Month: December 2010

Greetings from Whine Country, The White Death Returneth, and I Finally Put Up the Decorations

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No, this is NOT my house.   Not only is my house far more modest (this Griswoldian display is from my sister’s Cincinnati area suburb- where people consider my yearly income to be weekend pocket change) but Jerry does not permit me to do much in the way of decorating for Christmas.  Since he is terrified of fire I cannot have a live tree, outside lights, or anything that he perceives as remotely flammable.  This decree reeks of I don’t know what, especially after the legendary attempt at fireplace lighting with gasoline, but when you live in whine country, it’s easier and quieter to comply with irrational requests as far as reasonably possible.

I didn’t feel like putting up even my modest decorations this year.  My grandma died a year ago yesterday which was depressing enough, and I’m so damned broke it’s not funny, et cetera and so on. But something in the back of my head made me do it.  Grandma always enjoyed Christmas and always decorated lavishly until she wasn’t able to- and then I would go and do it for her.  Grandma would have been disappointed with me had I failed to at least put up the tree and the Nativity.   So the tree is up, the buzzard is in place (long story,) the Nativity is on the mantle and the wreath is in the window.  It was strangely comforting to put the stuff up. I’m glad I did as weird as that sounds.  I like Christmas decorations- especially when they are Griswoldian and tacky.

I would have been in the west end of Marion today trolling for tacky Christmas pictures except for the weather- there is a minor snowstorm coming through and I don’t want to be stuck up north or worse- trying to get through the White Death on the freeway.  So here I sit all broken hearted…the rest of the line is “paid my dime and only farted,” but a. I don’t have a dime, and b. even back in the day when the department stores had pay toilets, most of the chicks I knew simply slid under the stalls.  I’m in my bed but trapped under Lilo who is enjoying her REM sleep splayed across my chest.   That dog can sleep anywhere.  I have no idea where her dreams are taking her but she is the most dream-active of our dogs.  Her little head shakes and her legs move as if she’s running.  If she has a bad dream she wakes up and then she’s disoriented and clingy for awhile.  This dream doesn’t seem to be a bad one so I won’t disturb her if I can avoid it.  Let sleeping dogs lie- and dream.

Yes, look closely- Lilo is crosseyed.  I can also add bowlegged.  But she’s so sweet.  She’s being patient with Sheena which is amazing too.  Sheena is like a big awkward puppy right now but Lilo doesn’t seem to mind which is surprising me.

So whine country is fairly quiet at the moment- Jerry’s asleep which is nice.  I like that phrase, “whine country.”  If one doesn’t take account of the spelling of “whine” it could sound like I take high faluting vacations.  “I vacationed in whine country” sounds so much different that what it really is, as if I am hanging out with buff young studs and sampling the finest wines in the Napa Valley or something.  It really means I put up with Jerry’s incessant whining for a week straight instead of getting occasional breaks from it while I’m at work.   Going on vacation with Jerry is NO vacation for me! It’s even more work than when I’m at work.   The only way I get a real vacation is if I do what I did last June- I went on vacation to my sister’s in NC with Steve-o, while Jerry stayed home with the dogs.   Works for me, except I missed the dogs.

I have a hard time with the holidays for a number of reasons.  Mostly it’s hard because I never have the means to be as generous with others as I’d like.  This year I’ll be doing good to give cards.  Steve-o has always been cynical around the holidays even when he used to get all the useless crap that kids always want and then end up breaking, destroying or losing before New Year’s.  That’s what happened to the model airplane.  We still don’t know where that puppy ended up.  Probably on someone’s roof.

This was the only pic I could get of Steve-o last Christmas.  I’m so stinking proud of my illustrious offspring.  Perhaps it was fortuitous that he was an only child.

Now Lilo’s eyes are rolled back in her head and she’s snoring.  At least she’s not drooling.  Yet.

