Gustav!

This is a long one, folks. I'll understand if you want to skip it.

Monday, 9/1/08: Labor Day and landfall day

We rise early, let the dogs out, and have breakfast while we watch the news. Gustav should make landfall around noon, so the local channels are airing non-stop coverage of hurricane preparations. I must say I’m impressed with how our new governor is handling things. If he’s being truthful about all the agencies that are standing by to offer assistance, there’ll be no repeat of the Hurricane Katrina debacle.

**********

At 10:30 a.m. our power goes out, comes back on, repeats the same cycle twice more, then goes out for good. We go to the closet to get candles and matches to put in strategic places for later in the day, when we’ll need them, and we pull out the battery-operated radio/flashlight that’s been in my closet for more than ten years. It was a safety prize when I worked for the company founded by Alison’s father, and for the next few days it will be our lifeline to what’s going on in the hurricane-affected area.

**********

The radio says the hurricane has been downgraded to a Category One, which is a good thing, but I’ve never felt stronger winds than those that make my house creak. Gustav spared New Orleans, but the Greater Baton Rouge Area sits in the northeast quadrant of the hurricane’s path, the place where the winds are most forceful. I feel outwardly calm, but the subtle burning in my gut tells me I’m internalizing my anxieties.

The rain pours down steadily, not in sheets like many southern thunderstorms, but in wet strings that resemble beaded curtains, strings that are visible as the wind blows them first in one direction, then in another. I watch Kim as she steps outside into the carport. Even though she’s well under the roof, I see her legs get wet as the wind blows the rain sideways.

We watch the trees across the road and those behind the house as they sway precariously. The big tree beside the driveway is a source of constant concern; if it falls, it will land right on top of us. We see its branches waving like the arms of a giant orchestra conductor, but its trunk remains stable.

Oddly, the storm produces no lightning or thunder, so the dogs don’t seem particularly concerned about it. I’m grateful that we don’t have to deal with their anxiety on top of our own.

**********

Thank God for cell phones. We touch bases with the various branches of our family, feeling blessed to learn that everyone is safe. My daughter Kelli tells me about watching the pecan tree fall in their yard, seeing its roots pull out of the wet earth as it tipped over onto the fence between their house and the neighbor’s.

I speak with my sister several times through the course of the day. She and her family evacuated their Texas Gulf Coast homes yesterday as a mandatory precaution against any last-minute changes in Gustav’s track. She’s relieved that they won’t suffer a repeat of the damage they experienced during Hurricane Rita, but she’s concerned about the Louisiana branch of the family.

**********

We eat supper by candlelight, listening to the radio, and finally make preparations to go to bed. Earlier, Kim inflated her air mattress. There have been tornado warnings on the radio all evening, and if the weather gets rough, we plan to throw the air mattress under the dining table and crawl under there for safety.

The house is hot. Uncomfortably so. Kim calls from her bedroom next to mine and tells me not to come in there and be shocked, that she’s going to strip down to her undies to try to beat the heat. I tell her I’m doing the same thing. After a few minutes of quiet, we talk again, and this time we come up with the idea of getting wet washcloths to place on our heads or our chests to try to feel cooler. We get up and get the washcloths, and go back to our separate rooms, where we agree out loud that “this feels better.” A few more minutes pass and I remember that there are ice packs in the freezer, that even if they’ve thawed, they could still be cold enough to slip into our pillows. Kim volunteers to get up and get the ice packs, and they do feel good. Just before we fall asleep, I get a mental image of the two of us lying in our separate rooms, dressed only in panties and washcloths, and I call out to Kim that if there’s any chance that a tornado will hit the house, this would be the time.

Tuesday, 9/2/08

We made it through the night, and the house is cooler this morning by several degrees. We know it won’t be that way long. The rain has stopped, and the weather forecasters on the local radio station don’t seem to think it’ll be coming back. That means our septic tanks won’t fill up with groundwater and our toilets will continue to work. Also, our water supply wasn’t contaminated, so we’ll have plenty of fresh water. That makes us luckier than many. City water isn’t available at my daughter Kelli’s home; they’re on a well. When the power goes out, so does the well pump. Fortunately, they have a generator, and they can plug the pump into it on an as-needed basis.

**********

At mid-morning, friends of Kim's drive up to check on us. They’ve been out hunting gasoline for their van and for their generator, and we’re happy to see them. They describe the destruction they’ve seen on their way from Baton Rouge to our house, and we feel even luckier than before. They invite us to gather up our dogs and stay at their house, where they’re cooking on a grill and a generator powers a refrigerator, TV set, and a room air conditioner. Kim is tempted, but I don’t want to go. I recognize and appreciate the generosity of their offer, but I want to stay home, and I don’t want to get out on the hazardous roads. If I change my mind later, I promise them, I’ll let them know.

**********

I’m worried that I haven’t been able to get in touch with Kelli today. Our landline phones aren’t working, even the hard-wired ones, and cell phone service is scarce. On the radio, I hear a request for people to forgo casual cell-phone conversations so first responders can get their calls through.

**********

I also hear on the radio that the number of homes and businesses without power across Louisiana has reached more than seven digits. Entergy Corporation, my own power provider, has 1.2 million customers out of service. Estimates range from days to weeks, depending on the location and the severity of the destruction, before service will be returned.

**********

My sister calls to tell me they’ve made it home safely. She says the national news is all about New Orleans and the nationwide sense of relief that there is no major flooding. She hasn’t been able to find any news about the Baton Rouge area. This kind of makes me mad. Don’t the networks think it’s newsworthy that hundreds of thousands of people are without food, shelter, gasoline and electricity when the temperature is soaring near 90 degrees? Isn’t it significant that thousands of businesses are closed, that companies are shut down and hourly workers are losing wages? Doesn’t it matter that courthouses and government agencies are shut down, without computers, without telephones, and that business as usual is a phrase for the past and the future but not for the next few weeks? It matters to us, and I want people to know about it.

Yes, I’m glad that the death toll of Gustav is nothing compared to Katrina, but there’s still plenty of suffering to go around.

**********

Kim ventures out to her friends’ house and comes back with a hot sausage sandwich for me and a deep conviction that we need to buy a generator. I tell her I’ve been listening to the radio about long queues of people lining up at building supply stores in futile searches for generators. Window-unit air conditioners are in short supply, too, and the air conditioning is the main reason I’d want to get a generator. Not only that, I’m hearing that the things drink gasoline. Only a few gas stations are able to pump gas, and people are waiting in line for hours to buy gasoline. Personally, I don’t want the hassle. Kim tells me they’ll go out and find the generator, they’ll find the air conditioner, they’ll find the gas cans and the gasoline; I won't have to do a thing. Maybe in a few days, I say, but not now.

Someone told me around the time of Hurricane Katrina that our neighborhood is on the same power grid as the new high school, the one that’s being used as a shelter, and that, for that reason, we’d be among the first places to get power. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but if it doesn’t get any hotter, I’m willing to wait a few more days

**********

In the afternoon, my cell phone finally rings and it’s my brother. I’m thrilled that the phone is working and particularly delighted to hear from him. My love for him never falters, but we both have lousy communications skills, and we go for long periods of time without talking. We call each other at birthdays and holidays, but if the phone calls go unanswered, as they usually do on those busiest of days, we extend our good wishes through voice mail and call it done.

We have a great conversation, quickly getting past the subject of the hurricane and moving on to the mundane news of our lives. I had almost forgotten how much I love the sound of his laughter, and it warms my heart to hear it again.

As soon as we hang up, the phone rings again, and it’s Kelli this time. I’m relieved that we’re back in touch, even if I was pretty sure she and her family were safe. She feels the same way.

My sister calls (she’s kept in close contact for days) and once again invites all of us to drive to Texas to stay with them until we get our power back. She even invites all of our dogs. I know she means it and I love her for it, and I promise we’ll go there if things get really bad.

**********

Kim has cabin fever. She’s hot, she’s bored, she says she doesn’t know how much of this she can stand. She asks again if I’d consider taking the pooches to her friends’ house where we could at least sleep in comfort. I tell her I don’t want to go, but I think she should go ahead, and she tells me she can’t go without me. She says she’d feel like she’d be abandoning me, and she isn’t willing to do that. I tell her I’m perfectly safe where I am, with plenty of food in the house and a car full of gasoline (not to mention air conditioning) if things become too uncomfortable. I encourage her to go. When she’s with me, we pretty much sit and stare out at the driveway and the road beyond, which is driving her nuts. When I’m by myself, I can read or work Sudoku or logic puzzles to pass the time.

I remind her that in staying with me, she’s already displaced from her home. It isn’t a big step to pick up her bag and go to her friends’ home. For me to do that, I’d be trading the familiarity of home for cooler but unfamiliar surroundings. I also remind her that I’ve lived through this kind of heat before. There were days in my childhood when the temperature reached 100 degrees, and we had no air conditioning. On those days, we stayed inside with the doors and windows closed against the heat and humidity, shutting the drapes on first one side of the house, then another, following the offending sun. We had no television then, either, so reading and listening to the radio were the norm.

With a promise to call her if I need anything at all, I finally convince her it’s all right for her to go. I ask her to leave her pups with me, so they won’t feel stressed out by a strange home with strange dogs, and she reluctantly agrees.

**********

I go to bed early. I’ve discovered that Kim’s battery-operated lantern puts out a light that’s bright enough to read by, and I happen to have a new book I’m excited to begin: The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. It’s about a boy and his dogs, and surrounded as I am by Butch, Kadi, Winston and Lucy, it seems a fitting story for a night like this. Once again, the wet washcloth and the ice pack are part of my bedtime story, and I feel safe and happy as I lie in bed and read.

