Losing it on a Tuesday

Yesterday was tough. Tough, tough, tough. I came home from work and things seemed fine. My doggie-girl was waiting at the back door when I walked in and greeted me with her normal enthusiasm. We sent Rico off to his men's softball league double-header and ate dinner.

I had a half of an heirloom tomato (Rainbow was the variety, I think, and it was a lovely orange on top with a great hue of red on the bottom) and a cuke that I'd picked up at the Ada Farmer's Market on my way home. And two slices of Kraft American Cheese and a handful of oyster crackers. I don't know why I added the crackers, or the cheese for that matter, craving salt maybe? It's an odd combo, I know. But I'm like that. If I'm making myself dinner it's usually an odd combo of things that may, or may not, go together (usually not), because I'm choosing from whatever is in the house that I don't have to cook, and appeals to me at that particular point in time.


(I'm pretty sure Rico hates this -- I want what I want, when I want it when it comes to food -- unfortunately this means I can't tell him in advance what I want to eat for dinner -- so it makes it really hard for him to plan meals. He loves to cook, but I'm just too ... what's the word I'm looking for???? Not picky really ... not demanding really (ha ha ha ha ha ha, yes I am


(All I can think of is that I'm a pain in the ass!) :)


Is that too much information? I'm thinking that if I tell the story then some of the stress and anxiety of it will dissipate. Anyhoo ...


I shared my cheese slices with the two cats and Killer, because everybody was begging to share, and I sat at the bar and read the Redbook that has that hottie from NCIS Los Angeles on it with all his kids. (His name escapes me right now, which is crazy because I totally love him and NCIS and L.L. Yummy.)


Anyway, I'm eating and paging through the magazine and I think I hear whimpering, but I'm not sure. A few minutes later I heard it again, but the cats were nowhere in sight and Killer was laying on her bed in the living room. Hmmm. Odd. Maybe Killer is dreaming again, and lord knows she makes all kinds of noises when she's in never-never-land.


A bit later I gather stuff together and I head upstairs to chill and read in bed (it's been a tough week already, and it's only Tuesday) I'm at the top of the stairs and I realize Killer isn't following me. That hardly ever happens. Odder still is the fact that she's standing down in the the middle of the living room and she won't look at me when I call her. She's twisted sideways a bit. Huh. That's a bit freaky. I don't like it. That's just not how she is. She's my shadow. My big Rottie baby-girl. She's always right there waiting for a butt rub or a belly rub


As I head back downstairs I'm hoping she just needs to go outside (even though she went out when I came home). I get progressively freaked when she still won't look at me, and when I try to heard her towards the stairs she whines. Oh-oh.


Now, I know I can overreact when it comes to health issues (in my family that's called "weak-but" -- I pretty much get queasy and feel like all the blood has left my head -- that's why my sister is the nurse and not me). This issue is one I'm totally aware is a problem for me. But Killer is getting up there in dog years, and Rico isn't home to tell me that I'm overreacting. And I'm getting pretty uptight. Really uptight. But I don't want her to realize it because, you know, I don't want her to freak out.


I'm saying "Keep calm." in my head but I'm nowhere near calm.


Killer is a dog, right? So she can't tell me what's wrong or where she hurts. But something hurts (in addition to my heart, because I can't stand for her to hurt) so I start examining her arthritic legs to see if it's one of those. Nope. Is something in a paw? Nope. Has she broken a nail? Nope.


I run my hand over the lump on her side that the vet assures me is just a fat nodule that happens as dogs become older and older. It's bigger than I remember it being (or am I just imagining that it is?). Nope, that doesn't hurt her.


I run my hand over her stomach and whatever you call the rest of the doggie-underside (it can't all be stomach, can it?). Nope.


Nothing seems to hurt, but CLEARLY something hurts. She still won't look at me. She still won't move.



In typical my overreacting fashion I assume something is terribly wrong. Surely she's burst an organ and is bleeding internally. Her eye's don't look right. She's got some terrible new icky-looking sticky goo on her teeth. Her body is shutting down and there's nothing I can do to help. And the vet is already closed. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Can you tell I'm panicking?


Oh boy am I. It's a freak-out-fest.


I force her to go up the steps, because if she's going to die I want to be able to lie down and hold her while she does it, dang it. So now that both of us are whimpering we're in the bedroom and I STILL can't get her to lay down. And then I start to cry. And pray. And tell myself to get a grip for Pete's sake. Even as I'm telling myself I'm being ridiculous I'm sobbing (and trying not to sob only because I don't want that to be here last memory -- mommy sobbing and freaking out).

Basket. Case.


Totally.


And Rico is still playing softball. We're a mess, and he doesn't even know it. I could call my brother (who Killer belonged to before she came to live with us), or my Dad, or my sister the nurse -- I know they'd all answer their phones, and they'd help me figure our where to take Killer. But she's my responsibility. My baby-dog. I should be able to help her. So I call Rico, who I know doesn't have his phone with him BECAUSE HE'S PLAYING BALL, you dumbass, M.


You know he won't answer. But he should know. And I try not to sob as I leave a message. I'm not totally successful. I figure he won't even get the message, because his phone is crap like that.


But you know what? He got it. He came right home. And by then I was calm(er) and Killer was laying down -- still whimpering and pawing at the ground, and still with the sad eyes and the icky teeth goo -- but laying down). And then he did all the same things I did. I'm not so much of a dumb-ass-worthless-in-an-emergency after all (well, yeah, I am -- but I didn't feel quite so bad then).


And then he looks at me and says, "I wonder if this has anything to do with her eating animal crap outside the other day." Oh. That's right. That would give you a tummy ache, wouldn't it? (And by the way WHY IN THE HELL do dogs do that kind of crap?-- pun intended). Why-oh-why would you eat deer crap, or raccoon crap, or whatever kind of crap you can find in the woods? Why?



What do we do? We get her outside to go potty. We took her for a ride in the car, because she LOVES doing that. And then Killer and I took Rico up the road to the sports bar that sponsors his softball team and we dropped him off to celebrate their win and relax. We headed home, Killer and I. We sat in the driveway outside (because she wouldn't get out of the car). We (I) rearranged the cars so that I could park Killer and her car in the garage in case she didn't want to get out all night. I'm a freak show. I know this.


There was more... but you get the gist. Today she's doing better. She got up to go out when I got up and left for work. Just like always. Yippee! She ate breakfast. Yeah! She went for another car ride and Rico got what he needed to make her hamburger/rice/yogurt stomach fixing combo that the vet recommended. (FYI, she sat in the car for an hour after they got home -- only getting out once her food was cooked and ready to eat).


She greeted me at the door when I got home from work just like always. Thank God.


Her little stub of a tail is wagging a bit. She's eating. I need to take a breath. Inhale. Exhale.


It's time for me to go pet my dog. I'm SO happy to do it







P.S. That NCIS L.A. star is Chris O'Donnel (Duh!). Again, yum.
P.S.S. Thank goodness for spellchecker.