Pandemic Diaries II

 12003.8 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

We have become fugitives.

The Directorate has decreed the closure of additional spaces, thanks to the dotardian elements who did not heed the social distancing dictates. (We have added them to The List, ie for expedited vaporization.) This morning at our usual walk/sniffie spot (aka the “Coyote Walk”), there was a new sign saying the park was closed. We are certain this was referring to the actual multi-acre preserve with trails rather than the small adjacent field we traverse, but we are taking no chances and will be army crawling our way through the fields to avoid detection.

We had not heard back from the Matriarch and were concerned. As we were preparing to storm the hospital, she contacted us, sounding horrible and feeling terrible. The flowers we brought yesterday were rejected, but cards are deemed acceptable. Should anyone care to send cards, with carefully coded messages referring to The Resistance, she is at St. John’s Pleasant Valley Hospital, 2309 Antonio Ave., Camarillo, CA, 93010, Rm, 217.

The world has gone mad.

12003.9 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

The Matriarch has some kind of infection, “they” say. Yet they know not what it is, and so are giving her antibiotics as she worsens. We are skeptical. We have devised a plan to get to the truth of the matter: tomorrow we will float a scientific balloon up to her window, with a subtle coded message on it such as “ARE YOU BEING KEPT PRISONER?” or “THROW APPLE JUICE AT THE WINDOW IF YOU NEED RESCUE.” We are quite sure no one will suspect anything, as the balloons are equally subtle.

Our familiar Hospital Guy was back at his station today, pleased to receive today’s tribute of Treasonous Tartan Tayberry. I was allowed to walk right up to the desk; soon, free reign will be mine, mine!

District 7 of CalCascadia continues to be shut down. Kingsly and I are left with smaller areas to patrol, but remain vigilant. Tonight he barked ferociously at the balloons, suspecting nefarious intentions, and rightly so. In our new Dystopian Thunderdome, no one can be trusted.

Well, except for the Pillow Guy. Glory be that he has come to save us!

12003.10 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

We have received welcome good news in the District: the Matriarch is improving, or so “they” say. We spoke to her this morning and she claimed that she was feeling better, but, skeptical as always, we sought to verify this information.

Hence, our attempt to implement Operation Secretly Coded Balloons came into play. Our intel slipped us critical information as to where the Matriarch is located, and so we attempted to send up the messages. Alas, it appears the Matriarch was either sleeping or, we suspect, being interrogated, and so contact via SCBs was not made. Yet. We shall try again tomorrow.

We will note that our carefully curated planning that has involved boozy jam tributes to the Front Desk Hospital Guy paid off in spades today. To wit:

Me: Okay, so she’s somewhere in that building. I’ll send up the balloons.
FDHG: I’m sure that’ll work well.
Me: Hmm. What if I’m sending them up to some random person’s window? Say, if I get arrested….
FDHG, interrupting: I’ll vouch for you!

My work here is done. Well, for today at least.

12004.11 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

Just yesterday, a fellow patriot shared a missive about someone in District 28 of OpiOhio who was equally determined to visit HIS mom in a medical facility, and used a bucket lift.

Today, we arrived at the Matriarch’s current kingdom to discover: the street was blocked off. Equipment was in place. INCLUDING A BUCKET LIFT.

A coincidence? I think not.

I innocently inquired if I could perhaps borrow said machinery for a short period of time, and was denied. However, the seed has been planted. Tomorrow I shall arrive with reinforcements, aka boozy cherries. I may or may not have inquired if they lock up their equipment when they leave at night, but I probably did. Being from Chicago, I may or may not have a shiv with me at all times to use as needed, but I probably do.

The Matriarch is status quo, neither better nor worse. We await results of tests. Every morning on our first of many walks, Kingsly and I are serenaded by the trilling of a mockingjay, and this reminds us that there is still beauty in the world, amidst the rage. Courage, my fellow resisters. We will burn this whole fucking house down if we have to.

12004.12 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

We have been foiled in our attempt to liberate a bucket lift, as the goldbrickers were not at their posts today. A drone launch may be next, as we are determined to make contact with the Matriarch. She is essentially the same, and we deem this unacceptable, that the doctors can't figure out what's going on. Heads will roll in District 7, oh yes.

