We flew to Miami today; tomorrow we'll board the cruise ship, and I predict Chickadee will be hurled overboard by Wednesday at the latest. (Um, did I mention she's on her second course of Prednisone? Hell hath no fury like an itchy tween on steroids. Mercy.) Last night Otto and I were up until midnight, doing the things one does the night before a big trip (no, not THAT): Packing, trying to finish up last bits of work, cleaning the kitchen, and whatever else seemed important at the time. Licorice leapt onto our bed and curled up on Otto's pillow, worriedly watching him as he finished packing...
Sometimes I wonder if Licorice feels like she has a pretty good life with us, or if she lies awake at night planning to kill us in our sleep. I mean, I think we're providing her more or less a puppy nirvana, but what do I know? I'm just a stupid human. And at around twelve pounds, that makes her brain... what... maybe the size of a ping pong ball, if that? It's hard to know what's going on in there. For example: The mystery animal under the house. Otto went under there and sealed up the access points, but whatever it is got back in again the next day, so now we're waiting for the Unwanted...
I'm really starting to feel bad for Licorice. Look; it's not her fault that three of us are on Prednisone. Otto and I are barely sleeping, though at the same time we're too tired to be coherent, and as a result we're perhaps not giving her the quality time she deserves. Chickadee isn't quite as irritable as I remember her being from the steroids in the past, and of course her sudden appetite increase is working out well for the dog, so I guess that's good. ("Can I have an apple? Can I have another apple? Can I give the dog a piece of this apple?") And the fact that Monkey woke up this...
My mystery Weird Back Pain got much worse and then it got better---I think that chiropractors are trained to make it happen that way, because if they just instantly cured you, you might feel like their job was too easy. No, first they work on you and you spend the rest of the day wondering if it might just be easier to lay down and die, and then you wake up the next morning going, "Huh. I think I feel better." Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I am definitely FOR the "I think I feel better" part. (In this particular case I suspect the chiro merely scared my injury into submission. She said...
Most dogs will go completely berserk for meat, and while Licorice is perfectly happy to eat that meat out of your hand (or off your plate, or the floor, or whatever), her very favorite thing appears to be fruit. You cannot sit down with an apple or a banana without her pouncing on top of you and sitting there with pleading, velvet-painting-esque sad eyes that speak of years of sorrow and starvation. And a few days ago when I was scooping a cantaloupe in the kitchen I thought she was going to stroke out with all of the prancing she was doing to get my attention. ("Hey! Down here! See me? Me,...
I am sick. Lord, I am SO SO SICK, the kind of sick that has me looking back at last weekend when I got back from traveling and thought I was sick and going "THAT WAS NOTHING." I can't believe I even complained about the little sore throat and general malaise I was experiencing, then, because this weekend the germs staged a sequel, something that ends in "THIS TIME, IT'S PERSONAL" or "SNOTSTORM OF THE DAMNED" or somesuch. I don't know. Otto, of course, was away this weekend ("of course" because when do I ever get sick when there's actually either nothing to do or someone around to help?...
Chickadee is taking Licorice through the same training class I did with her when we first brought her home. This is good for Licorice (more training) and good for Chickadee (more responsibility) but slightly inconvenient for me and Otto (have to take her to a two-hour class every week) and downright annoying for Monkey (with Chickadee now asserting dominance over the dog, Monkey is the last low puppy on the pack totem pole). Nevertheless, on the whole we think it's a good thing. Licorice is a completely different dog than the one we met all those months ago; she seems to enjoy class, now,...
I know, I know; I completely missed Love Thursday this week. In my defense, I spent most of yesterday trying to figure out how the heck I sprained my ankle doing nothing. (What can I say? I'm unbelievably klutzy fragile talented.) You can read about that and my general hatred of everything fitness related this week over in my weekly post at Five Full Plates, but here is the summary: WAH WAH WAH THIS SUCKS. You're welcome. One spot of good news, though, is that Dr. Fancypants came through and supposedly a contact lens prescription has been faxed to our local place for Chickadee. Is it true? I...
Me: So now that I'm putting this stuff in her water, have you noticed a difference in the Death Breath? I mean, do you think it's working? I think maybe it is. Him: Well, I think now it's more like Terminally Ill Breath than Death Breath. That's an improvement, right?
