Yesterday, I was sent to a local bread-making company to pick up a bunch of bread for our agency training. I wouldn't call it a bakery as they make bread, bread and bread. While driving there, I found the humor in sending the gluten-free person to pick up gluten-dripping bread.
I don't usually miss bread; after all, there are many gluten-free bread products. Oh, the substitutes aren't as delicious or nutrition or what not, but they serve to fulfill the need for bread.
I walk in to the bread place and I'm immediately SLAPPED in the face by the smell of baking bread. Hundreds and hundreds of loaves, slapping me all at the same time.
It was warm and delicious and comforting and wonderful and overpowering. I stopped for a second before approaching the counter as to inhale a most deep breath of bread air.
The owner saw me and laughed. She then assured me that reaction happens all the time.
I came to my senses and alerted her of my mission. She said the last loaf of bread was still in the oven. I indicated I was in NO hurry. One should never hurry when bread is baking.
It was then she said the words of which I did not see coming....
Baker Lady: Would you like a piece of chocolate chip pumpkin bread while you're waiting?
Me: blank stare.
Baker Lady: It's still warm.
Me: eyes wide open.
Baker Lady does't wait. She takes out the bread knife. I open my mouth to say "no thank you" (without saying anything about being gluten-free--just politely declining)...
...but, out comes, "SURE!"
Gluten-free, be damned. I've gone two years without knowingly eating gluten. I've been very good. In fact, I've been stellar. I've avoided gluten with gusto. But, that warm smell of dancing carbs and that chocolate melting in the sea of pumpkin--it was just.too.much.
She handed me the warm piece of chocolate chip pumpkin bread. I think I might have shed a tear. I look at it with the most loving of eyes. For one millisecond, I questioned what I am doing....
Can I say that one millisecond might be giving it more time than it was?
I took a bite. I closed my eyes. I completely melted into the moment, just like those chocolate chips melted into the loaf.
That was the best gluten-laden product I have EVER eaten in my life. EVER.
I didn't care how long it took for our agency bread took. I was in another dimension.
I tried to eat it slowly but it was impossible. I tried to savor every morsel but it was like torture. My only goal became not shoving the entire piece into my mouth at one time.
Since going gluten-free, I've felt much better. My thyroid numbers improved and I stopped having my weird lower intestine pain. I stopped having headaches (besides the regular sinus headaches of which I'm okay with and understand). I thought about those things when taking the last bite of that orgasmic pumpkin bread. And, you know what?
It was worth EVERY.SINGLE.ISSUE that might pop up during the next 24 hours. Every single one.
When I finally opened my eyes and licked my fingers to ensure I had not missed one crumb, the baker lady laughed. She assured me that, too was often the reaction.
Suffice it to say, I woke up the next day with a headache. And, you know what? I smiled. SMILED. I smiled ear to ear. I've never smiled when having a headache but today it was like I was honoring that most indescribably delicious pumpkin bread. I knew I'd be back on the wagon today. I was all good with one cheat day in two years.
I totally owned that headache like a boss.
I'm back on the gluten-free wagon. I no longer have a headache and my body parts are just fine. I'll keep up my efforts to remain free of that most fabulous gluten. And, I'll remember that piece of warm chocolate chip pumpkin bread for the rest of my life.
Perhaps in two years I should go back and have another piece.
Perhaps in one year I should go back and have another piece--two years is a long time to go without a cheat day.
Perhaps I should politely decline the next time my boss sends me to a bread store.
Piss, I'll say yes again someday. But, this time I'll bring some butter. Just in case.
**********************************************
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Sunday, October 08, 2017
Of Software Mirages and Indoor Dogs
Well, that was quite the duration of absence. Wish I could say I was on a remote island, soaking up sun on a white sand beach.
Alas, I've been busy--having an almost-as-wonderful time as-on-the-island--working on our electronic health record software.
I know you're jealous.
I don't know much about making software but I do know that it has sucked up the majority of my time and energy. (The dogs suck up any remaining time and energy.) Weekends, holidays, mornings, evenings, all consumed by electronic health record development.
I'd like to say I see the finish line, but it's a moving target. Actually, it's like seeing a mirage. I refuse to let myself think things will be "done" once we go live on November 1st. That would be setting myself up. I see the end, mirage in the distance. Yet, I'd get there and there'd be no finish line. Although I'll have done all the original work, everything will need to be tweaked, fixed, added, removed. Then, there will be more to do.
I see a finish line in March next year, not in November. I hope that's not a mirage or a hallucination. Since that is at least four months away, I shall stay in the one-day-a-time mode until further notice.
Thankfully, the dogs are a great distraction. Unfortunately, they are not well-versed in home life. It's hard to learn to go outside when you're not used to being inside. Being outside means you can go whenever you want. You don't have to go on command. You just go. It's hard not to jump on the windows and screens and doors when you're a hunting dog and you see a squirrel five feet from you on the porch. That's your job--to catch the varmints. It's hard not to freak out about seeing your reflection in the stainless steel dishwasher when you've had to be careful of danger. It's definitely a challenge to remain calm when a "stranger" comes in the house.
So, in my free time last night, I bought a book on rescue dogs and read the entire thing in one sitting. I didn't learn anything new, per se--after all, training a dog is training a dog--but, training a rescue does have special consideration. I learned a lot about training a terrier, a hunting dog by nature. We haven't been challenging her enough--mind or body. So, I'll step up the game. Two walks a day and at least one training session somewhere in the middle. Games to keep her busy. As for the boodle, well I'll keep trying to get her to sit on command. I'm doing everything as described in the book but so far, her sitting is not sitting well with her.
As for the bodily fluids being excreted in the house, well.... that's a work in progress. I have tolerance for this. The poor wife does not. At least I pee and poop in the toilet.
Today, a Sunday, is no day of Sabbath. Tomorrow, a holiday, is no holiday. I'm salary, so it is what it is. I don't have to like it--I just have to do it. Thankfully, I will have to take breaks to work with the dogs. I'll figure out a way to get some ice cream injected into my body. I'll be outside at least a few times a day to get the dogs to poop and pee on command.
Never did I think I'd see a day when I'd be "writing" software. Never did I think I'd see a day when I couldn't teach a dog to sit. And, never did I think I'd see a day when a dog would scratch up a dishwasher because of a reflection.
No wonder I need ice cream. Please don't let that be a mirage.
Alas, I've been busy--having an almost-as-wonderful time as-on-the-island--working on our electronic health record software.
I know you're jealous.
I don't know much about making software but I do know that it has sucked up the majority of my time and energy. (The dogs suck up any remaining time and energy.) Weekends, holidays, mornings, evenings, all consumed by electronic health record development.
I'd like to say I see the finish line, but it's a moving target. Actually, it's like seeing a mirage. I refuse to let myself think things will be "done" once we go live on November 1st. That would be setting myself up. I see the end, mirage in the distance. Yet, I'd get there and there'd be no finish line. Although I'll have done all the original work, everything will need to be tweaked, fixed, added, removed. Then, there will be more to do.
I see a finish line in March next year, not in November. I hope that's not a mirage or a hallucination. Since that is at least four months away, I shall stay in the one-day-a-time mode until further notice.
Thankfully, the dogs are a great distraction. Unfortunately, they are not well-versed in home life. It's hard to learn to go outside when you're not used to being inside. Being outside means you can go whenever you want. You don't have to go on command. You just go. It's hard not to jump on the windows and screens and doors when you're a hunting dog and you see a squirrel five feet from you on the porch. That's your job--to catch the varmints. It's hard not to freak out about seeing your reflection in the stainless steel dishwasher when you've had to be careful of danger. It's definitely a challenge to remain calm when a "stranger" comes in the house.
So, in my free time last night, I bought a book on rescue dogs and read the entire thing in one sitting. I didn't learn anything new, per se--after all, training a dog is training a dog--but, training a rescue does have special consideration. I learned a lot about training a terrier, a hunting dog by nature. We haven't been challenging her enough--mind or body. So, I'll step up the game. Two walks a day and at least one training session somewhere in the middle. Games to keep her busy. As for the boodle, well I'll keep trying to get her to sit on command. I'm doing everything as described in the book but so far, her sitting is not sitting well with her.
As for the bodily fluids being excreted in the house, well.... that's a work in progress. I have tolerance for this. The poor wife does not. At least I pee and poop in the toilet.
Today, a Sunday, is no day of Sabbath. Tomorrow, a holiday, is no holiday. I'm salary, so it is what it is. I don't have to like it--I just have to do it. Thankfully, I will have to take breaks to work with the dogs. I'll figure out a way to get some ice cream injected into my body. I'll be outside at least a few times a day to get the dogs to poop and pee on command.
