Portia, No!

She did it again. She went ape-shit and attacked Rocky over the broken crumbs of some dog cookie. It’s like she’s back in the wild and if she doesn’t get that crumb, she will starve to death, on the spot, and keel over.
Jenge tried to grab her and failed. I am generally the muscle in this situation as a) I have no fear of getting in the midst of a fight (sorry, mum, don’t want to worry you, but it’s true) and b) I will grab whatever part of a dog I can and pull it to break the fight up, while walking away with said part of a dog clutched in my grasp. Jenge always tries to go for the collar or the waist. I do not waste time trying to get such a grip. I’ve learned you can pull a 50lb malamute off a 22lb sheltie as long as you have part of an ear and a tail. And a tail is usually all you can grab. And then she gets put in her kennel for an hour and ignored (as instructed by my vet who said “Be decisive!! Be in control! And don’t fall for crying!!” My lip quivered and I sniffed and said, “okay.”)

Mum says I should find some nice place in the country for her, and that she’s too big. But she’s my baby and I love her!! She only goes ape-shit once every six months or so and just when you have forgotten the last time, she does it again.


Poor Rocky. He’s been hiding in Jenge’s room most of the night.

It’s time to go back to the Dog Whisperer, Larry, and see what he has to say.

A Tale No One Would Believe. . .

So I was up late watching national geographic and they were doing this special on this aquarium in California. Beautiful, huge glass walls showcase marine life.
One of the things they talked about were the sea otters. And they showed them playfully cavorting in the bay. They also showed them rolling themselves in kelp so they can have their morning nap without drifting out to sea. . .
And then they started talking about how the sea otter, having previously bounced back from extinction, was now declining again. So they wanted to track them. They wanted to know how often they dove for food, how long were they staying under, and how deep did they have to go.
The only way to do this, apparently, was to implant them with a data mining device!
So, as the sea otter is happily rolling him self in preparation of his morning nap, divers are far beneath him, with special breath apparatus that recycles the air so they don’t release bubbles. And then with jumbo sized nets, they scoop the otters up! Stuff them in a kennel! Drive them on a truck to the vets! Knock them out! Implant the device! And put them back in the ocean!

This got me thinking. Is this the sea otter equivalent of getting kidnapped by aliens? Imagine this conversation. . .
Sea Otter 1: I’m telling you! I was minding my own business and then outta no where, I was taken! stuffed in a box and put on some large machine! It moved over land as fast as we move in water! and there were bright lights! And strange sounds! and they put me on a steel table and I’m telling you, they put something in me!
Sea Otter 2: Sounds like someone had too much kelp last night.
Sea Otter 1: I have a scar! A scar to prove it!
Sea Otter 2: Bob, c’mon, you probably ran into a rock again like you did back in ’95.
Sea Otter 1 (aka Bob): I can’t eat! I can’t sleep! I know they are coming back. . . .

Sadly, Bob is right as after a while, they must capture the same sea otter again and take the data mining device out so they can download the data. Poor Bob! Kidnapped by humans and no one believes him.

Okay, I’m a night owl, so anything before 10am technically classifies as the wee small hours of the morning. Since January, I’ve had a heck of time waking up. My alarm goes off at 6.15 – if I’m lucky, I’ll hear it and get out of bed before my alphabetically organized CD hits songs that start with S.If I’m not lucky, I wake up to silence meaning I have slept through the entire thing. And if I’m really not lucky, I wake up to Jenge standing at my door saying, “Hey, it’s 7.45. Are you going into work today??”

So Jenge has been my last resort backup. But she’s a teacher and about start holidays in July. Who’s gonna get Evil Margarita out of bed (because, dear reader, it’s evil Margarita who’s in charge that early in the morning and she DOESN’T CARE).

Maybe I can rely on the puppies to wake me up!

I’m so screwed.

Jealous, I say!
Now, I have a strict “No lying to the doctor” policy, but Dr. Usual was on vacation so I was seeing Dr. Other Guy and I wasn’t quite sure that my no lie policy had extended coverage to him. So when he asked me, “How much coffee do you drink?” I said, “I have a cup in the morning.”

