Today, I found some old TIE O’ THE DAY doggie pix, which Skitter and I culled through. The photos were mostly of our late pal, Roxy Lou, posing in Ties and Bow Ties o’ the Day. Skitter and I have lowered our smiles to half-staff since we looked at the photographs. We teared-up a little. FYI When Skitter cries, she hogs the Kleenex.
Suzanne and Skitter and I had to help Roxy go to sleep just over a year ago, and Skitter has been dog-less since then. While Roxy Lou was here, she took the scared, abused Skitter under her wing and taught her how to be a dog. While Roxy was here, I also never had to turn on the vacuum cleaner: Roxy ate anything that fell to the floor, anywhere in the house. It did not have to be food. (We called her Hoover.) That’s how she became the fattest mini dachsie to ever waddle on the face of the planet.
Enjoy these reposted pix of the late Roxy’s modeling, as she appeared in TIE O’ THE DAY. I included a couple of naked-neck pictures too.
My bigly Bow Tie o’ the Day and Skitter’s Tie o’ the Day gather together to wish y’all a Merry St. Patrick’s Day Eve! Silly Hat o’ the Day adds a dash of extra panache.
If I’m wearing my band-aid Ties o’ the Day, I must have caused some damage to my mortal coil. And I did. Golf carts Cufflinks o’ the Day had to rescue me though, cuz I don’t have ambulance cufflinks.
Let me say this: everything is Skitter’s fault. My recovery from my late-June surgery at Huntsman was extraordinary for the first seven months, and then February happened. In the last three weeks I seem to be sabotaging my recovery– all for Skitter. First, I was nearly skewered through my scar by the end of a roll of wrapping paper I ran into, as I left the pantry where I had gone to get a treat for Skitter.
Second, Skitter got chased by a bared-teeth dog, and I ran to save The Skit from a potential lightweight boxing and biting bout with a bully of a strange dog. I should not have run, ladies and gentlemen, but I had to save Skitter. My well-healing innards got jostled in all kinds of wrong ways while I ran. No permanent damage was done, but my guts feel weird in a bunch of new ways.
And third, I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that Skitter has had some weird kidney things going on, resulting in occasional incontinence. She seems to be okay now, but we didn’t want to leave her roaming free in the house to possibly make puddles Saturday night when we went to Park City. We put her in her beddy-bye crate she loves, turned on “her” tv and a light, and gave her a chew. We have never left her alone in the house in her crate before. Ever. She has always had the whole house to party in when we’ve gone out. Skitter was fine, I’m sure. I, however, was a nervous wreck.
Anyhoo… When Suzanne and I entered the garage, I bolted into the house and up the stairs to Skitter’s crate to get her outside to potty ASAP. I unlatched her crate door and out she flew as if she hadn’t had access to potty grass in months. She zipped down the stairs, as did I. I never zip down the stairs, especially since surgery. But zip, I did, for Skitter’s bladder’s sake.
Until I got to the third step from the bottom. I tripped over one of the shoes I was wearing. (I’ve actually called the shoes “my funeral shoes” since I bought them fifteen years ago. I’ll explain why in another post.) I was briefly airborne, and then I landed on a storage bin I’m glad I hadn’t managed to put away yet. I landed on the top edge of the bin with my left ribs, directly opposite my scar. My left knee hit the floor at the same time. I broke the fall completely with my right palm on the floor– which didn’t hurt my hand but jammed my rotator cuff I had recently made usable again after two months of putting it through physical therapy.
I appear to be fine. But I think I might have broken or bruised a rib or two. It hurts like hell, and I can’t sleep on that side. I can breathe, so I doubt I punctured a lung. Fortunately, my surgery innards don’t feel newer and different-er pain than before I fell– just their usual tugs and pulls o’ healing. I’ve scheduled a doctor appointment for Friday, and I’m also not afraid of emergency rooms, if I should need to visit one. (Next week I’ll be a traveler, so I gotta be fine for that.)
Skitter eventually got pottied, and she had not made a puddle in her crate while we were off living it up in Park City. Score!
