Month: November 2005

Crankypantsing

Oops

Shelly

We’ve had a few hard frosts so far, but nothing too bad. However, I somehow managed to leave all three of my windshield scrapers in my old car, which means I can’t scrape my car windows until I buy a replacement. Of course, as I was trying to remove some dead leaves from the center of my windshield yesterday, it occurred to me that it may be a moot point, because it’s not like I could actually reach the center of my windshield, even if I wanted to scrape it. That, and the fact that I can no longer set my pop on top of my car while I’m getting my bag/lunch out of it, should have been a clue that maybe, perhaps, just possibly, I have bought a car that is too big for me.

Oh well.

Crankypantsing, Meta

Stop! Thief!

Shelly

While perusing my website stats, I found that someone was using one of my photographs as the background image for their blog. It was a large image, too, and because they had linked directly to my file instead of placing it on their own server, they were sucking my bandwidth. Bastards! I renamed the file and replaced it with another containing “image used without permission” text.

What is wrong with people? Do they think that, just because they found it on Teh Internets, they have a right to steal it? Or, do they just not care? I don’t get it. It’s not even like this girl was being half-way smart about it, either. If she’d copied it to her own server, I would have been less likely to have noticed (or cared!) that she’d taken it.

And, damn! I made brownies yesterday and forgot to put one in my lunch this morning. I also made some kick-ass vegetable soup, which I did remember to bring. It’s got all sorts of good stuff in it: garlic, green onions, tomatoes, potatoes, broccoli, carrots, celery, and brussels sprouts (I didn’t have cabbage, which is just as well, because I think the brussels sprouts were even better). It’s rich and thick and just what I needed, bein’ deathly ill an’ all.

I received my copy of The Diary of Anne Frank:  the revised critical edition–just in time, too, because I needed something to entertain me while I battled the plague. The book is a bit overwhelming, and, at 800+ pages is too large and heavy to be a comfortable read-in-bed book, but I couldn’t wait to get started on it. I haven’t gotten to the actual diaries yet–yes, diaries, plural. While in hiding, Anne wrote, then rewrote her diary with an eye toward publication. Then, her father expurgated much from the version that was originally published, so there are three versions of the diary–because I’m working my way through the documentation at the beginning of the book. There’s quite a lot of it, so it’s no small feat. Not that it’s not fascinating–it is!–but I can’t wait to get to the diaries themselves. Obviously, I’m reading them because I’m interested in the subject matter. I’m also interested in them as a journaler, though, so that gives me another perspective to consider as I’m reading them.