Which wasn’t a lie, per se. I mean, I do have a cup in the morning. Followed by a second cup. Followed by a cup at work, and then maybe some in the evening. . . . Not that he asked ANY follow up questions to my ‘cup in the morning’ answer.

See, I KNEW what he would say as soon as I told him how much coffee I drink. He’d immediately jump to the conclusion that it was the source of all my troubles. But I’ve ALWAYS had that much coffee. In fact, I’ve actually cut back over the last couple of years from my all time high of 7-8 cups a day, chased by 3-4 shots of espresso. So I KNOW that’s not my problem. But doctor’s don’t care how much you know you’re body. They will immediately JUMP to the conclusion that coffee is to blame.

And it’s not!! They, along with my chiropractor and a select few holistic peeps I know, are jealous of the amount of coffee I can drink in a day and not suffer from jitters, shakiness, nor insomnia. I do suffer from the occasional bout of insomnia, but it CANNOT be traced back to my coffee habit. If anything, it’s the nights that I dont’ get to relax with a cuppa joe in front of the telly that I toss and turn.

Green with jealousy.

You can lead a horse to water. . . .

It was getting out of hand. I was starting to change my daily plans to make allowances. I was changing what I drank, when I drank it and how much. Because I never knew when it would strike! Oh sure, I could have gone to the doctor weeks ago, I mean, I should have gone right back after I had my allergic reaction to antibiotics before finishing the full course. But I HATE going to the doctor. I’m one of those people that hopes it will all go away. Generally, by the time I tell my doctor I have a problem, it’s been going on for years! But now my coffee habits were getting shifted. I was starting to cut back. shudder.

All because I was afraid!! Afraid I would be trapped somewhere and have to pee!!

It was happening all the time!! It was ruining my days, my nights. My coworkers prolly thought I had developed a savage cocaine habit as I was off to the loo every hour on the hour. I could barely make my commute, even in good weather. I had to plan everything around whether there would be a bathroom close by and how much water/coffee I had had to drink.

But I finally made it to my doctor’s office today. And then!! Oh the irony!! The twisted cruelty of it all!!

Shy bladder!!

I waited, and waited. Surely, I would have to pee sometime. I specifically drank extra for just such an occasion. La La la, should I get up and turn the tap on. Ack! No can do! someone else just came in. La La La. . . It was a no go. Foiled by my own body.

I had to go back into the doctors’ office, my head hung in shame. I had cracked (or rather, I hadn’t cracked) under the pressure. There was a five year old getting the same test done. She had no problems. Cruel world.

So they plied me with two extra large glasses of water and I plunked myself down in the waiting room. And waited. And waited. and waited. I was determined!! I was NOT LEAVING UNTIL I SUCEEDED!!

Half an hour later, I had enough ‘success’ for a test to be run. It was inconclusive. Fascists. Now I have to go for more tests. . . .

. . . it was just starting to all go to shit. Seriously. Mum’s sister had just passed away and Mum was just about to return from Nova Scotia where she had been with the rest of her family during the last days. We were planning our trip to Cape Breton in October since it had been a LONG time since I had been down east. I was finally gonna see the fall colors of Cabot Trail. Then in June we got a call that mum’s brother, Carmie, was in the hospital. So we moved our trip up. Jenge and I each juggled to see if both of us could go. In the end, Jenge couldn’t leave work, but it was actually a good time for me. Ann, Mum and I were off to Cape Breton. Then we got the call that Carmie had died. Then Darren, my bro-in-law, got in a car accident and Ann had to cancel. Mum and I went to the funeral down east. Then Jenge called, Dad was sick and in the hospital again. We came home, Dad got out of the hospital. Then Dad went back in the hospital. Then Dad died. And that was that.

You hear alot of platitudes during a time like that. Everything happens for a reason, time heals all, it was his/her/their time. Everyone means well. Everyone wants to be able to say something to you that will make you feel better. And you lie and tell them that they are right, and that their words help, that what they say is true. But really, it’s all kinda bullshit, isn’t it? I mean we’ve all been through muck and was there ever anything that anyone said to you that made you feel better about it? Prolly not. But we all keep on keepin on.