Earlier this week I showed you a photo of Suzanne’s scuffed face, and explained about her klutzosity. She is still the klutz in the family, by far. I have no idea why I’ve started joining in the klutz games with her though. I admire so many of Suzanne’s finer qualities, and I try to emulate them. I am not happy about emulating her klutz quality.
All I know for sure is that if I hadn’t taken off my wintry cape in the garage the minute I got home from Park City Saturday night, my attached cape would have thrown me into superhero mode as I tripped, and I would have been able to fly downstairs instead of fall splat. Perhaps I should wear a cape 24/7 from now on, to thwart any possible klutzing activities I might find myself getting into. Oh, you know how I’d hate always wearing a cape.
Skitter does not sleep in the nude. She doesn’t wear pajamas either. She always sleeps in a tie. She chose my “I LOVE YOU!” Tie o’ the Day to nap in, all through her Valentine’s Day. She gets right into the celebratory spirit of holidays, doesn’t she?
Over the weekend, I saw Suzanne stretching out a cornucopia of clothing items on the kitchen island. With her sewing, crafting, and whatever-ing relentlessly happening around the house, I notice not-ordinary things like that all the time. I don’t always ask about them. Sometimes I treat whatever’s going on like a game– to see if I can figure out the activity’s result. Sometimes I want to know what’s going on, and sometimes I’m sure I don’t. I simply use my powers of observation most of the time.
And so I did, with Suzanne’s clothing on the kitchen island. I heard a buzzing noise, looked over, and saw Suzanne shaving her clothing with her battery-powered lint and hair remover gadget. I don’t recall ever owning clothes in need of an occasional shave, but apparently Suzanne has a few outfits whose goal is to attract globules o’ lint. Or she secretly works in a lint factory. I dunno. Fortunately, she doesn’t have to lather shaving cream on her clothing items before she shaves them.
I did, however, have to change my clothes– even my socks– after I returned home from taking Skitter to the vet this morning. I was more of a fur ball than Skitter by the time we were done with her exam and tests. She shook so ferociously during the appointment it was as if she was ejecting each hair on her body at me, one at a time– like a firing squad of arrows from Tie o’ the Day’s Cupids. Like it’s MY fault she’s got a bladder infection. (We think that’ll be her diagnosis. We expect her test results tomorrow.)
I was surprised to discover Skitter’s solo photo here isn’t a blur of fur. I guess I caught her in mid-quake. Even as she sat there on the exam table, her eyes begged me to get her out of there. I heard her thinking, “If you really loved me, you’d help me escape. Please, please, please. You rescued me once before.” I think I heard her soul howl at me telepathically.
I felt bad about things from the minute I woke up this morning, because I knew what was ahead for Skitter. She naively dressed up in her red flannel Bow Tie o’ the Day for an undisclosed outing with me. She had no clue the destination would be the Parrish Creek Veterinary Clinic. Some things you just shouldn’t tell your dog until you absolutely have to. As we exited the car at the clinic, I was already apologizing to The Skit for the inevitable rectal thermometer, and for whatever the dog urine extractor is called.
But as I type this post, Skitter is sitting beside me at the other end of the loveseat. She has already forgiven me. How do I know? Because she is completely buried under three Suzanne-made blankets– except she has stretched out one of her front legs in my direction, such that her paw is touching my leg. I’d love to snap a pic of Skitter’s precious paw on my thigh to show you, but if I move to pick up my phone, it will startle her. And then there goes the photo op. I’m just going to sit here and enjoy watching it until she moves it.
Blessings are sometimes no bigger than a dog’s paw on your leg. I hope you notice your tiny blessings. They surround you. Just look.
Tie o’ the Day makes its sweet point with its talky sweet hearts. I’ve always enjoyed getting and giving the little boxes of candy hearts, but they really aren’t very tasty. It’s their shape and their tiny messages that make them an annual have-to-have. It’s a childhood nostalgia thing.
