Does anyone else see that black cloud following me?

(Note:  Immediate family members might want to give this one a miss, at least for a while.)

I went over to my parents' house tonight to check on things (okay, okay, it was also to watch "Mad Men" on OnDemand because I don't have cable) while they're on vacation.  I went home and fed the cats, checked on Louie (he seems okay, but he's still so thin), and Sam and I stopped at the dry cleaner's and the dog park, and then drove over to the house.  Their cat Isaac met me in the driveway, in a frenzy of meowing.  He always gets anxious when there's no one home, and the neighbor across the street who cat-sits has been known in the past to indulge Isaac's begging with an entire canister of cat treats in a single week, turning him into a treat monster for days afterward.

So I wasn't concerned.  I went inside, fed the dog and got him some water (hot weather today!), picked Isaac up and gave him a treat, scavenged for a snack (there's something about looking in other people's cupboards when they're not home...I think it takes me back to babysitting, after the kids went to bed and I got hungry waiting for the parents to get home), and went in the living room to watch TV.  I gave ZaSu, their other cat, a pat as she slept in the chair with her back to me.

Which is how I discovered--

--that she was dead.

One hand in the air above her, I froze for a long moment, the kind that lasts so long that it stretches time out like an elastic band.  Finally, a thought appeared:  what THE HELL was I going to do?  My parents were away, and I couldn't just leave her there, but I couldn't bring myself to officially look.  Finally I saw that the neighbor across the street, who is the sweetest man and would do anything you needed him to (I'm guessing that includes a ride to the airport or a kidney), was outside in his car.  I ran out and asked for his help.  I called my parents to break the news, while he drove to the store for a suitable box.  My parents were so sorry, and said to do whatever I thought was best.  So I found the number for a local emergency vet clinic, and called to see if they could take her.  They could.  I got directions.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking down at my directions to the clinic written in green marker on several post-its, the first thing I could find.  We've had Zazz since I was 16.  She was only a month old.  One of the other neighbors was trying to find a home for her, because his friend had been illegally keeping a cat in his apartment and it had kittens.  She was the tiniest thing; she fit in the pocket of my bathrobe, and slept by my head, purring.  When she was six months old, she broke her leg--while sleeping on the tailpipe of the neighbor's truck, which he did not notice before taking it out for a spin.  She was resilient, though.  She survived, but she's had a pin in her hip ever since, and she has always hobbled a little.

Our neighbor came back into the house with a box from the store.  A box that said "Bud Light Lime" on it in bright green letters.  I was sad about our cat, upset enough that I couldn't be the one to wrap her and gently place her in the box (bless you, dear neighbor, for taking that on).  But there was a part of me that floated briefly overhead and saw that there was an element of the ridiculous in the two of us solemnly carrying a beer case out of the house.

Our neighbor drove me down to the clinic, and we took the box inside.  He carried it for me, and with great sensitivity set it down.  I had said goodbye with a final pat outside, not because I wanted to, exactly, but because I knew I would regret it if I didn't.  She looked almost asleep, peaceful, quiet, but I could feel when I stroked her that she wasn't there anymore.

Inside, the nurse looked up questioningly, and I explained that I had called a little earlier--"Oh, about a cat," she said, and came around the corner to take the box from us, just as the vet came out from the back room.  Someone made a remark about the fact that it was a Bud Light box, and the vet asked jovially if we had brought pizza, too.  The nurse laughed.  When they were both gone, my neighbor and I looked at each other.  "Did that seem a little insensitive?" I hissed.  "I know!" he said. 

I whispered that when I had called the clinic and choked up as I explained that my family's cat had just died, the lady on the phone had just said, "Okay," in a matter-of-fact tone.  I know you must get to be a little jaded working in a place like that, or you'd probably want to go home and slit your own wrists every night, but I would have settled for a little forced sympathy from her.  They taught us at the call center years ago that just because you've heard it all a thousand times, the person calling you is experiencing it for the first time.

Just then, the vet came back out, his face white.  "I'm so sorry," he said with genuine emotion.  "I didn't realize your cat was dead."  We nodded that it was okay.

And just like that, it was finished.  I handed over my debit card and signed a treatment release form.  The neighbor drove me home and gave me another hug (or I gave him one--I could tell he felt guilty for "letting" this happen on his watch, so I found myself comforting and reassuring him that she lived a good long life and went so peacefully in her sleep in her favorite chair, that we couldn't have asked for better for her, and he shouldn't blame himself at all).

I went inside and gave Isaac a huge handful of treats.  I hugged Sam for a long time, as long as he let me.  I stayed and watched my show so that Isaac would be hopefully be comforted by my presence.  (Incidentally, Mad Men might not be the best choice for an evening of grief--someone died this week, and it's a maudlin show in the best of times.)  Another neighbor called, having gotten the news from the other neighbor and seen my car still in the driveway.  She wanted to make sure I was okay.  We complain about the neighbors sometimes, but when something real happens, everyone is there for each other.  And she's a dog person.

The last of my childhood pets is gone.  I'm sad, but she lived a good long life and she was old and it was just time.  These are the things we tell ourselves, when we don't have other words, but they seem true to me tonight.  She was a good cat.

No answers yet

Why, I ask you, can't it be the easy solution just once?  The vet called me today, and said he's 98 percent certain, based on the early test results, that Louie does not have hyperthyroidism.  That's good news...but we still don't know what's wrong with him.

It could be as simple as a parasite, which is easily diagnosed with a $30 test, and cheaply treated.  Or it could be a GI problem, or an inflamed bowel, or some kind of cancer.  In order to diagnose these latter three, we would be looking at an ultrasound ($800) or an endoscopy ($1200), and that's just the cost of figuring out what's wrong--not treating it.

Have I mentioned that I really like this vet?  He gives me detailed information with which to make informed decisions, and he's sensitive to cost and practicality when it comes to treatment.  So if the parasite test is negative, he suggested that we put Louie on a special hypoallergenic (=$$) diet, and monitor him for a month.  If he gains back some weight, we know it was the bowel thing and he just has to be on that diet for the rest of his life.  If not....Well, we didn't get that far.

I love my pets, I really do.  And I want to be a responsible pet owner.  But I also try to be practical.  He is my cat, not my child (does this sound familiar, readers? remember this same debate from a year ago with a certain German shepherd?), and I don't think that just because we can treat animals with advanced internal medicine and specialized procedures, we necessarily should.  Even if he has something that could be treated and give him additional time, I'm concerned about his quality of life.  A person can rationally understand that even though a treatment is painful, it is for a purpose.  My cat is not going to grasp that concept.

Sorry to get maudlin on you again.  I'm just worried.  And tired.  And stressed out at work.  I like my job most of the time, but lately I feel like I'm getting about 10% of 10% of the necessary information to be effective.  My immediate supervisor only gets some of the facts (nobody seems to know everything, so at least we're all in the same boat there), and she only has time to throw a few of them my way when I see her between meetings and crises.  It's been chaotic and frustrating.  I think it will get better.  I just hope it's soon.

I've been having headaches, too.  I went to the doctor last week, and he thinks I'm clenching my teeth in my sleep, so now I have a very attractive bite guard (think hockey player) to wear at night.  It seems to be helping, because I haven't woken up with a migraine.

But in the interest of ending on a positive note, here's some good news:  the community orchestra I play with has a new director, since our founding director retired in 2008 and we tried out three candidates last year (and hired my favorite).  I think it's going to be a great season, and I'm motivated to practice my viola for the first time in ages.  There are so many new players that we actually ran out of chairs tonight.  So that's good.

I'll try to post an update when we know more about Louie.  Not to be indelicate, but I have been waiting for him to leave a, um, sample, so that I can take it to the vet for testing.  Sensing this, he has been avoiding the litter box.

In Which Erin Becomes Educated on Feline Illnesses, Too

I thought we were done with the vet for a while.  First:  Sam is doing great--he loves to go to the dog park and gallop up and down the hill, and he's energetic and happy and wonderfully life-enriching. 

But I noticed a week or two ago that my cat Louie has been losing weight.  I can distinctly feel his spine and ribs, and now the bones in his head, as well.  He's a big cat, and he had put on a few pounds since coming to live as an indoor-only feline at Chez Erin, but I weighed him (Erin+cat on scale - Erin on scale alone = cat's weight) and discovered that he'd lost at least two pounds.  So, being the responsible citizen and pet owner that I am, I made him a vet appointment.

