My mom calls me a helicopter parent. This is possibly because I barely even trust her to watch my dogs. I mean, there was that one time I was out of town on business and my two Rottweilers were found running down the middle of a busy road and had to be loaded into her clown car Mini Cooper tired and thirsty…but I digress.
Vet visits are always challenging for me because I have to Clark W. Griswold every single aspect of my life (and theirs, obviously).
The biggest problem is as dumb as my dogs are, they know when the morning routine is off. Good luck getting them to do their potties when I ask because the fact that I’m asking means we’re going someplace. Going someplace means they can’t think! They can’t drink! The cannot potty! They WILL NOT potty! And this time, by “they” I mean the psychotic hound who is normally my good potty girl.
Doggy Dental Day is an annual event that just really stresses me out. This is the first year that both of them are having their teeth cleaned (Sherman is still young) so I have to plan how to get them both loaded in the Jeep to come home while loopy from anesthesia. Also, I don’t trust the people in charge of their care so I worry about them all day. Helicopter parent.
I took the day off because their vet is 20 miles away, I had to drop them off at 0700, and I can’t do the working when I’m doing the worrying. I intended to come home and do stuff but now that I’m home with no one to attack the vacuum, I don’t know what to do with myself. Looks like I’ll be sitting here on the couch waiting for the call letting me know when they’ll be ready to come home. Helicopter parent.
How do people not have pets? There is no snoring, chewing, panting, or barking. It’s so quiet I can’t think. Instead, I’m just sitting here wondering if they’re okay. Did the vet tech take Lulu out to poop? Is their blood work normal? Do they miss me? Should I have asked for dental x-rays? That’s a thing, you know. Am I a bad person because I said to skip them? Sherman is having some tests done on one of his eyes. Am I a bad person because I waited to have it checked? What if it’s eye cancer? Then it’s all my fault if he dies. What if it’s a parasite and it spreads to Lulu and they both die? Helicopter parent.
This is a good time to rearrange my shoes or something. I’m sure they’re fine. But maybe I’ll just make a quick call to check on them first.
Note: To be fair, it wasn’t even my mom’s fault the Rommels escaped. That was a Kansas wind issue so she’s totally innocent. It’s just fun to give her grief.
Dogs are vile and disgusting creatures, not to mention expensive. I refuse to consider the tens of thousands of dollars I have spent on vet bills due to accidents, illnesses, and escalated arguments because I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life. My mother has accused me of being a helicopter parent. Frankly, I don’t even know how to respond to that. Like, should I be proud or insulted? My dogs have quite a bit of freedom to do their own thing within the suburban confines but I do check for eye boogers on the regular.
A while back, I was in my master bathroom doing things one does in ones master bathroom when I heard a God-awful yelp. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. I mean, normally when someone yelps I can immediately leap into action and help them! But there I was living out my first-world nightmare.
By the time I was able to investigate, everyone was fine. I inspected every paw, every dewclaw, every ear, and every rear. I checked the entire house for blood. Nothing was amiss. I checked the backyard and found the same. Both dogs acted like that wail from the bowels of Hell had not occurred and I was obviously a deranged lunatic. I demanded to know how they could be so calm when my heart rate was at emergency status. Instead of answers, I received kisses…which are basically the same thing.
WARNING: This post contains graphic photos with blood and puncture wounds.
The morning of June 3, 2015 began like any other. I got up, fed my dog, and went to work. When I arrived in the parking lot, I saw one of the guys petting a pitbull. I walked over to talk to him and the dog ran right up to me. She was incredibly friendly and seemed completely unafraid. June in Tucson is unpleasant to say the least, so we were all about making sure she had water and wasn’t running around on the hot pavement.
The dog was wearing a collar with a license so our Facilities Manager called animal control to find her owner. He was told her name was Sugar and he was given the owner’s phone number. The man who answered denied being her owner so we confined the dog and tried to figure out what to do with her. Sugar actually hung out in an air conditioned office most of the afternoon because it was too hot outside.
Ultimately, I took Sugar home with me that evening so I could make sure she was safe while I looked for someone who may be missing her. She insisted upon riding shotgun in my Jeep and rode most of the way home with her head on my arm. When we got home, Sugar and Lulu were totally chill with one another. Sugar was filthy from being on the streets so I gave her a bath and removed the collar that was cutting into her skin. She had quite a few scars so I wondered if she had ever been used for fighting. That night, she slept in bed right next to Lulu and cuddled up like she’d been doing it for years.
That weekend, I took Sugar to the vet to check for a microchip and was given the contact information for her chip registry. We went ahead and got her some shots since it wasn’t clear how long she had been on the loose and because she was found on the south side of Tucson. Yes, that’s me being judgy but I’ve seen some things. Sugar and Lulu continued getting to know one another and Lulu even shared her toys.