Never did I think I'd see a day when I'd be "writing" software. Never did I think I'd see a day when I couldn't teach a dog to sit. And, never did I think I'd see a day when a dog would scratch up a dishwasher because of a reflection.
No wonder I need ice cream. Please don't let that be a mirage.
Thursday, September 21, 2017
The Dog-n-Dash and The Shit-n-Sit
Where have I been, you ask? Why, I've been doing my new workout routine. Thanks for asking.
What is this new workout, you ask? Why, it's dog chasing, sprint division. It's free. No gym membership required.
How have you not ever heard of this, you ponder? I've got a little white Bichon Poo for you to borrow. THEN you will understand this new Olympic event.
(I want to refer to Rosita as a "Boodle, not a Bichon Poo." Boodle sounds so much more fun.)
Rosita has learned the fine art of "escape and dash." Once gone, she's a blur on the move. There is no stopping her. Dang, she is FAST. Even our neighbor has mentioned her speed.....
I'm sure the neighbors are quite entertained as I'm running across their lawns--in flip flops and boxer shorts--yelling "GOD DAMMIT, ROSITA!" (at 5 AM, no less). It's a lengthy process, despite it being a sprint.
Hmmm. Maybe it's more of a cross-country event. Whatever it is, it's fast and furious.
How did she get away this morning, you chastise? Well, let me tell you. We were at the front door, seeing as everyone had done their duty (four legged duties, not my duty). The door is open, I bend over to take her leash and collar off, as I always do, she steps as if she's walking into the house and.....
BAM! She streaks around my legs and is G.O.N.E.
Have you ever tried to catch a dog that doesn't know its name? It's not fun. I'm not sure why I bother yelling Rosita's name because she is clueless in that department.
If she had had her collar on, I wouldn't have been so angered. But, seeing as I was holding her leash and collar, it was time to dog-n-dash.
Rosita, that naughty tidbit, is NOT running around in a blur because I am chasing her. She's not even aware I'm chasing her. Rosita is on the hunt to catch the rabbits of which she thinks have run by.
Poor Bandido. She got dragged along for today's dog-n-dash. Thankfully, she is fast, too.
Trust me when I say I move mighty fast for someone wearing flip flops, holding a flashlight and dragging a chorkie around.
(Side note: Bandido, we've decided, is a chorkie--a chihuahua/Yorkshire Terrier mix. We googled photos and saw a few dogs that looked like her twin, so we're feeling pretty confident...although, a few other mixes are definitely involved.)
Thank goodness I carry a flashlight and that the dog is white. At least I can keep track of her while I'm running, yelling and swearing.
When I finally did catch her--which took a lot of swearing and a lot of running through grass, brush and mulch--I picked her up and took her home. No sense in yelling at her.
Trust me when I say I took her all the way inside this time. I can't do two dog-n-dashes in the same morning.
The wife wants to know why Rosita was looking a little less tidy this morning--she is dirty and scruffy. (The wife was in the shower when this Olympic event took place.) I made sure to emphasize that we were at the front door when ol' Flash decided to make her move. I wasn't taking the fall for this one. I tell her that it's tough to stay clean when you've been in the brush.
I'm not looking too spiffy, either. I would not be surprised if I end up finding a tick on my being or if I end up with poison ivy. I'm telling you, I was knee deep in grass at times and burrowing through brush at others. There were prickers in my hair.
We do have another Olympic canine event, if you are interested. It's called the shit-and-sit. Ask the wife. The dogs shat all over her birthday earlier in the week. Literally. A kitchen blessed with diarrhea from two dogs is delightful and the perfect homemade birthday present.
I'm not sure which workout I like better. My guess is that the neighbors wish I'd stick to the shit-and-sit. It's quieter--for them, anyway. The wife isn't entertained by either.
Although we are champions at these canine sports, it is safe to say none of us in this house will be getting Olympic medals from the wife....
....or, the neighbors. No medals from the neighbors, either. Perhaps a video posted but no memos.
I'd tell you more but I have to go wash my feet. They are itching like crazy. I may have to be put on the dog-n-dash injured reserve for the time being. I can stay on the field for the shit-n-sit, though.
Put me in coach. I'm ready to play.
What is this new workout, you ask? Why, it's dog chasing, sprint division. It's free. No gym membership required.
How have you not ever heard of this, you ponder? I've got a little white Bichon Poo for you to borrow. THEN you will understand this new Olympic event.
(I want to refer to Rosita as a "Boodle, not a Bichon Poo." Boodle sounds so much more fun.)
Rosita has learned the fine art of "escape and dash." Once gone, she's a blur on the move. There is no stopping her. Dang, she is FAST. Even our neighbor has mentioned her speed.....
I'm sure the neighbors are quite entertained as I'm running across their lawns--in flip flops and boxer shorts--yelling "GOD DAMMIT, ROSITA!" (at 5 AM, no less). It's a lengthy process, despite it being a sprint.
Hmmm. Maybe it's more of a cross-country event. Whatever it is, it's fast and furious.
How did she get away this morning, you chastise? Well, let me tell you. We were at the front door, seeing as everyone had done their duty (four legged duties, not my duty). The door is open, I bend over to take her leash and collar off, as I always do, she steps as if she's walking into the house and.....
BAM! She streaks around my legs and is G.O.N.E.
Have you ever tried to catch a dog that doesn't know its name? It's not fun. I'm not sure why I bother yelling Rosita's name because she is clueless in that department.
If she had had her collar on, I wouldn't have been so angered. But, seeing as I was holding her leash and collar, it was time to dog-n-dash.
Rosita, that naughty tidbit, is NOT running around in a blur because I am chasing her. She's not even aware I'm chasing her. Rosita is on the hunt to catch the rabbits of which she thinks have run by.
Poor Bandido. She got dragged along for today's dog-n-dash. Thankfully, she is fast, too.
Trust me when I say I move mighty fast for someone wearing flip flops, holding a flashlight and dragging a chorkie around.
(Side note: Bandido, we've decided, is a chorkie--a chihuahua/Yorkshire Terrier mix. We googled photos and saw a few dogs that looked like her twin, so we're feeling pretty confident...although, a few other mixes are definitely involved.)
Thank goodness I carry a flashlight and that the dog is white. At least I can keep track of her while I'm running, yelling and swearing.
When I finally did catch her--which took a lot of swearing and a lot of running through grass, brush and mulch--I picked her up and took her home. No sense in yelling at her.
Trust me when I say I took her all the way inside this time. I can't do two dog-n-dashes in the same morning.
The wife wants to know why Rosita was looking a little less tidy this morning--she is dirty and scruffy. (The wife was in the shower when this Olympic event took place.) I made sure to emphasize that we were at the front door when ol' Flash decided to make her move. I wasn't taking the fall for this one. I tell her that it's tough to stay clean when you've been in the brush.
I'm not looking too spiffy, either. I would not be surprised if I end up finding a tick on my being or if I end up with poison ivy. I'm telling you, I was knee deep in grass at times and burrowing through brush at others. There were prickers in my hair.
We do have another Olympic canine event, if you are interested. It's called the shit-and-sit. Ask the wife. The dogs shat all over her birthday earlier in the week. Literally. A kitchen blessed with diarrhea from two dogs is delightful and the perfect homemade birthday present.
I'm not sure which workout I like better. My guess is that the neighbors wish I'd stick to the shit-and-sit. It's quieter--for them, anyway. The wife isn't entertained by either.
Although we are champions at these canine sports, it is safe to say none of us in this house will be getting Olympic medals from the wife....
....or, the neighbors. No medals from the neighbors, either. Perhaps a video posted but no memos.
I'd tell you more but I have to go wash my feet. They are itching like crazy. I may have to be put on the dog-n-dash injured reserve for the time being. I can stay on the field for the shit-n-sit, though.
Put me in coach. I'm ready to play.
Saturday, September 09, 2017
Number One, No Number Two
Three weeks into rescue dog life. We've had a case of diarrhea, the first frappuccino (those two things are not related), a trip to the vet (to get an official diagnosis of: diarrhea), 21 hours without peeing (Rosita, not me--I can't go without peeing), an escapee from the harness (of which I didn't even think possible) and undisclosed injuries (mine).
It appears that when Bandido gets the shit scared out of her, she can escape anything.