In our ample free time, we grew some flowers, to have at the Matriarch's house upon her return. And, alert as always, Kingsly detained a King Cobra on our afternoon patrol, or perhaps it was a bumblebee. Whatever the interloper, it was vanquished posthaste.

We have lost track of the Pandemic DeathCount. Nothing seems real anymore. Isn't there an alternate universe we can jump to, perhaps the one where the Cubs DIDN'T win the World Series, thereby unleashing the furies from the black depths of Hell? Maybe?

12004.13 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

Today was a day of fuckery across the district. We set out early as usual to patrol Area 1 of the Royal Courts, only to discover: padlocked.

Our patrolling took us to our next stop, the dog park.

Padlocked.

There is no longer any offleash place to go in the District

We then determined that if you’re up at 6AM, having a cocktail at 10:30AM is essentially like having a nightcap.

The Matriarch remains in the medical facility, but today, somehow by some dystopian miracle, we managed to actually see her on Facetime. Given the Matriarch’s, umm, shall we say technological capabilities, we’re still not quite sure how this happened, and a few minutes in we were looking at a piece of equipment rather than the Matriarch, but we’ll take it.

Other discoveries today included a stunning display of plantings that will fare well in the apocalyptic drought times, and a clutch of King Cobra eggs that Kingsly diligently ignored, as they are not yet of concern to him. It is a long road ahead of us, and he intuitively understands the wisdom of marshaling his resources, as should we all.

Courage.

12004.14 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

Fools, they, who thought they could keep us from our patrols.

We made contact with a citizen in the WestHills District, where we were able to continue protecting the #Resistance. This included making sure our communication apparatus was still functioning, looking for an alternate galaxy where we can offload 62 million dotardian units. 

Alas, the quest continues.

We then went to give the Matriarch her daily coded messages, disguised as innocent-seeming cards in a festive bag. We are sure the medical personnel do not suspect that we are building a coalition that will overthrow…..whoever needs to be overthrown. She feels slightly better, and this hospital continues to have a low incidence of Virus patients, thankfully. The sirens in the region are becoming constant, as the state continues to shut down. Our anger grows, as the Chief Dotard continues to bathe in his own incompetence. We will rage until the end, and take matters into our own hands as needed.

Our powers will not be questioned.

12004.15 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

The WeatherDistrict claimed that today would be a day of heavy rain, and so we did not schedule a visit to Area DogPark. It did not rain. Needless to say, names have been submitted to the Vaporization List.

We then became “those people” who go to stores to buy seemingly ridiculous things. In this case, Home Depot, for flowers. The Matriarch is likely to be coming home tomorrow, and so Kingsly and I decided that she needs a riot of color in her little patio area, as right now it is completely devoid of such. We somehow stopped ourselves from buying a fig tree to plant……but it’s early days yet. The Matriarch will be allowed to have a modicum of input into the planting decision.

Speaking of Home Depot – what the ever-loving fuck is everyone doing with Swiffer refills?? We’re attempting to thoroughly clean the Matriarch’s domicile, and there isn’t a single wet Swiffer cloth to be found. Anywhere. Wth, people, wth.

As noted above, the Matriarch is likely to be liberated tomorrow, albeit still with IV. She has been informed that she will be put to work immediately, after we determine which Worker Echelon she belongs to. The most likely slotting will be either a) Salt Mine or b) Dictating Placement of Wall Hangings. Tough to say.

12004.16 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

The Matriarch was not liberated today as planned; she was feeling poorly and so they are h̶o̶l̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶o̶s̶t̶a̶g̶e̶ keeping her another night. Our day consisted of the following types of conversations:

Hospital person: So we'll send her home with the IV and she'll get nutrition through that.
Me: Okay.
HP: You'll have to coordinate with the company that makes up the nutrition.
Me: Okay.
HP: And then coordinate with the home health people.
Me: Okay.
HP: The cost of the nutrition isn't covered by Medicare.
Me: Okay.
HP: It's a custom-made solution to exact specifications.
Me: Okay.
HP: It's not covered by Medicare because reasons.
Me: Okay.
HP: It's $1600 for the week.
Me: Okay.
HP: .....
Me: .....
Me: Ooookay?
HP: Did you want to go ahead with it?

Me: Oh, you know, never mind, we'll just wing it. Gatorade will work too, right?

I did not say that last part. My inner smartass was tempted though.

We are weary.