I meant to call the chip registry number on Monday but it was an insane day. My boss was out of town and I was completely slammed. I realized when I got home that I forgot to call and figured I would get to it first thing on Tuesday. Sugar and Lulu were napping together on the couch and then began playing. They were kind of chasing each other around the living room with ears up and tails wagging. I was supervising just to make sure it didn’t escalate and then I made the mistake of clapping my hands.
I’ve heard people say that sometimes pitbulls will turn on people or dogs without warning and it’s like flipping a switch. I always thought that was bullshit. My Rottweilers always showed warning signs when they were losing their patience. Sugar gave no warning when she attacked Lulu in my living room.
I was trying to break up the fight and was being bitten by both dogs. All three of us were rolling around on the tile and I was screaming at them both to stop. Sugar had clamped on to Lulu’s collar and I was punching her as hard as I could trying to get her to let go. There was blood everywhere and I was getting really tired. I knew if it went on much longer, I would be too tired to help Lulu so I ran to a spare bedroom and grabbed my bb gun. I held it by the barrel and slammed the stock into Sugar’s head until she let go of Lulu’s collar. As soon as she released it, I pushed Lulu out the patio door and closed it behind her. That’s when I called 911 for help. Sugar acted confused and completely subdued while I waited for help to arrive.
I ended up with fire, police, EMTs, and animal control at my house. Animal control took Sugar and I assume she was euthanized but I don’t know that for sure. With the scars she had and the location where she was found, there is no telling what she had been through.
The EMTs saw the wounds with adipose tissue gaping out of them and convinced me to go to the hospital for stitches. They had let Lulu back in the house and I was more worried about taking care of her but they were super concerned about all of my wounds caked with dog hair and slobber. The firefighters convinced me they would make sure Lulu had water and was okay so I could go in the ambulance. She was so upset she tried to jump on the gurney with me.
When I got to the ER, everyone made a big deal out of how many wounds I had and the risk of infection. Apparently, doctors don’t like to stitch dog bites but they were gaping to the point where they didn’t have a choice. But first, they had to clean the wounds. I was offered pain meds but refused because I needed to take care of Lulu when I got home. So this really sweet guy scraped the living shit out of these gaping wounds with a plastic scrub brush and I didn’t have so much as an ibuprofen. He kept asking me if I needed drugs and I kept telling him to hurry up and get it done.
I had lidocaine injections for the stitches but they didn’t wait long enough and I still felt every single one. TWELVE stitches in my arms, left hand, right calf, and right foot. Then they wrapped me up like a mummy and sent me on my way at around 11:30 that night. It was a brand new hospital and they didn’t have the antibiotic they wanted me to take. But they were all super duper worried about infection, or something. I finally got home at around midnight with no pain meds, no antibiotics, and no idea how my dog was doing.
It turns out Lulu is tougher than she looks. Her ear had a rip about half an inch long and she had a couple puncture wounds on her neck but her thick leather collar bore the brunt of the attack. The firefighters broke out the peroxide and cleaned up the majority of the blood in my kitchen. The adrenaline was finally wearing off and I was beginning to feel like absolute shit. I texted my boss’s boss to let him know I wouldn’t be at work the next day.
The next day was fun as hell. I could barely get my right foot into a sock, let alone a shoe. I had stitches between my toes and could barely stand. My left arm looked like the Incredible Hulk. I drove myself to the drive-thru pharmacy and faced the third degree over what the hell had happened to me and why my entire arm was green. Apparently, I didn’t look great. I sure didn’t feel great.
When I went back to work on Wednesday, I limped around with my right foot in a sock and my mind in a daze. I’ve never been so tired in my entire life. I probably shouldn’t have been driving even then but I had no choice.
A coworker and I removed my stitches at work a week later. I couldn’t run or wear heels for months afterward. I still can’t flex my right foot due to the scar tissue. Most of the scars on my arms have blended in with the others. My right calf still looks like it ended up in an angry pitbull’s mouth.
I’m tired just thinking about all of that again. I still love pitbulls but I’ll think twice about bringing one home with me again. I’m thankful Lulu and I found Sherman out on the rez and they live in peace and harmony. Mostly, I wish people didn’t do horrible things to dogs that make them lose their shit.
Note: Pima Animal Care Center in Tucson regularly tells the public during periods of overcrowding to keep found animals at home rather than dropping them at their location while attempting to locate the owners. So you may think I’m a dumbass for doing that but it’s exactly what they say people should do.
