note to self
A reminder, before everything changes...
The toughest part is the barely ambulatory dog, all 16 years of her. She's having a hard time, and I mean a very hard time, walking again. We still give fluids (sub-cutaneously into the neck scruff) every few days. I still think they help, but they did wonders back in October. We're realizing we've fewer wonders left from her. But she still loves as much as she ever has. I looked at a picture of her from when she was 11, maybe 12, and remembered how she romped all over the park just a mile away from the old condo. We've taken good care of the girl, and we should be so lucky to receive in kind when one day we get to be her age.
There's the orange cat, the young one, the unstable one. She's warmed up to us--well, to me. At 5 years old, it's really about time. Her malady is asthma, the kind that cost us a $900 vet bill last year. So yes, we pay the $50 or so every two or three months to fill her prescription. Steroids, actually. Orally for now, but she needs to have her liver checked to see if they're doing damage. Our other alternative is an inhaler. Did you ever imagine? Better for her, but more expensive, and yes, we'd have to stick it on her face every day. I need to trim her claws.
The clawless cat is the elder, friendlier and (to the dog) meaner at the same time. Allergies for the gray one, if you please. We think it's chicken or some other crap in bad food. Makes her scratch herself hairless. For a cat who gets by more on personality than looks in the first place, she needs all the hair she can keep. I'm considering Rogaine, so I know how she feels.
Before bed each night, it's two prescriptions for the dog, one for the orange cat, and some sort of non-chicken wet food for the gray. You will spend many hours searching for cat food without chicken in it if you try. And you will fail, unless you pick up some cans of 'cat tuna' from Trader Joes. Real tuna is okay too for the gray, but not for the orange. If I try to put the steroid in real tuna for the orange, I have to shove it down her mouth. I have to force my cat to eat real tuna. This is a problem, such as it is, that I have.
Much more serious is the kidney stones coming out of my pregant wife. I'm thinking of collecting them--we're up to 5 or 6 now in the last couple months--and turning them into a rattle for the baby. Good to teach her about irony and passive aggression at an early age.
Much more serious is the high blood pressure, headaches and swelling. Not as serious as it could potentially be, thank goodness, but serious enough. And then there's the serious business of deciding on child care, a college fund because it's never too early, and the basics of raising another human being.
Also I need to get my car fixed from where a guy rear-ended me on the Tri-State. Oh the Tri-State. And an oil change.
And work.
And taxes.
I play my guitar as opportunity allows. I still like it. I've plateaued on technique and pehaps talent, but I still delight in a strum and a sing. Though I have a healthy respect for the skills I'm missing and the relative disinterest of others in this, my late obsession.
I work out 45 minutes each weekday I can motivate myself to fit it in. 15 pounds gone so far. 15, at least, to go. Oh, and I'm reading The Atlanic again, usually while I work out.
I know life is going to change abruptly and completely toward the end of April. Parents are telling me to forget about sleep, but I wake up between 2 and 4 a.m. every morning, and carry my dog down the stairs and into the still cold night so she can relieve some of the fluid I inject under her skin. Parents are telling me to get used to a life of excrement, but I clean up the gush of urine our old dog releases on floors and rugs in her all-too-frequent seizures. Parents are telling me to forget about movies and television, but I've got a light at the end of a 4-year long tunnel filled with doctors & drugs, hope & heartbreak--and a DVR. Parents are telling me to forget about free time and doing things I enjoy, but I've got guitar chords for nursery rhymes--they're almost all in F, which is fucked up, but what the hell, I can stretch a skill--or transpose.
Brother, I'm sure this experience will be like no other. And I'm likewise sure that I'm naive, starry-eyed, and in for the rudest awakening. But I don't care. Wake me up, little girl. Break me down. Frustrate me. Infuriate me. Make me say things I'll regret. None the less, I will love you. All the more, for all we've done to see you in the world.
I have no real idea what to expect. But I didn't expect to help Sandra bury her mom or step-dad. I didn't expect to dread the inevitable death of our dog like the loss of a friend. Hell, I didn't expect I'd ever mow a lawn & blow snow.
Oh universe, I don't claim to be ready. But I assure you, I'm willing.
