All Or Nothing

The Seven Year Itch

I get email on my phone now, and maybe that's the problem.  The easy access, the siren call of the flashing red light, the immediate notification - I was drawn in to the cycle without even realizing it.  I don't even have to get online anymore to check Facebook, that amazing time-suck of a social media site.  Yeah, that's right....my phone lets me know of any relevant changes or postings on there as well.  This burgundy piece of equipment is singlehandedly destroying my relationship with the World Wide Web.

Or is that just an excuse?  Is it easier for me to blame the demise of my long-term love affair with all things Internet on this sexy little newcomer in my life?  Or does it run deeper than that?  Perhaps it was inevitable - all good things must come to an end, or so they say.  I don't know if it's similar to the New Car Phenomenon, where you decide you MIGHT be in the market for a new vehicle and then suddenly you seem surrounded, INUNDATED, by new car ads, specials, promotions, enticements...but the few times I have gotten online lately and clicked through to some of my favorite blogs, I have been met with goodbye messages.  So it's not just me, I tell myself.  See, other people are having this issue as well. 

What is it with blogging lately?  I'm just not satisfied anymore.  I don't need you like I used to, blogging.  It's not you, it's me.  Or is it?

Maybe it's that many of the top bloggers out there, the ones I read all those years ago and made this whole endeavor seem so appealing, have turned "corporate" - they write for the money, whether that be product placement posts or merely for the increase in traffic that fuels their ad revenue.  And something about that just hits me as SO disingenuous.  Not that I am against the free market or capitalism or making money with your talents - because I'm all about it.  But mainly because what drew me into blogging in the first place was the rawness of the expression, the naked openness of saying "this is my story, and I want you to know it".  And that theme gets lost rather quickly in all the recipe contests and giveaways and corporate sponsorship of 3-year old birthday parties that I feel like I read about more than anything these days.  As such, I haven't even OPENED my feed reader in probably three weeks.  If I am online with an itch to read blogs, I click through my page to about 4 or 5 different sites, and (imagine this) NONE of them are sponsored by anyone or anything.  In fact, most of then net less than 10 comments per post and seem to be genuinely unconcerned by that fact.  It's refreshing.

So what to do?  I don't really want to stop writing.  I like writing; like the stringing of words together to create coherent thoughts and occasionally funny anecdotes that I would otherwise probably forget.  I enjoy the catharsis of putting swirling emotions in order and organizing them in written form on a page, and then hitting publish and feeling like the whole situation has been solved.  I'm not giving that up.  But what I AM giving up is the pressure to keep up with the Joneses, so to speak.  I'm not going to host recipe contests, or jump around seventeen different social media sites and seventeen HUNDRED blogs just trying to up my traffic or stats.  If I don't post for a week or a month, I'm not going to concern myself with what my readership is doing, or if they're going elsewhere for their fix.  Let's be honest, I obviously haven't concerned myself with that last issue much in the first place, since my last Project Runway recap has been up for over a month at this point.

And you know what?  It's not because I don't love having people who read my blog, and even less because I don't love the individual people who read my blog, because guess what?  I DO love you guys.  I know many of you in real life already, and I have gotten the chance to meet a couple of you that I otherwise knew exclusively online, and there are many of you who (and you know this) I am DYING to meet.  Much like my store, which gives me no end of grief on a regular basis, my favorite part of blogging has got to be the friends I have made through doing it.  And so there's another reason to continue, because I'll never believe that I've met all the amazing people there are to meet in this world. 

So what's my point, you ask?  Well, maybe there isn't one.  Maybe this is one of those cathartic posts, and now that I've expressed to blogging how I'm falling out of love with it, we can get back on track.  Or maybe blogging has changed, and we do need to break up.  But since I'm still writing, and you're still reading, it looks like we're still on.  Maybe all I wanted to say is that 2008 has been one of the weirdest years of my life; in some ways one of the best and in some ways one of the very worst.  And yet, even though this year has been absolutely packed full of experiences and changes, my blog reflects almost none of that.  I am tired of not getting to tell the stories I want to tell on here because I am constantly afraid of who I'll inadvertently offend with MY story, with MY life.  And maybe I'm not going to be afraid of that so much anymore. 

So maybe this isn't a breakup, blogging.  But I gotta tell you - things have got to change a bit for this to work out for us.  You have to be a little less commercialized and popularity-contesty, and I am going to be a little less scared of offending those few people out there with something I say that has nothing to do with them.  I mean let's be honest, they were going to be offended by SOMETHING, anyway.  Might as well be me :)

Also, Lydah wanted to say hello.  She says that if she doesn't care about laying in a dirty fire pit, then everyone can just get over...well, just about everything.  She also wants to add that her ears are just perfect, aren't they?  And also that she would very much like to go camping again, and if any of you can make that happen, please drop her a line at [email protected].  Yeah, she really is THAT conceited.

