My fortune cookie from the other day said: Allow disruptions to deepen your concentration.
Okay, Confucious...
Is that really good advice?
Really?
I'm not sure I agree with that fortune. But... I have to admit that I get more done with a time crunch.
And... there is nothing like a demanding dog to create a lack of concentration and time.
Walk me.
Play with me.
Rub my tummy.
Feed me.
Let me outside.
I'm bored...get me a bone to chew on.
I just wish sometimes that Rex hadn't misread my fortune. I think he thought it said: CONSTANT disruptions. I read it to mean occasional. But I guess I'm stuck with his interpretation.
I have to say that with a dog and all the disruptions in my days, I get more done and have less anxiety than I ever did without him -- thank you, Rex!
Saturday, August 7, 2010
10 Things About Rex
I was just reading Kate DiCamillo's book Because of Winn Dixie for the umpteenth time. In the book, the little girl makes a list of 10 things she knows about Winn Dixie. But later she reflects that a list cannot tell us the essence of a person.
Nevertheless... here is a list about Rex.
10 Things I Know About Rex
1. Rex farts. His farts are like what you smell if you drive past where someone ran over a skunk. Sorry for the comparison. But ... no lie.
2. Rex is big. He even looks like Clifford the Big Red Dog. But you get used to the size if you are around him long enough. Then he only looks big when you see a medium-sized dog.
3. Rex loves belly rubs. Who among us would not like a massage. Duh.
4. Rex's favorite toy is anything he has at the moment that you want to get away from him. This is also his favorite game.
5. Rex loves to chase a tennis ball if someone will throw it for him. (He actually loves this a little TOO much. When he gets wound up about chasing that tennis ball, he might even come near to knocking you over. How would you like to have a lion jumping up on you? Well... that's what it's like.)
6. Rex loves to eat. If you asked him his favorite time of day, he would probably say: Mealtime. Rex can eat a lot too. But if you dump three scoopfuls of food into his dish, that'll probably hold him for a while.
7. Rex hates plastic bags and he will tear up a brown plastic bag with a Cub logo on it for no reason whatsoever--no reason I know of anyway.
8. Rex loves walks. If you want to get in shape and get motivated to walk every day--he's your man, a personal trainer. He will even check you like a hockey player and corral you toward the front door in the morning if it looks like you are trying to go into the kitchen or bathroom or anywhere else besides to the front door to strap his halter leash on him and head out for a walk. A 105-pound dog smiling and jumping and barking can be awfully persuasive.
9. Rex is protective. He will kick someone's butt--or some dog more likely--if they come near you. So when walking him, it's important to get between him and any approaching dogs so he knows that he doesn't have to protect you and that you are there to protect him instead.
10. Most of all, Rex just wants to be loved. When he is laying at your feet, he always wants to be touching your foot or leg with his paw. He wants to be close to his owners. No matter what.
Nevertheless... here is a list about Rex.
10 Things I Know About Rex
1. Rex farts. His farts are like what you smell if you drive past where someone ran over a skunk. Sorry for the comparison. But ... no lie.
2. Rex is big. He even looks like Clifford the Big Red Dog. But you get used to the size if you are around him long enough. Then he only looks big when you see a medium-sized dog.
3. Rex loves belly rubs. Who among us would not like a massage. Duh.
4. Rex's favorite toy is anything he has at the moment that you want to get away from him. This is also his favorite game.
5. Rex loves to chase a tennis ball if someone will throw it for him. (He actually loves this a little TOO much. When he gets wound up about chasing that tennis ball, he might even come near to knocking you over. How would you like to have a lion jumping up on you? Well... that's what it's like.)
6. Rex loves to eat. If you asked him his favorite time of day, he would probably say: Mealtime. Rex can eat a lot too. But if you dump three scoopfuls of food into his dish, that'll probably hold him for a while.
7. Rex hates plastic bags and he will tear up a brown plastic bag with a Cub logo on it for no reason whatsoever--no reason I know of anyway.
8. Rex loves walks. If you want to get in shape and get motivated to walk every day--he's your man, a personal trainer. He will even check you like a hockey player and corral you toward the front door in the morning if it looks like you are trying to go into the kitchen or bathroom or anywhere else besides to the front door to strap his halter leash on him and head out for a walk. A 105-pound dog smiling and jumping and barking can be awfully persuasive.
