Yesterday I got a new doctor.
If you consult your Big Book of June Events, you’ll recall that I have some…trouble with keeping medical professionals. Doctors are my Spinal Tap drummer. Continue reading “Doctor Who?”
Yesterday I got a new doctor.
If you consult your Big Book of June Events, you’ll recall that I have some…trouble with keeping medical professionals. Doctors are my Spinal Tap drummer. Continue reading “Doctor Who?”
I have to get up at a ludicrous hour to get Iris from the emergency vet Monday a.m., as they are an emergency vet clinic and close at, like, 7:30 a.m., so I'm writing this Sunday night. Iris's still not eating, so they wanted to keep her another night in the hopes that she will eat at some point. I went to visit her Sunday afternoon, and even brought over her favorite treats, including a can of Steely Dan's kitten food that she's always coveted, and nothing.
I wish I felt the same way about food. Anyway, look at my kitty girl, all tarted up in a circus towel. Aaaaand under the big top! It's the amazing, apparently delicious Iris! The favorite dining spot of all loose dogs in Greensboro!
Oh, I was so glad to see her. When she couldn't go home Sunday morning, I was really kind of starting to panic. But then I saw her and she totally acted like Iris, mostly. I dragged Ned there for the visit, because at this point he was up in it, and the first thing she did was stumble over (they don't think her pelvis is broken now; rather the soft-tissue injury is what makes her not very walky) and wrap her tail around Ned.
Oh. And hi. If you didn't read this weekend, ya DICK, on Saturday morning Iris was attacked by two damn loose dogs in the neighborhood; they came right to my yard and dragged her out. Two neighbors were driving by and I don't really know what happened after that except I saw them out in my yard and they were attending to Iris and told me what had happened. They almost killed her. The dogs, not my kind neighbors. $2,000 later, it appears she's going to survive. (At first she was afraid, she was petrified.) She's been at the emergency vet place since Saturday morning.
Anyway, when we came to visit, the vet told us to let Iris walk around if she wanted, as walking was actually a thing she hadn't done yet even though they'd tried to get her to. And at first she walked the perimeter of the room several times, growling while she did. I think it hurt. Then after maybe the first 20 minutes, she stopped the Linda Blair growl and just walked. She's all shave-y on the back and you can see where those rotten dogs were chawing on her. Oh, my poor girl.
Also, I wish more people would ask me if the stupid neighbors who let the dogs loose, loose dogs wearing cheap perfume and Candies, are going to pay for all this. Yes, I do know the law. I know it by heart, at this point. Animal Control told me not to approach them, that they would, on Monday, telling them they're responsible for the bill.
In the meantime, I still have to pay for the whole thing when I pick her up Monday, and yes, I will pursue the matter as hard as I can. But be sure to keep sending me emails and texts and IMs and letters and singing telegrams re this. I have never received any telegram ever. Do they still make telegrams?
Here's the inner workings of Iris, in case you were curious. I have a similar x-ray, from the same room, of Talu a year ago. This was the same emergency vet who gave Lu that Certificate of Bravery last year, do you remember that? (Big Book of June Events)
Anyway, I visited her for about an hour, and I think she enjoyed getting pets from old mom, here. I was so glad to see she was still plucky.
After, I headed to the garden store and got an iris plant to give to the nice people who saved Iris's life. Really, had they not pulled over, those dogs would have finished her off and I would currently be a complete mess of a person and this whole post would be me screaming. Anyway, one of you suggested I get them an iris plant, and BRILLIANT so off I went.
I even found a "Double Vision" iris, and when I discovered that was an actual plant, I built the Taj Mahal for myself, so pleased was I.
I'd like to say the other animals are beside themselves with worry, but they aren't. They seem their usual selves.
So that sums up m'weekend. I'd been so excited to go see Sasha the pit, but instead my weekend was the pits thanks to loose pits. Tonight I start my headache study classes, and I've already gotten Ned to commit to coming over to give Iris any meds, if any need to be given, while I'm gone. I know, but I had to do SOMETHING. I committed to 8 weeks for this study, and I committed to not let Iris, you know, DIE, so.
Anyway, I know some of you have given me tips for the care and let's hope feeding of Iris, and I haven't had a chance to thank you yet, but thank you in advance. This whole thing has been a fiasco and I'm glad to have you all.
It just occurred to me there are several birds, voles, mice, squirrels, rats, small children, bunnies and slow old ladies in heaven, high-fiving each other over Iris's current turn of events, aren't there?
