The Obligatory Thanksgiving Post

I'm not going to hit that thankful thing right away, rather meander over to it - consider yourself forewarned.

Today at work it was slooooow, and I did a far amount of reading on the interwebz.

Here's a sampling:
First, Can the Bulldog Be Saved? Good question. After reading the article, I needed to see what a Leavitt bulldog looked like, and ended up here: http://leavittbulldogassociation.com/

Then I looked at an American Bulldog for comparison. http://www.bulldoginformation.com/american-bulldog.html

I'm pretty sure that's the kind of dog my dad had - he LOVED that dog. It killed snakes.

My favorite, the Bull Terrier (the Target dog). http://www.terrificpets.com/dog_breeds/bull_terrier.asp

Tired of dogs now, I read about Demi Moore's past relationships in the Huffington Post, and about porn that women like in Slate.
Also at Slate, I perused several Dear Prudence articles, the pictures of the day, an article about Joan Didion's new book, learned the difference between macarons, macaroons and macaroni, and in 20 pies for 19 guests, found out what a Ecclefechan tart and a funeral pie was. Erm...is. Mmmmm, mincemeaty. (seems people either love or hate mincemeat pie. No mince middle ground. I am firmly in the lover of mince category.)

Keeping on the food trail, there's sweet potatoes and greens in the Durham paper. Here's how to make gluten free gravy as well as a couple of GF desserts: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/11/23/health-tips-from-the-thankgiving-help-line/

BPA in canned goods possibly a cause of diabetes: http://www.wwlp.com/dpp/news/local/hampden/study%3A-bpa-in-canned-foods-harmful

Elephants dying from drought in Zimbabwe: http://allafrica.com/stories/201111180028.html

At the LA Times (Europe section): Hugh Grant becoming the spokesperson of sorts for the phone hacking scandal; most British critics are loving Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher - if not the movie.

The Shadow Wolves were also in the LA Times.

But I think the best thing I read all day was this story on prison hospice.

**************************************************************************
Mom is about the same. Her care rate went up about $1000 - but if they cut out a lot of her meds it will be about $500 instead. She often refuses to take them and it really doesn't matter if she takes her Plavix anymore.
A bill from UNC hospital came, says she owes about $1200. I'm not sure they submitted it to Tricare though.
Fiddle dee dee. Will deal with that on Monday.

***************************************************************************
Who do these guys sound like?

This video is slightly creepy, but I like the song.

When I watch the video below I wonder what it would be like to look like this girl (oh yeah, she is a girl).
I think of power - the power of youth and sex appeal.

********************************************************************************
Finally, the thanks giving part. I told you it would be a meander. One final article on the health benefits of gratitude: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/22/science/a-serving-of-gratitude-brings-healthy-dividends.html

A few days ago, I received an email from Local Harvest. The last paragraph said:
"A few months ago someone sent me a quotation from a Native American prayer which says, "Give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way." 
So may we express our gratitude around our Thanksgiving tables, for those blessings already manifest, and for the capacity to sustain the hope that what is needed is on its way."


Well said.

Thanks ya'll for the known and the unknown blessings.

I Can't Stop Reading

I first read Jon Katz's articles in Slate online. Here's the archive link:
http://www.slate.com/default.aspx?id=3944&da=&qt=&au=40207

I fell in love with his dogs and the way he lovingly described the farm, his neighbors, his steer Elvis, and the donkeys.

Hadn't been to his website in awhile, I guess quite a long while, because there's been some changes. He's divorced and getting re-married, his daughter's written a book and he starting on a children's book.

Anyway, while I was poking around on his website, I came across his hospice journal. It only spans about a year, there's no explanation why. It could be one year is all one can do. I imagine it is a very rewarding, yet emotionally draining experience. The hospice workers and volunteers are amazing, generous people. http://hospice.bedlamfarm.com/

May I recommend a big box of Kleenex and starting at the beginning. Click on archives to select the month.

