Everything sucks

I thought about not writing about this here, because it's just so depressing. But I have to. (How's that for a winning lede?)

Wednesday morning last week, I went to wake the dogs up and let them out, and right away knew something was wrong. Rio (of turd fairy fame) had moved a few steps from the bed the three dogs share, and was lying on the floor on his side, whimpering quietly. His front legs were quivering. When I moved to the door and called the dogs, as I do every morning, he pushed up on his front legs into a sit and looked at me.

"Rio, come on buddy," I said. He tried to push forward, but that was it. His eyes were wide. He tried to shove forward, but his bum stayed put.

Now, I've lived with Rio for a year. Roomie's had him for six. He's a little bit of a drama queen. A hurty paw, a tiny sliver in the pad, could leave him three-legged. A subtle breeze could elicit a squealing plead for mercy.

But this was no drama queen moment. He was paralyzed from mid-waist down.

Over the next couple of days, the vet tried a few of the less expensive diagnostic and treatment options. But the prognosis wasn't good. There was little hope for recovery. He was going to be paralyzed. He was going to be incontinent. And his personality wasn't going to change; he would still be an anxious little guy. The kind of dog who, at the slightest bit of stress, would lick his paws raw.

And now, as he pissed all over the pee-pee pads we'd tucked underneath him, shitting medication and stress-induced diarrhea all over himself and his bedding, it bothered him. He fretted. He tried reaching his back side, tried licking himself clean. He buried his head in his paws when we were cleaning him.

You see where this is going. We decided to put him down. It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever been a part of -- and I won't even begin to imagine or explain what it was like for Roomie.

Now for the part where I piss off the cat people: Dogs are a bigger deal than cats. Sure, cats are companions, and they're sweet, and they can be affectionate, and I can really see why some people are "cat people." I mean, dogs are a pain in the ass. Hooboy don't I know it. Dogs smell. Dogs can be a liability. They make it hard to go away, even for a weekend. They kill people sometimes. But cats aren't dogs. Dogs have soul -- and I don't mean they have something crafted by god that other animals don't have, I'm staying away from the whole god argument. I mean they have the kind of soul James Brown talks about. Dogs totally look at you and see you, all Avatar-style, whereas cats look at you and you might as well be a lamp. Perhaps your cat looks at you and sees a lamp that gives good belly rubs or a lamp that puts food in his bowl, but you're still a fucking lamp.

The last morning we had Rio, we took him to McDonalds and bought him an egg McMuffin. We took him to the park and pet his velvet toffee ears. And we stayed with him until the end. If you've never put an animal down, you can probably imagine what it's like, and how much it sucks. I thought I could imagine how awful it would be before I had to go through it on Friday. But here's the thing: It's so much worse.

The day we put him down, I went to the going-away party of one of my best friends, who's moving to Utah (Utah, for chrissakes). The next morning, my Roomie left for most of the next month for work. Oh and the gee dee tire store called and won't put my summer tires on because they're bald and 'we have a nice tire we can put you in for $6,000 and why don't you also bend over for us lady.'

I think I'm going to write a country song. I'll start with something about how I haven't been sleeping right. How at first, I can't get to sleep, then, in the morning, I want to stay in bed all day. I'll also write about filling up two bowls with breakfast instead of three, and about Margaux pacing the back yard with too much energy, looking for someone who wants to play.

And now, with apologies, here are some pictures of Rio. He was even cuter in person.

Signs from god that I should not get up at 5:30 a.m. to work out

I actually dragged my ass out of bed this morning to go to the gym, thanks, in part, to a phone call from the S-Sadie. As back-up, I also had my own alarm and Roommie's alarm set to go off. I warmed up my car (it's STILL snowing here) got dressed, grabbed my iPod and an Aleve and went to the kitchen to grab some water. Right in front of the sink, I took a step and my gym shoe went flying out in front of me and I nearly fell against the counter and broke my neck (Saying I nearly "broke my neck" and admitting that I start out the day with Aleve makes me feel super old. Maybe I should change that to "I nearly broke my hip," because old people are all about breaking their hips). I caught myself and looked down to see what I'd slipped on. It was a giant dog turd.

Oh, and best part? We're out of paper towels.

Thing is, Roommie and I both walked through the kitchen on the way to bed last night. No turd. The dogs came with us and lay (Lie? Laid? Unno.) down on their own beds. I went to brush my teeth and shut the door after me. In the morning, all three dogs were on their beds.