It's Tuesday night, as opposed to TOOOOOOOSDAY AFTERNOOON. What is that song?
The songs of my childhood are sad. Why'd I have to grow up in the drug era? Couldn't I have grown up in the nice '20s, when everyone was drinking illegal hootch? Or how about the cheerful '30s, when there was no money so people drank dirt and old buttons or whatever?
Anyway, I'm writing you now because I have to leave early in the morning tomorrow and there JUST ISN'T TIME. I got got got got no time.
So, I didn't tell you about going to the headache clinic and being part of a migraine study, so now I can. I know! Exciting.
A few weeks ago, Jo sent me a link. She said for five long years, she thought I was her man. And she found out, I'm just a link in her chain. It was all very dramatic.
A link to a WEBSITE, see, about taking part in a migraine study. It pays, first of all, so yay, and the point of the study is they're going to give me a specific diet to see if it affects the level of my pain and the number of times I get migraine-y in a month. And they supply two meals and two snacks a day, for four months.
I KNOW, right? I think Ima have to cook, which, ??
So, today I left work early and headed to Chapel Hill, which contains no chapels that I saw and it wasn't that hilly. The whole time I was driving to the place, I was all, Why have I been here before, and then I remembered I had dinner with Marvin in Chapel Hill last year, and I'll bet you anything I made that hilarious joke then, too.
Finally I got to the campus of whatever the hell college is in Chapel Hill, and people around here act like you should just know all this, and there are a hundred million schools here and also hoooo care. So you'll ask someone where they went to school, and they'll be all, "In Boone" and you're all WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN, EVEN?
So I got to the campus and was at a red light, and when the light changed my car stalled. I mean, I took ONE SECOND to turn the car on again and this BUS behind me started BEEPING at me, and I was all giving him the finger and yelling at him when he drove by, fucking asshole bus driver fuckety headed fuck.
I have no idea why I get migraines.
Anyway, after a LABYRINTH of a parking garage sitch and a RIDICULOUS walk to try to find the place, and Dear Campuses: Why do you have to be so dickly about things? Why so hard to find stuff on a campus? HUNH?
I have no idea why I get migraines.
I found the place, and answered 394924923949320 questions about my head, and got my vitals (I have shrunk again, which does not please me seeing as I keep gaining weight, which means I'm turning into a Shrinky Dink) and so forth.
The doctor came in, and I liked him right away. He was one of those dry humor people, and he seemed to find me amusing. I answered 495939249 more questions about my migraines. "Are you sick of hearing about people's migraines?" I asked him.
He paused. "I've been doing this for decades, and no one's ever asked me that," he said. "I guess I'm just used to hearing about them."
He asked me things no one has ever asked me before, like why the light bulb in the grass? Okay, he didn't ask me that, that doesn't even make sense, why would he ask me that? Are you touched in the HEAD? God.
Speaking of which, he also made sure I wasn't touched in the head. He did all kinds of neurological things to me, and he also asked me if I had a significant other.
"I don't," I said. "Do you know anyone nice?"
"Do you think you might be depressed?" he asked me.
Do I think I might be depressed. Some stupid MAN, who I loved to BITS, turned out to be a huge disappointment, and that was only after my whole MARRIAGE failed, and now I'm old and fat and shrinky-dinky, and I own a house I can't afford to keep up, and apparently I have Rosemary's BABY for a puppy, and my beloved Tallulah fell over dead from nowhere and YES. I might be a bit DEPRESSED.
I have no idea why I get migraines.
So, be sure to ask me a million annoying detailed questions about the migraine trial, but in summation, I keep a diary, a headache diary, and then in a few weeks I get my new diet and then
MY LIFE WILL BE TRANSFIGURED
and all will be well.
Dear Headache Diary: I was throbbing to talk to you. It was a real pain I couldn't get to you till now. It made my ass burn.
On the drive home, once I made it through the LABYRINTH that is that campus of wherever the fuck I was, I called my mother to tell her about starting the headache study. "Oh, how'd it go?" asked mom, who didn't really care, but whatever.
"Oh, good. You know I enjoy medical attention," I said.
"Or, really, any attention," said mom. I have no idea why I'm depressed.
While we were talking, I noticed I was driving right past Chris and Lilly's store, which is on this cute two-lane highway that's pretty and all country-ish and way more fun than the highway. That highway only leads to the danger zone. I need to get over that joke.