Moving on

Friday, November 13, 2009

I've called several times this morning because it's nail salon day at Walmart, but the phone's busy each time.
At first I think she's on a call, but when it's still busy after a hour and a half, I suspect something is wrong with the phone.
There's no answer when I knock; the TV's on. I check outside to see if she's having a smoke, not there.
When I enter the room she's awake, lying on her bed. She looks at me like she doesn't know me. I ask several simple questions like, was she taking a nap or had she not been up yet (she had all her clothes on). Then I just ask if she was taking a nap (no choices). Had someone called her that morning? She just looks at me - totally blank.
Not angry, just a lights-are-on-but-no-one's-home kind of a look. It's kinda weird and a little scary.
I explain that I'd gotten a busy signal for a long time; there's no dial tone on her phone. Her little Christmas tree has been plugged in and the router for the phone is unplugged (she has phone service via the cable company). Ah ha! After a few unplug/replug of the router and phone cord, she's back in business.
She seems to be coming around now and is a bit more coherent - does she want to go get her nails done - yes. Knows where her purse is, knows what coat she wants to take.

The young man who does her nails today is very sweet, joking around with her, getting a different chair so her back is supported. He gets a big tip.
I wonder if her disability is apparent to other people. I try not to be a "hoverer", but I am protective of her.

Then we go to the hair salon in Walmart because frankly, I can't stand her hair being dirty one more second. It takes a long time; there's only one person working and she's doing two color jobs at the same time.
Mom always tells the stylist she doesn't want to look like me. I think she means she doesn't want her hair as short as mine, cut over her ears. That's what I'm choosing to think she means anyway.
We eat at lunch at Andy's, a burger place in the same shopping center, because it's nearby. It's 2 PM and she probably hasn't eaten today, she has to be starving. It's a 50's style diner, old car pictures everywhere; she recognizes the T-Bird.
My dad used to have a black '55 Thunderbird - he loved that car. Then along came me and the car had to go.
Somehow we get on the topic of dogs/Mookie and she says she wishes she could see him again. I say he's found his forever home and we can't visit him anymore and wait...

I know, she says.
And then we move on.

Over the Rainbow Bridge

I'd been thinking about Mookie a lot the past few days, so last night I wrote to Kay (the vet) to check in on him.

She replied that he had developed rapid onset dementia like symptoms and started having seizures, which seemed to indicate a brain tumor. Because she was not able to fully control the seizures and because of his advanced age (almost 12, just about the average life expectancy for a Boston), she had made the hard decision to put him down.
Not exactly sure when this happened, because she wanted to spare us the grief and pain and didn't tell us.


R.I.P. Mookie 1/1998 - 10/2009

The Dog Who Thinks He's A Goat

October 10, 2009

My dear friend DebraLee is visiting from California and coming to lunch with us today. Going to experience southern food at its finest (not) at the cafeteria. (sorry we didn't get to the fried green tomato BLT at A Southern Season - next time!)
Debra is love with sweet tea though and the K&W does that just fine, she said the crab cakes were good too.

Mom has a key now and has to lock her door because someone's been coming in and eating her stuff. I'm pretty sure SHE'S been eating her food and not remembering. She moves stuff around all the time. Reminds me of Mookie when he had a new bone. He would almost frantically move it around from place to place and if he saw you watching where he put it, he'd have to move it again.

After lunch we took a ride out Dairyland Road, past Maple View Farms (ice cream, ummmmm!), to see if there was some fall color out there (there wasn't).
Since we were out that way, we stop at Woodcrest Farm where I get my chicken, eggs, the BEST hot dogs ever (more like polish sausages in size), and grass fed beef. (The chicken and eggs are Nancy's from Fern Hill Farm) Chris and Alan are very nice people.

Sandy and I took a canning class out there several summers ago with Chris, made bread and butter pickles and some tomato sauce. They raise border collies, so there are always three or four very sweet dogs around. Some of their former puppies come back every year for doggie "summer camp". They also have a bunch of foster children.

They have a few watermelon left and Mom wants one. Alan won't let us pay for them, said the quality couldn't be relied on since they were end of season. But he takes one in the house, cuts it for Mom and puts it in a plastic bag for her.

Meanwhile, Debra goes down to the barn to look at the animals and Mom follows her. When she gets down there, she gives Debra a fist bump. Cracks me up. Where the heck did she learn that?