Turd fairy?

Eventually we pieced it together. I got up to pee at about 2:30, at which point Rio must have scurried out, quickly shat on the kitchen floor, then scurried back into the bedroom, unheard. He was the only dog who woke up in a different spot than he started. And he totally looked guilty this morning.

Like this:



I've decided to rename him Turd Fairy.

Also, between this morning's workout, yesterday's power yoga class (Which was pretty damn hard, by the way. I know yoga, even power yoga, doesn't probably sound hard, but side plank is basically an ancient Sanskrit torture pose. Wait, Sanskrit's a language, not a culture, right? I dunno. Point is, side plank sucks.) and Sunday's cross country ski, I'm real real sore today. And for no good reason, most of the pain's located in my left buttcheek. I have no idea why, but if anyone would like to offer free ass-massage services, let me know.

Hard days for A-holes

Three days ago, Margaux bit one of Roommie's friends.

Now, when it happens, it's never a real bite. She doesn't bite down, she doesn't chomp. It's more like a ferocious lunging action with teeth bared, so teeth come into contact with skin. After, you could see two marks on his hand; broken skin where she'd gotten him.

Granted, he did lean over her in a vulnerable spot. She was snoozing in bed, and the next thing she knew, a man she barely knew (a man with a beard, no less) was leaning over her, hands coming at her (in reality, he was going to pet Rio). I mean, jeez. If I were dozing off, and got woken up by a giant with a beard, I'd probably lunge at him, too.

Then, last night, she lunged at another friend (bearded, and wearing a hat) who came into the room and surprised her. Immediately afterward, she dropped her ears and cowered. She knew it was wrong.

So today, when I wanted to take her to get her vaccines updated, I was nervous about the vet staff. I took two anti-doggie-anxiety pills I'd gotten from a friend, and fed them to Margaux in a half of a hot dog.

Two hours later, she was three sheets to the wind. Red-eyed, dry mouthed, and dizzy. It was kind of cute, but pretty pathetic. She had a good sideways stagger that I recognized from a few of my own experiences, and her back legs kept nearly giving out. I probably should have just given her one of the pills, rather than two.

When some friends came over this evening, we let her out of her room and instructed her to lie down on her bed. When she stood up and walked toward a man she has only met a few times, I told her to go back to her bed, and he said, "No, it's all right." I should have said, "No, it's not." But I didn't. Roommie's always trying to get me to trust her more, so I watched as he pet her. Just as he was talking about how cute she is, and asking what kind of dog she is, she went for him. He was wearing a hat.

Later, as I punished her -- she had to sit with an upturned bowl and watch and smell while the other two dogs ate their dinners -- I felt awful. She looked so sad with her red-rimmed eyes. She wants to be good, I know. And in fairness, she was drunk, and that wasn't her fault.

But it's strange. I used to think it was so simple. If you have a dog that bites, you put it down. But that was before I met Margaux.

Eff.

Clocked

Today was a lovely day, sun-shiny bluebird winter kind of a day. After a wicked yoga session (I sweat a grim face into my tank top, a damp: -_- under the sports bra. Not sure what could be more attractive) we loaded up the three dogs and headed out to Roommate's work's base camp.

It's a lovely plot of acrerage out in the country. You drive past llama farms, a few ranches with horses standing around looking bored, and all the while the Cascades on the horizon show off for you, until you hit gravel. There, Roommate opened up the back door to the car (apparently this is their routine when going out to base, I was new to the routine) and let the three beasts scurry out. Then we hit the gas while they ran behind us, Mama Kaya at a slow trot until she was a quarter mile behind us, Mister Rio jack-rabbiting up the middle, and my Margaux at a full on sprint beside the driver's window. I did not know a head that big could move that fast, but we got that bitch up to 30 MPH. Seriously.

After some ball throwing on the lawn, we headed down to the river and chucked the ball into the water for awhile, until their poor little butts were clenched and their back legs shivered so hard they refused to jump into the water anymore. On the way back out on the gravel (with Mama safely tuckered in the back seat), Margaux only got up to 26. When we finally let her in the car, I told her how disappointed we were with her. Only 26 miles per hour? Weak. In this family, we're winners.

So, that's her base. Next, we figure out mine.