EATING STUFF

Over the weekend John and I attended a family gathering at a Greek restaurant. I have never eaten Greek food-- real Greek food. John says we have been there once before in the late 60s, but that period of my life is a bit hazy...
Anyway there were a lot of us there, and luckily the others had eaten there fairly often.
We had the required "cheese on fire" which was fun and made me momentarily wish I were a little more of a pyromaniac, but I am terrified of fires and was afraid the waiter was going to go up with the cheese. He didn't, of course, but I bet he doesn't ever have to pluck his nosehairs.

Their menu, which is very extensive (Chefs Ramsey and Irwin would have a FIT) includen Gluten-free and Vegetarian dishes. Most people had Gyros. John had Chicken something. I had pan-fried squid.

Ever since I once had Calamari cooked correctly, I have loved it.
Like Escargot, if it is done right it is very good and tender, and if it isn't (and the chances that it will be done badly are close to 100%) it tastes like old Michelin tires. Or maybe Goodyear. The point is, it is a touchy dish. But since Squid was included in many things on the menu, I thought they probably knew how to do it.

They did.
Except......it made me feel terribly guilty. It was delicious, don't get me wrong, but there were entire little bitty squid in there....babies. They had to be babies. Don't squid get like as big as that submarine in VOYAGE TO THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA? (Ok so I watched it. Big deal.)

And I felt like....vicious and mean and evil. But happy.

I have a friend who is not really a Vegetarian since about all he ate until they hauled him off to assisted living was peanut butter, who said he never ate anything with a face.

I am starting to think he had a good idea.

But I suspect if someplace began selling Squid McNuggets, I would be in line almost every day.

                                   or maybe not.

TOUGH WEEK

It's been a tough week for Cooper.
He has been puking off and on for awhile. Not enough to make me take him in, altho I have, a couple of times and we didn't find anything.
Then he got sick awhile ago and was vomiting so much he puked up some blood, the way they do when the little capillaries rupture from the force. And he had diarrhea. So I took him in for that and we did bloodwork and got him fixed up and he recovered but then he wouldn't eat.
He has always been picky but this was sick dog not eating, where you try all kinds of things and they are refused, and you end up with baby food and cat food and dog food and people food all open and partly tried and going bad in the fridge.
Then he started eating but throwing it up again.

And enough is enough. So I took him in yesterday and he had dropped another 3 pounds in about three weeks. They did a Barium series because I figured he had stomach cancer, which is all the rage among Belgians these days. He didn't. But Dr.T noticed his liver was very very small and his heart had shrunk a bit. She did an ultrasound and some more x-rays and said the only thing she could think of that made sense was Addison's disease so they did a Stim test since he had not eaten in about 2 days.

Test came back negative.

So now...what.
Without the liver to help hold things in place, (it is there but very small) organs are moving around. The descending colon is up high, the stomach almost under the ribs, etc etc. We have him on a low protein diet and Cerenia for now. I don't know if Dr T has any more ideas but I'm sure out of them.

He looks sad to me. Probably I am making that up but two or three times I have glanced at him and caught a look in his eyes that I have not seen before, and I do not like it. But he ate today, and kept it down. So maybe.....

BITS AND PIECES

When Nigel went into the hospital for his UTI, he could stand (with a lot of help) on his back legs and he could wag his tail, and he would let us know when he needed to poop.
Sometime after he got home, maybe a few days, we noticed he had lost all of those abilities.
His tail droops. It breaks his DadPerson's heart. Wagging tails are important to him because it indicates a quality of life. In this case, Nigel cannot tell us "My life is fine!" or "My life sucks."
Thinking about this of course drives me crazy.

It does not seem to bother Nigel....

However this tells me one of three things: either we somehow hurt his back further, or the Hospital did, or this is progressive.

I think he should have an MRI. The tricky part is convincing the head of household, the guy with the wallet, that this is important and necessary. I need to talk to Doc.
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For the past week or so I have been tearing apart jewelry. It started with sorting. This bead is red and goes here, this is green and goes there, this is black and goes over here, this is blue-ish-greenish-with-some-pink and goes....ah...ah...ah.....
Not only do I not know but I have run pretty short of over here's and over there's.
So I began getting into drawers already stocked with junk and sorting the junk.
Ok this is PMC stuf and can all go together in.....THIS box (as I dump out another box.) and THIS stuff is....not anything I need right now so it can go in a pile here. And that bead and all the beads that are funny colors go in the PMC drawer and THIS  drawer has
OOPs kinves. Shit. Blood everywhere....(Xacto knives, tissue blades,scalpels, like those knives...) (Never reach into a strange drawer without looking.) (Never mind that the drawer had a label that read VERY SHARP THINGS.)