Anyway, naturally I stopped in, and Chris was just leaving for the day, so we stood and kibitzed for awhile and he promised to fill my yard with mulch, seeing as I can't afford a dang new deck yet but I can at least afford damn mulch. So that's exciting. I can't wait to mulch that over with him. There will be mulch ado about something. I don't know mulch, but I know I love youuuuu.
So now I have to hope I get a migraine so my headache diary is exciting. This will be the first month since I was 20 years old that I will get zero migraines, just wait.
I guess that's all I have to say about that. Oh! But when I was talking to my mother, I told her how I was starving and wondered why there was no fast food on those country roads, and we got into a discussion about which fast food place we'd LEAST stop at, and which would be our first choice.
"I'm not crazy about any of them," my mother said.
"I'd go with Long John Silver's, first and foremost," I announced.
"I'm not crazy about any of them," my mother said.
"Zaxby's would be my last choice." I really mulched over my choices.
"I'm not crazy about any of them," my mother said.
So that's where we stand, and I'm still not clear on my mother's thoughts on fast food, but what about you? What are your first and last fast food choices on the road?
Mulch on over to the comments and tell me.
Laundry, done. Oil change, scheduled. Lawn maintenance guy, phoned. I did everything I said I would last time I was here, except for that pesky work-on-my-book thing. What do you want from me?
The best part of Saturday was when Tallulah and I drove to Winston-Salem together to have her portrait done with the devil camera that stole her soul. She and I took turns driving. Yes, my windshield is cracked. Yes, it costs the same to fix a windshield as it does to get Botox. Why don't you shut the hell up? God.
The photographer was very nice, even when Talu peed on his floor 17 times. "I'm sorry, it's part of the cancer," I told him, and it turns out, you can pull out that cancer card and it works every time. The photographer had any number of techniques for making Lu look at the camera, including squirrel calls and sound effects coming out of his very own lips.
"Wow, is she ever focused on you," he said. "Can you come sit right next to me so she looks this way?"
People have told me that before, that Tallulah follows me around the room with her eyes. I mean, not literally, because that would be creepy. Teensy set of brown eyeballs on legs behind me all the time.
Anyway, one of his techniques was a squeaky tennis ball. "Does she play with balls?" he asked, and I abstained from 7th-grade jokes. But she doesn't, is the thing. Lu plays with stuffed toys and she'll chew the hell out of any animal parts bone you give her, but balls are not her thing. Lu has been a giant lez her whole life, if you ask me. And I'm going to hell for putting her in a pink collar constantly.
He got out the squeaky ball anyway, and guess who effing loved it? Oh my god, she chased that thing, and caught it in the air. She was obsessed. "You'd never know she was sick," said the photographer, and he was right. At that moment, she was perfect. I think she forgot everything hurt.
When we got to the car, the guy was running across the parking lot after us. "This one is brand new," he said, giving Lu a squeaky tennis ball.
We brought it home, and guess.who.is.obsessed.with.squeaky.tennis.ball.oh.my.god.
His whole life, he's never been a fetch kind of a dog. Now he is. Lu never played with it, even once, because Mr. Tennis, Alfred Dog Tennyson, was up in it all night. Tennis Hopper. Lucille Ball.
You catch my drift. Now I wonder what sorts of other things Tallulah never gets to enjoy because of Edsel. Like quiet. She never gets to enjoy quiet.
Speaking of quiet, my neighbor Peg came over, and actually she is a mercifully quiet neighbor. She was at the antique store this weekend and saw these blue midcentury modern wine glasses, so she got them for me. Wasn't that nice? When I packed to move back here, I was what you'd call distraught, and I packed badly. I brought only one wine glass with me. Last time Peg was over, I served her in a Mason jar, not that I was standing in a Mason jar, and I think her designer self was appalled.
So, yay. New/old wineglasses. I like everything new/old. I guess I even date midcentury modern men. Damn.
Tallulah once again forgot that she abhors Peg, and was all up in her grille the same way Lily always is for anyone who stops by. "Yessss, she likes being petted, doesn't she?" Peg cooed at Tallulah, also forgetting what Lu is usually like. There were times in the past where I actually worried that Lu might just up and bite Peg, and I've never felt that way at any other time. Now it's like all is forgiven. Whatever unforgivable transgression Peg committed back when Lu was a puppy is now water under the bridge. So. Let's all take a page from Lu's book today.
God help us, everyone.