I’ve been posting all kinds of lovey-dovey family lore this week to add to the Valentine’s Day spirit, but I have to make a bit of a sidetrack this morning. I must report on two of this week’s happenings. To put these incidents in context, remember that I had a major surgery six months ago, which I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about in my posts. My recovery has gone wondrously well, although I still feel tugs and pulls and weird pains in my gut on occasion– especially behind my itchy scar. I’m still somewhat limited in my physical activities, especially those which require me to move quickly or use my belly muscles.
The first incident, which occurred a few days ago, is what I refer to as The Calamitous Attack of the Wrapping Paper Tube. The simplest way to explain it is this: One end of a tube of Christmas wrapping paper was sticking out of a storage bin which happened to be temporarily sitting by the pantry– on its way to be stored in the garage until next year.
As I emerged from the pantry, I ran directly into the end of the tube. The wrapping paper isn’t usually in that spot, so I didn’t even think of it before I turned around. I have a normal-size, well-fed tummy– so there’s plenty of free skin-space to be poked hard by a tube, with negligible risk, but of course the tube attempted to impale me precisely on my scar. It felt like someone had rammed a metal cookie cutter into my wound. I can tell semi-important internal things beneath my scar got injured a bit, although I can also feel that it wasn’t a major injury. The normal strange tugs and pulls I’ve felt since surgery are now stranger, and it feels like my scar and beneath it is a complete bruise. Small setback, it is. But who knew a roll of Christmas wrapping paper could even spear a scar? I know it now. Watch out for wrapping paper tubes.
Second incident. Yesterday, Skitter and I were returning home from our walkie to the mailbox. As we walked back, I spied a guy walking a medium-size, leashed dog on our side of the street. Knowing Skitter’s fear of everything, I crossed us to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A few seconds later, I realized Skitter had seen the other mutt, because she began to shake. On we walked toward home.
Apparently, the other dog noticed The Skit, pulled its leash out of its owner’s hand, and ran across the road to us– baring its teeth at Skitter. I reached down to pick up Skitter, but not quickly enough. Skitter’s absolute, monstrous fear caused her to pull out of her leash collar and run in the direction of home. Of course, the other dog chased after her. I couldn’t think of anything except getting to Skitter before she got hurt in a dogfight, or simply died of being petrified by the entire happening. I RAN! For almost two blocks, I RAN! It did not occur to me running is not allowed at this point in the recovery of my gut. And, of course, I haven’t out-and-out run since the late-90’s. But still, I love Skitter. There was no debate about what I should do, so I RAN!
As I ran after her, I saw Skitter almost get hit by a car. And when I turned the corner and saw her close to our house, the other dog was circling Skitter as she curled into a ball and cowered. (That’s what she does when she’s afraid and doesn’t have a safe blanket.) I had been putting up such a racket during the whole chase that when I finally got pretty close to the dogs, the other dog high-tailed it off to find its owner. Because of my yelling, and because she knew she wasn’t supposed to tug on her leash or leave my side, Skitter also thought I was angry at her. She immediately peed on the porch, in fright and relief. When we got back into the house, she holed-up in her crate. I made it clear I wasn’t mad at her. She believed me and sat between me and Suzanne. But because of the dog almost-fight, she didn’t stop shaking for an hour. She was a walking fur ball of trauma all evening.
This morning, I have two fears which are bugging me: 1. Did the The Calamitous Attack of the Wrapping Paper Tube, combined with the running to save The Skit, cause bigly damage to my healing innards? I’m certainly in more pain than I was before these two incidents happened. 2. Will Skitter now be too frightened to go on our walkies again? Remember, it took her five years to finally be comfortable enough to get excited to do her walkies. She only truly began to enjoy her walkies in the last few months. I’m hoping Skitter and I have not created humongous setbacks for ourselves.
On the other hand, Skitter and I are both tough broads. (We learned to be tough broads from Mom, the Queen of Tough Broads.) The Skit and I have been through a plethora of not-so-good experiences in our different lives, so we already know that these things, too, shall pass.
