I know that a lot of people think that they are weird. That we all believe that we have strange thoughts that nobody else has, and that if we express these thoughts and desires, we’ll be labeled as freaks and outcasts.
Thank God for the internet so all of us freaks can band together now, eh?
Please let that first paragraph be a warning, a cautionary tale that the following, which has been rolling around in my head these last few days, certainly goes under the weird category. Now would be a good time to leave and go wash the cat, or something like that.
So, now that everyone has left, here I go:
I was wondering the other day about the fact that I eat a lot of food that has color to it. Lots and lots of color. I’ll spare you a breakdown of my diet, but sufficient it to say, it’s got color to it.
But, when it all that stuff comes out, it’s brown.
Like, where did all that color go to? Is it backing up, somewhere in my colon, waiting to burst out? Am I going to shit a huge rainbow some day, like a cascade of skittles shooting out of my ass?
Inquiring minds want to know….
Friday, August 21, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Under the tree and dreaming
If you knew what the future held, would you can your actions now? If you knew for certain that 10 – 12 years now, your actions today would lead to heart break and loss, would you still do what you’re about to do?
Unfortunately, when it comes to pets, I never seem to change my ways. Some things never change.
About 12 years ago, our first dog was getting sick. We really didn’t know it at the time, our lives were kind of busy, you know? We had three small kids, my father had died a few months earlier, and right about at this time of the year, I was diagnosed with skin cancer on my nose. Life was happening and we were caught up in the swirls and eddy’s of its’ current.
Shelby was “our” first dog, the first “life” that joined our little family way back when. She was our first baby, the one that helped up begin to understand how to work together as a couple, the first stressor that was going to determine if we were going to make it together as a couple, or split apart at some time in the future. With our 20th anniversary this October, I’d guess it’s safe to say that we learned our lessons well from Shelby. She was such a great dog.
Back to the narrative. So there we were, completely unaware of what our future held, unaware that our beautiful, 9 year old dog was already dying, and would be gone as the new year started.
We had listed out house earlier in the year, to move across town and be closer to my wife’s family. And, as life would have it, when the changes in Shelby became so noticeable and the visits to the vets started, somebody became interested in our house. In the same week where they vets said that they had no idea what was wrong with Sierra, and they could only comfort her, we received the long coveted offer on our house.
With 20 days to Christmas, we accepted the offer and had to be out by the end of January. At this point, the kids were asking why we were letting Shelby eat out of our hands, and why Daddy had to carry her outside to go potty. My kids, who, at that time were 6, 5 & 1,hadn’t really known my Dad, so his passing really wasn’t a traumatic event. But they knew Shelby, the one they laid on when watching TV, the one who ate the food from their plates when Mommy & Daddy weren’t watching, the one who ran around the yard with them and swam in the pool with them. And they knew something was wrong.
Christmas came and passed, the new year approached, and the time came. My wife and I looked at each other and knew, without words, that the deed, which I had never had to do before (that’s what parents are for, don’t you know?), needed to be done.
On the third day of the new year, I packed Shelby into the car for her last ride. I couldn’t see very well, as I was crying and sobbing. It’s hard to comfort your wife, who’s crying like you’ve never seen, when you cannot even see her through your own tears. I remember sitting on the floor in the vet’s office, as Shelby’s life faded away, racked by guilt for having done what I just did, being powerless to stop life and nature, and for the first time as a Dad, by not being able to make things right.
We still have her picture on our fridge.
During the orgy of activity during the next 30 days, as we packed up one house, closed and moved into a new one, we decided that we wanted to get another dog. See, we had already had two, when we got Dakota to be Shelby’s companion. And now, with Dakota moping around the house, we knew we needed to get him a companion as well. I guess once your house reaches some sort of critical mass of children, adults, cats, dogs, hermit crabs, fish, guinea pigs, etc. etc., there’s always room for one more, right?
So, even while we were unpacking boxes, getting the kids settled in their new school, dealing with changing commutes, her family stopping over ALL the time (is this why we moved? So your Dad could stop over EVERY night?), my industrious wife got busy on the internet and started finding another dog.
In hindsight, I can’t remember which arrived at the house first, Shelby’s ashes, or our new bundle of joy, Sierra. Sierra was what puppies are, concentrated joy and fun, a perfect mental cleansing for the loss that we were still feeling. Dakota took right to her, the kids loved her and the cats, well, at least they didn’t kill her. Cats my rule dogs, but cats are definitely shit scared of puppies, I’ll tell you that.
In any event, let’s fast forward a few years, shall we? During those years the kids grew up, my middle grew thicker, and we acquired more and more pets (at least it seems that way to me).
A few years ago Dakota passed away as well. He was a fucking great dog. I’ve loved all of my dogs, but there will always be a special place for Dakota. But, I’ve written about him before, and now is the time for Sierra.
