Hate Mail

Dear new black shoes:
I hate you. Before you get all weepy and start asking "why?" let me just finish because I plan on telling you exactly why. There were plenty of shoes that I could have taken home that day. But I saw the way you looked on the display among the others. Your fake croc pattern, 1 inch heel and mary-jane strap caught my eye. I thought you would be a good sensible shoe that wasn't frumpy. So I chose you. After I unpacked you at home, I should have known that there was going to be trouble when I tried to give you a gel insert which you refused to accept...so I left it out. Against my better judgment, I took you on my trip anyway.

By the time I was dropped off at my hotel I would estimate that we took roughly 150 steps all day. My feet were already starting to hurt. I walked the block to my conference location so that I could register. I then crossed the street to eat lunch. It was at that point I had to call in reinforcements. I had to call my husband so that he could locate the nearest drugstore. Sadly, three blocks later I was nearly in tears as I purchased multiple boxes of every foot salve, blister pad that promised relief. By the time I returned to my hotel room (after getting lost from the blinding pain) I was sure my feet were broken in multiple places.

I have spent a fortune in the first aid section of the nearest drugstore multiple times (which is 3 blocks away mind you). I'm missing a Black Crowes concert because of you. I could be listening to songs that take me back to the days immediately after high school spent being consoled by a dear friend after my first breakup listening to Thorn In My Pride. Thankfully I more closely associate the music with that friend than the ex. But I digress. For as much as I was looking forward to hearing one of my favorite bands, the thought of walking the one block to the concert triggered a panic attack. And so instead I sit here in my hotel room with mangled feet watching tv. I most likely will be leaving you here in the hotel when I pack up and leave....because I hate you.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

I finally made a visit to a salon after an 18 month boycott. (Going gray gracefully is total crap.) In order to support my local markets I made an appointment with a local hairdresser. She was only a couple of years older than me which is something new. I figured this out when we discussed the prospect of new hair color and never once did she point to the cherry or grape kool-aid colored hanks of hair on the board. Before I settled into the chair for the long process of all-over hair coloring (my hair is deceivingly voluminous) I made sure I grabbed a stack of the most recent magazines.

Two and a half hours later I walked out of the salon and my head was still swirling with all of the new information that I picked up. It wasn't the latest reality show/celebutante tantrum/political scandal - instead I listened to some of the juiciest gossip and hearsay this side of the Continental Divide that put those magazines to shame. I listened as woman after woman entered the salon sat in the chair behind me and began pouring out blistering stories that make your daily soap operas pale in comparison. No one paid much attention to me listening intently as I sat in the chair, slunk down so the vertically challenged colorist could reach the top of my head.

I didn't really mean to eavesdrop - it just sort of happened on its own. After the second customer started sharing the story of a woman that caught her husband cheating and subsequently poured hot grease on his nether-regions...I couldn't stop myself. My ears perked up as the story ended with "charges of spousal abuse" and "hospitalization with penile debridement every 4 hours". At that moment I knew I had to pay more attention.

I soon learned stories of why a restaurant changed its name ("sounds better, charge more money"), the latest high school student drug scandal, who was losing their home (this went on for a long time because the customer was getting a perm and seemed to be overly aware of the financial health and status of the majority of the town), the political problem that created the aforementioned foreclosure and then the subsequent divorces and spousal cheating that followed.

Every Sunday I feel like I need to scour the local newspaper for the latest happenings and news. I very rarely learn of anything that I haven't already heard about from friends, neighbors or co-workers. Perhaps the journalists of this little paper should spend more time getting their hair done?

The Spotlight

I tried out for the high school dance team my sophomore year. A friend of mine on the dance team agreed to choreograph a try-out routine. She worked tirelessly going over simple dance steps time and time again. I spent hours upon hours in her basement while she patiently waited for me to "get it". My friend was too nice to tell me that I was not getting it. Instead, she drew pictures (!) of the routine for me to study. A few weeks later after waiting in the wings for my turn onstage, I stumbled and stomped my way through what in the hands and feet of a more talented and coordinated person, would have been an impressive performance. Before the second step-ball-change, the flashbacks of a similar humiliation in grade school flooded my brain.

