Miz S

Annual Beach Vacation #mypredictablelife

Our rental house in Southern Shores, NC.

This is our first beach vacation without my mother-in-law. You may recall that she died only a month after we returned from the Outer Banks last summer.  We wondered if it would feel strange to be here without her energy and humor, but it's not.

Not really.

Well, maybe a lot.

In any case, we are at the beach.

Edgar Allen Poo is with us, of course.  At home he sleeps with my father-in-law, but here at the beach house he is sharing a bed with Josh and me. The first night we were here, I reached down to tenderly pat him before I fell asleep and was rewarded with a sharp nip to my hand. I'm suing, of course. Edgar's defense attorney pointed out that he has arthritis and is tender in certain areas, but my lawyer countered with, "Well, April had much WORSE arthritis and never ever EVER nipped anyone in her entire life. GOD!" 

I will let you know how it turns out.

Oh, and fyi, in case you wanted to know how the doggie diapers are working, they're NOT. So now we're just taking Edgar outside every 30 minutes or so to try and prevent accidents. With mixed results, I might add.

Sophie and Edgar. She's a huge help with him, fyi. He's a damned pain in the ass.

When I am not catering to Edgar's every need, cavorting in the ocean with my family, or eating something delicious that #1 Future Son-in-Law Paul has prepared, I am usually getting my ass kicked playing Boggle with Emma and Nathanial.

I think my score in this game was 27. Nate's was probably around 90-something and Emma likely topped 130. Brats, both of them.

Emma encouraged me to download the Scramble app to my phone, which I did, and now I am obsessively playing Scramble and getting my ass kicked there, too. Any minute now I will uninstall it in a huff and reclaim my life.

We had some excitement last night when #2 Future Son-in-Law Nate, who was gallantly helping my niece and her girlfriend get the coals going on the grill, stepped on some stones that had been super-heated by the charcoal chimney and sustained serious burns on the sole of his foot.

IT WAS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY AND I LIVE FOR THAT SHIT!!!

I may have gotten a little bit hand-flappy, I'm not sure.

I know the basic first aid for burns, which is immersion in cold water for at least 15 minutes. But I was certan this was a 2nd degree burn (large blotchy white areas, blisters forming quickly, foot swelling).  Small 2nd degree burns can be treated at home, but this was 2/3 of the sole of his foot. A little hand-flapping followed by some swift Internet research revealed that this injury required professional medical care.

Josh and Emma took him over to the urgent care center where they inspected, bandaged, and prescribed. He came home looking pale and in a lot of pain, but seemed to relax when the pain meds began to work their magic. He has to go back in this afternoon to have the blisters cleaned and scrutinized.

Oh, and may I just say? Nate was cheerful and uncomplaining throughout it all. Apologetic even, for causing such a fuss. I love that boy!

More developments as they occur.

Josh and Nate goofing for the camera in the waiting room. Picture courtesy of Emma.

Clever, naughty, diapered Edgar.

Do you guys remember my late mother-in-law's poodle, Edgar Allen Poo? Clever, naughty Edgar?

Edgar is still super playful and has picked me as his special favorite. Here he is being excited because I came home one evening.

Edgar has earned advanced degrees in dog obedience but is decidedly disobedient when it suits his purposes. He will nip at people who bother him, he is an incorrigible beggar, and he once chased our cat around our house with obvious malevolent intent. Poor Pushkin, who had never been chased by a dog, was considerably shook up and stayed under the bed for a full day. (Imagine Pushkin's horror a few years later when we moved into Edgar Allen Poo's house.)

 

2 summers ago, he bit my sister-in-law's finger HARD, and there was some controversy about whether it was Edgar's fault or SIL's fault. We are still reviewing the videotape to try and reach a settlement agreement.

But that was all years ago. Edgar is 15 now, almost completely blind, and more or less compliant. He chased Pushkin a few times after we moved in here last October, but it was obviously a huge effort and not worth his time. They coexist peacefully now.

But lo, how the mighty have fallen.

Edgar was just diagnosed with kidney disease and high blood pressure. He is on 2 different medications and a special diet. And, best of all, he gets to wear doggie diapers inside because he no longer has full contol of his bladder.

Doggie diapers are the funniest thing ever.

Edgar standing guard at the front door, barking at dogs passing by.

Honestly, when he wore the diapers for the first time yesterday I followed him around for like an hour taking pictures and squealing.

2 questions:

1. Why didn't we ever do this with Rosie? Rosie was an inveterate sneak-urinator, and we were never able to completely house-train her. (The poor little lamb. May she rest in peace forever-n-ever Amen.)

