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.