The girls in my fifth grade class were all a part of our cheerleading squad. We would practice our cheers to recite along the sidelines at the boys' basketball games as well as practice a routine to perform at halftime. I clearly remembered coming to practice after a few days of being out sick from school. I was made to perform the halftime routine by myself in front of the entire group to make sure I "got it" since I missed the last two practices. My palms became sweaty and my eyes filled with tears. I remember being filled with shame and embarrassment when I couldn't get it right.

It was clear that I had forgotten that little bout of humiliation in fifth grade and so 5 years later I set off to do it again. It was after that second round of failure and embarrassment that I finally realized that my talents lie elsewhere - somewhere far, far away. I focused my time on athletics; more specifically, running. I enjoyed it because a) I was pretty good at it and b) it was not performed on-stage. While coordination was not my strong suit, I had just enough to play basketball - it seemed only natural considering my height. But running was where I was most comfortable. I made it a point to avoid the spotlight whenever possible - and so my choice of events was no accident because really, who watches the two mile anyway?

One of the local dance studios here performs two recitals each year with its students: one at Christmas and one at the end of the school year and I try to attend them each year. There are numerous televisions show that focus on dancing that get recorded every week so that I don't miss one. A friend of mine is a member of a ballet company that performs, among others, a Nutcracker performance every year that is a joy to watch. I follow these because they are good at it and they are on stage. I sit along the sidelines, enjoying the show and being relieved that I'm only watching.

Slow Your Roll

My birthdays have begun to arrive with ever-increasing frequency. I always wanted them to come quickly - I could hardly age fast enough. I wanted to hurry up and graduate from high school so I could hurry up and graduate college so I could hurry up and get married so I could hurry up and have kids. And yet that's not how it happened.

Some changes in my grand plan were in my hands. (I am much happier with a career in technology than I ever would have been in elementary education.) And others were out of my hands. (When I finally decided that I did indeed want to have children, it was not to be.) And yet I am the person I am today because of those fractures in my lifetime map.

So what lies ahead? I have no idea. I can make choices that can determine it somewhat, but my future is still laid out in front of me in a shroud of mystery. I know it's vastly different than I imagined it 20 years ago. So I have stopped trying to predict it and started to enjoy the ride.

All I ask is that the speed limit be reduced.

Oh Miss Manners, Wherefore Art Thou?

Whatever happened to manners? Was there a cataclysmic event that erased the lessons learned from our mothers and kindergarten teachers? Maybe we just all need a bit of a refresher course? Here is a by-no-means-complete list of 10 basic manners that can be found on any grade school wall:

1. Don't interrupt. I'm speaking therefore you're not. When I'm done speaking you may be able to do so. (Once you've mastered that task, try listening to what I'm saying while I'm speaking instead of building the response to what you could not have possibly just absorbed in any way shape or form because you were too busy formulating said response.) When I say something that fires you up, if the situation allows, please take your time while explaining to me why you disagree. (Please refer to #10 for more explanation.) If the venue is not one where you are able to air your differences, keep your mouth shut.
   
2. Don't call names. Does this require an explanation? *sigh* Why should you not call names? Because it's not nice and could hurt someone's feelings.
   
3. Always greet people properly. Handshake, eye contact, clear speech. Simple enough even for those of us that are socially inept.
   
4. Say "Please" and "Thank you". If someone gives you something, "Thank you". If you want something, "Please". Let's go a step further: Would you say it in front of your mother? If not, go ahead and substitute: fiddlesticks, heck, gosh, dang...you're catching my drift right?
   
5. Clean up after yourself. Case in point: Clean up your water mess all over the bathroom sink so that I don't leave the restroom looking like I should be investing in some Depends.
   
6. Maintain good sportsmanship. Line judges, referees, officials of all sorts are just doing their job to the best of their abilities. It doesn't matter if you are playing in an Open or pretending you are 20 years younger than you really are in your rec league softball games...you play the game. You shake the hands of the opponents after the game. You refrain from yelling at the officials. You refrain from throwing punches at the opposition.
   
7. Take compliments courteously. A thank you will suffice. Avoid protests it only makes you seem disingenuous.
   
8. Entering/exiting manners. Hold the door open for someone entering behind you. Let those people exiting an elevator off first. When you're driving in the car, and people are trying to cross the street/parking lot/wherever...let them go first, especially if the weather is bad.
   
