Can we rest now?

It's been a harrowingly stressful and unpleasant few days. As my previous post indicated, I had to rush Jett to the emergency vet hospital. Why, you may ask?

She began to vomit blood.

Then blood began to come out the other end.

I can honestly say that I haven't been that scared in some considerable time. I was already stressing out like you wouldn't believe, which I guess should've sent up a warning flare that something wasn't right. I'd been relatively okay until about an hour before the big event. Something in Jett's demeanor changed though, and I guess subconsciously I picked up on it. It was ... yeah. I've had better experiences.

So we rush her to the vet. I'll take a moment to plug the Emergency Vet Clinic of Tualatin. It took me longer to get there than to have Jett seen. Now obviously if you do this before 11pm it might make a difference in how long you need to wait, but in less than ten minutes we'd given the necessary info to extremely patient and calming staff, gotten her in a room, received preliminary care (temperature, heart rate, etc.), and had the doctor in there checking her out.

Short version is that he couldn't find anything immediately wrong with her. He checked and found no parasites, and raised no immediate alarms. He thinks that her poor system was just taxed after 24 hours of this and she ruptured a few non-essential capillaries or something similar. He gave her two shots: one antibiotic (and having had that shot myself not too long ago, I feel for you, Jett) and one of something else which I forget, but which calmed her system and made it stop spasming.

Since the visit, she's been getting much better. No more vomiting, and practically no more diarrhea. She's eating well, drinking well, and even wanted to play last night.

Of course for me, when I get that stressed, I'm affected in one of two areas: my head or my stomach. I guess in sympathy, I turned to the gut as well. Luckily I didn't have it as bad as Jett did, but the next day was fairly miserable for me as well. Thanksgiving saw us quite the pair indeed.

Jett is still well and I'm doing much better now too. She's on a series of antibiotics and is keeping them down, I'm happy to report. The knot of tension between my shoulders has reduced to just a mildly annoying twinge, although The Chosen stress is now mounting. I just don't see me getting that ep up today and I feel like utter shit about it. But the puppy is well, and really, that's all that matters.

I will be so glad to see the end of November. I can't even tell you.

Jet Wolf's Bitches.

Just got back from the emergency vet place. Short version: nothing to panic about. We think. She's on antibiotics. And I have a painful knot in the center of my back that wants desperately to kill me.

God this week has kicked my ass.

This month has kicked my ass.

Fuck you, November.

The Battle of Both Ends

These past two days = teh serious sux.

From here on down, we have lengthy rambling rant + Possible Puppy Illness TMI. Really, if you have an easily squeamish stomach, stop here.

Two nights ago, we were woken up by Jett moving around the room with extreme jitteriness. It unsettles me when she's unsettled, so I tried to coax her back to bed. Not to mention the fact that it's freaking freezing, and I didn't want her out in the cold. Far better to do like normal and wedge herself between me and Mike under the covers. She resisted all my usual attempts at foggy, half-awakened persuasion.

Now she only does that when she's seriously spooked about something. Jett's a pretty empathic dog, and I thought maybe one of us had made a noise while asleep that set her off, making her think she was in trouble. Thus the adult-to-puppy sweet talking began. She came to us, but her ears were back like she was still afraid of something. We soothed her down as best as we could, and she got between us again. All was well.

For about 90 seconds, then she jumped up and off the bed again, returning to cowering in a corner. By now we're getting pretty concerned. Jett goes to hover by the door, so Mike opens it and follows her out. Jett races downstairs while I fumble for my glasses. Before I'd even fully gotten them on, Mike shouts upstairs that Jett threw up. The time is 1.30am. I'd been asleep for a little under an hour.

I go downstairs to help with the clean up effort. She threw up twice – once in the den before Mike was able to get her onto the tile by the door where she did it again. He told me keep her there on the linoleum while he cleaned, just in case she had a second bout.

She didn't, exactly, but boy am I glad that's where we had her.

Have you ever seen the South Park episode where Kenny has explosive diarrhea? I never really appreciated how this bodily function could be described as "explosive" until the wee hours of Tuesday morning.

Literally, this stuff just explodes out of Jett. One second it's not there, the next second it is. And HOLY GOD the stench.

By now Jett's pretty freaked out (as am I ) and she runs. Mike manages to corral her into the kitchen where there's more bless'd tile in time for the second volley. At this point we're in a battle against time to get her outside before all hell breaks loose. Since he took care of the first cleaning duties, I volunteer the second while he take sher outside.