Crankypantsing, Pets, Photography

Random Dog-related Ranting

Shelly
  • Pitties. They’re Pit Bulls, or Pit Bull Terriers, not Pitties. It’s bad enough when people baby talk to small children, but doing it to other adults is inexcusable.
  • Pitt Bulls. No, they are not related to Brad.
  • Dalmation. It’s Dalmatian, like, from Dalmatia.
  • German Sheppard. They’re German Shepherd Dogs, because they, well, herd, whereas a Sheppard is a wingnut FOX “news” personality.
  • Shepherd. Is that German Shepherd Dog, Australian Shepherd, Belgian Shepherd Dog, Anatolian Shepherd Dog, Central Asian Shepherd Dog, or Pyrenean Shepherd
  • Spade/Spaded. It’s spayed, please. Unless, of course, you’ve whacked your dog over the head with a damned shovel, then you can call it a spade.
  • Furkids. O ick.
  • Skinkids. O ickier.
  • My dogs are like my children. Do yourself and your dogs a favor, and treat them like dogs. Children, hopefully, will one day grow up, leave home, and become useful members of human society. Dogs, not so much. (Yes, I know that many dogs are far more useful than certain humans could ever hope to be, but I think you understand my meaning.) By all means, enjoy them and spoil them rotten–the dogs, not the children–but do not forget that they are an alien species, and that they don’t necessarily understand or abide by our rules and customs.
  • Doodles. Please don’t get suckered into buying a high-priced mixed breed dog that you can get from the shelter for a paltry adoption fee. I have yet to see evidence that anyone breeding any sort of Poodle mixes are doing so responsibly, so why reward their irresponsible behavior with your hard-earned money? It is far better to obtain your next dog from a shelter or rescue group. You’ll be giving a dog a much needed home without giving crappy breeders incentive to continue churning out more pups for bucks.
  • Non-shedding. There is no such thing. If it has hair, it sheds. Furthermore, don’t assume that because it’s low-shedding, that you will not be allergic to it. People are commonly allergic to dog dander, which exists independent of how much the dog sheds.
  • Short-hair = Less shedding. True, many short haired dogs have single coats, which means they are easier to groom, but that does not mean they will not drop hair all over your furniture, clothes, carpet, car, etc. Worse, those short hairs that have glued themselves to every surface in your home are likely barbed, so that they work their way into fabric like a hook into a fish’s mouth. In other words, you cannot brush them off your furniture or clothes–they’re stuck there, like cockle burrs.
  • Getting rid of your dog because you’re moving. If you can have a dog where you currently live, then surely you can find similar accommodation in your new location.
  • My dog bit someone, so I need to find a new home for it. Who in their right minds thinks that’s a good idea? If the dog’s current owner cannot house it safely, then what makes them think that someone else can?
  • Free to good home, needs room to run in the country. That’s a spectacularly bad idea. Aside from the risk of being stolen or hit by cars, loose dogs are at risk of being shot or poisoned when they, inevitably, stray onto neighboring property. They are also at risk of being attacked by other dogs or wildlife. It’s never, ever a good idea to allow dogs to run loose. Never mind that “home with room to run in the country” is a myth made up to placate small children by parents who want to dump the family dog at the nearest shelter.
  • My lab is 100 lbs of pure muscle. If your Lab truly weighs that much, he’s either a draft horse or he’s morbidly obese.
  • My dog is overweight, even though I don’t over-feed him and he gets plenty of exercise. I’m sorry, but barring a medical condition, if your dog is overweight, it is either because he is not receiving enough exercise or because you are feeding him too much. It’s a simple math equation. One thing to keep in mind is that most dog food labels over state the amount of food you should give your dog. If your dog is overweight, try increasing exercise, decreasing the amount of food, and adding low calorie items for bulk (e.g. plain, canned pumpkin, frozen green beans, etc.).
  • My dog’s not fat, he’s just big boned. My ass. I’ve seen a lot of overweight dogs whose owners swear they are “just right.” And, how do they know their dogs aren’t overweight? Their vets have said they’re “okay” or they haven’t told them to put the dog on a diet. I’m sorry, but my experience is that many vets either don’t know what a fit dog looks like (they get used to seeing so many overweight dogs that they become acclimated to it) or they are afraid to tell their clients that their dog is a butterball. For example, when compared to the Purina weight chart that hangs in many vet offices, my dog would be underweight, verging on thin (she’s somewhere between 3 and 4). She’s in very good shape, though. If she weighed enough to look like the “ideal” dog, she’d be unhealthily overweight.100_1120
  • My dog is in heat and I want to breed her to your dog. Um, that’s not possible. And, if it were, I wouldn’t allow it. Besides, if you can’t tell the sex of a docked, short-haired dog, do you really think you have any business breeding?
  • My dog is friendly, so it’s okay if he says “Hi” to your dog. No, it’s not okay. My dog is not dog-friendly, and she does not appreciate strange dogs approaching her. Please keep your dog under control and out of my dog’s space.
  • My dog is clueless, so it’s okay if your dog kicks his butt. No, that’s not okay, either. It’s not my dog’s job to train your dog not to be a jerk. Please put your dog on a lead, and do whatever you have to to keep him from invading my dog’s space.
  • It’s okay if your dog jumps on me, I like it. No, that’s not okay, either. My dog is a Boxer, and the breed is notoriously difficult to train not to jump on people. Every time you allow or encourage her to put her feet on you, you undermine the training I’ve done to stop her from jumping on people. Please, knock it off.
  • If you didn’t want me to pet your dog, you shouldn’t have left your car window rolled down. Dude, if you don’t get your arm out of my car, I’m going to call the police. Lowered window or not, you’ve got no right to help yourself to my private property. And that goes double for my dog. Besides, what kind of a jackass sticks his arm into a car to pet a strange dog?
  • One little bite won’t hurt anything. Wanna bet? Unless you’re going to be the one stuck in a confined space with my dog, please, for the love of all that’s good in this world, do not give her a bite of your sauerkraut.
Crankypantsing, Pets

