missmiah: (Bellatrix)
( Nov. 20th, 2014 11:20 am)
It's been a few days since Captain took Loki to the vet for the last time.

I didn't think I'd be as upset as I was.

I definitely was not kidding when I said I hated that cat. I did. I hated him.

But I also loved him in my own way.

I miss the way he used to sleep on my husband's pillow at night, just above Captain's head like some sort of freakish snoring wig.

I miss the way he would head butt me in the face when he thought I was sad, even though it always left his eye cooties all over my nose.

I will not miss the peeing on things, the stains from his constantly running eyes (allergies), or the way he'd pick fights with the two girl cats in a sad bid to be the Alpha (it never worked).

I know my husband misses Loki. He was understandably upset and crying when he came home from that last vet visit. He held Loki through the final moments.

I wish I knew how to make things better for him, but he says it will just take time.
As I suspected would happen, Captain has found excuse after excuse to put off making an appointment to have the Demon Cat put to sleep. He's also forgetting to give the cat his the daily meds that only keep the cat calm if he has them every day. So, you know, breaking his promise to me. Again.

At this point I'm starting to think I'd be better off keeping the cat and losing the husband.
missmiah: (Bellatrix)
( Oct. 20th, 2014 07:15 pm)
After more than ten years of the Demon Cat leaking eye gunk on me, peeing on my things, peeing ON ME, and generally being a jealous cow about our dog, me, and the baby... Captain has finally decided that perhaps it is time to put Loki to sleep.

Both of us are understandably upset at the thought of putting him down, and even though there are days when I hate that cat so much, we are both heartbroken.

Two months ago when he literally walked up to me, turned around and peed in my face, I was pretty much ready to call it right then, but Captain gave me the sad puppy eyes and I agreed to spend $200 on a comprehensive vet exam to make sure there wasn't a physical issue like a UTI or some sort of bladder thing causing him to do the peeing thing.

There wasn't.

The cat is one of the healthiest eleven year old cats the vet had ever seen. She also didn't understand how I managed to put up with being peed on for a decade, which... THANK YOU. At least someone appreciated my pain and restraint.

However, that meant that Loki's renewed determination to pee on all of -my- things and a new found aggression with the Demon Spawn was a behavioural thing. AND, since my husband has still not managed to fulfill his daily responsibility to drug the Demon Cat to try to chill the little shit out...

We're giving up. We're horrible furparents. We've considered rehoming him but 1) who is going to want to adopt a cat that sprays on all the things and 2) Loki has been Captain's cat for eleven years and is very very attachhed, and I honestly think separating them at this point would do a lot of harm to Loki's psyche. It's about quality of life, and we just don't think Loki would be happy somewhere else. And we're not happy with him here.

People are going to say we should have tried harder (TEN YEARS OF BEING PEED ON, I TRIED A LOT OK) blah blah biscuit cakes. Yet none of those people have ever offered a solution that doesn't involve me sucking it up and washing cat spray off my stuff for another decade.

Plus, I'm pretty sure Captain is going to change his mind and talk me out of it anyway. he always does.
I spent the last three weeks working out an incredibly complicated time table for our move - it involved sending Captain to Colorado weeks early to find a house, bringing him home, packing, clearing the house so the carpet cleaner can get in, arranging the final walk through with Asshat the realtor, either shipping or arranging some other means of transport for the second vehicle, finding a way to transport the four furballs, driving us plus Demon Spawn 2000 plus miles in as short of time frame as sanity and the laws of physics would allow and getting hotels for as many nights as necessary before we can take possession of the new rental property.

Obviously none of that will work now, because that's how these things go.

Last night, as we're in bed with the lights off going over the details of our day and our plans for what needs to be done tomorrow (because that's what boring old married people do in bed most nights) Captain says that he'd rather just pack up this house at the end of April, hop in the car, leave the keys to the second car with a friend who is willing to tow it for us, and just drive to Colorado and find a house once we get there. It would mean our stuff would go into storage until we have a place and the Army decides to it's convenient for them to give our stuff back; and it would mean I'd have to figure out how to pack clothes for three people for at least a week, bottles, formula, diapers, cat food, dog food, cat littler, a stroller, a Pack N Play, a dog kennel, a pair of laptops into one trunk... which I'm not sure is even possible. We did make sure that the new (gigantic) car seat will fit behind the driver's seat and that three cat carriers and the dog can fit in the rest of the back seat space, so it is physically possible to get all seven of us into the car at the same time.

Captain's plan is probably cheaper in the long run, and would mean less rushing around and things depending on everything going off without incident, but I hate hate hate going into a move blind.