But then today we received a postcard from Citizen Laura, who is bravely persevering at the chateaux and hoping that the contents of the wine cellar prove sufficient. And we are heartened in the face of such courage. #Persist!

(Also today, we were wrongly directed to a dog park that was CLOSED. Kingsly was displeased. Vaporization will ensue.)

12004.17 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

The Matriarch felt worse today, and remains in the hospital. Normal Brother and I have determined we will break her out tomorrow; our shivs are at the ready. Our boozy jam tribute today was ITMFA – always appropriate, these days more than ever.

We also attempted to get additional elements for our Patio Garden Tableau, but were foiled by the Directorate, which is keeping the little people away from our essential goods. Are flowers and mulch less necessary than pea soup? I think not. We shall prevail tomorrow. This is our talisman, our defiance against evil forces, our bit of hope and sunshine for the Matriarch to enjoy when she comes home, a sanctuary. It should be perfect.

Kingsly is becoming known among the Area LeisureVillage citizens for his heroics. These have involved standing in the middle of the street, alertly sniffing into the wind for the scent of King Cobras. Later, at the Area PupYard, Kingsly ran a King Cobra to ground, trapping it in its burrow. It was a battle to the finish! #sobrave

Our thoughts today were with our fellow citizens in District Cheesehead, as they defiantly waited hours to vote in spite of blatant suppression efforts by the Thugs. Your citizens may be terribly slow drivers and call us FIBs, but we’ll always have Mineral Point and the Quality Bakery. #wisconsincheeselandforever

Courage!

Pandemic Diaries I

We’re catching up our gentle readers on what kind of fuck-all craziness has been going on since we got to California about a month ago. For you tens of readers who have seen this already on FB, we apologize. Rest assured, there’s so much new shit going on every day that you too will have new stories to read that will shock and amaze! Only seen here! For a limited time only!

Day One in District 7, aka CalCascadia

The citizens have adapted; as a visitor I was unaccustomed to the New Dystopia. At Ralph's (grocery store), a guard at the door let small groups in at a time, spraying their hands with disinfectant as they walked in. Many people wearing masks. Bare shelves: no chicken, few eggs, little meat, in spite of a limit of 2 on many items.

THERE WERE NO POTATOES.

Day 2 Despatch from District 7 CalCascadia

Took the Matriarch to the ER today*. Was stopped at the door by a begowned and masked tech who barked at me to BACK UP. Mom was whisked inside and I was left standing at the door wondering what the hell just happened.

Alert: you have truly become a shithole country when one has to wonder if taking someone to the ER for care means you just signed their death warrant.

So fuck you trump/repubs and your "back to business" and stock market bullshit. If karma really existed, you and all your parasitical spawn would get the virus.

At least I was able to sanitize a piece of cheesecake and "smuggle" it to my mom this evening, ie hand it to a security guard to hopefully pass on.

(*she recently started cancer treatment, became dehydrated, her levels were off, etc.)

Day 3 Despatch from District 7 CalCascadia

Leaving to bring mom provisions; in a lesson from my Soviet Union days, I am bringing a supply of boozy jam/cherries so that she can “butter up” medical personnel as needed. In the battle for scarce resource, we do what we must, so step aside, hipster.

 

On another note, I am eyeing this grapefruit tree for later guerrilla foraging. I am surrounded by the elderly here at Leisure Village; they may try to guard said resources, but this is a battle I will win.

I hope. #theoldsarefeisty

(Apparently we’re going to be euthanizing the elderly anyway, so.)

Day 3 Despatch, continued

The time to mince words is past us, as I marched into the hospital with the items for my mom.

Nice bemasked hospital guy, sharpie in hand: Okay, for Rm. 308. What's in the bag?

Me: PAJAMAS AND BRIBES. Do you like pickles?

I left a few minutes later, having successfully used the NDC (New Dystopian Currency) of Canning Underground products to ensure my mom being at the front of the line for scarce resources. Nice Hospital Guy got a jar of Slim Gin Pickins; my mom has Boozy Cherry Bitterness and our new Little Miss F*ing Sunshine to give out. We don't fuck around here, folks.

Now if you'll excuse me, we are looking for leather chaps and creating an unnecessarily spiky armored car, as these are clear requirements for citizens of District 7 CalCascadia.