I also feel proud of myself. I’m proud that I prepared adequately for a time like this and proud that I haven’t let the heat beat me down. At the same time, I’m honest with myself. I realize that if this had happened a month earlier, when temperatures were really high, I’m not so sure I could have survived without air conditioning. I recognize that luck is more accountable for my wellness than any personal fortitude.


Wednesday, 9/3/08

The temperature outside has dropped a couple of degrees, and there’s an occasional breeze. I decide that sitting outside for a while might make the heat indoors seem less oppressive. In the interest of cooling off the dogs, I fill their swimming pool. Kadi is the only taker. She climbs into the four inches of water and lies down while the rest of the dogs go to the door and ask to go back inside.


I’ve seen strange butterflies through the window for the past couple of days, strange in the sense of being unfamiliar to me. They’re quite large, with lavendar wings. While I sit outside by Kadi’s pool, I see one of the butterflies flittering from branch to branch on the tangelo tree. I go inside to get my camera, come back out, aim, focus...and get the message: “Change batteries.” I go back in the house and replace the batteries, determined to try again. I step out the backdoor just in time to see the lovely butterfly go over the back fence.

I sit in a lawn chair next to the gardenia bush, a cold drink in one hand, a book in the other, the camera hanging around my neck. A bumblebee buzzes close to me and settles onto a nearby blossom. At least the camera activity wasn’t a total waste.


Kadi is ready to go back inside. I dry her as thoroughly as possible with a towel, hoping her wet fur will keep her a little cooler once she’s back inside.

**********

The neighbor who lives directly in front of me comes to the front door and brings us a bag of ice. We are thrilled. She tells us the ice is being distributed at the Expo Center. “The line is long,” she says, “but it moves fast." Kim and I drive there immediately and join the long line of vehicles snaking half a mile or more to the distribution site. There are beat-up, old pickup trucks and luxury SUVs in line with us, demonstrating the equalizing nature of a storm like this. As we wait in line, we discuss how fortunate we are that we’ve never had to seek out assistance like this before. To our left, we notice a yellow, single-wide mobile home, so insubstantial in its bearing that it’s a wonder the strong winds didn’t blow it over. We chuckle when we realize its windows have been carefully boarded over. That, my friends, is optimism.

We wait in the line for an hour and a half before we pull up to the area where young men and women in military camouflage are passing out supplies. Each car stops for less than a minute. We pop the trunk open and strong arms place two large bags of ice, two boxes of MREs (meals ready to eat), and one blue tarp inside. We tell them how much we appreciate them, and we’ve never meant it more.

On the radio later we hear about people who waited four and six hours in supply lines. Once again, we realize we were lucky.

**********

Kim has gone back to her friends’ house, and I am having a hot meal: my first ever MRE. Each box we were given contains 24 meals, four each of six different varieties. I decide to try the southwestern chicken with black beans and rice. When I open the package, I’m surprised that in addition to the entree, there are crackers, cheese, fig bars, a shortbread cookie, a pack of raisins, a tube of raspberry drink flavoring, a packet of pepper, a spoon, and a moist towelette. Each item is packaged separately in sturdy, waterproofed material.

I follow the instructions to place the meal pouch in the heating envelope and add the saline solution that starts the chemical heating process. After the prescribed 12 minutes, I carefully remove the hot pouch, knead it thoroughly to distribute the heat evenly, then tear off the top and taste it. It’s seasoned surprisingly well, not bad at all, though the texture is a little gummy. There’s no question this food would stick to your ribs. The only other item I try is the large shortbread cookie, which is as good as any I’ve ever tasted.

I know it’s silly, but I feel almost giddy with happiness to be eating this meal, not because I’m so hungry but because of its origins. I’m proud of the people who eat this food in the line of duty, and I’m honored to share at least this one meal in common with them.

**********

I’m not having a good night. My legs are aching, and it’s almost too hot to breathe, even with the wet washcloth laid on my mid-section. The cloud cover lifted early in the day, and the sun’s heat has lingered to make this the hottest night yet.

The dogs are restless, too. Butch and Lucy seem fine, but I’m worried about Kadi and Winston. Kadi is panting constantly, and Winston wheezes as if he has asthma. Sometime in the pre-dawn hours, I rise to take them outside, and as I do so, I realize I’m dizzy. I must have sat too long by the gardenia bush today and activated the allergies that upset my equilibrium. Minutes after the dogs come back inside, when I’m almost drifting off to sleep again, I hear a loud crash inside the house, followed quickly by another identical one. I grab the flashlight and make my way from room to room until I come to the dining room, where I find two chairs lying on their backs. Butch is in the living room and Kadi is in the den, equidistant from the scene of the crime, both of them watching me. One of them, I’m sure, was seeking shelter under there.

I go back to bed and try again. I’m lying on my right side, and I feel something land on my left upper arm. I quickly fling my right hand up and grab it, hurling it to the floor. I imagine that the size and heft of the thing would be about the same as a cockroach. I reach for the flashlight and shine it all around my bed, but I don’t see anything. There’s a towel on the floor beside the bed. I poke it with my toe, but nothing crawls out.

It’s a long night.


Thursday, 9/4/08

The sun is shining this morning. At first I think it’s the contrast of the sunlight outside and the shadows in the house that reminds me of the house where I grew up in Missouri, but then I realize it isn’t the light as much as the sound. There are no generators running this morning. No air conditioning, no television, little or no traffic. It sounds as quiet as the summers of my childhood. Apparently, the noises that have polluted our environment through the years have come on so gradually that I never noticed them until they stopped. For a brief while I sit alone and enjoy the sense of being back in that time and place.

**********

Kelli, Troy and Michelle come over to visit. They live 20 minutes from my house, not so far in normal times, but quite a distance when all the traffic lights are out.

Troy surveys the house and seems pleased that the damage is insignificant. We’re missing a handful of shingles from the roof, the gutter is hanging a few inches low on one corner, and that’s about all there is. I mention that we lost one fruit-laden branch from the tangelo tree, and both of them, in turn, admit to having hit that branch accidentally while they mowed the lawn. They weren’t too sorry to see it go.

Their visit is brief, but we all feel better for having seen each other in person.

**********

When Kim comes back, she brings me a brown-bag lunch packed for me by her friend. It contains a banana, two buns, lettuce and tomato in a plastic bag, and a sausage link and a hamburger patty, hot off the grill. I think I’m in heaven.

Kim thinks I need to get out of the house, and I don’t particularly want to go anywhere. We discuss our options, and I finally agree to go out for a ride if we can clean out the refrigerator first and take the spoiled contents to the dumpster behind my office.

As we ride, we see more houses with tree damage. Near the middle school, we see what’s left of a school-zone sign. The pole stands almost erect, but the rectangular sign itself is shredded and twisted.

We stop at Kim’s apartment. Her power is still off, but it feels a little cooler there than at my place. We talk about possibly spending the night there, but I don’t want to move. Hot as it is, I want to be home as long as I’m able.

**********

The neighbors in front have bought a generator. As we watch them work together to set it up, we have another discussion about the pros and cons of getting one for my house. I’m still not convinced. I’ve been in Louisiana for 30 years now, and this is the first time I’ve needed a generator. I think I can wait a little longer.

It’s late afternoon before the neighbors get their generator operating. I encourage Kim to leave so she’ll get where she’s going before dark, and I settle on the sofa and turn on the radio. When Kim and I talked about generators earlier, we also talked about fans, including the big, cord-operated fans used long ago in southern plantation houses. Thinking about that conversation led to thoughts of the hand-held, cardboard fans we used in church on hot Sundays when I was a kid. I have an idea. I take the flashlight and go to the laundry area of my kitchen, reach up on a shelf and grab the blue plastic handle that fits into a Swiffer duster. Next, I go in the den and retrieve three letter-sized sheets of card-stock paper, tape them together, insert them into the notch on the Swiffer handle, and tape the long blue prongs onto the card stock until I’m sure the whole thing will hold together. I go back to the sofa and settle down again. Kadi is on the floor at my feet. For the next half hour, I fan the two of us. That subtle movement of the air makes a world of difference. I feel simultaneously pleased at my creativity and stupid for not having thought of it days ago.

**********

Moments later, the lights come on.

For a few seconds, I can’t believe it, and then the euphoria sets in. Kadi and Butch are right there with me, up and active, Butch cocking his head to listen and Kadi prancing around from room to room, all of us caught up in the excitement of the moment. Kadi seems to visibly relax, as if the world had been askew on its axis and was suddenly set right again.

I call both my daughters and then my sister to share the good news. I get a cold Diet Coke from the ice chest, put crackers and canned chicken salad on a paper plate, turn on the television to a local station and, for the first time, see video footage of some of the damage I’ve heard described on the radio.

I want to laugh, and I want to cry. It’s hard to imagine that I’ve always taken something as important as electricity for granted, and I don’t want to forget this, ever.

I post a brief blog entry to tell my online friends the news, then I take a shower, let the dogs out one last time, and crawl into bed. Butch is in his usual spot, as is Kadi. Kadi is breathing normally for the first time in days, and I’m grateful for every easy breath she draws.

I say prayers of gratitude and sink into a long, deep sleep.


Friday, 9/5/08

I’ve slept for 10 straight hours. I do remember letting the dogs out once during that time, but that memory is vague. I’ve slept so long that I feel sluggish.