Their Great Pyrenees dog is laying with the goats. They're used as [flock] guardian dogs. The dogs bond with whatever they're raised with and will bark very loudly and vigorously if disturbed. Nancy has two GP's who think they're chickens. Obviously he doesn't think Debra or Mom were a threat since there's not a peep out of him. I haven't seen him since February, he was about 4 months old then and already twice the size of the border collie pup who was a month older.

When we drop Mom off she gave Debra a hug and says she'd "like to have her again".
She even blows me kisses.

Mookie's Doing Great

Several weeks ago, we went to Kay's (the vet) house to visit Mookie. He came right up to Mom, twitching his little corkscrew tail, which made her SO happy - "He remembered me!" He also did his "take me for a walk!" dance to me (consists of picking up his front feet one at time, whipping his head around, and saying "wrue, wrue, wrue").

Mookie seemed quite content, even though it was noisy: there are ten dogs (three are hers, rest are fosters), several cats, an iguana, two macaws, numerous sleeping ferrets and about five to six rabbits. This woman (and her husband!) is a SAINT. Seriously.
He was fine with the other dogs. He had his belly band on and didn't seem to mind it at all.

That seemed to satisfy Mom, she hasn't mentioned Mookie since then. She didn't get emotional at all, going, during or after. But if she does want to, we can go any time.

Here's a link to Kay's "other" job.

It Just Might Be Okay

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Went over to see Mom and take her to lunch at the terrible K&W Cafeteria, which she LOVES. Everything is horribly overcooked and over salted, but it's her party, so that's where we go.
She was sitting outside with a couple that she's friends with when I got there and even though I had to remove Mookie's crate, she was okay! This made me happy.

Told her Mookie was being fostered by the vet, Kay (God love her, she is a saint - the same vet that fostered and found a home for Mom's diabetic cat Mr. Brown), and she was totally good with it. No crying or anything. I do think it's a relief to her on some level. She did want to see him and we talked about it perhaps being hard to see him go off again, but left it open.

Then she said she wanted a kitten. I do not see that happening. Maybe an older cat. But there's the litter box to deal with. I'm thinking about taking Finn over there, he might be up for that sort of outing. Need to get a new harness, as I'm fairly sure he's "outgrown" the one I have. He is a little round weebil of a cat.

L. was out in the lobby being all cheery and friendly. Ignored her when she spoke to us as we were leaving. Oh, I know - so grown up of me. (That's my M.O. - shut down all contact.) When I left after dropping Mom off she asked how I was and I said I couldn't talk to her, I was still very upset.

A really, really crappy day

Friday, August 7, 2009

Daphne and I have been switching off taking every other Friday off, yesterday was mine. I take some Trader Joe's stuff, Pepsi, and cigarettes (why can't she forget that she smokes???!) over to Mom, so we aren't leaving Mookie in the room alone.

I ask if she remembers talking with L. about Mookie, she says no. So, for Pete's sake, I have to tell her again and tell her about Boston Rescue and that he's on the list. She starts crying.
She's worried Mookie won't remember her. Can he come visit? I'm not sure, depends on the person who adopts him and where they live. She doesn't want to go get something to eat because she's been crying. So I head over to the cafeteria to get her lunch to go.

On my way out, I stop by to see L. and update her on the progress.
She says, "Oh you misunderstood, I didn't want to be mean, I thought you'd realize I meant 48 hours." "He needs to leave today. He can't live here anymore." "I'm getting complaints from staff and residents." (The staff is complaining too?! That's new.)

Now how on God's green earth am I supposed to "pick-up" that she meant 48 hours when she didn't SAY that? Dammit - my mind reader's license just expired! Silly me.

Then she has the nerve to ask how I was doing, because she's "often more worried about the family than the residents." "You need to take care of yourself first." And then touches me on the shoulder. Do. Not. Touch. Me. Yesterday I was shell-shocked, now I'm PISSED.

I bring back lunch for Mom and let her eat before I have to tell her - surprise her - that Mookie has to leave now. I feel set-up. The fucking bad guy - AGAIN.

