Half?!

I suscribe to an online doggie tip website.

Don't ask me why, I know dogs. It's one of the few things I can say, with complete sincerity, I know. All. The. Way. Through. I find some of the tips amusing, not only because I can tell you they don't work, but because some newbie thinks they might. I pity them, as they are seeking real advice, from someone who is supposed to know puppies better than they do. The one writing the column? A VET. Recommending to put paper down for an already fully house trained dog just because it's snowy outside? Seriously? Baaaaaadddd idea. "Reading" the Sunday paper takes one a whole new meaning, most likely? One you won't enjoy. Heaven knows I won't. It's taken me eons to train her outside; why take a four paw step back?!

I'd like to correct them in the "comments" space, but really, why rub their noses in their own poop, you know?

Today, my personal favorite one appears: How to bathe your pup when they don't want to stand still for grooming. This ought to prove interesting...and it did: this guy's suggestion was to bathe half of your dog today, and the other half tomorrow. As though overnight, they'll suddenly lose their hatred for this particular activity. They do not have the synapse capacity to think: gee, if only I stood still, I wouldn't be subjected to this horror twice. Just once.

Since it takes such effort to get the beast in the tub to begin with, why on Earth would I want to only do half?! Do I clean half the toilet today, and the other half tomorrow, because I find it a less than thrilling prospect? Or shave only one leg? No, I do not. Once started, best once finished.

This guy is nuts. Nuts.

I pity the poor soul who hauls a huge dog - anything about ten pounds, who may bathe in the kitchen sink -(most likely, it's the bigger ones that give you the most trouble anyway) into a tub, convinced he's only going to bathe the back half, as, well, he's plenty of time and energy to whip up a tub of doggie bubbles for the front half. The half with teeth. You know, tomorrow night. When he's apparently nothing better to do. Rollers, in particular, generally visit The Tub on a more regular schedule: trust me, they don't usually limit their rolling to one half of their bodies, or the other. I know this....from a good deal of personal experience.

I have a dedicated roller. She certainly doesn't think about only rolling her hips in something; or her head. Nope, it's a full on whole body experience. Like freaking bathing.

Now, if done right? The dog bath becomes quite easy, nimble even: well lather the front half of dog... while rinsing writhing, howling, most likely trying to escape beast, lather into the back half the soapies you formed on the front half. See? Soapies also tend to get caught around the paws, so look, a good soaking soapy paw-di-cure to boot.

Whole dog bathed, half the time.

Half the towels. Half the aggravation. Half the ensuing idiocy, trapping the dog into the bathroom, since your nosy son needs to check on his beloved's bathing experience, leaving the door wide open, so perhaps, you're aromatic daredevil may make a break for it, only rolling on your bed to dry off.

Should that occur?

Clearly, you don't need the towels anyway.

You need extra bedding.

And perhaps, just maybe? A better doggie tip website.

Ugh

I've rather had it today.

The water trigger thing on the fridge? Not dispensing water. Found that out this morning, while telling Fox to get ready for school, one eye on the clock, the other on the already car (to make sure it didn't drive off without me) only to find that Mr. Not Listen To Me dispensed with tooth brushing in favor of dicking with the fridge.

Apparently, it's not enough that I've told you four times already to leave it alone and go do your teeth, put on your shoes, and quit fucking around with the blasted fridge already.

It's not even 8am.

Hop in the car, drive Fox to school, as today is The Big Project Day - yep, the three weeks we spent painstakingly finding the right military guys for the Revolutionary war, constructing the diorama, complete with musket smoke off the ends of the rifles. Back out of the drive, into the snow bank that already bears several of my fender marks, only to find that going down my hill? The great big one that separates The Grounds from The Commoners has not been plowed.

We went down sideways. This is not my idea of a good time.

Getting home, a challenge in and of itself, led to copious amounts of flash cards made for Latin and terminology; hopping in the shower? Pucker ATE them. Of my two options (hang her by her neck from the balcony banister, or, pay for by the hour doggie daycare) daycare seemed the most humane. Less explaining to do with why the damn dog wasn't coming home, like, ever.

We, both Fox and I, had dr.'s appointments: the first one? We were on time, despite the morons that cannot seem, after all these weeks of refresher courses, to drive in the snow; I even got a decent parking place. Days getting better and better, yes?