Because of the air conditioning, I feel cool and clean. I gather up laundry loads of sweaty shorts and T-shirts, and other loads of sheets and towels. It seems almost magical to push buttons on the machines and have them agitate and spin until the laundry is done.

There’s ice in the freezer, perfectly frozen semi-circles that were manufactured all through the night. I’m so proud of them you’d think I gave birth to them myself.

I talk to Kelli early in the day. She doesn’t have electricity yet, but they’re making do.

Kim calls early, too. She’s had a restful night, and a friend is with her now. They’re both eBay sellers, and they’re taking advantage of her reborn electricity to contact their customers. She wants to know if I’ve heard of any area post offices that are open, but I don’t know of any.

My boss calls. He’s gone to a meeting with other officials of the local justice system to develop a plan for the immediate future. If the power comes back on at the office, we’ll go back to work on Monday.

**********

I stay in my bathrobe all day long. I want to write about this experience but can’t seem to wrap my mind around it yet. I read a little bit and watch a little TV. In the pre-storm days, I kept the TV on most of the time for background noise, but today the chatter annoys me. I turn it off and enjoy the silence.

**********

Kim’s going grocery shopping and offers to pick up some things for me. I make a short list that includes hot dogs and meatloaf ingredients. I want comfort foods. I’ll need to completely restock my refrigerator and freezer, but with hurricanes Hanna and Ike still threatening, I’m not ready to do it yet.

**********

As I take towels out of the washing machine, the last load of laundry and the one that includes the towel from the floor beside my bed, half of a large cricket falls from the folds of a towel onto the kitchen floor. I can’t explain why, exactly, but I find a cricket much nicer than a cockroach, especially when I think about it having been on my arm.


Saturday, 9/6/08

Kelli calls early to tell me her power’s back on. She sounds ecstatic. She also tells me about driving to the store and seeing a convoy of utility trucks coming into town. She says it made her cry, the same kind of tears of pride and gratitude that spring to her eyes when she sees a caravan of military vehicles. I know exactly what she means.

**********

Kim comes over to work in her glass studio. She has custom orders to fill and is eager to get back to work.

**********

I pick up all the candles and matches and put them away. The flashlights and batteries go back in their places, and the battery-operated radio goes back in the closet to wait for the next time we need it. Except for the unusual quantity of canned meats and other non-perishable foods in my pantry, things at home are pretty much back to normal. In the isolation of my house, it’s easy to forget that there are thousands and thousands of people nearby whose lives remain upended.

**********

Gustav wasn’t the largest or most powerful hurricane ever to come this way, but those who’ve been around long enough to know are saying it’s the most devastating storm in the history of this area. At least in terms of physical destruction and business interruption.

While we’re speaking in superlatives, I’ll acknowledge that this is the longest blog post I’ve ever written. It would have been even longer if I’d written about the days of preparation for the hurricane, the government’s mostly successful efforts to provide guidance and assistance, and the countless other ways our lives have been affected at least temporarily. There’s been no mail service in the last week, for example, and we don’t know when it will resume. For another example, helicopters fly over multiple times daily, so often that the dogs no longer pay attention to them.

My boss calls again this evening. He’s about the same age I am, so I don’t know if it's an age thing or if the younger generations feel the same way, but we both agree that an event such as Hurricane Gustav enables us to establish our priorities in an instant. The safety of our loved ones is the only thing that matters. As long as everyone’s okay, the rest of this mess can get sorted out, piece by piece, all in its own good time.

Life goes on here. Pray for the people in the paths of Hanna and Ike.

Well, I didn't do it

I didn't manage to post today after all, only partially because of starting my day late after sleeping ten hours last night in a pleasantly cool room. I swear the bed even felt softer than it did the night before.

All I can say is I'm thinking about you, and I'll try again tomorrow.

Yawn! G'night.

The lights are back on!

At 7:10 this evening I took a flashlight into my dimly lit bedroom to search for an ice pack I'd slept with last night to fend off the stifling heat. I wanted to drop it into the ice chest for a couple of hours to get it ready for tonight's hours of tossing and turning. As I shined the light onto the nightstand, a tiny whirring noise sent me spinning around. It was the sound of the video recorder coming to life. I turned the light back to the nightstand, where large green numerals proclaimed the time to be 12:00.

Hallelujah! Thank you God and the mighty fine linemen of Entergy Corporation.

We are SO lucky. All my family members are safe, the only casualties being one pecan tree and one wooden fence, the former having fallen on the latter, in my daughter Kelli's yard. Still, it missed the house.

Kim, my other daughter, got her electricity back at the same time I did. The others are still without power, but they are the fortunate ones who have generators. They don't have air conditioning, but they're limping along with box fans and occasional use of other appliances as needed, and they know they're welcome here.

I haven't seen or heard national news since early Monday, but I've been told that the emphasis has been on the fact that New Orleans narrowly escaped a repeat of Katrina. That was indeed good news. The bad news is that people in 22 parishes (counties) of Louisiana have had severe wind damage, and that the power grid across that entire area has taken a serious hit. To understand how lucky we are, you should know that the utilities companies are estimating power won't be completely up in the metro Baton Rouge area for 3-4 weeks, and in more remote areas of the state, 4-6 weeks.

And it's hot here, people!

The last four days have provided a wonderful opportunity for observation and soul-searching, and I've done a lot of both. I'll try to collect my thoughts and post them tomorrow. (If the lucky streak holds, the office won't get power back before Monday.)

Thanks for your prayers and good thoughts. I seem to be thanking you for those a lot lately, and I deeply appreciate them.

Tonight, we'll sleep between cool sheets, and I'll see you here sometime tomorrow.

Hunkering down with Gustav

I thought of a lot of things to write about that might be interesting for those of you who don't live in hurricane-prone parts of the country, but there isn't enough time left to write it.

We've spent the last several days making preparations to ride this one out. Kim and her dogs are with me and mine at my house, which is about ten miles southeast of Baton Rouge, if you're watching on the weather channel. My other daughter, Kelli, and her husband, Troy, are at their house about 20 minutes away from here. Michelle is there with them, and Brad, a deputy sheriff, will go to their house as soon as he finishes his 16-hour shift. Jez, Kelli and Troy's outside dog, is in the house with their little indoor dog, BeBe. My grandkids, Kalyn and Koby, are at Kalyn and Adam's house, along with Kalyn's dad and stepmom, a couple of friends, their two dogs and several extra ones.

Trying to go to a shelter with all these pets is pretty much out of the question, even if we were inclined to do so.

We're well-stocked with non-perishable food and water, so our biggest concerns are wind damage, water damage, and (the most probable outcome) lack of power. Temperatures have been in the 90s all week, with heat indexes in the 100-plus range.

If the power goes out, I'm not sure how long it will be before I can get back here to let you know we're okay, but I'll post an update as soon as I'm able.

In the meantime, we're off to catch a little sleep before the scary weather sounds arrive to agitate the dogs.

I'll see y'all on the other side of this storm.

As the world turns

For the past three weeks I’ve been battling allergy-induced vertigo. This may be the longest bout of it I've had since the first episode 24 years ago.

Vertigo is funny, but not the least bit fun. It’s funny in the same way it was funny when we were kids to spin around and around and around until we could no longer stand erect or walk a straight line. I’m sure it would be equally hilarious to watch this much older version of me navigate a lurching, zig-zag course from the bed to the bathroom, alternately clinging to walls and bouncing off of them as they spin. If it wasn’t for the nausea, I could probably appreciate the humor.

Fortunately, I’ve been able to keep the worst symptoms under control except for one morning and another afternoon. “Under control” in this case means I can function at a minimal level as long as I hold my head perfectly steady. Certain routine tasks become dangerous. If I forget and bend over while filling the dogs’ water dish, emptying the dishwasher, or picking up the newspaper, my body tries to follow my head, and I have to grab onto something to keep from falling. It’s easier to just plant myself in the bed or the recliner and avoid any sudden moves.

Usually I can avoid the full-fledged vertigo by avoiding known allergens or by taking antihistamines at the first sign of a drippy nose or itchy eyes. But if I don't catch it in time -– for example, if it sneaks up on me while I’m sleeping –- I’m in for trouble. All I can do then is double up on the antihistamines, climb into bed, and keep my head perfectly still until the fluid in my inner ears regulates itself. Reading is impossible, and TV isn’t much better. It’s not only a nauseating condition, it’s boring as well.

Yesterday afternoon as I lay flat in the bed, missing the third annual barbecued-rib cookoff at my granddaughter’s house, it occurred to me to wonder why they call this condition “vertigo.” It seems to me that “horizontigo” would more accurately describe it.

I’m hoping that today’s non-stop rain (pushed here ahead of Tropical Storm Fay) will beat all of August’s airborne pollen into the ground. Then, if it would only rain on my household dust somehow, I might get some relief.

Hope to see you soon with a clearer head.

Anal Sac Saga: The Final Chapter

Two weeks after Butch’s surgery, we went back to the vet to get his stitches out. Two weeks after that, this past Friday, we went for his final recheck. He’s doing great!

It feels good to me to know Butch isn’t in pain, and he undoubtedly appreciates feeling better, too. I’m sure he’d be even happier if I could communicate to him that the dreaded 45-minute car trips have ended for a while. On the other hand, he’s thoroughly enjoyed the social interaction with his friends at the vet’s office, so the miserable car rides might have been worth it.

When Butch’s veterinarian released him, she joked that she hopes she doesn’t have to see his butt again anytime soon. I know just how she feels. I’m grateful for the excellent medical care Butch received, grateful for the support and good wishes of his friends, online and off, and grateful that there’s a happy ending to this long tale tail.