 

 

A Nouveau Body Hair Removal Solution, Overalls Wardrobe Malfunction, and Snitty Wankers

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Well, well. I guess I shouldn’t combine my loathing of superfluous body hair, intimate knowledge of what flashpoint fires do to hair, and something I saw on an episode of Dirty Jobs.  Maybe with a bit of modification to the cow torch pictured here I can burn it off.  I’d have never believed that cow udders grew hair, let alone that dairy farmers remove said unwanted udder hair with a freaking propane torch until I saw that episode of  Dirty Jobs.  Why didn’t I think about the torching option earlier to remove my own superfluous and unattractive body hair?   I know torching is effective not only from the carburetor adjusting incident (my eyebrows were completely gone for almost three days, which is a feat right there) but also from Jerry’s drunken fun adventure with Wild Turkey, gasoline and the fireplace.  Anyway, I think the only thing keeping me from the torching option is a natural fear of open flame, but it does work on the cows.  Maybe someone could modify the torch to a tiny butane flame (similar to a lighter) you could torch at least the unibrow and perhaps other unsightly hair on the facial area with.  Just a thought.

Oh, and it’s probably not a good idea to flame clip around your cat either. 

I am wondering about Jerry again this morning.  Here in beautiful Central Ohio winter has descended upon us with a ferocity we seldom see this early in December.  It was 13 degrees (yes, I’m American, so it’s Fahrenheit- I’m only good with metric measurements as they pertain to nuts and bolts and things that are installed on cars) this morning which is way too bloody cold even for me.  My hands freeze and crack and bleed when it’s that cold even when I wear gloves outside.  I have plenty of Aquaphor but I’m just not that anxious to get back to slathering it on and wearing my white cotton gloves all night.   Anyway it is apparently not a good idea to try to put on your Carhartts you bought last July at a garage sale when you’re “Weekend at Bernie’s” shitfaced at 11PM.  I think he just doesn’t have the dexterity in his hands and/or the ability to stay still long enough  to fasten the straps that hold the bib up.  I know he doesn’t have this ability when drunk.  Perhaps if he tries to don the overalls while sober it might work better for him.  I don’t think they are missing any pieces but I will double check them tonight.  I am not going to dress a grown man.  He will have to get by with long johns and a parka if he can’t figure the Carhartts out.  I can’t seem to get the scene from “A Christmas Story” out of my mind.  Every time I picture Jerry trying to get those Carhartts on I see Ralphie in the snow suit, unable to put his arms down.  It’s cute when a seven or eight year old kid is trapped in a snow suit, but downright pathetic to envision a 53 year old man being held hostage by a snow suit.  If it’s that damned cold, stay inside.  Whatever you wanted to do outside can wait.  Until it warms up.  Sometime in May.

I am not his mother and I am NOT dressing him.

Today has brought its share of snitty wankers.  I wonder if it’s the cold or just the overall depressing holiday season.  You go into a store and of course everyone is in there and they are in no hurry.  As Murphy’s Law would have it the one thing I need to purchase is behind the two old biddies yakking it up about their hemorrhoids and cold sores, I am already running behind, and when I finally retrieve the item I need and make my way to the line I get the “team member trainee.”  Take it from experience, anyplace that calls their employees anything other than employees- “associates,” “team members,” “support staff,” etc. is a shitty place to work for.  Avoid working for these places like the plague if you can.  It’s the same logic behind calling a turd “fecal matter.”  “Fecal matter” sounds more important and polite than “lump of shit,” but in the end it’s still going to be treated like a lump of shit.  Anyway, by the time I get through the line I’m running late and by then I’m feeling like Target should be paying me for training their help.   Usually I am very satisfied with Target, but it’s the holidays and all the stores suck right now.  I’m just glad the “team member trainee” spoke English as a first language.  Had she been foreign on top of being new and still learning (not her fault- and to her credit she did a good job for it being her first day) I’d probably blown my volatile, misanthropic, Type A personality, stack.

I don’t see me living to get old.  But then again, pissy, impatient old people were my age once. 

There.  Now I feel better.

