Saturday, July 29, 2017

T-minus Three Weeks to Eight Paws

The countdown to the new pet arrive continues. Three weeks from now, we will have eight paws running around the house. Or, at least peeing in various parts of our house.

This may be the longest three weeks of my life.

Foster Mom sends a text or photo now and again, which is helpful during this preparation stage... although I don't know if it's always helpful to see photos of something that is three weeks away. I've thought about getting in my car and driving to San Antonio to pick them up early but that's a long drive from the northernmost corner of Illinois and it takes away the fun of the unveiling on August 19th.

The wife is on a dog-themed spending spree. For someone who was tentative about dogs, she sure is buying a whole bunch of nice dog things. Yesterday, a "multi-purpose" 186-inch long pet gate arrived via Brown Truck. This is the Cadillac model of gates, complete with wood finish that matches our trim, metal slats that are small enough to keep the tiny pups from sneaking out and tall enough that even we can't step over it. We could probably surround the entire house with that thing. It folds into six delicious pieces so technically it could be moved wherever we want or need. I better behave or the wife will surround ME with it.

There are brand new water bowls, food bowls, food mats, fancy dog bed, dog food storage containers, treat jar and a few squeaky toys.  Another bed is sure to be secured next. She can't buy leashes or fancy collars yet as she really don't know what an 8 lb dog looks like. A few cheap-will-have-to-do-on-Gotcha Day were secured but these are only for temporary measures, I am sure.

The only thing I've purchased yet are two Kongs and the actual dogs. I best get shopping.

Naming dogs of which you have never met is difficult. We've gone round and round about names, trying out different names as we walk around the block with our invisible yet-to-arrive dogs. Since the pups are from the border of Texas/Mexico, we've been considering Spanish-themed names. I'm pretty set on a name for the brown dog and the wife seems to have settled on at least part of a name for the white dog. My biggest concern is that we don't want to end up sounding politically incorrect when naming the dogs. I know that's weird but some of the names give me paws-pause.

Perhaps I should ask someone of Mexican descent if we are being ridiculous, racist, insulting or just plain ignorant.

In the spirit of friendship and as it is apt, we are going to refer to the two of them as "Dos Marias." I think it will be great fun to yell, "Dos Marias!" when calling them to dinner or to go for a ride in the car or when looking for them when lost behind the great fence. (We have dear friends of which are "Dos Marias." We honor them with use of this name for calling our dogs to dinner.)

Staying with the theme, I am considering if we should do all commands in Spanish. That means I'll have to teach the wife Spanish but she can learn a few commands. I'll have to brush up on my Espanol lest I shout out things of which should not be shouted.

T-minus three weeks. We can do it!

I assume you are curious about the name I'm considering for brown dog. I shall tell you but it is subject to change at any time before (and potentially after) the Gotch Day. I am open to suggestions but make no promises I'll listen. El perro (or is it la perra? Does spanish recognize the difference between boy and girl dogs or are they all perros? Time to take that refresher course...) shall be named Senorita Maritza Bandido.

Has a great ring to it, don't you think? I will some day explain my name choice but for today that is enough. As long as it doesn't end up being offensive in any capacity, I put the odds of this name making the cut about 2:1.

T-minus three weeks to Eight Paws. Un montón de tiempo para retocar en mi español y para la esposa a gastar más dinero.

Don't be fooled. Google Translate wrote that sentence. I'm pretty much at making names and yelling out a few commands point of Spanish. Here's to electronic translation and lots of practice. Or, I should say, "Aquí hay traducción electrónica y mucha práctica."

Senorita Maritza Bandido. I like it more and more each time I say it. Make those odds 75% chance of making the cut.....

Friday, July 21, 2017

Eight Paws

Update on the "Irish Spring Keeps Critters Out of the Yard" saga: The bunnies couldn't care less about the soap; in fact, last night one of the bunnies was STANDING ON the soap. So much for deterring the destruction.

In a lapse of judgment or in a stroke of genius, we have adopted two dogs who will be arriving from Texas in mid-August. Two mighty mutts, their breeds are unknown and their tales most likely unfathomable.

They are rescue pups from the southern US border, which begs the question: would they even be here if there had been a wall across the border? Which leads me to another question: What if they don't speak English? And finally: what if, as "45" has suggested, a drug lord threw a 60 lb. bag of drugs over the fence and it had fallen on the pups?