I've never gagged so much in my entire life. But while I'm cleaning, I notice something she must've snuck downstairs and done just before bed last night. Obviously the prelude to that night's activities. It doesn't smell so much, but it sure as hell left a bigger mess. On, of course, the carpet.

As Mike returns, I'm just pulling out the carpet cleaner. Still left to do is try and exorcise the demon stain and scrub the tiles with soap and hot water. He reports that outside was an encore performance, but at least it was outside. He takes scrubbing. I make a silent apologies to my neighbors who this is certain to wake up, and fire up the carpet cleaner. 20 to 30 minutes later, it's pretty much impossible to tell anything happened. Aside from looking a little drained, Jett seems fine. We sigh and return to bed. The time is 2:24am. I'm too awake now to fall sleep immediately, so I spend the next half-hour reading then flick off the light and drift off once more.

Approximately an hour and a half later, we're awoken by Jett fidgeting around the room again. More alert to the signs, Mike jumps out of bed with far more energy than I possess and rushes her outside. A little more vomit. A lot more diarrhea. But better in that out (and better disposed of out than in). Jett comes back in and laps up some water, much to our relief (dehydration becoming a concern now) and seems otherwise fine. She ever has the audacity to bring us a toy, like it's not 4 in the morning and I'm functioning on less than three hours sleep. "You're crazy, dog," I tell her. She licks my hand. All is forgiven. We go back to sleep.

Only to be woken up around 5.30am by an extremely disgusting wet sound, qucikly followed by The Smell. Once more, we sit bolt upright and flip on the lights. This time we missed the warning signs (if there were any), and our bedroom has paid the price. We assume our roles quicly and without word – Mike rushes Jett outisde while I revisit the carpet cleaner. I don't really remember dragging it upstairs, nor do I actually remember the cleaning process, but I do know that when it was all done at a little past 6am, we both gave up in getting more sleep. This decision was aided by the fact that we threw all the upstairs windows wide open to try and air out the stench, and it was something like 27° outside.

The time between getting up for the day and taking Mike to work involved approximately three trips outside for Jett. Now bearing in mind that it's not just a case of taking her out, her doing what needs to be done and coming back in. Each of these is like a mini-event involving Ritualistic Spot Selection, a deeply involved process that can take anywhere from eight to eighty minutes. During all of this is the running back and forth, and one of Jett's favourite outside hobbies, "How can I pick up this rock I just found and now love with all my heart without anybody noticing?" For each of these trips, there was a little more bowel activity ... though said activity was really more like this sort of thick water just ... yeah. I've had better times with my dog.

I took her out just before preparing to drive Mike to work, and when she came back in, she slurped up some more water. Again we yay, for this means she will not crumble to dust in the wind like all the SUVs in that commercial. Only maybe not so yay. Less that five minutes later, she threw up again all over the upstairs landing.

I do a quick clean while Mike rushes her outside once more, then he has to go make money to pay for the water bill that's sure to double after all this. When I come home, Jett has thankfully done nothing else, so I can concentrate on trying to finish cleaning upstairs. This involves a terribly unpleasant twenty mintues or so where I have to dig clogged hair out of the carpet cleaner.

I scrub my hands until they bleed.

After some conversations and research, I confiscate all water to prevent more damage from vomiting it back up again. I'm happy to report that since the landing incident, there's been no more cleaning necessary as a result of the top half of my dog.

The rest of my yesterday is spent trying to write (and failing miserably), trying to stay awake (and failing miserably) and running Jett outside the second she so much as moves.

Now throughout all of this, I haven't focused much on Jett herself, and that's primarily because, aside from stuff coming out of her more than it should, she's been just fine. You wouldn't know there was anything wrong with her if you saw her. She's been a little bit more attached to my side, but given how she must not be feeling too well, that's understandable. Otherwise, she's bright and alert, running around, wanting to play, and generally being Jett. She doesn't appear to have a fever or feel all that under the weather, so I'm not particularly worried about her (though should this not have improved dramatically by Friday morning, she's going into the vet).

Again, I mention how taking her outside isn't quite as easy as it sounds. Every hour, practically on the hour, I was taking her out, whereupon she'd proceed to spend a good 15 minutes before doing anything – and sometimes not even then. I've definitely not gotten enough sleep myself and, to top it all off, (and here's some Jet Wolf TMI) I have cramps. Simply put, not having a good day.

