End of Days

This is George.  George adopted us about thirteen years ago.  Rebecca discovered him hiding under our deck one Sunday morning.  He was about two months old and had no sign of belonging to anyone.  We did later find out he belonged to a woman down the road but she didn't really want him so I got roped into keeping him.  I say "I" because he's my dog.  Oh, he loves Rebecca too and he's always curious about where she is but he's mine.  I wasn't thrilled about having another pup.  Gracie was twelve at the time - she was another mutt  - looked like Benji from the old Disney movie.  Gracie I adored - she was the best dog - easy going, great temperament, and she didn't SHED!  George sheds. A lot.  He has a horrible temperament and he's not very social.  Never has been.  I took him to doggie obedience school and, while he didn't flunk out, he wasn't exactly the star student.  He's just very antisocial and figures he has his little group of humans why would he need anything more. 

So George is thirteen - old.  Very old.  His muzzle and belly are graying and for the last year he's slowed down a lot.  He's content to be in whatever room I'm in but he doesn't follow me around like he used to - if I get up to do something he waits to see if I return before coming to look for me.  He's had some skin issues lately - he rubs himself in the grass and he's taken to gnawing at his feet some.  Up until this past winter he was still spry enough to jump on the bed and sleep with me.  Last weekend he really showed his age and it was obvious that getting up and walking around were more difficult for him than usual.  I bought him some hip and joint pills and started that therapy.  A few days later I bought some doggie aspirin and some salmon oil to add to his food.  I'd researched arthritis in dogs and found those recommendations.  I know, at the age of thirteen, there isn't all that much that can be done for him.  It's inevitable.  He's going to die at some point.  It's just part of life.  I've been mentally preparing myself for it.  My only real hope was that he would pass on his own - peacefully and quietly.  I had to have Gracie put to sleep due to liver failure and it was the most awful feeling.  I felt like I was betraying her somehow even though I knew it was the humane and selfless thing to do.  Her death is a story for another day and it involves other dynamics.  George is my responsibility now. My responsibility just like everything else since the divorce and it's one of those things I knew I'd have to face and process pretty much on my own.  Some days I hate being an adult.  

I'd been giving George all these extra things all week hoping he'd make a turn around and be more comfortable.  He didn't really seem like he was in pain though.  Sure, walking was more difficult and going down steps was more of a challenge but he wasn't making any indication he was uncomfortable.  He was wobbly and unsteady but eating fine and taking water and using the potty without any real problems.  He did have a few incidents with the solid waste that were sorta funny when I thought about it.  I would notice some mornings there would be a solid on the deck.  One morning I watched him and he went down the stairs and did his #1 and then headed back up the steps.  He got to the top step and stopped - you could see it on his face... he turned (a slow process for him) and headed back down.  He got halfway there when he couldn't hold it any longer and he dropped a few.  I couldn't really be irritated - you could see the concentration on his face and he was trying so hard to get to the grass but just couldn't get there fast enough.  I just took the rake and sent it sailing into the lawn.  No harm done.

Yesterday afternoon when I returned home after work I took him out.  He was slow going but he made it and then came in and ate his dinner.  He didn't finish all of it but ate most and then settled in for the evening.  I did some yard work then went walking with a friend.  When I got home I tried to take him out one last time before bed but he couldn't get up.  He tried but his back legs just slid out under him and he he looked uncomfortable.  He didn't want me to touch him so I left him on the little carpet beside my bed - the place he's been sleeping for the last year since he can't get on the bed any longer.  I got up this morning to get ready for work and he was still in the land of the living and try as he might he still couldn't get up.  Broke my heart and the expression on his face was just one of being lost, hopeless, defeated.  He'd scoot himself some with his front paws but just couldn't get his back legs underneath him enough to make it.  I knew I had to call the mobile vet and have him come.  I also knew it was probably time.  The vet didn't open until nine so I made plans.  I let my supervisor know I needed a personal day to attend to this.  I cleaned up a little and when it got close to nine I went back to Rebecca's room and woke her to tell her.  She cried a little and I cried a little and we hugged and talked about how we really didn't want him to suffer.  I called the vet and left a message and he called me back about an hour later. I explained to him what was going on as coherently as I possibly could.  I tried not to cry but I did a little.  He was sympathetic and explained how busy he was today and would work on making time to get here.  He asked if I was giving George aspirin and I said yes, hip/joint tablets - yes.  I also told him about the salmon oil and he said that was good. We talked about his inability to get up but that he'd been eating fine and passing waste fine.  He said it was a shame and that there was an arthritis medication we could try if it seemed like it would help but that he understood that if the quality of life George would have would be diminished then yes, it might be time.  And just as we're having this conversation, just as I'm choking back tears, the damn dog walks into the living room where I'm sitting having this conversation with the vet! 