9. Perform proper table manners. Elbows off the table - I still wait for a backhand to knock my elbows off the table 30 years after the first time it happened. I don't know why this is a rule, it just is...so comply. Chew with your mouth shut, don't slurp, don't reach, don't shovel.
   
10. Last but not least: respect differences. Why is this one so difficult? It is the absence of this fundamental manner that leads to many of the lapses in the rest. Just because you disagree with me does not make you right or me wrong. Deal with it.
    

I have had (and continue to have) my fair share of moments defiling this list and I won't go into details (in this post anyway). These are pretty standard rules of etiquette - even my dogs were supposed to learn some of them. Maisie has become very adept at her greeting and entering/exiting manners. Paulie has excellent table manners. Even Indy is more than willing to accept any praise lavished upon him.

In the eternal words of Miss Manners herself: "...if you behave in a way that offends the people you're trying to deal with, they will stop dealing with you...."

*cation

My Vocabulary Lesson:

Staycation: Taking time off of work but not leaving the general vicinity of your home. Activities include: sleeping in, eating too much, surfing the couch and cable channels, maybe the occasional day-trip to towns nearby. Most likely taken for dentist appointments and doctor's appointments. Laptops and/or blackberrys are nearby and the risk to work is high.

Vacation: Taking time off of work and leaving the area. The Out of Office Assistant is turned on to direct all inquiries to someone else for the time being. These breaks are almost always out of the country ("Sorry, no cell service/internet connection/sobriety!") and are always too few and far between. Coming back from these feeling relaxed, recharged and sometimes hungover is a given.

Oblication: Weddings, funerals, births, graduations, milestone birthdays...etc. The key to feeling relaxed after these trips are to set aside at least a small amount of time to do something that is not obligatory: a night out with long-lost friends, meals at your favorite restaurants and naps!

Yes I Am THAT Person

It has taken great acts of self-control to avoid perusing the strollers, the car seats and the cute little holiday-themed footy pajamas at stores. I have moments of weakness where I'll bring home the cutest outfit that I just HAD to buy. After a few moments of contemplation and dirty looks, shame soon overtakes me and I put the outfits in a box at the back of a dark closet.

But this weekend, I crossed the line. The BIG line. I purchased a bike trailer. It has a little sling-type seat with two five-point harnesses. It has a rain guard and mesh windows. Heavy duty velcro strips lock the flap doors in place. It's lightweight and super-cute. It was difficult to maneuver out of my garage at first, but I eventually got the hang of it. With great care I pulled out blanket after blanket to line the trailer. I even put little treats in the pockets on each side so there was no fighting. I packed a veritable picnic for them to consume once we reached our destination. I loaded them up, donned my helmet and pulled out of our cul-de-sac, two little hot dogs in tow.

See? I told you that I was THAT person. I have sometimes carried my dogs around in purses (he was tiny). My house is dominated by the boys to whom I will be serving as long as they are around. I have purchased those goofy Halloween costumes and made the boys wear them. I purchase toy after toy for them to destroy (hubby thinks I should just let them eat money but I don't think it would be nearly as fun as a loofa dog). But this latest foray into the dogs-as-children world of merchandise was a disaster.

The screaming began shortly after I was 50 yards from home; shrill, eardrum splitting shrieks of pure horror. So I pulled over and put my hand inside to pull out a treat that I was saving for the ride home. No dice - in fact I received a nip on the hand in their desperate attempts to flee back home. A few neighbors started coming out of their houses to see what all the commotion was. Embarrassed, I smoothed out the velcro and started pedaling furiously toward my destination.

All along the way, it sounded as if I was toting a traveling tornado siren. They never calmed down and they never let up; I became worried that their incessant digging at the mesh windows would cause a rip that they could escape from. In the half mile trek to the park, we set off every dog along the way into a barking frenzy. My dear hubby, who was biking along with Maisie at a nice leisurely pace, conveniently dropped behind us far enough so that no one knew he was with us. Once I came to a stop...silence. In fact, I could walk the bike along the way and they were fine. But as soon as I started pedaling they went crazy.

I was hopeful that after an hour or so of running around at the park they would be calm on the way back. But they were just as bad on the way home. I pulled into the garage and let them out; I was exhausted. Indy immediately jumped out of the trailer. Paulie jumped out only to jump back in right away. He sniffed around and then laid down. Looking at me with the defiance that I've only seen in dachshunds and a handful of toddlers.