Still, I arrange to meet Mike for lunch, agreeing with him that I probably need to get out of the house for a little bit. I take her out just before I leave. She doesn't do anything except make me late. When I meet Mike, I'm not exactly a ray of sunshine, but we have a nice time anyway. After, I make a run to PetsMart to pick up a replacement for one of Jett's toys that got caught in the, erm, crossfire and had to be thrown away, as well as come enzyme-dissolving floor cleaner for the remnants of some of these stains. I also stop by Freddies' to get ice cube trays, so that Jett can have those to lick on in the absence of water, and a jar of baby food to mix in with the rice that she'll be eating in the next couple of days, provided all goes well. I get home at around 2.20pm.

Jett has, of course, made another mess on the floor. I sigh and return to ye olde trusty carpet cleaner. First though, Jett and I see another trip outside. Another 10 minutes or so later and I'm fighting with my by-now extremely short temper when she doesn't do anything but try to pick up more bloody rocks and run through the leaves. While inside, I begin to clean, but only barely start before I notice that she's acting very strangely. We rush outside again, and this time she does in fact make the trip worth my while. I thank her for not making me clean another bit of carpet. She brings me a rock and wags her tail.

By the time I get the the floor and machine cleaned, Jett seen to, the ice cube trays in the fridge, and assorted other groceries put away, it's almost 4pm. And I haven't even gotten a chance to open my Word doc. I sit down and almost immediately zonk out until it's time to pick Mike up at 6pm. I don't remember the rest of the night really. Mike was a complete sweetheart and, despite having only a bit more sleep than me and having worked all day, takes over practically everything, from Jett duty to making dinner.

I write off Tuesday as a complete loss. Jett is able to keep down her occassional ice cube. She continues to sometimes do something outside and it's still nasty and watery, but it's not inside and she's still bright, so we just keep to the plan and hope for the best.

Last night is much better. She gets us up at almost six, but Mike gets her outside in time and then just stays up. I nod off again for another few hours, and feel almost rested. All goes well up to getting Mike to work. I come home and Jett hasn't soiled the carpet in my absence. For this, I am joyful.

I give her a test quarter-cup of water. She laps it up and keeps it down. Three hours later, she gets a little more and, for the first time, some bland, easily digestable food – two tablespoons of rice mixed in with a teaspoon of turkey baby food for flavoring. This is actually the first time in Jett's five years on this planet that she's ever had people food. It's a huge thing. She scarfs it down. I am happy.

We make another fruitless trip just before I hit the showers. Then I come out.

Well shit. Literally.

About an hour ago, I finally got to sit down again. I'm frustrated and really pretty darned sick of cleaning up after Jett. I'm not angry with her. She doesn't feel well and that's not her fault, but it's times like these when I wish I had my own place with my own back yard and a doggie door, so Jett could just run out when she needs to go and my poor carpet can stop being a warzone.

And I can get some writing done finally. <sigh>

My poor puppy.

Yay, birthday time!

Today is my mum's birthday. You may know her online as "Novareinna". As has been traditional for many years now, on this day I try get as many people as I can to bombard her with e-mail greetings. It's even funnier when she doesn't know who you are, so don't let that stop you.

If you're reading this, then take a second to click here and send her birthday wishes. Do it now. The power of Jet Wolf compels you. The power of Jet Wolf compels you.

William the Bloody? Nah.

For no reason, out of nowhere, a new name for Spike jumped into my head.

From today forward, Spike shall be known as ... The Dru Whisperer.

That is all.

We are the Misfits, our songs are better.

Yanked from , I present this rather detailed and wholly interesting look at Jem and the Holograms, both as a doll series and a TV series. There are just enough 80s-philes and fans of this show, either in or out of the pink closet.

Ahh, how I lament that they never realeased the final part of the series on DVD. I'm never again gonna see that one episode where Jem and Riot run away. Stupid video tape-eating VCR.

Quickie movie reviews, the sequel.

So my latest Netflix picks were The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and The Italian Job. I figured I could pander to both my feminine and masculine side. Both were actually quite enjoyable, which was a tad surprising.

