No Such Thing as a Bedtime Routine

I was chatting with one of the kids on Facebook tonight, and told them I needed to put the puppy away, so I'd be right back.  Here's what happened afterward:


Picked up puppy.  Started down stairs and realized she had put the water bowl on the stairs.  Picked up water bowl to avoid a fall on the stairs, and put it on the counter.  Went in and turned on dryer to warm up the hubby's Browns' blanket before I took it up to him.  Put puppy away.  Realized Mickey had followed me downstairs and is now staring sadly at me by the door, wanting to go out.  Let Mickey out.  Went to kitchen, filled water bowl and put it on the floor.  Mickey was now barking hysterically to get in.  Let Mickey in.  Grabbed blanket from dryer.  Start up the stairs, but Mickey stops to get a drink.  Call him to come upstairs.  I get upstairs, only to realize that Bandit is pounding on Seth's bedroom door, which is closed.  Let Bandit out of bedroom and he runs downstairs, wanting to go out to the garage.  Go back downstairs and let him outside.  Go back upstairs.  Realize I forgot to get hubby's evening meds.  Go downstairs and get meds and refill his Mason jar of water.  Go back upstairs and realize that I never too my evening meds.  Go downstairs and take said meds.  Come upstairs and climb onto bed, only to realize that now Facebook has frozen, so the "I'll be right back" is truly a lie now.


Try to reboot computer.  Go and brush teeth whilst it is rebooting.  Come back, only to find that it still hasn't even shut down.  Shut it down manually, while thinking that maybe my hard drive is dying.  Don't really care, because there are several broken keys on the keyboard, so it's a lotta work to type on it.  Restart computer and decided I'd better go pee while it's booting up.  Go pee.  Climb on bed, only to realize that Mickey had apparently followed me downstairs and he is now scratching at the bedroom door.  Let dog in.  Settle into bed with all my comfy pillows.  Mickey comes around to my side of the bed, wanting up.  Pull him up on to the bed.  Open Facebook.


Kid has signed off.

Retribution.

In my last post, I said I would say how karma came around and bit me.  I actually said "tomorrow."  Well, it's the day after the day after the day after the day after tomorrow (or so), so I guess I'm technially still posting "tomorrow."

The hubby is healing quite nicely.  I actually went in to Walmart with him the other day, as we had the need for more Bandaids.  He was out of his camo Bandaids, so I went hunting and bought what I thought were camo.  Turned out there were some kind of shark instead -- I know it's a military symbol, but he thinks they are too kiddie and won't use them.  Maybe if I'd gotten Transformers ones.........oh well, good thing I bought some plain ones for me because yeah.  Retribution.

A perfect storm of bad decisions turned into a Med Check visit for me, the day after Jim's mandolin accident.  Thomas had been giving me some guff because "geez Mom, DAD has seen my new house, and YOU haven't."  Doesn't matter how old they are, they still can play the guilt card.  Well, I've been dealinig with a bum knee, and have been laying low (actuallly had surgery on it today, but that's a different story -- I'm fine), so yes, It took me two weeks to get to his new house.  I told him that I'd be over on Tuesday, but he was tired, so I suggested Wednesday instead.

I got up and went to PT (pinched nerve in my neck.  Geez, I'm falling apart.) and decided to head over to SoBro to his house.  I realized that Thomas' roommate had some mail back at my house, so I turned back and went and got it. Mickey let it be known that his Mama was not being nice in leaving him behind.  I mean, who can resist this face?

I caved, and he rode along with me.  I mean, he goes everywhere with me, but given Thomas' dog Penny's feelings about Mickey, which are reciprocated in triplicate, I figured I would let him ride along, but he'd have to stay in the car while I visited.  Mickey, not knowing whose house we were at, bailed out of the car when we arrived, so I just let him come.  I knocked on the door.  It wasn't latched, so it opened a little bit, and suddenly Mickey was nose to nose with Penny.  She was not amused, and not only blocked the door, but growled.  A lot.  Thomas grabbed her, and Mickey and I went in.  Mickey jumped on the couch, and Penny came over to see what was what.

They got nose to nose.  Penny growled.  Mickey growled.  Suddenly, it was on like Donkey Kong.  I'm not sure if I grabbed him to get him on my lap, or if Mickey was trying to get onto my lap, but I ended up with my arms wrapped around him, trying to push Penny away, because they were both going nuts.  Remember all those times you told your kids not to try to break up a dog fight?  Well, I remember, and despite my warnings to the kids since they were born, I did it anyway, and Penny sunk her teeth into my forearm.  As in, DEEPLY sunk her teeth into my forearm.