The Afflicted

Shelly

Did I mention that I’m fed up with being sick? Well, it’s true, I am. Yesterday morning I ate an entire 9ct package of Halls cough drops–the extra disgusting ones in the blue wrapper–and still couldn’t stop coughing. Not only was there no residual benefit, but they didn’t even stop me from coughing while I was sucking on them. Damn! Today, I can finally breathe for short periods of time without coughing. Or, I would be able to, if I could to breathe at all. And then there’s the fact that I feel like my head has been stuffed with a wool blanket, then shoved into a fish bowl. I can’t hear a thing, and every time I blow my nose, it gets worse. Living in a hilly area doesn’t help, either, because every time I drive up or down a hill, the pressure in my ears increases. Ow!

In convalescing cat news, Rory is doing swell. He woke me up in the middle of the night (or, he would’ve, if I hadn’t felt too crappy to sleep), digging furiously in his litter box. I got up to check on him, and found a nice little present waiting for me. Yay! He’s eating and drinking on his own, now, too, so I’m quite pleased with his progress.

I’ve had a difficult time, feeling like I have to justify to others why I would be “foolish” enough to spend a big chunk of money and lots of time and effort to save a feral (former) barn cat. When I called in to work one day last week to say that I wouldn’t be in because I had to take Rory in for surgery, the coworker who answered the phone told me “You need to put him to sleep.” Um, no, I need to do no such thing. It’s not like I was asking for sympathy or advice or any sort of input whatsoever. At no time have I invited her, or anyone else, to comment on whether or not I was making the right decision in pursuing treatment instead of putting him down. Hrmph. I wish some folks would learn to mind their own business. So, if any of y’all have ever felt the urge to say something similar, please do everyone a favor and reconsider. You likely have no idea what factors are involved, or how complex the issue is. Everything from the bond felt by the owner, to the chances for a good outcome, to the pre- and post-procedure quality of life, to monetary resources, are part of the equation. What seems like an obvious conclusion to one person may not be acceptable to another. My coworker felt that I was packing money down the proverbial rat hole. Monetary concerns are apparently at the top of her list of things to consider, which is perfectly valid. Cost was at the bottom of my list, though, so my “obvious conclusion” was the opposite of her “obvious conclusion.”

And, for what it’s worth, it’s not like I hadn’t considered all the options and weighed them carefully. I did. After talking to the vet, I decided that Rory’s chances of having an acceptable quality and length of life were reasonably good. Another thing I considered was Rory’s temperament. He’s been withdrawn and freaked out at the vet’s office, but at home, he’s been in good spirits. He’s always been relaxed and gregarious with me and the other animals, and that hasn’t changed with his illness. Even now, he clearly enjoys the life he has, and it’s important, I think, that he be able to enjoy more of it.

Crankypantsing, Pets, Photography

All About Asses

Shelly

First, the Crankypantsing and Nitpicking:

  • It’s crapS shoot, not crap shoot. Shooting crap is what Kenny did, and if that’s what you’re suffering from, I suggest seeking medical attention ASAP.
  • I hope that whoever went a-Googling for “ejaculating your cat” found, um, help. Ew.
  • It’s not a good idea to drive down the highway in the pitch dark without headlights. I’m just sayin’. Even if it weren’t a safety issue, it tends to creep out people like me when you sneak up behind us. Asswagon.
  • I hope that whoever gave me the plague (respiratory, not crap-shooting) is enjoying my misery, because I’m sure as hell not. I’m tired of blowing my nose and sucking on cough drops. Enough, already!

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This is the view from my front door, looking to the southeast. I got only a few photos of the foliage after it (finally!) turned color, but before it got blown to smithereens by last weekend’s storm. This was taken on the one nice, clear day we had during that interval.

Rory Update:

Rory had PU (Perineal Urethrostomy) surgery on Tuesday. Basically, it involves amputation of the penis and widening of the urethra. This was the last resort for him, as his urethra and bladder were in terrible shape from years of crystals and, we found, stones. He was a mass of inflamed scar tissue. Once we’re able to get the uroliths properly diagnosed, he can be put on a food that will inhibit their growth. The surgery will hopefully allow him to pass any stones or crystals that do develop.