In the meantime, EBF calls. He must have asked if I was there, because Mom whispered really loud, "She's here now." It's so funny on some level.
When I asked if that was Tom (EBF's real name revealed!), she said, "Oh I don't know who the heck that was."
So, you in the habit of telling people you don't know on the phone that you love them? Interesting. "How's his wife doing?" I ask. "Okay I guess", she replies. Good grief.

Mom's told me several times that I don't like men (oh really?) and I wonder if he's told her that and she's repeating it. Or, because of her dementia, me not liking HIM equals not liking all men. She's right though, I DON'T like dickhead jerks who take advantage of/use women, one of whom is my mother.

Out of the blue ten minutes later, she tells me to mind my own business and that I can go now.
And then I have to say that Mookie has to come with me.

She thinks he's going to Boston Rescue and I'm going to let her think that for now. She goes back and forth between wanting to help carry stuff out (no) and crying. The staff knows that this is happening and are ready to pay special attention to her. I get everything (but the crate) out and get Mookie, who is just as excited as he can be because the word "go" was used. (Car ride - my favorite!) He doesn't even pay attention to her as we walk by. L. is telling Mom he can come visit - shut up! you don't know that! Pisses me off.

I sit in the car and cry for 20 minutes. I can't take him home. I don't want to. Call the vet, they're full up, but they recommend another place in CH. She says she's full, but is getting ready to make calls to confirm reservations. I tell her the sad story, it turns out she has two Bostons herself and she finds a spot for him at least until Monday. She'll make some calls to people she knows who foster dogs too. Poor Mookie. I go home and cry another hour.

I'm depressed about my family. Do they not call or respond to emails because they think I'm so strong that I don't need emotional support? Is it a compliment? Is it truly out of sight, out of mind? This is their mother too. What has happened to us?
My father is rolling over in his grave. He'd smack us all into the middle of next week if he were here.

Mookie has to go.

Monday, August 3, 2009

I get a call at work from the administrator over at Wynwood. She tells me Mookie needs to find a new home, getting complaints from residents and it's just not working out.

Do I want to come over when she has the talk with Mom? Not particularly. I've had this talk with Mom several times and am not anxious to repeat it. She already thinks I'm the bad guy. She says ok and she'll call back after they chat.

While waiting, I look up Boston Terrier Rescue on line and there's one in NC. I'm in the middle of typing the email to them when L. calls back.

She reports that Mom seemed resigned and agreed with her that Mookie was barking and it wasn't fair to the other residents, yada yada yada.
At NO POINT was any mention made of a time frame. I told her I was writing BT Rescue at that very moment and she asked me to keep her updated.
Again - there was no "the-dog-has-48-hours" or "you-have-until-Wednesday" discussion. She did say that once broached it's better to deal with it quickly. Sure, like pulling off a bandade, and I'm in agreement with that.

Rest of week spent emailing, phone tagging BT Rescue. Called the vet; sent Mookie's info to the shelter, just in case there's a softie on staff; and to Tailless Cat Rescue, because she knows people. Anyone I can think of.
The vet's on vacation until Monday, Aug. 10, but she wants to talk about it. She got Mr. Brown adopted; thinking a diabetic cat who hates other cats is much harder to adopt, so she's a miracle worker in my book.

Free at Last!

Sunday, December 21, 2009

Mom is moved in and has Mookie again! Whoo hoo!

How blissful it is to sleep with only cats again, who take up a tiny little bit of room - at the foot of the bed.
They're polite and charming bedfellows (once they get past the "we must disembowel the evil foot!" stage).
Quite unlike Mookie, who takes over the whole bed and snores and farts to boot. It's amazing just how much room a 23 lb dog can utilize.

Kay's leaving today, but Brad keeps saying she won't make it, it snowed something like a foot yesterday and they're expecting seven inches today. She keeps telling him to quit being so damn negative.
Southwest online says it's all good, they're leaving on time.
Even though she's checked in, we wait in line to double check that the plane is leaving.
Agent says it's all good.
The monitor says it's all good, on time...on time...on time...until three seconds after her luggage disappears. At which point it starts flashing delayed...delayed...delayed.
We get back in line and still the ticket agent insists it's leaving Durham on time and the delay is in Chicago, so we say goodbye at security and I head home.