9. Rex is protective. He will kick someone's butt--or some dog more likely--if they come near you. So when walking him, it's important to get between him and any approaching dogs so he knows that he doesn't have to protect you and that you are there to protect him instead.
10. Most of all, Rex just wants to be loved. When he is laying at your feet, he always wants to be touching your foot or leg with his paw. He wants to be close to his owners. No matter what.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Cookie Monster--Counter Surfer
Yesterday, Rex sniffed out a cookie leftover from my Subway lunch lying on the kitchen table. How could he smell the melted chocolate chips through the plastic?
My first warning of this was the wrestling sound of plastic. I rushed to the kitchen in time to see Rex hurtle through the living room, torn plastic streaming behind him.
I chased Rex around the room, cookie and plastic in his mouth.
"Drop it!" I said.
He looked for an escape route. I walked closer. He turned and dropped it. Then he dug the paper-covered cookie out of the plastic.
"Give me the cookie," I said.
This command only made his jaws clench more firmly. I pried at his teeth. Chocolate is bad for dogs. What if he got sick? I kept pulling at the sharp incisors but to no avail. He wanted that cookie. Who wouldn't? Whether chocolate was good for him or not, he was eating it.
Just a week before he had caught a squirrel on our walk. He didn't even kill it. And he dropped it within a few seconds of my saying, "Drop it!" But this incident would end differently. Cookies are already cooked. The squirrel was not ready-to-eat.
I pulled at his teeth again.
"Drop it!"
I tore half of the paper-covered cookie from his mouth. Then, like a snake wolfing down a mouse, he promptly gulped down the remaining half of the cookie.
My first warning of this was the wrestling sound of plastic. I rushed to the kitchen in time to see Rex hurtle through the living room, torn plastic streaming behind him.
I chased Rex around the room, cookie and plastic in his mouth.
"Drop it!" I said.
He looked for an escape route. I walked closer. He turned and dropped it. Then he dug the paper-covered cookie out of the plastic.
"Give me the cookie," I said.
This command only made his jaws clench more firmly. I pried at his teeth. Chocolate is bad for dogs. What if he got sick? I kept pulling at the sharp incisors but to no avail. He wanted that cookie. Who wouldn't? Whether chocolate was good for him or not, he was eating it.
Just a week before he had caught a squirrel on our walk. He didn't even kill it. And he dropped it within a few seconds of my saying, "Drop it!" But this incident would end differently. Cookies are already cooked. The squirrel was not ready-to-eat.
I pulled at his teeth again.
"Drop it!"
I tore half of the paper-covered cookie from his mouth. Then, like a snake wolfing down a mouse, he promptly gulped down the remaining half of the cookie.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Bye Bye Buble’
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Even a small gift could mean so much to someone today.
That was the fortune I picked off the floor of the # 18C bus. I was going to South Minneapolis. Riding the bus that day was a gift. It made me feel empowered. It reminded me I wasn't trapped even though I no longer had a car. I had told Jodi I would go over to her place and feed and walk the dogs that evening.
I had never ridden the bus before to get around the Twin Cities. I had ridden it in once to get to Milwaukee to catch a plane to St. Thomas and also two years ago in Sienna, Italy, going so far as to learn the Italian phrase for asking to buy bus fare. But for some reason riding the bus locally was too foreign for me since I was so used to driving a car in town and having it available at my whim. That is until that day.
I had walked out of my St. Paul apartment Tuesday morning at 8:40 a.m. I had parked around the corner because there were no spots close to my building. It was raining. When I walked around the corner, there was no Prelude parked there. My car was gone.
Where was my car?! Could it have been towed? I hadn’t parked illegally. I had parallel parked in the middle of the street. There was no broken glass. How did they get in? Where was it?
It was 8:45 a.m. and I needed to get to a class I was teaching. I called my friend Lisa and left a message. Then I called my friend Brian. “I’m walking my dog, he said, “but I can be there in a half hour.”
I made it to class only a half hour late. The students waited patiently. “Let’s start with a writing exercise,” I said. “Write about a time when you had something stolen.”
After class, Brian dropped me off at home. I called the police and they sent out a squad.