Never mind. Let's focus on how it took me a year and a half to consider getting another dog. I mean, how could we do any better than Freckles and Lucy? What joy they brought-what love they gave! And honestly--during the past 18 months, I've appreciated the freedom of not having to worry about being home within five hours (the window between potty breaks), not fretting when it's storming while I'm at work and it's been glorious without having to get up at 2 AM to let Freckles out. My official pros and cons list about getting a new dog was completely balanced, 50/50....

Then came Tracy's Dogs.

I knew we wanted to rescue a dog if we ever did decide to get a dog. I told the Universe this was my "final answer," giving a rescue one shot in the dark. Thanks to a good friend, I learned of the Texas-based Tracy's Dogs. After watching videos, reading posts and pursuing information, I submitted an application and then let it go.

If you haven't seen their website or looked at their videos, you have no idea what you're missing. Check it out. www.tracysdogs.com

I had no expectation of being chosen. I mean, this place gets tons of applications and after frustration with a few local rescues, I figured I wouldn't be chosen. So, I put the entire thing in the Universe's hands and went on with my life...

....for twenty four hours.

Yes, within a day, Tracy's Dogs called my references, my vet and then me.

I cannot convey to you how shocked I was when the Adoption Manager called. She was so nice. What a great conversation. We went on for days. When asked about the perfect dog, I provided a description that the wife had given me: under 20 pounds, young but not a puppy, non-shedding, female and with no awful medical issues. Bonus points if the dog has two eyes. While interviewing me, she paused (no pun intended) and then asked, "would you consider a smaller dog?"

I hadn't anticipated that, either. So, now I'm being interviewed AND I'm being asked if I would consider a smaller dog. Could this get any better? The Universe was out of control.

Yes. Yes, it could. The dog she envisioned was a small white female, something like a poodle or other non-shedding type pup. Eight pounds of fluff, to be exact.  Perhaps two or three years old. If I had to pick something for the wife, this would be it. By the end of the conversation, we were approved for adoption (she had already talked to our references and vet) and we were put in touch with the foster mom.

The call to the foster mom went swimmingly. She too was ridiculously nice, talkative and candid. Foster mama had lots to say, which helped paint a picture of the pup in question.

Then, the Universe took a turn of yet another thing I hadn't seen coming: the little white dog had completely bonded with a scruffy brownish street dog and they had been inseparable since being picked up together at a high kill shelter. They share a bone at the same time, they eat out of the same dish, they sleep in the same bed. My brain started to hurt, as this was quickly morphing into a two-for-one scenario.

I knew there was no way I could separate them. None. Zero. Zilch. If I wanted the white ball of fluff, the scrappy brown dog would have to be in tow. I dreaded telling the wife this. It was hard enough for her to consider having a dog again. Having to consider TWO dogs might push her over the edge.

The dogs had yet to be posted on the website, so for the next 24 hours we didn't have to worry about their availability status changing But, we knew that they would then be placed on the page and all bets were off.

I didn't know what to do. After talking to the wife by phone, she said I should come home and we could talk about it, make a decision. I warned her I was all in.

I guess she was all in, too as on the counter were two little dog baskets, two dog food containers and two squeaky toys. I contacted the Adoption Manager and secured our new little furry friends. They are now officially ours. Paid in full, posted as adopted.

We have until August 19th to get our acts together, to sleep as much as possible and to stay out longer than seven hours at a time. We probably should just stay out all the time so we don't mind staying home more often once the pups arrive.

I know the dogs' first weeks in our home has potential to being a disaster--after all, the two pups will have traveled on a truck from Texas with 60 other dogs after having endured some pretty tough times. I know having another new home will be overwhelming. I know they will come with lots of baggage. But, I know the Universe, Freckles and Lucy wouldn't steer us wrong, and so that first week might be just fine. I think I'll thank the Universe right now for the great transition from homeless to winning the lottery.

I think we've all won the lottery. 

Stay tuned for names, photos and general information.

Perhaps the eight paws will work better at deterring the bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels better than Irish Spring. I look forward to finding out.....

************************************************************

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Spring Freshed Four Legged Pests

Somewhere along the way, I read that using Irish Spring keeps bunnies and chipmunks and other ridiculous friends of Mother Nature out of the garden. I'm pretty sick of our hostas looking like shredded grass trimmings. I'm irritated that plants have been mowed down to the ground by voracious lagomorphs. Don't even get me started on the damage the chipmunks are doing.

I went to the store and bought a multi-pack of the pungent Irish soap. I cut the soap into pieces, as directed on gardening websites. I placed the chunks around the "test plants." I went back into the house and watched.