Anxiety and perfectionism go together like peanut butter and jelly. It’s kind of a chicken/egg thing. Also, I’m hungry right now but if I eat a snack this soon after lunch I’ll be starving before dinner and then I’ll have to eat another snack, which means I can only have one beer tonight without blowing my calorie budget. If I exceed my daily allotment, then that beautiful aubergine Calvin Klein dress I just bought will be too snug and then I’ll die homeless and alone.
Every thought flowing through my brain is just like that. This is why I’m always exhausted. That dress is fire, though.
My therapist and I were talking yesterday about guilt, perfectionism, and anxiety. I told her one of my dogs had slipped on the tile chasing a ball and his paw went through the drywall near my laundry room…a WHILE ago. I know exactly how to fix the hole. I have the tools and materials to do the job. And yet it sits.
Sherman’s wall art…so beautiful.
I know how to cut around the hole and remove the existing drywall. I know how to cut the new piece and put it in place. I know how to tape and mud the seams. I sure as hell know how to sand and mud and sand and mud and sand and mud some more…into infinity. The problem is my house has textured walls and the texture has to match. It doesn’t matter that this is a spot people rarely see and even if they do, it’s not particularly well-lit. It. Has. To. Match.
So because I am not particularly confident in my spackling camouflage skills, it sits. Because I can’t deal with asking a coworker who is a journeyman painter or even the professional handyman neighbor a block over to stop by and work his magic, it sits. Having people in my house is more traumatic than looking at Sherman’s paw hole.
I do this with everything. Grocery shopping? Check. Hair cuts? Check. Ordering new lenses for my glasses? Check. I Clark W. Griswold myself into paralyzing reclusiveness. I’m already dreading going to the Post Office next week to sign for an envelope being sent certified today.
I have too much anxiety to live in an urban zip code that would offer one-hour grocery delivery. Problem-solve your way around that one! When I get home today, I will open a beer and an internet browser tab to order everything I need that is non-perishable. I have enough frozen lunches to get me through next week and I can begin working up the mental strength to stop by Safeway on my way home next Friday. By that time, I will have carefully scrutinized all of the digital coupons and rebates for all of the things I need to avoid returning to the store for at least the next three weeks.
I didn’t forget about the guilt; I’m just too tired from thinking about all of this to tie it all together with a nice little bow. You can work it out for yourself.
You may think women sitting around complaining in the office are wasting time. You would be wrong. Everyone knows summers in Arizona can be brutal. Most people know HOAs are a scourge to homeowners across the country. Add (wo)man’s best friend to the beige stucco box subdivision mix and you have a big, smelly mess.
That’s right; this is post is about poop. If you’re the least bit squeamish, I suggest you leave now.
Many HOAs disallow outdoor storage of the wheeled trash carts, meaning we have to store them in our garages. That’s fine until the temperature reaches about 80, which covers the majority of the year. So once we clean up after our dogs in the backyard, that trash cart gets RIPE. Thoughts and prayers for anyone who must enter my garage.
I just happened to ask a coworker how she deals with the stench of the dog poop in her garage and she said she uses her daughter’s old diaper pail. *record skipped* Say what now? Parents of human children probably think this is an obvious solution. I, however, am not a parent of human children.
It turns out there are diaper pails specifically made for pets. I read a ton of reviews (so you don’t have to) and was completely unimpressed. They all seemed to be made for tiny pets rather than the vile and disgusting creatures in my home. I only have weekly trash service so a larger capacity contraption was required. I settled on the Diaper Genie Complete because it’s large and it has a foot pedal. Based on the reviews I read, I ordered Target brand refill bags and then basically forgot about it. I must have been drunk shopping again.
When my Target order landed on my doorstep, I was super confused about why the box was so big for such a small grocery order.
Sherman dutifully performed a cursory security check.
Oh yeah…drunk online shopping.
It even has a cute little charcoal filter!Bottom of the poop sausage casing
Lessons learned:
That circumference of the opening is SMALL, y’all. If you have two large dogs and double bag your poop before it goes in the pail, you need to pick it up every day.
You can’t just hit the foot pedal and drop the bag inside. You have to *work it*. Like, with your hands. Also, this is why I always double bag.
This pail will hold a week’s worth of my dogs’ poop without any problems. If I still had Rottweilers, I might need a second pail but my two are 65 lbs and 85 lbs and it’s fine.
You don’t have to insert a new bag every time you empty the pail. Apparently, you just cut the bag after you tie it at the top of the poop sausage and then make another tie to begin the next poop sausage casing.
I’m a dumbass (see #4).
I haven’t noticed an odor coming from the pail. I still have some residual stench when I open the trash cart and will continue with the Lysol regimen. Was it worth it? Possibly. Ask me again in June.