2. Why is an old dog in diapers SO ADORABLE whereas an old dude in diapers is just sad? We need to change our mindset, people. That way it will be easier for us when the inevitable arrives.  We'll be all, "Cool! Dad's wearing diapers! He looks so cute! Dad! Turn around so I can take a picture of your adorable diapered bottom!" etc.

That's all I got for right now. Remember, I'm super out-of-practice with this blogging thing. I have to go do my algebra homework now. 3 more days of class AUGGGHH!

Oh, and here is a video of Edgar Allen Poo dancing with my late mother-in-law. I swear to God, it is really cute. You should watch it. If my mother-in-law were here she would make you watch it.

 

 

 

Special Dog Post For blackbird.

April is 14 years old. Doesn't she look noble? And furry?

We've been having daily thunderstorms, and poor April thinks she is in hell.

Do you remember the time she tried to dig her way through a door during a thunderstorm?

We had hoped that since her hearing is not what it used to be, this storm season wouldn't be too hard on her. But she can still hear that thunder just fine. She has spent the past many days and nights pacing and trembling, poor girl. She keeps trying to find a room in the house that doesn't have any thunder in it.

She has refused to sleep on her pallet in our bedroom for the last two nights because she is afraid the thunder is going to GIT HER in there.Instead, she is sleeping on the bare wooden floor in Evangeline's room.

Ha! She's dumb.

She also refuses to go outside if it is raining (which it is ALL THE TIME NOW, where the hell do I live? Seattle?), no matter how long it has been since she last peed. We actually argue with her about it. We open the door and say, excitedly, "Outside, April! C'mon girl! Outside! April! Here! Aaaaaaaa-pril [coaxingly], here! APRIL! {menacingly] I mean it! OUTSIDE!"

And the whole time she just stands there, staring at us meaningfully, then looking away as if we have offended her deeply.

I usually end up saying, "FINE! GOD! NEVER MIND!"  Josh then uses his command voice and advances upon her threateningly and she finally goes outside, but she gives him this sidelong look and you just know she is thinking "What an asshole!"

Christ. I am one of those middle-aged people who talks about their pets all the time because my kids are all grown-up and I don't have any cute stories about them anymore.

There Are No Bad Dogs. But There Is One Very Bad Cat.

Pushkin rests after his early morning exertions.

I was whipped last night. This felt like a long week at work, I guess because of preparing report cards and writing comments. Also, I got another new student yesterday which is always slightly stressful. She is a sweet, funny, little thing but very low in reading. I have to get her to a level 16 by June and she is about a level 3 or 4 right now. That's an almost impossible feat.

Anyway, I went to bed at 7:30 pm  which is ridiculously early, even for me.  I'm a big fan of the early bedtime because I get up at 5:15 during the week, but I normally manage to wait until 8:30 or 9 before I crawl into bed.

At 5:30am the dogs woke me up because they are used to being fed early. I went downstairs to feed them and let them outside to pee. While I was standing there holding the door open for Rosie, Pushkin came streaking towards me out of nowhere. I made a valiant attempt to slam the door shut before he could escape and he ended up pinned in the doorway, with his front and back legs scrabbling. It was kind of funny. I reached down to grab some fur and loosened the door just a touch so I could pull him back inside. That extra quarter of an inch was enough to let him squeeze through. Zoom! He was gone. The dogs were all excited at this point and did a little half-hearted chasing of him in the yard. He ran right across the frozen pond and I was hoping the ice was thin enough to break because it would serve the little bastard right.

I was swearing a blue streak and stomping around the yard BAREFOOT calling him. I went back inside and got cat food and banged the can with a spoon saying, "Here, kittykittykitty! Here, you little fucker! Come to Mama! Mama's going to kick your ass!"

He just ignored me and hopped the neighbor's fence. So I decided to go back to bed and let him freeze to death out there. I figured I would tell the girls that he died of natural causes.

At 7:30am Josh went downstairs and found him at the door, peering hopefully inside.

Hmmph. I think we should have made him stay outside longer.

I didn't get up until 9:30, which means that I slept for 14 hours. That's a long time to sleep. Maybe I'm having a growth spurt?

It's A Christmas MIRACLE!!!

Us love Jebus. Us want to go to church. There are foodz there?

I went to church this morning at 7:30am. Some of you are rolling your eyes and saying "What the fuck?" and some of you are nodding your heads and saying, "She's finally seen the light! Praise the Lord!"

I can't help it. I'm a born-and-bred Catholic and I yearn for churchly goodness at this time of year despite my preference for lazing around on Sunday morning. When I go to church, I find it half embarrassing and weird and half fulfilling. Don't ask me to explain. I got nothing for you.