I was not sure at all that I would get him back after the appointment--but only because the technicians were all trying to take him home with them!  He is a very sweet and personable cat, if I do say so myself, and people generally warm to him quickly.  He has big blue eyes (hence his original name was "Blue"--named by the same idiot owner whose solution for him continually climbing onto the neighbor's roof was to have him declawed; good riddance to her--but I just couldn't call a cat BLUE, so we transitioned to LOU-ie), and he has thick gray fur with a mix of tabby and Siamese markings.  He's about 10 years old, as far as I know.

Louie's a very good cat.  He sat very patiently on the exam table and purred and purred.  The vet even had to wave a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol under his nose to get him to stop long enough so she could listen to his heartbeat. 

So...the vet thinks that he has hyperthyroidism.  We won't know for sure until the test results come back, but he seems to be a likely candidate:  rapid weight loss, increased appetite, older cat, Siamese. 

If  that's the case, the good news:  it's treatable or even curable.  The bad news:  treatment will either be a pill twice a day for the rest of his life (estimated at about $20/month); or a one-time radioactive shot which cures the disease, at a cost of $800+.

That's right.

$800 or more.  He would have to go to a specialist; there are two places here in town that administer this particular shot.

I have to admit, I laughed when she gave me the estimate.  It's not quite as much as it cost over a year to treat Sam for heartworm...but it's close.  At this point, I feel like I should get a thank-you note from the vets' children for single-handedly paying for their orthodontia--and probably their new speedboat and ponies, too.

I haven't decided yet what I will do if the test results show hyperthyroidism.  Tomorrow the other vet will call me with the first results, and we'll go from there.  I feel bad--I always seem to be interrogating him for medical information, but he patiently answers all my questions and gives me very reasoned advice.

So, cross your fingers that it's nothing more serious than this.  If treated properly, it won't shorten or really even affect his life.  And the next time someone offers you a reasonable rate on pet medical insurance, do me a favor and take it!

Groceries, American Style

I'm supposed to be grocery shopping right now.  That was my one goal for this afternoon, to go to the grocery store and bring home some food so I will be stocked for the week.  (And yet, here I sit.)

Once I'm out of the house and there, I actually kind of enjoy the grocery store.  I like finding just the things I need, as efficiently as I can, and determining the best price, and figuring out the option with the least salt or sugar or fat or whatever.  I like clipping coupons (except when I hate it).  I like to stand in line at the checkout and read the tabloid covers (I have to admit, I miss the Weekly World News and its zanily doctored photos); and I like to look around unabashedly to see what other people are buying.  The college guys on Friday nights with two six-packs and a shrink-wrapped package of firewood.  The old ladies with a cartful of canned goods and a fistful of expired coupons.  The teenagers with eight candy bars and a Red Bull.  I like to guess who's on their way to a party (tortilla chips and a plastic tub of dip), and who forgot to buy one ingredient for tonight's recipe, and who just had a sudden craving for some fancy cheese.

I feel a little guilty for resenting the grocery store.  It seems like I should be grateful just for the opportunity to shop at all.  First, there's the fact that I have sufficient money to buy enough food for myself, including the occasional splurge (macadamia nuts, feta cheese, good chocolate, almond-stuffed green olives--or yes, sometimes Cheetos, my secret junk food of choice). 

Also, I have lived in another country, where going grocery shopping was an exhausting, bewildering, and often frustrating experience.  In China, we lived near a large underground supermarket, with a conveyer belt that slowly moved you and your cart and 500 black-haired people downward into the belly of an enormous cacophany of pop music and small electronics and tanks of mysterious live seafood and a whole aisle of instant noodles in cups and tubs and boxes.  There were rows of plastic packages of spices I couldn't even guess at, and twenty-five kinds of canned tuna (including some with black beans mixed in), and signs and labels everywhere that I couldn't begin to read.  Just finding things that I could recognize as food--bread and peanut butter and Oreos--was an ordeal that could take a whole morning.

Not to mention standing in line at the checkout, which is an aggressive sport in China.  If you don't move up against the person in front of you as close as humanly possible without fusing together, and use your cart and body to guard your spot, preferably with a friend to block the other side, you will find yourself constantly at the end of the line, with sweet-looking tiny old women muscling you aside like crafty linebackers to get ahead of you.  When I moved back to the States, it was hard to get used to polite Americans standing in line again; I rammed more than one shopper's ankles with my cart, and my mother looked at me like I was crazy.

Whenever I came home for a visit, I was overwhelmed by the variety of choices and the fact that I recognized everything.  My mom would take me along to the store, and ask me to go pick some cereal or ice cream.  Several minutes later, she'd come back to find me frozen in the middle of the aisle, staring at the possibilities, brain unable to make a decision because I could read the packages and I knew what ALL of them were.  Coming from a world where one box of crackers in English was cause for delight, this was just too much.

Don't get me wrong:  I loved the food in China.  I still dream about it sometimes.  We ate out all the time at restaurants both rich and cheap.  Everything was good--corner noodle shops serving steamed dumplings filled with pork and chives, tiny hotpot stands in the market where you pointed to the boiling bowlful you wanted and ate it at a communal table, fancy places with "traditional" peasant fare for exorbitant prices real peasants could never afford.  Other than my friends, I miss the food most of all.  But when I wanted to cook in my apartment, or just have food on hand for a quick lunch in, I needed something that I knew how to prepare and eat.  And that was not as easy to find as you might think.

American brain freeze extended beyond grocery shopping, too.  After my parents picked me up from the airport on a trip home, I would stare out the window at all the billboards and signs in English, amazed that I could understand them.  I would sit on the edge of the bathtub and read the entire toothpaste box.  I couldn't get enough of television in a language where I finally knew what was going on.  In China, I would watch TV sometimes and attempt to figure out the story line.  Some shows weren't too hard--that man was kissing a woman who wasn't his wife, and when she found out she was really, really mad--but the mystical kungfu serials and comedy hours were utterly baffling.  Occasionally I would come across a dubbed American movie, and I would try to follow it by seeing if I could lip-read (I could not).  There was one broadcast channel in English, run by the government as all Chinese TV is, but most of its programs were wholesome and educational and whitewashed and incredibly boring--and that's coming from someone who likes PBS--except when they would show English-language movies one night a week.  I didn't care what it was; the novelty of the box in my living room finally speaking my language was exciting enough.  I discovered that many of my friends in the expat community did the same thing:  Australian, South African, British, it didn't matter.  We all watched and then talked about Longitude or Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore or whatever was on. 

That's not to say that we didn't enjoy spending time among Chinese speakers.  But when you're constantly barraged by a language that's not the same as the one in your head, and your brain has to work overtime all day to make sense of just enough words to figure out what's going on and how to reply, it's a refreshing treat to be able to sit back and have the words flow in without effort.

And now it's time to venture out to the grocery store where I am fortunate enough to be able to shop, so that I don't have to do it on the holiday tomorrow.  Happy Labor Day, everyone.

Now I'm hungry

I should be in bed.

It's 10:30 and I have to go to work tomorrow (in my head, I can hear my father's voice saying "bedtime--it's a school night!"), but I just saw a terrific movie and I am feeling inspired. The movie was Julie and Julia, based on the book by Julie Powell, which is in turn based on the blog she wrote about cooking all the recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child in one year.

I read the book a few years ago when it first came out, loved it, and gave it to more than one friend as a gift. Now that it's a hugely successful movie (my parents and I were turned away from the sold-out 2 PM show and had to come back at 7:40 tonight!), I am experiencing the mixed emotions of anyone who has watched something they loved first, turn into a major success with masses of new fair-weather fans who jump on the bandwagon of acclaim as it goes by. In other words, I am happy that it's a hit, but I want some credit for knowing it was a hit before anyone else had even heard of it. It's the same way with music: say you are devoted to a local indie band that suddenly makes it big, and now everybody's a fan, and you're not special anymore for liking them (just ask my sister about Imogen Heap).

So anyway, watching a movie about a woman who writes a blog that gets turned into a book and then a movie made me wish that might someday happen to me. But of course that would necessitate me occasionally writing (writing on? writing in?) my blog. I'm making an effort to post more frequently. We'll see.

I would definitely recommend the movie, and moreover I would recommend eating a delicious rich meal before you go, and possibly sneaking some duck in pastry or raspberry cream into the theater in your pockets. I am simultaneously starving for butter and cream and eggs, and debating whether to go online and find a deal on a used copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking right now before they're all snatched up, so that I can try my hand at the wonders therein.

Speaking of food, I went to the farmers' market this morning, because it was my week to pick up the CSA (community-supported agriculture) share I'm splitting with a coworker. Red new potatoes, green beans, still more summer squash (how much zucchini can one person eat?), the first of the sweet corn, lettuce, fresh-cut chives, and some rather disappointing blueberries. I also bought cherries and apricots. Okay, now I'm officially hungry.