It snowed again, which is very exciting for us here. My work is delayed a crummy hour. Given how much sliding down my street I did last night, I thought maybe they'd close the whole thing down. But no. I hope this weather won't interfere with all my day-after-Valentine's-Day flowers I am to get at work. My Presidents Day flowers. Because I'm a capitol gal.
A lot of this weekend involved watching old movies while trying to avoid my statistics textbook, and feeding Talu whatever she wanted. She's been on this pill for a few days that's supposed to shrink or at least slow her tumor, and she seems to be feeling much better. She even harrrrrred yesterday. That's this thing she does where she buries her snout in the carpet or bed and snurfs around and eventually falls down and rolls and says, "Harrrrr, HARRRRRRR." She's always done it and I have no idea what it's about, other than happy.
Remember when I called that pet psychic the other day? She emailed me to ask if she'd sent me the CD of our session. "No," I wrote back, "but I also haven't paid you. I'm so sorry." I told her about Talu and how I'm forgetting everything other than staring at my dog. "Oh, my god, don't even worry about paying me," she wrote. "Let me talk to Tallulah."
Later, she sent me an email. She said she told Tallulah that her tumor was inoperable, but I would make her comfortable and that a nice woman was coming over to peacefully let her go when it's time. (That same poor soul who used to come make house calls for Francis.)
Then she told me that Tallulah said thank you for telling her what's going on, and for making sure we have more time together. That she will be appreciative when the woman comes to the house to end her pain. She said to tell me she has loved our time together, "You've given me so much" and that she will always be my Tallulah. "I trust you with all of me," Tallulah allegedly said.
OH MY GOD. So that was a sobfest. Despite Lexapro.
Really, I feel like if Tallulah could talk, it would mostly be about food. But what do I know? I see her being food-driven like Ned. "Do mom remember that grouper Lu had in May of 2013?"
People have sent Lu treats, and tons of emails, and my coworker Slutty Pancakes gave me this Talu picture. Everyone feels bad about dead dogs. That's just how it is. Dogs are so much more appealing than us, I guess, even the bite-y ones.
Lily, sittin' on my statistics. Because cats don't give a SHIT what you're doing or when your deadline is.
I did take my statistics and my ass downtown Saturday afternoon, and did my work at the bookstore, where they have coffee and some food. I got (and I hate to sound like Tallulah and Ned) an absolutely delicious ham and cheddar sandwich on focca–foca-foocaa–flat bread. The side was grape tomatoes with olive oil and basil, which I put ON the sandwich and holy mother of Christ.
I sat in the window, not that I'm a bird or a mannequin. They have little tables in the window. I wasn't there 10 minutes before I saw someone I know, and had to converse, but after that I spent three hours in peace, doing my work. There was an unlovely couple there, clearly on a first date, and they seemed to be having a good time. They were similarly unlovely, but as I watched surreptitiously from my table, they both got lovelier because they both seemed to be getting happier as the date went better and better. It was really very sweet, although if you ask me, it wouldn't have killed the woman to have put on something cuter and to knock it off with all the talk about her kid.
Said the person who spent 89 paragraphs on her dog.
Other than proofreading statistics and staring at the dog and watching old movies, my weekend culminated in going to my friend The Other Copy Editor's house to attend her Valentine's Day dinner party last night. Before I got there, I headed to the inconvenience store on my corner, which never has anything except they do have Kendall Jackson Chardonnay, which is good. I don't know if anyone remembers Valentine's Day 2012 in your Big Book of June Events, but Ned and I had just met, had had maybe three dates, when he was felled by illness right before V-Day. I remember he sent me an e-card, and later told me he was in bed that whole day, and the only time he got out was to send me that card and fall back into bed.
Anyway, it was just me and me that V-Day, so I went to the inconvenience store for a romantic dinner with my good friends Kendall and Jackson and maybe some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. There was Harry, the guy who was always my guy at the inconvenience store. He called himself Harry, but his real name was something like AbuDabuGaneshapur or something.
Was that racist?
"Oh, June, are you alone on Valentine's Day?" he asked me.
"Well, sort of. See I've just started seeing–"
"Oh, I am alone, too, Miss June. I am so lonely," he told me. "Why don't I bring a bottle of wine to your house after work? We spend this day together."
And that is how I ended up pulling my car as far up the driveway as possible, to try to hide my YELLOW FREAKING BUG from Harry in case he went looking for me after his lonely shift.
The point is, Harry wasn't there last night, although I was kind of hoping he would be, to bookend that event. Instead it was a kind of hot girl of color who was funny, but that's neither here nor there.