I'm not sure what I felt.  I was emotionally prepared and here he was looking at me like it was just another ordinary day.  He sat down on the floor and then got up on his back legs and I realized he probably needed to go outside - so I'm talking to the vet and heading to the door to open it and I see his tail go up - he starts walking and plops a deuce on the floor before heading outside and down the steps to potty.  I finish my conversation with the vet and set a visit for Tuesday.  He wants to look him over and perhaps prescribe something if feasible.  If he's deteriorated more then maybe it will be time.  Until then I'm to continue with the other stuff and observe.  The dog ate his breakfast and took his pills.  He's been walk around the house and going outside.  He ate his dinner fine.  I took him out at about 9:30 pm.  We went out the front and since it's not fenced I walked with him on a leash.  He walked us all around the lawn slowly - then by the driveway and up the back deck steps to the back door.  He drank some water and has been napping since.  Go figure.

While we may be fast approaching his end, it wasn't today... silly ol' man.

New Favorite

Love this song - not sure why (she says with a coy smile)...

Wednesday

Boring title I know - but I'm not feeling too inspired other than I want to write.  I'm sitting here babysitting the washer as I wash clothes.  I won't bore anyone with the details but washing clothes at the moment is a creative endeavour.  I need to put my big girl panties on once again and ask my dad about it.  It's not so much the washer but the drain.  It's another one of those "projects" the ex half-assed and it's finally caught up with me.  Yeah, that's the funny part of it - it's caught up with me.  He's picked an awesome time to be bouncing checks.  But of course the check bouncing isn't his fault and for me to even semi-suggest that it is, caused the angry ex to come out with the pissy retorts. He really is an extremely self-centered bastard. 

Not that anyone is really paying attention concerning me and the saga of yard work but I broke down and purchased a weed eater.  It's an electric one and it requires a 100ft extension cord so I can reach all the areas I need to but I can start it easily and it's just my size and it was only $30.  Yesterday I whacked all the areas around the yard that looked hideous because I couldn't get to them with the riding mower.  I cleaned up the area next to the deck and put out mulch.  I mowed most of the yard until the thunder and lightening got bad enough that I had to come in the house.  The only area left is the very back section.  It occurred to me though as I was riding around out there it's possible my neighbors video me and put me on youtube for the whole wide world to see and laugh at - it's got to be pretty funny watching the forty something woman battling a weed eater and an extension cord, fixing the string when it does whatever the string does so it won't eat weeds, and generally looking like a goober.  Then here I am riding around on this mower - I have to do some weird contortionist act to get it started because your butt has to be firmly planted on the seat while you depress whatever pedal it is you have to depress while you turn the key.  My legs aren't long enough to reach the pedal without sliding off the seat too much so I have to really lean back making sure to keep just enough weight in the seat as I stretch my leg in just the right way to get it going.   I whiz around the yard and manage to run into tree limbs (although I've cut a good many back).  I'm sure the sight of me carrying bags of mulch around was pretty ridiculous looking also.  It doesn't matter though, not really - I don't care how silly I look at this point.  I'm just ready to have things nice and squared away.  Oh, and if anyone wondered, I did break the pressure washer but all is not lost!  I found a place that sells replacement parts and the part I broke came today - I now get how it goes on and works so, as soon as the weather decides to cooperate and not begin thundering at five as I leave work, I will try the whole power wash experiment again.