12003.4 NPD (New Pandemic Date), Captain’s log, District 7 of CalCascadia 

The matriarch remains in the hospital. I have instructed her to keep me informed as to whether her treatment is acceptable; if not, I am prepared to write a letter. She is improving, and does not have the Virus. Oddly, she claims all the nurses "are so nice!" to her, yet the bribes (aka boozy jams) remain in her possession.

Midnight foraging is proceeding apace - #TheOlds have not yet caught on, but we are prepared to o̶f̶f̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶m̶ ̶m̶a̶r̶m̶a̶l̶a̶d̶e̶ fight to the finish if need be. Kingsly has been deputized and is keeping order in the District. Just this morning he began barking and growling ferociously, staring into the kitchen. Investigation revealed that the dishwasher door had fallen open, but luckily we were able to close it with no loss of life. #sobrave

12003.5 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

The matriarch is at status quo. We were able to drop off provisions, aka bribes, to ensure her status at the head of the line for key resources. With value now being measured by the new SWC (Societal Worthiness Calculation) dictate, I feel the Canning Underground creations will bump her ahead of any IPA-brewing hipsters with bad lungs from vaping.

Kingsly and I then went to patrol the local fields, where we found groups of subjects using the royal courts that Sir Kingsly likes to romp on playing some pickle-oriented sport. I immediately put in an order for them to be vaporized. As we say, absolute power is of no use unless it’s used at whim.

12003.6 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

It is clear that by now, the gentleman at the front desk of the hospital and I have an understanding. I drop off today’s provisions for the Matriarch, who remains in her Overlord position at the hospital, and give Hospital Man a jar of Little Miss F*ing Sunshine.

“Here’s today’s tribute,” I say, with a meaningful arch of my eyebrows.

He feigns puzzlement, but I know he’s pleased that I’m holding up my end of the bargain. Meanwhile, the Matriarch informs me that she gave the jar of Slim Gin Pickins to a nurse who noted that her “daughter loves pickles!” I…did not inquire as to how old said daughter is.

Kingsly and I patrolled the grounds this morning as usual, and as he alertly surveyed the scene, did not signal any infractions. While those subjects thus avoided being added to the vaporization list, I am adding the children who run around yelling and screaming in front of the house all day, as these hooligans consistently interrupt Kingsly’s royal sleep, which cannot stand.

Later in the day, we made a necessary trip into the city, and while there were cars on the road, we did not sit in traffic once. On a Friday afternoon. In LA.

Winter is here.

12003.7 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia

Kingsly has embraced his new deputization, as he has been insisting on starting his patrol at 0630. Each morning. Saturday too. Not being one to deny such devotion to his creed, I accompany him on his rounds, today in expanded territory: tennis courts, coffee drive-thru, unpatrolled dog park. His unbridled ferociousness is clear: though technically there are no people around, if there were, I am quite sure they would immediately throw jazz hands, ie how we in the District now signal retreat.

Kingsly is not pleased with the new social distancing dictates, as he is usually suspiciously sniffing everyone to discern their intentions. This change in his routine is unwelcome, and for this we blame the Dotard, aka The Hated One.

Speaking of hate, we were filled with unending rage today, at every word that emanates from the bloviating buffoonic sociopath currently squatting in the White House. So much rage. So much death and suffering on his narcissistic soft tiny hands, and on the hands of every person who’s supported him in his criminal acts. Our tribute today at the hospital went to a new hospitalist.

Me: I have brought you the most appropriate of boozy jams, The Great American Blueberry Sazerac Shitshow.

New Woman: Oh, that sounds really good!

Me: Our offerings from the District are known for their excellence.

The Matriarch is still unable to eat, and out of rage at being unable to visit, we have decided to bring ridiculous tchochtkes every day. Today: a crown and a shark straw.

It is past time for a revolution.

Still here

We are bitter and ragey in the best of times…..and these are not the best of times. It seems so long ago that we made our way down to California from Oregon, but it was only about a month ago. The state of California had just declared shelter-in-place restrictions, and it wasn’t clear if we’d make it down the coast. Would hotels be closing? Road or highways? The traffic was as busy as ever in Oregon, but once over the border, we entered the New Dystopian State of few people, few cars, most things closed.