“Looks like the Fast and the Furious gang,” the officer said, looking off into the distance and reminding me of David Caruso from CSI Miami. “They’ll just strip it down for parts. We’ll probably find it in an alley somewhere. We’ll call you when we do.”
I was in shock. What would I do without my car?
My friend Jodi had joked that my Prelude was like a clown car. When she and I decided to foster Rex four months earlier, I hadn’t taken into account that my coupe was much too small for a 105-pound dog. We discovered this once when we loaded Rex into my car to do errands.
He didn’t want to stay in the back seat (which he filled side to side). Instead, he poked his head up front and tried helping me drive. One good thing was that he held down the emergency brake with his lion-sized paw. The brake had a tendency to come up while driving, so initially I appreciated the hand that day. I didn’t drive Rex around in my car much after that.
I opted out of listing my Facebook status as My Car was stolen! This was a good choice. I didn’t need all of my online “friends” emailing me a barrage of questions: What happened? Was it locked? Where was it? The questions would have increased the drama and that I did not need.
I just needed to keep my classes going for the week without interruption. At least I hadn’t left any valuables in my car. Unless you count the three Michael Buble’ CDs I had received for my recent birthday. Bye bye Buble’.
My car had been rummaged through on a previous summer’s night one year ago. Nothing was stolen. The CDs were strewn on the passenger’s seat. But the thief, not sharing my more mellow eighties music taste, left every last CD.
My next car would sit higher up, I vowed. I was getting sick of straining in drive-through windows to get cash and leaning around corners to see past the SUVs that surrounded me. My next car would be bigger.
And what happened to Robinhood? Why did today's thieves steal from the poor? No virtue. No morals. That's what happened.
Wednesday night, 6:30 p.m., my phone rang. It was the St. Paul police. My car had been recovered and was on its way to impound. From what the police could tell, there was no new damage, except that the stereo was missing.
I was instantly elated!
I called the impound lot. The car was actually on its way there.
“It’s $154.50 cash or $158 credit to get the vehicle out of impound,” the lady said.
I was so happy that I’d have transportation back that I didn’t get mad about the impound fees. My friends, however, got mad for me. “That’s just not right!” Merritt said. “You were robbed! You shouldn’t have to pay to get your stolen car back!”
I chose not to fight it. I fought the law and the law won.
This was only the beginning of songs that would run through my head while driving without a stereo.
Jodi drove me to the impound lot. The lot was a car graveyard. Would my car even start? Had the thief used all of the gas? Had they caused more damage than the lady who had been texting while driving (TWD) back in January and rear-ended my car?
I needed my license and my proof of insurance which had been in the glove compartment to claim the car. “You can go get it out of the car,” the lady said behind the thick glass window at the impound lot.
Jodi and I wandered through the creepy lot. Grass grew under row upon row of unclaimed cars. Some were smashed. One had an open hood forming a forty-five degree angle. We arrived at row 5. My black car was hidden at the end of the row. Yellow writing was scribbled on the windshield: 6/9/10, and a number for the police tracking I presumed. A note lay on the driver’s seat. The author had scribbled in black marker: You better move this car! I paid for this spot. If you don’t move your car, I’ll have it towed!
So the thief had left the car in someone’s reserved parking space. That must have been why it was found so fast. Thirty-six hours after being reported stolen is unusual.
I got in. The engine turned over. There was still a fourth of a tank of gas. Two of my Michael Buble’ CDs sat on the passenger’s seat. An empty hole occupied the stereo compartment. Wires dangled out from the space.
Now I saw the other items that had been left in the car. I had had other valuables in there. But these were not valuable to a thief. The list of articles included one worn pair of New Balance cross-trainers, a yellow flowered shoulder bag containing a favorite black baseball cap and a favorite pink sweatshirt, one left black shoe that was on its way to the shoe repairman, and my proof of insurance that would allow me to take my car home.
The thief had also left two bags of items I was taking to the thrift shop. The two bags contained books from childhood that I wouldn’t miss and five Mary Higgins Clark novels I’d never read again. I took them to Half Price Books the next day and got $4.75 for the lot. I spent fifty cents and bought a pristine paperback copy of Old Yeller, even though I already had a copy of the same edition. I knew I could find someone who would appreciate the treasure. The story had left me sobbing when I had read it a few years ago.