Resistance is Futile

I don't particularly like change.  I don't think that's much of a secret around this here ball.  I've talked about it before I do believe.  It's not always big things that get me though - sometimes it's the small stuff - the little inconsequential stuff that can actually make life more pleasant, more enjoyable.  Technology is something that gets me sometimes.  Take for instance my newish computer.  My old one displayed the black screen of death one evening so I had to get a new one... I really didn't want to spend the money and I really didn't want the change.  I got a new laptop - plenty of what I needed since the son went with me and helped me pick it out.  The thing was though, aside from spending the money I  really didn't want the different look and feel of the new computer.  Hey, don't get me wrong, I'm getting used to it.  It's been two months and I'm still getting used to it, sigh.

The latest stuff was the cell phone.  I get a phone and I like it and then something happens and I need a new one.  Yeah, I'm not their favorite customer I don't think because I hold onto a phone for as long as possible.  But a week ago I went with the son and the daughter in law and we broke the phones out.  Son and his wife went on about their business and my last financial tie to him was severed.  Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm happy to not be paying that anymore for him - I didn't really have to be - but it was helpful for him as they got started and well, in a goofy sorta way I was still taking care of him.  Now they're on their own and my service is a tad bit different and now cheaper.  Cable television has been the latest new frontier - I have had just regular cable, nothing fancy schamncy.  A month or so ago the cable company took about nine channels away from me - they went to digital - and I didn't have digital.  The cable company kept asking me if I wanted it and I kept resisting.  I didn't want a box, I didn't want to have to pay any extra (so I thought) and I didn't want the look of television to change for me.  I know there are lots of really exciting things out there involving television but I'm old school, yo... that's just how I roll.  But when I lost those nine channels and I couldn't watch VH1 in the mornings anymore I figured I needed to just put my big girl panties on and get the blankety blank blank boxes - so I did. 

I hooked them up yesterday and called like instructed and one of the two boxes wouldn't work.  I set up an appointment to have the one box looked and and the little tech guy came out today.  He was running late and it was after seven before he got here.  My cable line, which is about twenty years old, is - well - too old now so he ran another line.  He said these days they don't actually use the old cable line we had.  So now we have nice new cables and we have fancy schmancy programming with fancy shmancy channels and boxes and remotes.  It's scary - and there are too many choices but it's interesting.  We also have faster Internet speed.  Huh.  Who'da thunk it?  And the cost is about the same - or so they say. 

So I'd been resisting for awhile now - all this new modern stuff - smart phones (still don't have one of those but seems it may be coming for the future), digital cable, faster Internet.  I've got to get used to it all but I suppose there are worse things in life, huh? 

Two

After careful thought and thorough analysis, I have come to the conclusion there are two kinds of women in this world.  Now this may not be news to some people - most people perhaps - but it has been something I've suspected for a long while now and never really been able to articulate.  I probably won't be able to articulate it as accurately as I'd like now anyway but I feel the need to put it down somewhere and get it all out and then perhaps let it go.  Perhaps this will be cathartic for me and I can shed a tear or two, feel sorry for myself some, and then move forward in typical Belle fashion.  I may not always feel great, or competent or together but I always manage to find a way - even if it's not the easiest, or the smartest, or the most logical.  I know what kind of woman I am though, I know what category I fit in, and because I get that I also get that there is no other choice but to figure it out by myself. 