I'm not ready to give up yet. While they've hated every stupid costume I've ever made them wear, they eventually give up and resign themselves to the fact that I will put them in clothes occasionally. I have the same hope for the trailer.

The Newcomer

After the untimely passing of Indigo, our black lab, the average height in our house dropped considerably. Gone were the days of fencing off the kitchen so that our four legged friend would not counter surf for goodies while we were gone. The large bags of dog food started lasting for months instead of weeks. Indigo was a shedder and no matter how often she was brushed, groomed, even vacuumed - our house had a constant layer of 2-3 inch black fur everywhere. It drove me nuts! But soon the fur finally disappeared. And so the baby gates, large bowls, gargantuan leash and lint brushes were packed away deep in the dogs' closet. The vertically-challenged boys eventually came to an agreement that they would share the duties of the King. The transition was tough for them and the agreement was not immediate. Except for the occasional dog fight a serene quiet and cleanliness settled over our house. And I liked it.

But then I forgot. Being dragged along like a rag-doll on the leash, expensive medications, the never-ending fight to keep her off the furniture (and out of my bed!), coming home to find pieces of our fence chewed all to hell as well as our dogs missing, entire meals being pulled off the counters and devoured...yeah, that was all long forgotten. The irritation of having dog fur everywhere was not even a fleeting memory. Thoughts of the constant drooling that only big dogs can manage (gag!) had faded.

I know that my husband likes big dogs and he knows that I do not. Two little 10-pounders was my idea of the perfect set. But when I saw that longing in his eyes as he played with Ruby - my brother's basset/lab mix - the idea was formed and the madness began. It was a compromise: a medium-sized dog. I found her online at a shelter in Kansas. I have to admit, she was pretty darn cute. And so I made the call and arranged a trip to bring her home.

Fast forward to two months later. The volume of fur has broken my vacuum cleaner. (The replacement part won't be in for another week and I already have the shakes.) The boys have finally started to forgive me for bringing Satan's dog into their home. The counters must all be cleared of anything that even remotely could be ingested (she's much taller than I imagined she would be) and all doors shut. She has separation anxiety so badly that her new cage looks like it was dropped from a vehicle at 70 mph. And although her cage sits under the basement stairs in the laundry room, I'm still waiting for the inevitable citation from the men in blue for a noise violation because she barks that loudly. Also it turned out that she was sick - some nasty contagion that could have killed the little ones and she was heartworm positive. She doesn't realize how much bigger she is than the boys - or maybe she does! - because to "play" she runs at them full speed and body checks them so that they roll about 5 feet. Indy set the ground rules very quickly and so she doesn't bother him much. But I think it's hard to take Paulie seriously anyway, so he bears the brunt of most of her "playfulness". (This triggers that mama bear instinct in me and makes me so mad.) The large bags of food now last for 3-4 weeks instead of 3-4 months.

The memories are all rushing back to me now and it's too late. Maisie will be 1 year old in a week and so I'm settling in for the long haul because it was, after all, my stupid idea. My husband is so happy - he spoils that dumb dog like you wouldn't believe. I've thrown my hands up when it comes to her discipline...it's a losing battle. It's also hard to convince him why my rules are different for the boys vs. this 50 pound monstrosity. But they are very different. In fact, I told him, we all need to get used to Paulie and Indy not be classified as dogs anyway. They get up on the furniture, they sleep in my bed, I take them places when I can and I even make them homemade treats on occasion.

I'll admit it - as guilty as I only sometimes feel about it - I'm not a big fan of the new dog. I've come to this conclusion: I'm not a "dog person" like I always thought I was. There are other dogs that I love of course - Charlie my labradoodle nephew, Mason my min pin nephew, Zoe my mini schnauzer niece - but I'm not around them as often as I'd like and that is probably why I still love them dearly. I'm relatively certain that I am just an Indy- and Paulie-person. And that suits me just fine.