It had such a sense of surrealness to it all, that we found the still-normal ads on the radio jarring, as if we were listening to relics of time gone by, tinny voices from the past when things were as they were. We were outraged by all the cops in their usual speed traps –didn’t they know that people were just trying to make it to wherever they urgently needed to be, as quickly as possible?

And then of course there was the fuckery of discovering that my mom was unable to eat because of the terrible mouth and throat sores from cancer treatment, which led to taking her to the ER, which led to the Pandemic Chronicles. We’ve been tracking this shitshow on FB, but quite frankly, it will come as a surprise to no one that we feel stifled by the tendency towards the pithy on that channel. And we are not pithy. It will never happen. We will never be sparse with words. So be it.

I belong with you, you belong with me

Today is the 2-year anniversary of my beloved HRH the Kone’s death, and it still feels as if no time at all has passed.  His last days haunt me, as does the guilt that I did the wrong things, and the end was terrible. I’ll never not be bitter that he was stolen from me so early and in such cruel fashion. And I still cry every time I think of him; Kone was my heart, my soul, everything.

I recently had an epiphany of sorts, realizing that getting a dog in general makes absolutely no sense, as it always leads to certain heartbreak in the end. Always. Given lifespans, there can be no other ending: it’s like an endless loop of Logan’s Run, where everyone dies at the age of 21. Or 35. Whatever, it’s fuzzy. But this is one part of why I’m anti-dog, for myself at least.

Having said all that, rattling around in a big house with a big fenced-in yard alone seems churlish, so at the beginning of the year I started fostering for the Marion County Dog Shelter in Salem. It’s been…..interesting. Let’s take a look back, shall we?

January

I offer to foster Enzo, a stray who they have little info on other than that he’s not good with other dogs, so he needs a no-pet foster home, and he’s too skinny. Miss Tasha’s Fatten ‘em Up Camp it is! Sweet Enzo is a devilish little rascal who wastes no time in making himself at home. He loves to snuggle, play with all the toys, and has no manners whatsoever. Thankfully he’s a quick learner. He’s adopted by a wonderful couple that I stay in touch with.

March

I….who….what….why, why did no one ever tell me black Labs are insane? Aster is the sweetiest, smushiest, cuddliest black bear of a Lab…and she’s insane. Or at least my definition, where she does. Not. Stop. At all. Ever. There’s no off switch. No matter how much I throw the ball, she lopes back to me happily, waiting for me to toss it again. And again. I bribe Thomas and Allen to throw the ball for her, but they prove themselves to be an unreliable workforce. (Note to self: avoid hiring cheap labor ages 5 and 7.)

 

I develop chuck-it elbow. I get two, and rotate throwing. It’s not enough. We go to different dog parks in my foolish hopes that a new venue will get her excited and tire her out. Hahahahaha!

She too goes to a wonderful couple, after I query multiple times about their previous Lab experience. They know. Whew.

September

I haven’t had a chance to foster all spring/summer due to bike stuff, travel, then the aforeblogged medical stuff. Somehow I randomly decide the week before I’m going out of town (again) that it’s a good time to get another foster, so I offer to take Zeek, a Dobe mix of some sort. I’m schedule to pick him up that afternoon, when I get an email.

Shelter person J.: I just learned that Zeek is on hold to be adopted, sorry about that! Could you possibly take Opie? He’s a 10-year-old Chihuahua who’s stressed out in the shelter.

Opie? A geriatric Chihuahua? I’m bemused by the thought of me, the quintessential big dog person, with a wee pup named Opie. Okay then!

 

Then, another email.

Shelter person J: I’m sorry again, I just learned that Opie is going to a rescue! How about Murphy? We don’t know much about him and could use some additional info.

Me: Sure! And I’m happy to take a different dog as well, just let me know what’s needed.

I go in, and A. tells me about Murphy.

A.: Honestly, he seems kind of feral – we actually had to catch him in a trap since he was eluding us for so long. So far I’m the only one who’s been working with him.

A. and another employee D. and I go outside with Murphy – or rather, A. takes him to the outdoor fenced-in yard, and D. and I follow at a distance. Murphy looks at us only to look displeased at our presence.

A.: I’m the only person he’s really been in contact with, so he might only trust me. We think he might have some wolf in him?

We all gaze at Murphy and his big black shaggy wolf-eyed self. Murphy now refuses to look at any of us but has his tail down and exudes unapproachability.

D.: Look at him! He’s so BEAUTIFUL!