One Pathetic Dude, Puppy Class for Adults, and Technology Tards

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Granted, mug shots are not generally the most flattering photos out there, as the Smoking Gun will attest (gotta love that site) but this dude got my attention because 1. he’s local, and 2. there’s just something particularly tacky about having one’s prized pit bulls tattooed on one’s neck.  If he was into dog fighting, I hope his fellow prisoners have just as dim a view of dog fighting as they do of child molestation.   There are responsible owners of pit bulls, but when one sees pit bulls connected with criminal elements I know it gets my wheels turning in a bad way.  The only things lower than a person who arranges and participates in dog fighting (in my humble opinion) are child molesters, rapists and serial killers. 

Yes I own dogs that are considered to be protection breeds, (i.e German Shepherd, Belgian Malinois) so yes I am very sensitive to those who would condemn a dog because of its breed rather than to condemn the idiots who mistreat and misuse dogs.  Condemning a dog for the owner’s negligence or ignorance is akin to blaming a car for running off the road rather than blaming the drunk driver controlling the car.   Dogs were bred for thousands of years to fulfill certain human purposes- some dogs to guard, some to herd (often guarding and herding are functions of the same breeds) some for hunting, such as spaniels, hounds and retrievers, and so on.  Yet the ultimate usefulness of a dog is determined by a number of factors, most primarily what his human handlers condition him/her to do.  I don’t agree with all of the common wisdom in dog handling- there are some nut jobs out there- but the primary function of the human in the human-dog relationship is to be the leader, the one who calls the shots- to be the alpha in the pack formation- especially when dealing with multiple dogs. 

Right now Sheena is bouncing back splendidly from surgery, but is proving to be a a bit of a behavioral challenge because she’s basically having to go through “puppy class” or basic obedience, as an adult.  She is in the process of learning what one would normally be teaching to 8-16 week old puppies.   She knows her name and can sit on command at this point.  Getting her attention is the hard part as she is easily distracted.  It’s a lot easier to teach a more malleable and much smaller 12 week old than it is to condition a strong-willed three year old who has acquired some bad habits (trash-digging, climbing on things including the coffee table, inappropriately taking food, etc.) along the way.   One thing that Sheena does get very well is house training- no bathroom  mistakes and that amazes me, though house training usually is not much of a problem for protection breeds, and it does help that she has two dogs in the house who are already conditioned and know the routine.  Few methods of conditioning dogs are more effective than having access to other dogs who have already learned the required behaviors.   They learn more quickly, and perhaps with some peer pressure to conform to the norms of the rest of the pack, from other dogs.  Canine social structure can be used to our advantage.

Sheena is attempting some power struggles with Clara (to be expected as Clara is the reigning queen bee) and I am having to reinforce Clara’s position by making Sheena work for every privilege she gets. Clara already knows the drill but Sheena can be strong willed and pushy, especially where food is involved.   Clara can be rather laissez-faire regarding food unless of course, someone else wants it.  Then she will make it clear that it’s HER food, and she will eat it at her leisure- one daintily and thoroughly chewed bite at a time.  Clara does not eat like a normal dog.  Lilo is extremely food motivated (Lilo the Inhaler, or her more infamous alter ego- the Food Ho) but even she knows better than to infringe on the Clara bowl- she learned a long time ago to leave Clara’s food alone at least until Clara’s done with it- but Sheena is having to learn and sometimes she has to learn the hard way.  Clara has rolled her a couple of times, but hasn’t hurt her doing it.  I would rather correct Sheena than allow Clara do to it because Clara’s correction won’t be as gentle as mine.  Clara also knows that I am above her in the pack hierarchy and I should be responsible for dishing out discipline. Sheena particularly dislikes the water bottle- but it is redirecting her from undesired behaviors without physically hurting her (we do not use physical discipline on our dogs.)   A blast of water in the face is enough to get her attention.  I know, I’m a mean mommy, but Sheena will learn to adapt to the established norms for dog behavior in our house. It’s just a bit more of a process when a dog is an adult vs. a puppy.  It’s easier to redirect a 20# 16 week old pup than a 70# three year old, but certainly not impossible.  Dogs learn from the moment of birth until the moment of death.  Heidi did remarkably well for us in spite of little to no socialization or conditioning for nine years.  Even senior dogs can be socialized with a little patience.   I have to remember this when Sheena signals her desire to go out at 5AM by lustily barking her way all through the house until I make it to the door.  I’m glad she’s good about her toileting activities- cleaning up a 70# dog’s bathroom mistake is NOT pleasant by any means, and she’s dropped some pretty huge almost Clara-sized loads outside- but I’m not really thrilled with her waking Jerry up that early.  I have confidence Sheena will learn.  Jerry, now there I wonder.