Thomas finally was able to wrestle Penny away and was able to hear me say "she bit me.  I need a paper towel."  I'd actually said it several times, but no one had understood that it wasn't a small bite -- it was a deep, ugly one.  Thomas threw Penny into the scary basement and grabbed some paper towels.  It didn't hurt, so I got the grand tour of the house whilst holding pressure.  Yeah, it was gaping enough that I knew it would need stitches.  Thomas would alternately open the basement door and tell Penny how bad she was, then ask me if he needed to drive me to get it looked at.  Heck no.  I drove myself to the hospital when I was in labor -- twice.  I drove myself to the ER with a broken arm, in the midst of an asthma attack.  A little blood isn't that big of a deal.  I told him the real bummer was that I had planned to take him to lunch, but that now he probably didn't want to go, what with my bloody arm and all.

Say free food to Thomas, and everything changes.  He's not particularly worried about wounds, though he was pretty unhappy about Penny, as he told her multiple times "you bit my Mama.  NO ONE hurts my mama."  He's had stitches himself, so he knew it's not that big of a deal.  He said if I was truly ok to wait, he'd go to lunch with me.  I wanted to go with him, because he felt so bad that I needed to make sure he understood that it wasn't the dogs' fault before I left.  It was 100% my fault.  He dug out his first aid kit, we covered it up, and had a really nice lunch at O'Charleys before I headed off to Medcheck, where I found out that they preferred to leave it open instead of stitching, to help prevent infection.  They couldn't even give me a tetanus shot because I'm immunosuppressed, so they gave me a script for antibiotics and had me go home after filling out an Animal Bite form for the health department.  I made sure that it said on that form that I was DUMB and that it was all MY fault.  Can't blame dogs for being dogs, ya know.  It was just bad decisions from me from beginning to end.

So here we are, Jim missing a chunka thumb, and me with a mooshy, gushy wound on my arm ,and now ice packs on the incision on my knee.  In short, we are a hot mess here.  Moral to the story:  before one gives one's spouse a hard time about not following safety procedures, make sure that you follow the safety rules too.

The Best Dog

Today is a sad day in the house of Utter Chaos. Our beloved Timmy has left us to go to his final resting place. There was never a better dog on this earth than my Timmy.

Timmy came to us as a puppy. I still remember the first time we saw him, curled up next to his mom (a Springer Spaniel). He was tiny, very quiet, and sweet. He had been named named him Poochie, but that name didn't stick. I have to admit, I thought naming him Timmy was weird, but we got him for the kids, and Jill named him Timothy -- Timmy for short. He didn't stay tiny for long, and his heart was as big as the rest of him.

Timmy had a penchant for food, and for running. He once chewed the entire lining out of my church coat, just to get to the one Hershey kiss contained therein. It was not unusual for him to help himself to any kind of food lying around, whether it was a steak, a cake, or his favorite -- chocolate. It didn't take me long to figure out the dosage of Pepto Bismol for a dog his age. We used it frequently.

Timmy ran away more times than I could count, but it wasn't to get away. It was to socialize. He would go flying out of the yard and be gone before you could catch him, only to come wandering back 10 or 12 hours later. At that point, he would flop down in front of the fireplace (he was allergic to our carpet) and sleep for several hours. I never knew what he did on those days off, but he sure seemed to enjoy himself.

One time, Timmy took off, and it was several hours before anyone realized he was gone. (This is a busy house and we simply missed it.) That night, he didn't come back, and I was worried sick. Next morning, we got a call from someone who said they had him. We got to their house, only to be told that yes, they had him, but he had taken off that morning. And oh, by the way, "he is the best dog." Yes, he was. The next day, the exact same thing happened -- he had wandered up to someone, they called, and he was gone before we arrived to get him. "And oh, by the way, he is the best dog!" Yes, he was. This went on for four days, till he finally was nabbed and taken, of all things, to our vet. Fortunately they recognized him, called us, and we got him back. After that, he got microchipped.