I've always been oblivious I think... in high school there was this one particular girl.  She was attractive and smart.  She was a year younger than me but ran in the same circle and so I knew her.  We weren't particularly close but shared the same friends so there were lunch time interactions as well as non-academic classes.  She always had a guy.  Always.  In fact, there were guys lined up waiting their turn to be her guy.  When she was a freshman she was dating all the senior guys.  There was actually an incident where she was dating one guy, then began dating his best friend behind his back and when it all came out and blew up it wasn't pretty.  She went through the popular guys in my class and all the popular guys in her class.  They all wanted her - wanted to be with her.  And, like I said, she was pretty, but sheesh - not that pretty.  It left the rest of us girls scratching our heads and wondering.  It wasn't until I was in college that it started to make sense because one of the guys she dated - one of the best friends she broke up - became a (very) platonic friend of mine in college and sort of gave me the run down about her.  He didn't really say any of it in a derogatory way, he still held a great deal of affection for her and they actually ended up getting back together for a time before her behavior caused a bit more drama that included me and my then boyfriend (now ex-husband  - sheesh I should have known).  Yeah, she was having sex with everyone - all those guys she went out with, the revolving door of teenage testosterone - but the thing was though, they all wanted to take care of her - rescue her.  Time and time again it was all about how she had such a rough time - how her life was this or lacking that and she needed someone to help her. 

In college I had another encounter with this mentality - there was a girl I went to high school with who ended up being one of my freshman roommates.  She was a mousy little thing - sorta looked like Sissy Spacek in Carrie just shorter.  Lots shorter.  In high school she wasn't popular.  I mean I wasn't what one would call uber popular - I didn't date a lot and didn't go out a lot with my friends - my dad was nuts about that sort of thing - but I had friends and there was interest I suppose.  I was smart and was in the top ten percent of my class and, well, I suppose that afforded me a certain amount of inclusion and respect, regardless of the fact my dad was a tyrant.  Anyway -the first semester of our freshman year she found herself to be pregnant and with a boyfriend who adamantly insisted that he could not be married and go into the Air Force as he had planned and therefore, as much as he loved her, he couldn't marry her and have a baby because that would mean he wouldn't be able to follow his dream.  Yeah, I know - she bought it though and with the help of our third roommate made an appointment and had an abortion.  It was sad, but her choice and I hated the guy she thought she loved abandoned her like he did.  Here she is, little mousy girl, and she's pitiful, ya' know.  So when my (very) platonic friend (remember him?) and I would go hang out she'd end up tagging along because, after all, she was so pitiful and needed company and support and all that.  I started to notice stuff though... she'd say things in a very soft whispered voice, stuff that was almost impossible to hear, and he'd have to lean in to listen.  They started spending time alone together and well, wouldn't you know it they ended up having some kind of sexual thing.  Not really boyfriend and girlfriend, not really sure what it was - friends with benefits?  Nah, not even that - there really was no friendship, per say, no give and take,  just sex I guess, oh and the fact he took care of her.  She would be thirsty and he would go to the store to get the exact kind of drink she liked. Or, she would be hungry and he'd go to whatever drive-thru appealed to her at that moment.  If she had a headache he would bring her aspirin and cuddle her while she laid her head on his shoulder to rest.  What's that 80s phrase? Gag me with a spoon?  Yeah.  Gag me with a spoon.  I actually ran into her a few years ago - she's pretty much a train wreck now.