7,000 words?

I don't seem to have much to write about right now. At least not much that I can dash off and post with any sense of satisfaction. The few ideas I have would require lengthier posts than I'm willing to commit to on a work night, and I don't want to give them short shrift. So, I'm going to fall back on the old adage that a picture is worth a thousand words and hope these photos will tide you over for another day or two:

I took this shot of Kadi indoors at night, with only the light of the television and one lamp, and could only make out the barest outline of her profile when I checked it on the camera screen. Even though I bought Photoshop months and months ago, and bought two books to teach me how to use it, I haven't taken the time to explore it the way I should have. Nevertheless, I pulled up this dark photo in Photoshop, clicked on auto-fix, and, boy, was I impressed. Look what I got:


Photoshop also helped me save this shot of Butch sleeping beside my bed. There's a terrific dog bed about eight feet away from this spot, but this 20-year-old bedspread is 10-year-old Butch's security blanket. He's loved it since he was a puppy. I finally got wise and cut the thing in half so I can wash one piece of it while he sleeps on the other. (I fully expect to meet my demise by catching a toe in a fold of this blanket sometime when I make a middle-of-the-night trek to the bathroom.)


The neighborhood peacock, having lost my favor when he spurred me after I turned my back on him to carry in a couple of bags of groceries, evidently doesn't understand that there's a problem in our relationship. He still greets me many afternoons when I get home from work, often hopping out of the bed of the neighbor's parked pickup truck and approaching before I even have my car door open all the way. On the day I took the following photo, I walked around him (cautiously), pretended to ignore him, and came on into the house. As you can see (through the hundreds of dog-nose prints on the glass door), he didn't give up:


His persistence paid off. My daughter Kim was here, and it's been more than a year since he flogged her.


My next-door neighbor is a nurse, a lovely person, and an avid gardener. I've always loved to look over the fence at the green things growing in her yard, even if I don't always know what I'm seeing. Yesterday evening I realized she has a large tree I've never paid particular attention to, and it's loaded with pears. I don't even like pears, but there's something about a tree full of 'em that fills me with a sense of the earth's abundance.

In the same neighbor's yard is another tall tree with branches that hang over my driveway. As I left the house to go back to work after lunch today, I heard a rustling noise and glanced up at that tree just in time to see a big tail disappear among the leaves. When I discovered the source of the noise, even though I knew I'd be late for work, I came back inside to get my camera. Here's "hoo" I found:


I've since learned that this is a Barred Owl. It appeared to be disinterested in me and my camera, but I suspect this one visible eye was paying close attention:


I've heard owls near my house on several occasions, but this is the first time I've seen one. It made my day.

Time: slipping through my fingers

If you’ve noticed the meager postings on this blog lately, let me apologize and assure you that my negligence isn’t because I don’t care. It’s because of my pathetic time management skills and too many other things going on:

Television
I’m compelled to watch the political news shows that come on right after I get home from work, and then there are the reality TV shows I can’t seem to pass up. I’m caught up in "America’s Got Talent," "America’s Greatest Dog," "Big Brother," and "High School Musical: Get in the Picture." "So You Think You Can Dance" and "Last Comic Standing" just ended, fortunately, which will give me two or three extra hours a week.

Reading
I’m at least ten books behind on the Velvet’s Bookstacks blog. The stack of books to be reviewed is sitting right in front of me, and I’m discouraged to realize that there are a couple of them I’ve already forgotten. If they were that forgettable in the first place, it won’t be any fun at all to skim through them again to jar my memory.

Trips to the vet
There were two of them in the last eight days, both in the middle of thunderstorms and at the height of Baton Rouge rush-hour traffic. Butch needed to get his stitches removed, and Kadi needed to have her thyroid levels checked. I’ll have to take Butch back once more for a recheck, but he seems to be doing well. Kadi has gone from hypothyroidism to hyperthyroidism, so we’ve cut back on her medication, and she now needs more extensive testing to rule out Cushings disease. I’ve spent a lot of time online comparing the symptoms of both hyperthyroidism and Cushings. I’m thinking we need to get the thyroid condition under control before we do the Cushings tests so one condition won’t throw off the test results for the other. I’ll have to talk to the vet and see what she thinks about that.

Vertigo
Last weekend, when a sudden spurt of energy sneaked up and surprised me, I started cleaning out boxes and books that had long been neglected under my desk. Evidently I disturbed the dust enough to get a big snootful of it, which led to spinning rooms and drunken lurching. I spent Sunday through Wednesday of this week practically mainlining Benadryl to keep the allergy-related vertigo under control so I could work, albeit with a foggy brain.

Peacock
That damn bird freaked out the other day and punctured my backside with one of the sharp spurs on his legs. I realize this incident didn't eat up any of my time, but I thought I'd add it anyway, before I forget to tell you about it. He's still beautiful, but I'm mad at him now.

As for tonight, it feels good to be home for the weekend. The opening ceremony of the 2008 Olympics will start in less than an hour, and even though I’m not much of a sports fan, I always find the Olympics inspirational. During the commercials, I’ll switch channels to watch the talking heads speculate about John Edwards’ revelations today.

It’s always something.

Note: I see lots of opportunities for links in the above post, but if I take the time to create them, I won’t get this posted tonight. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow and do it right.

Happy birthday, Wanda June

Summer of 1957

When you found love and hope again on a Texas beach.

We miss you, Mother.

Multi-"tsking"

At work yesterday I was trying to carry on a conversation at the same time I was working with numbers, and I mentioned that I needed to pay closer attention so I wouldn't mess up someone's paycheck. My boss joked, "I thought you were supposed to be so good at multitasking." So I told him this story:

At work one day in the mid-1970s, when we lived in New York, some of the women in the office were chatting about what they'd cooked for the previous night's dinner. That reminded me that my older daughter, who was 12 at the time, had cooked dinner for our family the night before. It was the first time she'd ever done it. I couldn't wait to tell my co-workers about it, but, being reasonably polite, I waited so I wouldn't interrupt them.

While I waited for a lull in the conversation, I listened intently, but I kept on working. I worked in the marketing department, and my simple task at that moment was to make files for contracts with some billboard companies with whom we planned to advertise.

Finally, I had my chance to speak. "Kim cooked dinner for the first time last night," I said proudly, "and she did a really good job. It was delicious." I told them about the menu she'd chosen and how she had prepared each dish, and they all smiled and made nice comments. I basked briefly in their nods of approval, then went on about my business.

That happened in the morning. In the afternoon, I began to look for a file I'd made for Suffolk Outdoor Advertising Company. It wasn't there. Three times I flipped through the stack of files, knowing I'd made that one and certain it couldn't have disappeared. The files had never left my desk.

The fourth time I went through the stack of files, I went one-by-one. Instead of scanning for that one file name, I carefully read the label on each folder, setting each one aside after I read it, beginning a new stack of files I'd checked thoroughly.

I never did find one labeled "Suffolk Outdoor Advertising Company." I did, however, find a file containing their contract. It was right there the whole time, and I'd been skipping over it. Its label, which I had neatly typed and centered while I waited to talk about dinner, read "Chicken Breasts."

Tsk-tsk!

Pride? Yes, mostly. I guess.

Carmon, of Life at Star’s Rest, has tagged me for a meme, one she suggested in a comment on this blog would be “pretty easy.” I’m supposed to list six things I’m proud of.

On the surface that sounds easy: children, grandchildren, country, uh....uh...

That’s as far as I got before I realized this would be the most difficult meme I’ve ever attempted. It was Friday when I read that I’d been tagged, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since, trying to evaluate every possible answer for its truthfulness. What I discovered, to my dismay, is that listing things I’m not proud of would be an easier task. That would be a longer list, too.

Nevertheless, after much soul-searching, here is my list of six things I’m proud of (sort of):

1. I’m proud that I have an innate sense of fairness that allows me to see and understand both sides of an issue. This has been an asset in my career, when I’ve been able to help one person understand another’s point of view, and in my personal life, when I’ve been able to step back from my own opinion long enough to learn from someone else’s.

Sometimes the fairness thing annoys people. When someone makes a sweeping generalization and waits for me to respond affirmatively, I rarely do, because my mind immediately begins screaming, “Wait a minute, that’s not always true; what about this or that?” Sometimes I can keep those arguments to myself and sometimes I can’t.

Fairness is not at the top of the list of things I’m proud of, but I listed it first because it’s the thing that made this list so hard to complete. As soon as I’d think of something to be proud of, I’d think, well, that’s one way to look at it, but the flip side of it is...

You get the picture.

2. I mentioned my children and grandchildren above. Because they, and probably you by now, already know how proud I am of them, I’ll lump them together with the rest of my family for the purposes of this exercise. Family includes in-laws, too, not just the folks whose genes I share.

I’m immensely proud to be part of this large group of people. They’re bright, funny, loving and giving. They know when to have a good time and when to get serious, and they make me feel wonderful in their company. I love these people deeply.

As individuals, we’re not without our problems. My father joked once that there’d be enough anti-depressants at our family reunion to stock a pharmacy, and he may not have missed the mark by much. For the most part, we’re normal, stable, compassionate, good citizens, but we’ve all had at least brief moments of heartbreak or melancholy that knocked us for a loop

As a family, we are perfect in our imperfections. Although we’ve traveled some bumpy roads, we’ve helped each other smooth out the bumps, and there’s been plenty of love, joy and laughter along the way.

3. I’m proud to be an American, even if I haven’t always been proud of the actions and decisions of our government. The thing is, though, I expect the French are proud of France and the Brits are proud of Great Britain, and I believe they have a right to be.

