Day 65: More Dog Blood and Ghoulie Winking Pirate Dog

So after work I grab up Goblin and Ghost, load them in the Montero (those around town know it as the "Zombie Emergency Response Vehicle"), and trundle off to the vet for shots and to let the unlucky vet poke into Ghost's butt a couple of times. The lock on the back door of the Montero broke a few years back; Dad fixed it, but it took something like three weeks before the parts got in, then more time to get him to actually do the repair, yadda yadda yadda.  Ultimately it got fixed... only to break again about six months later.  This time, in the spirit of Good Ol' American Redneckness, we fashioned a rope around the inside handle that we can use to pull and hold the inside handle open while we inch around to the back and open it from the outside.  If you let go, you get to start all over again.

In the vet's parking lot, in complete and utter defiance of my command to "Wait!" which Goblin absolutely knows, Goblin catapults himself out of the back of the truck, with Ghost right on his heels.  He promptly gets his back legs tangled up in the rope I didn't have the chance to push out of the way, and down he goes.  Like an embarrassed human, he's right back up, favoring his right back leg and shooting me a look that seems to say, "Act like you didn't see me do that!"  I inspect him on the front walk, but he seems fine, if a little dusty on the hind end, and by the time we get inside he's not even limping anymore.

Except now he's bleeding.  Not a lot, mind you-- just enough to be mysterious.  In the lobby I discover he must've landed on his muzzle because he's skinned the front of it pretty good.  Ouch.  By the time we get into Room One, I realize he's put a thin, two-inch slit into the side of his tail.  Double Ouch.  It takes all the way until I make him sit in the garage at home to take off his leash that I discover the back of that right leg joint is also skinned.  Owwwwww x3.  In the true spirit of Momness, I would say "This is what happens when you don't listen to me!" but he just wouldn't get it.


Tomorrow morning I drop our little Ghoulie Bug off for surgery.  The vet will remove her right eye, which is constantly gooey and drippy and annoying to her because the eyelashes curl down and poke inward (entropian eye).  Dr. Bone-- yes, that's really his name-- says she will look like she's winking after the eyelid is sewn shut.  Since that's the side that has the black around the eye, this will make her look like a Winking Pirate Dog.  This will go right along with her normal conversation of "Arghghghghgh!"  Our pictures of her will take on an entirely new theme. 

154 days to go before The Husband comes home.

Did someone say ::yikes::???

Day 47: Dogfights, Lots of Blood, and a Firewatch

On a Saturday in mid-April, my sweet little Ghoulie-Bug started getting cranky, which is a dog owner's

Ghoulie, letting Ghost
use her as a pillow.

diplomatic word for aggressive, snarling and lunging at the little boy across the street and his teensy Dachshund  puppy.  Eight days later she started an all-out fight with Ghost.  Poor old Ghost defended herself at first, then ran, whereupon Ghoulie started to chase her until I managed to get my hand around her collar and yank her back.  We went out for a serious training walk later that day, at which point she snarled and lunged at the couple across the street and their toddler (who was thankfully in Mom's arms).  As a result Ghoulie is segregated from all humans except for those she solidly knows, and we have a vet appointment in a week and a half to see if there's some medical reason behind this-- thyroid, right eye bugging her to the point of needing to be removed, something.  I'm afraid to type here that things have been quiet since then, because the Universe might hear me and kick me in the butt.

A couple of nights ago blood mysteriously appeared along the upstairs hallway wall in a broken double line, swooping slightly upward at dog-shoulder level, ending in a tiny double-dot pattern about a foot away.  Three full-body inspections later revealed nothing-- all dogs are fine, no bites, no bumps, no blood.  Hmmm.

Dad, pre-clay pot.

Last Saturday my 83-year-old Dad fell while carrying a flat of moss roses and a clay pot across the parking lot to his apartment complex.  He went face-first into the pot, gifting himself with 17 staples in his scalp, 7 stitches above his right eyebrow, and an unknown number of stitches in his left ear to piece it back together; he also peeled the skin off both elbows and the back of his left hand.  I think he came out of this looking worse than he had after being an infantryman in the Korean war.

I have been eating a lot of vegetarian meals because, let's face it, meat is hard to prepare for an anti-cooking person.  I'm not afraid of meat preparation, but neither am I particularly fond of it.  So far-- wait for it-- I have not lost any weight.  Go figure.