The surgery went well, but he was stressed by being at the vet, so she recommended that I take him home ASAP. I picked him up Wednesday after work. He looked good, and seemed relatively comfortable and relaxed during the drive home. He stretched out in his carrier and chatted with me. I think he now understands that when I pick him up at the vet, it means he’s going home, home, home.

Physically and mentally, I think he’s doing well. His stitches look good, though he’s got the funniest baboon ass in captivity. It’s shaved and still dyed red from the antiseptic. I’ll try to get a photo of it (it’s truly special), if I can. He’s all about the sweet, sweet lovin’, though, so getting a photo of his back end will be difficult. He’s too busy having me scratch and rub his head and neck to turn around.

He’s not into the prescription food, unfortunately. I think part of the problem is that it’s canned, and he’s not a big fan of canned food. He usually takes a couple of bites and leaves the rest. The vet said that, since we’re waiting for urolith analysis, I can go ahead and feed him his old food for the time being. It took him awhile to get the knack of eating with the satellite dish around his head, but by late yesterday afternoon, he was getting pretty good at it. He’s still not drinking on his own, though, so I’m having to force water down him with a syringe. He’s not happy about it, but he’s got the attention span of a gnat, so as soon as I’m finished, he forgets that he hates me. It’s nice to have a cat who is incapable of holding a grudge.

He’s peeing like a champ, which is a huge relief–nice, big pools of it, too, instead of the little spots that were common when he’d start blocking or would get a UTI. I’m concerned that he’s not had a bowel movement, but I think the fact that he fasted for a few days accounts for that. He didn’t start eating well until later in the day yesterday, so it may take awhile for things to start, um, moving through him properly.

Photography

St. Andrew’s Cross Spider

Shelly

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Apparently, all argiope spiders are commonly called St. Andrew’s Cross spiders, for the way they stretch their legs into an elongated X shape while sitting in their webs (I had erroneously thought that the name came from the large X pattern many of them weave into their webs). My particular spider is Agriope aurantia, otherwise known as the black and yellow garden spider, yellow garden spider, orb weaver, and writing spider. They’re non-aggressive, but even if they do bite, their venom isn’t generally bothersome to humans.

Photography

Autumn Photoblogging

Shelly

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St. Andrews Cross Spider (Argiope aurantia)

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The grasshopper was hanging out on my deck this afternoon. It’s a little late in the season for bugs, but it’s been warm, so they’re still active. There was something cricket-like chirping away last night, and the evil Japanese beetles are swarming.

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We’ve had a few nice sunsets recently. The third photo is of the last full moon, rising in the east, with the Belt of Venus.

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I had been dubious about the trees turning color, but we seem to have gotten enough rain in time. Most of the leaves have dropped, after last weekend’s blowing winds, but I got a few photos before that happened. I love the contrast of the oranges, yellows, and reds–lit by the near-setting sun–against the heavy, grey clouds.

Auntie Em! Auntie Em! As I mentioned, we had a hell of a storm over the weekend. It had been super windy during the day on Saturday, but warm and the sky seemed to clear up a bit in the afternoon. That night, the wind picked up, with gusts up to 65mph. Yikes! I woke up at 1:45, scared half to death. There aren’t any storm sirens, because I live in the country, so I turned on the television to see if there were any weather alerts. The Terre Haute stations, which usually have the best weather coverage for my area, were still on regular programming. ABC from Indy had radar up, but, because Indy is the center of their universe, they weren’t showing or discussing what was going on in the southern part of the state. Bastards!

A little after 2:00am, CBS from Terra Haute started covering the storm. We were under a severe thunderstorm warning, but as far as the radar and coverage went, the storm didn’t sound all that serious. It slacked off a bit, then it started to hail, then all hell broke loose. Um, that’s when tornadoes usually occur–on the back end of the storm. And they’re often accompanied by hail. Yikes. Luckily, all we had were heavy straight-line winds. The folks south of us, though, were not as lucky. [ETA: According to Wikipedia, 25 people died. It was the deadliest tornado to hit the state in 30 years.]