And this is why I started taking my anti-anxiety meds again yesterday, because I'm stressing myself out over things I have no real control over.

I don't want to be homeless, even if it is just for two weeks.
The Demon Spawn had his four month check up today. (Posted pictures yesterday, in case you missed that and wanted to see him looking like a demented Christmas elf.) Took his shots like a trooper, cried for less than a minute and then was all smiles (with just a hint of suspicious side-eye whenever anyone came close with something in their hands). He's chubby, but not obese, and he's on the short side (just like both his parents). Still hitting all his age milestones and then some, so we're all very proud on that score.

Talked to the doctor about when we should start the kiddo on solid food and she told us we could do it now, but I think we're going to wait until after he's six months old. I've heard that it's easier on their stomachs to wait that long and it would be a lot easier on us if we can get through the move in late April/early May without having to figure out how to deal with feeding the baby solids on the road/before the house is unpacked.

So... this morning was spent at the hospital taking care of baby things, yesterday was spent at the vet taking care of cat things (two hours at the vet with three cats and a little one who has recently decided the world is far too interesting to waste time on naps) and car things, Sunday was a board gamer meeting where we had to discuss actual serious issues rather than just sitting around playing 7 Wonders and Ticket to Ride (not that we didn't play 7 Wonders after the serious stuff), Saturday was Star Wars because my players want to actually fight all the zombies (yes, zombies in Star Wars... it's canon) and save the world(s) before we move.

It's been busy lately.

I need to wash bottles and shower because the Demon Spawn expressed his satisfaction with lunch by grinning at me with a mouthful of milk, then I hope to get an hour of writing in for the first time in WEEKS. Fingers crossed, knock on wood, etc.
The Demon Spawn had his four month check up today. (Posted pictures yesterday, in case you missed that and wanted to see him looking like a demented Christmas elf.) Took his shots like a trooper, cried for less than a minute and then was all smiles (with just a hint of suspicious side-eye whenever anyone came close with something in their hands). He's chubby, but not obese, and he's on the short side (just like both his parents). Still hitting all his age milestones and then some, so we're all very proud on that score.

Talked to the doctor about when we should start the kiddo on solid food and she told us we could do it now, but I think we're going to wait until after he's six months old. I've heard that it's easier on their stomachs to wait that long and it would be a lot easier on us if we can get through the move in late April/early May without having to figure out how to deal with feeding the baby solids on the road/before the house is unpacked.

So... this morning was spent at the hospital taking care of baby things, yesterday was spent at the vet taking care of cat things (two hours at the vet with three cats and a little one who has recently decided the world is far too interesting to waste time on naps) and car things, Sunday was a board gamer meeting where we had to discuss actual serious issues rather than just sitting around playing 7 Wonders and Ticket to Ride (not that we didn't play 7 Wonders after the serious stuff), Saturday was Star Wars because my players want to actually fight all the zombies (yes, zombies in Star Wars... it's canon) and save the world(s) before we move.

It's been busy lately.

I need to wash bottles and shower because the Demon Spawn expressed his satisfaction with lunch by grinning at me with a mouthful of milk, then I hope to get an hour of writing in for the first time in WEEKS. Fingers crossed, knock on wood, etc.
missmiah: (Default)
( Jul. 26th, 2012 12:34 pm)
Am not dead even though I haven't posted in a month, apparently.

Just really been busy.

Have exchange fic that needs at least a good chunk of wordage finished so I can turn it in in... four or five days (yikes) so that I can prove that even though I am a giant slacker with far too much on my plate right now and I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I am at least a headless chicken who has proof that there is exchange fic being worked on in my 'puter and that my assignment will be completed by the deadline (please, please let me finish my assignment by the deadline).

I'm hoping the mods aren't expecting actual proofed fic parts at this mid-point check in cause I haven't even started talking to a beta yet because... well, slacker.

ALSO - I went home to KS for a few days and had baby showers! There were people there just to say hi to me and give me (technically the demon spawn, I guess, but right now he's still just a parasite so I'm pretty sure that counts as me again) presents. So many little outfits and towels and hats with ears. HATS WITH EARS!

Okay, enough with the girly squeeing, but it was super awesome to see people I haven't seen in years again. At the family shower there was a second cousin I have not seen since she was maybe five or six? She's graduated high school and having a baby a month after me now. So many years.

One shower was Harry Potter themed (because I have awesomely dorky friends), so there are a few pictures of me dressed up as a pregnant Slytherin student standing next to my dorky Captain in his Ravenclaw tie. If I remember, there may even be a pic or two posted on LJ later - probably more posted on Facebook where some of the people in the pictures can see them.