I don't make it past Terminal C when I realize I have a SORE and I mean like strep throat sore - throat. It was instantaneous, like a switch flipped on - not sore - SORE. Crap.

I haven't been home five minutes when Kay calls to say her flight's been canceled until Wednesday morning. So back to RDU (only 10-15 minutes away). Thankfully they were able to pull her luggage off and get it to her.

Kay is nice to have around when you're sick. Generally I don't want to be around anyone when I'm sick, but she's just the right amount of attention. And she doesn't try to see if I have a fever like Mom would. I hate that - personal bubble invasion! She made really good grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, chicken noodle soup, and kept me hydrated.

We played our Nintendo DS's and chilled. Didn't go visit Mom; she thinks Kay already left, plus I've had about all the Mom visits I can handle right now, so being sick is an excellent excuse.

Jim volunteers (okay, Daphne volunteered Jim, but whatever) to take Kay to the airport Wednesday morning at 4:30 AM for her 6:30 flight. THANK YOU!

Later that morning, I take out the garbage - then find I'm locked out.
Kay, in order to protect me from all the axe murderers in my neighbourhood, had locked the doorknob. (I only use the deadbolt on that door)
She assumed
A.) I'm smarter than I am
and
B.) would realize that she would lock the door.

Thankfully I had put on a housecoat and slippers just before I took the garbage out.
It could have been so much worse.

After a couple of seconds of panic and a half-hearted attempt to see the humor in the situation (which only made me cough), I remember there's a car key hidden on my car and house keys in the car.
Two laps around the car: can't find it. It's a bit brisk this Christmas Eve day and I really wasn't prepared to be outside this long, now my hands are cold and muddy. Desperate lap number three coming up.
May have to expose neighbors to my sick-smelly-greasy-haired-no-make-up-unmatched-pajama-wearing self to call someone to bring me a key if I can't find it - WAIT! there is is. Whew! Alright, there's the key collection.
Oh nooooo...none of these keys go to my house. There's one to Sandy's, Daphne's, my mom's house in FL, and the cemetery gate, also in FL. WTF.
A cunning plan is formulated: drive 1.5 miles to Sandy's, get the key she has to my house and all will be well. I pray to God I don't get pulled over.

When I take the key back over a few days later, her boyfriend Donald says "I didn't recognize you without your pajamas." It was pretty funny, but laughing makes me cough for 20 minutes and pee my pants from coughing. (that actually lasts about 4-5 weeks)

Kay makes it home with no delays Christmas Eve. I was hoping she wouldn't get sick, but she ends up with bronchitis.

Merry freaking Christmas.

Cats and Dogs

My theory: extroverts prefer dogs, because both dogs and extroverts are pack animals. (I mean that in the nicest possible way - really. Some of my best friends are extroverts.) Introverts prefer cats (we channel Greta Garbo and her "I vant to be [let] alone.").

Call me the crazy cat lady if you want, but if forced to make a choice between either dogs or cats only for the rest of my life, cats win paws down. My best friend when I was three = a Maine Coon named Fluffy. Wished on a star or blew out candles on a birthday cake = a cat.

I've tried the dog thing several times, much to the amusement of my dear friend Linda (an anomaly to my theory, being an introverted dog lover). She's always prepared to do an intervention should I get confused about my true calling.
But I've finally discovered that I only like the romance of a dog. It's rather like wanting a boyfriend/husband. It sounds good in theory, fun even - someone to go places with, hang out, be your best friend. But the reality turns out to be much more smelly, annoying, and labor intensive than you ever reckoned.

Now, because of my mother's injury and hospitalization, into the middle of my three cat household (two of which were traumatized in my aforementioned vain attempts at dog ownership), I have to insert an almost eleven year old, partially sighted, babyfied Boston Terrier.

Lillie and Oscar are horrified by this breech in their insular feline world and retreat, hissing all the way, to counter tops for the duration.

Finn is pretty sure there is fun to had with this funky new creature. Especially when he notices Mookie gets in trouble for chasing him (he is a very smart cat).

Then it's Game ON!