So I had two of my Buble’ CDs back. But the third one had been in the stolen stereo.
I relayed the CD theft to a friend. She said, "Look around your block. They probably saw it and said, 'Who's Michael Bubble?' It was probably tossed on the grass somewhere on your street."
I never found that CD--the newest CD--the one with Micheal Buble’ on the cover and looking out through yellow police tape—that one went bye bye.
Even a small gift could mean so much to someone today.
That was the fortune I picked off the floor of the # 18C bus. I was going to South Minneapolis. Riding the bus that day was a gift. It made me feel empowered. It reminded me I wasn't trapped even though I no longer had a car. I had told Jodi I would go over to her place and feed and walk the dogs that evening.
I had never ridden the bus before to get around the Twin Cities. I had ridden it in once to get to Milwaukee to catch a plane to St. Thomas and also two years ago in Sienna, Italy, going so far as to learn the Italian phrase for asking to buy bus fare. But for some reason riding the bus locally was too foreign for me since I was so used to driving a car in town and having it available at my whim. That is until that day.
I had walked out of my St. Paul apartment Tuesday morning at 8:40 a.m. I had parked around the corner because there were no spots close to my building. It was raining. When I walked around the corner, there was no Prelude parked there. My car was gone.
Where was my car?! Could it have been towed? I hadn’t parked illegally. I had parallel parked in the middle of the street. There was no broken glass. How did they get in? Where was it?
It was 8:45 a.m. and I needed to get to a class I was teaching. I called my friend Lisa and left a message. Then I called my friend Brian. “I’m walking my dog, he said, “but I can be there in a half hour.”
I made it to class only a half hour late. The students waited patiently. “Let’s start with a writing exercise,” I said. “Write about a time when you had something stolen.”
After class, Brian dropped me off at home. I called the police and they sent out a squad.
“Looks like the Fast and the Furious gang,” the officer said, looking off into the distance and reminding me of David Caruso from CSI Miami. “They’ll just strip it down for parts. We’ll probably find it in an alley somewhere. We’ll call you when we do.”
I was in shock. What would I do without my car?
My friend Jodi had joked that my Prelude was like a clown car. When she and I decided to foster Rex four months earlier, I hadn’t taken into account that my coupe was much too small for a 105-pound dog. We discovered this once when we loaded Rex into my car to do errands.
He didn’t want to stay in the back seat (which he filled side to side). Instead, he poked his head up front and tried helping me drive. One good thing was that he held down the emergency brake with his lion-sized paw. The brake had a tendency to come up while driving, so initially I appreciated the hand that day. I didn’t drive Rex around in my car much after that.
I opted out of listing my Facebook status as My Car was stolen! This was a good choice. I didn’t need all of my online “friends” emailing me a barrage of questions: What happened? Was it locked? Where was it? The questions would have increased the drama and that I did not need.
I just needed to keep my classes going for the week without interruption. At least I hadn’t left any valuables in my car. Unless you count the three Michael Buble’ CDs I had received for my recent birthday. Bye bye Buble’.
My car had been rummaged through on a previous summer’s night one year ago. Nothing was stolen. The CDs were strewn on the passenger’s seat. But the thief, not sharing my more mellow eighties music taste, left every last CD.
My next car would sit higher up, I vowed. I was getting sick of straining in drive-through windows to get cash and leaning around corners to see past the SUVs that surrounded me. My next car would be bigger.
And what happened to Robinhood? Why did today's thieves steal from the poor? No virtue. No morals. That's what happened.
Wednesday night, 6:30 p.m., my phone rang. It was the St. Paul police. My car had been recovered and was on its way to impound. From what the police could tell, there was no new damage, except that the stereo was missing.
I was instantly elated!
I called the impound lot. The car was actually on its way there.
“It’s $154.50 cash or $158 credit to get the vehicle out of impound,” the lady said.
I was so happy that I’d have transportation back that I didn’t get mad about the impound fees. My friends, however, got mad for me. “That’s just not right!” Merritt said. “You were robbed! You shouldn’t have to pay to get your stolen car back!”
I chose not to fight it. I fought the law and the law won.
This was only the beginning of songs that would run through my head while driving without a stereo.