House is about to be turned upside down as we begin to shift my office/craft making furniture into Captain's office (we're going to share, yay /sarcasm) so that we can turn this room into the future nursery. Lots of furniture has to vacate Captain's office to make room for me first, which means some furniture has to move out of the living room to make room for Captain's furniture... I'm sure you can see where this is going. And I'm still going to be left with a random Futon that I can't decide if we should keep or try to sell (seriously $150 for the wood sided futon and a huge fluffy pad, is a good deal, I swear).

Plus, I need to write Thank You notes this weekend, send a care package to Captain's sister in which ever desert she's currently stationed, pack my office, finish knitting the chalice lace baby blanket, start knitting the next in a long line of hats/blankets, WRITE TWO HG/SS FICS (OMG NEED TO DO THIS NOW) and clean the house up before the parents come to visit in two weeks so they can help us move the big pieces of furniture and also so they are not sleeping in a slightly dog tinkly scented living room (I'm glaring at you Colonel Brandon, we found what you did in that corner and we do not approve).

OH, and finally, the dog got his yearly haircut and they shaved him down to the skin almost this time. He looks so sad. It's hilarious, honestly. I feel sorry for him and give him carrots and tell him how handsome he is in a bid to try to boost his self-esteem.
Apparently I have a chest cold now.

Last week it was a case of the raging pukies that managed to morph into some horrid mutation of coughing pukies (With bonus bathroom issues thrown in for free!), and now I think (Knock on wood.) that the pukies have pretty much limited themselves to just coming up (Haha, see what I did there?) when I cough so hard everything tries to shift upwards to escape.

So, I feel like crud, but I think it's the sort of crud-feeling that comes when you're finally on the mend?

Also, Sudafed. Sudafed is my friend. I love Sudafed. I want to hug it and squeeze it and call it George. Slightly less so for Sudafed's bestie Mucinex D. Oh, don't get me wrong, Mucinex D does a lovely job at doing whatever Mucinex is supposed to do and it only made me a tiny bit loopy(er) but it turns out that Mucinex and my beta blocker are mortal enemies and will duel to the death in my blood stream! Or they just don't interact well, something like that. The box wasn't too descriptive so I just filled in the blanks. Anyway, I didn't bother to check to see if my particular beta blocker was on the verboten list (it was) until after Captain fed me two Mucinex (Mucinexes?) last night because he was tired of hearing me cough and whine that it hurt AND nothing was coming up, so then I spent the next twenty minutes before I passed out convinced I was going to die in my sleep.

So that was fun.

Tomorrow I go to see a doctor at the hospital to try to convince them to give me new prescriptions for nearly all my meds because the old ones are over a year old and the pharmacy won't refill them now. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to walk in all "Here's a list of meds I'm on, dosage, what they're for, how many times a day. Please give me more." and the doctor will be all "I see you take meds for this, this and this... Did you know you have a cold? Let's do some tests for that." and totally ignore the prescriptions I want. Because that's what they do. ALSO, I do not know what doctor I'm seeing tomorrow because Captain made the appointment and didn't get a name, or even remember what department I'm supposed to go to and it's not like the hospital is 13 stories high - oh wait, it totally is.

So tomorrow will be an adventure.

Also, tonight we were hoping to go to the game store because I have not left the house since Saturday when I had that overheating-unknown-fever thing, so it would be nice to go out and not feel like death warmed over. But that would involve not actually feeling like death warmed over so we're not positive about going out yet. And tomorrow, we're supposed to go to another game store for our Call of Cthulhu game - which... I don't like the other store. It wigs me out. People go there who do not bathe. I am judgmental, I fully own that, but I should not be able to see things moving in your hair, ok? That's not right.

Finally, the dog is locked in his crate right now because a semi trailer parked in front of the house around eight thirty this morning, and some stranger off loaded a pallet of stuff (roof stuff maybe?) into my driveway and then drove off, which lead me to believe that perhaps we are, in fact, getting a new roof after all? And perhaps the roofers might show up at some mysterious point this week, but I don't know when, so right now the dog is being punished because he can't be in the living room when strangers decide to walk in our yard because he goes NUTS so...

Am annoyed.

And sick.
Apparently I have a chest cold now.

Last week it was a case of the raging pukies that managed to morph into some horrid mutation of coughing pukies (With bonus bathroom issues thrown in for free!), and now I think (Knock on wood.) that the pukies have pretty much limited themselves to just coming up (Haha, see what I did there?) when I cough so hard everything tries to shift upwards to escape.

So, I feel like crud, but I think it's the sort of crud-feeling that comes when you're finally on the mend?