When I think about America, what I feel more than pride is great good fortune. How lucky am I to have been born in a land of such abundance and opportunity? By an accident of birth, I hit the geographic lottery.

Once again, in the interest of fairness, I realize that there are pockets of poverty and misfortune right here in the good ol’ US of A. I guess I’m most proud of America when I see our citizens working together to take care of the least among us.

4. I’m proud to be a good listener, I’m proud that I can keep a confidence, and I’m proud that I mind my own business. Most of the time. I’ve bundled these three qualities together because they often become important at the same time, in the same situation.

I can listen empathetically for long stretches of time without feeling the need to interrupt and turn the conversation back to what I’d prefer to talk about. I’m proud of this because there have been times in my life when being able to talk to a good listener has lifted my own spirits, and it makes me feel good to do that for others. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that my personal store of empathy and compassion is finite. If I hear someone complain about the same things over and over and over again, I not only cease listening, I may even begin to hide from that person. I’m not proud of that, but it helps me maintain my sanity.

When, while listening, I’m asked to keep a confidence, I do exactly that. Almost always and almost always forever. The exception to that rule occurs rarely, only if someone drops a bombshell that explodes into my own life. In that case I reserve the right to seek out my own good listener, one who can also keep a confidence, to help me think things through.

I mind my own business, and usually I’m proud of that. If you tell me A, B and C, I’ll assume that's all you want to say and that if you want me to know X, Y and Z, you’ll tell me in your own good time. Till then, I won’t pry. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that a lot of people aren’t straightforward about asking for help when they need it, and I, in the course of minding my own business, have missed some vital hints. Sometimes everyone would have been better off if I had asked a couple of probing questions.

5. I’m proud that I’ve had some long-term jobs, one for seventeen years and the current one (in one variation or another) for nearly ten. It pleases me to know that I stayed the course through various assignments and various supervisors, remaining flexible enough to handle changes and performing consistently to meet the expectations of those who depended on me.

There was one period of time when I defined myself almost entirely on the basis of what I accomplished at work. It is with great pride that I can tell you how good it feels to have gotten over that nonsense.

6. The last item on this list is one that almost didn’t occur to me, but I’m glad I remembered in time to include it. A few months short of twenty years ago, I began researching my family’s history. I’m proud of this ongoing body of work and of the patience and persistence that have kept me following first one thread, then another, through a vast maze of documents.

This has been a labor of love. It may appear to others to be nothing but thousands of names and dates sprinkled with an occasional relevant fact or legend, but I saw in each name an individual human being whose own life gave meaning to my own. Genealogy awakened in me an interest in history and geography, two subjects I found boring in school. Typing each new name into my database, I’ve imagined what life was like for that person in that particular place and time. In thinking about them, I’ve become fond of all of them.

Most of my family members are too busy living in the moment to spend time wondering about people they’ve never known, and that's as it should be. But I'm ready. If the genealogy bug ever bites one of them the way it sneaked up and bit me, I’ll proudly help scratch the itch.

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I've probably overthought this challenge way too much, but that's my six.

I'll tag Alison, for whom I could list six things to be proud of in about a minute; Betty, who has a knack for wrapping up life's experiences in articulate tidy bundles; and Yajeev, who's always on the lookout for blog ideas and whose list will probably be as funny as it is inspirational.

The Bucket List

The title of this post was inspired by the 2007 movie of the same name. When the movie came out, a lot of people posted their "bucket lists" (things to do before they kick the bucket), and I gave some thought to what would be on my list. So what did I come up with? Absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip.

There are plenty of things I haven't done that I'd enjoy doing, but I can't think of a single thing I need to experience in order to feel that my life is complete. On the one hand, that realization fills me with a sense of contentment. On the other hand, it makes me think I must have a pitiful imagination.

At any rate, this post isn't even about that kind of bucket list. This is nothing more than three separate, unrelated entries that I've bundled together because of their references to buckets.

P is for bucket
My little brother recently turned fifty, but I have a clear memory of an incident that happened when he was only three years old. He was playing with his chalkboard, studying the brightly painted items that decorated its frame. The name of each item was printed in large letters below its picture, and my brother knew his alphabet by then. I remember the look of concentration on his face as he pointed his tiny forefinger at each letter, said the letter aloud, and then said the name of the item.

Forty-seven years later I can remember only one of the items pictured on the chalkboard, and that one only because my brother's reading of it charms me to this day:

"P-A-I-L...bucket."

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Pails, in comparison
In the mid-1990s I attended a work-related seminar that energized me. Driving back to the office with a co-worker, I spoke excitedly about all the ideas the seminar had generated and how they could be implemented in our workplace. To my surprise, she disagreed. She said she'd found the seminar boring and most of the ideas "too much trouble" to try.

At that particular time the company's management was focused on helping the employees be the best they could be so they could deliver the best possible service to the customers. Since I believed the seminar had provided some ideas that would help to further management's goals, I expressed my frustrations in confidence to our psychological consultant.

"How can two people sit in the same room, hear exactly the same things, participate in the same exercises, and perceive the experience entirely differently?" I asked. "I just don't understand it."

"It's really very simple," the consultant replied. "Let's say the two of you go to the river to get water. You take a five-gallon bucket, and she takes a three-gallon bucket. If you expect that both of you will come back with the same amount of water, you've set yourself up for disappointment."

Ever since then, when I'm feeling frustrated, I stop, take a deep breath, and mentally measure the size of the other person's bucket. I hope this little tip will be as helpful to you as it's been to me.

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Buckethead


That's my most recent term of endearment for Butch, though I certainly mean him no disrespect.

After a weekend of pain and misery, he's now doing great! Monday at lunchtime was the first time he looked perky since his surgery last Friday, and he's been full of doggy energy ever since.

He's still on antibiotics and pain meds, and he still requires some special care. The grapefruit-sized, shaved area on his rump has to be wiped gently to keep his stitches from getting infected, but both of us seem to be tolerating that procedure fairly well. His plumbing works correctly most of the time. Twice I've found pairs of lima-bean-sized "droppings" that seem to have escaped his body when he wasn't paying attention. He didn't acknowledge ownership of them, so I'm hoping those were anomalies and not signs of the future.

I must say that the two days of constant belly rubs may have spoiled him a little bit. He no longer whines in pain, but he's now incorporating the whine into his bag of tricks for getting me to give him what he wants. He stands at my knee with a wagging tail and an expression of expectation on his face and waits for me to guess what he wants. If I say the right word, he barks excitedly. If I don't say the right word soon enough to suit him, he begins to whine.

The "bucket" on his head seems to interfere with his hearing and/or the sensitivity of his nose, two senses he relies on because of his blindness. As a result, he crashes into things more often than usual, and sleep is reserved for chunks of time in between the screeching sounds of plastic scraping against furniture.

I'm guessing that his temporary hearing and smelling disabilities are also responsible for his sudden inclination to walk so closely behind me that the top and bottom edges of his "bucket" hit me repeatedly in the thighs and calves. We'll both be glad to get rid of that thing when his stitches come out next week.

If you've read this far, then you already know that Butch isn't the only one around here who whines occasionally. Now that I've noticed I'm doing that, it's time to adjust my attitude and switch my focus to how much I love Butch and Kadi and how grateful I am that Butch is recovering so well.

And, since Butch has now finished his nap and has head-banged his way over to the computer to let me know he's up and around, I'll stop writing for now and get us all a treat. Who knows? Maybe I'll even let him beat the living daylights out of the backs of my legs for a while, just to show him how much I care.

Butch is home

I think it was a good thing for all of us that Butch spent last night at the animal hospital. This time he looked really good when we picked him up, and there was none of the disorientation that worried me so much the last two times. Allowing time for the anesthesia to wear off made a world of difference.

Kim went with me to pick him up this morning, so her dogs, Lucy and Winston, were here with Kadi to greet Butch when we brought him home. It was really touching to see how solicitous they were of him, checking him out from head to tail, sniffing him all over and licking him gently on the face.

We let all the dogs outside soon after we got home, and they scattered in different directions to find the perfect places to do their business. When Butch started to come back in, his bearings were a few degrees off. He was headed straight for the fence, about two feet to his right from the patio he was aiming for, and he was trotting at a pretty good clip. My calls for him to stop didn't slow him down a bit, but Kadi heard me call. She saw what was happening and ran to intercept Butch, putting her body between him and the fence, nudging his nose with hers, and stopping him just in the nick of time. That was pretty cool to see.

On most days Kadi's interest in Butch appears to be limited to making sure she gets on the sofa before he does, keeping an eye on the treats to be sure hers is no smaller than his, and monitoring other issues that smack of sibling rivalry. Today, though, she's kept an eye on him. When she hears him whimper (and he's been doing a lot of whimpering today), she stands over him and touches him with her nose, gently checking out first his head, then his paws, trying to determine what's hurting him. Then she looks at me, her expression clearly saying, "Do something."

And so I do something. The only thing I've discovered that stops Butch's whimpering is rubbing his belly. He's spent the better part of the day lying at my feet, mostly on his back, and I've spent those same hours watching Hallmark movies on TV while scissoring my feet back and forth from his chin all the way to his inner thighs.

My proudest moment today was when Butch went to the back door and asked to be let out, then walked to the back of the yard, circled around, and pooped. It was a scrawny little poop (he hasn't eaten much since yesterday), but poop it was, and he controlled when and where it happened. I have since scratched "incontinence" off my list of concerns.