I am unfortunately "the Bandido-shit-scarer." I tripped over her and fell when starting out on our walk, only one house down the block. (The wife was out of town. These things only happen when she is not here.) When I slammed onto the pavement, it scared Bandido so badly that she ran away. (From the sidewalk view, I can tell you she was MOVING, dragging her extension leash behind.) I got up quickly so I could catch her but she was long gone. Suffice it to say, the poor thing was so freaked out that she ran onto the deck at the back of our house (yay!) , hid in the outdoor crate (yay again--not lost) with her harness and leash left behind, leash caught in the wood of the deck (oh no!). The poor thing was blurry with shaking. I can imagine it had to hurt when that harness ripped off her body (or whatever she did to get out of it--it was a Houdini move, complete with harness remaining locked/closed during the escape). It took quite a bit of reassurance (and a whole lot of treats) to convince her I am not a psycho mass murderer.
I don't think I fell on her but since I did get tangled up with her, there is potential for injury--besides psychological. She definitely has been scarred by the incident.
I know I have injuries. I can't wait until tomorrow morning when I get out of bed. I'm not sure what part of me hurts the most. Thankfully, my glasses stayed firmly on my face and Rosita stayed by my side. Had she run away and I didn't have my glasses, this would have been a totally different adventure. Everyone involved would have been blurry with fright.
I'm glad I didn't harm my hands, as I am in the midst of a major project at work which requires hours upon hours of typing. Hand injuries of any kind are not welcome.
As for Rosita not peeing, it is the weirdest thing. Earlier in the week, she went 21 hours without peeing. It freaked me out so badly that I (1) messaged my dog whisperer friend and (2) called the vet. No one seemed too concerned about the non-peeing thing. She isn't in pain that I can tell and she's not squatting like she "can't" potty, so it's probably not a UTI kind of situation.
It's just that she doesn't potty.
I've tried every command in the book, from "Go potty!" to "do your business." I've considered trying Spanish commands about going potty but I'm pretty sure that's not the problem. She just doesn't need to pee.
I was late to work last week. Why? Because I was outside for an hour with Rosita begging her to go potty. Thankfully, my boss appreciates dog woes. I am sure the neighbors were entertained by my 60 minute "go potty go potty go potty" command-begging session. Sigh. I just couldn't believe she didn't need to pee.
Perhaps she was abused and punished for peeing. Perhaps she still doesn't understand that peeing on grass is a good thing. Perhaps she has a bladder of steel and she only needs to pee twice a day, tops.
As long as she's not in pain and she's not peeing in the house, I'll go with it. I don't like it. I don't understand it. But, I'll go with it. No one else seems freaked out about it....
Bandido, on the other hand, pees every chance she gets. She marks her territory every five feet, I swear. She pees on sign posts, mail box posts, fire hydrants, plants, trees. And yes, she pees like a boy dog--she lifts her legs and pees on things. I've never seen a girl dog do this but I'm here to tell you, that's what she does.
I'm surprised she didn't pee on me while I was on the ground.
The whole dog diarrhea thing remains a mystery. Various parties believe it to be stress. Since dogs can't tell us what's up, that sounds good enough to me. I laughed when the vet asked if Rosita had had any changes during the past few weeks. I mean, where do I begin? The dog was in a shelter and then a shelter and then a foster home. She was transported 2.5 days in a trailer with 55 other dogs less than 2.5 weeks ago. She's on new dog food (I'm not cooking for them), she's sleeping in the kitchen (not in a "human bed"), she's going for walks on a leash (of which we have to pick her up to get her moving) and she's learning to tolerate cold, wet grass.
Yes, stress seems a reasonable cause of gastrointestinal distress and lack of peeing. Rosita's had so many changes in the past three weeks... it is no wonder she's been shooting the shit.
I forget they've only been here for three weeks. No sense rushing. It's still very early in the game.
I was supposed to go to the Cheddarlands today to celebrate the wife's birthday with her family. Well, a shooting-shit dog put a damper on that and thus I stayed home. We had set up for friends to come let them out but it seemed like a bad idea to have "strangers" get involved with the stresses already in play.
....You know, had I gone with the wife, I wouldn't have tripped over Bandido and I wouldn't have gotten injured and she wouldn't be so terrified. Maybe letting them stay home and be scared shitless of "new friends" would have been better than me "tripping-and-freaking" our little Mexican Street Dog.
....of course, had I gone, Bandido wouldn't have had the opportunity to have her first Frappuccino and Rosita wouldn't have had someone repeating over and over and over to go potty. Those would be pretty big losses.
Now, if I could only figure out where to put the ice on my body. Knee? Hip? Other knee? Left arm? Neck? Hell, I'll just go take some ibuprofen, eat some ice cream and call it a day. The three of us won't move off the couch. We'll just wait for the wife to come home to save us all from certain doom.
Maybe while I'm sitting here I'll start a GoFundMe page for Bandido's therapy fund.... she's gonna need all the therapy she can get. Or, maybe I'll just get her a Starbucks gift card.... a pup cup can change a sad day into a happy day....
Frappucinos are therapeutic, aren't they?
**********************************
It appears that when Bandido gets the shit scared out of her, she can escape anything.
I am unfortunately "the Bandido-shit-scarer." I tripped over her and fell when starting out on our walk, only one house down the block. (The wife was out of town. These things only happen when she is not here.) When I slammed onto the pavement, it scared Bandido so badly that she ran away. (From the sidewalk view, I can tell you she was MOVING, dragging her extension leash behind.) I got up quickly so I could catch her but she was long gone. Suffice it to say, the poor thing was so freaked out that she ran onto the deck at the back of our house (yay!) , hid in the outdoor crate (yay again--not lost) with her harness and leash left behind, leash caught in the wood of the deck (oh no!). The poor thing was blurry with shaking. I can imagine it had to hurt when that harness ripped off her body (or whatever she did to get out of it--it was a Houdini move, complete with harness remaining locked/closed during the escape). It took quite a bit of reassurance (and a whole lot of treats) to convince her I am not a psycho mass murderer.
I don't think I fell on her but since I did get tangled up with her, there is potential for injury--besides psychological. She definitely has been scarred by the incident.
I know I have injuries. I can't wait until tomorrow morning when I get out of bed. I'm not sure what part of me hurts the most. Thankfully, my glasses stayed firmly on my face and Rosita stayed by my side. Had she run away and I didn't have my glasses, this would have been a totally different adventure. Everyone involved would have been blurry with fright.
I'm glad I didn't harm my hands, as I am in the midst of a major project at work which requires hours upon hours of typing. Hand injuries of any kind are not welcome.
As for Rosita not peeing, it is the weirdest thing. Earlier in the week, she went 21 hours without peeing. It freaked me out so badly that I (1) messaged my dog whisperer friend and (2) called the vet. No one seemed too concerned about the non-peeing thing. She isn't in pain that I can tell and she's not squatting like she "can't" potty, so it's probably not a UTI kind of situation.
It's just that she doesn't potty.
I've tried every command in the book, from "Go potty!" to "do your business." I've considered trying Spanish commands about going potty but I'm pretty sure that's not the problem. She just doesn't need to pee.
I was late to work last week. Why? Because I was outside for an hour with Rosita begging her to go potty. Thankfully, my boss appreciates dog woes. I am sure the neighbors were entertained by my 60 minute "go potty go potty go potty" command-begging session. Sigh. I just couldn't believe she didn't need to pee.
Perhaps she was abused and punished for peeing. Perhaps she still doesn't understand that peeing on grass is a good thing. Perhaps she has a bladder of steel and she only needs to pee twice a day, tops.
As long as she's not in pain and she's not peeing in the house, I'll go with it. I don't like it. I don't understand it. But, I'll go with it. No one else seems freaked out about it....
Bandido, on the other hand, pees every chance she gets. She marks her territory every five feet, I swear. She pees on sign posts, mail box posts, fire hydrants, plants, trees. And yes, she pees like a boy dog--she lifts her legs and pees on things. I've never seen a girl dog do this but I'm here to tell you, that's what she does.
I'm surprised she didn't pee on me while I was on the ground.
The whole dog diarrhea thing remains a mystery. Various parties believe it to be stress. Since dogs can't tell us what's up, that sounds good enough to me. I laughed when the vet asked if Rosita had had any changes during the past few weeks. I mean, where do I begin? The dog was in a shelter and then a shelter and then a foster home. She was transported 2.5 days in a trailer with 55 other dogs less than 2.5 weeks ago. She's on new dog food (I'm not cooking for them), she's sleeping in the kitchen (not in a "human bed"), she's going for walks on a leash (of which we have to pick her up to get her moving) and she's learning to tolerate cold, wet grass.