Twice he escaped and was taken to the Humane Society. The first time, we called to see if by chance he was there, figuring there was no way, because he hadn't been gone much more than an hour, and the Humane Society is 45 minutes away. They told us that they didn't think he was there, but we were welcome to come and look to verify this. We walked into the Found pets area where most people never go, and a caucophony of dog barking hit us like a wave. Somehow, in all that noise, Jill said she heard Timmy. I thought she was crazy, but I should've known better. I followed her as she quickly went through the rooms and straight to Timmy, who stood there wagging his tail like we had just gotten home. How Jill did that, I will never know.

Another time, I took the kids to Michigan while Dan stayed behind, working on a job at our church that required the BIG ladders. I was freaked out when he would call and tell me how high up he was, and what the view was like, so I just left town till he was done. I'm not sure how it happened, but Timmy got loose. I'm not even sure that Dan realized he was loose until he came trotting up to him at the church, wagging his tail like he hadn't seen him in days. I have no idea how Timmy was able to do that, because he had to walk about a mile, crossing two VERY busystreets in the process, but nothing was going to keep him from his family -- even if there was only one of us in town.

Timmy travelled well, so he went to St. Louis, Florida, and on several camping trips with us. He loved to ride with his nose out the window, and he loved being outside. It wasn't uncommon for him to lay in the front yard while I worked in my flower garden, only to stand up and stare whenever anyone walked by. He didn't usually approach them, but he did want them to know he was there.

As the years went on, he slowed down some, but what 14 year old dog doesn't? He could still chase a squirrel with the best of them, though. He was as deaf as a post in recent months, but would still come to the kitchen when the other dogs were getting treats. He was active and happy, hanging with his buddy Boo. Then suddenly last night, he took a turn for the worse, and the only real option was to put him to sleep, or he would linger in pain until the end. None of us wanted that. All four of us sat with him for a long time, stroking his fur while he slept on his blanket. They had sedated him just enough to relax him, and I was concerned that I wouldn't get to say a proper goodbye, but just before the final injection, he lifted his head and looked right at me. He was very drowsy, but he knew, and I know that he was saying goodbye. We all sobbed as he left us, knowing that there will never be another dog like him.

I will miss him terribly. There is a hole in my heart the size of a German Shepherd-Springer Spaniel, and nothing will ever fill it. But I do know that Timmy was the best dog, that he had a happy life, and that he was loved. And isn't that what it's all about?

RIP Timmy Utter. I love you.

Man's best friend

Boo, our 7 year old mutt on Prozac, loves to eviscerate stuffed animals. Jill used to buy him toys at the DAV, just to let him gut them. He did, within minutes of them entering the house, and leaving the living room looking like a big cloud, with stuffing all over the place. He then carries the floppy carcass all over the house, and plays tug-o-war with anyone who will join in. Jill can even get him to play hide and seek with it. It's hilarious.

He hasn't gotten to do it much since The Brat left for school, but he has a new habit: pulling the batting out of my quilt. I have a quilt, not old, that is getting rather shredded from me bundling up in it. It's not a huge deal. Although I love that quilt, it was bought for cheap at Sears, and has now been relegated to covering the man-cave couch, in a desperate attempt to keep the dog hair at bay. Well, Boo has decided that it is his personal mission to remove the batting from inside every square inch of it with his teeth. It's quite something to watch, and he keeps at it, despite our admonitions to leave the darned thing alone.

So Thomas was over the other day, to watch football with Dan. Dan wasn't home yet, so the Heir to the Throne was sitting in the King's chair. Weird noises were coming from the couch, and we looked over to see Boo chewing on a piece of batting that he had stuck in his mouth. "What are you doing," said The Heir. Boo just looked at him and kept trying to get the stuff loose. It wasn't looking good. It was, as a matter of fact, looking more like he might barf on the couch, cause he just could not get it loose. "Not going too good for you, is it, Boo," said Thomas. Boo sat up and stuck his head near Thomas, with a look that said "I'm not too sure about this, dude." Thomas started laughing.

It was at that moment that Boo, formerly so terrified of him that he'd pee on the floor if Thomas even looked at him, gave him the ultimate gift: he dropped the whole slimy mess on Thomas' shirt. I swear he looked proud when he laid back down.

A lesson in driving

Thomas likes to say I have road rage. I like to say that I like to discuss with people the different ways that they can enhance their driving experience. Like using turn signals, and not cutting me off, and driving at least the speed limit. I talk to people. With my windows up. Sometimes rather loudly, but it's not rage. Most days.