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You!

I left Lydah in Texas, where she is safe and sound and probably terrorizing my sweet friend who's keeping her.

Terrorizing her with LOVE AND PRECIOUSNESS, that is. 

I miss my dog.  But I am glad that I didn't bring her.  The flight was bumpy and turbulent, we sat on the runway forever after we landed, the temperature yesterday afternoon was bordering on 90 degrees, and Lydah would have absolutely HATED it.  And I would have had to drink at least two airplane cocktails just to deal with my canine-induced worry, and THEN I wouldn't be awake this morning, about to head out to the beach for a lovely day, because I'd be sleeping it off.

All to say?  You were right!  YOU WERE ALL RIGHT.

So, thanks to you guys and your wonderful advice (which, by the way, I either have the best readers in the world or am spectacularly lucky, because I almost NEVER get the horrible, judgy advice-givers), good decision all around.  But I'm still eating cookie dough.  No one can take that away from me :)

The L-Y-D

So.  This one is gonna be short and sweet and (hopefully) heavy on the reader advice.  Did you hear that, Internets?  I AM ASKING FOR ADVICE!  May God have mercy on my soul.

I am about to take a little vacay.  And I'm gonna be gone for a while.  And all throughout the planning process, I have been thinking that I would bring Lydah with me.  There's a whole lineup of doggy activities waiting for her at our final destination, and I think she would be in absolute heaven.

So as the departure date has grown closer and closer, I've started getting my ducks in a row, if you will.  I called the airline, to make sure there weren't any dog-related regulations I hadn't been able to glean from my obsessive online researching, I took an inventory of Lydah's travel supplies, to make sure everything was safe and secure, and I called the vet, to make sure they didn't have any last-minute recommendations for me.

Oh, and that call, my friends - that last call is where this whole thing fell apart.  You see, I LOVE my vet.  I really, really do.  He was our last-ditch effort when Lydah just kept getting sicker and sicker, and he not only fixed up her torn ACL (and WITHOUT surgery!), he also got her stomach all healed, found a food she would eat, spayed her, and is responsible for her TWENTY POUND WEIGHT GAIN.  And if you've ever found yourself in the position of trying to FORCE a sick animal to eat, every day, just so that they won't die - this type of vet is a savior.  He really did save her life.  And I am forever grateful to him for that.  However!  As a result of me having to take Lydah to SEE this vet for some super specialized treatments that, at one time, had me coming in TWICE A DAY, EVERY DAY, the vet and his wife love Lydah almost as much as I do.  Which is great, right?  I mean, it really is - who doesn't want their vet to love their pet that much?   You get EXTRA SPECIAL care.  And, as I've just found out, extra special advice.

Me: So, I'm going to be traveling with Lydah in the next week, is there anything I need to do or bring for her that I may have not thought of?

Vet:  Traveling?  Oh, how nice!  Where are you going?

Me:  Location.

Vet:  OH MY GOSH, YOU AREN'T GOING ON AN AIRPLANE, ARE YOU??

Me: .....ummm.  Yes?

Vet:  Oh, please tell me you aren't going to put that poor dog on a plane.

Me:  So, umm...that would be a bad idea, then?

And then the vet proceeded to tell me all the reasons that would be a terrible idea, how I would be needlessly endangering the life of my dog, how traumatic and stressful it would be for Lydah, how horrible the conditions would be for her, and how it would be just like rolling the dice with my dog's life.  Then the vet's wife told me how she used to work for an airline, and saw not just one, but SEVERAL dogs die in transit.  And then she or another airline employee would have to go tell the owners that sorry, your dog is dead, and then the owners would be inconsolable, but the airline isn't liable, because the customer had to sign a release, and DID I KNOW I HAD TO SIGN SOMETHING SAYING THAT LYDAH MIGHT DIE??  Did I?

So. 

Needless to say, I have backed off the whole take-Lydah-with-me idea, and am now completely confused as to what I should do.  I mean, OBVIOUSLY I don't want to needlessly endanger Lydah's life.  I would honestly never forgive myself if something happened to her that I could have easily prevented.  However, I also don't want to live a life of fear, where all of the sudden I won't drive if it rained even three hours ago and the roads might still be wet.  And neither me nor anyone I know can ever taste cookie dough again because WHAT ABOUT THE SALMONELLA, AAAGGGHH!  I don't want to be that person.