I look at Murphy, who looks like he wants to eat anyone who isn’t A.

A.: You know, I’m not sure it’s the best idea to send him to a home with a brand new person, given he’s only comfortable with me so far. We should try getting him used to other people at the shelter first.

Collectively: So, maybe another dog?

We head back inside, and I tell A. to just let me know what other dog needs to get out of the shelter most, if only for a week before I leave town. She’s about to bring me back to meet a couple, when we’re informed that apparently that’s a no-no, A. can only describe them and then I can choose from that. Okay then.

 

A.: Well, there’s Pongo who’s a pit bull mix, very sweet, stressed out in the shelter, around 80 pounds. Then there’s Tommy, a Thai Ridgeback, REALLY hates the shelter, around 45 pounds.

Me: I….damn. I really really love the pibbles, but…I can’t walk very well and have an upcoming surgery, so I should probably take the smaller dog since he’ll be easier to handle. Okay, I’ll take Tommy.

Later

What the hell is a Thai Ridgeback? Time to do some research. Hmm. “The Thai Ridgeback is a primitive dog breed that originates from Thailand, dating back at least three thousand years, and while it is common there, it is very rare in other parts of the world. In fact, it is estimated that there are only a thousand Thai Ridgeback dogs outside of Thailand, and only about 300 in the U.S.”

Okay, so clearly this isn’t a Thai Ridgeback, because how would one of these end up in a shelter in Salem? Granted, he does have a ridge, so that must have prompted the guess at a breed by the shelter.

Then I look at some pictures of actual Thai Ridgebacks. And…..he’s the spitting image of one. Then he yawns. And….his tongue is black and blue, like it is for TRs. I guess that’s what he is then. They’re stubborn, extremely smart, very active, escape artists. This should be interesting.

The next day

This is the most ridiculous dog I’ve ever seen. I take him out to explore the big yard, and suddenly, it’s zoomie time! Whee! Except whereas most dogs get the zoomies once in a blue moon, for Tommy it’s a non-stop thing. Which isn’t BAD, of course, as he’s tiring himself out, but it’s unusual.

And he leaps like a springbok.

And he’s perfectly potty-trained. Not one single accident – he waits until he’s outside to pee. He also has a perfect sit and shake. Wth? I find out that he kept escaping his house, and this last time, in August, his owner didn’t want to pay to get him back. Escape artist – check.

That week

“Tommy” is a completely inappropriate name for this guy. He also has zero name recognition with it. I’m not sure what else would fit, but one day as I’m calling him, it just pops out: Kingsly. Yes. Kingsly. That fits. I’ve also learned that the TR is considered the “Royal Dog of Thailand.” Royalty, really?

Well, he may be royal, but he’s certainly nothing like my Kone. Kone was the most chill, laidback, fearless, happy-go-lucky little man ever. He assumed everyone was put on earth to pet him and that naturally he was welcome everywhere, because everyone adored him, which was basically true.

Kingsly is skittish, inscrutable, aloof, wary, and the shelter has said he’s “dog aggressive.”  Awesome Friend Peg and I meet at the dog park so that Kingsly can meet her pups, and yep, he doesn’t like them very much. There’s no biting, but lots of snarling and teeth. I start to wonder if Kone sent him to me – since Kone came along when I was diagnosed with cancer the first time around, and now I might have cancer again, and here I randomly wind up with this funny rare little dog under very convoluted circumstances. But I don’t want another dog ever, so that’s that.

The breed overall is one that every article notes – repeatedly – needs “an experienced owner,” and I can see why. Some fool trying the “alpha male” routine would get his face bitten off. I worry about the likely idiots who might want to adopt him, just because he’s a rare and exotic breed. Before I take him back to the shelter as I’m getting ready to go out of town, I try to find another foster who’ll take him, with no luck. I bawl as I’m taking him back – the guilt is overwhelming. No wonder he’s wary; people keep letting him down. I’ve already told them my view on potential adopters:

“He should ONLY be placed with very experienced dog people. Have they had dogs? Have they had primitive dogs? Have they had a THAI RIDGEBACK TAN IN COLOR WHO WEIGHS 53 POUNDS? No? That’s a CLEAR no then.”