The inconvenience store was out of Kendall Jackson, clean out, so I had to get some shitty Chardonnay and head to TOCE's house. It was just starting to snow when I got to her street.
But it was so cozy at her house.
I love how the Baby Boomers are having a conversation and the Millennials are looking at their phones. Hello, stereotypes.
I don't know how I managed to get myself in focus and everyone else is a soft blur, but it kind of sums up all my relationships. The food at that party was so good that it was the kind of thing where you just want to be alone with it and stroke your plate lovingly. I'd have gotten up for fourths if I could have. Holy crap.
I was there for two hours and it managed to snow like a banshee in those two hours. Then I had to slide home terrifyingly (yes, I HAVE forgotten I grew up in Michigan) and had to clomp through this tundra in high-heeled boots to take out my trash and Peg's trash, forgetting that today is Presidents Day and fuck.
I know you wish I'd talk more but now I have to go to work. Happy Presidents Day. In honor of it, I'm Lincoln to my latest Purple Clover. In which I talk about naked teenage boys of color. So. Hope you think my article is da O-bam-a.
Don't Washington your hands of me. I'll Fillmore of your needs tomorrow. And I'll be Nixon this kind of talk. It's Tru, Man.
It occurred to me that maybe Tallulah and my vet are in cahoots on the world's most anticipated April Fool's joke. Wouldn't that be great? Dicks.
Last night I was proofreading my riveting statistics textbook, as I do, once the deadline is hopelessly near, and started taking selfies of Talu and me. Groupies. Petpees.
Anyway, after Tallulah threatened to join the cancer-y Witness Protection Program for dogs, the Bitness Protection Program, I let her be and assaulted the other animals. Because no one's more attentive to her statistics textbook.
Have you seen the "I'm not kidding, Maddi" thing? Some woman got a shrill email from Hilary Clinton, which isn't like her, saying, "I'm not kidding, Maddi, send me a dollar."
So, Maddi put this on Twitter or whatever the young folk do, and people started making memes.
That's it. I'm dead.
Speaking of dead, Tallulah seems to be doing well on her Piroxicam. That's what they give dogs with bladder cancer, to slow the growth of the tumor. They tested 69 dogs, and two had complete remission. Say, odds. Anyway, dogs on Piroxicam live about 195 days on it. Who's done too much Googling, do you think?
It's an NSAID, too, so it helps her with pain.
A faithful reader's dog, Pepper, sent Lu a stuffed toy. Any time we're somewhere you can pick out your own toy: the lobby at dog daycare, PetSmart, other people's houses, Lu selects a stuffed toy. When she was a puppy, she took an Airdale's stuffed hippo, and the woman whose dog it was said, "Oh, let her have it."
When she took it, that thing was bigger than her head, but she carried it out in her puppy teeth anyway. Here she is, above, at my mother's cottage, with Blue Hippo. And some ribbon she probably swallowed that's likely still wrapped around an intestine. She wasn't even one yet, Lu wasn't.
Anyway, she loves her new stuffed toy. She's been carrying it all over yonder.
I'd better go. I have to go to work, where I'm currently working on something having to do with luxury brands such as Tiffany, and I have to look at jewels from Tiffany and realize it's Valentine's Day and I got no man in sight, for the first time since 1996. This year, I feel like I might send myself something lovely from Tiffany with all my money, and maybe a big romantic plate of nachos.
In fact, I'm sorry to tell you that on Tiffany's website, in case you didn't know, they have a place you can send someone a "hint" from Tiffany. You can put the person's email address in, and then they ask for that person's name, so that they send a lovely animated post card type thing. Dear [insert name here]: June Gardens saw this and loved it. Just a little hint from Tiffany. That sort of thing.
I may have sent a few out to Dear "Buy Me Jewelry, Bitch."
"You sent me the flower ring twice," Ned wrote me back.
"That's God saying buy me two of them. Bitch." I wrote. I see nothing untoward about someone you broke up with five months ago buying you Tiffany jewelry. For the good times. All two of them. One ring for each good time.
I'm not kidding, Maddi.
If I'd have known having a sick dog would get me THIS much attention, I'd have offed her years ago. Look how her tail's still going, even though I know she's waiting for her pain pill to kick in right now. Oh, my girl.
Please don't be offended if I don't answer your email to me, or your instant message on Facebook: At this point, I'd be spending my whole workday answering messages of goodwill for Tallulah, which is a not bad problem to have. There has also been little advice, which is also nice of you, thank you.