Yes, stress seems a reasonable cause of gastrointestinal distress and lack of peeing. Rosita's had so many changes in the past three weeks... it is no wonder she's been shooting the shit.
I forget they've only been here for three weeks. No sense rushing. It's still very early in the game.
I was supposed to go to the Cheddarlands today to celebrate the wife's birthday with her family. Well, a shooting-shit dog put a damper on that and thus I stayed home. We had set up for friends to come let them out but it seemed like a bad idea to have "strangers" get involved with the stresses already in play.
....You know, had I gone with the wife, I wouldn't have tripped over Bandido and I wouldn't have gotten injured and she wouldn't be so terrified. Maybe letting them stay home and be scared shitless of "new friends" would have been better than me "tripping-and-freaking" our little Mexican Street Dog.
....of course, had I gone, Bandido wouldn't have had the opportunity to have her first Frappuccino and Rosita wouldn't have had someone repeating over and over and over to go potty. Those would be pretty big losses.
Now, if I could only figure out where to put the ice on my body. Knee? Hip? Other knee? Left arm? Neck? Hell, I'll just go take some ibuprofen, eat some ice cream and call it a day. The three of us won't move off the couch. We'll just wait for the wife to come home to save us all from certain doom.
Maybe while I'm sitting here I'll start a GoFundMe page for Bandido's therapy fund.... she's gonna need all the therapy she can get. Or, maybe I'll just get her a Starbucks gift card.... a pup cup can change a sad day into a happy day....
Frappucinos are therapeutic, aren't they?
**********************************
Saturday, September 02, 2017
I'm sure the blog entries will sooner than not turn from the topic of the dogs but that isn't going to happen today. Paws up, beloved reader!They say it takes two weeks to see the true personality of the rescue dog.
Two weeks has definitely arrived and they were right: we've got ourselves some feisty, funny, energetic, inquisitive, delightfully naughty-table-surfing part pups with lots of personality.
They have gained weight. Perhaps a bit too much weight. Hard to say. No more homemade food. I think we're going to have to walk them more lest we end up with two sausages on eight legs.
Bandido is DEFINITELY some kind of terrier as she is all about hunting unsuspecting bunnies in our back yard. We're talking CRAZED about the bunnies. I'm sure she has whiplash from me trying to keep her from chasing every bunny across the globe, with her never to be seen again. I've even seen her stand at attention and point while preparing to stalk/catch/kill the lagomorphs.
She won't be going outside without a leash, that's for sure. Even I agree with that.
Personally, I'm all good with it--I am sick of the stupid bunnies eating all our hostas and perennials. If Irish Spring didn't work, maybe a hunting dog will.
Here's hoping she likes to hunt chipmunks, too.
And, then there is Rosita.... the dog who is 100% going to poop or pee on the only carpeted area in the house if we let her anywhere near it. I can't blame her--I am sure it smells like our old dogs and rest assured that Freckles blessed that rug more than once. It appears she is marking her territory... but, maybe she sees the rug as one big lawn. I let them down there this morning as they were zipping around, gleefully chasing each other. I figured it would be easier to run on the carpet that sliding around the wood floors. Well, I was right--they did enjoy the zipping.
....but, then Rosita came to a screeching halt....
....and pooped. I've never seen a dog get into the pooping position so quickly.
It wasn't very helpful but I yelled out, "SHE'S POOPING!" It's not like I could pick her up and throw her outside. She was pooping, for Pete's sake.
The wife was not entertained... by me or the pooping dog.
I do not for one minute believe it was the running around. It's the carpet. The few times they've been down there, they've excreted bodily "stuff" in the same place. I know Bandido is marking her territory but I think Rosita just sees as it as indoor grass. She hates the cold, wet grass. Carpeting is dry and nice and warm.
I have to admit: I'd prefer warm, dry carpeting to cold, wet grass, too. Maybe she's genius.
The wife is talking about ripping up the carpeting and having "wood-floor-looking-tiles" installed. I suppose that is a good idea--it would get rid of the "previous dog resident smell." The floor is a cement slab so tiles would be easy to have installed and make a lot of sense.
Of course, replacing the flooring is no guarantee the ol' pooping pup wouldn't poop down there but if she did, we'd know she thinks of it as a Poop-a-torium--it wasn't the rug. I hate to tell her, but tile will NOT be as warm, so it is to her benefit to stop excreting bodily stuff out of her parts lest she be chilly when we finally start sitting down there to watch TV.
I think the most surprising thing of this whole adventure is how much we'd forgotten what it's like to have young, playful, don't-have-to-pee-in-the-middle-of the night dogs. All of us sleep through the night. They don't have to go out as often to do their duty. They love to walk and they move quickly when doing so. (No more 35 minutes-for-half a mile walks for us.) They play and run around and wrestle and jump. They notice bunnies. They notice everything. We didn't realize how much our old dogs had stopped doing in their "old age."
Today, we are taking them on a road to see members of their "human" family. They've never been to my parents house, so we'll see how it goes. I'm hoping poop-in-the-house is NOT part of the adventure. If so, I'm glad to report they have non-carpeted floors.
I also hope they stay off the tables. Table surfing is strictly forbidden when visiting others. Definitely not the behavior of good guests.
I promise to stay off the tables, too. Maybe they'll mirror my good behavior.
If they were smart, they'd mirror what the wife does.
Hmmm. Come to think of it.... if I were smart, I'd mirror what the wife does.
At least I don't poop on the carpeting. Yet.
Saturday, August 26, 2017
Week One, Eight Paws
If you don't like dogs or don't want to read about dogs, well then you are going to have to suffer along or go watch some vlogger (who is so right now and is making lots of money).
Dogs really do subscribe to "love the one you're with." Bandido and Rosita settled in quickly, nary missing a beat. The first 72 hours were a bit rough, with Rosita refusing to pee more than twice in 24 hours, but besides that it has been smooth sailing. They never missed a meal since getting here, they listen quite well (um, let's forget the "The end table fiasco of 2017"), they go to bed without issue and they definitely are very loving. I'm pleased to report they are not skittish at all when hanging around us. Love the one your with, I'm telling you.
Don't tell the foster mom--they love canned food.
Oh, how they love canned food. Thank goodness because there was no way I was going to keep making them gourmet, organic food. I gotta say--that was probably the easiest transition of the whole adventure. The peeing and the collars were a whole lot tougher than the food change.
Go back and take a closer look at Bandido's photo at the beginning of this post. If you zoom in, you'll notice a framed chalk drawing on the wall. And, if you zoom in closer, you'll notice who is in that piece of art.
It's Freckles.
I daresay Freckles is looking down upon Bandido and keeping an eye on this new mutt. It was a very happy accident in the photography department.
These dogs are very different than Freckles and Lucy, which we truly appreciate, for many reasons. But, in some ways they are very much the same as our previous party pups. Bandido is definitely in charge, just like the ol' FWP...and, she knows how to crawl! That was my favorite trick Freckles could do. What a delightful surprise to see Bandido crawl in true Freckles' fashion. The wife and I have accidentally calling Rosita "Lucy" several times. We have no idea why. Perhaps she is the reincarnation of Lucy; after all, they both acted like they were going to die when we first put collars on them. Neither of them wanted to wear a leash. And, both Rosita and Lucy love to sit on the back of the couch.
Perhaps it's just a work in progress, a new name to be learned.
I wish they were more like Freckles and Lucy in the "go outside and not care about the weather" department. I thought the Tex-Mex pups were going to drop dead when they went outside to pee yesterday morning. The grass was very dew-covered and the temperature was 47 degrees. Bandido put one paw on the law and kept the other three on the driveway, using this stance to pee. No way was she going on the cold grass. Rosita looked miserable and did the funky I-Hate-this grass prance.
Pups, I hate to tell you but it's gonna get a LOT colder as time goes on. Wet grass and 47 degrees is nothing.
This week we are going to introduce them to new people, convince them the car is for going good places (not just to the vet or groomer) and work on learning new tricks. Bandido is way ahead of Rosita in this department, but I have faith. I'll get Rosita Louisa to "sit" on command by the end of the week. We'll have another round of hanging out with the neighbor dogs. We'll go on a walk every evening. We'll also see what they think of rain, as it is on its way. From what we've heard, there hasn't been a lot of rain in south Texas. I have a feeling they are not going to be entertained by precipitation of any kind. Ah well, they are Yankees now so they are going to have to deal with the elements.
Did I mention they loved canned food?
***************************************
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Gotcha, Tex-Mex Style
The two Tex-Mex party pups have arrived, without nary a hitch.