Jodi drove me to the impound lot. The lot was a car graveyard. Would my car even start? Had the thief used all of the gas? Had they caused more damage than the lady who had been texting while driving (TWD) back in January and rear-ended my car?
I needed my license and my proof of insurance which had been in the glove compartment to claim the car. “You can go get it out of the car,” the lady said behind the thick glass window at the impound lot.
Jodi and I wandered through the creepy lot. Grass grew under row upon row of unclaimed cars. Some were smashed. One had an open hood forming a forty-five degree angle. We arrived at row 5. My black car was hidden at the end of the row. Yellow writing was scribbled on the windshield: 6/9/10, and a number for the police tracking I presumed. A note lay on the driver’s seat. The author had scribbled in black marker: You better move this car! I paid for this spot. If you don’t move your car, I’ll have it towed!
So the thief had left the car in someone’s reserved parking space. That must have been why it was found so fast. Thirty-six hours after being reported stolen is unusual.
I got in. The engine turned over. There was still a fourth of a tank of gas. Two of my Michael Buble’ CDs sat on the passenger’s seat. An empty hole occupied the stereo compartment. Wires dangled out from the space.
Now I saw the other items that had been left in the car. I had had other valuables in there. But these were not valuable to a thief. The list of articles included one worn pair of New Balance cross-trainers, a yellow flowered shoulder bag containing a favorite black baseball cap and a favorite pink sweatshirt, one left black shoe that was on its way to the shoe repairman, and my proof of insurance that would allow me to take my car home.
The thief had also left two bags of items I was taking to the thrift shop. The two bags contained books from childhood that I wouldn’t miss and five Mary Higgins Clark novels I’d never read again. I took them to Half Price Books the next day and got $4.75 for the lot. I spent fifty cents and bought a pristine paperback copy of Old Yeller, even though I already had a copy of the same edition. I knew I could find someone who would appreciate the treasure. The story had left me sobbing when I had read it a few years ago.
So I had two of my Buble’ CDs back. But the third one had been in the stolen stereo.
I relayed the CD theft to a friend. She said, "Look around your block. They probably saw it and said, 'Who's Michael Bubble?' It was probably tossed on the grass somewhere on your street."
I never found that CD--the newest CD--the one with Micheal Buble’ on the cover and looking out through yellow police tape—that one went bye bye.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Like Mother, Like Son
One week after Rex started his pain meds, he seemed back to his normal self.
When he wanted to go out in the morning, he gently laid his head on my bed -- which is flush with his height. The perfect dog alarm.
When he wanted a walk, he once again bounded around the living room rampant, like an unbroken bucking bronco, leaving the two thick floor rugs askew.
When he wanted a treat, he swung into position, sitting before the word SIT could leave my mouth, back straighter than mine ever was in childhood when my piano teacher would tell me to sit up.
The old Rex was back. He finished his prescriptions of Rimadyl, Cephalexin, and Tramdol. And he seemed like his old self again.
Whew.
A few days later...
I hurt my back. I got snarly. I didn't want to get up. My leg hurt from radiating pain. I figured it was sciatica -- the pinching of a sciatic nerve in the lower back.
I tried a heating pad. I tried a cold pack. I tried walking it off. I tried sleeping it off. I took Ibuprophen. That helped some, but I worried about taking too much Ibuprophen. And the pain kept coming back. Nothing worked. After a week and a half, I limped in to the doctor's office.
"They lump all of these pains into the low back pain category," she said.
The doctor gave me a 30-page printout of exercises and two prescriptions: Cyclobenzaprine, a muscle relaxant, and Tramadol, a pain reliever.
Yes. Tramadol. The same drug that Rex had just been prescribed. Well... we did have the same symptoms. Back leg pain. Unresponsive. Snarly.
I just didn't think animals and humans were supposed to take the same medications.
But what was good enough for my son, was good enough for me.
When he wanted to go out in the morning, he gently laid his head on my bed -- which is flush with his height. The perfect dog alarm.
When he wanted a walk, he once again bounded around the living room rampant, like an unbroken bucking bronco, leaving the two thick floor rugs askew.
When he wanted a treat, he swung into position, sitting before the word SIT could leave my mouth, back straighter than mine ever was in childhood when my piano teacher would tell me to sit up.