I heard from the vet again yesterday, who is now calling herself "Allison" instead of Dr. Insert Name Here, which always struck me as an odd name anyway. I feel like there was a screwup at Ellis Island that her family is continuing to ignore. She'd consulted with an oncologist, because she's a total hypochondriac, and I am hilarious in times of trouble. When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary gets annoyed with me.
Anyway, none of it was what you'd call encouraging news, but I have a new prescription to pick up for Talu at a human pharmacy, not that I'm getting on top of a person and getting pills out of his mouth or anything. It's a fancy kind of pharmacy, called a confounded pharmacy or something, so I guess Yosemite Sam owns it. So I look forward to getting drugs for my varmint there.
Yosemite Sam and Foghorn Leghorn were kind of the same person. Except one of them was a chicken or whatever. But sort of obstinate and full of themselves. Did they ever meet? I feel like Yosemite Sam would have taken one look at Foghorn Leghorn and had himself some delicious wings in no time. Which, as my mother would say, is real rude.
Oh my god, do not let me forget to tell you about my mother and her friend rescuing three starving dogs from a park. I have no time today to go into it, but trust me. And they were literally rescued. Would you like to know what I'm sick of? Everyone's self-congratulatory, "He's a rescue."
He's a rescue. Did you pull him out of a burning building? Look. The only place I want people getting their pets is from a shelter, or perhaps stolen off the side of a road. You bought a dog? That's a bad thing. But can't we just say, oh, maybe, I got him from a shelter? He's a shelter dog? He's a rescue. It annoys. And I'm sure I've said it, myself. It's one of those things where I'm my regular hateful self and all of a sudden it annoyed the shit out of me one day and that was it. It's up there with "I never watch TV." Oh, shut up. Fucking pseudo-intellectual. You never watch TV because you're watching nine hours a day of porn.
I just finished a brownie, because nutrients, and crumpled up the paper towel on which said brownie was resting, and as I kvetched to you, the paper towel scooted out of my sight. Iris was hiding behind the computer and is now the proud owner of a paper towel.
Iris was a rescue.
In other news, the Alexes got me a Scarlett O'Hara cupcake yesterday. There's this ludicrously good cupcake shop here, as I guess there is everywhere now, and they saw this and knew I had to have it. There's a Rhett Butler cupcake, too, and it has bourbon in it. Guess who may meander to the cupcake store after her trip to the confounded pharmacy?
It has the radish Scarlett barfed up, right in the center. And yes, that's glitter. Yesterday I ate glitter. Which should be a part of everyone's balanced diet.
Another of the Alexes came over last night and brought me wine and body scrub, and she doesn't even LIKE dogs. Tallulah took a big shine to her, however. Must have been the whole aloof club thing.
Speaking of aloof, I see the Needy Committee has commenced its morning meeting, and that I have so much blush on it's like I've got Lasa Fever, so I should be off to work.
XO, June. Who needs to be rescued.
Throughout this whole Tallulah-being-sick ordeal, she's been licking her girl parts like a champ. Everyone in my family has had hilarious jokes about this, and I'd like to take this moment to thank my family for being a big pack of dicks.
I called the vet's office this weekend, knowing they were closed, and what's sad is I know their phone number, their hours, and my vet's day off. "Hey, it's June," I intoned. "Is there a cream or something we can give Tallulah? She's been licking her little dog vagina constantly, and today I finally looked at it and it's really raw. Thanks."
One thing that doesn't come up all the time is the phrase "little dog vagina." And I'm sure Lu is pleased I'm bringing hers up to all 10 of you. CUNextTuesday, indeed.
My close personal friend and now blood sister, the vet, called yesterday. "Hey, can you just drop her off? We'll take a look." And that is how I spent my lunch hour chauffeuring my dog and her vagina to the vet, as you do. They said it might be a yeast infection, and I've told that dog a hundred times to not wear her pantyhose with no underwear.
I was getting ready to go into a meeting when my phone rang. I love it when people say "go into a meeting" like it's a trance or a fit.
And right then, I knew. The vet's voice was unlike any other of our 114 conversations and 114 million dollars in the last month.
She told me that they very quickly found an "abnormality" on Tallulah's urethra, in an unusual place, and it was, indeed, cancer. Inoperable cancer. All those blood tests and ultrasounds and consulting with the devil and all we needed to do was check her undercarriage.