So what say you, readers?  Do you have any advice/experience/knowledge to share?  Because this girl is confused.  And really, even if you don't care about me all that much, it's for Lydah.  How can you resist that face?

 

Oh, Cody

Well, it has been a while since he's graced us with the material for one of these stories.  I guess we were due.

It all started a couple of weeks ago when Cody started a new rotation at a clinic in a town about 30 miles from where we live.  Because he was going to be getting up at least 45 minutes earlier than normal, we attempted to get into SOMEWHAT of a routine at night.  (For past attempts at routine, see this, this or this).

Cody is a night owl, and all attempts to determine what I am (night owl/early bird) have failed.  If I have to get up early, I am most certainly NOT a night owl, but am more of whatever type of species you imagine being horribly snarly and mean.  If I can sleep late, then I am happy to stay up til whenever.  Cody doesn't care if he has to get up early - actually he DOES care, but all attempts for him to override his natural compulsion to stay up late are generally met with failure.  He tries to go to bed, but always finds something more interesting to do, like watching SportsCenter or losing his keys. 

This perfect storm of disorganization results in the evening "routine" Cody and I have developed over the nearly four years we've been married.  Sometime between 7-10pm we eat something, and usually we're watching television while eating and/or after we're done eating.  Either that or we've gone out to eat somewhere, and may or may not even come back home until 10:30-11.  Sometimes we forget about eating until really late, and then Cody tells me that he's hungry.  Those are the nights I feel like a REALLY good wife.

We end up watching things that have backed up on our Tivo until at least midnight, and it's only then that either one of us even thinks about STARTING the true bedtime routine; a complicated dance that involves the following:

• Locating and bringing inside Sophie, the outside cat
• Chasing Jill (the mean cat) out from under the guest-room bed and into the laundry room
• Thawing the raw meat patties to feed Lydah (which is, as Cody puts it, "an up-at-dawn, pride-swallowing siege")
• Taking Lydah out and making her go to the bathroom so that she doesn't wake us up at 3am by standing over us in bed, panting
• Getting into bed 

Of course Cody has to have a movie playing in the bedroom DVD to fall asleep, a habit I HATED when we first got married but have now gotten completely used to and hardly even notice.  It was a good trade for me anyway, because the habit he had to lose out on in the compromise was the one where he set his alarm clock like, over an hour early and HIT THE SNOOZE, EVERY FIVE MINUTES, FOR OVER AN HOUR.  Boy, those were the days.

(The habit I had to lose was listening to soft music as I fell asleep.  I know, who would EVER WANT TO DO THAT?)

Anyway.  By the time we've stopped watching back episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and finished the bedtime routine, it's easily 1am.  And I don't care, because I hardly ever have to be up early in the morning but Cody does care, because he has to be up early every day.  And you might think that he would catch on to the fact that every day he has to be up early, and every night he stays up late, and therefore every morning he is miserable, but you would be wrong.  Each night it's like a brand-new misery; he looks at the bedside clock, reads off some permutation of "AM", and gets all upset.

Recently, though, with the new clinic rotation and added insult of a 45 minute drive every morning, Cody decided to make a change.  I fully support all of Cody's "change" decisions (for their entertainment value if nothing else), and so I happily went along.  Plus, I already have my doubts about how I'll ever make it as a mom (see: total disorganization, lack of routine, staying up late, sleeping late, needing my sleep desperately), and I kind of feel like I NEED to get on a good routine as far as normal sleep/wake habits.

11-11:30pm was decided upon as the bedtime goal, and for the past couple of weeks, I'd say that we've hit that goal at least 70% of the time - a success, in my opinion.  It's still hard though, to get up earlier than you're used to, and since Cody's been having to do that, I've been fielding all 3am Lydah bathroom breaks.  She's just so annoying, that dog.  I know it's probably our fault, feeding her so late and then expecting her little system to do a digestive miracle a mere 20 minutes after she's eaten, but geez.  Can't she hold it 8 hours? 

No.  No, she can't.  And when she decides she wants to go, she does this awful thing where she walks around on the bed, stepping on all our limbs, and then finally squeezes herself in between our heads, sitting upright, panting loudly.  Since Cody can sleep through a tornado (and has, actually! another story for another day!) I am ALWAYS the one woken up by hot dog breath on my face.  (Sidenote: foreshadowing for future midnight baby feedings, anyone?)