So yesterday, I had to take Boo to the vet. I don't think I mentioned it, but Butthead went out and got himself run over a couple of weeks ago. This was not so much a followup to his "come to the light, no don't, cause it's headlights" experience as it was a followup to his being put on Prozac (for reasons yet to be explained here, but trust me, he needed it). He had to have some labwork done to make sure that the Prozac wasn't destroying his liver, so I got him in the car and took off to the vet. We switched vets recently to Broad Ripple Animal Clinic, mainly because they are amazing. The only problem is that they are about a half hour away in traffic, and Boo doesn't always like being in the car.

He was doing pretty well this time. He was actually doing better than me, because I drove the first fifteen minutes or so at speeds that meant I never was able to shift out of second gear. Good heavens. And let's just say that my fellow drivers were not listening to my suggestions on how to enhance their driving experience. ::sigh:: So I was about halfway there, taking a route where I knew there was construction, and I suddenly came to an abrupt stop. With seven minutes left to make a fifteen minute trip. I was not happy. We were sitting in gridlock, so I called the vet to see if they'd even see him if we were late. YAY! They would. Those people are amazing, I tell you.

I wasn't any happier sitting there, though, and the more I sat there, the more unhappy I got, because Boo was getting upset. Honestly, I'm not sure if he was upset more about the ride, or lack thereof, or if he was upset because I was upset, but he was definitely getting fidgety. Next thing you know, I heard that fateful noise. The one that says something's gonna erupt, and it ain't a volcano in Iceland. Damn! And his window was up -- the Yarus doesn't have power windows, so I couldn't shove his head out. I grabbed his head just in time to keep him from barfing all over his (cloth) seat.

He vomited straight into my purse.

Maybe it was God's vengeance on my driving lessons to those around me. Maybe Boo just didn't like the Black Eyed Peas song on the radio (ironically, "I Gotta Feeling"). Maybe he was just flat out carsick from all the shifting or lack thereof, but he did look pretty remorseful as I stared down at the mess that was now my handbag. I couldn't stop, because we were still in the construction, and we were late, so I just kept driving. This is where being a nurse comes in handy, cause we nurses aren't grossed out as easily as other people, but man, this was my purse! Grossed out, no, but pissy, yes.

So we get to the vet and I had to try to figure out how the heck I was gonna pay for this visit if everything is covered in vomit. So I'm trying to find my wallet, which is buried in the purse, so I'm trying to rifle through it without covering myself in bodily fluids, meantime hoping that he hasn't covered my wallet in it too. Then I realized that I didn't have my debit card, so I had to go searching for the right checkbook, because I had three in my purse, and then see if it was actually dry. As I'm doing this, some lady pulls up a couple of spaces down, and was fighting with her HUGE and very CRAZY dog, trying to get him outta the car. So now I was fighting not only the vomitacious purse, but also Boo, who is trying to jump out of the car because he's all anxious about the car ride, the vomit, and now Marmaduke next to us. ::sigh::

I had to stand outside with him for a while before I could take him in because Marmaduke was lunging wildly at the front desk, almost jerking this lady to the ground, and by the time we got to the scales, I was having a meltdown. Fortunately, the people at the vet clinic are WONDERFUL, and I was able to regroup. Boo, on the other hand, was happy as a clam the whole time, was pronounced healthy, and off we went home.

I dropped him off and went to Target and bought this purse (shown above), in orange. With a blue wallet, in honor of Dan's Broncos addiction. And the red leather purse full 'o vomit? It got trashed.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Jillie Scorned

Disclaimer: I know what my parents will say when they read this.

Last week, Dan and I were messing about in the yard. He of the paintbrush was doing as painters do, and I was just hanging out. Had the Big Butt dog out there, and the Whirling Dervish as well. Just a nice relaxing evening. On a Tuesday. (Make note of day.)

Dan decided that he would go up front and bring back the trashcans, since trash day was long gone. The Whirling Dervish followed him and, since that monster only listens to male voices, he wouldn't come back to the back. I warned Dan to send him to the back yard, and Dan assured me he would keep an eye on him, and he was fine. And yeah, he should've been, because he only listens to men. No joke. I can talk till my heart's content, and he won't budge till he hears a male voice, even if it's a block away.

Three hours later, I was vacuuming in the living room, and suddenly realized that I wasn't being chased by that squirrely puppy. Asked Dan where he was, and got the typical mumble from a husband who's not really 100% invested in the conversation. I asked him again, with The Tone, and he suddenly looked at me with a look that told the whole story. He hadn't let him in. We had no idea where he was. It was just starting to get dark, so we got in the car and went out looking for him, figuring maybe he'd be running in circles around someone who was out walking their dog. There were TONS of people out walking that night. Walking is the key word here, because there was no dog tripping them by running in frantic orbs around them.