Also, Sudafed. Sudafed is my friend. I love Sudafed. I want to hug it and squeeze it and call it George. Slightly less so for Sudafed's bestie Mucinex D. Oh, don't get me wrong, Mucinex D does a lovely job at doing whatever Mucinex is supposed to do and it only made me a tiny bit loopy(er) but it turns out that Mucinex and my beta blocker are mortal enemies and will duel to the death in my blood stream! Or they just don't interact well, something like that. The box wasn't too descriptive so I just filled in the blanks. Anyway, I didn't bother to check to see if my particular beta blocker was on the verboten list (it was) until after Captain fed me two Mucinex (Mucinexes?) last night because he was tired of hearing me cough and whine that it hurt AND nothing was coming up, so then I spent the next twenty minutes before I passed out convinced I was going to die in my sleep.

So that was fun.

Tomorrow I go to see a doctor at the hospital to try to convince them to give me new prescriptions for nearly all my meds because the old ones are over a year old and the pharmacy won't refill them now. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to walk in all "Here's a list of meds I'm on, dosage, what they're for, how many times a day. Please give me more." and the doctor will be all "I see you take meds for this, this and this... Did you know you have a cold? Let's do some tests for that." and totally ignore the prescriptions I want. Because that's what they do. ALSO, I do not know what doctor I'm seeing tomorrow because Captain made the appointment and didn't get a name, or even remember what department I'm supposed to go to and it's not like the hospital is 13 stories high - oh wait, it totally is.

So tomorrow will be an adventure.

Also, tonight we were hoping to go to the game store because I have not left the house since Saturday when I had that overheating-unknown-fever thing, so it would be nice to go out and not feel like death warmed over. But that would involve not actually feeling like death warmed over so we're not positive about going out yet. And tomorrow, we're supposed to go to another game store for our Call of Cthulhu game - which... I don't like the other store. It wigs me out. People go there who do not bathe. I am judgmental, I fully own that, but I should not be able to see things moving in your hair, ok? That's not right.

Finally, the dog is locked in his crate right now because a semi trailer parked in front of the house around eight thirty this morning, and some stranger off loaded a pallet of stuff (roof stuff maybe?) into my driveway and then drove off, which lead me to believe that perhaps we are, in fact, getting a new roof after all? And perhaps the roofers might show up at some mysterious point this week, but I don't know when, so right now the dog is being punished because he can't be in the living room when strangers decide to walk in our yard because he goes NUTS so...

Am annoyed.

And sick.
missmiah: (umm... no)
( Oct. 18th, 2011 10:29 am)
You know what is super super annoying? For me, at least?

I have been diagnosed diabetic for nearly seven years. For about six and a half years of that time I was indifferent to the disease at best - rarely took my meds, even more rarely checked my numbers because finger stickings are evil and also involve sharp pokey things AND blood which are two of my OH HELL NO things. I weaned myself off of "real" pop and switched over to diet and did make a sort of half-assed effort to not eat ALL the sugared things, but that was pretty much it.

So, obviously, I was never terribly surprised to discover that my numbers didn't really go up or down that much. I was still diabetic (shocker) and they'd give me another prescription for pills I didn't want to take and admonish me for being a grown up and not sticking myself and I'm sorry, part of being a grown up is being able to willfully and with full knowledge of the consequences deciding not to do something. It's called Free Will, look it up, Doctor types.

Anywho, back in late March, I woke up with a nasty case of magically appearing overnight Cellulitus (I'm not even bothering to see if I spelled that right because I am just that bitter right now) and ended up in the ER roughly three times in a four day period PLUS an additional four doctors appointments PLUS three weeks bedrest that nearly drove me up the wall. While I may have shown up with an infection in my leg, the ER doctor that first night decided to focus not on the inflamation, pain and possible side-effects associated with a large infection caused by NO ONE KNOWS and instead decided to chastise me for not taking my diabetes meds. She literally withheld treatment for my leg for two hours because she was "so upset" that I wasn't taking my disease "seriously" and that when I came back to the ER about to lose my leg she would not help me and would stand around telling me "I told you so!"

I am not making this up.

This is for real. This is the quality of service I had to put up with for hours that first night at the ER.

Then, her and her croonies stood outside my door discussing my "stupidity" for about thirty minutes - still not treating me or telling me what was wrong with my leg, mind.

SO - long story short, I take my meds (nearly) every day now, not because I want to - I seriously hate pills. They remind me of a bad point in my life, every single time I take them I have a tiny little freakout and I literally have to work myself up to the point where I can sit down and take the morning batch every day. - but because, perhaps, if I'm taking the damn things, the next time I show up at the ER for a completely unrelated problem someone might actually help me.

