now, you might say, "Why don't you just make him take it?" And I would reply, "Are you familiar with the saying you can take a horse to water but..." If you are, I don't need to finish, and if you're not, well, you've lived too sheltered of a life and I'm sorry to add to your confusion. We have wrestled him to the floor, sat on him, pried his mouth open, and poured the offending substance down his gullet, only to have him promptly and ferociously spew it back up, with now the offending substance (which was less than a teaspoon), within seconds multiplied to over a gallon of syrupy sticky liquid blanketing him, the floor, us, and the neighboring furniture and walls. We have cajoled, bribed, threatened, begged, pleaded, bargained, but instead, we end up with a child that is so sick he is screaming and moaning and begging us to help him, but refusing to allow us to put anything in him or on him or close to him that would actually ease his suffering. You can imagine how this makes for a very fun evening. Luckily, this time, his screams were muted by his laryngitis, but being a mother, I could still hear him.
So you see, I am not so sensitive that I'm above trying to mask my child's illness by drugging him and then subjecting him to unsuspecting victims. It's that I am unable to, and consequently, will be spending the rest of my day in this pathogenic limbo, until Vaughn has the appearance of being healthy enough to go back to school--sans medication.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Paging Dr. Vaughn
"Mom, I have a cold."
"You do?"
"Yep, but I stuck a spoon in my mouth, and there was no blood, so I'm going to be okay."
Thank God.
"You do?"
"Yep, but I stuck a spoon in my mouth, and there was no blood, so I'm going to be okay."
Thank God.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Ode to Dorothy
Dorothy
March 2005-October 2007--a casualty of our family vacation.
When Vaughn's friend, E., Party Girl's daughter, had her 3rd birthday bash, the party favor was a tiny little comet goldfish in a miniature fishbowl. As usual, Party Girl had outdone herself in finding a way to send the little party goers out the door, satisfied, with a unique and inexpensive parting gift. When we got our little treasure home, I immediately got on the Internet and started researching just how one properly cares for a goldfish, figuring I'd get the usual stick them in a bowl and feed occasionally. Instead, I was convinced by the cyber goldfish enthusiasts to follow the more humane path of caring for our little darling, who had been christened by Vaughn as Dorothy because she bore a striking resemblance to Elmo's goldfish. (What are the odds?)
Suffice it to say that when all was said and done, I ended up with a party favor that cost me a little over $100, initially. She was probably the only 1 cm common comet goldfish ever to be set up with her own 10-gallon aquarium, complete with all aquarium accoutrement. In the meantime, everyone thought I was completely nuts for not just plopping her into the nearest bowl-shaped container, like every other parent does, and letting nature take its course. Dorothy, I'm sure, thought she had been returned to the ocean or lake or pond or wherever the heck goldfish come from as she swam the great expanse of her gargantuan home.
For the first year-and-a-half, Dorothy received exquisite care, water changes every few days, a complete cleaning every week, a variety of foods every day, new little ornaments to keep things interesting (because "goldfish become bored if their environment isn't changed every so often"). Then we got the kitten. Dorothy didn't get filter and water changes quite as often, but was still a very doted upon goldfish. Then came the dog, at which time, poor Dorothy's care got to the point of virtual neglect. Algae was thriving, and Dorothy got fed maybe every other day. Now, this isn't to say that I didn't feel extreme guilt over this. Every time I chanced to pass her aquarium and heard the filter crashing water like a mini-waterfall because the water level had become dangerously low, I'd promise to clean her tank...soon. Dave kept reassuring me that she still received the best care a goldfish could hope for, despite the fact that it was becoming more and more difficult to see her through the green film covering the aquarium walls. But Dorothy looked as healthy and spunky as ever and seemed to be as content as a goldfish can be. Party Girl later informed me that the first year after the birthday party she had replaced their goldfish thrice over and that she thought my goldfish was the only surviving member of the original ill-fated fish favors; so, despite the fact that she derived endless amusement from thinking that I was such a sucker to have nurtured a 5-cent carp, I took pride in the fact that Dorothy was a thriving, healthy and happy 2-1/2-year-old goldfish.