The wall-hanging in this photo has shown up in the background of a lot of my post pix. It dominates our living room, on purpose. Mom chose a similar saying for the back of her and Dad’s headstone. The gist of its message is the over-arching truth with which I was raised. And it still frames the way I try to live my life.
To love and to be loved are not two separate things. Happiness comes from making and keeping them one thing together. (I’m not just talking about romantic love.) We love who we love. And we want their love in return, but we often don’t allow ourselves to accept it. Too often we don’t feel worthy of it, or we push it away because we don’t want to risk the chance we might get hurt. Loving and being loved is definitely going to have its pains, but think of them as growing pains. That’s what most of the hurts are. They are signs a relationship needs some overhauling in order to grow. So work on it. The payoff will happen if both parties are willing to give and take the love the work requires.
You can find love all over the place. For example, I’m wearing dog bones Bow Tie o’ the Day in Valentine’s Day honor of all the mutts in my life who have loved me. And in honor of my skittish Skitter who is snoring beside me as I type this post. She loves me even in her sleep. Our dogs simply love us. And they so clearly assume that we will love them back. They trust us. They expect us to befriend them and care for them. They make us better people because we cannot help but melt in their presence, like we give ourselves over to any baby that is near us. We coo at dogs. We talk to dogs in our baby-talk voices. We want to feed dogs and touch them and protect them. We want to cover them in warm blankies. Dogs pull the best parts of our hearts out into the open.
With my bipolar head, sometimes I feel lost and foreign even to myself. Having a dog around when I’m on one of my mental extremes can make me feel like I’m at home in myself, even if the feeling comes and goes. Even Skitter, who was severely abused before she rescued us, makes me feel at home in my bipolar self– just by following me around, or doing her chew dance, or prancing to the mailbox with me. Skitter’s abuser could not destroy Skitter’s capacity for love. That’s how strong love is. I can’t help but exude love for her. She brings out the baby-talk in me. “Skitter, are you ready to go walkie?” The love goes both ways. That’s happiness. Her giving and receiving love is healing The Skit. It changes me. It strengthens an attitude that stays with me in my dealings with my fellow beings.
Perform love, wherever you go. Let your love rain down like glitter from the heavens.
That’s my sermon for this morning, and I’m sticking to it.
We have to rely on Tie’ o’ the Day to say HAPPY GOUNDHOG DAY! If Skitter were Punxsutawney Skitter, she’d probably stay in her burrow. We would have no prediction about an early Spring at all. I’ll let you know if The Skit sees her shadow– if she wakes up and crawls out of her blanket today.
Bow Tie o’ the Day joined me and Skitter on a scenic drive to Delta to visit Mom at MCR. Skitter traipsed around the halls in her red plaid bow tie collar, her cowboy hat, and her camo coat. Of course, she was a hit. Wherever she goes, Skitter is always ready to be in a pageant. She’s a star. But Mom’s stardom towers over all of us. She was in bigly feisty, funny form this morning.
Mom’s blood sugar has been excessively high for the last few weeks. When her nurse came to check Mom’s sugar numbers, she asked which finger Mom wanted her to prick today to get some blood for testing. Well, Mom was her usual smart-ass self. She immediately said, “Which finger do you use to flip the bird? I want to use that one. Is this the right one?” She had it exactly right. These pictures are proof.
The Skit and I have lounged around the house in our Ties o’ the Day, looking out the tall windows at the falling snow. And occasionally, Skitter has ventured out to color the snow yellow. She’s a vibrant abstract artist. And then the falling snow puts down another layer of canvas for her, and out she goes again to show off more of her artistic genius. I have never seen an artist work so brilliantly with only one color. You, go, Skitter van Dogh!
I love today’s photos, especially the one in which my eyes are closed. It doesn’t matter that it’s blurry. There is no misinterpretation of these pix. Despite Skitter’s skittishness about everything and everybody in the universe, she is no longer hesitant to put aside her fear, and love me enough to give me a stinky smooch. And the ties and I kinda like her, too.