And finally, just for sh*ts, giggles, and a sense of How the hell did THAT happen? I got in trouble at work today over a four-sentence telephone conversation that lasted no more than ten seconds and ended with the other person hanging up on me.  Go figure x 2.

A CNN news screenshot from June 2011.

Yesterday afternoon a firewatch alert went out because the winds are expected to pick up to 20 mph with up to 40 mph gusts, with an accompanying drop in humidity levels to single-digits.  I know I live in the desert, but isn't that Sahara-worthy or something?  For God's sake, I just found the wedding picture I lost during our double evacuation in June of 2011.   I'll be waiting for my hair to ignite.

The weekend approaches.  Alas, so does my __th birthday (::ahem::).


As they say in Internet-Speak:  FML.

Day 40, 179 To Go

I will tell you right upfront that there are folks out there in Readerland who are going to find these posts tedious.  I'm sorry for that, but I'll do my best to keep them interesting.  They're going to serve two purposes: (1) To keep The Husband apprised of daily doings, and (2) to retrain Yours Truly, or maybe just teach, because I have never been really good at keeping this blog this up to date, into updating more often.

The Husband headed to Afghanistan proper on Tuesday, sporting a new haircut (it must be a guy thing).  Communication between us will be cut drastically, so think of these posts as getting to listen in-- sort of-- on conversations.  I'll try to leave out the really mushy parts, but if something slips in now and then, you'll just have to suck it up.

The Monday before he left I came home from work and potted the rest of the plants and flowers I'd bought at Home Depot and Lowe's over the weekend, then repotted a few that i decided had been poorly placed.  In a spurt of stunning design decisions (okay, maybe just plant placement -- ha ha), the front of the house and back patio 

ended up looking pretty good.  I planted a little pomegranate tree in the southeast corner and took a couple of the celosia aside to put in a green pot that I gave to Dad last night for his patio.  The rest of the plants are on  the stone patio I assembled awhile back, which will eventually (uh...) be covered by a sort of "screenhouse" I plan to build to deter the grasshoppers that ate Every. Single. Living. Plant. in the backyard last summer, including something like six or seven small trees.  That will NOT happen again in 2013.


At lunch today my friend Clara and I went to Farmer's Market, where I indulged in locally grown tomatoes (until mine grow, and let's face it, I probably won't get that many), a cucumber, and a loaf of Stone Junction Olives and Italian Cheese bread by the Guadalupe Baking Company.  I dipped into this right after taking the photo, and WOW!  Yeah, it was that good. 

Finally, yesterday Clara and I went to investigate a sign that has appeared on a certain long-empty building that used to be the former home of Walmart.  We both agreed that having this store close to us, as in seeing it Every Single Day, is probably going to be hazardous to our wallets.  It looks like it will be awhile before it opens, so we'd better start saving up now.

While on vacation in Virginia with The Husband the week before last, I got bit by four, yes, FOUR ticks.  Setting aside the fact that by the time I realized the fourth one was biting me I was physically freaking out, my medical manager here was not pleased when he looked at my arm (bite #2) and the back of my neck (bite #3).  Although the other two bites seem to be healing/disappearing, these two are hanging around and red and lumpy.  It's interesting to hear "Humor me and take some doxycycline." from a medical practitioner.

Okay, it's late, and I'm tired, courtesy of the antibiotics.  I'm going to toss in the photos but not proofread.  I proofread too much, which is probably why I don't write nearly enough-- I'm too busy proofing as I go instead of when I'm finished... or both!

Day 15, 204 To Go

For those who don't know, my husband and fellow author Weston Ochse, is in predeployment training.  He left on March 17 and headed for the east coast, and somewhere toward the end of April, he'll leave there and spend six months on an all-expense paid trip, courtesy of Uncle Sam, to Afghanistan.  Although he's been gone for work before (what those of us in the military call "TDY" -- Temporary Duty), before his leaving this time around we have never been separated for more than two straight weeks.  Because he is a government civilian, Uncle Sam cannot legally deploy him for more than 179 days.  But when you add in the predeployment training and the return "check-in" time, today marks Day 15 of a total of 219 days that he will be gone.  I will fly to Washington in April and spend about a week with him, but I still count those in the total because, hey, he's not here.  He's not home.