Ya-Ya is your standard chick flick fare. Sort of a southern Joy Luck Club. I have a special, unapologetic love for these sorts of movies. It didn't make me cry, though it did make me laugh a few times, and not just at Maggie Smith's "southern" accent. Ahh, Maggie Smith, I love you. One thing it did make me want to do is read the book though, so that can't be bad. It didn't change my life, it didn't particularly make me think, but I enjoyed it while I watched it. And did I mention Maggie Smith?

For as little impact as Ya-Ya had, it was a veritable emotional earthquake as compared to The Italian Job. That'd be the 2003 remake, by the way. I watch it for one reason only, and that is Seth Green. I didn't go in expecting anything, which means that it was better than I thought it would be. They didn't appear to be encouraging Marky Mark to try acting, and I think this was a wise decision. Ed Norton looked mostly bored, but I like him, so I'm okay seeing him bored. Seth was, of course, cute as could be, and the highlight of the film, with his constant insistance that he was the true creator of Napster. It's funnier than it sounds. Mostly though, it was high speed chases and shooting Donald Sutherland, so really, you can't go wrong.

I return them both now and move to my personal stash. I think Life is Beautiful won the poll, but I do believe someone warned me once that it was depressing as hell, so probably gonna skip it for now. Best to stick to safe stuff. Oo, I think we have This is Spinal Tap. ♥

Mikeless, day three – morning

Last night's sleep was the antithesis to the previous. I did not sleep well. I do not feel rested. I am now tired and crabby and there's no one to complain to.

Grump.

Quickie movie thoughts.

I watched Rushmore last night and was very "eh" about the whole thing. It was watchable enough, but I didn't laugh once, and only cracked a smile when Bill Murray was on screen at his Bill Murrayest. It was well done and well acted and all that, it just didn't engage me on more than the most basic of levels. I suspect that it's the sort of movie that really needs a second watching. Unfortunately, I didn't care enough about the first one to give it a second. Disappointing. I was hoping to really like it.

Two movies in the post already. C'mon Netflix, gimme something good.

Mikeless, day two – morning

I slept quite well last night. I actually read a little before going to bed, which I haven't done in forever. That was nice, I should start doing that more often. Jett wholly claimed the Mikeless side of the bed as her own, and I didn't wake up once until the morning. A good, solid six-and-bits hours. Very nice.

Of course, everything started going downhill from there.

About an hour ago (from when I began writing this), I went to take Jett out. This is typically Mike's task. Like good parents, we split the responsibilities, and Mike is the morning bringer outer. But of course, I am Mikeless and, not wishing to have something unpleasant to be cleaned later, this task falls to me.

We go out. Jett does her thing. All is well. Then she looks up at me with big puppy eyes as if to say, "This leash, it restrains me. My spirit is tethered when it yearns to be free, if only for a brief moment. There are no others around. It is early, and brisk. Oh, how I long to stretch my muscles, to feel the wind through my fur. To run. Yes! To run as my ancestors once ran. Please. I am a good dog. I will not go far. Please, allow me this moment."

Okay it was probably more like, "RUN! runrunrunrurnrunPLAYrunrunrun", but the spirit was there. I smiled. I unhooked the leash.

Now I bet you know where you think this is going. That Jett took off and was never seen again. Not so. She is, in fact, a very good dog. It takes only a little 'tut' sound from me and she stops whatever she's doing and comes right back. She's extremely responsive to verbal (and visual) commands. She's never had a lick of formal training, but she's a smart little thing and we communicate extremely well. So no, Jett didn't run off. But she did run. Oh, how she ran.

Behind our row of apartments is a long grassy area. A brick wall, I'd say about eight or nine feet, separates the complex from the sidewalk and the busy road beyond. Jett loves to run back and forth here, where she can build up a huge head of steam and just ZOOM. Back and forth, back and forth. We don't let her do it very often, sadly, because dogs aren't supposed to be off their leashes when outside.

Of course, we also don't do this for one other very important reason that I completely forgot.

See, it's all grass back there. Grass and dirt. Lots of dirt. And it's been raining here in Beaver Town for, oh, about three days straight. Not just little rain either, but big, fat, wet drops of constant liquid. On the dirt. Do you see where I'm going with this? Despite the the fact that I did indeed squsih my way back there and am aware of recent weather conditions, I didn't figure out that lots of water + lots of dirt = lots of splashy mud. I'm just, overall, not very bright.