Good Times Had By All

I have never been much of a concert-goer. I prefer studio tracks as opposed to the incessant ramblings of drug-addled rock stars that seem to forget their own music halfway through a song and end up singing a completely different song by someone entirely other than themselves. Add a dose of being shoulder to shoulder with drug-addled fans - some of whom clearly sprinted to the concert from six miles away. Directly from their job on a sheep farm. Where they have been pulling a 72 hour shift with no time for a shower. (Yes a-hole at the latest concert I attended, I'm talking to you - grab some Lever 2000 on your way back down the hill.) You can throw in to that mix my ever-advancing age-related grouchiness (I haven't always been this way...so shut up) in general. But there are a few bands that I like enough to endure the messy, grimy, smokey filth of a concert. Last week, one of those bands came to a town near us.

It was pouring down rain on the ride to this latest event. Sheets of rain I tell you and so I stopped at a Target on the way to pick up an umbrella for me and a poncho for the hubby. In those 10 minutes in the store, the rain stopped. (This to me was like all those times where my hair was not cooperating and so I made an appointment for the next day to have it all chopped off and wouldn't you just know it...my hair is straight out of a magazine the day of the cut.) And as soon as we arrived, it was looking like we would have clear skies all night long. Wrong!

The venue at this particular concert is breathtaking to say the least. And I'm not just talking about the view. No, I thought I was going to have to lie down at least three times on the hike up to the entrance. The worst part is that it doesn't look bad. So as we start out, I'm chatting away with our friends, making jokes and talking about our upcoming vacation with them. About a quarter of the way up, I had to stop talking altogether and concentrate on getting my oxygen level back up to at least 90.

The concert started on time (!) and the headlining band was the first on the set! The opening band (can you call them that if they don't actually open?) came out after the first song and so began a night of nearly 4 hours of great music with a ten minute intermission. The band seemed lucid this time (1 out of 3 times now) and it was truly enjoyable.

The rain started again in earnest about 15 minutes into the concert. I started scrambling for the umbrella and threw on a poncho. Soon though I realized that I didn't care about the rain. It was THAT good! So good in fact, we didn't even notice at first when we all became enveloped in a cloud of smoke so thick that it was hard to see that the people directly in front of us were passing a huge joint amongst themselves. And so we stood there rain soaked, watching and listening to one of our very favorite bands on the side of mountain, while the skies poured down on us. It never did stop raining until we left. But oddly enough, none of us cared.

Vindicated

There was a study done that drew a connection between hair color and aversion to dentistry. More specifically, the presence of the MC1R gene is the reason that red-heads have an aversion to dental work. This gene produces melanin, which gives color to skin, hair and eyes: red hair (somewhat check), pale skin (check!), freckles (check!) and blue eyes (check). While I don't have Bozo/Annie/Sideshow Bob colored hair, there is still a lot of red in my hair. I finally feel more than a little vindicated and much less like a big baby.

You see, I have always hated the dentist. I imagine that some of you are nodding your heads in agreement...but let me just stop you right there. I don't just have your average aversion to having your teeth and gums scraped and the so-called "pinch" from the occasional shot of novocaine. The drive to the dentist makes tears spring to my eyes. I start to sweat profusely and my blood pressure goes through the roof. You know those bite-wing x-rays where they put those little plastic things in your mouth to take x-rays of specific teeth? The moderately rough edges that dig into my mouth make me cry. My gag reflex kicks in whenever I smell that same smell from the flouride treatments I would endure as a child. I still clearly remember hanging over a sink, with too-big mouth trays full of poorly flavored flouride gel with some other poor child (typically my sister) at the sink next to me. I would rest my head on the faucet willing the timer to go faster.

It seems that any one of my dentists (and there have been many!) never fully believes me when I explain my higher-than-average anxiety related to dentistry. He pats my shoulder and gives me the same platitudes that he offers to any normal person. I've grown tired of trying to explain to the dentist that I'm not, in fact, a typical patient that is comforted by those inane comments.

It could be that I have just been through more traumatic dental events than the average person. A quick run-down of these events are:

1. My bottom front baby teeth didn't ever come out on their own. The adult teeth that should have pushed them out just grew in behind the baby teeth. I ended up have all four of them pulled. (I was truly horrified to hear that my little niece has just gone through the same thing.)
   