So, follow me along on my adventures with him.  And please keep your fingers crossed that there will be very few days like yesterday.  Thank you, Universe, but that was quite enough for at least a few days!

The Sharp Knife of a Short Life...

This is the title of a song that keeps playing in my head.  It’s an excellent, sad song by The Band Perry, and I have it on a CD, but I heard it on the radio for the first time yesterday, not long after I went to the military funeral of a woman who was only five years younger than me.  

I won’t identify her here, but a lot of friends and acquaintances will know who I’m talking about.  She was likeable and beautiful, slim with white-blonde hair and a confident manner.  She was in the Army and I remember walking next to a couple of guys in our old building maybe six or seven years ago.  She was about twenty feet ahead of us and one of them commented that “She’s the only woman in the Army who can make BDUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) look good.”  In the memory booklet at her funeral, her birthday was listed as “Sunrise” and her death as “Sunset,” and I could picture her life like that, a sun rising and blazing across the sky in a too-fast semi-circle before it sank out of sight.

She and I were never close, although we worked together years ago and liked each other.  We’d talk now and then, comparing notes about the agony of kids turning into teenagers and the hope of teenagers turning into responsible adults, and we always said that one of these days we’d go to lunch.  We never did, and one of those days will now never happen.  She died in another state and left behind two dark-haired, handsome sons who had grown into exactly what she had hoped.  To all accounts she was happy and looking forward to the future, to her sons, to her parents, to buying a house in one of those sun-soaked states where it’s warm almost all the time.

To my knowledge, she was never on Facebook.  God, how I wish she had been.  Maybe then I, and so many others who knew her, could have kept in touch and offered her the words of support and comfort she must have needed.  Maybe we would have seen how far she’d sunk into self-despair, and how she must have been drowning in whatever demons finally overwhelmed her.  People always say that suicide is a selfish thing for someone to do, but it only seems selfish if you look at it from somewhere other than that person’s point of view.  From where she was two weeks ago today, perhaps she thought that other people in her life were the ones who were selfish, who couldn’t give her a bit of their time, their attention, their love, their friendship.  It was heartbreaking to sit in the Chapel and listen to so many wonderful memorial words, to hear an Army LTC’s voice break when he said “She was my soldier,” and see that same man’s eyes tear up when he addressed his words toward the flag-covered casket and closed with “You’re relieved.  We have the watch now.”  She was loved by so many, but she must have felt so utterly alone at the end, so unbearably tired, that she chose not to keep going.

The edge of that sharp knife in someone’s life is coated in regrets, in “someday we’re going to” and “one of these days.”  Don’t let that edge turn and cut you or someone you care about.

HUMANS HAVING DOGS: BIRTH CONTROL, DAMMIT!

A Dog…

Is not JUST a dog.

It is not disposable.  When you get a dog, it becomes a family member.  It wants your love and attention.  It wants to play and cuddle.  It needs to be fed, watered, petted, played with, and kept out of the weather.  It needs good quality food and a sheltered, dry place to sleep.  It needs training and regular vet care.  It has LOTS of energy when it’s young, and maybe extra energy longer depending on its breed.  Above all, it worships you and wants to please you so badly it will keep trying no matter what, to the very last breath it exhales.

If you get a Dog…

This is that fuzzy, shedding warm body--
on the large side-- in Amy Breckinridge
Smith's lap!

It may slow down a little, but it will never really grow up.  You should be willing to live with the equivalent of an affectionate, mischievous and perhaps over-sized toddler for however long your dog lives.  You should be willing to clean up the things that come out of both ends.  You should be willing to give baths and wipe away eye boogers, clean out ears, cut toenails, and even brush its teeth.  You (not the dog) should learn to keep the trash covered or it’ll end up all over the floor, put away your shoes or they’ll get chewed, and come home on time or your neighbors might hear frustration barking and you might step in a surprise when you open the door.  You should be ready to give it more vet care as it gets older no matter the cost, and know that it might get sick and need extra help.  You should love it enough not to dump it in a shelter because it got too big, got old, or sick, or too tired to play with your kids anymore.  You should welcome a fuzzy, shedding warm body onto your lap.  And above all, you should be willing to accept tons of exuberant, wet dog kisses.

