Day 195: Missing Work

There are days when I am tempted to miss work.

Not sick days, mind you. If I'm actually sick, I'm more than happy to spend the day drugged and lying on the couch with a good book and a honey-lemon tea (made by Nathan, of course).

Except when I'm teaching. If it's going to take more than four hours to prep for a substitute, I drag my hacking, shaking self to work anyway and try to only cough on the bad kids.

Just kidding.

But seriously ... sometimes on quite ordinary days, life kicks you when you're down and makes even the very thought of work overwhelming and unbearable.

And you have to decide ... to work or not to work?

One of those days was last Thursday.

I'd already made the decision to re-home Kia. Of the almost 3000 views my ad had garnered in 3 days, more than a dozen people had contacted me. One of them was the manager of the House of Dogs (grooming salon/doggie daycare). We had met (I liked her), she had met Kia (and fallen in love with her), and Kia had already spent a day at daycare (and enjoyed it immensely).

But Thursday was the day that Kia was going home for good. I was supposed to bring her stuff with me in the morning, but I was running late and would have to drop it off after work. So when a staff member came out to help me lift everything, there was only Kia.

He took her leash. Since I am the primary dog "care-giver" in our home, Kia walks best with me. Even when Nate tries to walk her, she insists on walking by my side and obeying the commands I give to Sam.

As the man gently led her across the parking lot, Kia kept looking over her shoulder to see if I was coming. I got back in the car so she couldn't see me. When they reached the door, he pulled it open and they both stepped inside. The door had one of those special "slow-closing" hinges, and at the last minute, Kia changed her mind and headed back out to the parking lot. The door closed around her middle.

The whole thing lasted only a second or two, but it carved itself painfully on my memory.

Kia, physically trapped between two worlds, was not in distress. Her ears were perked forward, her mouth gently open, her eyes bright and expectant. Her tail swished back and forth, softly painting the air behind her. She was waiting. Waiting for me to come join in on her next big adventure.

Not this time, babe.

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to march into the shop and demand her back. But what would I do? Take her home and crate her? Skip work and spend the day together? But what then? Tomorrow I'd still be in the same situation as today.

When I looked back, the man had already freed her and she was happily perched at his feet, waiting for a treat. She'd been given a golden opportunity. Another chance at life. And I wasn't going to let my emotion steal that away from her.

I put the car in drive and pulled out onto the road. I was already crying.
To work or not to work?

To work. Fortunately, I was painting bathroom stalls, so I could cry quietly in private. I ate silent tears all day. But when we brought Kia's belongings in the evening, she looked so content that I knew I'd made the right decision.

I still missed her, but all was well.
Then life kicked me again today.
But this time, it kicked me in the ankle instead of in the heart.

I woke before 5:00, showered, ate breakfast, and let the dog out. Because of the heat, I've been keeping Sam in the basement while I'm at work (we don't have air conditioning and the basement stays cool all day). I was running late, so I didn't bother to turn on the light before I carried his water bowl downstairs.

That was a mistake.

I fell.

I missed a step and my ankle turned.

Water went flying as the bowl and I careened down the steps and into the wall. Sam showed his deep concern by barking at the top of the stairs and then coming down to lick the water off my legs. Then, as if trying to be helpful, he picked up the metal water dish (which is quite heavy) and carried it down the last few steps. But instead of setting it down on the basement floor, he started carrying it back upstairs.

I say started because the bowl didn't make it all the way up.

He dropped it. Without warning. On my hand.

Suffice it to say that an hour later, I am sitting in the sun room with a sore wrist and a frozen bag of assorted peas on my ankle.

Sam is snoring at my feet ... occasionally farting happily to himself.
He is so weird.

To work or not to work? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer through
A day of pain or to take precautions against more serious injury...

I called in sick.
Happy Wednesday, everyone.

But mums... I did not means to make you fall...

Day 23: She didn't eat it! A lesson in worry.

I had a good surprise today. She didn't eat it. 

Let me explain.

Two weeks ago, I left a plastic bag of cat treats on a shelf. A high shelf. Inside a bucket, where I thought they would be safe.

They weren't.

Two weeks less one day ago, I woke up to find the bucket on the floor. The bag of cat treats was gone. And one very guilty-looking dog stared up at me from the couch.

I was worried.

I went online to find out what to do if a dog swallows a plastic bag. Everything I read confirmed what I already knew: go to a vet.

But vets cost money. A LOT of money. We'd spent hundreds of dollars when we adopted Kia in the fall and hundreds more treating Sam's ear infection ... and we were still spending. And I wasn't even sure which dog could have eaten it. So I searched the house.

Nothing.

I second-guessed myself. Did I really leave the bag there? Maybe I put it somewhere else. Somewhere I won't think to look until next summer. Somewhere the dogs couldn't have eaten it. Somewhere it could have fallen behind furniture or under a couch. Maybe the cats knocked over the bucket. I even put the (empty) bucket back on the shelf to see if the cats would knock it off again. They did. Morning after morning, I found it on the floor.

And I worried. I pictured the sharp plastic corners ripping up my dog's stomach. I analyzed my dogs' appetites and picked through their stool and fed them canned pumpkin to coat their soft insides. I felt guilty. Guilty that I chose to adopt a dog and now I couldn't even afford to take it to the vet.