This is the first year I've bought a CSA share. Because everybody gets whatever they put in the boxes for us, I've been forced to branch out from my usual weeknight repertoire. I tried fava beans for the first time--okay, but nothing special, or at least not the way I prepared them. I experimented with fried zucchini, but haven't found a recipe I like yet. Last week I ate potatoes sauteed in olive oil with leeks three times, and still couldn't get enough. I made zucchini bread from my red-and-white Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, and the smell took me back to Lanzhou, China, where I used to bake it in our tiny toaster oven for our breakfasts, and sometimes I would put in a few precious chocolate chips.

After the market today, I took Sam to the dog park for the second time this weekend. He's getting so he knows when we're approaching it--I don't know if he sees all the dogs, or recognizes the smell, but he puts his nose out the window and wags as we drive up. I would take a ball or frisbee for him, but he just doesn't seem interested. What he really likes to do is run after a dog who is chasing a ball. He doesn't want the ball; he just wants to race. We spent about half an hour, at the end of which he was plodding along, exhausted, tongue lolling. At home, he immediately sprawled on the floor and fell asleep for the rest of the afternoon. I took him for a moderate walk tonight and he wore out halfway through. It's going to take a while to build his stamina back up, I guess.

The vet also gave me stern advice about not overfeeding him. Sam gained another pound between May and August, which is still within a healthy weight for his size, but I had a stern talk with my parents (okay, my mom) about not going too crazy on the treats. If only he wasn't so good at a sweet, sad, hungry expression. Mooch.

It's a little strange for me not to be worrying about him all the time. I didn't have to be vigilant at the dog park to keep him from galloping. I don't have to plan our activities so that he doesn't have too much exertion. He can do whatever he wants now. Lucky him. Right now he's asleep in the hallway by the front door. I don't know why he likes to sleep there; he wedges his long legs in between the wall and the closet door, and presses his back up against the door. It doesn't look comfortable. As long as he's happy, though, I'll let him be.

Driving home from the movie in the dark tonight, I thought about how I started my blog last spring just as I left my last job, and how it's been a year this month since I got my new job. I was thinking about Julie in the movie, being encouraged by her readers, and how it has helped me, too, to know that people were out there caring about me and hoping for the best.

Navigating the night streets (squinting through the arced smear across my windshield from the bug I attempted to gently brush off with my windshield wipers earlier today so it wouldn't blow off in the wind and die; and instead managed to trap in the blades, maim, and eventually have to put out of its misery with the "high" setting--all while driving down the road at 35), I thought about being treated like an adult at this job, and not a perpetual twenty-something temp and secretary, even though I often feel like a child who is disguised as a responsible 30-year-old. I thought about how one of the head bosses told me on Friday that he wants me to take his place at a weeklong training he can't attend. I thanked him, but politely asked if there wasn't someone more appropriate to go instead (i.e., someone more senior or important than myself), but he said, no, he thinks it should be me. I'm not sure if I will get to, because (this being government) other people have to agree, too, but it was flattering to be thought of at all. I felt like...well, like a grown-up, like maybe people see me not as just an assistant who answers the phone and makes copies and takes care of everyone's payables. Like maybe I have potential for something. I know I'm thirty years old and I shouldn't need external affirmation from my superiors to feel good about myself. But I still like it once in a while.

And now, I really should be in bed. Either that or I will have to go into the kitchen, melt some butter, and lick it directly out of the pan. Go see Julie and Julia! And then read the book.

Good night.

Test results! (a short post, for once)

For those who want to know, Sam and I just came from the vet: no heartworm!!! His test was negative, which means he has a completely clean bill of health! He can take long walks and run around at the dog park and catch a frisbee (although I'm not sure he's a frisbee dog or a ball dog).

Yay! We're off to the dog wash now.

One last reminder: if you have a dog and it's not currently taking preventing heartworm medicine, call your vet RIGHT NOW! This is an easy and cheap disease to prevent. Much easier and cheaper than to treat it.

--Erin

Book Club

My book club met tonight. I've always wanted to be in a book club, but never could find the initiative (or the right group at the right time) to start one myself. We are all adult piano students with the same teacher. It's quite a mix, six of us, all women--one retired, another retired with grandkids, two in their 40s (I think?) with teenagers, one a little younger who just got married. And me, single and in my 30s. The piano is the one thing we have in common.

We formed by chance. I was reading a library book one day while I waited for my lesson (Cartwheels in a Sari--a memoir by a woman who grew up in a cult in New York City--I recommend it). It was a miracle that I was early in the first place, and on top of that I had remembered my book. The woman with the lesson before me started asking about the book as she packed up her music, and then our teacher joined in, and before we knew it we had a book club.

This month it was The Kite Runner, which is set primarily in Afghanistan in the 1970s. It was one of those Important Books everyone was reading a year or two ago, and I can see why. I liked it, but it was sad, and then it was sadder; and then just when I thought things were looking up, it got sadder still. But yet, it was not without hope. You should probably read it, if only so you can say you've read it.

This was only our second book. Before this we read The Glass Castle, a memoir by a woman who grows up semi-homeless with her bipolar mother and alcoholic/out of touch with reality father. Cheery. Parts of it were hilarious, but honestly I couldn't believe people could be that uninterested in the welfare of their own children.

I was hoping for something happy this next month, but now we're on to Love in the Time of Cholera, which I've never read and don't really know what it's about yet, but judging by the title, I'm guessing the screenplay adaptation was not written by Mel Brooks.

After this, it's my turn to choose (alphabetically by last name--very logical of us). I've got my book picked out already. I bought it on sale at Powell's. It's piano-themed, non-fiction, and--I'm hoping--a little happier in tone.

But of course, book clubs aren't really about the book. Oh, sorry, was that a secret?

Or at least, ours isn't. A simple statement about the characters might lead to a grandchild anecdote (or two, or ten...), or various medical ailments of one's friends and relatives, or a work story, or tales of a neighbor whose kid joined a cult, or another novel that you simply must read (at which point we all take out our notebooks to write down the title), if only any of us could remember the author's name. And ten minutes later, we circle back around to the book. We drink a little wine, we eat dessert, we laugh. It's low-pressure, companionable, nice.

Unfortunately, I'm feeling irritable today, so internally I wasn't as patient as I should have been with a certain member, who is very nice and genuine and sincere and caring, but who has a prominent tendency to monologue, almost exclusively about herself. I'm hoping it wasn't obvious that I was annoyed. I know I've got an expressive face. I try to be nice. But you know how most groups/offices/families have one person where, whatever someone else is saying, it inevitably applies to them in some way, which leads to another long story? Kristen Wiig on SNL has perfected this in the character of Penelope, who compulsively one-ups everyone around her (so your dog had puppies? Penelope just gave birth to kittens! you broke your finger? Penelope lost a leg and regrew it in a week...etc.).

Like I said, I try to be nice, but I'm not feeling very tolerant today. Maybe it's the heat. I spent all last week staying with my parents, where there is glorious air-conditioning. My condo reached 80 degrees inside by Monday morning, and 100+ temperatures were predicted for the week, so I called my mother and asked if the open invitation was still good. The dog and I stayed with them until Friday, when it cooled off a little. Not a bad deal: queen-size bed, free cable TV (I watched The Daily Show every night before I went to sleep), warm showers, home-cooked dinners, and well-stocked fridge. Also, I left Sam with them during the day, so he had his own private doggy daycare for the week. I was afraid he would refuse to go home with me again, preferring to stay with the benevolent dispensers of treats and belly rubs, but fortunately dogs are loyal and he hopped right in the car to go home. He's a better person than I am, for sure.

Sam's final heartworm test is on August 15. I asked the girl how long it would take to get the results, expecting it to be a day or two--preparing myself for the long wait over the weekend. But she said, "Ten minutes." So on August 15 we'll know, after nearly a year of treatment and waiting and more than a little money, whether it worked.

Work has been a little crazy, too. A new group/team has just been formed, which I was not part of, and then I was, and then I was not, and now I am. I was moving with them to a different floor in the building, and then I wasn't, and then I was, and...well, you get the idea. There are rumors flying around the office about personnel changes, hirings, reorganization, and people are getting pretty squirrelly. I think everything will be fine once the dust settles, but in the meantime, as a lower-level worker and a "work producer" as my boss likes to call it (as opposed to the "non-work producers", aka most--though not all--managers of the world, who merely come up with ideas and pass them off to the producers for execution), I keep getting more things to do, and none of the old work is going away. It's frustrating because I feel like the quality of my work is not as high as it could be, but lately the goal has just been getting things off my desk so I can go on to the next.