Back to work. Have you ever picked up beads with a bandage on your finger?

FIXING JEWELRY

I used to make jewelry and then I got frustrated, discouraged and bored all at once. No one was buying. I used high-end materials altho semi-precious stones, not gems. Without customers, I had no income to buy materials. I see in the catalog that my little 3mm round silver beads that are the heart and soul of so many pieces are now up to $104 per 1000. Maybe that sounds like a deal to you, but not to someone who sold NOTHING not   one  thing last year (not 2011 the yr before) NOT ONE STINKIN THING at Christmas, when I usually laugh all the way to the bank.


Ok. So I giggle. Not thousands, but at least a couple of hundred.
And that year, nothing. Not even a pair of earrings.

By the same token every art fair, every gallery, every store had tons and tons of jewelers, all priced under mine. Not that mine were over-priced--maybe they were, but not much. I never made in bulk. You never bought one of my pieces and saw anyone else wearing the same thing. Perhaps something with the same stones, but not the same design or combination of colors.

I didn't do home shows. I didn't do weddings. That requires duplicates. I quit doing art fairs the year I had three tents destroyed, one that was not even mine.

So I quit.
And after awhile I began painting again. And I sold or gave away probably 1/2 of all my jewelry stuff.

Then, suddenly, I sold two or three necklaces--good ones--. And one fell on the floor and broke. The woman brought it back to me and asked if I could fix it. It wasn't me: she dropped it on a cement floor and some of the stones broke. That day I had sold her two of my finest pieces and she had 5 more at home. How do you say No?

With caveats firmly understood (I do not have those stones anymore: most of my equipment is gone: it will not be exactly the same...) Anyway I fixed it. I restrung it on heavier wire and actually found some small pieces of Labradorite and a good clasp. I re-did it maybe 8 times trying to get the design just right. Then I discovered the heavier wire was too thick so I re-strung it, re-designing as I went (two or three more times) on lighter wire, tested the clasp, attached it, finished. Tried it on: the clasp broke in half in my hands, a terminal glitch.

Got more wire. (That piece was now too short by a couple of inches). Restrung. Re-designed at least twice. Found another pretty but not appropriate clasp, not happy with clasp AT ALL. That's life. I can order another but she will have to pay for it.
Attached clasp, and poof! all done. A mere 8 hours of work.

And now?
I do not have her phone number........anywhere.
I do not have it in the phone--either phone under her name. I do not know where she lives. I don't know if she is married. I know nothing about her except that she likes my work and buys it.

So if you're out there, the necklace is done.

FEEDING THE DOGS

This is not about what kind of dog food is best, because I have no clue. I have fed very expensive stuff that Cooper spits out all over the house so my rug crunches, and I have fed cheap shit that the dogs thrive on. So I have no opinion as to whether Expensive is as Expensive Does or the Cheap Shit is just fine.

No, this is about feeding dogs who don't want to eat for one reason or another.

Cooper has always been my picky eater. He EATS his food, one kibble at a time, crunching it up, chewing it well....it takes him forever and drives the other dogs, who have long ago inhaled their food, insane. Sometimes a person has to stand guard while Cooper nibbles his kibble, one nib at a time.

(A guy could die of hunger in the time it takes Cooper to eat one meal.)

Recently both Cooper and Nigel fell ill. Both stopped eating. I mean, like QUIT. I have been through this before with sick dogs. After every critical illness, just like the rest of you, I am left with a fridge full of opened, uneaten dog foods, soups, stews, baby food and home-made stuff. We eat pizza every night for a month so our babies can have the pizza bones, because that's all she'll keep down. We buy $10 cans of ENSURE only to find the dog would rather die first than taste it. (And I agree, having tasted my Dad's stock of it.)(No wonder he preferred Gin!!!)

I digress.
Nigel finally gave in when I gave him chickie nookle soup. Then I thought to mix in some oatmeal, and he LOVED that. I gave some to Mr.Fussy:
Cooper smelled it, shoved his bowl into a corner, and stomped off.
Gradually I began mixing regular kibble into Nigel's food and we are now about half and half. He is feeling much better and for breakfast today he will get a little oatmeal/soup mix (it is solid) and more kibble along with his Forti-Flora (about which I cannot possibly say enough good things!).