Jett, of course, doesn't mention the ground conditions during her impassioned plea, despite being far closer to the ground than I. She just waits patiently while I unhook the leash and then give her the okay to run.

Sigh.

What's even better is that it didn't register when she'd run in one direction – Squish! Sqhooch! Splatsplatsplat! – and then back again. "Hee. Running puppy cute." said my enfeebled brain. I didn't cotton on until after ten minutes of this, when I called a halt to the festivities. I smile to myself smugly, thinking, "I'm so much cooler than Mike. I just earned me a whole messload of puppy brownie points." Then, as Jett comes galloping toward me, I see it.

DRIP.
DRIP.
DRIP.

Mud coating my dog. Big wet brown drops falling from her fur, taunting me like some method of Chinese torture.

"Oh. Okay, that was dumb of me."

I get her back to the apartment, watching as she leaves little brownish puddles behind everywhere and coating the patio outside in little puppy pawprints which would have been cute if I hadn't known that once inside, cleaning her would be a necessity. Thankfully, as mentioned above, she is very responsive, and when told to stay on the tile, she does just that, rather than running into the living room, shaking and spraying mud droplets everywhere before plonking down on the couch. So yes.

I pull down the towel that we keep in the hall closet for wiping off little muddy puppy paws. I then look at Jett. Mud continues to drip and pool underneath her. It seems to mock me and my dishtowel-sized weapon of cleanliness. I can't actually see her paws anymore, they're just these blocks of solid mud. Oh, this is so not going to be enough.

Right then. Bathtub rinse it is.

If you've never bathed a dog in a standard bathtub, then you really can't fully appreciate the effort involved. Now we're not talking about a chihuahua or teacup poodle here. Jett is a solid dog of nearly fifty pounds. And did I mention how she's covered in mud? Just the process of getting her into the tub leaves me dirty and soaked. But we persevere (when we have no other choice), so I set to work trying to rinse her off. It didn't go so well. At this point, I simply gave in to fate. There is no quick rinsing, there is only bathing. A shampoo it is.

Twenty minutes later, I have a clean but now utterly waterlogged Jett, and a less-clean but similarly waterlogged me. Of course, I forgot to bring in enough towels to even make a dent in drying her off, so I go dripping through the house to find them. In the process, I knock over almost all of the clean washing that's sitting on the banister, waiting for me to put it away. I roll my eyes and leave it on the floor until later.

Using a combination of some twenty-seven towels and a hairdryer (which was a new addition, but Jett liked it, so yay!), she was finally dry. The same couldn't be said for me. I sigh again.

It's not even 10AM yet.

But ... but he's Prince George!

So I just watched my first episode of House. If this one was representative, that's a darned fine program. I guess I know what I'm Netflixing pretty soon. Gotta get me some more of that.

Mikeless, day one.

As previously advertised, Mike departed to visit his parents this afternoon. He's about 30 minutes outside of Atlanta as I type, according to the little flight tracker thingie I always watch obsessively when a loved one defies gravity in air Titanics. He'll be gone for a whole week. This is the first time I've been on my own since The Worst Christmas Evah. (For those who did not know me back in December 2002, backstory is here and here.) Despite my age, I've actually not been 100% on my own very much, so it's always an interesting experience when this happens.

After going to the airport and the grocery store (so that I would eat more than cheese sandwiches all week), I came home. Within 10 minutes, I was holding a conversation with Jett. I would both ask questions and answer them. This does not bode well.

My afternoon and evening were supposed to be spent writing. This didn't so much happen. Instead, I walked in to find that the Democrats forced the Senate into a closed session, so I of course had to watch CSPAN for the fun of it. It was worth it to see Frist practically gnawing his own arm off in anger. From there, I decided to catch up on about a week and a half-worth of Daily Shows that were backed upon my TiVo. I did all of this while gorging to almost the point of nausea on my deeply discounted Halloween candy bounty I'd found at Freddy's. Afterward, I played some more City of Villains (I heart my Mastermind, High Revolutionary) while watching/listening to MST3K.

So here's the summation of my day: I ignored homework to watch TV and bad movies while playing video games and eating candy. In other words, when unsupervised, I regress to fourteen years old.

I have expectations that the rest of the week won't be quite so ill spent – at least not once I get the party out of my system when my friends come over and we get SO TOTALLY WASTED, MAN. But I do expect there to be other misadventures. After all, there's bound to be cooking.