ANYWAY - I told you that story so you could properly understand just why I am super annoyed to discover that after seven months of nearly-religious pill taking (everyday, and then twice a day as my various prescriptions changed) and diet coke drinking and dessert sharing/refusing and switching to only sugar-free sweets... MY BLOOD SUGAR IS STILL THE SAME!

That's right, I've actually been sticking myself once or twice a day for the last several days (yes, I know the proper sticking rules, early morning before food, wait at least two hours after eating, blah blah) and my numbers? Still the same range they were when I was told I was diabetic in the first place.

Is that not fabulously annoying news?

Also, a bit of google-fu tells me that some of my various meds have been known to raise blood sugar numbers and they have been prescribed to me by doctors who are fully aware that I am diabetic. See Also similar issues with: High blood pressure, asthma and my personal favorites - the Do Not Get Pregnant While On This Medication ones. That my doctors put me on, knowing we were (at the time) actively attempting to get pregnant, and didn't bother to tell me that not only would some of them make pregnancy even more difficult (like I needed the help) but if I did get pregnant, the meds could harm the embryo and make it difficult for implantation to occur.

So - long story shortish, I am completely and utterly frustrated at actually doing what I'm supposed to for over half a year and having not a single thing to show for it other than the persistent and unending upset tummy that comes from being overly sensitive to my meds and some sort of horrible reaction to direct sunlight. (YAY, I'm a vampire! Nom nom.)

Also, in unrelated but equally annoying news - Roswell didn't want to be moved off the bed Saturday night when I came back from vomitting up everything I'd ever eaten in the last six years and decided to defend her warm spot. I had to wake Captain up to help me properly deal with the cuts because I seriously can not deal with any more big infections right now. Roswell ripped up a large section of my upper chest (and just missed a very sensitive girly part by less than a centimeter) and my arm has several wrist to elbow length gashes. Sure, they aren't deep because Rossie is just a house cat and not a panther or anything, but cat scratches bleed and hurt like a son of a fish. Like evil evil paper cuts. Long, evil paper cuts. Of despair.
missmiah: (umm... no)
( Oct. 18th, 2011 10:29 am)
You know what is super super annoying? For me, at least?

I have been diagnosed diabetic for nearly seven years. For about six and a half years of that time I was indifferent to the disease at best - rarely took my meds, even more rarely checked my numbers because finger stickings are evil and also involve sharp pokey things AND blood which are two of my OH HELL NO things. I weaned myself off of "real" pop and switched over to diet and did make a sort of half-assed effort to not eat ALL the sugared things, but that was pretty much it.

So, obviously, I was never terribly surprised to discover that my numbers didn't really go up or down that much. I was still diabetic (shocker) and they'd give me another prescription for pills I didn't want to take and admonish me for being a grown up and not sticking myself and I'm sorry, part of being a grown up is being able to willfully and with full knowledge of the consequences deciding not to do something. It's called Free Will, look it up, Doctor types.

Anywho, back in late March, I woke up with a nasty case of magically appearing overnight Cellulitus (I'm not even bothering to see if I spelled that right because I am just that bitter right now) and ended up in the ER roughly three times in a four day period PLUS an additional four doctors appointments PLUS three weeks bedrest that nearly drove me up the wall. While I may have shown up with an infection in my leg, the ER doctor that first night decided to focus not on the inflamation, pain and possible side-effects associated with a large infection caused by NO ONE KNOWS and instead decided to chastise me for not taking my diabetes meds. She literally withheld treatment for my leg for two hours because she was "so upset" that I wasn't taking my disease "seriously" and that when I came back to the ER about to lose my leg she would not help me and would stand around telling me "I told you so!"

I am not making this up.

This is for real. This is the quality of service I had to put up with for hours that first night at the ER.

Then, her and her croonies stood outside my door discussing my "stupidity" for about thirty minutes - still not treating me or telling me what was wrong with my leg, mind.

SO - long story short, I take my meds (nearly) every day now, not because I want to - I seriously hate pills. They remind me of a bad point in my life, every single time I take them I have a tiny little freakout and I literally have to work myself up to the point where I can sit down and take the morning batch every day. - but because, perhaps, if I'm taking the damn things, the next time I show up at the ER for a completely unrelated problem someone might actually help me.

ANYWAY - I told you that story so you could properly understand just why I am super annoyed to discover that after seven months of nearly-religious pill taking (everyday, and then twice a day as my various prescriptions changed) and diet coke drinking and dessert sharing/refusing and switching to only sugar-free sweets... MY BLOOD SUGAR IS STILL THE SAME!