I keep reminding myself that I like to be busy, but there's busy and then there's frantic, out-of-control, screaming-on-the-inside, about-to-throw-my-chair-out-a-window-if-someone-gives-me-one-more-thing-to-do-that-they-could-easily-do-themselves-in-two-minutes busy. We're somewhere between the two right now. I try to take deep breaths and not curl in a fetal position under my desk.

But I'm not complaining--I'm employed full-time, I have good benefits, and I'm definitely not bored!

So...how have you been? Thanks for the blog comments. Even though this may seem like an open therapy session/journal entry exclusively for my own benefit, I appreciate knowing you're out there. :-)

Time to go open the windows to cool the house off a little before bedtime.

All right, all right, I've been avoiding you

Today started with a hairball. Or was it an omen?

I was just on the other side of sleep this morning when I began to hear the unmistakable sound of a cat hacking something up beyond the foot of my bed. I recall a dim thought about investigating, but then fell back asleep and forgot all about it...until my alarm on the dresser went off. I leaped up and raced around the end of the bed to switch it off--landing smack in the middle of a giant, cold, wet hairball. (Note: if you have trouble waking up in the morning, an adrenaline jolt from stomping on something cold and slimy with your bare feet is quite effective. My shrieks undoubtedly woke the upstairs neighbors, if not the actual dead.)

So that probably should have been my first clue.

I should start by saying, I like my job. I really do. I'm grateful every day to have a job in this frightening economy, and most of the time I find my work very busy and interesting. But the thing about a busy and interesting job is, sometimes it can be entirely *too* busy and *too* interesting. Right now, we're in the middle of a big reorganization of people and departments and responsibilities. It's like Fruit Basket Upset, only with people's jobs. No one really knows what everything will look like when the tornado finally sets us down in some field, but in the meantime there's still plenty to do. In fact, there's more and more every day, masses of papers swirling around me that I manage to snatch out of the wind and hold onto long enough to put on my to-do list before they're gone again.

This was my first day back after a pleasant four-day holiday weekend, and it included a lunch meeting, an afternoon meeting, and several red-alert crises. Tomorrow I have a breakfast meeting with a new "team" that has been formed from some existing departments. What makes me a little concerned is the fact that when I looked at the list of invitees, I'm the only administrative person on the list. The other six are either project managers or program managers. Is it cynical of me to think that this may result in more work for me?

My boss--my immediate supervisor, that is--says sympathetically, "Everything runs downhill." She used to be an assistant, so she gets that extra work tends to fall on the lowest-ranked person. (Me.) Others are not quite so sensitive.

Do I sound ungrateful? I feel guilty for complaining, because there are so many people out of work these days. People with real problems, like losing their houses and not having the money to fix their cars or pay for their kids' braces. I, on the other hand, have a full-time job, with excellent benefits and enough wages to pay the mortgage and have a little left over for electricity and food and stuff.

I should be kissing the hot concrete at the building entrance, twirling in Julie Andrews circles in front of the jammed copier, hugging the boss who brings me yet another "urgent" project. I should not be resenting the long walk from the parking lot (past the managers' reserved spaces that are always empty), or the lady who microwaves broccoli at 9 AM, or the man who sits behind me and has long, loud personal phone conversations in a voice like a hive of bees.

And yet, I do resent them. Of course I do. I'm pretty sure if I were in the Garden of Eden, I would be complaining about the itchy grass or the too-sweet fruit or the offensively naked man or something.

Also, in case you haven't figured it out during my three-month blog hiatus, I did not get into library school. I wasn't surprised, really, because so many retirees or laid-off workers are going to grad school for a renaissance career as a librarian. The thin envelope contained a letter saying they had a huge pool of applicants this year, more than ever, and they hated turning me down. Part of me was relieved. Now I don't have to figure out how to pay for grad school, saddling myself with massive debt or taking on another job. And I don't have to take on studying for classes in addition to my full-time job. Also, I wasn't 100% sure if I wanted to take that path, and now the decision is made on my behalf for at least another year. But I was also a little disappointed. Finally, I thought I had figured out what I was going to DO WITH MY LIFE. Now I'm not so sure.

When people ooh and ahh over the fact that I graduated from Whitman, I always feel like a bit of an impostor, a poseur compared with my overachieving classmates. I haven't been awarded a Fulbright, or a Rhodes scholarship; I'm not in medical school, law school, or Harvard Business School. I don't work for a national newspaper. I'm not solving global warming or the hunger crisis. Nor, even, am I married with two or three adorable moppets whose pictures appear in the alumni magazine.

I work in an office. I have an ordinary job, an ordinary single life, an ordinary condo and dog and car. Ordinary is okay, especially in this economy, but I'm still left with the looming question of where I might be headed from here.

So...that's enough maudlin reflection for tonight. In better news, I took Sam to the vet a few weeks ago to be weighed, and he had gained ten pounds in two months! This is excellent news, because weight loss is a symptom of heartworm, and it's a good sign that he has gained some back. He was down to 68 pounds in December; now he weighs nearly 82, right in the target healthy weight for a German Shepherd. When I pet him, I can't feel all the bones in his head or count his ribs anymore.

His final blood test is in August, six months after his last injection. That's when we should know for sure whether the heartworm treatment worked or not. My guess is--no, I don't want to jinx it by speculating, but let's just say I have hope.

In the meantime, Sam seems much happier with life. He bounces along on our walks, his tail curved up, and his ears taking in every crow and squirrel. I took him to a dog park for the first time on Sunday. He *loved* it! I was a little worried because I don't know his history, particularly in socializing with other dogs, but he loped around the park and sniffed the butt of every canine who would hold still long enough (and some who wouldn't). Then he came home and fell asleep in the middle of the floor for the rest of the day.

Also, I discovered tonight that he goes *crazy* if I blow air on his face. He leaps up, races in circles, runs into the couch and the piano, and then comes back for more. Pretty soon I was laughing so hard I couldn't get any air to come out, and I forgot all about my stressful day and my existential crisis, and then he rolled over for a tummy rub. Just like a dog.

In which Erin finally returns to give an update

First, an apology to my loyal readers (if I have any left). I was very surprised to find that it has been a month since my last post. A few things have been keeping me occupied, though. Here's a brief summary:

1. Family stuff. My grandmother broke her hip, and has been in the hospital and now a care facility while she heals. The break was such that they were able to do a "simple" hip replacement, so it's the least bad it could have been, but it's still not great. I've been to see her a few times, and I know I should go more often because she's bored and anxious to go home. You might think, if you've never been in the hospital, that it sounds rather nice to lie in a bed and watch TV and have people visit and bring you food. But it gets boring awfully fast. When I had my gallbladder out a few years ago (yes, apparently I'm now a seventy-five-year-old woman--but seriously, it's genetic and it runs in my family), I was looking forward to a few days of pampering, but I surprised myself (and the doctor) by dragging out of my hospital bed and walking around unaided on the same night of my surgery. Some unconscious part of me just couldn't stand lying there. I didn't see that coming.

2. Work, work, work. Part of my job involves assisting with a new citizen committee, and they meet once a month in the evening. That sounds simple, but putting together binders, ordering food, reserving rooms, etc., takes a lot more time than you would think. Not to mention attending the meetings, which work out to an extra half-day of time for me. I have the option to bank the overtime hours for later use, but this month I was so tired by the end of that week that I took Friday afternoon off instead. Which was wonderful: I came home, ate a leisurely lunch, took the dog out, and then had a nap. Perfect day. There were about fifty things I needed to do, but I did none of them. "I did nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be."

3. Orchestra. We're now in rehearsals with our third tryout conductor. The second one was...interesting. We had two concerts with him at the end of February. They went okay, but I just don't think he is the best fit for our group. He spent a great deal of time in rehearsal on very small passages and on developing a "sound", often working with one section at a time and leaving the rest of us sitting there staring at our shoes, and we were dramatically underpracticed on the very ambitious symphony he selected for us to play. The third conductor is very nice and has a quirky sense of humor, but the music he picked out is...well, it's just too easy. Some of it I played in high school, and we weren't an especially advanced high school orchestra. I'd rather be bored than stressed, I suppose. But I really think the first guy, from last fall, is going to be it. He's lighthearted but passionate about music, and he doesn't treat us like a bunch of amateurs (which we are). We're voting in May, after our next set of concerts.