Jerry managed to annihilate his phone last night. It was already most distressed to begin with, but his attempts to take the back of it off with a screwdriver were its death knell. I had ordered him another one- a very simple phone with a big keypad- but it will probably not arrive until tonight or tomorrow which means he is without a phone and without the means to transfer his contact list (guess what I get to reload… manually) until it arrives.  I tried to show him how to use my phone (LG Rumor Touch) but without success.  The touch screen confused the hell out of him, (I didn’t even attempt to show him how to use the keyboard) and frankly expecting him to be able to use it was sort of cruel to a dude with both tremor disorder and presbyopia. 

I am not the most technologically savvy person in the world, and I freely admit it, but even I can figure out a touch screen cell phone and even how to get on the Internet with it and check my e-mail and all that.  Maybe if I had more time and patience but Jerry is a bit of what I call a technology tard.  Even worse was the poor guy who called Jerry wanting to know why the convertor box Jerry sold him for his TV didn’t work.  I was trying to explain to Jerry that the box has no way to pick up signal unless it is connected with the coax for the antenna going in to the box, then the coax from the box going into the TV.  Connecting the TV into the box without connecting the antenna to anything wasn’t going to work no matter what the poor kid did. 

The only thing worse than the garden variety technology tard is the Darwin-award candidate technology tard- say the guy who goes up on the roof to adjust a TV antenna or satellite dish in a thunderstorm.  So far Jerry has managed to keep all his fingers and toes for 53 years which in and of itself is an amazing feat considering some of the dumb stuff he’s done with power tools.  I don’t claim to be good with any kind of tool but I know my limitations and I also learned the cardinal rule of power tools: “Don’t Drink and Drill.”  I remember the visual quite vividly from Matt Groening’s “Life is Hell” comics.  I think it’s from “Work is Hell” but I’d have to dig through it.  Jerry on the other hand seems to have to be drunk to get motivated to use the power tools and that scares the hell out of me.

I should hide the drill battery.  Note to self.

Nothing Keeps a Good Dog Down, and (According to Clara) Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Green

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I know, sort of gross, but not as bad as I’d anticipated.  Sheena had three incisions, one for the spay – that one is barely visible, one to remove one mammary gland and nipple (not terribly aesthetically pleasing, but since the mass was right below the nipple, it stood to reason that it should be removed) and another incision to remove part of another mammary gland.  For having what amounts to a hysterectomy and partial mastectomy all at once, Sheena is remarkably unfazed.  Wednesday night, the day of the surgery, she was a bit in pain but mostly still stoned from the anesthetic and all the pain meds.  Yesterday she was a bit slow and tired, but today she has pretty much been trying to act like her normal hyper self- in spite of still being on Tramadol.  When Clara was hit by a car last year and had to have surgery to repair her front leg she was pretty well zoned on the Tramadols but they don’t seem to phase Sheena nearly as much.  Then again Clara was seven years old when she got hit, and Sheena is about three, if that.  Age does make some difference.  What really surprised me is the Vets at the clinic said Sheena was in heat when she was spayed.  She showed absolutely no signs, but then some dogs don’t.  Spaying her now may likely have saved her life although there is a good chance the mammary tumors were benign.  Mammary tumors in dogs are fed by estrogen- so in theory removing the tumors and removing the source of estrogen should prevent their return.

I only have two more days of Tramadols for her.  She has several more days of Keflex (what a joy trying to cram those down a canine gullet- the capsules are huge, and heaven help you if the capsule breaks, because Keflex is one of the nastiest tasting antibiotics there is, and I should know because I’ve probably taken every antibiotic out there at one point in time or another) for which I hope I have sufficient peanut butter.  It sounds mean but the only way to get pills down most dogs is to bury them in a wad of peanut butter, then scrape the wad of peanut butter containing the pills on to the roof of the dog’s mouth.