So  here I am, single lady - divorced and on my own.  What am I saying - I was on my own for most of my marriage really, so yeah, nothing too new.  And I have a friend - great friend - think a lot of her and enjoy the heck out of her company.   Not sure if I'd ever blogged about this before but we used to work together and she and I would run into each other, neither of us sure about the other, until one day she said something in an almost catty way about someone else, and then caught herself.  You could see on her face she wasn't too sure if she'd overstepped some kind of boundary - like what she'd said would be  broadcast to the world at large.  I just smiled and quoted Steel Magnolias and said something along the lines of "you know what they say - if you don't have anything nice to say about someone come and sit by me."  She died laughing and ever since then we've been friends.  She knew my story before most people and yet never used what I said as gossip.  When she went through some similar stuff prior to her divorce she confided in me and that's where it stayed.  She's a smart, funny, attractive woman and we have a blast when we're together although sometimes we go months and months between hanging out.  She has been very busy since her divorce - always a guy somewhere.  The newest one she seems to really like a lot.  He lives out of state and she met him at a friend's wedding. She always seems to have some guy ready to be there for her, though. Most of our friends think she's the more outgoing of the two of us - but truth is when we're out and about together I tend to be the one who is more talkative and flirty while she tends to be more aloof.  She'd even tell you that. And like I said, she's attractive but not built like a brick house or anything - as a matter of fact last weekend when we went to the movie we'd not seen each other in months and she looked at me, hugged me and said, "Damn, how much weight have you lost?"  I told her and she said, "You look great! I hate you. I think I've gained what you lost." We have a single male friend and I sort of think he likes her.  He has lots of baggage though and she's not interested in him.  I'm not either for that matter.  He's an awesome guy but has not processed his divorce well.  But he's always ready and willing to mow her lawn and fix stuff around her house.  Me. eh.  And I could really use a fella willing to help out once in a while.  My brother helps when I ask.  My son sometimes too.  I hate asking though since they both have their own lives but sometimes I have no choice.

So tonight... what brought all this on?  I borrowed my brother's pressure washer.  The front porch cement floor is in desperate need of painting and the wood needed to be cleaned.  The back deck is awful and needs cleaning as well.  This afternoon I finally get out there to tackle the thing.  No instructions to follow but I hook it up and low and  behold it works - I think.  I'm spraying the thing and working on the wood and somehow end up slicing my little finger with the spray.  It hurts.  A lot. I  manage to finish the front and drag the thing to the back - move the stuff on the deck around in order to get to the wood, hook up the hose, turn on the water and off pops the thingy that connects the hose to the washer.  I turn the water off and attach it again and pop.  So now I've either broken it or am not attaching it properly, I have no idea which.  I'll need someone to look at it tomorrow or I'll have to give the whole thing another try.  I looked up the instruction manual on the Internet - not a whole lot there to read over.  But hey, I did learn if I broke it I can order a replacement part for it.  That's a  consolation. 

This whole power washer experience is the compilation of similar projects and tasks that caused me to pause and think about what I'm doing - cutting trees and branches and gathering them into a rather (now) large pile - cleaning and sanding and staining the deck, painting walls and fixing cracks and unsticking stuck windows, all in addition to budgeting and cooking and cleaning and raising a teenager and working.  I'm doing all these things and I'm wondering why - why am I getting cuts and callouses on my hands?   Sometimes I just want a man to take care of me so I don't end up with cuts and bruises and blisters.  What the heck is wrong with me?  Or, more specifically - what is it about me that men seem to ignore?   Why doesn't anyone want to rescue me?  Do I have no redeeming qualities, no attractiveness in either face or spirit to draw a man to me?  And that, my friends, is what's brought me to the ball tonight... this resolute belief there are two kinds of women in this world - those who men take care of and those who men don't.  Me, I'm in the later column and I'm not entirely sure why.  Perhaps it's because I ate the line of bologna my mom fed me - a woman doesn't need no stinkin' man to take care of her (the irony or hilarity (you tell me) is dad was taking care of her the whole time because "Annie" needed him to) and I've lived it - sadly, lonely lived it. 

I walk around in a world full of human beings - people who have emotions and feelings and desires and wants and needs.  Me, I don't allow myself any of that.  Don't get me wrong, they're there - all of it.  In spades.  I don't tend to allow myself to think or believe I can have any of them though so maybe that's why men don't either.   Makes me easy to leave, to forget, to ignore.   Even when I let myself go, let myeslf get caught up in a moment, dare to hope that maybe perhaps there is something, it's with the understanding that's all it probably really is - a moment - and that knowledge hurts like my still stinging little finger I cut using the power washer I may, or may not, have broken.  And, with that, I'm going to bed...