No.

Second appointment involved going back to the same building, seeing someone else, who evidently, (read: AGAIN) had a "scheduling error" - not, mind, that the receptionist, who not only checks your name, but the name of the doc your seeing, to check you in might have noticed that Hunter looks nothing like Courtney.

Foxy's pissy. I'm beyond annoyed.

Pucker's gone through the trash. Tipped over her water bowl. Stood at the trash can with the foot attachment to raise the lid stamping on it so the lid went up down up down up down - while Fox is doing his best Bon Jovi.

It sucks. Sorry, pal, but it does.

And maybe this is just me?

But when I'm annoyed, and trying not to lose my shit? Don't sit on top of me. Do not knead me with your sharp clawed paws, lick my face, or have to be touching me in some capacity. I talked Fox into a bubble bath. At least 30 minutes to sort laundry, get some bearings on the day.....fucking dog is hanging off my ankle akin to a tantruming child. Barking.

Not. A. Good. Plan.

Foxy enjoys a good scream fest in the tub; most of the time, I adore the fact that it most likely drives Lois up the wall and right back down.....today? When I tell you to SHUT UP, that doesn't mean wait until I leave the room to begin anew.

It's 8ish. I've had enough. The microwave clock keeps resetting itself to 0:00 for no reason, Stupid wants to go for a walk, only we get outside? She goes right back in. I've a headache Advil has yet to kick, and that's right folks, I went, got 'em out of the drawer:

My Bitch Pants are on.

One last pass at the fridge, pressing the lever to release the water, Fox got a earful so loud (and evidently totally unexpectedly) he nearly leapt out of pj's and into the middle of next week. Leave. The. Bloody. Fridge. ALONE.

See?

I told you, I'd rather had enough today.

Bane of my existence: The Boot

It's beyond cold. I'm not sure why they even bother with a number; You're Skin Will Turn To Ash When You Depart Your House should suffice. I'd get the hint.

Shoot.

I got the hint.

Someone I know, did not get the memo that it's freaking cold outside, too cold for long, winding walks, being buffeted by winds usually seen in the Ural mountains of Russia. (Or whatever it's called now. THIS would be why I suck at geography. Everything changes it's name.) These are the days of long lie ins by the fire, perhaps a wee tea and honey, certainly an Under The Cover kind of moment if there ever was one.

Thus, in full consideration of someone who's only seen snow once in her life, and it wasn't near this deep or icy, I've endured the whining far from home, having to carry someone's sizable bulk back home. While trying not to slip on the ice. In my condition (being severely out of shape) this is a less than ideal situation.

We stayed close to home; I dug out a lovely latrine in the front yard. Beneath her. That is, until this very morning: accompanying me in all my footie jammie glory, she trotted, eyeballs sticking out of her head, that first sucked in breath shriveling her lungs to the size of prunes, to potty is Circus Dog Fashion.

That's right. I started the car to warm up; she peed while standing only on her hind legs, whimpering.

After a great deal of waiting for the blasted temp to rise, I gave in, slunk into PetSmart, purchased a ridiculously expensive four-set of boots. And the most fabulous coat I've ever seen. If it came in my size? I'd totally own in. It doesn't.

Getting home, I put on snow pants, my boots, dug out a whopping bit of beef jerky, proceeded to get Little Miss Moron dressed for the weather. See? Mommy has on boots. They're comfy! Warm. Best of all? I don't have to run your frostbitten, snow encrusted, salted over paws under warm water or blast them with a hairdryer to dislodge the foreign object. I rewarded after each boot went on.

I used two pieces of beef jerky.

She refused to move initially; sort of how Chloe, one of her pals, refuses to move when a coat or reindeer antlers grace her frame......and then all Hell broke loose. Howling. Running in circles, shaking her paws, shooting me nasty looks; all this before I even got to the new coat! Or the back paws! Trapping her under the dining room table (boy, I still detest that game unless she's playing it with someone else) I asked her to High Five, one paw at a time, whereupon I removed the offending garments.

She still won't come near me.

Oh, she'll lay under all the blankets in my bed, making pathetic noises, as though I've beaten her senseless; but she won't let me touch her.