4. Sam! My sweet dog and I have survived two months of confinement, with very few scars on either of us. (One night in mid-February, I sensed he must be feeling better because he was acting bored; I came home from rehearsal to find that he had gone through my office trash and chewed up two near-empty pens I'd thrown away, and he had gotten blue and black ink all over the carpet in my office. It looks like someone beat up my rug.) This week, he has been for walks every day but one. You should see him on a walk now. He's so happy. He trots along, pulling at the leash, his tail wagging and his ears up. Today we went to the park for the first time in two months, and he had to sniff every single bush and tree; as I was telling my parents, obviously he's trying to catch up on two months of news that he missed.

The next step for Sammy is a second heartworm test, which will be August. The new protocol calls for testing six months after the last injections. There's a small possibility (10-15%) that this treatment won't work. So what would we do then, you ask? We would start over, and go through the whole treatment regime again. But I am trying to keep a positive attitude about it. He seems to feel so much better already that I hope the treatment worked. If the August test comes back negative, Sam can run and play as much as he wants.

5. Housecleaning. I really hate cleaning the house. Or I guess I must, because I put it off as long as possible every time. My desk at work is fairly neat, but that's because I can't get anything done if I don't have a surface to work on. At home, I can always go in another room if I can't stand the mess. Until all the rooms are messy, and then I finally have to bite the bullet and clean. The problem is, there are two separate stages of cleaning: first, there's the tidying and clearing of surfaces, wherein I sort the big pile of mail on the counter, take out the recycling, and hang up my clothes. Then, there's all the vacuuming, dusting, mopping, and bathroom-scrubbing. It usually takes me two days for the two stages, and if I start all this on a Sunday--as I usually do--I end up doing the intensive cleaning on Monday after work. Which is what I did this week, for four hours on Monday night. No wonder I have been experiencing....

6. ...General malaise. I don't mean to complain, and please don't think this is about to turn into a medical blog (just tonight's edition), but I've been feeling really run-down this week, for no good reason. I have been sleeping as much as I ever do, exercising again with the dog, and eating well. But I have been very tired and a little weak. Not sick enough to stay home, just not quite right. It'll pass, I'm sure, unless it's bubonic plague or tuberculosis or mono or something.

In a related note, this afternoon I decided to have a little nap on the couch for a few minutes. I had just started to drift off, when I was jolted awake by a low wolf-growl behind me, from the dog I thought was asleep on the floor. Sam shot past me to the window. I sat up to see what horrible menace was in the area--hitman? rabid pitbull? burglar? A few moments later, here's what went by on the path: a little old lady, walking a white poodle in a pink sweater and a toy Yorkie. My dog sat at the back door and growled threateningly at them. Way to protect the house, Sam.

7. Entertainment. I don't watch that much TV (isn't that what everyone who likes to watch TV says?), but I do follow a few things, and all of the shows I watch have had new episodes lately. I read that February sweeps got pushed back to "March sweeps" this year because of the digital switch, but then the digital switch got bumped to summertime, so we were stuck with reruns in bleak February anyway. So, since I know you're curious, here's what I'm watching this season: The Office, 30 Rock, House, Scrubs (but only because I want to see how it comes out--I am so over that show/Zach Braff), and Brothers & Sisters (which I watch with 75% attention while I wash the dishes, change my sheets, and get ready for bed on Sunday nights). And RIP, Pushing Daisies. I couldn't even bring myself to watch the last couple of episodes of that, because I knew that there was some kind of major cliffhanger coming that would never be resolved. Sigh. Oh, and I've got an endless supply of movies and TV shows (except the second season of Monarch of the Glen, which I just finished season one of on DVD) from Netflix. So there's lots to do. Not to mention books. I just reread Julie & Julia, which I highly recommend for anyone who likes to cook. Or anyone who doesn't. And then I get two weekly magazines. Etc.

8. Financial fun. I turned in my grad school application at the end of January, and then I had to do my FAFSA. But to complete my financial aid paperwork, I had to do my taxes first. Which was all just so exciting. I should hear from the school of my choice in "late April", whatever that means.

9. Friends from distant lands. Two of my college friends, who are married (to each other), were visiting from eastern Washington with their young son, and I spent an evening with them. Also, my friend who's been living in Egypt is in Portland this week with her husband; I will see her tomorrow, which I'm very excited about.

So, that's about it. How have you been?

Neighbors & Friends

When you're outside in your sweatpants and curlers on a Sunday morning, it is inevitable that you will run into one of the neighbors. Probably one of the ones you're less friendly with, who will not acknowledge you even though you're pretty sure he can see you standing in the middle of a bare patch of grass in your spring coat, your head covered in crazy velcro loops. Probably it would have been a good idea to take the curlers out and put on real pants and maybe a little makeup before going out.

But when your dog has to pee, he has to pee.

Since he can't go for walks right now, Sam and I spend a lot of time out in front of my building, in one of the remaining squares of grass not torn up by the drainage workers. I'm not exactly sure what they're doing, but it involves digging a trench around each house, and a long one all the way between my house and the next one over. Seriously, it looks like Bugs Bunny took a wrong turn on his way to Albuquerque and tunneled around my yard in circles. There is construction tape everywhere, stretched on wooden stakes along the trenches--but only on one side of each. In fact, now that I look around, all the tape is on the wrong side to protect me. Apparently no one cares if I fall into a two-foot trench and break an ankle in the dark, as long as the trespassers are safe.

Our frequent trips outside mean we've been seeing a lot of the neighbors lately. Not just the nice ladies who helped me move my piano in two years ago, and who always smile and ask about my cats and pet Sam. And not the dalmatian owner on the other side, who is terribly nice and lives with her adult son (he's not just an adult--he's got to be close to 40, and they both work at the same place and share a company SUV; I haven't asked why he moved back in with his mom, but since he walks the dog and shoveled all the sidewalks when it snowed, I have no objections).

There are also the less-friendly people, who look suspiciously (I may possibly be projecting a little) at my too-large dog and refuse to make eye contact with me, even when I call hello. These are the people I'm afraid are going to turn me in for having a dog who's more than twice the weight limit specified in the homeowners' association rules.

There's one woman in particular I'm concerned about. She's an older lady with tight gray curls who lives a few buildings down, and wears an enormous duffel coat and a sour expression while she takes her yappy terrier out several times a day. She used to walk the dog right by my building as I was leaving for work in the morning, and the dog barked at me every single day like I was trying to rob a bank. I would greet the dog anyway, because he's a cute little thing with wiry hair and funny ears, and say hello to the lady, but I got nothing in return.

Fine, I decided, she's just grumpy. She also does not like Sam. As I believe I mentioned in a previous post, her eyes got very large when she first encountered him, and she backed away into the carport as he went calmly by on the leash. When I reassured her (over the noise of her terrier BARKING BARKING BARKING at Sam) that he was really very friendly, she said, "He's just...too big". And that's the only time she's spoken to me.

Sam, as I have said before, is not a barker. He lets me know with one deep German WOOF when he needs to go out in the morning, and he sounds an alarm to tell me that there are workmen outside or a dog walking by, but he's not a recreational yodeler/howler, and he rarely barks at other dogs when we are out together.

So it took me by surprise when we were out one day two weeks ago, and he began aggressively barking, barking, BARKING and lunging onto his back legs, straining at the leash.

I looked to see what terrible danger he was warning me of, be it homicidal maniac, careening car, or stray bear: but no, it was just the woman who doesn't like him, and her tiny terrier, of course. I don't think Sam cares much for her, either. I figured she was just that way with everybody, but then I saw her laughing and talking with the dalmatian lady by the mailboxes. So maybe it's just me.

The other person I was concerned might turn me in to the HOA lives on the first floor on the other side of our patch of communal grass. I got the impression--through a wordless exchange in the dark a few nights ago, in which she stood in her doorway and muttered while Sam peed in the yard (he does this a lot, as you might have noticed)--that she thought I had scared her cats. But then it occurred to me, happily, that under condo association cats are not allowed outside without a leash. Which is a ridiculous rule, to begin with, but her cats spend a great deal of time, free-range, digging around in the dirt and rolling on the sidewalk. They're nice cats; one is black-and-white and quite friendly, though I can't say as much for her owner. But she can hardly complain about my dog without admitting that her cats are also in violation.

So I think we're safe for now.