Then we went on our 10-day vacation. I bought a couple of those pellet feeders that are supposed to dissolve, I guess, over time or the fish pick at it (I don't know the exact principle on which they work), but the solution of how she would be fed was solved, and since she was still alive when we returned, I was content that all was well. I gave her a good feeding over the next couple of days, which generally occurred as an afterthought after I'd put Vaughn to bed and the lights were off. The next day, Vaughn tells me Dorothy is acting funny. She's on the bottom of the tank. Uh-oh. I went in to check on her, and sure enough, Dorothy was laying on the bottom of the tank on her side, with her tail curled around her, but not dead--yet. Over the next 3 days, there was a desperate rescue attempt on my part to save Dorothy's life. Back to the Internet to 1) try and figure out what the heck was wrong with her and 2) what I could do about it. One source suggested that you could take the goldfish to the vet and have them x-rayed to see if their swim bladder was the problem. For a moment, I pictured putting our 3-inch goldfish into a fish carrier and waiting for 3+ hours in the waiting room at the vet's office, and then paying a ridiculous amount of money to have her x-rayed, confirming that, indeed, she couldn't swim. Yeah, I have not reached that kind of insanity yet. The most likely scenario, as I learned later, was that she had overeaten. Evidently, goldfish can go for as long as a week or more without food, eating the algae (which she had plenty of) off the rocks. She looked perfectly healthy, other than looking like she was going to kick the bucket at any moment, so I had to conclude that she binged, got constipated, and that in turn had affected her swim bladder. There was hope.
I fasted her over the next few days, cleaned the aquarium, religiously changed the water every day, administered medication, and was just about to go all out and start asking for some expert help--well, have Dave ask for some expert help--when Dave informed me that he believed she was no longer with us. Now, the day previously I had declared her dead prematurely. Vaughn was there when I broke the news, and he proceeded to start in on a mournful wail, only for us to see her take a big gasp of breath and flutter her fins. Dave advised me not to make any more death pronouncements in front of "a certain someone" until we were absolutely certain she was gone. (He never did explain how we were to confirm this--using our mini-fish stethoscope, evidently.) However, this seemed to have brought closure for Vaughn because from then on he started harassing me about getting another fish and asking when we were going to replace Dorothy before poor Dorothy's body was even warm. (What do you expect from a child that was ready to give up his dog for a hermit crab?)
As it turned out, the fact that Dorothy had passed on was actually a relief because she had begun to look so bad the day of her death that I was considering euthanizing her (which can humanely be done with clover oil. Another Internet tidbit) because I couldn't stand to think of her languishing for several more days. Of course, this is a little absurd considering what I allowed Vaughn to put the carcasses of his victims through after his little fishing expedition. Granted, they were dead, but...Note to self: I need to get those things out of the freezer.
Dorothy's body was left in the fish tank in Vaughn's room over a period of about a day. I promised myself that I would clear out the fish tank and prep Dorothy's body for burial while Vaughn was at school, and then when he came home, we would lay her to rest somewhere in the back yard, after performing a proper fish funeral. However, being the slacker mom that I am, in the end Dorothy ended up with the traditional city sewer farewell just before I went to pick up Vaughn from school, with the empty fish tank still in his room.
Later that evening:
"Where's Dorothy?" I had wondered how long it would take before he would realize there was no fish in the aquarium. I was actually surprised that he hadn't realized he'd had a dead fish in the tank over the last day, but I guess he had grown accustomed to Dorothy's inert body hovering over the bottom of the tank.
"Oh, Honey, she's gone. Dorothy is in goldfish heaven now, playing with a bunch of other goldfish and eating all kinds of yummy food. She's happy now."
"Where's the dust?" examining the bottom of the fish tank.
"What dust?"
"You know, the dust?" continuing to scrutinize the empty tank.
"What?"
"Mammaw says that when you die you turn to dust."
And did she also explain that when Jesus comes in the Clouds of Glory at the End of Times all the goldfish will rise up from their graves to greet Him?
"Well, Sweetie, you don't turn to dust right away. That takes a lot of time." (Especially in the water--it's more like mud.)
Interestingly, he didn't ask where the missing fish corpse went. I believe he probably is under the false impression that when you die you mysteriously disappear, since that's what happened with the first goldfish casualty, Peepee, Dorothy's former companion, or actually former victim. She largely spent her time tirelessly chasing the poor beleaguered fancy Goldfish all over the tank. I think secretly Dorothy was a bigot and thought Peepee was just a little too fancy, but it's just a theory. When Peepee (again, named by Vaughn) died, I discreetly disposed of him before Vaughn discovered his bobbing, lifeless body floating on top of the water. Vaughn was only 3 at the time, and I wasn't prepared to get into a discussion of life and death at that point. I mistakenly figured he wouldn't notice. Fortunately, the simple statement that Peepee was "gone" and had "passed on" was a sufficient enough explanation for the missing fish. Fish missing--fish "gone" and "passed on." Makes sense.