"I am so sorry, honey," the vet said, and that is when I cried. Right at my desk. In the open floor plan. I covered my stupid face and cried for my girl. Goddammit, Tallulah. Why'd you have to be so sweet, and so aloof, and so stoic, and so interesting? Why'd you have to be the coolest dog you could ever pluck off the side of a road?
"I'm ordering her some drugs from the compounding pharmacy," the vet/my wife at this point told me. "They'll reduce her pain and her inflammation."
She also told me that catheterizing a female dog is one of their biggest challenges, and catheterizing a dog with a big angry tumor on her urethra is even harder. And they could tell it made my Lu uncomfortable, but she wagged her tail bravely through the whole thing. She had to get a tech to hold Lu's tail still, so she could finish. "We were so proud of her," the vet told me. "She's such a sweet girl."
I remember one time, when I was running, I'd take one dog a day to run with me, because taking both would have tripped me 60 times apiece. It was always a very big deal to my dogs who got picked, and the other would protest and flop onto the floor and stomp their paws. Singin' songs and carryin' signs. Mostly say hooray for our times.
One day, it was Tallulah's turn, and I'd run less than a block before I noticed she was running on three legs. She'd hurt her paw somehow, and was all, "nope. lu gud. she perfictlee fine. let go!" She was just gonna muddle through.
And that's what she does. She muddles through, uncomplaining, when it hurts. But I know it hurts. I asked the vet if it were her dog, would she put her dog to sleep right now, and she said no. I also asked if it felt like a UTI or a kidney stone, did she think. She said probably more like a UTI, but who wants a UTI for a month and a half?
I couldn't wait to get out of work, pay the nine hundred million dollars, and get my girl. I just wanted to hug her big neck, which of course she kind of hates because she's my dog. I took her straight to a Happy Meal, which worked for Lu just fine. None of that girly "I'm watching my figure" bullshit from that pit. That regal Beagle.
On the drive home, I told her once again how finding her on the side of that road was the best thing that ever happened. She is so over that story.
I apologized for any asshole things I ever did to her. I remember losing patience with her puppy self, and how upset she'd get when Ned and I fought. I told her she'd always be my Lu and I thanked her for all she's done for me. I always feel safe in this house with Lu at the helm. And remember that time she kicked that attacky dog's ass for us?
She listened, sitting side saddle on the car seat because her little dog vagina hurts. I gave her some pain pills when we got home, and she slept in front of me while I sat on the couch last night, talking to Marvin on the phone.
"Part of having a dog is knowing when it's time to let them go," he said, and when did Marvin get so mature? He asked how everything else was going, and I told him how I tried dating, but I'm still in love and having trouble moving on.
"You gotta get over me," Marvin said. "I've moved on."
So, okay, he's not so mature. Thank god. I don't need everything changing at once.
Oh, Lu. Houndy-smelling Lu. I'm going to be lost without her.
Say, guess who I won't leave alone?
Good lord, I hate my nose. Can we please take up a collection to get that thing fixed? I'd be doing you all a favor, because you wouldn't have to look at the huge dick on the middle of my face. Do you, if you're a girl, ever imagine what it'd be like to have a man part? Do you imagine that if you had a man part, it'd be just huge, and you'd slap people in the face with it just because you could?
Or is that just me?
Also, I just got an email from Capital One saying they're sending me a new card because there was a data breach at "one" of the places I recently shopped. All my cards are at ZERO POINT ZERO right now, I am pleased to say, but the other day I was in a huge hurry–where was I going? Oh! I know! I was going to Charlie's party, and of course my "you're out of gas!" light beeped on on my way there. Do other people, like, see that they're at a quarter of a tank or whatever and fill the car proactively? Because I always ignore it completely till it beeps at me and then I'm always in Tibet, or that desert they wander in in Star Wars or whatever. It's always a race against time to find a gas station.
I pulled over in Kernersville, and if you've never gotten the family on a plane and taken them all to Kernersville, you are absolutely right to not do so.
Kernersville. We feature a BP right off the highway!
For the second time, and I really should, oh, call my bank, when I tried to use my debit card at the pump, it said, Oh no you don't. You do NOT use me at the pump. It nodded its head around dramatically. I went inside and tried to get the cashier to help me, and I felt like the cashier kind of liked me, and do you know anyone else who's more full of herself than me? I act like I still look 22, with a hot mullet perm.
He couldn't get my debit card to work, either, so I finally used my credit card and just paid it off when I got home. Because I'm obsessed with keeping everything ZERO POINT ZERO.