Sam seems to be feeling better after his two shots last weekend, although he's been sleeping a lot. We're on day 10 of his second month of highly restricted activity. Yesterday I went to the vet to pick up the rest of the antibiotics for his bladder infection. I also bought, at the vet's recommendation, some probiotics to sprinkle on his food. (I had to write down "probiotics" while talking to the vet on the phone before I realized that they are ANTI-antibiotics. I had no idea such a thing existed, but they replenish the healthy bacteria in his system that the antibiotics could wipe out. Incidentally, they look and smell just like beef bouillon and Sam LOVES them.) I steeled myself for the total due, and when the vet tech told me three times that it was really only $30.10 for all of it, I got a little hysterical.

I'll be glad when we're done with all this. Between Sam and work, I've been tired and edgy for weeks now, to the point that I briefly considered feigning illness to get out of seeing an old friend today, who's in town for a conference this weekend. (No, I wasn't actually going to *do* it!) I'm just not all that enthused about driving an hour or more roundtrip to the other side of town where she's staying and which I'm not all that familiar with. Before you judge me too harshly, I have already taken care of that myself: she's a truly lovely person, one of my favorite people in the world, and she's made it all the way from eastern Washington to my city, and I can't muster myself to drive HALF an HOUR to go see her? Did I mention she's traveling with her almost-two-year-old son, and her husband will have the car today, so she can't come to me?

Yes, I'm a bad person. I know. I'm the kind of person who gets a dog that violates homeowners association rules, and who has a teetering pile of dirty pots and pans in the kitchen, and who doesn't want to leave the house to see her friends.

Good dog

Sam had his second (and final) two injections of immiticide this weekend, one Friday and one yesterday. Right now he's asleep in the hallway with his legs stretched out. At the vet's recommendation, I'm dosing him regularly with Benadryl, and he does his best to stay awake but his little eyes just can't stay open. Resting is important during these critical days.

Despite having one shot in each hip, Sam doesn't seem as uncomfortable as he was after the first injection in January. He hasn't been incessantly pacing, thank goodness, and he seems to be sleeping at night. He just has some general soreness, which my mom was very sympathetic about. She has general achiness every week after her regular shot, with flu-like symptoms that are so predictable we've taken to calling the day after her injection Side Effects Day, knowing that she shouldn't make any big decisions or plan to cook elaborately or commit to any activities on that day. She came over on Friday and commiserated with Sam (i.e., took a nap together) while I ran some errands.

Sam also gained five pounds in the last two weeks, which is great news. (Wouldn't that be nice?) He has lost quite a bit of weight due to the heartworm, and his collar is too big for him now. The fact that he's gaining some back is good. The vet was very excited about that.

And Sam seems to be tolerating the treatment well so far, which is good news, although I'm not basing that on any scientific analysis. This month is critical, because the heartworm have been loosened by the antibiotics and the first month's shot and the preventive heartworm medicine--and now, these two shots 24 hours apart are the big push to get rid of all the adult heartworm. But that means that as they break apart, they could potentially cause problems in his lungs, which is why he's supposed to be kept very quiet for the next four weeks.

You're probably thinking to yourself, how is that good news? Well, compared with this: the original antibiotics for his (possibly) bladder infection were apparently not effective, and he will require more antibiotics.

As instructed, I collected a urine sample--Sam's--and took it along to the vet on Friday so they could test for bacteria after the first round of antibiotics. It was easier than I feared; I just took him outside and waited until he started to go, and then bent down with my plastic container, stuck it under the stream (sort of like filling a water bottle in a drinking fountain...) and prayed that he wouldn't get spooked and splash me. Ugh. But he hardly seemed to notice me kneeling there.

My big dilemma was what to carry it in after I collected it. I didn't really want to arrive with a clear plastic container of urine in my hand, so I found the smallest paper sack I had, which was from Williams-Sonoma. Seriously, how suburban middle-class did I feel, arriving at the vet in my Subaru with a bag from a moderately-pricey kitchen store concealing my German Shepherd's urine?

The technician took the bag from me, and asked if I wanted my container back. I said no and laughed, and she told me I'd be surprised how many people get mad if their containers aren't returned.

The vet will call me tomorrow with the first results from the urine culture. That should tell us which antibiotic will be most effective to treat this particular infection, and then I'll go back for a prescription.

After I listened to the vet's voice mail Friday night saying the first round of antibiotics hadn't worked, I sat down at the foot of my bed, rubbed my cats' ears, and wondered what I had gotten myself into. When I factored the cost of owning a dog into my monthly budget, I had no idea how far above food and treats and an annual rabies vaccine I was really committing to. His adoption fee seemed like such a bargain at the time.

Was it a mistake? Was I too far down this road to change my mind now? I thought about the money I've already spent on my dog, and the seemingly infinite possibilities for more expense. He could get another infection, or the first round of heartworm treatment might not work, or he might get some other ailment that afflicts older dogs. Was this all worth it?

Yes. I think so. So far.

This is what I know for sure: Sam has the sweetest disposition. He makes me feel safer at night. He makes me laugh, with his goofy grin and his obsessive focus on anything edible. He's always so thrilled to see me when I get home (the cats are, too, but they aren't so demonstrative), and I look forward to his greeting me at the door with tail wagging so hard it makes a reverberation on the closet door that I'm sure my neighbors think is a drum kit. I love that everyone admires him when we're out together, and that he has very nice manners. My parents love him and have adopted him as their part-time dog (or granddog, as my mother has embraced on her own). He just makes me happy. I don't regret bringing him into my life, and I don't begrudge him the expense. I just have to remind myself now and then, that I made an intentional decision to go down this road, and why.

Someday I'll look back at this time and think about the wonderful, sweet dog and however much time we have together--and not about the money. He'll be a bright, funny, bittersweet chapter in my life.

But there's no need to eulogize him yet, since he is very much alive and waiting to have his belly scratched beside my chair. Good dog, Sam.

A new decade of adventures

First, I think the weather gods have finally forgiven me for however I wronged them, because today was beautiful and sunny and 60 degrees, and it's February fourth. Usually my birthday is greeted by rain, or sleet, or snow, or ice--or some combination thereof. I can't tell you, because I lost count long ago, how many birthday parties I had to cancel as a child because of the weather.

Yes, that's right--it's my birthday today. I'm thirty. The big 3-0. The introduction of my fourth decade of life (calm down, super-technical people--I know that I won't really reach that until 31; face it, the millennium debate is long over and you lost to 2000). Thirty, flirty, and thriving (bonus points if you know what that's from).

Lots of people have been asking me, with a certain amount of glee (these people are usually younger than I am), if I am freaked out about turning THIRTY. Honestly, I'm not. I kept waiting for the feeling of dread, and I woke up this morning and checked myself for signs of anxiety. But I'm really kind of relieved to be leaving the turbulent twenties behind. Twenty-five was much worse than thirty. I remember the horror of looking in the mirror on my 25th birthday and panicking that my life was dripping away while I lived with my parents and worked swing shift in a call center and did nothing else. But thirty doesn't feel like that.

If I were the sort of person who made a list of things to do in my life--a "bucket list", if you want to be completely asinine--I would have included the following things:

Live in a foreign country and learn a second language
Learn to play the piano
Buy a home
Get a dog
Go to library school and work in the library field someday

So far: I lived in China for two years, although I only learned Chinese well enough to barter and order food. I am two-and-a-half years into piano lessons. I am about 27 years away from paying off my mortgage, but every month I get a little closer to owning my home outright. I have the sweetest dog ever, expensive health problems or not. And I have applied to library school for next fall, and hope to hear something next month.

So you see, I haven't been completely wasting my time. I look back now and see that I really did accomplish some things in my twenties. And now, I have all that helpful experience and perspective to carry on into my thirties. I'll probably feel the same way in ten years at forty (yikes!), smugly looking back and wondering what that crazy thirty-year-old was thinking. Isn't it funny how we can feel so mature and together at any age, but looking back we recognize that we had no idea what we were doing most of the time? My current self thinks my younger self was kind of lost and made some strange choices--and yet, here I am as a result of that younger self, feeling fairly good about life.

Of course, there are still things I would like to accomplish in my life. I want to write a book someday, and have it published, even if I can't live off the royalties. I want to learn a foreign language well enough to dream in it. I would like to learn watercolor painting, and colored pencil drawing, and calligraphy. I want to visit Australia and Russia and Egypt, eventually making it through all seven continents, even Antarctica if I can do it in a way that doesn't damage the environment there. I want to actually read all the books I own, and get rid of the ones I don't like. I want to learn to make a roux and decorate a cake. I want to find a way, cliched though it might sound, to contribute something to the world while I'm here.

So bring it on, world. I'm ready for a new decade!

Sorry, Pollyanna...

(If you're just reading this to see how my dog is doing, my apologies for the upcoming rant--you can skip to the end for Sam news.)