On a side note: I do wonder what kind of dust Vaughn was expecting--the common household variety of which our home has a preponderance or some goldfish-colored, sparkly, pixie dust, which I suspect was probably more the case. If only we could go out like that, how pretty death would be--a shimmering, magical cloud of dust. *Poof*
Goodbye, Dorothy. We'll miss you. You were a good and loyal (?) fish.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Breast Fiend
I am now suffering my 3rd, count it t-h-i-r-d, that's right, episode (quaint way of saying ninth circle of Hell) of mastitis, and no, I am not one of those weirdos who still breastfeeds their 5-year-old. He may still spend time in the bathroom with me, but I am not quite that perverted. Evidently, after my body experienced the 2 episodes of mastitis when I was breastfeeding, it liked it so much it decided to set out on a sentimental journey to experience it again. Ah, memories. The infection has evidently been lurking for the last 2 months, but like a true procrastinator and phobic of doctors, I thought if I just utilized the tried and true therapy of ignoring it, it would go away. Instead, it decided to rear it's full ugly nippled head while we were on our one family vacation of the year. Fortunately, I had procrastinated my usual "female" appointment and it just happened to be scheduled for the day after we came back from vacation. By that time, I had a lovely red and swollen B cup on one side and my pathetically healthy A (well, almost) cup on the other. Conversation during OB exam:
Doctor: "I hadn't noticed your breasts were so..."
Me: "Big?" Grinning..
Doctor: Frowning and looking at me quizzically like the infection had now migrated to my brain, "No. Asymmetrical."
Humphf. You say potatoes, I say...
Anyway, after much poking and prodding, it was concluded that I had a lump, ooo, possibly even an abscess, and that the rest of my day would be spent at the clinic for further poking and prodding and a photo session scheduled for my breast at the radiologist's office. At least, it wasn't for a mammogram. Fortunately, since the slightest touch of said lump would send me airborne, off the exam table, screaming obscenities (in my mind anyway), a mammogram was completely out of the question, and besides, I'm not 40 YET. Which has given me an idea: I think around the time I am scheduled for my first mammogram I will do whatever I did this time to get this infection and I'll get out of the pancaking of my AA's and have a comfortable, cozy, bosom-friendly ultrasound instead. Yeah. That's what I'll do, for the next 40 years or so. By that time, on the heels of 80, if there were the possibility of breast cancer, I'd want comfort measures only, so no point in mammograms. Let the disease eat away at my floppy, deflated fun bags while I dine on a morphine cocktail. Okay sorry, went a little into the dark side there. I don't mean to make light of breast cancer. I'm just saying...I hate mammograms, at least my idea of what a mammogram will be like.
I digress... The radiologist confirmed that I had mastitis, or in her words, "Well, you definitely have some inflammation." Your first year student and now you had to crush your seemingly sharp little doohickey (medical jargon) all over the expanse of my generous breast for the last 30 minutes to conclude this? The radiologist also said that I had a lump (again, stating the obvious. This, my friend, is why you go to a specialist) and said, "Shall we proceed to the next suite to stick an unnaturally long needle into your excessively painful boob and slurp out whatever goodies we might find in there?" or something like that.
Next stop, Ultrasound-Guided Needle Aspiration. (Yet another thing I like about medical transcription--sometimes I get to experience first-hand the things I transcribe. My dream is to one day undergo a maze procedure, just because it sounds so mysterious.) I agreed to the UGNA under the assumption that I had an abscess and draining it would give me some relief, or so I was told anyway. Do I smell lawsuit? Maybe I could get some implants out of this. I'm kidding.
Many people are afraid of needles--normal-sized needles. This needle did not fit in that category or the next 5 categories. Myself, I make a point of never looking at the needles. Blood draws: I stare intently on the water stain on the opposite wall while making friendly conversation with the vampiric phlebotomist, "So, do you come here often?" "Enjoy your work?" "What do you do for fun?" "Does it look like the room is spinning to you?" IVs: Again, friendly conversation while trying to make out what the spot on the ceiling looks like--cow, owl, horse...blood? Epidural: Well, my back was turned. Ha! However, very often it isn't the needle that terrorizes me so much as the operator. I'm generally holding my friendly conversations through clenched teeth, punctuated with a "That's okay" "No problem" "No worries," as they stab me again and again in an effort to find an amicable vein. I evidently have the blood veins of a junkie but without the fun history to go with it. I hold a special place in my heart for phlebotomists. Now, they are a worthwhile specialist.
