I am really feeling SO much better. It's funny how you don't realize exactly how fond you are of oxygen---and the partaking of it with unencumbered lungs!---until that part of your life is a bit hampered. It's been a long time since my asthma got aggravated like that, and I'd forgotten that the so-tired-and-achy feeling I was having often signals an inability to breathe. So. Definitely enjoying taking deep breaths, again, and trying to finish recovering from this stupid cold/allergy thing. HOWEVER. Oh, steroids. How you eat into the gunk in my lungs! And then on into my brain! I'm sure...
So today I was still sick, and like a responsible human who has been threatened by her husband if she doesn't call the damn doctor already I called my doctor and went in to chat with her about this little problem where it's become difficult to breathe, lately. To her credit, my doctor was a little alarmed about that. As I sat there and bemoaned the fact that I have really been working really hard on getting fit this year, I've lost weight and started exercising regularly and STILL I seem to get sick all the time... she looked at her computer and looked at me and helpfully offered, "You...
Let's get this out of the way right up front: I'm a sap. I'm aware; no need to point it out. I choose to believe that awareness of my penchant for treating the dog like a toddler mitigates whatever degree of crazy comes along with that. Ahem. Don't bother telling me it's not true. So. Tomorrow we celebrate one year since Licorice came to live with us. Chickadee has informed us that tomorrow is our Doggiversary, but that today---her 365th day with our family---is Day of the Dog. It seemed wrong to explain to her that EVERY day is Day of the Dog, 'round here, and Licorice is our household's...
As Monkey and I walked to school this morning, and then as Licorice and I continued on without him, I mused on what must go through the dog's head on these walks. It took her about two days to figure out that once Otto and Chickadee leave, that means A WALK IS IMMINENT. The resultant excitement means that I get to experience the joy of getting dressed, brushing my teeth, and finding my sneakers all while the whining, wagging, spaztastically excited dog tries to trip me. Sometimes my favorite part of the day is when we're ready to go and I hold up the leash and tell her I'm not putting it on...
The remainder of my birthday yesterday was very nice; in the true party spirit, I took some Nyquil and fell asleep on the couch before 9:00. Wooooo! Do I know how to live on the edge or WHAT? Too bad Otto felt the need to give me his cold as a pre-birthday gift. (But guilt is a handy thing, because to make it up to me he gave me a spa certificate for my actual birthday. As soon as I stop leaking snot everywhere, it's massage time, baybee.) You'd think that today everything would be back to normal, but NO, because today is Licorice's birthday! Well, sort of. The truth is that no one knows...
Hey, how was your weekend? Do anything exciting? Mine? Oh, yeah. Mine was great. You know, just doing the regular weekend stuff. Sleeping in. Buying groceries. Poisoning the dog. The usual. What? Oh, haha. Yeah, kidding. Of course I'm kidding! I would never poison the dog! I mean, not on purpose, or anything. It was an accident. Well, yes, I did actually do the same thing once before. I just thought it wouldn't happen again. I mean... I just... LOOK, LICORICE IS OVER IT, WHY AREN'T YOU? Sheesh! Everyone's a critic! I'm telling you, it was an ACCIDENT, and I'm perfectly capable of marinating...
90% of the time that I'm here in the house, the dog is in the same room with me. She's my furry little shadow, and although I periodically complain about it ("Um, hello? Could you not bodyslam the bathroom door while I'm in here peeing, DOG?"), I have to say that it is quite ego-boosting to be so loved, even if it's by a neurotic creature with a brain the size of an egg. Now that Otto and I no longer share an office, though, during the summer---when he's home more, and often working in his office upstairs---she sometimes forgoes sleeping on the floor of my office to trot upstairs and sleep...
We have already discussed the fact that Licorice appears to suffer from PTSD (Post Traumatic Suitcase Disorder), wherein the very sight of packing sends her into a neurotic tizzy. So it was no surprise when the whirlwind of pack-up-the-camper activity on Saturday found her alternately pacing the house and hiding under furniture. That was to be expected. What was slightly less expected was when we finally strapped her crate into the truck and took off on Sunday... and she proceeded to cry and whine for the entire first hour. In desperation, we stopped and walked her a bit---maybe she just had...
Love thy neighbor. Love thy neighbor. LOVE THY NEIGHBOR, DAMMIT, is what I keep chanting over and over to myself. Even though my neighbors have not only single-handedly infested our block with feral cats, they're the reason we spent more money than I can talk about without crying on a big guns extermination because our "rats" turned out to be feral kittens. And now, now, my darlings, I chant LOVE THY NEIGHBOR to a steady beat in my head, because now, the CAT CRAP TRIFECTA is complete: Licorice has fleas. Even though she's on a flea preventive. And they're cat fleas, OF COURSE, courtesy of...