Normally we fight over who has to take her out, a fight which involves me waking up, Lydah panting heavily, Cody sleeping peacefully, me getting annoyed that he's somehow managing to stay asleep, me kicking Cody and telling him to take Lydah out, and him saying okay and then rolling over and falling back asleep immediately.  Without taking her out.  But for his first week of work, I just decided to forego all the procedure and skip to the part where I take her out.  I mean, that's what happens anyway, 90% of the time.  Oh, and obviously we don't have a fence, or all of this would be totally pointless as we would just open the door, shove Lydah into the backyard, and be done with it.

Earlier this week though, Cody took Lydah out to the bathroom before bed and didn't stick around to make sure she went.  This is a surefire way to make sure I get woken up at 3am, and so when it happened I was annoyed.  I took her out, but as I came back to bed I told Cody that the next 7 times were all going to be his turn.  He mumbled "okay" and rolled over.  Always coming up with something new, that Cody.

Anyway, last night Lydah started up with her whole panting routine and somehow (miracle? karma?) Cody HEARD her, and woke up.  He also remembered the "next 7 times" conversation and dragged himself out of bed to take the dog out, griping all the way.  I rolled over to fall back asleep, relishing in the freedom of covers all to myself and appreciative of Cody for taking the stupid dog out.  I didn't really expect him to do it.

Cue to OVER AN HOUR LATER, I am suddenly awakened by frantic dog barking, coming from outside.  I jump out of bed, blearily looking around for Lydah or Cody, seeing no one, but hearing even louder barking from outside.  I open the french doors from our bedroom and run out onto the screen porch, yelling for Lydah.  At the same time I hear Cody opening the front door and calling for Lydah from the front porch.  About a minute later Lydah comes bounding in the house, full of puppy energy, happy to be back inside.  Cody walks back into our room looking sleepy and I ask him if he just left Lydah outside, roaming the neighborhood, for over an hour.  He confirms that he did.  I ask him why.  He says he fell asleep on the couch after he opened the front door and let her out.  I tell him that I certainly hope he doesn't think this counts as one of his 7 turns.  He says that it should.

So I ask you, Internet:  Should it?

Full-On Randomness

When I notice that something's running out, I get really nervous and turn into Hoarder Girl.  For example, the other day I walked into the bathroom and saw that we had one square of toilet paper left, clinging to the empty cardboard roll.  And my first reaction wasn't "ugh, why won't Cody just put a new roll on when the old one runs out?" or even a light-hearted and less-naggy "hmm, hope I have a extra roll in the cabinet up here".  Rather, my brain immediately turns into some sort of high-tech toilet paper calculator, frantically tabulating every spare roll of toilet paper in the house, where each roll is located at that very moment, and how much longer we can last on that much toilet paper without running out.  I have to have at least a 3 roll comfort zone, so that means subtracting 3 from the total.  If, at the end of these intensive calculations, I am anywhere near ZERO TOILET PAPER, I have a mini-panic attack and vow only to pee until I can make it to the store.  Once I obtain a brand new pack of toilet paper (or whatever it is I was running out of), the countdown begins anew.  And my brain does all of this on its own, without any conscious effort or acknowledgment from me.

Lydah is getting spayed tomorrow.  Cody has been incessantly referring to this as her "vagectomy".  (Oh, the creepy Googlers who will find my site now.)  I am somewhat concerned about this surgery, as we have what you might call a "doggy diva", who yelps and flinches at the slightest thought of pain or discomfort.  Some people have to worry about keeping their pups from running around all crazily and trying to rip their stitches out.  We have to worry about Lydah's precarious mental state, and whether she's about to fall, head over heels, into a full-fledged canine depression.  I've heard they make Doggy Prozac.  If this is true, I may be their next (ridiculous) customer.

My brother and I were chatting online and he said he wanted me to bring him my parents' camping tent the next time I came out to visit.  Because he is my brother, and some things never change, my gut response was to tell him that I was keeping the tent for myself, although I haven't been camping since I was about 9 years old.  I just didn't want him to have it without me being difficult, even though I could easily borrow any number of tents if the urge suddenly struck me to go set up camp in the woods, surround myself with bugs, drink nothing but stale, warm canteen water, eat something scraped out of a can, and eventually degrade myself to the point of using the bathroom behind a tree.  Camping.  Why do people VOLUNTARILY lower their standard of living for vacation?  It's like hey, I live in a HOUSE, with a ROOF, and RUNNING WATER.  And for the privilege of all these things, I work every day so that I can pay my bills.  And now that I have worked hard all week and have some time off, I know what we should do!  We should pack up a tent, take it out to some secluded area, work really hard to set up a campsite, and then sit in the dirt all weekend.   It reminds me of that scene in Office Space where Peter Gibbons is talking to his neighbor, Lawrence.  Peter is considering the question "what would you do if you had a million dollars", and after some thought, he says that what he would like most is to do absolutely nothing. 
"Nothing?" Lawrence asks.  "Hell, you don't need a million dollars to do nothing.  Take a look at my cousin, man - he's broke, don't do sh*t." 
That's how I feel about camping.  If you REALLY like camping, then why are you working anywhere at all?  Why do you have a bank account, or a car, or a mortgage?  Why not just quit everything, buy some supplies, and go live in the woods in a tent?  Wouldn't that be easier?