A beautiful old lady dumped in a
shelter on Christmas Day, 2012

 

You should have the brains to plan ahead and know how your future will affect your new family member: What happens when the dog gets bigger than you thought it would, you move or move in with someone, develop an allergy, get married, have a baby, have another baby, go away to school, take a job overseas, or join the military and deploy?  And if the unthinkable happens and you really can’t keep this dog that treasures every second it spends with you, can you put forth the effort to find it a home with someone else who will love it for the rest of its life? 

Or will you simply break its heart?

If you had a child and had to downsize your house, would you drop off your child at an orphanage that might kill him or her after only a couple of days?  Your dog is part of your family.  It adores you, feels loneliness and anxiety when you leave, feels pain in both its body and soul when it’s hurt, and will feel terror if you abandon it. 

A Dog…

13 (yes, 13) year old female Great Dane
dumped at a shelter on January 10, 2013

Is not something to chain to a tree or toss outside in the yard.  It’s not okay to leave it in cold or freezing temperatures, the rain or snow, or the blazing sun and suffocating heat in the summer.  It’s not okay to forget to feed it or give it fresh water.  It’s not okay to let it suffer and be in pain because you don’t have the money to take it to a vet.  It’s not a piece of trash to be pushed out of your car in the park or at a rest stop, or turned over to a shelter when it’s 10, or 12, or 15 years old.

And a Dog is NEVER a target for your anger or aggression.  

It is a living, breathing creature that depends completely on you for EVERYTHING.  From the second you decide to exert ownership over a puppy or an adult dog, its fate is completely and utterly in your hands.

So think birth control.

If you can’t love your new puppy or dog forever, if you don’t have the patience to train it and deal with the things required to take care of it, if you can’t stay in its life for the long haul, then save some poor dog the misery and put the equivalent of a condom on yourself:

Don’t get one to begin with. 

Yvonne Navarro

January 09, 2013

The Next Big Thing!

Hi all.  It's been a busy time since September, with family medical issues as well as life in general keeping me from Rambling at you as much as I would have liked.  Now, however, it would seem that I have been tagged with the writer's equivalent of a virtual chain letter, so below are my answers to "The Next Big Thing," a Q&A blog that's been going around the Internet for quite some time.  I'm coming in on it at the tail end, so unfortunately I have no one to tag at the end of the questions.  I did ask six people, but of those six, only three answered-- they either said no or had already participated.  The other three didn't bother to respond at all, so maybe they're sitting somewhere poking pins into a doll that represents me for trying to get them involved in it to begin with.  In any case...

Behold my answers!

What is the working title of your next book?

Concrete Savior

Where did the idea come from for the book?

Concrete Savior is the second book in a series called The Dark Redemption Series.  The idea for the entire series was germinated from a Wayne Barlowe painting showing a fallen angel contemplating a snow white angel’s feather.

What genre does your book fall under?

When I wrote it, I thought horror because that’s always been my chosen genre.  When it was bought by Pocket Star, the editor told me it was urban fantasy.  At the time, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as an urban fantasy genre.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Brynna would definitely be played by Keira Knightley, and in my mind, Eran Redmond was played by Hugh Jackman.  Okay, so I’m a huge Hugh Jackman fan, but seriously, in poking around the Internet I ran across a photograph of Jackson wearing very bookish glasses.  It made him fit the role of Redmond perfectly. 

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A fallen angel returns to Earth seeking redemption and a return to her original angel status.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It was represented by the FinePrint Literary Agency.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

About four to five months.  It was a pretty tight deadline.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I’m really not sure.  HIGHBORN, the first book in the series, was published in 2012, and CONCRETE SAVIOR came out in 2011.  As I said about, I didn’t even know there was an urban fantasy genre, so I haven’t paid much attention to it, and I definitely haven’t read anything in it.  When I wrote HIGHBORN, I was simply writing the story I wanted to tell.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Pretty much covered that in the second question.

What else about the book might pique the reader's interest?

What different about the series is the main character, who goes by the name Brynna Malak.  Reviewers have called her “refreshing,” because there is nothing sappy sweet or “do gooder” about her.  She’s spent millennia in Hell as a demon dedicated to destroying souls, not saving them.  Now, even though she wants redemption, she has to learn to deal with the humans she despised for so long.  But tolerance is not enough-- she has to learn like them before she can make herself help them and, just maybe, re-earn her path to redemption.

Questions?  Dump them in a comment box below and I might have answers.  (Don't bother with that Secret to Life thing though; it's already been covered by someone else.)