First I'd like to confirm that once home, they ate like champs, went outside (as opposed to inside) to excrete urine from urethrae, and slept in their kitchen-located beds as directed, with only two whining episodes (from the ever-vocal Rosita... Bandido has yet to make a peep). We learned that they do not understand the concept of leashes or collars or going for a walk. They obviously have been fed from the table--Rosita is a begging machine. We figured out quickly that Bandido does not understand the concept of toys. We got the idea quickly that they do not know how to navigate stairs (or what stairs might even be). And, we learned that Bandido likes to pee on top of Rosita's poop--the ultimate marking of the territory, I assume.
The poor wife got about three minutes of sleep last night. Too much caffeine, too much excitement, too much listening for peeps, too much worrying. I slept just fine, althought I got up twice to remind Rosita that midnight and 3 AM were for sleeping, not for peeping. I think everyone will be taking a nap this afternoon.
As I type, both dogs are sleeping. But, I know the minute I stand up or open a wrapper on some food product, I'll have two sets of eyes starting at me. They know the sound of food and definitely don't want to miss any fun.
(Note to Grandma: you won't have any trouble finding friends when you toast those waffles.)
Yesterday was "Gotcha Day." I could go on for days about this, but suffice it to say it is very exciting, overwhelming, busy, entertaining and downright exhausting for all involved, including the dogs. (It's an experience--you'd have to be there or watch the live feed to get an idea of what transpires.) The head of the pack (Scott, the man in charge of this delightful endeavor and Tracy's top dog, so to speak) tells everyone not to look the dogs in the eyes as they are handed you--no kissing or squeezing, either. He made some very good points about the reasons these things should not be done.
Guess what? I sure saw a lot of hugging and kissing and eye-gazing. It's hard not to give a squeeze and a kiss when meeting the dog for whom you've been waiting.
For the record, the dogs were the ones not making eye contact. Looking at the photos from the event confirm this--most dogs are turned away from their newbie adopters. I can't blame them. That's a whole lot of hugging, kissing and squeezing after a 2.5 day road trip. And, there's the crowd of people. I'm sure all the dogs want to do is get out of that crowd.
Prior to the arrival of the truck and unveiling of the dogs, the adopters had opportunity to visit with each other, made all the more fun as we "knew" each other's dogs from the organization's videos and photos. It was like a family event--only weird, seeing that we were a bunch of strangers who weren't really strangers. I found that to be one of the exciting parts of the day. I also found myself taking photos of said adopters. After all, it's good to know who got which dog.
The most surprising part? How much littler most of the dogs were in person. I guess the camera really does add weight. I remember thinking this about many of the dogs. Our dogs were the size I envisioned, but others were tiny in comparison to their photos. (I still can't get over how small Princess and Charles were. Not that you know who they are.)
The ride home was rather uneventful... well, besides Rosita wanting to look out the window (she obviously has had car-riding experience in a previous life) and subsequently falling off the car seat. Bandido didn't look very impressed by any of it and surrendered to the car ride without issue.
Today, we will hang around the house and try to ignore them so they get the picture. A friend or two will stop by to help test socialization. We'll go in and out the door to get them used to that, too. I'll put them in the car for a short ride so they think rides are fun (not just for going to the vet, of which they have to do tomorrow). I'll try to teach them a few basic commands, as they don't seem to know anything in particular.
And, we'll take a lot of pictures.
A final note: I'm glad these Tex-Mex senoritas are really nothing like our beloved Freckles and Lucy. They don't look the same, they don't eat the same, they don't walk the same, they don't poop the same. I would never want Freckles or Lucy to think we were replacing them, as that is completely impossible. Instead, we are complimenting them. After all, if they hadn't been so fabulous, I would never have had a chance at getting any other dogs.
So, thanks FWP and LBP for paving the way. Or, should I say, "Gracias, cachorros. Gracias por allanar el camino."
Let the dog training begin.
*******************************************8
First I'd like to confirm that once home, they ate like champs, went outside (as opposed to inside) to excrete urine from urethrae, and slept in their kitchen-located beds as directed, with only two whining episodes (from the ever-vocal Rosita... Bandido has yet to make a peep). We learned that they do not understand the concept of leashes or collars or going for a walk. They obviously have been fed from the table--Rosita is a begging machine. We figured out quickly that Bandido does not understand the concept of toys. We got the idea quickly that they do not know how to navigate stairs (or what stairs might even be). And, we learned that Bandido likes to pee on top of Rosita's poop--the ultimate marking of the territory, I assume.
The poor wife got about three minutes of sleep last night. Too much caffeine, too much excitement, too much listening for peeps, too much worrying. I slept just fine, althought I got up twice to remind Rosita that midnight and 3 AM were for sleeping, not for peeping. I think everyone will be taking a nap this afternoon.
As I type, both dogs are sleeping. But, I know the minute I stand up or open a wrapper on some food product, I'll have two sets of eyes starting at me. They know the sound of food and definitely don't want to miss any fun.
(Note to Grandma: you won't have any trouble finding friends when you toast those waffles.)
Yesterday was "Gotcha Day." I could go on for days about this, but suffice it to say it is very exciting, overwhelming, busy, entertaining and downright exhausting for all involved, including the dogs. (It's an experience--you'd have to be there or watch the live feed to get an idea of what transpires.) The head of the pack (Scott, the man in charge of this delightful endeavor and Tracy's top dog, so to speak) tells everyone not to look the dogs in the eyes as they are handed you--no kissing or squeezing, either. He made some very good points about the reasons these things should not be done.
Guess what? I sure saw a lot of hugging and kissing and eye-gazing. It's hard not to give a squeeze and a kiss when meeting the dog for whom you've been waiting.
For the record, the dogs were the ones not making eye contact. Looking at the photos from the event confirm this--most dogs are turned away from their newbie adopters. I can't blame them. That's a whole lot of hugging, kissing and squeezing after a 2.5 day road trip. And, there's the crowd of people. I'm sure all the dogs want to do is get out of that crowd.
Prior to the arrival of the truck and unveiling of the dogs, the adopters had opportunity to visit with each other, made all the more fun as we "knew" each other's dogs from the organization's videos and photos. It was like a family event--only weird, seeing that we were a bunch of strangers who weren't really strangers. I found that to be one of the exciting parts of the day. I also found myself taking photos of said adopters. After all, it's good to know who got which dog.
The most surprising part? How much littler most of the dogs were in person. I guess the camera really does add weight. I remember thinking this about many of the dogs. Our dogs were the size I envisioned, but others were tiny in comparison to their photos. (I still can't get over how small Princess and Charles were. Not that you know who they are.)
The ride home was rather uneventful... well, besides Rosita wanting to look out the window (she obviously has had car-riding experience in a previous life) and subsequently falling off the car seat. Bandido didn't look very impressed by any of it and surrendered to the car ride without issue.
Today, we will hang around the house and try to ignore them so they get the picture. A friend or two will stop by to help test socialization. We'll go in and out the door to get them used to that, too. I'll put them in the car for a short ride so they think rides are fun (not just for going to the vet, of which they have to do tomorrow). I'll try to teach them a few basic commands, as they don't seem to know anything in particular.
And, we'll take a lot of pictures.
A final note: I'm glad these Tex-Mex senoritas are really nothing like our beloved Freckles and Lucy. They don't look the same, they don't eat the same, they don't walk the same, they don't poop the same. I would never want Freckles or Lucy to think we were replacing them, as that is completely impossible. Instead, we are complimenting them. After all, if they hadn't been so fabulous, I would never have had a chance at getting any other dogs.
So, thanks FWP and LBP for paving the way. Or, should I say, "Gracias, cachorros. Gracias por allanar el camino."
Let the dog training begin.
*******************************************8
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Wanted: Chef for Soon-to-Arrive Pups
Uh oh!
I am officially freaked out. I received photos and directions about how to make dinner for our soon-to-arrive rescue pups.
I am going to need a chef.
The photos were amazingly helpful--each ingredient displayed in full color, the process of putting together the meal laid out, step by step.
Can I just say these dogs have been eating better than me? Organic, Trader-Joe's foods. Freshly sliced sweet potatoes. Lean turkey breast. On occasion, kale is added to the creation. Once prepared, the meal is adorned with apples.
If you think I'm kidding or exaggerating, I have the photos to prove what I report.
I don't know what an insta-pot is, but it's what she uses to make this creation. Amazon, do I dare search thee for this product of which I know nothing?