The old Rex was back. He finished his prescriptions of Rimadyl, Cephalexin, and Tramdol. And he seemed like his old self again.
Whew.
A few days later...
I hurt my back. I got snarly. I didn't want to get up. My leg hurt from radiating pain. I figured it was sciatica -- the pinching of a sciatic nerve in the lower back.
I tried a heating pad. I tried a cold pack. I tried walking it off. I tried sleeping it off. I took Ibuprophen. That helped some, but I worried about taking too much Ibuprophen. And the pain kept coming back. Nothing worked. After a week and a half, I limped in to the doctor's office.
"They lump all of these pains into the low back pain category," she said.
The doctor gave me a 30-page printout of exercises and two prescriptions: Cyclobenzaprine, a muscle relaxant, and Tramadol, a pain reliever.
Yes. Tramadol. The same drug that Rex had just been prescribed. Well... we did have the same symptoms. Back leg pain. Unresponsive. Snarly.
I just didn't think animals and humans were supposed to take the same medications.
But what was good enough for my son, was good enough for me.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Diagnosis: F.U.O.
Eleven-thirty p.m., Saturday, May 15, 2010.
THE VET
When we see this type of sudden inflammation in dogs, it usually means cancer. You need to prepare yourselves. If it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to run the tests.
Twelve a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
Jodi sleeps in a chair in the waiting room. Kristin sits on the floor, trying to ignore the possibility of germs.
KRISTIN
It's okay, boy. It's okay, Rexy. We're just trying to find out why you're ouchy.
The vet comes back with initial test results.
THE VET
We've ruled out bone cancer.
Jodi and Kristin give sighs of relief.
THE VET
If it were my sister's dog, I'd say: You need to take him to a specialist.
Kristin's stomach twists. Visions of tens of thousands of dollars flying out the door cross her mind.
THE VET
It could also be auto-immune. We just don't know at this point. We are just trying to rule things out.
Auto-immune is a term Kristin heard on House recently. Should they call House's diagnostic team in to take a crack at this?
They decide to have x-rays done and a partial blood panel. The bill is adding up in increments.
Two a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
THE VET
F.U.O. Fever of Unknown Origin.
The vet has x-rayed Rex. Kristin and Jodi review the x-rays on a laptop. The vet flashes through screens, as if he's excited about his expensive new toy.
KRISTIN
What's that?
She points to a small orb on Rex's left thigh.
THE VET
Bee-bee. This dog was shot at some point.
Kristin and Jodi look at Rex. Does this explain why he is sensitive when touched on the back?
THE VET
Again, if it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to take him to a specialist.
KRISTIN THINKS...
But this is our dog. We've had him for three months. He's seven years old. My income is at or near the poverty level.
Kristin and Jodi decide to leave. They will give him the drugs and see if it is a sprain or infection. Maybe it will go away in a few days.
Three a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010
They leave the vet's office. But first they split the bill -- the $700 vet bill which probably helps pay for the vet's expensive x-ray equipment. Jodi pulls out a Discover card. Kristin pulls out a Mastercard. The F.U.O. diagnosis feels like an F.U. But at least they ruled out bone cancer.
After taking Rex to the vet, they now know he has a fever. They knew this before by just feeling his forehead. But now they leave with a pain prescription and an antibiotic for Rex. Those two things made the late-night trip worthwhile.
They also know that he was shot at some point in his life.
JODI
We're like new parents. We overreacted as soon as something went wrong.
KRISTIN
We needed the drugs. So we had no choice but to bring him in. Right?
THE VET
When we see this type of sudden inflammation in dogs, it usually means cancer. You need to prepare yourselves. If it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to run the tests.
Twelve a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
Jodi sleeps in a chair in the waiting room. Kristin sits on the floor, trying to ignore the possibility of germs.
KRISTIN
It's okay, boy. It's okay, Rexy. We're just trying to find out why you're ouchy.
The vet comes back with initial test results.
THE VET
We've ruled out bone cancer.
Jodi and Kristin give sighs of relief.
THE VET
If it were my sister's dog, I'd say: You need to take him to a specialist.
Kristin's stomach twists. Visions of tens of thousands of dollars flying out the door cross her mind.
THE VET
It could also be auto-immune. We just don't know at this point. We are just trying to rule things out.