End of September

I’m planning on picking him up as soon as I get back, but I get back on Monday the 23^rd, and because there was a cancellation, my surgery was moved up to the 25^th. I let the shelter know that I’ll get him after my surgery date, and they tell me that I should know that he’s deteriorating in the shelter. My poor little guy. Surgery is Wednesday, and on Thursday, since I can’t find a good Polish Fest or Oktoberfest to go to, I decide to head to the shelter to pick up Kingsly. Makes sense to me.

Trainer/Behaviorist Day

Purely so that the shelter has more info, I’ve found a behaviorist who’s going to come by to assess Kingsly to see if his dog aggression is manageable, if it’s a breed thing, his upbringing, etc.  She does some really interesting tests and sees how smart and wonderful he is. He does his usual zoomies and this time bowls me over, and I’d be falling over laughing if I weren’t already on the ground.

The shelter has people who might be interested in him, and they want to know if I want to keep him and I don’t know what to do. No dog can ever replace my sweet Kone, and my heart is too broken to let another pup into my life.

On the other hand, how did I wind up with this odd ultra-rare royal dog if Kone didn’t drop him into my life? Or is that just a lie I tell myself? I ugly cry, as always.

Kingsly is starting to settle in a little, as he shows me his tum to be scratched, and goes upstairs for sleeps.

I hear Kone’s voice in my head as I keep dithering:

“Momma, come ons. I sent you the most ridiculousems dog I could finds. Really, you need to thinkums about this?”

He does have a point. To wit:

-   Kingsly LOVES massages. If I start massaging his back, within 3 seconds his eyes droop and suddenly his bones disintegrate and he topples over, falling like a tree.

-   He bounces like a kangaroo…..but won’t jump up on the bed at night. Yes, I have to lift him.

-   He loves ranch dip.

-   He’s SCARED OF CLOWNS.

-   He does yoga poses.

-   He snores. Loudly.

-   I cook special treats for him for training: steak, chicken livers, roast chicken. When I give him one, he sniffs at it suspiciously. Curls his lip back, touches a tooth to it, lets it drop to the ground. Sniffs it some more. Sometimes he leaves it (roast beef, really??). Other times, in the absence of the royal taster he desires, he’ll think “mayhap I shall deign to try the foodstuff the peasant is offering” and will delicately eat it. Then the other day I idly picked up a bag of store-bought treats I had and offered him one. What did he do? Suddenly omg it was the HAPPIEST DAY EVER as he gleefully snatched it out of my hand, tossed it into the air, danced around in jubilation, then triumphantly pranced off with this oh-so-special of sacred treats. What was this treat you ask? A BEGGIN’ STRIP. No lie. Beggin’ Strips. I shake my head.

I’ve done some sleuthing, and have found out more about his background, from the original owner having him shipped from NYC, then him somehow winding up with this other person in Salem, him escaping and being on the lam back in April for almost 2 weeks and being hit by a car, then in the shelter, then with loony Salem person, then escaping again and her not getting him back and him being stuck in the shelter again.

 

I’m not surprised he’s slightly broken, wary, and highly suspicious. We’re kind of a perfect match that way.

I signed the adoption papers last Friday. 

That same day, I took a pic of him as he was going into the back foyer. When I looked at that picture later, I saw that Kone had given Kingsly his pawstamp of approval. A slightly goofy pawstamp to be sure – “Momma, I did the bests I could!” – but what else would it be? Message received, Mr. Handsomes, message received.

I believe HRH the Kone has just welcomed you to The Manor, little Kingsly.

Some of us surviving

Surgery day

I get up and dress like the badass warrior I am: socks that say “It’s a beautiful morning….don’t fuck it up” and my axe-throwing, rifle-snipering t-shirt that says “Do Epic Shit.” Awesome Friend Peg is driving me to surgery, and while I was nervous in the days leading up to it, now I just want to get this shit over with. I’ve also brought my usual brownies, as I do to every surgery. I figure, they haven’t killed me yet so obviously it’s working. Far be it from me to mess with success.

I’m disappointed that the bureaucrats at the hospital have deemed it necessary for people to wear hospital socks into surgery, the ones with the bumpies on the bottom, as if to say that people not slipping and falling and cracking their heads open is somehow more important than cool socks. Bah.  Dr. W. ,Surgeon to the Stars, bounces in and I insist on showing him my socks.

Me: See? “Don’t. Fuck. It. Up.”

Dr. W.: Hmm. I like those, but….