I am extremely jealous about this creation. It looks delicious! (Organic, Trader Joe's products. Lucky dawgs, indeed!) If I leave out the turkey, I could easily eat this for dinner. In fact, I think I HAVE eaten this kind of concoction for dinner.
We will be weaning the pups off this concoction sooner or later, but not right away--after all, they have a lot of adjustment to do before I start messing with their food. So, I hope the wife likes black beans + peas + sweet potatoes + potatoes + spinach + peas + turkey + apples, because that's what the three of them will be eating. I'll be eating the stew before turkey is added.
I wonder if my niece--who is a chef--is available for hire?
I am officially freaked out. I received photos and directions about how to make dinner for our soon-to-arrive rescue pups.
I am going to need a chef.
The photos were amazingly helpful--each ingredient displayed in full color, the process of putting together the meal laid out, step by step.
Can I just say these dogs have been eating better than me? Organic, Trader-Joe's foods. Freshly sliced sweet potatoes. Lean turkey breast. On occasion, kale is added to the creation. Once prepared, the meal is adorned with apples.
If you think I'm kidding or exaggerating, I have the photos to prove what I report.
I don't know what an insta-pot is, but it's what she uses to make this creation. Amazon, do I dare search thee for this product of which I know nothing?
I am extremely jealous about this creation. It looks delicious! (Organic, Trader Joe's products. Lucky dawgs, indeed!) If I leave out the turkey, I could easily eat this for dinner. In fact, I think I HAVE eaten this kind of concoction for dinner.
We will be weaning the pups off this concoction sooner or later, but not right away--after all, they have a lot of adjustment to do before I start messing with their food. So, I hope the wife likes black beans + peas + sweet potatoes + potatoes + spinach + peas + turkey + apples, because that's what the three of them will be eating. I'll be eating the stew before turkey is added.
I wonder if my niece--who is a chef--is available for hire?
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Sugar-coated Ramblings
T-minus one week until the new four-legged furry friends arrive. Foster mom has sent a few photos and some updated information. From the description, it sounds like the fluffy white pup (now to be known as Rosita) is getting herself into all sorts of mischief, while the scrawny little brown Texas street dog (now known as Bandido) is helping herself to the furniture but otherwise laying low. It appears Rosita likes to swim in her water dish. Can't wait for the wife to see that. Foster mom continues to cook dinner every night for these four-footed friend. Since we don't even cook dinner every night for ourselves, this shall be a new adventure. We can't change their food upon their arrival--they'll already be traumatized enough. So, home-made chicken and veggies it will be. We await the recipe. You know, the wife might want to join them in the home-made chicken and green peas concoction. It's people food, after all.
(Please, baby Jesus, tell me that foster mom has stopped letting them sleep in the bed. Puh-leeeeeease!)
The dogs will serve handsomely as a major distraction from the nightly news. I try to avoid the news but posts show up in my news feed and the wife is forever alerting me that another awful event has occurred. I try not to waste my breath or brain cells on 45. But, in this case I must comment: "Both sides, my ass. You are a bigoted buffoon who embraces--oozes--white, hate-fueled privilege and who is going to get us blown off the map one of these days. I spit on your golf shoes."
Oh, how I pine for the kinder, gentler days.
On the home front, the wife is on the mend, thanks to meds, physical therapy, myofacial work, rest and positive thinking. I'm glad to see improvement as the school year is just about to start and you don't want your professor to be in pain. Personally, I prefer she not be in pain by the time the dogs arrive as that blessed event will most likely not be conducive to her healing--it will be stress inducing, to say the least.
As for me, I suffered an injury while taking a nap yesterday. (I'm not sure which is more mortifying--admitting to taking a nap on such a beautiful day or injuring myself while taking said nap.) I must've been laying on my arm in some weird, contorted manner. Today, my arm is quite achy and useless and I have a giant knot in my shoulder/back/chicken wing. It won't stop me from eating ice cream or an ear of corn today at the county fair, though. I may be achy but I won't be deterred--one must have priorities, take one for the team. Besides, you only need one arm to eat food.
I love going to the county fair, although there aren't many options for a gluten-free vegetarian. That's why I stick to ice cream and corn on the cob. I'd love to smother myself in powder sugar as snarfing down a funnel cake, but that's a gluten nightmare and thus I step away. Cream puffs and homemade donuts are definitely off the menu. At least I'm not sugar-free or dairy-free... one must keep some vices.
Speaking of sugar, yesterday the wife and I had a health screening done--you know, the simple blood pressure, cholesterol and blood sugar kind of screening. I am pleased to announce that my blood sugar was better than hers, not that we were competing. (Okay, so maybe I was feeling a bit competitive.) I'm always entertained that my blood sugar is perfect, even though I am completely addicted to sugar and always assume it will be off the charts. I was born to eat sugar. My cholesterol ratio was beautiful and my blood pressure was just fine (it's been running high these days--well, at least according to the blood pressure cuff at work).
I believe that my love of ice cream and Dove Dark Chocolate have served me well.
A new employee tried to convince me this week that there are plenty of dairy-free "ice cream" options in the world. I think she thought I was a vegan and thus was passing on this information. Well, I am NOT a vegan. I refuse to worry about hidden butter in home-cooked meals or when going out to a restaurant or when eating ice cream or when being treated to a delicious meal at a dinner party.
Life is WAY too short to be a gluten-free, dairy-free vegetarian. Bring me real ice cream and screw that fake stuff. I embrace my sugar-coated way of being; I thank the gods of Butter for their glory; I pay homage to the cheese on my gluten-free-crusted pizza. Put some M&Ms on that pizza and in my ice cream. Vegan, my ass.
I've loaded the freezer with some milk-and-sugar-blessed Dove Dark Chocolate so I can keep my sugar level on course upon arrival of our rescues. I'll secure the wife a stash of carbs so she can drown her sorrows in potato chips, potatoes in general and bread. I'll get us several gallons of water and a case of canned food in case of nuclear meltdown.
Stay tuned for photos of the Gotcha Day. It's next Saturday. Until then, stay away from the news. Stay away from vegans. Stay away from dairy-free ice cream. Make sure to get some fair food before the fair season is over. Pray the dogs no longer sleep in the bed. Pray we learn how to make meals suitable for our rescued party pups.
T-minus one week. What a glorious day it will be.
(Please, baby Jesus, tell me that foster mom has stopped letting them sleep in the bed. Puh-leeeeeease!)
The dogs will serve handsomely as a major distraction from the nightly news. I try to avoid the news but posts show up in my news feed and the wife is forever alerting me that another awful event has occurred. I try not to waste my breath or brain cells on 45. But, in this case I must comment: "Both sides, my ass. You are a bigoted buffoon who embraces--oozes--white, hate-fueled privilege and who is going to get us blown off the map one of these days. I spit on your golf shoes."
Oh, how I pine for the kinder, gentler days.
On the home front, the wife is on the mend, thanks to meds, physical therapy, myofacial work, rest and positive thinking. I'm glad to see improvement as the school year is just about to start and you don't want your professor to be in pain. Personally, I prefer she not be in pain by the time the dogs arrive as that blessed event will most likely not be conducive to her healing--it will be stress inducing, to say the least.
As for me, I suffered an injury while taking a nap yesterday. (I'm not sure which is more mortifying--admitting to taking a nap on such a beautiful day or injuring myself while taking said nap.) I must've been laying on my arm in some weird, contorted manner. Today, my arm is quite achy and useless and I have a giant knot in my shoulder/back/chicken wing. It won't stop me from eating ice cream or an ear of corn today at the county fair, though. I may be achy but I won't be deterred--one must have priorities, take one for the team. Besides, you only need one arm to eat food.
I love going to the county fair, although there aren't many options for a gluten-free vegetarian. That's why I stick to ice cream and corn on the cob. I'd love to smother myself in powder sugar as snarfing down a funnel cake, but that's a gluten nightmare and thus I step away. Cream puffs and homemade donuts are definitely off the menu. At least I'm not sugar-free or dairy-free... one must keep some vices.
Speaking of sugar, yesterday the wife and I had a health screening done--you know, the simple blood pressure, cholesterol and blood sugar kind of screening. I am pleased to announce that my blood sugar was better than hers, not that we were competing. (Okay, so maybe I was feeling a bit competitive.) I'm always entertained that my blood sugar is perfect, even though I am completely addicted to sugar and always assume it will be off the charts. I was born to eat sugar. My cholesterol ratio was beautiful and my blood pressure was just fine (it's been running high these days--well, at least according to the blood pressure cuff at work).
I believe that my love of ice cream and Dove Dark Chocolate have served me well.