Okay, I'll admit that there are some times during each month when I am a little more irritable. Right now I'm experiencing one of those times. But the world is just driving me crazy this week! Here are some things that seem designed especially to annoy me during these magical days:

1. Watch Alarms That Beep Every Hour. There are two people in the orchestra I play in who have these. You would be amazed at how carrying those little digital beeps can be; even when we're all playing full volume, including the powerful brass section and all the cellos and everything, I can still hear the BEEP-BEEP, BEEP-BEEP announcing that it's 9 o'clock. Or close enough, since one of the alarms is set a little fast, and the other is a little slow. I'm pretty sure the watch owners don't even hear the alarms anymore, and I'm guessing they might need to take pills every night at the same time. But that doesn't make their watches less irritating.

2. Politics at Work, Part I. I don't write about my job much here, and that's intentional. I don't want to offend anyone who might happen upon my blog, although I'm careful not to mention names or specifics, and I am not stupid enough to badmouth my job and my coworkers by name and get fired as a result. But it's just been one of these weeks. I've changed some of the details to protect...well, me, and also the innocent.

First we had The Door. There's a back door through the copy room that is an excellent shortcut to the bathroom, but it opens into the reception area of another department behind ours, and they really, really, really don't like us to use that door. Supposedly it's because, when the receptionist is not at her desk, someone has to get up and check to see if anyone has come in needing help, but I think they just don't like us disrupting them. Before you suggest it, they already have a bell to ring for service, but that's apparently not good enough.

I was chastised by said receptionist during my first week of work (here's how it went: she stopped me and said, "I don't know what you've been told, but this door is not a shortcut to the bathroom"--this was not prefaced with, "I know you're new, but--" or her name or even "Welcome!"...not that I'm still offended by that, obviously), and as a result I never used the door to cut through again. Plus, I forgot the code to the keypad to get back into our office. Oh, well. But almost everybody else in my office cuts through, so if I'm with someone else who goes that way, I'll go along.

Other than the obvious advantage of a shorter path to the bathroom, or an escape from assassins (I guess I shouldn't joke about that, considering I work for a government office--sorry), it's also convenient to go that way if you know there's a client or someone waiting for you in the front lobby, but you really want to brush your teeth before your meeting.

Yesterday I was with one of my coworkers who always goes that way, and I asked her what the code was as we were going through the locked door. The receptionist must have heard us, because she sent my friend an email saying she was sorry about giving her a stern look, but she had told "Angela" (we eventually figured out she meant me, and not the other girl in our office who also wears glasses but is named Angela) that it was not a shortcut and that I shouldn't go that way.

My friend and I rolled our eyes about that and agreed that everyone has to have own little their sphere of control, as she put it, within the building. In a formal, rigid administrative system such as ours, there are only so many places where employees, and especially women, can exert some influence over others. I've seen it every place I worked, but I'm still annoyed by it. This brings us to...

3. Politics at Work, Part II. This involves a couple of hours of overtime I worked last weekend, which inconveniently happened to fall on the Monday holiday, and were consequently worth more. If I had thought about it first, I would have just recorded the hours for Sunday and not worried about it, but my HR training kicked in at the wrong moment and I decided to ask someone connected with our timesheets about how to properly record my time. This triggered all sorts of alarm bells, because apparently I can't work overtime without authorization from my supervisor--not that he minded. The timesheet person interrogated me briefly over why I had worked overtime, what I was doing, and why I couldn't finish it in my regular hours. Not that she necessarily needs to know this. At all. She even said that, but then she kept asking questions.

To make matters worse, the reason I hadn't managed to get my work done during the week is that I was helping one of the big bosses with a project that isn't really my job (okay, it's not my job at all--it was my immediate supervisor's job in her previous role, but because she had done it the last time and she's not in the office right now, somehow it fell to me and not to the administrative staff who directly report to this person--not that I'm complaining). I don't really feel I can say no to that level of authority, and besides it was kind of a fun project and I really don't mind helping out. I want to demonstrate to my present employers that I am a helpful and friendly employee, who gives the impression that she *can* be bothered! But it was a time-consuming task, especially since more revisions kept coming back to me for several days, and consequently I had to take home my actual work that needed to be done by Tuesday. When I told the timesheet lady why the overtime was necessary, she told me that next time I should say I was too busy to work on the other project. Yeah, right.

But I just nodded and smiled. In my head, I was shouting, "Sphere of influence! Sphere of influence!", to remind myself that she was just exerting her power where she could, and it wasn't really about me or my two hours of overtime, and therefore I should not pelt her with paperclips.

4. Irritating, Inconsiderate, and Annoying People. I don't mean all people--and of course I don't mean you!--but wow, there are a lot of crazies out there. There are the people who live in my complex and let their dog run around without a leash, and he seems to see the patch of grass in front of my particular condo as his own personal crap depository. The problem with that is, I take Sam out there to do his thing, and I'm afraid others may believe I am the inconsiderate pet owner not picking up after my dog (not true!--I have a bag dispenser on the leash so I'm never without one).

Then there are bad drivers, who fall into two categories: too fast, and too slow. The too fast ones always seem to be right behind me, and I'm forever following the too slow ones. I suppose everyone feels the same way, because there's always got to be someone going faster than you, and someone slower you'll catch up to. Oh, and a third category of general stupids: people who wander between lanes while talking on the phone and smoking and drinking coffee and putting on lipstick.

5. All right, that's enough grinching it up for one night. If you work in my office and recognize yourself, accept my sincere apologies, and you have permission to complain about me on your blog all you want...as long as you get my name right!

Oh, and if you're just tuning in for a Sam update, he seems to be feeling better! He has been peeing with much less difficulty, since I'm sure you want to know that, and has had no further accidents in the house. I don't want to jinx it by celebrating too soon, but I think the cheapest option may actually be working this time. Thanks to all of you for your kind words.

It's never as easy as yes or no

The vet called as I was pulling into the parking lot after lunch. I was going to be, not just on time, but early back to class, but instead I sat in the car and talked to the vet for twenty minutes, and they started class without me.

The doctor said that Sam did, indeed, have blood in his urine, but no protein and not many white cells in his urinalysis--which means it's probably a bladder infection, not a kidney infection. But he also said that there's no way to know for sure without running some more tests, including:

(cue cash register sound effects)

1) More bloodwork, for about $80; and/or,
2) Urine culture, for about $80.

He said that 95% of dogs, presenting with the symptoms Sam has, turn out to have bladder infections and not kidney problems. But on the other hand, most of those dogs are not on immunosuppressants, which can result in more serious infections.

The treatments for kidney vs. bladder problems are similar: bladder infection means ten days of antibiotics. Kidney infection means four to six weeks of antibiotics. I asked if, supposing Sam was not better at the end of the ten days, we could run additional tests and put him back on antibiotics for his kidney. The doctor said that he could prescribe an antibiotic that would work for either bladder or kidney infections.

That's what we decided to do, although of course now there's a risk that his kidney could be damaged in the intervening time between courses of antibiotics, but it'll only be a few days at most.

The vet also suggested that I could collect a urine sample from Sam (there's a lovely picture for you) three or four days after he finishes the antibiotics, and take it in so they can test again for bacteria--the lack of which would show that it had been a bladder infection, as suspected.

I feel mostly okay about deciding to treat for a bladder infection and not do more tests yet. I asked the vet if he thought I was being negligent by not testing for kidney problems right away, and he said "no!".

When I arrived to pick Sam up at the clinic this afternoon, I was faced with the second choice of the day:

(cue cash register sounds again)

1) Antibiotics that will probably work fine, although resistant strains of E.coli might not be killed (and we don't even know if he has E.coli), at $22 for a ten-day course; or,
2) Antibiotics that are more likely to kill E.coli, at $112 for a ten-day course.

After much discussion, I chose the first option, and paid for his exam and antibiotics (kah-ching). The technician told me that Sam should be much better in two or three days, and if he's not I should bring him back in for the other antibiotics--or for the kidney tests. If the first treatment doesn't work, I'm only out $22, and Sam won't be in any danger. So that's what we did.

Sam is currently sound asleep on the floor with his legs stretched out. He's had a big day, although he didn't seem too traumatized when they brought him out to go home. I was afraid he'd think I had abandoned him; but he was much more interested in whatever was in a cage that a lady brought in, than in the fact that his person had arrived to take him home. I also heard the two technicians giving him treats in the back room first, saying how sweet he was and fussing over him.