And with that, I'm out.  Not to go camping though.  No, I'll be taking full advantage of all the modern-day luxuries I have on hand this weekend, like flushing toilets and that big metal box they call the refrigerator.

An Oldie But A Goodie Nonetheless

****And the beat goes on****

No more whining coming from over here.  The official stance of the House of Carter is that Lydah is going to be fine; will heal and will recover.  The end!

(If you keep saying it, it will become true - right?)

Kitters, on the other hand, will have to rest in peace, but I think that's alright because she was at least 117 years old, in the feline world.  That's a nice long life and I can only imagine that if I were 117 years old and forced to live outside on the back porch I would probably be ready to throw in the towel as well.

****Best search keywords from last month****

This time, I found the "how to" questions and the confessions ("I did activity X") to be the most interesting.  Some examples?  Sure!

1.  "how to deal with a guest that lost his keys"

I actually feel uniquely qualified to answer this, not because I often host guests who lose their keys, but because as the wife of Cody, I have often been the guest who has lost their keys.  I'd say your best bet is to either crack open another drink and make the best of it, or (if you're really sick of us), offer to drive us home with lots of assurances that the keys will turn up somewhere the next day.  And roll your eyes a lot. I hear eye-rolling works well in situations such as these.  Cody LOVES it.

2.  "how to bite girls toenails if I am the girl"

Hmm.  I have no problem biting my own toenails, and so I can't see why you're having such a tough time with it.  Maybe more yoga or something?

3.  "how to store headbands organize"

You seem to have answered your own question there, smarty.

4.  "how to poison my husbands dog"

My gosh.  It's like you have no tact.  Either that, or you haven't even been READING what's been going on around here lately.  Poor Lydah is all hurt and dying getting better and healing and all you can talk about is finding ways to kill dogs.  Well, if you MUST, I'd try feeding your husband's dog some fancy canned pet food from the pet food recall.  I think that'll do the trick nicely.  And you'll come off as the kind and caring doggy mommy, who only wanted little Fido to have some special treats.

And now for the confessions:

1.  "I go motions sickness on the airplane and puked in the air sick bag and my self"

Gross.

2.  "I got motion sickness on a airplane and puked on a flight attedent"

Again, gross!  Also, you sound like you've got a nasty cold.  Go blow your nose before typing anything else.

3.  "I walk around nude in front of my baby sitter" 

Wow!  Opportunistic little gal/guy!

4.  "I'm a pretty pony clippity-clop dragonrealms and I love to have my coat brushed"

Where to start?  First of all, I seriously doubt that you're a pony at all.  I mean, let's get real.  Ponies aren't well-known for trolling the Internet, typing vain phrases about themselves into search engines.  You just don't have the hooves for it.  Secondly, as we've already established that you're more than likely NOT a pony, we don't even need to get into the ridiculous arrogance and fallacy that lies within the whole "pretty" thing.  So there we go.  You aren't a pony, you DEFINITELY are not a "pretty" pony, and while I will admit to being confused about the "clippity-cliop dragonrealms" part of your message, I'll go ahead and call foul on that as well.  Clippity-clop sounds suspiciously like you're trying to emulate pony noises, which really makes the whole thing even MORE pathetic, as we've already all agreed that you are NOT a pony.  Stop trying so hard.  And you like to get your coat brushed?  Really?  After all of this?  You're still claiming to have a coat?

It's sad, is what it is.  Sad.   

What are the best search phrases you've seen this month?

Nothing Fun Here; Holiday Happiness Seekers Can Move Right Along

Well.  Lydah has everything you can imagine wrong with her, and then some.

No, that's not fair.  I suppose she could have had cancer and the vet could have told us that she had to be put down right that very second.  That didn't happen.