A new employee tried to convince me this week that there are plenty of dairy-free "ice cream" options in the world. I think she thought I was a vegan and thus was passing on this information. Well, I am NOT a vegan. I refuse to worry about hidden butter in home-cooked meals or when going out to a restaurant or when eating ice cream or when being treated to a delicious meal at a dinner party.
Life is WAY too short to be a gluten-free, dairy-free vegetarian. Bring me real ice cream and screw that fake stuff. I embrace my sugar-coated way of being; I thank the gods of Butter for their glory; I pay homage to the cheese on my gluten-free-crusted pizza. Put some M&Ms on that pizza and in my ice cream. Vegan, my ass.
I've loaded the freezer with some milk-and-sugar-blessed Dove Dark Chocolate so I can keep my sugar level on course upon arrival of our rescues. I'll secure the wife a stash of carbs so she can drown her sorrows in potato chips, potatoes in general and bread. I'll get us several gallons of water and a case of canned food in case of nuclear meltdown.
Stay tuned for photos of the Gotcha Day. It's next Saturday. Until then, stay away from the news. Stay away from vegans. Stay away from dairy-free ice cream. Make sure to get some fair food before the fair season is over. Pray the dogs no longer sleep in the bed. Pray we learn how to make meals suitable for our rescued party pups.
T-minus one week. What a glorious day it will be.
Saturday, August 05, 2017
Farewell by the Mary-Go-Round
The first official sentence of this blog might give you pause. No worries--this will not be maudlin in any capacity. Keep reading and start laughing.
Yesterday, yet another of our clients passed away. A "cardiac event," per the coroner. I'm inclined to agree. I suppose when it's your time to go, this is the way to go--peacefully in your sleep.
CeeJay was quite the woman, always gave staff a run for the money. She was a pistol! Personally, I found her antics to be quite humorous. Others probably did not, most likely because they are not fans of those who are pistols. I like when clients are fiesty. I don't want them to "roll over" and just do what they're told. I want them to have quality of life. I want them to stand up for themselves. I want clients to challenge the staff. After all, it's their life. So, I really appreciated CeeJay's naughtiness. She was a lively one.
While thinking about CeeJay yesterday, I recalled a most memorable trip to Great America in 2006, which featured CeeJays's group and a ride gone wrong. I blogged about it back then and it still makes me laugh when I think about it. I've updated it to include more about CeeJay's role during the outing. In honor of her passing, I speak of the Mary-Go-Round.
(Disclaimer: as always, I like to point out that I mean no disrespect to those I serve, those with severe mental illlness. So, don't get your undies in a bundle, please.)
Great America, 2006. A trip to Great America with a busload of adults who just happen to have mental illness. I assigned myself to a group of those who didn't want to go on any of the major attractions. Fine by me. I preferred to be on the ground than be hurled through the air.
Six clients. Only six adults. You're probably thinking that doesn't sound too stressful. You're probably thinking what a cake job I have, how awesome it is to go to an amusement park 75 miles away during work hours. You're probably thinking that it is super fun.
You. Are. Wrong. I'd rather poke my eyes out than go to Great America, even if is only with six adults--all persons I know very well. Six adults of whom I see every day. Six adults.
It's hot. Really hot. Blinding sun summer hot. Humid. We are all dripping with sweat. It's disgusting out, with not a lot of shade to be had. I try to keep our group inside or in the shade--which is mighty impossible at this particular park. We spend lots of time watching variety shows and attending movie-type attractions. We are hot and sticky and red and miserable.
As a nervous nelly, I'm always counting my group. It's a habit, I suppose. Other staff don't give a poo and send their assigned clients off on their own. I'm a counter. So, I'm counting my little group before we move to the next attraction (probably a food vendor) and all five are present—we're good to go, good to go shopping or eating. .
Wait a minute—all FIVE are present? I had SIX when we came into the park. Mary, CeeJay's friend, is missing. With a heavy sigh, I tell everyone we are going to the merry-go-round, as I am sure that this is where Mary has gone. CeeJay is none too pleased with this development but she gives a big huff and drags herself along with our little band of amusement-park-impaired folks. CeeJay is all full of disdain for Mary at this point.
Our group of five stand staring at the ride, watching the horses go up and down, lights spinning in a circle, round and round and round…but, I don’t see Mary. It’s kind of hard to see as we are basically looking into the sun, so I figure we might have missed her. I instruct CeeJay to go stand by the exit to watch for Mary, as she’ll have to get off when the ride is over and we can meet her there. Another huff from CeeJay but she complies, lumbering toward the ride's exit.
The ride stops, the people get off….no Mary. The ride starts, we stare at the horses, the ride stops, no Mary. I look and see that CeeJay in still in place, so I know we didn't have a merry-go-round escapee. After the fourth ride completes and everyone exits, I decide to ask the attendants if they have seen Mary, describing her in the nicest, most politically-correct-manner possible. The two young men laugh and point to the second level of the ride. “She’s up there,” they say, as they allow me on the ride. “We can’t help patrons—we can’t touch them.” I stopped to stare at them—what on earth are they talking about? “She’s stuck, says she can’t get off the horse,” the younger guy adds. “We can’t touch her—policy rules.” I’m incredulous. How does someone get stuck on a merry-go-ground horse?
I tell everyone to stay with CeeJay. This brings a smile to her face. She is all about being in charge. I don't really have time to contemplate all the ways this might go wrong. I go with it and hop onto the ride.
Sure enough, I walk around the circle and there's Mary, on a white horse in the inner ring of the ride. No wonder we couldn’t see her from the ground.
“I’m STUCK!” she screams.
Mary is crying and sweating and her nose running all over her face. “I can’t get off the horse,” she adds, as if I can’t tell what she’s doing. She stands up on the horse, death grip on the gold pole. She sits immediately back down and begins screaming again. Parents are directing their children from the area. I go over to her and ask her to calm down and listen to me.
“I CAN'T GET OFF I CAN'T GET OFF I CAN'T GET OFF!"
I tell her if she can get on the horse, she can get off the horse. (I'm so pragmatic. And, a moron.) I ask how she managed to get up there, anyway, but she has no answer. Mary is only focused on getting off the ride. I scratch my head, as she is indeed rather stuck. I am not strong enough to lift her off the horse by myself and the attendants can’t help me. I tell her to stand up and I step toward the horse. She's now hanging onto me at the neck, obviously terrified. I feel the room spin, then realize it’s just that the ride has started again. Now Mary is going up and down and has truly worked herself into a froth. I ask her to sit down and just wait for the ride to end. I just asked her to stand up and now I'm telling her to sit down. What the hell is she supposed to do?
CeeJay is now on the ride. So much for staying with the other four. She wants to help. She offers to pick up Mary from one side as I pick her up by the other. So, now the three of us are going in circles, literally and figuratively.
What seems like three years later, the ride ends (dang, that ride is long) and I begin to work frantically. CeeJay is trying to help but now I've got two people to worry about, not one. Sigh. I tell Mary to stand up; she does, then she sits right back down. I tell her to stand up and stay standing. I put my arms around her waist. I tell her to lift her leg; she says she can’t. We do this for THREE MORE RIDES.
Finally, by the grace of god or some other being, her leg makes it over the saddle and her weight falls on to me. Thankfully, she doesn't kick me or CeeJay in the face--although, by this point, I would welcome a foot to the nose. I groan and my knees buckle but she hangs on to my neck and squeezes tightly and we work our way off the horse, off the ride. We meet her waiting peers--thankfully, all five people are in a group. I turn to thank CeeJay...
...but, CeeJay is not standing next to me.
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FRIGGIN' KIDDING ME! I still don't have six people.
I am in no mood to talk to anyone and instead just point toward the parking lot. I point the five-still-not-six group toward the bus. I don't care if it's too early or too hot or too whatever. I'm getting on that bus and I'm not getting off.
Thankfully, CeeJay was sitting on the other side of the merry-go-wrong, right by the fountain. I decide she's no fool. She found the one place that made sense after sweltering all day. I don't say anything to her, either. I point to the bus.
It's a VERY quite walk to our ride home. No one is dumb enough to start bickering, whining, yelling, crying or complaining until the bus ride gets underway.
Great America. Poke.My. Eyes. Out. You. Can. Kiss. My. Sweaty. Ass. All I can think is: Never again. They can't make me do this again. Can they? Please tell me they can't make me. I slide down in my hot, stick, plastic school-bus seat and pray for the best. I'm hot and grimy and crabby.