Clara of course is jealous, so much so that I joke that her brown eyes are turning green.  Little Miss Green-Eyed Monster resents the attention Sheena is getting, although I am sure she doesn’t remember all the special attention she got when she had all those stitches and then that seroma that had to be drained every other day for a month.  I did not enjoy that at all but at least she recovered fully.  I think dogs bounce back a lot faster than we do.  Lilo has not been nearly as clingy but then she’s always preferred Jerry.

Clara at the pet blessing.  Her eyes are still brown, in spite of her occasional jealous tizzies.

Jerry is in there whining about trying to caulk bathroom tiles- he’s about 8 or 10 beers into it which means I’ll have a mess to clean up tomorrow. He’s already trying to wheedle me into farting around with it too but I refuse to enter in to his drunk and stupid inspired home improvement attempts.  If only he would do this stuff when he’s sober, and preferably when I’m not home to hear about it.


Nerves, Waiting is the Hardest Part, and Sympathy for Sheena

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At one time in my life- before I discovered I have absolutely no aptitude for higher math- I considered a career in veterinary medicine.  I’d never made it through the algebra and chemistry, but I still have a passing curiosity for things medical and technical.  Blood and guts (as well as puke and crap) have never phased me, and I have a very limited sense of smell.  Had I just been able to somehow comprehend higher math I’d probably gone on to a veterinary or medical career.  Unfortunately my math abilities end at what I would call business math, and I still wonder how I made it through- with “B’s” no less- three quarters of accounting in college.  So I ended up in automotive. Still technical, but as long as you aren’t designing them, the necessary math skills seldom go beyond percentages and ratios.   Even I in my mathematical weakness can cope with those.

I dropped Sheena off this morning to be spayed- pretty sure that she was neither in heat nor pregnant- and figured she would do quite fine and the process would proceed uneventfully.  I didn’t think she would be old enough to have mammary tumors- a condition that claimed my very dear cat Daisy many years ago- so I was a bit shocked when the spay clinic called back and said she had two “small suspicious masses” on her mammary glands.  So not only does Sheena have to endure the spay surgery, she’s ending up getting a mastectomy as well.  I am still waiting to hear back from them.  I wonder if she is doing OK, if she can still come home tonight, and I wonder a lot of other things too.  I know that mammary tumors in dogs generally only have a 50/50 chance of being cancerous, and even if they are, if they are removed early, the cancer generally doesn’t spread (as it almost always does in cats) and the dog lives a normal life.   This really surprises me because Sheena is not at all body sensitive and I didn’t observe or feel any kind of lumps or bumps on her other than an innocuous, small lipoma on her right leg.   So if the tumors were so small that they could only observe them when the skin was pulled back during surgery, I would surmise that mastectomy should eliminate any risk of the tumors spreading.  My curiosity is if they are simply going to remove the just the affected gland(s), or if they are going to be a bit more radical and remove both mammary chains.  I’ll find out soon enough but I hate waiting and being in suspense. 

Of course had poor Sheena been spayed at four or five months of age she wouldn’t have mammary tumors.  In some ways I feel like we’re shutting the barn door after the horse has already escaped. I know the value of being sure to spay a non-breeding dog early, but we didn’t get to her early, and some people are just plain ignorant.

I will check Lilo when I get home, and Clara too, even though Clara is not as high risk for mammary tumors because she was spayed earlier and never had pups.  That is one disease that scares the hell out of me even though I’ve been assured it’s not as serious a thing for dogs as it is for cats. 

Poor Sheena.  She is going to be a basket case.

Anyone who is stumbling upon this, listen to me.  SPAY your dog.  Do it early.  Find a way.  Most dogs are not suitable for breeding anyway, and you don’t want to deal with heat or puppies – or the risk of mammary tumors and pyometra and all that other stuff.  We are trying to do right by Sheena now, because we didn’t have her when she was younger, but for other people with younger dogs and pups- DO IT NOW.  Or I will come and torture you.