Watched what? I watched bunnies ignore the Irish Spring and continue their mowing down of the hostas and I enjoyed Chipmunks moving the soap out of the way so they could continue their destruction of all things cherished. I don't know what I did "wrong" but the soap did not work. 

At least our yard smells fresh and pretty.

While lamenting the feasting of the critters, I've been busy cruising pet adoption sites, looking for the perfect dog. Yes, a dog. I figure if we are going to get a dog, now is the time. I can't tell you how many hours I've spent looking at dog photos and reading descriptions. My eyes were red and blurry from one too many extended internet searches. To help narrow things down, I chose a "within 100 miles rescue group" that I thought had the "best matching to my criteria" dogs and focused on them. I found what I thought would be a great match for our household. They had a selection of most wonderful pups (placed in foster homes) and all were within 75 miles. I found what appeared to be the most perfect dog and even gave him a name of which to bestow. I filled out adoption application and paid the meager required fee. Then, the emailing back and forth began.

I had NO idea adopting a dog might be this difficult. I had NO idea I could be so wrong about picking a rescue group. By the time the czarina of the group finished chewing me up and spitting me out, I no longer wanted a dog. She was rude, condescending and just plain awful. At first, I thought I was being sensitive, so I asked the wife to read the email. The wife thought determined the lady was a bitch, so it wasn't me. (The wife never says anyone is a bitch, so that scared me a wee bit.) I have since did an internet search on the lady and it appears she doesn't exactly have a fan club. "Rude" and "condescending" were the two most utilized words when describing her demeanor. (Note to self: do much research BEFORE choosing a rescue.) I felt much better after reading the reviews. If I were her, I'd consider a whole lot of therapy and a whole lot let emails.

My favorite part? She indicated I would need to consider an "older" dog.... because, well... I am older. Bluntly: I am too old for a 1 year old dog. 

Geez, it's not like I'm on the brink of death. Whoever said age is just a number never tried to adopt a dog from this lady. 

Lady, I'm a pretty spry fifty five. I'm not using a walker and feeble and won't even remember I own a dog. She seemed mighty concerned that a 17 pound dog would be too big and that the dog had too long of legs for me. Um, what? I assured her, via email, that our last shih tzu mix weighed 17 pounds and that she too had long legs. 

Do you know what a weird email conversation it is to argue about the length of dog legs for a 17 pound dog?

Those of you who know me know that our dogs are treated as good or better than most kids. You know I love my dogs with reckless abandon. The emails didn't get any better. Finally, the wife said ENOUGH. She was right. If were really are going to adopt a dog, it won't be through this rescue. 

Maybe she did a secret home visit to our house and smelled all the Irish Spring and was afraid we would poison a dog in our feebleness. 

I'm not sure my dog search will continue. Perhaps it is not meant to be. Perhaps the perfect pup will come along when we're not looking and we'll have a canine four legged friend again. Perhaps I'll just volunteer at the local animal shelter and get a dog fix that way. Time will tell. 

A pet with us is provided the best food, great care, lots of walks, oodles of love. I know we would provide a great home for a new pooch. Although I don't know if we will get a dog, I do know that this lady will not be doing a home visit or telling me I am too old for a 1 year old dog or helping us adopt a rescue from her group. I apologize to the pups under her care. I know she wants the best for them but she really shouldn't judge a potential adopter by a number or dog leg length. 

Hey, do you think an Irish Setter would work better than Irish Spring? Maybe I've been this wrong the whole time.... 

Watch out, bunnies and chipmunks. I may be on to something here....

Saturday, July 08, 2017

Let Them Eat Cake

Update on Ol' Pinky: Cold winding down. Pain tolerable. And, no more double-pink eye!

I saw the wife laugh today. A great sign. Better living through chemicals, I say. She still can't hear anything out of her ear but hey, we are focusing on the positive here. Yesterday, she was using a pressure point approach to helping her ear. Monday, she's going back to the doctor about the ear. I love the action of which she taking. No sitting around for the motivated woman in pink.

Her next "job" is to address the stress. (I like that that rhymes.) I leave that journey to her. All I can do is stand on the sidelines and yell things like, "TAKE THAT, BITCH!"

Scenario: Pinky contemplating some ridiculous statement from a person of which is making ridiculous statements.

Me: "DON'T TRY TO MAKE SENSE OUT OF THINGS THAT DON'T MAKE SENSE!" (Super supportive. That's me.)

The Wife: "Okay."

Me: [seeing she is still trying to make sense out of things that don't make sense]: "STOP IT! NOT YOUR CIRCUS, NOT YOUR MONKEYS!"