With this procedure, fortunately, they had the monitor conveniently located in such a way that if I twisted my neck just so and thusly and so forth I could barely see it. The minute I got myself into the proper contortion, I fixated on the black and white boob tube. There was my breast, or at least I think so. Frankly, I was able to see Vaughn's penis on his 6-month-old intrauterine ultrasound easier than I could make out my breast on its 39-year-old ultrasound. I intently watched my immobile mamilla in fascination, waiting for the action that we all paid to see. Even as I saw the needle make its appearance onto the screen, I tried not to notice the insane length of it and instead pictured the long skinny white projectile as a friendly little alien finger probing and exploring the black space that is my breast. The little alien reaches its destination, the black hole, and starts sucking its contents out, receives its fill, and then starts back on its journey home. Goodbye, little alien. Goodbye! and then the radiologist says, "Huh. That's interesting," withdraws the needle and gives it another go. I don't know about you, but generally speaking, when someone is manipulating my breast, the last thing I want to hear is "Huh. That's interesting," no matter what the circumstances.
It turns out what they sucked out was pus and then the cavity refilled itself. They sucked out more pus, and it refilled itself again, like those damned restaurants with refillable drinks with overzealous waiters--That's my 5th cup. I think I've had enough now. Thanks. I didn't have an abscess after all, and consequently, no fluid to suck out; ergo, no immediate relief. It's a cyst, which is "totally normal to have" in breasts, happens all the time. Mine just, I guess, coincidentally, appeared at the same time as the mastitis. Cysts, I am told, are very hospitable to bacteria (mine being of the common staph variety) and this one was, evidently, the Martha Stewart of cysts and was entertaining guests, and it wasn't with her K-mart crap, either. Oh, no. This one used the "Living" line--the good stuff. I was on a broad-spectrum antibiotic for 5 days, still feeling like crap, when the culture results returned, and they switched me to a new antibiotic that Martha wasn't as fond of. Par-tay over, Marth.
As harmless as cysts are, they are still doing a cytology--again, radiologist "Yeah. I definitely want to do a cytology on this. We definitely did the right thing." But my PCP assures me that "I don't expect to find anything." I'm going with the PCP on this.
This is as exciting as my life gets.
Doctor: "I hadn't noticed your breasts were so..."
Me: "Big?" Grinning..
Doctor: Frowning and looking at me quizzically like the infection had now migrated to my brain, "No. Asymmetrical."
Humphf. You say potatoes, I say...
Anyway, after much poking and prodding, it was concluded that I had a lump, ooo, possibly even an abscess, and that the rest of my day would be spent at the clinic for further poking and prodding and a photo session scheduled for my breast at the radiologist's office. At least, it wasn't for a mammogram. Fortunately, since the slightest touch of said lump would send me airborne, off the exam table, screaming obscenities (in my mind anyway), a mammogram was completely out of the question, and besides, I'm not 40 YET. Which has given me an idea: I think around the time I am scheduled for my first mammogram I will do whatever I did this time to get this infection and I'll get out of the pancaking of my AA's and have a comfortable, cozy, bosom-friendly ultrasound instead. Yeah. That's what I'll do, for the next 40 years or so. By that time, on the heels of 80, if there were the possibility of breast cancer, I'd want comfort measures only, so no point in mammograms. Let the disease eat away at my floppy, deflated fun bags while I dine on a morphine cocktail. Okay sorry, went a little into the dark side there. I don't mean to make light of breast cancer. I'm just saying...I hate mammograms, at least my idea of what a mammogram will be like.
I digress... The radiologist confirmed that I had mastitis, or in her words, "Well, you definitely have some inflammation." Your first year student and now you had to crush your seemingly sharp little doohickey (medical jargon) all over the expanse of my generous breast for the last 30 minutes to conclude this? The radiologist also said that I had a lump (again, stating the obvious. This, my friend, is why you go to a specialist) and said, "Shall we proceed to the next suite to stick an unnaturally long needle into your excessively painful boob and slurp out whatever goodies we might find in there?" or something like that.
Next stop, Ultrasound-Guided Needle Aspiration. (Yet another thing I like about medical transcription--sometimes I get to experience first-hand the things I transcribe. My dream is to one day undergo a maze procedure, just because it sounds so mysterious.) I agreed to the UGNA under the assumption that I had an abscess and draining it would give me some relief, or so I was told anyway. Do I smell lawsuit? Maybe I could get some implants out of this. I'm kidding.
