I know I have told you that it's been wintry here; I know I've told you 700 times, which once again means I am stampeding toward becoming my grandparents, as they were obsessed with noting the weather, a thing that always bothered me. They lived in MICHIGAN, a place where weather is always happening, so it seemed to me like after a while you'd get over the part where, hey! Now it's snowing a lot! And would you look here! It's hot as blazes now. And sorta muggy.
But they never did get over it and it always kind of grated and now here I am telling all of you about my weather and it won't be too long before I start keeping my potato chips in air-tight containers instead of just their original bags. And then serving said chips in a bowl with a napkin.
Since it has been snowy here–did I mention it?–apparently this has had a negative impact on the condition of my dog's paw, which it took me a while to notice, actually, and I feel kind of bad. My dog is usually .0005 millimeters from me all of the time, and I've been so busy that I failed to take note of her lack of hovering as she usually does, like an aura or Gazoo from the Flintstones.
But notice I finally did, and I found her sort of dolefully splayed on the couch, lick lick licking her left-front paw. We had the following exchange.
Me [because I am quick]: Talu, is something wrong with your piddy?
Me: Let me see, baby.
Why do I always want to see? My whole life I have had pets and never once have I ever seen ANYTHING when I try to see. What is it I expect to find? Half a stake sticking out of them? A fang? I never find anything till the dang thing abscesses or I spend $11,000 at the vet and lo and behold the vet points it right out.
Returning to our dramatic scene:
Me: Let me see, baby.
Tallulah: Yank. Licklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklicklick.
They never trust you to look at it. Even though you feed them and shelter them and they sleep in your ding-dang BED, all of a sudden you are gonna dip their injured area in a vat of bubbling alcohol or something.
I wrote about poor Tallulah's sad paw on her Facebook status, because yes, my dog has a Facebook page, and I am as annoyed by myself as you are with me. Tallulah Gardens' Facebook friend Rita emailed me with a remedy.
"Have you tried meat tenderizer?" she asked. I don't know why I didn't think of this obvious solution myself. "Meat tenderizer and Campho-Phenique," she told me. Who is she, Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies? With her medicines? She told me to make a paste out of the meat tenderizer, and that the Campho-Phenique would make Lu not licklicklicklicklick any more.
Naturally I listened to this advice, because clearly I believe anything anyone tells me. Did you know Bill Gates really wants to give you his money? So Tallulah and I got in the car and headed to the grocery store, because yes, I am also one of those people who takes her dog on all her errands. I also change the lyrics of all the songs on the radio to be about her.
We are family! I got my Tallulah with me!
Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for Lu.
Perhaps you wonder what horrific radio station I listen to.
And here is my problem. I chat up the grocery store workers. And guess who I got this from? My grandfather. When I was a kid I'd be mortified. He'd chat up the grocery store workers, but it was charming and lovely. Somehow when I do it, I just seem insane. Mostly it's the Peter Frampton hair, and also I am kind of nervous and hand-gesture-y, and also I never know when to shut up.
So I go to the pharmacy section first. "Hi. I'm looking for Campho-Phenique. I don't really know what that is."
"You'll find it over by the lip balms, ma'am."
"Oh, over here? …Here it is. Thanks, and by the way, I don't have a cold sore. This is for my dog. She doesn't have a cold sore either. I mean, she's not been making out with anyone. It's for her foot, so she doesn't make out with her foot…"
I want youuuuu, to show me the Campho-Phenique.
Did I mention we were having a giant wind storm yesterday, so not only did I have Peter Frampton hair, I had HUGE Peter Frampton hair? The pharmacy tech kind of nervously looked at her bottles.
I went over to the meat tenderizer section but soon realized I had no idea what a "meat tenderizer section" would really be, or really what a meat tenderizer even was. Wasn't that some sort of mallet? Did Rita want me to beat my dog's foot with a mallet? Then spread Campho-Phenique on it? What sort of sick f*** was Rita? I went to the meat counter.
I recognized the woman back there, as we had had a deep talk on Christmas Eve when I bought salmon. I had asked if she had to work Christmas day and she didn't, which she had been grateful for because she had a son. She seemed glad to see my hair and then several minutes later, me. "Where would I find meat tenderizer?"
She came right out to show me. "It's for my dog," I told her.
"I'm not going to eat my dog," I explained. "It's for her foot. I'm not going to eat that, either. I'm making a paste. See, I have this blog…"
By the time I explained about Rita and Tallulah's Facebook page and the Campho-Phenique and the cold sore and the making out, that poor meat lady could not get back to her salmon steaks fast enough.
And Tallulah wasn't much happier with me when I put that paste on her, by the way. Although she has abstained from the licklicklicklicklicking.
And we frenched a few times so she seems a bit happier.