So I’ve been MIA
for a while. My dad called me yesterday
to report that my brother is MIA out in Texas.
Not to worry – he’s not a missing person yet. He
just forgot he has parents. It’s
okay. I mean, we were all 22 and in
college once. Parents just don’t exist
until you’re out of money. I told Dad to
withdraw his latest deposit and wait for the call. He laughed.
I wasn’t kidding. (Sorry Matt – I
feel obligated to contribute to your personal growth in some way. After all, I can’t
just stop at reminding you to remove that bong picture from Facebook.)
Anyway, life in
Merry-Land is plugging away. I’ve been
consumed by housework, school work, kids’ homework, physical therapy work, and
work-work. And when I’m not doing all
that, my life is shit.
When I’m not
cleaning the litterbox, which is perpetually filled with shit that the cat
seems compelled to leave unburied – you know, in case I forget to clean it, the
smell emanating from it will remind me – I’ve been cleaning up the aftermath of
his eating too fast and vomiting his breakfast back up in the bowl. This would occur approximately once a
week. And once I’ve cleaned it up, he’s
standing next to me, meowing for a refill.
I’ve stopped giving him the canned food every day, especially after
spying him sleeping on the windowsill, his pot belly hanging over the side like
a hairy 50-year-old man asleep on the couch with a beer gut.
Meanwhile back
in dogville, Pi has been having runny diarrhea on and off for a while, and
there was one week in particular where every time she went out I’d have to
carry her to the wash tub to hose off her ass.
Ava almost missed the bus one morning because I had to wash the dog
off. The piece d’resistance… Sabra came
in that very same week with a massive cliffhanger that I deferred to Todd. At that
point, I was already so over dog poop.
And then I’ve
been cleaning up the occasional piles of vomit – strategically tossed not on
the easy-to-clean-up hardwood floor, but on the small tan area rug. Sabra, the crazy brown poodle, managed to eat
some non-toxic acrylic paint Todd had been using, and puked up a stunning black
stain on the opposite side of the same rug.
I’ve treated it twice now, and the best I can hope for is a stain resembling
a spilled ash tray. Brand new rug 6
months ago – now a doghouse paradise.
Pi, the
aforementioned stool-challenged poodle, has been having difficulty holding her
bowels for more than 3 hours inside the house, presenting us with the dilemma
of either canceling any plans requiring us to be out longer than a typical
movie or cleaning up piles of loose bowel material. And I, the eternal germ-a-phobe, have
undertaken the thankless task of emptying paper towel rolls and containers of
Clorox wipes in an effort to head off my well-meaning husband before he smears
it around with a wet mop. And, really, I
felt sorry for the dog, as it was clear by the connect-the-dot pattern across
the floor that she was desperately trying NOT to do it.
And, not to be
left out, my kids invariably have clogged their toilet at least once a week, at
which time I leave my veterinary tech position to become Patsy Plumber, with my
handy-dandy plunger. And the toilet from
hell refuses to clear until I have flushed it a dozen times and worked that
rubber tool until my rotator cuff sings.
My life. Is. Shit.
We took Pi to
the vet on Monday, for the obvious reasons.
The vet found a large mass that required removal and exploratory surgery,
including a hysterectomy (she was bred and had never been spayed). $1300 later and the mass turned out to be an
enlarged ovary that was encroaching on her bowel and intestinal tract, and
subsequently the nearby organs had begun to adhere to the mass and took the vet
an hour to separate. She is recovering
at home now, high on painkillers and sedatives, looking stylish in a lovely
opaque “Elizabethan collar.” Seriously,
that’s what the bill says. No Cone of
Shame here… it’s the regal collar.
And I, her nursemaid, am charged with guiding her cone through doorways and
carrying her down the stairs of the back deck to the yard for toileting. And already the next day, I took her out
and she finally had her first solid poop in I don’t know how long. I felt like a new mom! I was
so excited, I called Todd. And then I
called my mom. Everybody was happy.
Until
yesterday. After a wonderful weekend of
short excursions and impromptu work nights off to spend with the
hubs, including a night at the casino where I won $80, we finished our weekend
with a lovely Sunday brunch to celebrate my mother-in-law’s birthday. A leisurely drive home in the Mustang with a
casual stop to indulge Todd in the pleasures of Harbor Freight, where I scored
a new spade and an electric fly swatter, and home to care for our invalid and
her nutty brown daughter (who I think needs the sedatives more than she does). All was going well. Beautiful sunshine-y day, strapped the leash
on Pi and let Sabra out first – because she has
to be first, and will go over or under
Pi to get there, no matter what the cost.
Anyway, our tenant
had her little foo foo dogs out in the yard.
After a brief sniffing session, I tried to drag Pi away to do her
business but Sabra kept running in circles around us, trying to paw my legs
while YoDude (seriously, that is his name) scampered around her, barking at all
of us like a miniature furry Napolean.
Pi finally peed. I waited a bit
longer, hoping YoDude would tire of us and move on and that maybe she might
have to fertilize the grass.
Meanwhile, Sabra refused to leave my side even
to pee, and she is very much a spoiled child at needing my attention NOW when I’m
in the yard with them. So Pi just stood
there staring out across the yard, which I took to be either drug-induced
euphoria or simply just having no more business to attend to if I wouldn’t let
her run. SO, I scooped up the bag of
bones that is Pi, started up the stairs as Sabra flung herself onto the stairs
like she was being chased by zombies, and took them both inside. Pi appeared comfortable to lie down and so I
went about some household chores, including vacuuming.
And there, on the
other side of the coffee table, in front of the fireplace, was a giant pile of ….
poo. And no sign of anyone. No dogs. No Todd.
Just. Me. And so, after I thanked God for hardwood
floors, I pulled out my arsenal of paper towels, wipes, windex, and Lysol, and
cursed the very existence of poo. The
last two weeks have been wonderful days of sharing with friends and family,
making Passover at home and having Greek Easter with my mom, dates with Todd, individual facetime with my kids, and time with my in-laws. But still, my
life is shit.
Poo – I am SO
over you.