However, she does have the torn ACL, she does have a severe enzyme deficiency, and she does have bad hips.  Which, although that sounds like the least of the problems, is really the very, very worst.  You see, bad hips is what you pray your (especially large breed) dog won't have.  Because if they have bad hips then they are really likely to get hip dysplasia, which is a chronic, debilitating disease.  And then you have to put them down, because they are in too much pain.  And guess what!  Lydah is a "very strong candidate" for hip dysplasia.

Boy, I am a real joy to be around right now!

Of course, we need to take into effect that I am, as a friend puts it, not just a "glass half-empty" person, but rather a "glass is half-poison" person.  And Cody is more of a "glass half-full" or a "what glass; I have forgotten about it altogether in my endless and boundless optimism" person.  So if you, as my vet, give me a pretty negative diagnosis, I am going to go home, dress myself all in black, start tearing my garments and putting ashes on my head and mourning inconsolably.  And Cody is going to want to rent a movie and pop some popcorn.

Anyway.

My in-laws have had this same cat for over 20 years.  The cat, who became known only as "Kitters" (after no one cared enough to name her), has outlasted at least three dogs, several unintentional starvations, and a serious case of worms that may have lasted for at least 5 of those 20 years (my father-in-law, one day recently: "you know, we just thought Kitters had gotten awfully skinny these last few years, but turns out it was just worms!  Whaddaya know?").  He then bought some really cheap de-worming stuff and Kitters recovered beautifully.  Anyway, she's the sweetest and toughest cat ever, and last night, right after we found out about Lydah's DEATH SENTENCE, we got the call that Kitters had died.

Sucky, sucky days.

This Is Why I Don't Have Kids

It's time to get real.  Time to get honest.  I'm about to come clean here.  I am confessing, to every single one of you, something I do in secret; a hidden part of my life that no one else knows about.

Deep breath.

Are you ready?  Will this absolve me?

I really, REALLY spoil my dog.  I mean, I am totally, ridiculously, and unbelievably obsessed with Lydah.

In example, let's go down the "fanatical pet owner" list:  Treat her like a child?  Check.  Let her sleep in my bed every night?  Check.  Feed her special food and mix it with (healthy! good for her!) things she likes and always try to make sure she is both interested in and intrigued with what she's eating?  Check.  Give her special nutritional supplements to stave off joint and deficiency problems?  Check.  Let her jump up on and laze around on the couches?  Check.  Bring her everywhere I can with me; most often letting her ride in the front seat, wearing a seatbelt, hanging her head out the window?  Check.  Give her little dental treats and toys all the time?  Check.

I can't help it.  I love Lydah so much.  She is like the little light of my life - she's honestly the sweetest, most loving dog I've ever been around, and she acts like that ALL THE TIME.  To EVERYONE.  She's just wonderful.

And now she's all hurt.  She started limping the other day, just a little bit, and we (being the lazy holistic people we are) decided to let nature run its course and see if the limp went away.  After all, she's only nine months old.  It could easily be growing pains.  However, after a few days the limp was not only not going away, but it was getting definitively worse.  We made an appointment for her at the vet.  The appointment was this morning.  I was SORT OF freaking out.

So this morning I woke up (next to the dog, of course), jumped out of bed, got everything we needed, and made it to the vet's office EARLY.  Any of you who know me in real life know that this is a rare occurrence indeed, as I am more often than not at least 15 minutes late.  Sorry, I know a whole bunch of you just started hating me a little bit.  And think - that's not even my worst quality!

The vet told me that he thinks Lydah has torn her anterior cruciate ligament (ACL).  The only real solution to an ACL tear, if that is what has happened, is surgery.   Okay.  So this is totally ridiculous.

I mean, seriously.  Think of all the people you know who just get dogs, throw them in the yard (or on their land), feed them cheap, crappy dog food once a day, and that's it.  Those dogs live to be like, 18 freaking years old and never need a thing.  And here I am, with my precious child-dog, who gets anything and everything and the best of it all, and she's about to need SURGERY?  How is this fair?

And I know, I know.  Those people who just throw their dogs out into the yard and basically ignore them for the next decade; well, their dogs might have torn or sprained ACLs and the owners never even notice or care.  They just see a limp and say "so what?  Dog's limping.  Whatever.  He'll get over it".  And then the dog always does.  Or maybe he ends up with a limp forever, but you know, then it's just like, "oh, that's grandpa's old ranch dog, he's had that limp his whole life.  Think he was born with a lame leg or got ran over once or something," and everyone goes on with their business.  So yes, perhaps it is a better course of action to behave in such a manner, as an owner.