Butch isn't due for more pain medication for a couple of hours yet, but he stopped whimpering about half an hour ago, and I'm hoping his pain is finally easing up. Right now he's sleeping soundly, and all I can think as I watch him is how much I'd like to be flexible enough to bend all the way to floor level and give him a great big smooch on those black patent-leather lips.

All is well, knock on wood

Butch's vet called about an hour ago to tell me he came through the surgery with no problems and was up and walking around. Despite a substantial amount of scar tissue, they were able to remove both anal glands, which, they hope, were the source of his ongoing infection. Only time will tell for sure.

I am so relieved.

We had expected to pick him up this evening, but the vet requested to keep him overnight because it's so late in the day, because he may have a lot of pain, and because he'll most likely have some unpleasant drainage from his behind. The pain thing convinced me. We'll go get him early tomorrow.

I appreciate so much your good thoughts and prayers, dear readers. I know by what you write that you understand the power of the bond that exists between us humans and our animal companions, and that understanding translates into a soft cushion of emotional support.

I'll update tomorrow after Butch comes home.

Tonight, instead of nursing Butch, I'll spend some quality time with Kadi, one on one, no sharing necessary. She's made it clear many times lately that it isn't fair for me to take Butch with me and leave her home alone, so this is an unexpected opportunity to make it up to her. No doubt we'll both be thinking about our "boy," but part of the time we're thinking about him, we'll be riding in the car.

Crossing fingers, saying prayers

Last week, six weeks to the day from Butch's biopsy, we went back to the vet for a recheck. Despite the fact that he's been taking antiobiotics morning and evening for the entire six weeks, his anal glands are still infected. That news didn't really surprise me since he's been on antibiotics of one kind or another for the better part of the last nine months.

Tomorrow he goes back to the vet for another attempt at surgically removing the offensive glands. This time they'll also remove some of the damaged tissue nearby, hopefully leaving enough healthy muscle to keep Butch from becoming incontinent. That's one big concern.

The other one is the anesthesia. It helps to know they'll be using the same combination of drugs that were used successfully for his recent biopsy and not the ones that caused him to stop breathing last January, the first time this surgery was attempted. I'm focusing on positive thoughts (and trying to ignore that nagging little undercurrent of nervousness).

Tonight, we'll have a pre-fast celebration of gourmet dog food and belly rubs, and we'll give you a progress report late tomorrow.

Talking points

Even though I know on some level how long it’s been since I last posted, I cannot believe it. Remember those old movies in which the passage of time was indicated by calendar pages flipping rapidly across the screen? That’s how my life has felt lately.

I’m blaming the distortion of time mostly on the heat. It’s been so hot and so humid that I’ve come close to melting on my way home from work each day. My best writing time used to be the hours between my arrival at home and the beginning of prime time TV, but lately I’ve been coming in and collapsing on the sofa to let the A/C blow on me, and that’s turned into an ill-timed nap every blessed day.

Since the heat has apparently melted some of the circuitry in my brain, rendering me incapable of composing more than a couple of coherent paragraphs, I'll just toss a few questions into the blogosphere. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.

Question: Should Barack Obama apologize to the nation for the fact that he was never a prisoner of war and, therefore, never had to refuse to divulge information to the enemy? I’ve never been a prisoner of war either, but I never realized that was a character flaw until I listened to Sean Hannity last week.

Question: Do you know that if you’re riding a bicycle in the street, you’re supposed to ride in the same direction as the traffic? Twice -- not once, but twice -- in the past week, I’ve nearly run over people who were riding bicycles. In both instances I was turning onto divided highways where traffic is supposed to flow in only one direction. The first time, I made a right turn, having watched to my left for a couple of minutes for a break in the traffic, then turning quickly onto the supposedly empty interstate entrance lane. The second time I turned left after waiting for the left-turn arrow. In both cases, as soon as I turned into the lane where I was supposed to be, I found a bicycle headed straight toward me. Both of them were way too close for comfort. I’m hoping that it scared the bike riders as much as it scared me, so maybe they won’t do something that stupid again.

Question: If you had a neighbor who insisted on standing right at the fence on the property line and taunting you day after day, would you feel like giving that neighbor a piece of your mind? I'm pretty sure that's how the dog next door feels when the peacock visits.


Question: When you look at the following photo, do you see three stacked laundry baskets, the top one of which appears to contain folded clean laundry?


That’s what I see, too. Kadi, however, thinks she sees a new dog bed.


Question: Did you believe me all those times I've written that Butch is a fairly large dog?

Americana

Observations at a small, southern supermarket on Thursday, July 3rd:

The first parking space in front of the store is available (thank you, Mama-Too), but I’ll need to make a tight U-turn to get into it. To make parking just a little more difficult, someone has left a grocery cart near the front of the space. It’ll take skill and precision to avoid hitting it with my left front bumper, but I decide to go for it. As I begin to pull into the space, a woman who is walking across the parking lot to her car takes a couple of steps to the side and rolls the cart out of my way. I smile and wave to her in appreciation, and she smiles back. The woman is about my age, and she’s overweight like I am. Judging from the way she walks, I’m pretty sure her feet hurt. She's black, and I'm white, but we are sisters under the skin. As she gets behind the wheel of her car and I climb out of mine, we simultaneously give each other one more little wave of acknowledgment.

At the meat counter, an older man, slightly disheveled and walking as if he’s in a hurry, interrupts the chubby young stock clerk. “Can you tell me where to find trash bags?” the older man asks. The young clerk pushes aside his cart of frozen chickens and walks the customer all the way to the aisle he seeks. The clerk stays to help the man find what he wants. The customer thanks the clerk, then tucks the box of trash bags under his arm, turns and speed-walks toward the check-out stands. He’s still pressed for time, but he’s smiling now.

In the frozen foods aisle, a father and his adolescent son fill up the aisle as they survey the selection of microwavable dinners. The son is a smaller version of the father, built exactly like him, and both of them are dressed in shorts, t-shirts and deck shoes. As I approach them, the son pulls back, moving their cart with him to make room for me to pass. They both smile and say hello, and I think about how much I like young people with good manners.

At the dairy counter, a young Asian woman accidentally bumps me with her cart. A shocked expression flits across her face, then she puts her fingers over her mouth and breaks into an embarrassed giggle as she tells me she is so sorry. Her giggle makes me smile, too, and we both go about our shopping, no harm done.

At the check-out counter, the clerk is a twenty-something African-American woman. She has blond streaks in her straightened black hair and a keloid scar in the lobe of her right ear. The manager, a balding, middle-aged white man, steps over and begins to bag my groceries. “Do you smell it?” he asks the clerk, and she rolls her eyes and nods her head. “I’m gonna get high if I smell much more of it,” she says with a broad smile. I inhale deeply, then I can smell it, too, although it takes a few moments for me to realize what I’m smelling is marijuana. We laugh and make whispered jokes about special sales on brownie mixes.

Two young Mexican men stand at the end of the next counter over. Both of them are holding plastic bags containing their purchases, and they’re carrying on an animated conversation with a young white guy who’s in the process of checking out. The Mexicans have apparently had time to clean up after work, but the white guy is still in his khaki work clothes and heavy boots. His hair is long, past his shoulders, tangled with sweat and very curly. He’s buying a single large bottle of beer. I eavesdrop on the three men as their talk turns from construction work to their plans for the holiday week end. Their energy level is high, and they all seem very happy.

This store has two front doors, one on either side of the building, and in the space between them there are dozens of cases of beer, several different brands, stacked into a tower that’s about six feet high and ten feet wide. As I maneuver my grocery cart past the colorful beer display and out the door, I become aware that the store is still playing Jesus music on the P.A. system. I also become aware that the music no longer annoys me, that even if they are trying to sell salvation along with soap (and beer), it’s no big deal.

There is diversity in this little marketplace. There are people here of different ages, different races, different cultures, and different lifestyles, and the interactions between us have been not just tolerant but downright friendly. Here, today, we’re more alike than we are different.

It’s the 4th of July weekend, and, at least in this microcosm, united we stand.

Whodunnit?

I sit in the living room, reading a book. Four dogs sleep nearby. Butch, Kadi and Winston lie at various spots on the floor, and Lucy snuggles next to me on the sofa. The peacefulness surrounds us like a warm, soft hug.

After nearly an hour of undisturbed quiet, I lay my book on the end table and rise to go into another room. Around a corner and two steps away from the living room, I spot a puddle in the hall. “Oh my gosh!” I say loudly. “Who pee-peed on the floor?”

I take two steps backward and lean back far enough to look into the living room. Butch, Kadi and Winston are exactly where they were before. Except for the fact that all three of them have turned their heads to look at me, they haven’t changed position.

Lucy, however, has moved. She's on the sofa, but it's the other sofa. The one across the room from where I’d left her seconds ago. She lies in the center of the sofa, perpendicular to the back of it. She’s on her belly, with her head scrunched down and her chin resting on her paws. Her eyes are as big as I’ve ever seen them, and they're intensely focused on my face. She wags her tail tentatively, side to side, in slow motion, as if she imagines there's a white flag tied to it.

I opt for paper towels instead of a crime scene kit, so I can’t prove Lucy did it. Let's just say she's a canine of interest.

Hitting a new low

I’ve heard all the jokes about old people who are cranky all the time, and ever since I officially became an old person, I’ve wanted to dispel that rumor. I’ve always imagined myself growing old gracefully the way my grandmother did, with a perpetual smile on my face and a kind word for everybody. Lately, I’m really struggling with that.