Auto-immune is a term Kristin heard on House recently. Should they call House's diagnostic team in to take a crack at this?
They decide to have x-rays done and a partial blood panel. The bill is adding up in increments.
Two a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010.
THE VET
F.U.O. Fever of Unknown Origin.
The vet has x-rayed Rex. Kristin and Jodi review the x-rays on a laptop. The vet flashes through screens, as if he's excited about his expensive new toy.
KRISTIN
What's that?
She points to a small orb on Rex's left thigh.
THE VET
Bee-bee. This dog was shot at some point.
Kristin and Jodi look at Rex. Does this explain why he is sensitive when touched on the back?
THE VET
Again, if it were my sister's dog, I'd tell her to take him to a specialist.
KRISTIN THINKS...
But this is our dog. We've had him for three months. He's seven years old. My income is at or near the poverty level.
Kristin and Jodi decide to leave. They will give him the drugs and see if it is a sprain or infection. Maybe it will go away in a few days.
Three a.m., Sunday, May 16, 2010
They leave the vet's office. But first they split the bill -- the $700 vet bill which probably helps pay for the vet's expensive x-ray equipment. Jodi pulls out a Discover card. Kristin pulls out a Mastercard. The F.U.O. diagnosis feels like an F.U. But at least they ruled out bone cancer.
After taking Rex to the vet, they now know he has a fever. They knew this before by just feeling his forehead. But now they leave with a pain prescription and an antibiotic for Rex. Those two things made the late-night trip worthwhile.
They also know that he was shot at some point in his life.
JODI
We're like new parents. We overreacted as soon as something went wrong.
KRISTIN
We needed the drugs. So we had no choice but to bring him in. Right?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Mystery Injury
Could Mary have been right? Was it "the other dog"?
I looked at Ruby. She raised her eyebrows. She lolled her head. She wagged her tail. Could a dog half Rex's size have hurt him? Was sibling rivalry that devious?
Ruby nose-flipped my hand. She wanted to be petted.
Rex's Possible Injuries:
1. While jumping like a bucking bronco, he bumps his back leg on something initially unknown to him. A table, a stair step, one of the standing metal candle holders.
2. Jodi throws the tennis ball for him in the backyard. He tears off to retrieve it, jumping onto the jagged, wooden stump in the middle of the yard. Later, a sprain materializes.
3. Ruby -- angry and jealous of all the attention the new addition to the family is getting -- lifts a furry, black paw and pushes an unsuspecting Rex down the three steps leading to the fenced back yard.
4. Rex, like the lion he is, gets a sliver in his enormous paw and plays up the drama in order to get the cool yellow and green paw print bandage the vet assistant wrapped around his ankle after drawing blood for tests.
5. Rex is seven years old. His arthritis is acting up. His joints will get stiff and sore. This is normal for a dog his age, and it will probably flare up again. Good thing we have Rimadyl on hand.
And Ruby is an angel. She would never hurt anyone. I pet Ruby's shiny black coat, giving her the attention she has been craving.
I looked at Ruby. She raised her eyebrows. She lolled her head. She wagged her tail. Could a dog half Rex's size have hurt him? Was sibling rivalry that devious?
Ruby nose-flipped my hand. She wanted to be petted.
Rex's Possible Injuries:
1. While jumping like a bucking bronco, he bumps his back leg on something initially unknown to him. A table, a stair step, one of the standing metal candle holders.
2. Jodi throws the tennis ball for him in the backyard. He tears off to retrieve it, jumping onto the jagged, wooden stump in the middle of the yard. Later, a sprain materializes.
3. Ruby -- angry and jealous of all the attention the new addition to the family is getting -- lifts a furry, black paw and pushes an unsuspecting Rex down the three steps leading to the fenced back yard.
4. Rex, like the lion he is, gets a sliver in his enormous paw and plays up the drama in order to get the cool yellow and green paw print bandage the vet assistant wrapped around his ankle after drawing blood for tests.
5. Rex is seven years old. His arthritis is acting up. His joints will get stiff and sore. This is normal for a dog his age, and it will probably flare up again. Good thing we have Rimadyl on hand.
And Ruby is an angel. She would never hurt anyone. I pet Ruby's shiny black coat, giving her the attention she has been craving.
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