That's right, I've actually been sticking myself once or twice a day for the last several days (yes, I know the proper sticking rules, early morning before food, wait at least two hours after eating, blah blah) and my numbers? Still the same range they were when I was told I was diabetic in the first place.

Is that not fabulously annoying news?

Also, a bit of google-fu tells me that some of my various meds have been known to raise blood sugar numbers and they have been prescribed to me by doctors who are fully aware that I am diabetic. See Also similar issues with: High blood pressure, asthma and my personal favorites - the Do Not Get Pregnant While On This Medication ones. That my doctors put me on, knowing we were (at the time) actively attempting to get pregnant, and didn't bother to tell me that not only would some of them make pregnancy even more difficult (like I needed the help) but if I did get pregnant, the meds could harm the embryo and make it difficult for implantation to occur.

So - long story shortish, I am completely and utterly frustrated at actually doing what I'm supposed to for over half a year and having not a single thing to show for it other than the persistent and unending upset tummy that comes from being overly sensitive to my meds and some sort of horrible reaction to direct sunlight. (YAY, I'm a vampire! Nom nom.)

Also, in unrelated but equally annoying news - Roswell didn't want to be moved off the bed Saturday night when I came back from vomitting up everything I'd ever eaten in the last six years and decided to defend her warm spot. I had to wake Captain up to help me properly deal with the cuts because I seriously can not deal with any more big infections right now. Roswell ripped up a large section of my upper chest (and just missed a very sensitive girly part by less than a centimeter) and my arm has several wrist to elbow length gashes. Sure, they aren't deep because Rossie is just a house cat and not a panther or anything, but cat scratches bleed and hurt like a son of a fish. Like evil evil paper cuts. Long, evil paper cuts. Of despair.
missmiah: (The Kiddos)
( Sep. 12th, 2011 01:39 pm)
This weekend was... this weekend.

And tomorrow the Captain disappears for three weeks for training.

So, today?

I bring you videos of my dog and cats. Because they make me smile.

Three short videos behind the cut. )
missmiah: (The Kiddos)
( Sep. 12th, 2011 01:39 pm)
This weekend was... this weekend.

And tomorrow the Captain disappears for three weeks for training.

So, today?

I bring you videos of my dog and cats. Because they make me smile.

Three short videos behind the cut. )
Yesterday was a strange day.

First, I woke up early. But then I nearly fell asleep at my desk so I toddled off to bed for a nap.

Only to be woken up by the phone call from the Vet.

It only took two weeks and nearly $600 to tell me that my dog is not dying of cancer, nor does he have Cushing's Disease. Instead, he has... dun dun duuuunnnn.... allergies.

Which is exactly what I thought he had when I took him in to the vet in the first place, but I guess it doesn't hurt to be sure?

Anywho, I was happy about the whole Puppy not dying thing, and the Captain came home to let me know that they were springing another weigh-in on him in the morning (this morning). That would be the third one in the last month and a half, and that, to me, would also be harassment at this stage because there is NO REASON to insist on weighing my husband every two weeks unless they're trying to catch him overweight. Especially not on a day's notice.

But that's just going to piss me off again if I keep talking about it so... moving on.

So last night, because I was tired of eating my own - rather surprisingly tasty actually - cooking leftovers from Sunday's breaded pork chops and Monday's Shepherd's Pie and because it was family game night at the local game store, Captain and I went out and sat around discussing politics and the military and local restaurants and Moby Dick (I don't even...) and Dragon Con and people who dress up as BSG characters and weddings and possibly weddings with people dressed up as BSG characters at the game store for a few hours.

Also, there was a Moon Pie.
Yesterday was a strange day.

First, I woke up early. But then I nearly fell asleep at my desk so I toddled off to bed for a nap.

Only to be woken up by the phone call from the Vet.

It only took two weeks and nearly $600 to tell me that my dog is not dying of cancer, nor does he have Cushing's Disease. Instead, he has... dun dun duuuunnnn.... allergies.

Which is exactly what I thought he had when I took him in to the vet in the first place, but I guess it doesn't hurt to be sure?

Anywho, I was happy about the whole Puppy not dying thing, and the Captain came home to let me know that they were springing another weigh-in on him in the morning (this morning). That would be the third one in the last month and a half, and that, to me, would also be harassment at this stage because there is NO REASON to insist on weighing my husband every two weeks unless they're trying to catch him overweight. Especially not on a day's notice.

But that's just going to piss me off again if I keep talking about it so... moving on.

So last night, because I was tired of eating my own - rather surprisingly tasty actually - cooking leftovers from Sunday's breaded pork chops and Monday's Shepherd's Pie and because it was family game night at the local game store, Captain and I went out and sat around discussing politics and the military and local restaurants and Moby Dick (I don't even...) and Dragon Con and people who dress up as BSG characters and weddings and possibly weddings with people dressed up as BSG characters at the game store for a few hours.