The end Sierra is close. We’ve been to the vets twice in the last 20 days, and over $800 later, they really don’t have any idea what’s wrong. It’s so frustrating. You want to do something for this poor animal, this constant companion of yours, but nothing seems to work.
My father was a doctor, and he always told me that medicine was “60% science, 20% experience and 10% guess work / luck”. It’s that 10% that isn’t working for Sierra right now.
We’re all upset about it, and it’s so different than in the past. The kids, if I can even call our oldest two that any more, are upset. Our son came home from work last night, sat down next to Sierra and balled his eyes out for 10 minutes. The girls have been crying and even their friends have been crying. My wife’s best friend, who doesn’t like our dogs at all, called and said that her husband was upset as well, saying “that’s the only one of the pack that I liked”.
At the vets yesterday, the Doctor was going through some possible scenarios of what could be wrong with Sierra. While we were talking, all I could think about was that this was the same room where 12 years before, I had cradled Shelby in my arms as her life fled from her, and how the next room over was where I stared into Dakota’s eyes as all of his pain finally left him. I’m still racked by the guilt of telling the vets to go ahead with those injections, knowing that I was the one that started the process that ended my dog’s life.
The vet’s belief is that Sierra has a tumor somewhere that will rupture, causing her to bleed to death internally. He says to us “you never know, she could be resting in your house, or outside under a tree, sleeping, and just pass away, without any pain”.
Selfishly, that sounds like a good plan to me.
Unfortunately, when it comes to pets, I never seem to change my ways. Some things never change.
About 12 years ago, our first dog was getting sick. We really didn’t know it at the time, our lives were kind of busy, you know? We had three small kids, my father had died a few months earlier, and right about at this time of the year, I was diagnosed with skin cancer on my nose. Life was happening and we were caught up in the swirls and eddy’s of its’ current.
Shelby was “our” first dog, the first “life” that joined our little family way back when. She was our first baby, the one that helped up begin to understand how to work together as a couple, the first stressor that was going to determine if we were going to make it together as a couple, or split apart at some time in the future. With our 20th anniversary this October, I’d guess it’s safe to say that we learned our lessons well from Shelby. She was such a great dog.
Back to the narrative. So there we were, completely unaware of what our future held, unaware that our beautiful, 9 year old dog was already dying, and would be gone as the new year started.
We had listed out house earlier in the year, to move across town and be closer to my wife’s family. And, as life would have it, when the changes in Shelby became so noticeable and the visits to the vets started, somebody became interested in our house. In the same week where they vets said that they had no idea what was wrong with Sierra, and they could only comfort her, we received the long coveted offer on our house.
With 20 days to Christmas, we accepted the offer and had to be out by the end of January. At this point, the kids were asking why we were letting Shelby eat out of our hands, and why Daddy had to carry her outside to go potty. My kids, who, at that time were 6, 5 & 1,hadn’t really known my Dad, so his passing really wasn’t a traumatic event. But they knew Shelby, the one they laid on when watching TV, the one who ate the food from their plates when Mommy & Daddy weren’t watching, the one who ran around the yard with them and swam in the pool with them. And they knew something was wrong.
Christmas came and passed, the new year approached, and the time came. My wife and I looked at each other and knew, without words, that the deed, which I had never had to do before (that’s what parents are for, don’t you know?), needed to be done.
On the third day of the new year, I packed Shelby into the car for her last ride. I couldn’t see very well, as I was crying and sobbing. It’s hard to comfort your wife, who’s crying like you’ve never seen, when you cannot even see her through your own tears. I remember sitting on the floor in the vet’s office, as Shelby’s life faded away, racked by guilt for having done what I just did, being powerless to stop life and nature, and for the first time as a Dad, by not being able to make things right.
We still have her picture on our fridge.
During the orgy of activity during the next 30 days, as we packed up one house, closed and moved into a new one, we decided that we wanted to get another dog. See, we had already had two, when we got Dakota to be Shelby’s companion. And now, with Dakota moping around the house, we knew we needed to get him a companion as well. I guess once your house reaches some sort of critical mass of children, adults, cats, dogs, hermit crabs, fish, guinea pigs, etc. etc., there’s always room for one more, right?
So, even while we were unpacking boxes, getting the kids settled in their new school, dealing with changing commutes, her family stopping over ALL the time (is this why we moved? So your Dad could stop over EVERY night?), my industrious wife got busy on the internet and started finding another dog.
In hindsight, I can’t remember which arrived at the house first, Shelby’s ashes, or our new bundle of joy, Sierra. Sierra was what puppies are, concentrated joy and fun, a perfect mental cleansing for the loss that we were still feeling. Dakota took right to her, the kids loved her and the cats, well, at least they didn’t kill her. Cats my rule dogs, but cats are definitely shit scared of puppies, I’ll tell you that.