The good news?

I highly doubt I've any door dashing or roaming The Grounds in her future: she'll go on the deck, whizzing with three paws down, one scratching at the door, lest we forget she's there. Wipe her paws on the rug, curl up on her bed, and wait for the fireplace to magically turn on.

The bad news?

Since neither of us is walking, both of us are getting fat.

That's just great.

Have a heart

I've been studying cardiology.

Considering my father is a cardiologist, one might assume, having grown up showing scared old folks that getting an echocardiogram a, doesn't hurt, and b, is pretty damn cool, along with how to read and EKG, I'd find this section a breeze.

Monumentally incorrect.

First, there are about a million bits and bobs to recall, and I'm telling you, the guy that zoned Boston, who thought it was totally acceptable to change the name of the streets just as you figure out where you are? Yeah, he did the heart too. One vein changes names six times before it ends in your fingers. SIX. TIMES. Wouldn't it simply be easier to say, the pulmonary vein goes all the down to your phalanges?

Yeah, I thought so too. No one asked me.

Instead, for part of the Practice Final Exam, I found myself staring at a blown up version of the heart, with nearly 100 bits of it to name. Not to mention spell. And then break down into the Latin: pre-fix, root, and suffix. It bothers me that the apex of the heart is located at the bottom, since the apex of a mountain, a sundae, or really anything else I can think of is at the top. Fine (add a big huffy breath) I fully understand that apex, in its true Latin form simply means: point. But still.

I dare you to think of something with a point at the bottom. A sugar cone does not count, as when loaded with soft serve? There is an apex at both ends. Nice try though, if you thought of that one too.

It also bothers me greatly that in the cardiac sinatrial node department, which transfers electrical impulses through the heart, telling both sides to either relax (diasystole) or contract (systole) is called The Bundle Of His. Connects to the Branches Of His. Which connect to something I don't recall. The freaking apex is my guess.

There is no Bundle Of Hers. Of the three valves in the heart, two are known as having two flaps; the last one, called the tricuspid valve also has only two valves. This. Is. Not. Fair. If I am supposed to recall that the one valve is a tricuspid freaking valve, it should have three flappy pieces to it, not two. I'm starting to see why Latin and Greek are dead languages; no one knew what the hell anyone was saying.

I'm all for interesting trivia, (anyone who knows me knows that) but I truly didn't need to know that the tongue, the taste buds in particular, are actually hairs. I had always sort of picturing them as wee mushroom caps, clumped together, I, myself, having a larger than normal number of "sweet" ones.....which would explain why I'm not fond of onions, or garlic, olives, or curry. I'd no idea each bud is a collection of hairs, all attached under the epidural layer of the tongue.

That majorly grosses me out.

Rather akin to knowing somewhere in the deep recess of my brain that beef comes from adorable cows, who also happen to make lovely handbags, shoes, wallets, and car seats (I prefer mine heated, ps.) - I don't need to dwell on it, or make it real, by picking up half a heifer to slaughter myself upon my arrival home. Nope. Meat comes in cellophane wrapped packages. Shoes come in boxes. Hand bags arrive in lovely green boxes, in a striped bag emblazoned with Kate Spade on the front.

None of those items do I swing through a barn to purchase.

Sure, I find it fascinating, to say the least, that the appendix, attached to a section of the intestine, is considered in the Immunity department, right up there with the spleen, the lymph nodes, the thymus gland.....but honestly? The medical community still has yet to reach agreement on whether or not the appendix does anything. At all. Especially since one can get along just peachy without one. In fact, I'm hard pressed (and I've looked, 'cuz I was curious) to locate any article, literature, case study or disease pattern that was miraculously cured by the appendix. I find it entirely stupid beyond belief that it's included in possibly providing assistance with immunity, when honestly? What do we hear about the appendix?

The damn thing gets infected. If it's not removed ASAP or STAT, your "pseudo-helpful" organ infects your system, causing massive sepsis, in turn means: you'll expire. As though the back of your ass has an expiration date stamped upon it. Like yogurt. Or milk.

I'll go back to studying; and hope that I've not an issue with the arterial flow above the neck line. Then, maybe, I might recall something.