Over the past two or three years, since the post-Katrina population explosion created one endless traffic jam on Baton Rouge area roads, I’ve developed an unpleasant habit. I find that in the semi-soundproof sanctuary of my automobile, where I’m sure no one can hear me, I have begun to state out loud my opinion of other drivers and to address them by names that seem appropriate only in the heat of the moment.”

Sometimes I do it in the form of a statement: “That’s really smart, (expletive deleted).”

Or it may be in the form of a question: “What the hell kind of signal was that, (expletive deleted)?”

To be clear, the drivers who tick me off are doing stupid things, creating traffic hazards, and possibly putting my life in danger, so they totally deserve to have it called to their attention. Still, I’m too cowardly wise to confront an idiot like that directly, so it isn't as if anyone's behavior is being changed by my words. All the anger does is make me feel bad. I know it would be healthier for me to blow it off, let it go, and I’m really working on that.

But last week? Last week I was driving on a little residential side street. There was no traffic at all. Half a block ahead of me, I spotted a squirrel in the grass near the curb on my left. I could tell by looking at him that he was thinking about crossing the road, so I slowed down and watched carefully. Just before I pulled up even with the squirrel, he darted into my path. I braked hard, and I promise you my first thought was, “Ohhhh, be careful little squirrel!”

I didn’t hit the squirrel. But the squirrel didn’t cross the road, either. He stopped directly in front of my right front tire and looked from one side of the street to the other, back and forth, back and forth. “Hmm, what should I do?” he seemed to be thinking. “Should I go back to where I started? Or would it make more sense to go the rest of the way to the other side of the street? Let me think...I’m just. Not. Sure. What I want to do. This lady doesn’t seem inclined to run over me, so I have some time to make up my mind. Hum-de-dum-de-dum, eeny, meeny, miney, mo.” And then he turned around and crossed in front of me again, right back to where he’d started.

That’s when I called a squirrel an a$$hole, right out loud.

I'm worried that I may have crossed some kind of a line.

Blah-blah, whine, whatever

I learned a long time ago that in order to maintain my sanity, I need to build a certain amount of down time into every day and a big chunk of it (usually Sunday) into every week. It isn’t that my life is particularly stressful; compared to lots of folks, it’s fairly sedate. The problem is that I’ve grown used to sedate. That’s the way I like it.

And the last two weeks have been hectic:

***** I’ve driven into Baton Rouge twice to take Butch to the vet. (Two phone calls were necessary to arrange that).

***** I’ve had two doctors’ appointments for myself: one with the GP to get prescriptions renewed and one with the dermatologist to confirm that all the spots that have materialized on my skin over the past few years are benign and common. (These appointments also required two phone calls, one of which was wasted because they had no record of the appointment when I showed up. Fortunately, they were able to fit me in.)

***** The cable TV guy had to come out twice, once when I was home and once when I wasn’t, to replace the DVR that was installed about five months ago and fix the on-screen caller ID that has never worked. (These repairs took three telephone calls, and I found out the day after they fixed the caller ID that my voice mail stopped working. Haven’t dealt with that one yet.)

***** There were multiple after-work trips to Kmart, the gas station and, because rain practically every afternoon prevented supermarket shopping, an assortment of fast-food restaurants. All in all, I’ve had something to do almost every evening.

Needless to say, all that stuff -- plus a full-time job, of course -- cut dramatically into my blogging time. I did my best to keep up with reading my favorite blogs, but I got way behind on posting and commenting.

The brightest spot of this whole two-week period was Friday afternoon, when my two daughters and I had lunch together, then went to see Sex and the City. We had a great time. I guess I could consider that afternoon as “down time,” but I felt so “up” about it, it would seem like a misnomer.

Yesterday and today, surrounded by chores that needed doing, I’ve taken it easy. It’s Sunday evening already, and I’m still in my bathrobe. I turned on the dishwasher earlier, and I'll possibly wash a couple of loads of laundry before bedtime. First, though, I think I’ll get dressed. It's time to go get take-out food again, and I can multi-task by picking up the Sunday morning newspaper that's still sitting at the curb.

I’ll try to spend some quality time here next week.

Politico Butch (alternate title: Lie low, unstitch)

Butch has never been particularly enthusiastic about riding in the car, and he's resisted it even more than usual on our many recent trips to the veterinarian. (I guess enough anal probes could have that effect on an otherwise affable pooch.) Yesterday, when I had to take him back to the vet to get his stitches removed, I was expecting quite a struggle.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

When Butch heard me get the leash out of the cabinet, he walked to the front door and waited. Outside, he didn't pull away from the car. He stood quietly until I opened the door, then climbed right up inside it, crossed the back seat and assumed his usual riding position: standing up with his head between the door post and the back of the front seat.

He seemed to be in such a good mood. He didn't pant, didn't tremble, didn't whine. Thirty-five minutes later, when we arrived at the vet's office, Butch didn't wait for me to open the back car door. Instead, he climbed forward between the front seats, over the console and the emergency brake, and followed me out the front door. I barely had time to grab his leash first.

Once out of the car, he didn't fool around. He walked carefully to the curb, took a step up, and led me toward the front door, barely stopping to sniff all the wonderful doggy smells on the sidewalk. He waited patiently while I opened the outer door, then the inner door. Inside, he couldn't have been happier.

It was five o'clock, and the lobby was crowded. Butch worked the crowd. If he'd been human, I would have thought he was politicking, so eager he was to meet all the people and make new friends. He stretched the leash as far as it would go in the direction of each voice he heard, his tail wagging furiously.

After we checked in, we moved over to a seating area to wait. Butch knew the lay of the land. He quickly zeroed in on the table where the treat jar stands and made it his business to buddy up to the lady seated next to it. It didn't take more than 15 seconds for him to score a couple of treats. That lady indulged him for a while, and as soon as she left, another woman who'd been seated nearby got up and moved into the vacated seat. She picked up where the first lady left off, petting Butch and offering him (low-cal) treats. He bestowed many kisses on both of them.

When the vet tech came to take us to the back, Butch followed through the lobby and down the hall as if he could see everything clearly -- didn't miss a step. Inside the exam room, he stood beside me for just a moment, then lay down comfortably on the floor to wait. He showed no signs of stress whatsoever.

The vet came in, and Butch rose to greet her, exchanging his kisses and tail wags for her skritches and still more treats. While this was going on, she and I talked about his progress, and then it was time for him to step up onto the stainless steel table, the one that rises up to waist height at the touch of a button.

Huh-uh. Not gonna do it. The instant Butch's foot touched the table, he pulled it back and dropped into a sitting position on the floor. The vet tech attempted to put her arms under his belly to lift him, so he countered with his favorite anti-bath move: he fell over onto his back and went completely limp, legs sticking out in every direction.

There's no picking him up when he does that.

I give the vet credit for being a good sport. She abandoned the table idea, thrust a handful of treats into my palm, and assigned me the job of holding Butch's head and distracting him with the treats. The vet tech knelt beside him to keep his body still. And the vet, bless her heart, got down on the floor on her knees and elbows, held Butch's tail out of her way somehow, and carefully clipped and plucked the stitches out of his butt.

I chatted with the vet a bit more, after which Butch held his head high as we made one last pass among his "constituents" and left the building. There's no doubt in my mind that if he had understood the concept of applause, he would have expected it.

Timothy John Russert, Jr. - 1950-2008

Move over, St. Peter, there’s a new guy in town.

You’ve been in charge of the Pearly Gates as long as I can remember and then some, if I’m to believe what I’m told, and I’ve never heard any complaints about the job you’re doing. Today, though, I’m thinking you must have been in dire need of some help.

Most of us here on Earth have watched the news enough to be aware of the population explosion on our planet. I guess more people living means more people dying, and that must translate into longer lines of souls waiting for you to decide if you’ll let them into Heaven.

I’m not exactly sure what the criteria for entry are these days. I’m guessing the basics are still used as guidelines, like obeying the 10 Commandments and the Golden Rule, but I suspect the Powers That Be have eased up on some of the old rules and set the bar higher on others. Possibly, if enough lawyers have made it into Heaven, they’ve convinced you to create another whole set of ordinances to serve as loopholes in case too many of the new arrivals are litigious. It's probably getting increasingly difficult to keep up with all of that.

I’m thinking about all this stuff, thinking maybe you need help, because I can’t think of any other reason why God would have taken Tim Russert from us right in the middle of this important, historical election. He was the one current news journalist I felt I could count on religiously (if you don’t mind my use of the word) to sort through the truths, the half-truths and the full-blown lies. He was unbiased. He was well-prepared, armed with the background knowledge to ask all the right questions of our leaders and those who aspired to lead us. His questions elicited the kind of answers we needed to help us evaluate the subjects of his interviews and make good decisions in the voting booth. If the information we needed was mired in complexities, he whipped out his whiteboard and erasable markers and made it clear for us.

How are we going to get along without him? And how must he feel about being called away at this particular time? As one of his news colleagues shared today, Tim Russert considered election year to be his Super Bowl. Why in the world (or in Heaven?) was journalism's quarterback yanked right before the second half of this high-stakes game?

I was asking myself all those questions, St. Peter, and after a while it dawned on me that there might be an even more important job for Tim Russert to do. He’s uniquely qualified for a job like yours. His fairness, his thoroughness, his ability to separate truth from self-serving rhetoric in the course of an interview -– nowhere are those skills more valuable than right there at the Pearly Gates. If that’s where he is, then I guess I understand, but I still feel really, really sad. And I do wish you could have handled things on your own at least through November.

When you see God, St. Peter, please remind Him that those of us in America have some important decisions to make in the next few months. We’ll need His guidance more than ever now that Tim Russert is gone.

It's NOT cancer!