Tangent Alert! While I was flipping channels, looking for storm info, I came across an episode of Soul Train. That show is still on? Oh my. What really caught my attention, though, was the animated Soul Train logo. How rude! I looked to see if I could find it online, but couldn’t. So, I shall attempt to describe it. Picture an animated, silver steam engine. Picture it with a big, fat penis on top. Picture the penis ejaculating spasmotically. Picture the train thrusting in time to the penis’ spasms. O ick. Perhaps that might explain why the show airs at 2am?

I’m supposed to go to Chicago tomorrow night, so see Bauhaus. It doesn’t look like it’s going to happen, though, which I’m bummed about. Rory-cat is having surgery this afternoon, and will hopefully come home tomorrow, so I’ll have to stay home to keep an eye on him. He spent a week and a half hospitalized for a severe UTI, struvite crystals, and recurring blockages. I brought him home yesterday and he blocked again. He was in good spirits, soliciting attention and chin rubs, but he wasn’t eating, drinking, or eliminating. Clearly, he was blocked again. The last resort is surgery to have his penis amputated and to widen his urethra. Hopefully, it will successfully solve his problems, and he’ll be able to have a good quality of life. He’s a damnfine cat, and I think he deserves to have a shot at having a good, comfortable life, if possible.

Uncategorized

Are We There Yet?

Shelly

Is it really Friday? Finally? This has been a spectacularly long and worrisome week, and I’m glad it’s pretty much wrapped up.

Saturday, I woke up to find that Rory had another blockage. One of the vets from the 24-hour emergency clinic has a practice about 30 minutes south of me, so I took him there. The plan was that the vet would clear the blockage, then take Rory home with him that night and take him to work at the emergency clinic with him the next day. He cleared the blockage and catheterized him, but he became blocked again. That blockage was cleared, and I was supposed to pick him up Thursday, but he became blocked yet again. Apparently, the crystals in his bladder are so compacted that they’re like concrete. There is also quite a bit of scar tissue in his bladder and urethra. Poor cat. That has to be hellishly painful.

Luckily, one of the vets who works at the emergency clinic also has a cat clinic–in Spencer! She’s got ultrasound equipment at her clinic and will, hopefully, be able to break up the mass of crystals so that they can be passed. Assuming that goes well, he’ll come home on Saturday or Monday to recover. Later, he’ll need to have his urethra widened, so that if more crystals form, they will be able to be passed.

I have no idea what a week’s stay at an emergency clinic is going to cost. I don’t want to know how much it’s going to cost. The mere thought makes me want to throw up.

So, since I’m in denial, I thought I’d engage in some retail therapy. Not a lot of retail therapy, mind you, but a little bit.

When I was in 4th grade, our class read a dramatic adaptation of Anne Frank’s diary. It was a bizarre experience, because the story covered only her time in hiding. There was very little explanation for why she was in hiding, or for what happened to her after her family was found. I expect that the powers that be decided that such details were beyond the comprehension of young children (heck, they’re beyond the comprehension of most adults) or that they might give kids nightmares (again, who wouldn’t get nightmares?). The thing that sticks out in my mind is that we were told that concentration camp victims were treated like dogs, and that Anne died a month before her camp was liberated. I remember visualizing people being kept in dog kennels and being fed dog food, and, while that would’ve sucked mightily, I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why people had died from it. Let that be a lesson to those who deal with children to be careful what you tell them.

I read the Scholastic edition of Anne’s diary when I was in 6th grade. By that time, I better understood what had happened during the Holocaust and what it meant to be an inmate in one of the Nazi death camps. I also began to understand why I found Anne’s story so interesting. Obviously, it gave me a window on the Holocaust. The horrors that happened are like stars in the sky–too numerous to comprehend when taken all together. But, looking at those events through the lens of one person’s experience provides a framework to hang everything on. More importantly for me, though, I think my fascination with Anne’s story lay in the realization that one person’s voice can be important; that a single voice can resonate so clearly across time and space

The Nazis could kill millions of people, but they couldn’t stifle the voice of one small girl. That is power.

So, anyway, when I was in high school, my family moved across state. I lost almost all of my childhood books, including my well worn copy of Anne Frank’s diary. I haven’t read it since then, and I thought it was about time to visit my old friend.