No one at the clinic tried to make me feel guilty at all for choosing the options I did today, but of course I still feel it. My emotional reaction is to spend whatever it takes to make sure that my dog is okay; but I know that rationally, I can't afford every treatment option, and maybe I shouldn't spend thousands of dollars on my dog, however much I love him. He's not my child; I am not his mother. My responsibility is to see that he is properly fed and housed, that he has somewhere to relieve himself, and to make sure he is not suffering. I also throw in a few belly rubs for free. In return, he provides companionship and affection and general enrichment of my life. But he's not a person, however much he has a personality.

It's a tricky issue. I read a recent article in the New Yorker about people spending money on their pets, and thinking of them as family--because many people see their animals much more than they see their actual relatives, and feel more bonded to their feline or canine companions than to any other human. One example in the story was, of course, Leona Helmsley leaving all her money to her dog, Trouble. Whatever you think of that, and not doubting that she loved her dog very much, I have to wonder if all those millions could be put to better use somewhere else--say, supporting a local animal shelter, or even a local homeless shelter.

So even though I love my dog--and I really do--I also have to remember that he's still a dog. He's happy to sleep on the couch and pee in the yard and go for a walk. I think he has a pretty good life here. I hope he agrees.

Another trip to the vet

New development today: Sam has been doing pretty well with his treatment, and I have meant to post an update saying as much, but yesterday he had three accidents in the house--he's never even had one before--and there was some blood in his urine. He can't seem to go when we're outside, even when he assumes the usual stance of concentration.

I called Dove Lewis last night (emergency clinic, well respected in this area and kind of pricey because it's a real emergency room for animals--ask my father sometime about how our cat had pins put in her hip there), because my vet was closed, but the doctor said I might want to wait a couple of hours and observe him before bringing him in.

Logically, I knew this was the right thing to do, but emotionally I wanted to bundle him into the car and drive him to NW Portland.

Instead, I closed Sam up in the bathroom overnight (so he wouldn't pace, and so my carpet could have a break), and this morning rushed him off to the vet's office at 8 AM when they opened. I didn't even call ahead, figuring that my sweet dog in the waiting room would be harder to say no to than just telling me over the phone.

The vet doesn't get in until 9, so they offered to keep Sam until the doctor can see him. A cat scheduled for surgery has the first appointment, but the technician assured me the doctor should get to my dog right away, and I can probably pick him up at lunch time.

The vet tech said it sounded like a urinary tract infection, which is exactly what I suspected it was. I spent half an hour last night googling "prednisone" and "immiticide", looking for side effects that might include Sam's symptoms, but didn't find much. I am guessing it's a result of how much water he's been drinking, since the prednisone increases his thirst and his urination. But I won't know for sure until later.

Fortunately, I'm taking a class today for work (Adobe InDesign--fun so far), and the class center is even closer to home than my usual commute, so I shouldn't have any trouble picking him up on our class lunch break. Also, the class doesn't start until 9, so I am not even using any PTO (personal time off, for those lucky enough not to know what it means--a combined vacation and sick time bank) this morning.

In other news, I submitted my online application Sunday night for the University of Washington's Master of Library and Information Science. I should know something by late March. In the meantime, I have to do my financial aid paperwork (yay, FAFSA), but first I have to do my taxes, and before that I'm still waiting for my W-2s from last year.

I'll post an update as soon as I know something. I just wanted to let you know what was up, since I know so many of you are concerned about Sammy. Thanks for reading.

The dog days of January

Sam had his first immiticide treatment for heartworm tonight. I raced home after work, changed into jeans, took him out to pee in the yard (a much quicker process, now that he's on anti-inflammatories that make him very thirsty), and quickly loaded him in the car to get to the vet.

We had to wait a long time at the vet's office, because there was a dog ahead of us who had taken off his own cast and had to be rewrapped. So we sat and waited. Sam was very good. He didn't whine or bark, as he sometimes does at the vet. He sat down beside me quietly, sighed a little, and lay down.

We waited.

There was a lady in the chair by the door with two Llasa Apso puppies in her lap. They looked like old ladies' curly gray-and-brown wigs. She held both of them without leashes, and they drowsed over her knees.

The woman whose dog was being re-casted sat opposite her; she was a thin, fiftyish woman with glasses and short hair, the sort of woman who looked like she bought online from LL Bean and voted Democrat, and who probably had a stack of half-read trade paperbacks beside her bed. She looked kind.

Another lady came in with a mesh carrier containing a large orange cat, which pressed itself daringly up against the side closest to Sam and meowed loudly at him.

Several people came in to buy pet food, and went away again.

We exchanged a little small talk. I learned that only one of the Llasas belonged to the woman; the other one was her boyfriend's, they were littermates, and he owned the mother as well. I also learned that she had named her dog Marley, "after the book". (I was glad she didn't say "after the movie," although she told us that she'd both read the book and seen the movie, and encouraged us to bring a box of tissues. I probably won't see it/read it, at least not until Sam is well again.)

At first we all sat quietly, but then the woman with the Llasas said, "I've never had a pet before. It's amazing how they change your life. My mother and my family and my friends all told me I should get a pet, but I can't believe how much she's changed things already."

"I'm thirty-six," she said, "and I live alone and I'm single, and my family is back in the midwest. I love having something to come home to."

We all smiled and nodded, possibly recognizing ourselves in that remark. She gave us a pretty, wide-open smile; she looked much younger than thirty-six, with straight brown hair.

The cast-lady asked her, in that insightful way that LL Bean-wearing, glasses-clad, middle-aged women have of asking direct questions, "You said she's changed your life. How so?"

"Well, I've decided I have to break up with my boyfriend," she said. "Marley showed me that." She told us that the boyfriend's dog isn't being trained very well, and she doesn't even like her puppy to go to his house in case she picks up bad habits from his dog. She didn't say so, but maybe she was thinking that didn't look very good for future children.

"So she's helped you already," the cast-lady said.

The lady with the cat, who sat holding the carrier on her lap and putting one hand through the top to pet the ginger feline, had brought a hardcover book. She kept opening it, looking at the page as if she didn't want to eavesdrop on the rest of us, and closing it again. She admired Sam, saying he was a beautiful dog (which naturally endeared her to me), and said she'd had German Shepherds growing up. "Me, too," I said, stroking his nose. She told me, "This is my first cat." The cat yowled in reply, and stuck its claws through the side of the carrier.

Sam squirmed a little at my feet. He knew that there was a cat in that case--not to mention, someone had dropped a dog treat under the cat-lady's chair.

The vet tech came out in her dog-print scrubs and took one of the puppies back for its vaccination. A terrible high-pitched squeal came from the back. The vet tech came back and swapped one furry dustmop for the other.

Finally, a male technician came out of an exam room holding a chart and said, "Sam? We're ready for you," just in the way that a nurse would at the doctor's office.

I said goodbye to everyone in our little waiting group, and walked Sam down the hall after the curly-haired technician, who looked like a teenager but probably wasn't. As we got up, I was distracted for just long enough that Sam scooped up the treat he'd been eyeing on the floor and swallowed it in one bite.

The vet came in after only a minute. I really like this vet. He is obviously very smart, and he clearly loves animals (I guess that's a requirement for the job, since I understand it's harder to get into veterinary school than many medical schools--that should worry me more than it does), but what sets him apart for me is that he takes time to patiently answer all of my questions. Sometimes I have a lot. My friend R, who went with me for Sam's last appointment, said it was "only a little like a cross-examination". It's because I know I only have a short time with the vet, and I want to get to everything and understand what's going to happen.

Tonight I apologized for interrogating him and he laughed it off, very nicely, and petted my dog and told me what a nice healthy coat Sam has. I trust him with my dog's well-being, which is especially important as we undergo this potentially risky treatment.

So now Sam has had his first injection to kill the adult heartworm. He is currently sleeping on the floor of my bedroom, or at least lying down quietly as he's supposed to. He's been very lethargic since we got home, the same way I am after I get a shot at the doctor's office. I dosed him with three Benadryl, as instructed, which will help keep him still. He has to stay quiet for four weeks now to prevent the dying heartworm from getting into his lungs. In a month, he goes back to the vet for two more injections twenty-four hours apart (one of them on Valentine's Day), and then he'll have another four weeks of quiet. No walks for these two months, although I can take him out to pee, and he's allowed to roam around in the house if he doesn't get too excited. He can even go in the car, so he'll continue to visit my parents (who consider him their part-time dog).

I feel anxious, but mostly hopeful. I am armed with all the information I could possibly want on the treatment of heartworm, and so far I believe I have made the right decision for me, and for my very sweet dog. I just have to believe that this will work and that he's going to be okay.