The problem, however, is not in the LOGICAL part of my brain, it's in the EMOTIONAL part (aren't they always).  I WANT to just take the laissez-faire attitude with Lydah.  It's just that I CAN'T.  I can't stand to see her in pain, I can't stand knowing that there is something better I could be doing for her, I can't handle treating her like a secondary extension of my family.  She's a MAIN FAMILY MEMBER.  She's like my kid.

So Lydah's at the vet right now.  He had to give her a sedative and she got all wobbly and couldn't walk right and looked up at me with her big, brown, trusting eyes like "Mom?  Why?" and it was all I could do not to start crying right then.  I didn't, you'll be glad to know.  I held it together, because seriously, a SEDATIVE BEING GIVEN TO A DOG is not a big deal.  I know this, again, logically.  And I'm not a terribly emotional person.  But this dog, she's really gotten to me.  And if a possible ligament tear in my dog can break me, then I don't even want to know what my life would be like with an actual human child in it.

Good thing kids are so freaking annoying.  I'm guessing that helps with the overwhelming love part.   

Poison: It's What's For Dinner

Well.  It's been a while, eh?  How are you?  Good?  I hope you're great.  Me?  I've been busy, you know, working, hanging out, poisoning my dog. 

Oh, is that weird?  You want to know why?  BECAUSE THE STUPID DOG WON'T EAT. 

Now, before you get all huffy and call Animal Protective Services (is there one of those? there should be) please allow me to explain.  I did not poison my dog out of a frustration-born rage.  Nor did I poison my dog out of any willful process at all.  Rather, I poisoned my dog unknowingly, because I have to work so incredibly hard to get her to eat her food.  You'd think I was feeding her, I don't know.  Poison?

Ha!

I've read, over and over, that German Shepherds are notoriously picky eaters.  They're also known to be a fairly intelligent breed, and will pick up pretty quickly on things like:

• Puppy parents who are suckers for puppy-dog eyes
• Puppy parents who are suckers for puppies who look forlornly at their full food bowl, sniff it, and turn away
• Puppy parents who are suckers for puppies who are total divas
• Stupid people
• All of the above, because they are all mutually exclusive characteristics of mine

So.  I'm a sucker, and also stupid.  We've got that clarified.  Now, Lydah (the GSD in question) has picked up on my stupidity.  Coupled with her natural tendency to never want to eat anything, or at least not more than she absolutely needs to cover her ribs (sidenote: WHY am I not like this? why the dog and not me?), we've ended up with a non-eating situation.  And because Cody is unreasonably insisting that what we have here is not actually a MINI German Shepherd, but a regular full-grown one, she needs to eat.  Because she's freaking skinny.  And smallish.

Unless she's a mini German Shepherd, in which case she looks perfect.  Just sayin'!

We feed her the expensive, organic, non-corn based, blah blah BEST FOOD EVER, and she won't eat it.  We've mixed it with other food that she saw another dog eat once and seemed interested in.  Won't eat it.  We've mixed it with shredded chicken that we cooked IN OUR CROCK POT, YES, COOKED FOR THE DOG.  Ate it twice, had a massive intestinal explosion in the backseat of my car, and then never had it again.  We've mixed it with grease from ground beef.  We've mixed it with tuna.  We have basically consulted the Tom Colicchio of dog food and mixed in his recommendations.  Involved lots of saffron.

No dice.

So we're pretty desperate, all the time, for Lydah to just eat anything at all.  After she passed her first class at dog school, she got a goody bag filled with all sorts of things like frisbees, squeaky toys, and some nasty "Pumpkin Desserts!" crap that comes in a can and supposedly dogs like.  Pumpkin.  But whatever!  I'll try anything.  And she did eat it, one whole time, and then didn't care about it ever again.

Really, if we would just stop all the frantic trying and just serve her the contents of the cat box, she'd be thrilled.  And I wouldn't have to clean out the cat box anymore!  Gross?  Was that gross?

I think you have a pretty clear picture of the situation at this point.  We'll try anything.  So when we were offered an entire 12-pack of unused, canned dog food, we were thrilled to accept.  Sure!  I mean, we were about to start pureeing cat poop to make gravy.  Beggars can't be choosers, right?  We started mixing this canned dog food with her normal food, and miracle of miracles, SHE ATE IT.  For like three whole days.  And then she stopped.  Which was not a surprise.  However, this time she stopped and then got kind of sick and then completely stopped eating altogether.  Like, nothing, not even her normal two-mouthfuls-disdainful-look-snub-the-rest combo.  Then she got really sick, and started having all sorts of....incidents inside, which never happens anymore, and so we had no idea what was going on, still no eating, and then all of a sudden, on a Saturday morning, I sat bolt upright in bed at 7am with an epiphany.