Many people are afraid of needles--normal-sized needles. This needle did not fit in that category or the next 5 categories. Myself, I make a point of never looking at the needles. Blood draws: I stare intently on the water stain on the opposite wall while making friendly conversation with the vampiric phlebotomist, "So, do you come here often?" "Enjoy your work?" "What do you do for fun?" "Does it look like the room is spinning to you?" IVs: Again, friendly conversation while trying to make out what the spot on the ceiling looks like--cow, owl, horse...blood? Epidural: Well, my back was turned. Ha! However, very often it isn't the needle that terrorizes me so much as the operator. I'm generally holding my friendly conversations through clenched teeth, punctuated with a "That's okay" "No problem" "No worries," as they stab me again and again in an effort to find an amicable vein. I evidently have the blood veins of a junkie but without the fun history to go with it. I hold a special place in my heart for phlebotomists. Now, they are a worthwhile specialist.
With this procedure, fortunately, they had the monitor conveniently located in such a way that if I twisted my neck just so and thusly and so forth I could barely see it. The minute I got myself into the proper contortion, I fixated on the black and white boob tube. There was my breast, or at least I think so. Frankly, I was able to see Vaughn's penis on his 6-month-old intrauterine ultrasound easier than I could make out my breast on its 39-year-old ultrasound. I intently watched my immobile mamilla in fascination, waiting for the action that we all paid to see. Even as I saw the needle make its appearance onto the screen, I tried not to notice the insane length of it and instead pictured the long skinny white projectile as a friendly little alien finger probing and exploring the black space that is my breast. The little alien reaches its destination, the black hole, and starts sucking its contents out, receives its fill, and then starts back on its journey home. Goodbye, little alien. Goodbye! and then the radiologist says, "Huh. That's interesting," withdraws the needle and gives it another go. I don't know about you, but generally speaking, when someone is manipulating my breast, the last thing I want to hear is "Huh. That's interesting," no matter what the circumstances.
It turns out what they sucked out was pus and then the cavity refilled itself. They sucked out more pus, and it refilled itself again, like those damned restaurants with refillable drinks with overzealous waiters--That's my 5th cup. I think I've had enough now. Thanks. I didn't have an abscess after all, and consequently, no fluid to suck out; ergo, no immediate relief. It's a cyst, which is "totally normal to have" in breasts, happens all the time. Mine just, I guess, coincidentally, appeared at the same time as the mastitis. Cysts, I am told, are very hospitable to bacteria (mine being of the common staph variety) and this one was, evidently, the Martha Stewart of cysts and was entertaining guests, and it wasn't with her K-mart crap, either. Oh, no. This one used the "Living" line--the good stuff. I was on a broad-spectrum antibiotic for 5 days, still feeling like crap, when the culture results returned, and they switched me to a new antibiotic that Martha wasn't as fond of. Par-tay over, Marth.
As harmless as cysts are, they are still doing a cytology--again, radiologist "Yeah. I definitely want to do a cytology on this. We definitely did the right thing." But my PCP assures me that "I don't expect to find anything." I'm going with the PCP on this.
This is as exciting as my life gets.
It's Magic!
Vaughn often likes to provide me with bathroom entertainment whenever I venture to answer the call of Mother Nature. He evidently feels it is his sonly duty to keep me company whenever I use the toilet, because God forbid a mother should ever be left alone to "do her thing."
"Watch this."
While I sat on my front-row throne, he proceeded to perform a kind of Kindergartner version of self-mutilation, taking his excessively long fingernail (because I am so pro-hygiene that way. I barely get my own nails clipped, much less his) and scraped his fading tanned skin so that a long white line appeared in the nail's wake.
"_____________ (unintelligible or senile hearing or a combination) the person who sits next to me at school."
"What? The person who sits next to you does that to you at school?!" My mind starts formulating all the horrendous acts that my son is enduring at the Abu Ghraib that is his kindergarten class.
"No. I show that to her, the person who sits next to me."
"You do that for the girl who sits next to you?"
"Yeah. See?" He juts out his fat little arm to show me the white line has disappeared. "Ta-Da!" He beams.
"Wow, lucky girl."
Boys are so weird.
"Watch this."
While I sat on my front-row throne, he proceeded to perform a kind of Kindergartner version of self-mutilation, taking his excessively long fingernail (because I am so pro-hygiene that way. I barely get my own nails clipped, much less his) and scraped his fading tanned skin so that a long white line appeared in the nail's wake.
"_____________ (unintelligible or senile hearing or a combination) the person who sits next to me at school."
"What? The person who sits next to you does that to you at school?!" My mind starts formulating all the horrendous acts that my son is enduring at the Abu Ghraib that is his kindergarten class.
"No. I show that to her, the person who sits next to me."
"You do that for the girl who sits next to you?"
"Yeah. See?" He juts out his fat little arm to show me the white line has disappeared. "Ta-Da!" He beams.
"Wow, lucky girl."
Boys are so weird.
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