Also, there was a Moon Pie.
Captain is at the vet, waiting with the dog.

Today's visit is one part stitches removal and two parts bloodwork for the Cushing's test.

Apparently, they draw Colonel's blood (which he loves) and then give him an injection of something (which he also loves) and then Captain and Colonel sit in the lobby for an hour until they can draw Colonel's blood again.

Then... they wait for the results.

For awhile, we considered sending me along on this hellish vet visit, but we both realized that I do not have the patience to sit there, quietly and unfidgety, waiting to find out if my dog is very, very sick or just... I don't know, allergic to something.

I'd spend the entire time anxiously guarding the dog from little children who apparently do not know better than to approach strange dogs and their crappy parents who do not care/know better than to let their small bite sized children approach strange dogs that clearly have an anxious owner trying to run interference. Then the parents almost always get shirty with me when I end up shoving my hand/body between their precious little one's hand and Colonel's mouth as I (again, gently) say "Please don't touch, sweetie, he's not a friendly doggy". Because, obviously, as a pet owner, it is my job to make sure my dog is completely petable by all small children. Seriously though, I make sure Colonel is off in a corner as far away from other people/animals as I can in a crowded waiting room, usually keeping my legs on either side of him so I can curl my body protectively around his if need be, with the dog on a relatively tight leash (enough slack that he can lie down, but not enough that he can walk away) and I'm practically radiating "Look but don't touch". I have done my duty as a cranky dog owner.

Cranky applying to both me and the dog.

I think the problem is that Colonel sits there smiling his dopey underbite grin, tail wagging, looking like a good doggy who just wants pettings (which he does) and people just assume he's safe. But he's not. He's insane. He doesn't like the way some people smell, and that sets him off. He doesn't like the way some people look (little racist/sexist dog), and that sets him off. He doesn't like the way some people sound... you can see where this is going?

I've seen him sit quietly for a full ten minutes, being petted by a friend, and then suddenly snap and lunge for her face with teeth and growls, and then when he's yelled at by me, he hopped off the sofa and wagged his tail all "What? I didn't do nothin'."

And I'm completely off track.

I'm nervous.

I'm a wreck.

And this is why I'm at home and not waiting in the vet's office with my husband and the dog.

Because I'd be up, pacing the floor, waiting for results, flinching at the sight of every needle.

And now I want to throw up a little.

I hope they come home soon.

Update: Colonel Brandon is home, sans stitches. Captain said Colonel was a good boy, no one was bitten, no growling, and he (the dog) only whined a little bit when his blood was drawn.

Unfortunately, the test results won't be in until tomorrow, which means I won't hear about them until tomorrow evening because the vet seems to wait until the office is closed to call people.
Captain is at the vet, waiting with the dog.

Today's visit is one part stitches removal and two parts bloodwork for the Cushing's test.

Apparently, they draw Colonel's blood (which he loves) and then give him an injection of something (which he also loves) and then Captain and Colonel sit in the lobby for an hour until they can draw Colonel's blood again.

Then... they wait for the results.

For awhile, we considered sending me along on this hellish vet visit, but we both realized that I do not have the patience to sit there, quietly and unfidgety, waiting to find out if my dog is very, very sick or just... I don't know, allergic to something.

I'd spend the entire time anxiously guarding the dog from little children who apparently do not know better than to approach strange dogs and their crappy parents who do not care/know better than to let their small bite sized children approach strange dogs that clearly have an anxious owner trying to run interference. Then the parents almost always get shirty with me when I end up shoving my hand/body between their precious little one's hand and Colonel's mouth as I (again, gently) say "Please don't touch, sweetie, he's not a friendly doggy". Because, obviously, as a pet owner, it is my job to make sure my dog is completely petable by all small children. Seriously though, I make sure Colonel is off in a corner as far away from other people/animals as I can in a crowded waiting room, usually keeping my legs on either side of him so I can curl my body protectively around his if need be, with the dog on a relatively tight leash (enough slack that he can lie down, but not enough that he can walk away) and I'm practically radiating "Look but don't touch". I have done my duty as a cranky dog owner.

Cranky applying to both me and the dog.

I think the problem is that Colonel sits there smiling his dopey underbite grin, tail wagging, looking like a good doggy who just wants pettings (which he does) and people just assume he's safe. But he's not. He's insane. He doesn't like the way some people smell, and that sets him off. He doesn't like the way some people look (little racist/sexist dog), and that sets him off. He doesn't like the way some people sound... you can see where this is going?