But, then I see the smiles on the sweaty faces and realize that it is selfish of me to think this way. Trips like these mean the world to these people. Who am I to be selfish? I have to smile. I laugh and shake my head. I am destined to come back to that miserable place and I will go without too much grumbling. Oh, I'll grumble but it'll be worth the smiles.
Now it's Summer, 2017. Here we are, the day CeeJay passed away. I hope she is at peace. I hope she no longer suffers from the symptoms of mental illness that plagued her entire life. I hope to go she gets to be in charge, to be feisty, to be whatever she wants to be. I choose to believe she is free, happy and relieved.
Thank you, CeeJay for the laughs, the naughtiness and the lessons. Thank you for being a fighter. Thank you for the gift you were to me.
A gift, fondly recognized on days like these. Loss is balanced with the gifts received.
I really do have a kick-ass job. Kick some ass, CeeJay!
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Yesterday, yet another of our clients passed away. A "cardiac event," per the coroner. I'm inclined to agree. I suppose when it's your time to go, this is the way to go--peacefully in your sleep.
CeeJay was quite the woman, always gave staff a run for the money. She was a pistol! Personally, I found her antics to be quite humorous. Others probably did not, most likely because they are not fans of those who are pistols. I like when clients are fiesty. I don't want them to "roll over" and just do what they're told. I want them to have quality of life. I want them to stand up for themselves. I want clients to challenge the staff. After all, it's their life. So, I really appreciated CeeJay's naughtiness. She was a lively one.
While thinking about CeeJay yesterday, I recalled a most memorable trip to Great America in 2006, which featured CeeJays's group and a ride gone wrong. I blogged about it back then and it still makes me laugh when I think about it. I've updated it to include more about CeeJay's role during the outing. In honor of her passing, I speak of the Mary-Go-Round.
(Disclaimer: as always, I like to point out that I mean no disrespect to those I serve, those with severe mental illlness. So, don't get your undies in a bundle, please.)
Great America, 2006. A trip to Great America with a busload of adults who just happen to have mental illness. I assigned myself to a group of those who didn't want to go on any of the major attractions. Fine by me. I preferred to be on the ground than be hurled through the air.
Six clients. Only six adults. You're probably thinking that doesn't sound too stressful. You're probably thinking what a cake job I have, how awesome it is to go to an amusement park 75 miles away during work hours. You're probably thinking that it is super fun.
You. Are. Wrong. I'd rather poke my eyes out than go to Great America, even if is only with six adults--all persons I know very well. Six adults of whom I see every day. Six adults.
It's hot. Really hot. Blinding sun summer hot. Humid. We are all dripping with sweat. It's disgusting out, with not a lot of shade to be had. I try to keep our group inside or in the shade--which is mighty impossible at this particular park. We spend lots of time watching variety shows and attending movie-type attractions. We are hot and sticky and red and miserable.
As a nervous nelly, I'm always counting my group. It's a habit, I suppose. Other staff don't give a poo and send their assigned clients off on their own. I'm a counter. So, I'm counting my little group before we move to the next attraction (probably a food vendor) and all five are present—we're good to go, good to go shopping or eating. .
Wait a minute—all FIVE are present? I had SIX when we came into the park. Mary, CeeJay's friend, is missing. With a heavy sigh, I tell everyone we are going to the merry-go-round, as I am sure that this is where Mary has gone. CeeJay is none too pleased with this development but she gives a big huff and drags herself along with our little band of amusement-park-impaired folks. CeeJay is all full of disdain for Mary at this point.
Our group of five stand staring at the ride, watching the horses go up and down, lights spinning in a circle, round and round and round…but, I don’t see Mary. It’s kind of hard to see as we are basically looking into the sun, so I figure we might have missed her. I instruct CeeJay to go stand by the exit to watch for Mary, as she’ll have to get off when the ride is over and we can meet her there. Another huff from CeeJay but she complies, lumbering toward the ride's exit.
The ride stops, the people get off….no Mary. The ride starts, we stare at the horses, the ride stops, no Mary. I look and see that CeeJay in still in place, so I know we didn't have a merry-go-round escapee. After the fourth ride completes and everyone exits, I decide to ask the attendants if they have seen Mary, describing her in the nicest, most politically-correct-manner possible. The two young men laugh and point to the second level of the ride. “She’s up there,” they say, as they allow me on the ride. “We can’t help patrons—we can’t touch them.” I stopped to stare at them—what on earth are they talking about? “She’s stuck, says she can’t get off the horse,” the younger guy adds. “We can’t touch her—policy rules.” I’m incredulous. How does someone get stuck on a merry-go-ground horse?
I tell everyone to stay with CeeJay. This brings a smile to her face. She is all about being in charge. I don't really have time to contemplate all the ways this might go wrong. I go with it and hop onto the ride.
Sure enough, I walk around the circle and there's Mary, on a white horse in the inner ring of the ride. No wonder we couldn’t see her from the ground.
“I’m STUCK!” she screams.
Mary is crying and sweating and her nose running all over her face. “I can’t get off the horse,” she adds, as if I can’t tell what she’s doing. She stands up on the horse, death grip on the gold pole. She sits immediately back down and begins screaming again. Parents are directing their children from the area. I go over to her and ask her to calm down and listen to me.
“I CAN'T GET OFF I CAN'T GET OFF I CAN'T GET OFF!"
I tell her if she can get on the horse, she can get off the horse. (I'm so pragmatic. And, a moron.) I ask how she managed to get up there, anyway, but she has no answer. Mary is only focused on getting off the ride. I scratch my head, as she is indeed rather stuck. I am not strong enough to lift her off the horse by myself and the attendants can’t help me. I tell her to stand up and I step toward the horse. She's now hanging onto me at the neck, obviously terrified. I feel the room spin, then realize it’s just that the ride has started again. Now Mary is going up and down and has truly worked herself into a froth. I ask her to sit down and just wait for the ride to end. I just asked her to stand up and now I'm telling her to sit down. What the hell is she supposed to do?
CeeJay is now on the ride. So much for staying with the other four. She wants to help. She offers to pick up Mary from one side as I pick her up by the other. So, now the three of us are going in circles, literally and figuratively.
What seems like three years later, the ride ends (dang, that ride is long) and I begin to work frantically. CeeJay is trying to help but now I've got two people to worry about, not one. Sigh. I tell Mary to stand up; she does, then she sits right back down. I tell her to stand up and stay standing. I put my arms around her waist. I tell her to lift her leg; she says she can’t. We do this for THREE MORE RIDES.
Finally, by the grace of god or some other being, her leg makes it over the saddle and her weight falls on to me. Thankfully, she doesn't kick me or CeeJay in the face--although, by this point, I would welcome a foot to the nose. I groan and my knees buckle but she hangs on to my neck and squeezes tightly and we work our way off the horse, off the ride. We meet her waiting peers--thankfully, all five people are in a group. I turn to thank CeeJay...
...but, CeeJay is not standing next to me.
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FRIGGIN' KIDDING ME! I still don't have six people.
I am in no mood to talk to anyone and instead just point toward the parking lot. I point the five-still-not-six group toward the bus. I don't care if it's too early or too hot or too whatever. I'm getting on that bus and I'm not getting off.
Thankfully, CeeJay was sitting on the other side of the merry-go-wrong, right by the fountain. I decide she's no fool. She found the one place that made sense after sweltering all day. I don't say anything to her, either. I point to the bus.
It's a VERY quite walk to our ride home. No one is dumb enough to start bickering, whining, yelling, crying or complaining until the bus ride gets underway.
Great America. Poke.My. Eyes. Out. You. Can. Kiss. My. Sweaty. Ass. All I can think is: Never again. They can't make me do this again. Can they? Please tell me they can't make me. I slide down in my hot, stick, plastic school-bus seat and pray for the best. I'm hot and grimy and crabby.
But, then I see the smiles on the sweaty faces and realize that it is selfish of me to think this way. Trips like these mean the world to these people. Who am I to be selfish? I have to smile. I laugh and shake my head. I am destined to come back to that miserable place and I will go without too much grumbling. Oh, I'll grumble but it'll be worth the smiles.
Now it's Summer, 2017. Here we are, the day CeeJay passed away. I hope she is at peace. I hope she no longer suffers from the symptoms of mental illness that plagued her entire life. I hope to go she gets to be in charge, to be feisty, to be whatever she wants to be. I choose to believe she is free, happy and relieved.
Thank you, CeeJay for the laughs, the naughtiness and the lessons. Thank you for being a fighter. Thank you for the gift you were to me.
A gift, fondly recognized on days like these. Loss is balanced with the gifts received.
I really do have a kick-ass job. Kick some ass, CeeJay!
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