Hallelujah! Butch's biopsy came back clean, no cancer cells at all.

When I first posted about the biopsy, nan16 commented: "I have heard that sometimes when there have been numerous infections, scar tissue eventually builds up and it looks and feels like a tumor, much like an abscess can calcify around it after a long time." She was right on the money.

Butch has had repeated infections since October, and the speculation is that there was an anal-sac rupture that kept the area infected with bacteria. For now, he's on another four-week round of antibiotics, and then we'll see.

The vet said she doesn't think surgery is an option in the near future because the tissue in the affected area is too fragile. I wonder, though, if an anal sac ruptured, won't it keep on causing infections one right after another? We go back next Tuesday to get Butch's stitches out, so I'll ask more questions then.

Thank you all so much for worrying right along with us. Your support made it a lot easier to keep a positive outlook while we waited for news.

The ravages of nature

The granddogs, Lucy and Winston, were with us from Thursday night until a couple of hours ago, which meant more frequent trips to the backyard over the past few days. Around noon yesterday, when I opened the back door to let all the dogs back inside, I noticed an injured green lizard just a couple of feet from the door. I started to move it, but the dogs whizzed past me so fast I just ignored the lizard and shut the door. I thought maybe a bird would get it if I was lucky.

The next time I let the dogs out, the lizard was still there, and it was covered with hundreds of fire ants. My goal quickly changed from moving the lizard to keeping the dogs out of the moving, lizard-shaped mass of ants. If you've never been bitten by fire ants, you wouldn't believe how painful the bites are.

We made a couple more trips outside before bedtime, and each time I glanced warily at the lizard. The ants were still working on it when I locked the door for the last time, but their numbers seemed to be dwindling.

This morning, first thing, I stepped outside with the pups and found this (click the picture to get a better look if you aren't squeamish):


It was so hot at seven o'clock this morning that I only got this one shot of the lizard's skeleton before my camera lens fogged up. While I wiped the condensation off the lens with the hem of my bathrobe, dainty little Lucy spotted the string of tiny bones and had herself a pre-breakfast snack. (No kisses for Lucy today.)

I'd made the appropriate grossed-out noises and headed back to the door when something else caught my eye:


This furry creature was about two inches long. It was on the concrete just under the patio table. We get furry caterpillars here sometimes, but I've never seen anything like this, so I waited and watched for a minute. It didn't move. I touched it with the toe of my slip-on shoe (afraid that the shoe would slip off), and the thing still didn't move. I bent down to get a closer look. The more I looked at it, the more horrified I became. It looked like a piece of Winston's foot.


Just in time to prevent a total freak-out, Winston came running up to the door. I inspected him quickly, breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't have to explain something terrible to his mother, and went back to checking out the furry thing under the table.

I nudged it with my foot once more, then kicked it all the way over to look at its underbelly. Hmm. The underbelly was a swatch of fabric, with visible stitches. That's when I remembered seeing a ravaged stuffed animal lying just inside the door. A stuffed animal, further investigation revealed, that now had only one ear.

This was entirely too much raw nature for a city girl to handle so early in the morning.

Try, try again

Tuesday night Butch whined, paced and chewed at his behind until almost six in the morning. I don’t know if he slept at all, and I personally slept for about an hour, if you add all the five-minute sleep intervals together.

By the time the sun came up Wednesday morning, my brain was so fried that I wasn’t sure what to do. I knew I couldn’t leave Butch alone to inflict certain damage on his new stitches, and I was so exhausted I felt sick, but there were things I had to do at the office. I managed an inadequate sponge-bath and five minutes with a curling iron, then puzzled what to do about Butch. He’d stopped whining. He’d had food and water and had successfully completed his business outside, which was very good news under the circumstances. I made a split-second decision, put the leash on him and took him with me to work.

In the nearly three years since Butch’s eye surgery, this was the first time he’d been anywhere other than his own house, his own yard, or the animal hospital. He hesitated just inside the door to the office, then relaxed when friendly hands and voices welcomed him. I led him down the hall to my desk, spread a clean sheet on the floor, and encouraged him to lie down. He remained alert, wagging his tail and straining at the leash to get better acquainted with new people, then finally calmed down and napped on the sheet.

As soon as the crucial jobs were done, I took the rest of the day off. Butch and I went home, where I thought we'd go to sleep immediately. We didn’t. He licked and chewed, and I made him stop. Over and over and over.

In your comments to my last post, several of you asked about the possibility of putting one of those cone-shaped Elizabethan collars on Butch. If I hadn’t been too tired to respond, I’d have told you about the time when he’d had the cruciate ligaments repaired in both knees. The vet put an E-collar on him then, but removed it minutes later out of concern that Butch’s leaping and bucking would further damage his injured legs. And then I’d have told you that a different vet had tried an E-collar after Butch’s eye surgery, removing it almost immediately in fear that Butch’s blindly violent twists and turns would cause him additional harm. In my mind, the E-collar wouldn’t work this time, either, but you made me think about it.

By Wednesday night I could have slept through a tornado, and I think Butch must have been in the same shape. I only recall telling him to stop chewing a few times during that night, and we got all the way out of bed only twice.

On Thursday morning I was relieved that Butch’s bottom didn’t look too bad, and I thought maybe the urge to chew the stitches had passed. I cut the tail off an old, soft T-shirt and fashioned a diaper I thought might keep him away from the stitches. Then I left for work and worried about him all morning long. By the time I got home at lunchtime, Butch had managed to chew the stitches enough that blood and other gunk was dripping down his backside, and I wasn’t sure if he’d done serious damage or not. I cleaned him up, patched him as well as I could, and made a better diaper, this one out of an old pillow case, with an elastic belt looped through slots I'd cut in it. Then I went back to work just long enough to request emergency vacation time.

Back we went to the vet. Remarkably, Butch hadn’t done permanent damage. Aside from all the licking and chewing, the vet said, he appeared to be healing nicely. She added a second antibiotic to his daily medications, plus an ointment to apply to his stitches twice a day. Then I asked if we could try the E-collar again. I told her everything I just told you about his prior experiences with it, but I was getting desperate. I told her he might just have to suck it up and deal with it this time.

A vet tech left the room for a few minutes and came back with an E-collar. They fastened it around Butch’s neck and we waited for the explosion. He shook his head gently a couple of times. He scooted backwards to try to get away from it. And that was it. There was no more drama. He had a hard time navigating with that big thing on his head -- a harder time than a sighted dog would have had -- but he kept his dignity and managed the best he could.


He’s worn the collar almost constantly since then, and he’s bumped into a lot of things. At first he had a problem of over-correction. If he bumped something to his right, he’d turn 180 degrees to his left and crash into something on that side, but he’s beginning to get the hang of it. Because his nose serves as his eyes, he’s used to walking with his nose just inches from the floor. He can’t do that now without the bottom of the collar dragging against the floor. Instead, he’s learned to walk a few steps with his head held high, then flip it way forward to plop the whole circumference of the circular collar against the floor while he takes a good whiff. He’s figured out how to back out slowly when the collar has prevented him from turning around in tight spots. He seems to have accepted the fact that he can't scratch his behind, or his ears for that matter, and to live with that reality.

This afternoon, not quite brave enough to leap up onto the sofa while wearing the new collar, Butch summoned up the courage to climb up cautiously. Once there, he snuggled up against me and laid his head with its big silly "hat" on my chest. He’s learned that most of the pleasures of life are still available to him, and I’ve learned it’s not so bad to watch television through a semi-transparent plastic cone.

Considering everything Butch has had to deal with in his ten years, I suppose he's grown to understand that a big lampshade attached to his head is no big deal.

And now we wait

It'll be sometime next week before we have the results of the biopsy, but Butch is home.

Much to everybody's relief, he had no problems during anesthesia this time. He is showing some of the same behaviors that scared me so much after his last bout of anesthesia -- whining with every exhaled breath, pacing, bumping into things -- but it doesn't frighten me as much this time around.

I can tell that the biggest problem we're going to have in the next few days is to keep him from "chewing" on his freshly shaved behind and possibly pulling out stitches. I just fussed at him twice to make him stop it. After the second time, he climbed off the futon and went into the living room. I followed him in there and found him -- no surprise -- with his head up under his tail.

So, since Butch can't be trusted, I won't write as much as I intended to tonight. I'll post again as soon as I don't have to police him. In the meantime, please know how much I appreciate your concern and your prayers.

Welcome distractions

I've spent most of the weekend watching TV (the Democratic Party delegate debate), reading (a new Harlan Coben mystery), catching up on writing book reviews (boy, was I behind), and playing with all the dogs (the granddogs spent Friday and Saturday nights with us). Now it's Sunday night and I'm doing last-minute laundry that I could have done Friday night.

I'm trying to keep my mind preoccupied with trivial stuff so I won't worry about my best boy, Butch. We visited the vet again Saturday morning, following up after he completed four weeks of antibiotics to treat his anal sac infection. The infection seems to have cleared up, and Butch doesn't have his head up under his tail nearly so often, so I know he's more comfortable than he was. That's the good news.

The bad news is that the vet says there's a mass in his rectal area that seems to involve more than swollen anal sacs. She thinks he has a tumor. She actually said the "C-word." I'll take him in Tuesday for a biopsy, which means putting him under anesthesia again. Considering the problems he had last time, that's a scary enough concept without even thinking about the possible results of the biopsy.

So, I won't let myself think about it yet. At least not much. He's in good spirits and doesn't seem to be in any pain, and I owe it to him to keep my attitude as positive as his is.

I'll keep you posted.