I've seen him sit quietly for a full ten minutes, being petted by a friend, and then suddenly snap and lunge for her face with teeth and growls, and then when he's yelled at by me, he hopped off the sofa and wagged his tail all "What? I didn't do nothin'."

And I'm completely off track.

I'm nervous.

I'm a wreck.

And this is why I'm at home and not waiting in the vet's office with my husband and the dog.

Because I'd be up, pacing the floor, waiting for results, flinching at the sight of every needle.

And now I want to throw up a little.

I hope they come home soon.

Update: Colonel Brandon is home, sans stitches. Captain said Colonel was a good boy, no one was bitten, no growling, and he (the dog) only whined a little bit when his blood was drawn.

Unfortunately, the test results won't be in until tomorrow, which means I won't hear about them until tomorrow evening because the vet seems to wait until the office is closed to call people.
And the vet did not call.

Even though I called his office to make sure he had the results (he did, they were on his desk, he just hadn't had time to get to them) and was told he would call this afternoon.

I want to know what is wrong with my dog.

DAMNIT.

UPDATE: He called around seven pm (WTF?) to let us know that Colonel's cyst/tumor thing was benign. Now, we just have to wait until Monday to see what the Cushing's tests say.
And the vet did not call.

Even though I called his office to make sure he had the results (he did, they were on his desk, he just hadn't had time to get to them) and was told he would call this afternoon.

I want to know what is wrong with my dog.

DAMNIT.

UPDATE: He called around seven pm (WTF?) to let us know that Colonel's cyst/tumor thing was benign. Now, we just have to wait until Monday to see what the Cushing's tests say.
I'm not really a people person.

I'm terrified of loud dogs of all shapes and sizes, and of the teeth and claws of cats (and mice and ferrets and even hamsters, etc), but I will say, if pressed, that I am an animal person.

I'm one of those who has no problem watching someone get nommed by zombies in a movie, but can't even look if there's a puppy in danger on the screen.

My house is full of "Puppy" and "Kitty" and "Thumper Butt" and "Where's my baby? There she is. There's Mommy's pretty little girl." and other disgustingly cute baby talk directed at my four little child substitutes.

Because I am a sucker for a furry face.

Domesticated animals trust us. They want to believe we will care for them, and pet them and make them safe. Even if you mess up, if you scream because someone has just eaten his way through the back of your sofa, or if you freak out and lash out in anger and fear because your seventy pound baby has just lunged across the coffee table at your unsuspecting sister with his teeth bared and growling because she had a cheeseburger and he wanted it, or can't help but wince because you know you're going to have to hunt down the cat again, for the billionth morning in a row, to medicate him and he hates it and you hate it and he thinks you're torturing him and you know it's for his own good... even after any or all of that, they still come back to you, tail wagging or face pressed against your hand with a purr... because they trust and love you.

Unconditionally.

Until you do something, something hugely drastic and possibly repetitive and so excessive that even they have to give up on you.

Anyway, that's a completely and utterly maudlin way to lead up to... We have a stray.

I'm pretty sure she's a girl. A small, nearly completely black, female cat. Kitten?

I would say she's full sized, but underweight. So thin.

She's friendly. She's been hanging around the neighborhood and house for months, and if she's around when we leave or come home, she'll run up to us and butt her head against our hands and roll over to demand pettings just like our Bella.

Her ears are huge for her face, which is why I suspect she's still young and she's underweight. She hasn't grown into her ears yet.

I want to feed her, but I'm afraid that if I do, she'll expect food from us, that she'll stop hunting and gathering for herself, and that when we move she will die. Or, she'll be drawn to our house and she'll end up dead on the train tracks beyond the back yard, or hit by a car in the street, or even worse, hit by our car in our driveway.

I mean, I know that she hangs around even without us feeding her, so the chances of any of the above happening should be no greater than they already are, but right now... Right now, she's not my cat, and I tell myself that if something happens to her right now, it won't hurt as much because she's not mine.

I know, I'm such a liar. I was attached the first time she let my husband pet her.

But I can not - can not - take in another animal.

Especially not right now.

I'm waiting, not at all patiently, to hear back from the vet this afternoon with the results of Colonel Brandon's biopsy. His Cushing's tests are scheduled for Monday. I have enough animal related woe to deal with right now.

But I really, really, really want to find a home for her.

Unfortunately, the only no kill shelter in the area is full. And I just...

Is it better to try to get her admitted to one of the kill shelters - although most of those are full too - or just let her run wild and hope that she'll be okay?

I know there isn't anyone that I know who can take her, I'm not asking for that (unless?!) but I just want some advice.

I want to know what to do.
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