He takes them and folds them over so that only the “It’s a beautiful morning” part is visible. I look at him skeptically. I’m not sure my curmudgeonly self can truck with this kind of Pollyanna-ish nonsense, but on the other hand, he’s the guy with the scalpel. Robot. Whatever. I graciously let it slide.

Off to surgery! I always refuse Versed so that I can dazzle everyone with my witty banter, but for some reason, they always seem to put the mask on my face right away. Odd. Before I know it, I’m at the bottom of a well and someone is talking. “Blah blah…benign…lab…….test…..blah.” I gather that the Borg is in all likelihood benign but they send it to the lab for testing. Everyone is so damn nice at this hospital, but they kick me out later that day anyway. At least it’s not like the wayback hospital in my beloved Dodgeville, WI, that wanted to send me home when I had bleeding on the brain and a crushed collarbone after my bike crash.

“Oh look! She’s fine!”

I believe at that point I was offering everyone a teacake and insisting that I had Ironman in 3 weeks. Repeatedly. But yes, I was fine.

That night

Peg drives me home, and after a nap, I start looking for festivals I can attend the next day, also as per tradition. I’m doubtful there’s anything like the Polish Fest I went to in Chicago the day after my concurrent cancer/broken collarbone surgery, but perhaps an Oktoberfest? (I’ll note that I was on heavy psychotropic drugs at the time of my visit to Polish Fest, unlike my friend.) (*cough* Deanna *cough*)

Recovery

I can’t seem to find a local Oktoberfest or anything similar, and my disappointment is palpable. So instead, I decide I need to go pick up my foster dog in Salem – the almost-2-year-old very hyper bouncy pup who I had fostered before surgery. This seems logical.

Otherwise, well, I’ve had so many surgeries I could pass them out like cheap party favors, as I like to say. I’m sore, big deal. I’m back working the next day. I take a total of two oxy, one the night after surgery and one the next morning, and am done with them. Neighbor Laura brings me food, Awesome Carlyn sends me dinner by delivery service. Lab tests confirm that the Borg is benign. Fuck yes.

Final post-op appointment

Being back at the doctor’s office is a revelation, because everyone’s so damn happy. This is good, of course, but a bit different, until I remember oh yeah, this is an oncologist’s office. Where if things have the not-so-good outcome, you have ovarian cancer, which is brutish and cruel.  So hell yes, no cancer, let’s party! I’m contributing to the festivities because I brought Dr. W. a jar of boozy cherries and a jar of gin pickles. I even get to see a picture on his computer of the Borg!

Me: Wait, that huge thing, that’s it?

Dr. W.: Yep. Just took it right out. And I checked your liver too, looks good.

Me: Oh, it does look plump and happy!

Dr. W.: …….

Me: Anyway, I make boozy political jams, but if I don’t know people’s leanings, I give them the more neutral ones, like Boozy Cherry Bitterness or Slim Gin Pickins.

Dr. W.: Political ones would have been fine too! Anything to help deal with that goober who’s in office right now.

Now, normally I’d look askance at anyone who uses that kind of terminology in my presence, but I then realize the ingenuity of this approach, ie of using ridiculously innocuous words in certain circumstances, and appropriately salty language in others. People will be so shocked, you’ll be able to get away with anything. Nicely played, Dr. W., nicely played.

I also belatedly realize that yes, one probably can read between the lines to tell if a scan or appointment is good or bad (beyond the obvious grim faces and “so here’s a referral for a specialist”). Thinking back to my MRIs, the right hip one in Silverton and the rogue ones in Illinois:

Silverton MRI tech: You’re talking to your doctor about these right away, then?

Rogue MRI in IL tech: So you have an appointment with your doctor as soon as you get back, right?

Now that this saga is over, I’m trying to get back to the important things in life. That is to say, cycling. And the quest for Hot Cowboy. Or, as I described my vision to HockeyWhartonCraig:

“So far my tactic of riding my bike in the hinterlands until I have a mechanical and am winsomely standing by the side of the road and then a Hot Cowboy pulls up and says "Hey darlin', need some help?" and then his dog jumps out of his truck chasing after a jackrabbit and we go running after the dog and accidentally fall into a muddy pond and the Rage Cows gather around and stare at us like we're insane........well, it hasn't quite happened yet.”

Hope springs eternal.