We looked at each other with a "you tell Jill look." Nobody really wanted to say a thing, cause she was upstairs doing her teenaged angst thing in her room. So, I waited till she came down the Pattern Central, and casually mentioned that "oh, by the way, you realize we have no idea where Rocky is, right?" Unhappiness reigned, then sadness when the reality hit that he was likely gone. We went out looking for him every day since -- except Thursday, when Jill left for school, and we got to spend several hours in the car with her, much of which was spent listening to Taylor Swift (that's a whole different story).

Jill swore, before she left, that she could hear him barking from far away. I believe her, because there was one time -- yes, the parents were here -- when Timmy got loose and ended up at the Humane Society. Jill walked in that back room and I swear, she recognized his bark in the caucophone of 100 dogs, and walked straight up to him with no guide to take her there. She HEARD Rocky now, as well. I have to admit, I did too. Not all the time, but sometimes. On Sunday, Seth and I jumped in the car and drove around, because I not only heard him, but when I yelled him name, he barked back to me. Of course, we didn't find him, but we did give some guy a startle when we slowed down and stared at him as he was walking his older-version-of-Rocky dog. I finally got out and told him I really wasn't a stalker, and explained what had happened.

And then, on Monday afternoon, Animal Control called Jill and said they had Rocky. Well, I'll be double dipped. So, of course, it was up to me to go get him when I got off work, so I walked into the pound and announced that I was there to get Jill's dog. The woman who shall henceforth be called Hater Bitch (HB), immediately told me that I couldn't get him, because she would have to pick him up herself. The other saintly woman, henceforth known as Terri, cause that's her name, said that "her daughter is only 17, so we can do it." Me being me, and being honest, cause I'm a preacher's kid, I said "no, she's 18, but she's 3 1/2 hours away at college."

Well then it was on like Donkey Kong. HB recognized her opening and said nope, she's going to have to fax us her ID AND a letter saying blah blah blah blah blah, to which I responded, you know, I can tell you ANYTHING about this dog. No matter, HB wanted ID and a letter, blah blah blah. So I informed her that I was gonna call Jill and SHE could tell her the whole thing, and why she wouldn't let me have her dog. "I see no reason why I should talk to her," says HB, to which I responded "You don't live with a teenaged girl. I'm not taking the blame here, and YOU can listen to what she has to say about all of this." And so it was that I handed her the phone and let Jill get her instructions. When she handed the phone back, Jill was pretty frantic because, beind new on campus, she didn't know where a fax machine was. I reminded her that she only had about ten minutes before Animal Control closed, at which point HB said "No. She has EIGHT minutes."

If looks could kill, HB would not be here today.

I sat there fuming, waiting for The Brat to call me back or fax or something, when Terri came over and said "why don't I go ahead and get your id and copy it, just to get things started?" That was when I knew it would be ok. So we're chatting whilst she does this, when my phone goes off. It's Jill, who is beside herself, because she had run all the way across campus, barefoot, nearly mowing over The Hot Guy in her dorm in the process, but the library didn't have a fax. I told her to run to the Bursar's Office, and she said she didn't have time to get there before they closed. At this point, she yelled "let me talk to that lady. I want to talk to her." At which point, I told her to be nice, because we were now dealing with someone reasonable. I handed my phone over to Terri, who listened, handed the phone back, and said "I'll be right back," and headed right to the manager's office.

"Oh God, girl, what did you say to her," I asked, to which Jill replied "I yelled at her. I want my damn dog back." That's the point at which I realized that my darling Bratty Girl has turned into her mama, cause she ain't taking no crap offa anyone. Good thing Terri has teenagers in her house, cause she was feeling my pain, I'm sure. She came wandering back over, looked at me with a purposeful look and said "OK, is the dog's name Rocky?" "Yes." "Is he neutered?" "Yes." "Is he microchipped?" "Yes." "Ok then, I guess he's your dog," she said, with a wink.

So that was how, after a week of being gone, driving probably fifty miles through a neighborhood that's only a few blocks square, hanging up flyers all over, and putting up with a lot of guff from The Brat, that Rocky returned home, after a week of being gone. And also, I might add, how the microchip information got changed to my name.