If that's not support, I don't know what is.
***************************************
On a different note, the second of my two work children has moved on to bigger and better things. She got a new job in the suburbs. For that, I am very proud. (It's like watching a baby bird fly the coop.) I am also sad. It was fun having work children. I will still have contact with my two work children but it won't be daily. Thank goodness for texting and social media.

Right before the start of her official going away party, I noticed there was an ice cream cake in the garbage. I was standing at the counter, slicing olives for the taco bar we were setting up when I looked down and...there it was. I took a closer look. Yup, that's half a DQ Ice Cream cake.

I asked, "HEY! IS THAT A DQ CAKE IN THE GARBAGE?"

My work daughter indicated it was.

Me: [indignant] "What the hell is half a DQ Ice cream cake doing in the garbage? That's sacrilegious!" 

It still looked pretty frozen, so I knew it hadn't been there very long. Seems she was cleaning out the work frig/freezer in anticipation of her departure. There were other food products in the garbage but only the ice cream caught my eye.

Me: "How old is this cake?"

I was not amused. This was just plain wrong. WRONG! She muttered something about it being from a few weeks ago. A quick bit of math in my head helped me determine it was two weeks ago.

Me: "Is there anything wrong with it?"

She semi-sorta indicated there was nothing "wrong" with it, besides it being old and being in the garbage. How she determined that two weeks was "old," I do not know. Maybe 30-year-olds think food products older than a day or two should be thrown away. No matter, this was wrong, unjustified, shameful. I wanted to give her up for adoption, seeing as she had put a perfectly good DQ cake in the garbage.

I took a really close look. Nope, not freezer burned. Nope, not melted. Yes, looks perfectly good. Has some plastic covering on it...

You know what I did. You have no question about what I did. I took that ice cream cake out of the garbage, removed the plastic covering and...

...I ate it.

OF COURSE I DID! Why on earth would someone throw out such a wonderful, delicious, perfectly-fine ice cream cake? That is incredibly wrong, wrong, wrong. No one should EVER throw out an ice cream cake unless it is freezer-burned beyond recognition or is tainted with bodily fluid.

My work daughter was mortified but not surprised.

In walks a co-worker....
Co-worker: "Hey! Is that a DQ ice cream cake?"

Me: "Yeah, I dug it out of the garbage and now I'm eating it."

Co-worker: "Is there anything wrong with it?"

Me: "Not that I can tell. It tastes great, it's still frozen and I didn't see any garbage on it."

Co-worker: "It was in the garbage?" She looked a bit surprised.

Me: "Yeah, but I dug it out and it's great! God, I love DQ ice cream cakes!"

I know she is wrestling with her brain, as she love ice cream almost as much as I do. She asks: "Can I have some?"

I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear this question. I now hold this person in higher esteem.

Me: "Of course!" Seeing as her hands were full (she was carrying things in preparation for the party), she asked me to shove a spoonful into her mouth. I looked around for another spoon but she indicated I should just use the friggin' spoon in my hand.

I suppose when one is eating an ice cream cake out of the garbage, a used spoon is the least of your concerns. So, I shoveled a big blob of that cake into her mouth. I daresay she enjoyed that cake as much as I did.

A few minutes later, a client walked by the now-melting, half-eaten garbage-found ice cream cake. He was holding a plateful of tacos, walking away from the taco bar. He looked at the cake, looked at me, looked at it. He asked, "Is that a DQ Ice cream cake?"

I nodded in a most affirmative manner, adding how I had dug it out of the garbage.

He didn't seem one bit concerned. "Can I have a piece?"

I knew I liked him.

The guy put his taco-laden plate onto the counter, used a spoon to hack off a large piece of the quickly-disappearing cake and plopped it right on top of his Mexican fiesta. When asked about it being in the garbage, he said, "I've had more than one dumpster-dive-dinner along the way. This is nothing."

See? There are still good people in the world. He helped me finish off that food of the Gods without question. Other clients and staff looked a bit green in the gills, watching us eat that garbage-blessed dessert, but it didn't slow us down one bit.

As you can imagine, the wife was mortified by everything related to this event. She was disgusted that I would take something out of the garbage and eat it. She was also taken aback that anyone else would join me in such nonsense.

She OBVIOUSLY doesn't love DQ ice cream cakes like we do. She doesn't recognize the pure joy, bliss, heaven such a creation can bring. Sad. So sad. The wife might learn a thing or two by my behavior. Personally, I hope she learns:

Life is short. Eat the cake in the garbage.

It might not be her circus and those definitely aren't her monkies, but that cake can be hers....