The toughest part is the barely ambulatory dog, all 16 years of her. She's having a hard time, and I mean a very hard time, walking again. We still give fluids (sub-cutaneously into the neck scruff) every few days. I still think they help, but they did wonders back in October. We're realizing we've fewer wonders left from her. But she still loves as much as she ever has. I looked at a picture of her from when she was 11, maybe 12, and remembered how she romped all over the park just a mile away from the old condo. We've taken good care of the girl, and we should be so lucky to receive in kind when one day we get to be her age.
There's the orange cat, the young one, the unstable one. She's warmed up to us--well, to me. At 5 years old, it's really about time. Her malady is asthma, the kind that cost us a $900 vet bill last year. So yes, we pay the $50 or so every two or three months to fill her prescription. Steroids, actually. Orally for now, but she needs to have her liver checked to see if they're doing damage. Our other alternative is an inhaler. Did you ever imagine? Better for her, but more expensive, and yes, we'd have to stick it on her face every day. I need to trim her claws.
The clawless cat is the elder, friendlier and (to the dog) meaner at the same time. Allergies for the gray one, if you please. We think it's chicken or some other crap in bad food. Makes her scratch herself hairless. For a cat who gets by more on personality than looks in the first place, she needs all the hair she can keep. I'm considering Rogaine, so I know how she feels.
Before bed each night, it's two prescriptions for the dog, one for the orange cat, and some sort of non-chicken wet food for the gray. You will spend many hours searching for cat food without chicken in it if you try. And you will fail, unless you pick up some cans of 'cat tuna' from Trader Joes. Real tuna is okay too for the gray, but not for the orange. If I try to put the steroid in real tuna for the orange, I have to shove it down her mouth. I have to force my cat to eat real tuna. This is a problem, such as it is, that I have.
Much more serious is the kidney stones coming out of my pregant wife. I'm thinking of collecting them--we're up to 5 or 6 now in the last couple months--and turning them into a rattle for the baby. Good to teach her about irony and passive aggression at an early age.
Much more serious is the high blood pressure, headaches and swelling. Not as serious as it could potentially be, thank goodness, but serious enough. And then there's the serious business of deciding on child care, a college fund because it's never too early, and the basics of raising another human being.
Also I need to get my car fixed from where a guy rear-ended me on the Tri-State. Oh the Tri-State. And an oil change.
And work.
And taxes.
I play my guitar as opportunity allows. I still like it. I've plateaued on technique and pehaps talent, but I still delight in a strum and a sing. Though I have a healthy respect for the skills I'm missing and the relative disinterest of others in this, my late obsession.
I work out 45 minutes each weekday I can motivate myself to fit it in. 15 pounds gone so far. 15, at least, to go. Oh, and I'm reading The Atlanic again, usually while I work out.
I know life is going to change abruptly and completely toward the end of April. Parents are telling me to forget about sleep, but I wake up between 2 and 4 a.m. every morning, and carry my dog down the stairs and into the still cold night so she can relieve some of the fluid I inject under her skin. Parents are telling me to get used to a life of excrement, but I clean up the gush of urine our old dog releases on floors and rugs in her all-too-frequent seizures. Parents are telling me to forget about movies and television, but I've got a light at the end of a 4-year long tunnel filled with doctors & drugs, hope & heartbreak--and a DVR. Parents are telling me to forget about free time and doing things I enjoy, but I've got guitar chords for nursery rhymes--they're almost all in F, which is fucked up, but what the hell, I can stretch a skill--or transpose.
Brother, I'm sure this experience will be like no other. And I'm likewise sure that I'm naive, starry-eyed, and in for the rudest awakening. But I don't care. Wake me up, little girl. Break me down. Frustrate me. Infuriate me. Make me say things I'll regret. None the less, I will love you. All the more, for all we've done to see you in the world.
I have no real idea what to expect. But I didn't expect to help Sandra bury her mom or step-dad. I didn't expect to dread the inevitable death of our dog like the loss of a friend. Hell, I didn't expect I'd ever mow a lawn & blow snow.
Oh universe, I don't claim to be ready. But I assure you, I'm willing.