Meanwhile the OTHER dogs have discovered that Nigel is getting something special and after a meeting decided they wanted it, too.
So into each bowl goes a dab of the oatmeal/soup mix and then their kibble. Llewis always inspects to be sure he got some in his bowl.

Meanwhile, of course, Mr. Cooper is still spitting everything out. Canned dog food--not a chance in hell. Different kibble-- throw it out.'Oatmeal--GAK. Noodle soup? You have to be kidding. Baby food--find a kid to eat it, not me. Hot dogs? You know what's IN that stuff???
Turkey....Turkied out. Meatballs....I am Belgian, not Italian and no I do not care that I snarfed them last week.
And finally, yesterday--------------what's this? A scrambled egg? Is there toast with it? I miiiiiiight consid....um...yes..yes I will eat this. TODAY.
So here are their bowls this morning without the kibble:

The big bowl is Nigel's. It has oatmealsoup and Forti-Flora and a scrap of toast crust. To the left and above are Conley and Llewis's with just a dollop of oatmealsoup......and to the right, yes, scrambled egg and toast.

If he asks for espresso, he is just shit outta luck.

PS. Scrambled eggs were voted down this morning.....

IT HAS ARRIVED

Winter.
Snow.
Wo bist der snow shovel? Kemo Sabi? (Who knows where the snow shovel is? Not I. Ah, the husband has it: good.

There is only a little on the ground now but it is sticking and it is snowing as if it really means it this time.
Commonwealth Edison is parked in front with their tree-trimming truck. The guy sitting inside waiting to find out if they are really going to be trimming trees in the snow is Esteban. I know this because I asked them to move the orange cones from in front of the driveway, and I asked.

Now they have decided maybe tomorrow.

I don't know why they don't want to climb trees today. I told them to let me know and I would open the gate for them, and bring the dogs in.

It seems logical to me that this is the perfect kind of weather to climb trees and cut limbs down with power tools.

The dogs are out in it, why shouldn't those strange creatures in the bright yellow coats with the unpronounceable name on the side of the truck (Asplundh) want to be hanging around in trees. Oh look, here comes the wind we have been expecting. Oh pooh, it is only around 10 mph right now...

Conley is from Wisconsin. This is nothing to him.

Did you know that on a long-coated dog the snow doesn't melt right away and so they come dual colored: black and white?

Conley has decided maybe he is happier inside, after all..............

I love my Miscanthus and the way it looks in the snow. And no, I will NOT trim it back, thank you.

                     Nigel, the only one with a lick of sense.

YESTERDAY

Yesterday Mr. Husband was gone almost all day. I turned on my music (am currently on a Yo Yo Ma kick) and read to Nigel.
I haven't read aloud since the kids were little and the "baby" will be 37 in a couple of weeks.
It was fun to read to someone even if he wasn't real responsive and it wasn't a Basset book either, but TINKER,TAILER,SOLDIER, SPY by John LeCarre.
I decided that since his books, always an excellent read, are also extremely confusing to me I would stand a better chance of figuring the sub-plots out if I could read it, rather than see it as a movie where I only had one chance to decipher all the little tangents that turn out to be vitally important.
I love a good mystery and even more, a good spy story. The end of the Cold War unfortunately (not that I wanted it to continue) robbed the spy community of a perfect background.
So anyway Mr. Nigel and I are about halfway through the book and
my guess is he understands it a lot better than I do.

And here is our snow. I should probably get my Van off the street.

THE MEETING

Over the years I have gained a lot of weight.
This is what I used to look like, altho even here I had begun to put on a few pounds. This is Quiller, so it is before 2000.

This is what I look like now. Since it is Nigel in the cart, you know the photo is recent. My husband, who doesn't lie, says it is flattering:

What a COW!
So once again I joined Weight Watchers. The first meeting was last night. It is run by the Energizer Bunny. I get exhuasted watching her.
I told them I join and lose weight (usually about 15 pounds) and then just quit. They asked why. I was honest: I dunno.

The flab has adversely affected my sense of being. I feel ugly. I don't care much what I look like. I don't pay attention to how I dress and I don't go places because I have nothing to wear that doesn't make me feel like a fire hydrant.

My arthritis is much worse. I cannot bend my left leg up far enough to put on a sock. I am short of breath. My hips hurt when I walk the dogs, even Nigel. Sometimes they hurt so badly in the grocery store I have to stop for a moment. I think it is walking on concrete that does it, but the three thousand pounds my hips have to support isn't helping them.

Worst of all, I HATE EXERCISE. This is not new, I always have. I hated gym. I flunked it. I am not athletic. I do not get a rush from running, I cough.