2. I didn't just get braces. I had oral surgery after the spacers were put in so that a hole could be made in the roof of my mouth. A post was attached to a tooth that had embedded itself in my sinus instead of growing downward. For the next two years, that tooth slowly was pulled down and in place by the metal that had taken up residence in my mouth.
3. While the details are still disputed around this event the end result is still the same. I caught the business end of a flying folding chair the day before my braces were put on and shortly after that hole was installed. I lost the lower half of my front tooth which was then embedded in my lower lip. The scar still shows when I'm wearing certain shades of lipstick. The tooth chips on a regular basis and is in constant need of patching. The option for permanent replacement makes my eyes tear up - titanium post screwed into my jaw?...yuck and no thanks.
4. I've had two root canals. The first one I had a single shot of novocaine that didn't help at all. The dentist continued despite my protests. The pain continued for nearly three days after the 2 hour procedure.
   

I have explained these events to my latest dentist - who seemed to genuinely want to hear why I didn't come to the dentist more often. Instead of the usual routine and script, my dentist made the comment that those dentists were sadistic and that he would be different. While I am still skeptical I feel a little more trust than I've ever felt before.

As my next appointment quickly approaches I find thoughts of why I should skip it creeping up in my mind. Thankfully, my husband is aware of the appointment and will make me go anyway.

To Do List

I stare down my list of un-finished, un-published blog posts with the same dismay I have for the pile of books that I need to read (I'd have to locate my glasses first and that's just too much work). I cringe at the sight of the drool and black fur all over the hardwood and tile just long enough to catch a glimpse of three long dogs gleefully zipping around each other barking and carrying on (did we really need three dogs again? Certainly not...totally my bad for even suggesting it). I look longingly at my sewing room with oodles and oodles of projects scattered about (by the time the kids get their "army-", "pirate-" and "princess-" themed quilts, they can give them to their own children).

In disgust, I stare at my piles of dishes (I know that opening the dishwasher right next to the sink is too much so how about throwing me a bone here and running just a smidge of water before it fossilizes?), piles of laundry (the clothes are coming out smelling worse than they did going into the washer so I dare say it's time for a replacement). And while I'm staring down a pile of work that never gets done in a standard 50 hour work week, I try to come up with the justification for being a stay-at-home mom to three dogs. I look forward to that day that Sallie Mae, Bank of America Home Loans and other various creditors no longer have a healthy interest in me maintaining a somewhat lucrative career. While I haven't found a calendar that goes out far enough in which to mark that date yet, I remain hopeful.

While taking stock of all of my unfinished business I have decided to will myself to finish something. Anything. Laundry and dishes didn't make the cut for obvious reasons. I don't think I remember how to quilt anymore. So here I am. I'm back and I'm going to make myself have "nothing better to do" more often.

Pack Wars

We received a call on Wednesday to let us know that Indigo's remains were available for pick up at her vet's office. Her ashes still remain at the vet today and most likely will remain at her vet for a while longer. Although the events of the past week I think are a harsh reminder of just how deeply her absence is felt.

Indy and Paulie lounged around the house all day on Saturday. Never once did they ask to be fed or entertained. They laid in their various beds and blankets, lazing away the entire day. We were both surprised and shocked by their despondent behavior. Not so the next day though - a big change is in the works inside the house pack.

On Sunday evening, we were watching television and the dogs were playing around as usual. They seemed to be back to their normal selves - demanding in sharp, piercing barks to be played with and fed. Indy, as part of his anxious nature, likes to lay on his various beds and put as much of the corner of the bed in his mouth and suck on it like a pacifier. (Strange & gross, I know, but he's just generally very weird.) Paulie wanted Indy to play with him so he walked over to Indy, playfully barking and hopping around. The atmosphere changed as soon as Paulie was right next to Indy. Indy snapped at Paulie and grabbed a mouthful of fur. Paulie, probably shocked that Indy was so irrational, snapped back at Indy's neck And the war was on!!

I jumped up to grab Indy while hubby grabbed Paulie. In the ensuing chaos, Paulie latched onto hubby's arm. At that point, it was just me trying to separate them. Finally I pried them apart. Hubby was left with a menacing looking wound on his arm. It took about 15 minutes to calm them both down. It seemed my hubby was the only one with injuries to speak of. They've done this before - twice in the two years they've lived together. So this was not an extremely shocking event. Usually, Indy has a mouthful of Paulie's fur and Paulie has some flesh wound buried deep in his fur and then they forget about it quickly after.