For two weeks I worried and worried and worried. Nothing happened. The dogs ate and pooped on schedule and were their usual happy selves. A ray of hope began to grow. The bag must be somewhere. They can't have eaten it. I pinned all my hopes on one event: housecleaning.

When I clean the house, I'll find it then.

Today, I cleaned the house. Actually, Nathan did most of it. I was too busy searching. Searching desperately for the missing bag of cat treats. It was nowhere to be found.

Every time I shone a flashlight down a dark cranny or organized a cupboard or moved a piece of furniture, a piece of hope died. The bag wasn't behind the fridge or under the washing machine or in the dryer-that-doesn't-work-anymore-but-we-still-haven't-got-rid-of-it.

There were two bags of dog treats in the freezer and two more bags of cat treats in the fridge. Did I have two bags or three? I'm pretty sure it was three.

I finally collapsed on the couch, exhausted and irritable. I grumped at Nathan who, having finally unclogged the shower, was happily playing Skyrim and fantasizing about how nice the basement will be once we renovate.

And then I spied them. Two cat-treat-bag-sized holes under a dresser my parents gave us last month. I'd already opened every drawer and shone a flashlight in behind it. I was pretty sure the bag wasn't there. But I pulled it out anyway.

Nothing.

My heart sank. I pushed the dresser back in. As I pushed, I heard a crunching sound and felt plastic under my sock. I looked down.

A green bag of "Seafood Medley Flavor" cat treats stared back up at me. Relief!

She didn't eat it. 

(Although she did eat half a block of cheese last week with no ill effects.)

"Thank you God," I prayed. And then I got teary-eyed. And then I showed Nathan. Anyone who has a gamer husband knows that "showed" equates to waving the bag of cat treats between him and the TV while he says, "Yes, dear" and tells you that king Jarl Balgruuf the Greater is helping him trap a dragon so he can find another dragon named Alduin that feeds on souls.

Goodness, I shouldn't have asked him that. He's still talking. Now it's my turn to say, "Yes, dear."

Actually, I usually go with, "That sounds exciting."

I hate video games.

I always forget that it's not enough to remind Nathan that he needs to be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. I have to remind him fifteen minutes before that that he needs to get ready to be ready to leave fifteen minutes later.

But I suppose it's always something.

I used to think it was cute and romantic that Clementine Churchill had to remind Winston Churchill at least three times before he had to catch a train - or else he blamed her for him being late. Now I feel her pain.

And men think we are complicated.

How Saturday has flown by! My book review is due in five days ... or is it four? I haven't written a single word. Funny how worry so quickly transfers from one thing to another!

Happy writing!

Nathan with our doggie friends. 

Day 18: Cold

In the winter, I am a semi-responsible dog owner.

I love being outside during spring, summer, and fall.
Three seasons of the year, my big fluffy creatures get at least two walks per day - provided it's not raining.
Plus, some outdoor time chilling with me in the backyard.

Not in winter. In winter, I'm chilling all right. But I don't have to be outside to do that.
The dogs get one walk every day. They should count themselves lucky.

I hate being cold.

Today it's only -13, but the windchill makes it feel like -22.
I was up at 6:00 am, shivering in the snow in Nathan's pyjamas, shouting "JUST PEE ALREADY!" into the dark.
Oh, to have a fenced-in yard.

After work, I will don every article of clothing I own and take the dogs on a walk.
This activity is supposed to make us bond.
We're bonding all right.

Brown slush bonds to my grey dress pants.
Drool and dog hair bond to my coat.

Need I say more?

However, we three create quite a spectacle traipsing down the sidewalk together. I've noticed there are two ways people respond when approached by two large black canines:

Person #1:

Person #1: OMG! Are those your dogs?
Me:           Yes. (I wouldn't be walking them in -20 degree weather if they weren't.)
Person #1: They are SOOOO beautiful!
Me:           (Shivering slightly) Thank you.
Person #1: Can I pet them?
Me:           (Hopping from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm.) Yes.
Person #1: What are their names?
Me:           (Teeth chattering) The boy is Sam and the girl is Kia.
Person #1: Tia?
Me:           (Toes losing all feeling) No. Kia like the car.
Person #1: Oohhhhh. Did you name her after a car because she's so big?
Me:           No. (And if I did, why would I choose Kia? Why not Ford or Dodge or Chevy?)
             
The conversation continues until I politely extricate myself and hobble home to thaw my remaining limbs.
Or Sam tries to hug them.

If you meet me on the street, never hold out your arms and say "hugs" unless you want a 120 pound Newfie to launch himself enthusiastically into your arms. 

Nathan found that out the hard way. 

Person #2: Crosses to the other side of the street.

Seriously though, I love it when people love my dogs.
It validates a deep part of my soul.
I just love it more when it's warm outside.

In other news, other than doing my Wintergirls review, I'd like to spend some time brushing up on the art side of things.

I'll post pictures if anything turns out brilliantly.

If it's all garbage, I'll come back and erase the last two sentences and we can all pretend it never happened.

You didn't see anything... 

Until then, happy doodling!

PS - If you're feeling brave and want me to try a VERY quick sketch of you, your family, or your worst enemy, feel free to send me a photo via email - natelisa.robinson@gmail.com. No promises though! Sometimes I forget.