The real miraculous event was that I was awake at 7am.  Saturday or not, I don't think I have seen 7am in quite some time.  However, I was jolted out of my sleep with the sudden awareness that we had been feeding Lydah food from that horrible dog food recall.  I ran to the computer, pulled up the FDA's list of recalled foods, and found the brand we were mixing with.  Of course then you have to tediously match up every single lot number and bar code number on your can to the ones listed, to find out if you have won the Kill Your Dog Lottery.

I had.

What happened next was a flurry of vet visits, urine analysis, blood analysis, special food, medicine from a syringe, forcing electrolytes, etc.  And guess what!  She's totally fine now.  She actually loves this prescription dog food the vet gave us to help her kidneys and liver recover, and for the first time in her entire life, SHE EATS WHEN WE GIVE HER FOOD.

So, word to the wise: If you have a dog (or kid, who's to say this wouldn't work on kids, too?) who won't eat, and you've tried everything else, the trick is to poison the subject and then do the mandatory forced starvation (to clear the system) and then, VOILA!  Eating will commence!

Seriously, though, I know we are very lucky and that not all pet owners were so lucky with that tainted food.  And I want to thank the people who gave us that old canned food, because even though you didn't know it, you actually may have solved Lydah's picky eating problem for good.  And Cody won't have to go around telling people that yes, there really is a mini German Shepherd breed, and haven't you heard of it?

For All Of Posterity

At the request of several emails (and some were strongly worded, too!) I am putting up another post to move those fishing spider links down the page a bit.  You people have made Cody feel so much better.  Neither he nor I had any idea that there were so many other terrified (and expressive) spider haters out there.  Well, maybe we both knew, actually.  Who doesn't hate spiders?  Especially big, hairy, gray ones, with legs that spread out into a circumference bigger than your hand and rows and rows of weird, spidery eyeballs....

Ok, ok.  Sidenote: if I were ever to try and write a horror novel, that's about what it would sound like.  Crappy descriptions of spiders, with their googly eyes...oooh!  Horrifying.

Cody and I went out to the lake this Saturday to celebrate our upcoming (three year - I mean START OF OUR FOURTH YEAR) anniversary.  We wanted to bring Lydah out there so she could practice her dock-diving, which actually consists of her looking at the ball in the water, whining, and then kind of squirming off the edge of the dock, banging her doggy shins and hips against the wood on the way down.  It's REALLY athletic.  She's a total shoo-in for those agility shows.

We also took the boat out, which required us to go into the Closet of Life-jackets and Doom, the closet formerly haunted by the Scary Spider Family.  I did keep my eyes peeled for any strange, eight-legged movement, but all my vigilance was rewarded with was a couple of inconsequential encounters with some Daddy-Long-Legs.  We brought Lydah out on the boat with us and, as could be expected, she loved it.  She stayed on the floor of the boat for a while, and then blah blah, am I actually writing about how my DOG felt about riding on the boat?  Y'all better hope I never have kids.  The potential for totally inane Mommy Blogging is obviously here.

So!  Here's what I was actually writing about.  Cody bought me a hard-disk camcorder for our anniversary.  A camcorder!  That films!  I think it's a pretty good camera, too, but honestly Cody could have given me a camcorder with a little wind-up crank on the side that I had to turn while filming and I would have been totally impressed.  Anyway, this is The Best Anniversary Present Ever (said while avoiding the evil-eye from the cat Cody bought me last anniversary - sorry, Sophie!).  I have wanted a camcorder for ages.  I still watch the videos taken of me and my brothers when we were kids; forcing anyone in arms length to sit and endure the grainy home-video goodness whether they want to or not. 

If not for the fact that I am still working out a couple of Apple compatibility issues (oh MacBook, how I love thee, and how you betray me on a regular basis) I would show you some video right now!  And it's RIVETING, let me tell you.  So far I have taken video of Lydah walking around, Lydah chasing Sophia, Jill hissing while sitting on the windowsill and then attacking my arm (she is SO pleasant), Cody making a series of increasingly entertaining faces, and a LOT of lake footage.  And as interesting as that was to read about, just imagine watching it.  Just imagine!

Anyway, I am obsessed with my camcorder.  I want to video everything, and have it with me at all possible moments.  I think I am beginning to understand how some people feel about their digital cameras.  I've always wondered what it was that drew people to take photo after photo of a flower, or a field.  But now that I've got my camcorder, I can't help but grab it, press record, and point it straight down at the tile, all to document that right at this very moment, I think I might be standing in dog pee.  Is it pee?  I think it's pee.