So THAT is the only place I've used my card, and Kernersville. Where the BP tries to steal your identity. Yay!
Why would anyone want to be me?
I guess that's all I have to tell you. I started my statistics textbook last night, and this is the 6th edition of this particular book, so I've read it probably four times already. And as I recall, it goes pretty fast. Oh, and that's good, because MY EDITOR wrote me last night to ask why I'm not coming to LA. He emailed a bunch of us to say he needed some of the writers to come there for this project, and I didn't answer because that's a long damn way and dogs, but he really does want me to come there, so LA, here I come! I have no idea when yet. Soon-ish?
I haven't been to LA since I lived in LA. I remember it being really early in the morning, and Marvin and me getting in the car, giving our vacuum cleaner to the guy next door, who called himself Robert but whose name was not remotely Robert. He was Laotian? Maybe? And I guess his actual name would have been hard to say or something. Anyway, the neighbors on both sides came out to wave to us as we pulled out of Burbank. I guess I thought we'd pretty much come back every year, like we did Michigan, and we never went back again. Marvin was finally there last year, and took sort of a haunting photo of him at dinner with our closest friends, at the restaurant we always went to, and sort of the only thing missing was, well, me. It was weird.
Okay, I gotta go. I've got fiery eyes and dreams no one can steal.
Every morning, and at noon, and then again at night, I am giving Tallulah a cacophony of pills in order to make her well. And along with that, I am of course worried sick about her, and the whole thing has me in a muddle, like the Good Witch. "I'm a little muddled." The Good Witch was so goddamn boring, but I did love her pink dress.
A few days ago, along with Tallulah's Munchausen's by Proxy pills, I also had to de-flea everyone. I know it's winter, but Edsel's been scratching, and he's not allowed to have anything wrong with him other than a flea. He just isn't. I got out the dog flea meds and the cat flea meds, took the vials all out of their boxes, and laid them on the counter. Then I got distracted pilling Lu and didn't de-flea everyone till later.
That night when I got home from work, Iris had big chunks of fur out her side. "Did you and Lily have a fight?" I asked her, pulling fur right off her. The thought flitted though my mind, just flitted. Geez, I hope I didn't put dog flea meds on her. But I figured it was all the same, right? Maybe she'd lose a little fur and that'd be that.
Then yesterday I came home for lunch, thank GOD, because I wanted to check on Talu, who's in good spirits but still has to work really hard to pee. I was outside with Lu when Iris came out the screen door. She was shaking everywhere and walking like she was drunk.
It was awful.
"IRIS!" I yelled, swooping her up. Her whole little cat body was shaking. I didn't even get the cat carrier. I just took her like that right to the emergency vet, WHICH WAS CLOSED, so then we had to go to my real vet, further away. The whole time she was on my lap, both purring and shaking.
When Iris was a kitten at the shelter, she was the kind of kitten who purred when you picked her up, and right then I knew. I didn't care if she had eyeballs, I just cared that she'd be a cool purry cat. And she always has been. I love all my pets, put I have always sincerely liked Iris. She just has a lot of pluck, and bravery, and never feels sorry for herself and her lack of eye-ness-ness.
I was thinking all that when I ran into the vet's office. "It's you again!" one of the nincompoop young receptionists said. There's another receptionist, an older lady with a tight perm, who saw the shaking head in my arms. "We have an emergency!" she called on the microphone. When they took shaking Iris away from me, I worried I'd never see her alive again.
I went back to work because they said they'd have to observe her all afternoon. They bathed the flea meds off her, and gave her some drugs, and I sat at my desk like a crazy person. If I killed Iris, I'd never be the same. I'd never forgive myself.
The vet called, and asked me to be godmother to her children, so close are we at this point, and alerted me that Iris had responded nicely to the drugs and she would be okay. Oh my GOD, I was so relieved. I'd been shaking just like someone had put flea meds on ME. I slept with just Iris last night, a thing that annoyed Talu, who is malingering with that pesky possible-cancer thing she's trying to pull right now, but I wanted Iris to be able to get right next to me without dogs intimidating her.
In the morning, I let everyone in, and Iris was back to her plucky self. Jesus Christ. So consider this a public service announcement. I know those damn packages of flea medicine look alike, but be really careful not to mix them up. They are NOT the same chemicals and it can kill your cat. Lucky for Iris, she still has several lives left in her.
The good news is, I got to spend more money at the vet, so.