Anyway, I told Josh last night that I was going to 7:30am Mass and he said, "Do you want me to go with you?"

And I said, "GOD. NO."

Josh likes Mass way too much, in my opinion. I mean, you know, for a Jewish boy. He sings the songs so heartily that it almost seems like he's being sarcastic, but he's not. He just LIKES to sing hymns.  He also says all the responses and kneels and stands and sticks his fingers in the holy water and, and, IT'S JUST WRONG.

Anyway, I set my alarm for the crack of dawn and somehow found the strength to follow through and get up. I drove to the church in Georgetown that I used to go to with my kids sometimes. I like it because it's a Jesuit church and the Jesuits are all radical and shit. I fumbled my way through Mass because it's been, oh, about a year or so since I last went. And I embarrassed myself during the Handshake of Peace because I think I shook too many people's hands. It was awkward.

But THIS was my favorite part: there was a man there with an amiable-looking yellow lab that was wearing a blue service dog vest. Dude. Once I saw that lab sleeping peacefully on the floor by the pew I just couldn't focus on godly matters.  And when the man went up for communion the dog went up, too! It was so cute!!

Now, this man did not appear in any way to be handicapped, but I totally understand that he may have a condition that is not obvious. That's not my point. My point is, I want to put service dog vests on my dogs so I can take them everywhere. If I could take my dogs to church I would totally go every week, I swear. The only problem is that my dogs are just not that well-trained and everybody would know that they weren't really service dogs. Rosie would be jumping up on random people's laps to get attention and April would be freaked out by the organ or something.

Anyways.

Church was fun. I might even do it again next week.

Now go forth and sin no more, you damn heathens.

Rosie Update

I will begin by apologizing to Jane that there are no ribbons on Rosie. I received an outraged text message from her when I published the first round of pictures. "WHERE ARE THE GODDAMNED RIBBONS?" The problem is that the hair on her head is very short and wispy and I can't get the ribbons to stay in. But you better believe that I am going to dress her in a cute sweater when winter comes. (Clearly, I need a baby, despite my advanced age and the "situation" with my female parts. Hee.  "situation". We've got a situation here!)

Rosie has settled in nicely. I think she is starting to understand that she lives here, and that we are her pack now. We had received dire warnings about potential complications with April due to the female/female combination but there are no signs of any problems.  April seems to have accepted her as part of the family, and Rosie is unfailingly submissive and polite. They eat together, go on walks together, and sleep near each other. They both sound the alarm when the Evil UPS Man comes to the door.  (Rosie is surprisingly non-vocal for a terrier, and it was days before we heard any peep at all from her. She has a deep bark for strangers and a funny puppy yap for exciting moments like when the leashes come out of the closet.)

The cats have figured out that she is no threat at all (for God's sake, they almost outweigh her), and they alternate between completely disregarding her, or staring malevolently at her until she starts looking nervous.

Rosie has a couple of health problems. This is not a surprise, considering her background. We don't really know what she's been through, but we know that she was kept in a house with 75 other dogs and suffered from neglect. She has some ongoing skin irritation and...wait for it... CHRONIC DOGGIE DIARRHEA! We haven't yet figured out exactly what the problem is, and the medication has not helped. I've been feeding her a bland diet of rice and boiled hamburger but the stomach problems persist. She goes back to the vet tomorrow for another round of shots so we will see what Doc Trish says about it.

This is a good time to mention that we have not had any serious housebreaking problems to deal with, despite Rosie's upset stomach. She has one teeny tiny bad habit, which is to go down to the bottom of the basement stairs and pee if she thinks she has been left alone in the house, like if Josh is in the bathroom and I am outside talking to a neighbor or something. I presume that this is anxiety. Fortunately, the floor down there is tile so it's an easy cleanup.

We both love her to pieces. You would, too, if you saw the way that she bounds across the yard with joyful purpose when she hears us call her name. That's all that dogs want. They want a name, and someone to call them.

Before I go, a special shout-out to Sasha and her friends, who found an abandoned puppy, 2.8 lbs, 4 weeks old, covered with ticks and infested with worms, in a parking lot on a 95 degree day. They took it to a vet for de-worming and advice. It is too young for shots yet. They are feeding it puppy formula with a bottle, and teaching it to eat solid food. One of the boys thinks he can sucker his parents into adopting it. They are keeping it in the dorm, strictly against rules of course. (Oh shit, Evangeline will be miffed if I don't mention that she and her friends found a kitten last winter, all alone outside in frigid weather, right before a snowstorm, and have successfully raised it in the dorm strictlyagainstrulesofcourse.)

Good job, Sasha, Evangeline, and all your critter-rescuing friends. Your mamas raised you right.