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!