Fast forward to three days later - they are at it again. This time they are fighting over the possession of a squeaky toy...of which there are two in front of them. After we pry them apart this time, Indy has a hole in his lip and a mouthful of Paulie's fur. We've been diligent about keeping them apart when possible and removing those items that instigate the fights but we're ready for the battle to be over. After twice in one week, it's time for one of them to submit and roll over.

Our Sweet Girl

Indigo was put to sleep tonight. Today was a bad day for her and believe it or not, that helped us. Last night, she was happy as a clam when our friends came over to bid her farewell. Again with the hopping and circling!! The thought of what we had planned for tonight overwhelmed us with guilt. Today though, she was moving slower and had trouble breathing. She didn't even want to eat! She finally relented and ate the pot roast dinner I made for her. (Hey, don't judge me. We loved her THAT much!)

The entire staff at Indigo's primary vet loved her dearly. Indigo was always happy to go there too because she was showered with so much love and attention. They were so sad to see her in her current state. When she saw her, Dr. Robin assured us we were doing the right thing. Knowing how much she loved Indigo, that made us feel better too.

Dr. Robin asked that we bring the two wieners to the appointment. She said that it would help them process their loss. (I saw that. Yes, I saw you raise your eyebrow when I said that. But it's okay - because I did the same thing when I heard it.) The idea was that they knew where she was the last time they saw her, so they wouldn't keep searching the house for her. Paulie was very attached to Indigo. Indy, whether he knows it or not, owed Indigo a debt of gratitude for keeping him company during the years when his separation anxiety was unbearable for him. So we packed them up too.

When we arrived, Dr. Robin explained what would happen and what to expect. They put in an IV and then set her on the couch between us in a soft-lit, calming room that seemed like a living room in someone's grandparents' house. There were no surprises...except at how quickly the second drug worked. She was given a sedative first to calm her and that seemed to do absolutely nothing. Then we gave the go ahead to give her the second drug - the "measured" overdose. She pushed the drug into her IV. Seconds later, Indigo rolled onto her side and was gone. Dr. Robin checked with her stethoscope and confirmed what we saw happen right in front of us.

Paulie sat on the back of the couch above her. He jumped down next to her, poked her with his nose, licked her a few times and then jumped down and was ready to leave. Indy was curious, but just sniffed and then joined Paulie at the door. But nothing can describe seeing the love of your life breakdown when confronted with the absolute loss of his best and closest friend of 11 years.

Three Feet in the Grave

Indigo went into atrial fibrillation recently - her heart pounds relentlessly out of rhythm. She pants incessantly so it used to be hard to feel her heart rate...but now, you can SEE it. I found myself zoning out in a daydream/nightmare about what creature would soon be busting itself through her side like something out of Alien - it was THAT dramatic. We put her on another medication (yes, that's 6 now) to reduce her heart rate. It won't return her to sinus rhythm, but she won't feel like she's just run two marathons in a row at a full on sprint either. We're are now at the point that you never want to be when caring for a sick patient...."keeping them comfortable".

She had her appointment with the cardiologist yesterday and that's when they told hubby about this new problem. I was at work in a meeting so I had to miss the appointment. But I called after my meeting and he was still there. We had two options: 1) more medication or 2) more medication plus putting her under and shocking her heart back into rhythm. This shock treatment is temporary they said, it would most likely happen again. Of course the third, unspeakable option has always been lurking in the background, waiting to attack - euthanasia.

It's hard to explain to those that don't know her Indigo's general disposition. So for those of you that have come to know Marley of Marley and Me (book or movie) - that's our dog, only she's black. She is impervious to pain...oblivious to the impending doom. I left work early to meet hubby at home to discuss our options. On that short drive, I prepared my speech about how we need to put her down because she's not going to ask us to. (I should write down this speech, because I will need him to read it to me someday when the wieners have three short, stubby feet in the grave.)

When I walked in the door I took a deep breath, prepared for the worst. But there she was just spinning around acting like a puppy, absolutely excited to see me for no reason whatsoever. She obviously didn't see my true intentions as I came in the door - carrying a large scythe wearing a black cloak with a hood. I decided against the speech. Really, how could I sit there and lobby for putting her out of her misery as she jumps and spins around like a two year old?

It's going to have to happen in the next couple of days. I don't want her to die alone at home while we're at work from a heart attack, I know that much. But I'm going to feel terrible taking this oblivious, happy dog to the vet only to be put down. *sigh*