In any event, let’s fast forward a few years, shall we? During those years the kids grew up, my middle grew thicker, and we acquired more and more pets (at least it seems that way to me).
A few years ago Dakota passed away as well. He was a fucking great dog. I’ve loved all of my dogs, but there will always be a special place for Dakota. But, I’ve written about him before, and now is the time for Sierra.
The end Sierra is close. We’ve been to the vets twice in the last 20 days, and over $800 later, they really don’t have any idea what’s wrong. It’s so frustrating. You want to do something for this poor animal, this constant companion of yours, but nothing seems to work.
My father was a doctor, and he always told me that medicine was “60% science, 20% experience and 10% guess work / luck”. It’s that 10% that isn’t working for Sierra right now.
We’re all upset about it, and it’s so different than in the past. The kids, if I can even call our oldest two that any more, are upset. Our son came home from work last night, sat down next to Sierra and balled his eyes out for 10 minutes. The girls have been crying and even their friends have been crying. My wife’s best friend, who doesn’t like our dogs at all, called and said that her husband was upset as well, saying “that’s the only one of the pack that I liked”.
At the vets yesterday, the Doctor was going through some possible scenarios of what could be wrong with Sierra. While we were talking, all I could think about was that this was the same room where 12 years before, I had cradled Shelby in my arms as her life fled from her, and how the next room over was where I stared into Dakota’s eyes as all of his pain finally left him. I’m still racked by the guilt of telling the vets to go ahead with those injections, knowing that I was the one that started the process that ended my dog’s life.
The vet’s belief is that Sierra has a tumor somewhere that will rupture, causing her to bleed to death internally. He says to us “you never know, she could be resting in your house, or outside under a tree, sleeping, and just pass away, without any pain”.
Selfishly, that sounds like a good plan to me.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The lameness of being me
So, the other night, I’m having this dream.
And it was a good dream, because it combined two of my favorite dream topics, sex with strange women, and adventures. See, usually, the two don’t cross paths in my dreams. It’s either sex, or the world is coming to the end. And, usually, since I’m running for my life as the world comes to an end, it’s one of the few times that I’m actually not thinking about sex.
I’m not really sure what it is about blood chilling terror that makes Mr. Winky shrivel up, but hey, it’s the dream world, so we’ve got to go with what we’ve got.
So, anyway, back to the good stuff. We’re on a dark, subterranean river somewhere, on kind of this pleasure barge, when Ms. Cleopatra-look-alike is about to allow me to sample some of her forbidden fruit, as the saying goes. In the background some music starts up, and as I raise her silken robes, I notice what song is playing.
It’s “time” by Pink Floyd, the current mental music plaque of my brain. You know, one of those songs you can’t get enough of, but they keep running around and around and around and around…
I remember very clearly (in the dream) lifting my head up and saying “I love that song…”
And thus ended yet another perfect dream, as I crashed back into reality thinking to myself “who listens to “time” when they’re having sex…?” Well, nobody does, you ninny.
Noticing that I twitched or something as I woke, the dogs jumped up on the bed and loomed over me, insisting to go out. And thus ended the dream, and the tantalizing promises that it held, for the cold reality of the early day. I really need to get my subconscious under control, one of these days…
And it was a good dream, because it combined two of my favorite dream topics, sex with strange women, and adventures. See, usually, the two don’t cross paths in my dreams. It’s either sex, or the world is coming to the end. And, usually, since I’m running for my life as the world comes to an end, it’s one of the few times that I’m actually not thinking about sex.
I’m not really sure what it is about blood chilling terror that makes Mr. Winky shrivel up, but hey, it’s the dream world, so we’ve got to go with what we’ve got.
So, anyway, back to the good stuff. We’re on a dark, subterranean river somewhere, on kind of this pleasure barge, when Ms. Cleopatra-look-alike is about to allow me to sample some of her forbidden fruit, as the saying goes. In the background some music starts up, and as I raise her silken robes, I notice what song is playing.
It’s “time” by Pink Floyd, the current mental music plaque of my brain. You know, one of those songs you can’t get enough of, but they keep running around and around and around and around…
I remember very clearly (in the dream) lifting my head up and saying “I love that song…”
And thus ended yet another perfect dream, as I crashed back into reality thinking to myself “who listens to “time” when they’re having sex…?” Well, nobody does, you ninny.
Noticing that I twitched or something as I woke, the dogs jumped up on the bed and loomed over me, insisting to go out. And thus ended the dream, and the tantalizing promises that it held, for the cold reality of the early day. I really need to get my subconscious under control, one of these days…
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