But I have to get the weight off. It is imperative. I am going to have a heart attack even tho they do not run in my family. I will set a precedent. No one else in my family except one deceased Aunt after whom I am named has been fat.

I want to be skinny again. I would prefer to wake up tomorrow and discover I weigh 110. However. I guess I have to do this.

Maybe if I write it down here for other people to see, I'll do it this time.

DIM LIGHT

It is 3:47. In the morning.
Cooper came and got me up because he had to go out. As much as I love my Bassets, Cooper holds my heart in his unkempt black paws. Even at that hour, usually, he makes me smile. There he is, his one front leg on the bed, peering down into my face with his teeth showing, as if to tear my throat out: but he is smiling. "Good morning;" he says. "I'm sorry but I need to go pee. Don't you?" Yes, but not in the same place, thank you.

And so I roll out of bed and let him out and in and do my own thing and crawl back into bed and he crawls into bed with me. This is our time. And I scratch all his secret spots: the very back of his head and neck, his legpit, all down his chest and the inside of his thighs, the base of his tail, right beneath his ears, and he stretches his full length out, almost as long as the bed, and moans and purrs, and always the teeth, lips pulled back, every white and ghostly tooth gleaming in the dim light. This is MY dog.

No Basset makes me smile the way this dog does. Ok well, maybe sometimes Conley. And I know that since Nigel has become sick, Conley feels displaced, lost and ignored. He who used to sleep at my back at night now is in a crate. My sleep is broken as it is, with Nigel needing to be cleaned, now to be taken out. Conley watches helplessly from his crate, his dark eyes hooded, while I lover-up his
only serious rival: Cooper.

And my heart breaks. I tell Cooper to get down and he does. And I open the crate and Conley falls into my arms. He gets on the bed not with the grace of Cooper but with a thunk that makes the entire bed shake. On his back:"Belly rubs! Get my ears, kiss me, sweet talk me, love me like you used to. Am I still your Best Boy?" Ahh Conley, my love for you is undiminished but by necessity there is less time for it.

He burrows under the blanket. He is hopeful I will let him stay but now Nigel stirs, and begins his relentless whine. He has pooped, or needs to poop, or needs to pee and now requires my full attention.

So the lights go on and I get a coat and a towel, and carrying the cute little lantern John bought in my teeth (God don't let these damn dentures fall out now!) I  open the pen and towel Nigel outside where we spent a frustrating ten minutes peeing and stopping, peeing and stopping. Am I doing this right? I MUST be missing the bladder--oop there he goes nope, stopped again. He doesn't want to stand in one spot. Slowly inch by inch we go forward, me placing his back wobbly legs just so to support the weight and squeezing, grabbing the lantern with one hand so I can see: is he going? Start, stop start stop. And he curls around to look at me--he is done.

Cooper has come out and is watching this curiously, never in the way. He escorts us, towel, lantern and hobbly dog back into the house. Everyone gets a cookie.

Nigel goes into his clean pen and immediately is  asleep. Cooper is by my bed. Conley standing in his crate: he needs out and here comes Llewis: early to bed and late to rise makes a boy healthy and a  slow poke. I let Conley out and he rushes for the door. Llewis briefly acknowledges me as he follows Conley. I sit down now and look at the thermometer. Oh how glad I am I didn't look earlier. Fourteen degrees. Gee, why can't I get rid of this cold?

I am now thinking about bed. Seriously. The boys are back at the door. Everyone gets several biscuits. Llewis repairs to his chair in the living room. Conley returns to his crate, momentarily satisfied that he is still my best boy, Cooper notwithstanding. Cooper takes his treat and knowing what will happen next eats it sloppily on my pillow. Ack. I wash my hands. It is now 4:08. My left arm, which I have done something to the elbow part of (English Major, 1966) is throbbing horribly and so is my left knee.

I take four aspirin with a diet Coke. John is still in bed. He would have gotten up if I had asked, never complaining, stumbling out to help me with Nigel. But why? I can DO it. By the end of the day I need help, but not the beginning. What am I saying! That 4:08 is the beginning of my day??
Yes. Alas. I believe it is.

Cooper has the bed anyway. I smile. I know where everyone is and I know they are fine for now. Day 2 of my diet. But for the dogs, every morning is the start of a whole new life. It may be the same as the day before but it is new. Think like a dog and you'll make it through anything. They are warm, fed and loved desperately. What could be better? How lucky am I to start my day with them.

All my Boys