Sure hope your week has been good. I’d feel infinitely better knowing somewhere, somehow, someone is doing well. Goodness can be absorbed vicariously, so please comment and tell me some good stuff! I need the fix!
First though, thank you all so much for your prayers and concern for Hubby. The Facebook posts, emails, notes and phone calls have done so much to help keep his spirits up. The infection at his pacemaker site is clearing, and the blood clot that developed in his jugular is starting to respond to meds. I can only hope my hair responds as well to Lady Clairol. Pretty sure fear turned it white, and it feels as if a few ‘grim-face’ wrinkles have taken up residence alongside the laugh lines.
Why, I wonder, do your muse and your life have to compete? Think about it; your Muse appears –bearing long sought answers to plot or character problems, or flashes of epic inspiration and insight– when things are at their absolute worst. Not only is there no laptop in a cardiac waiting room, there isn’t even a napkin to scribble upon. Of course she’s strongest after three days of running on no sleep, snatched partial meals, and you’ve decided a migraine headache must be part of your natural state. (You know the kind; it’s hung over and behind your brow for so long you’re afraid to look in the mirror. You just know a Klingon will look back.) Things have ganged up on me until I feel beaten up, run over, chewed up and spit out. To top it off my writing has been necessarily sporadic, and since I write to maintain balance, it’s been bad. Unless sleep deprivation and creativity go hand in hand, then if so, like IHop’s pot of coffee, I have discovered the source of the endless Muse.
It’s not just Hubby. Even my Pit Bull rescue puppy has problems. Took him to the vet because he’d developed a limp. Turns out he has severe hip dysplasia. And I admit being told was the last straw of a hay strewn month. I cried. Dogs with dysplasia have to have surgery, or be euthanized. Pits in particular are more often euthanized because pain can potentially lead to a reactionary bite. It doesn’t matter that it’s unintentional. If surgical intervention is possible it’s usually several thousand dollars in fees. But while I worried over the outcome, it turns out Cochise had taken care of things on his own.
We arrived at the vet on lead and joined the peek-a-poo, chihuahua, bloodhound, a 240 pound English Mastiff (Dozer was so large the kid in me was tempted to ask if I could ride him) and three cats in the waiting room. Cochise was amazing. He walked calmly in, sat beside me, and one-by-one proceeded to win over every person in the room. When he flopped onto his back, stuck his paws in the air and pretended to run I got a bit embarrassed, but the little boy there thought it was hilarious. The receptionist waved everyone in the back up to the front to watch. The only problem we had was when a young woman, well-rounded into her pregnancy, took the first opportunity to move next to us with her sick kitty in a soft carry bag.
Oh, not the type of trouble you’d expect. Cochise is used to cats. In fact he kept trying to nose open the crate to aid and abet the cat’s escape. Cochise loves toes. And the young lady had sparkly, light-catching, gold-glittered toe nails, set off to advantage by her rhinestoned thong-style sandals. Focused on them, Cochise crept closer, inch by inch. Anything to lick those wiggly, tempting little digits. I’d skid him back with a prolonged screeeech of nails on tile, and he’d sneak right back while we talked. He was so slick about it the only way I’d know he moved was her giggling from being tickled. A look of ecstasy on his doggie face, first one eyebrow would to up, then the other. A Pit Bull with a foot fetish, and he’s mine, all mine.
Called to the back, the tech –a small woman– took one look at him, one look at the scale, and her shoulders slumped. “I can get the little dogs weights by having the owner hold them while standing on the scale, then weigh just the owner and deduct to get the difference. But him? He probably won’t hold still long enough for the scales to register.” The vet walked by between patients and told her “Do the best you can with him.” I signaled Cochise up on the scale, told him to sit. Gave him the hand signal to hold.
And he did exactly that, surrounded by strangers in a strange environment. I was so proud. All those hours working with him actually paid off! (And Jeff, he now weighs 62.5 pounds. That’s a big pile of puppy!) I had to leave him to be sedated for x-rays, and my daughter laughed, razzing me for checking my watch more often than when she missed curfew as a teen.
The vet, impressed with Cochise’s behavior and socialization (other than growling at the mop, and the vet can stay puzzled. No way I’m admitting I cuss while doing floors), as well as being personally partial to rescues, offered to do the surgery for literally a pittance. He assured me it would be a year or two before we’d have to address the second hip, and the same rates would apply. The world got downright sunny again. I wouldn’t have to kill my puppy.
Worry may have rendered me unable to write in a hospital waiting room, determination not to leave Hubby alone may have interfered with word count, and veterinary attention for my dog may have usurped my writing time, but three things are for sure:
I can add realism to crisis scenes from observed and experienced emotions.
Word count can be made up by simply adding a couple hundred extra words with every session at the keyboard.
And somewhere down the line one of my books is sure to contain a Pit Bull with a foot fetish, embarrassing his owner! What a unique way to lead into romance! *wink,wink*
See y’all next week!