....Sometimes you have to sort through the garbage to find the gold. 
*********************************************

Saturday, July 01, 2017

Pink Squared

Last blog entry, I was concerned about the wife's health status. She was having neck issues, leading to a numb hand and LOTS of pain here and there. She had a cold and a totally clogged ear. She was in dire pain, looked like shit and felt even worse. Having a summer cold is miserable enough. But, pain and numbness and hearing loss? Ugh.

To be honest, I liked the ear plug issue. It meant she couldn't hear me when I was standing on her left side. She didn't complain once about me clearing my throat (an unfortunate issue as related to allergies).

Good news is that the wife went to the doctor AND that she took the photo of her  lower back herniated disks that led to permanent nerve damage in her foot. (It's always good to emphasize the failings of the medical system so they actually listen.) I was afraid she wouldn't go to the clinic but she was miserable enough to jump into the "medical loop." Poor thing was diagnosed with a nasty ear infection, arthritis and neuropathy. She was allowed an x-ray but not an MRI, as the "medical loop" requires she goes "in order" (x-ray, medication, physical therapy, THEN an MRI).

The doctor gets bonus points for asking the wife if she has been under a lot of stress lately. Good catch. My faith in the medical system increased a wee bit because that doctor recognized and mentioned the stress. Yes, the wife has been under a lot of stress. (Perhaps she should send her pharmacy, doctor and insurance bills to the cause of her stress. Or, I'd be happy to drop the bills off in person. I'm always up for a road trip.)

Since her doctor's visit, the wife has been a walking pharmacy. Better living through chemicals, I say. From painkillers to antibiotics, she is a pill box's dream.

She didn't think it could get worse. Then....

.....she got double pink-eye.

Pink squared. When it rains, it pours.

The wife still can't hear, she's stoned on pain meds and she's got two bloodshot, goober-crusted eyes. She looks like a bad party in the early 1980's. (Or, a good party, depending on how you look at it.) Despite just being at the doctor, she had to go back to get eye drops for conjunctivitis--to "prove" she actually had pink eye. I told her she should have sent the doctor a selfie so she could see the issue. Anyone within a 50 mile radius could see the issue was pink eye.
So, now there are eye drops added to the pharmacy on the kitchen table. 

I SWEAR TO YOU I DID NOT FART ON HER PILLOW. (This is an urban myth. But, I should probably not fart on her pillow, myth or not.)

Since the implementation of the pharmacy, I've been begging her to go get some yogurt. I offered to go get her some yogurt. She finally gave in and purchased a tub of yogurt.

Why have I been so adamant about yogurt? Because the way things are going, she is 100% guaranteed to get a yeast infection from the antibiotic. 

As for me, I remain cold-free, pink-eye free and pain free. Hear that sound? It's me knocking--pounding--on wood. Thank you, Universe for my continued health and happiness!

For the record, I've been taking pink-eye meds, too--preventative measure so I don't get the dreaded eyeball issue. The doctor gets bonus-bonus points for thinking of me and my eye balls. That kind of makes up for the fact that the doctor wouldn't prescribe pink eye medication without seeing her, despite having seen her just 24 hours earlier.

Humorously enough--well, humorously enough to be--we are going to see PINK in concert tomorrow night.
Pinky will be with Pink. 
Wait--is that Pink Cubed? Two eyes + one Pink = Three pinks. Pink Cubed.

I hear that pink eye isn't contagious after a certain amount of time and after the initiation of medication. Here's hoping. After all....

...Pink doesn't need pink. Hell, I don't need pink. Come to think of it, no one needs pink unless it's Pink. We all could use a little Pink in our lives.

We are supposed to go to a birthday party later today. I don't think we're going lest we "pink up" the party. This is a super-drag as it's a very beloved good friend's surprise party (hope she's not reading this yet... Um. Surprise?). I don't think the wife's eyes are contagious any more but how can we chance it? I told her she could wear sunglasses and no one would be the wiser. She could stay far away from people and not touch anything. Still....

Pink cubed is bad enough. Exponential pink eye growing, expanding, invading... not good. Not good at all.


It's time... Dear Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes: Please swoop down upon the wife and free her from her ailments and pinky ways. Keep her from pinking up a party or concert. Pinkify those at concerts but not in our home. Pinkify yourself but pinkify us not. Help her unclog her ear, feel her hand and not look totally stoned. Take her pink eye and keep her yeast. May her cheeks be pink but not her eyes. In this we pray in your hopeless way, The Addiverse.

A pink St. Jude. Seriously. I am feeling hopeful. Amen.