Tuesday, December 15, 2015

14 teeth left

This sweater sparkles, when you look closely. A present from one of the lovely clinic techs. It's from our work x-mas party the weekend before Tiny Dog's Big Dental Day.

As vets, we are not immune to anxiety about our pets having surgery. I was banned from the treatment area of the clinic, to lessen my pacing. I knew she was in good hands, but the irrational mind is a powerful thing.

Post-op: 3 blankets, a sweater, a heated bed. That is one high and sad pup.

She started with 42 teeth when I got her. She's now had 3 dentals in 3 years. Her chart, below, shows this round's extractions: red are full extractions, blue are root extractions. The large open circles are teeth already gone. Chihuahua mouths are often bad, crowded, leading to rot, pain.

Thank you, Dr Beth!

She's worn out, on her way home. But she he rallied, danced for some sliced turkey. Wonderful!: the dental blocks (lidocaine into the gums, before teeth extracted, for pain). 

Next up for a dental is Wrennie, but I am not telling her yet.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

That time again: Hats!

She is not thrilled about the Season of Hats. And going out with her like this, I take on more of an air of an eccentric.

But it's all about thermoregulation and how her bat ears are not well adapted to cold weather.

She's not feeling great today, appetite off, but we went for a walk. The other chihuahuas insisted.

Then after, a triple sardine sun sandwich on the couch.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

The things we do, despite

Acupuncturing my friends' pitbull mixes: each has a needle on the top of their heads, for calming.
 Seasonally appropriate latte art.
 Light reflected on my bedroom wall from the sun through the trees.
Getting out the bathrobe in fall cold weather, Tiny Dog already in a sweater, now doubly warm.

We go on, despite great loss.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

76 years

After my father died last weekend, we stopped by his house. Tiny Dog loved my dad, loved to clean his nostrils, insisted on sitting on his lap.

She went up to his chair and loveseat and looked for him, looked confused. Where is the guy that lets me sit on his chest and calls me Chippy?

There is too much grief to write now. But bless Dad in how he always opened his heart to all my dogs over the years.

Here is a joint nap from July, Tiny Dog busy with nail care, happy in her proximity to Dad.

Monday, September 7, 2015

Respite from sweaters

A few weeks ago. Cold. Tiny Dog in a sweater, under the blanket, tucked into Wren's belly. Wren is always leery of the camera.

Now: 90's. Even the bat ears cannot disperse enough heat.

She gave up the princess bed, that Angela so nicely provided.

I am rummaging in my closet for an appropriate bag to put Tiny Dog in, so we can go for a bike ride. Sue and the three dogs are up north, and I just want Tiny Dog to go everywhere with me. She could not go to the cafe, nor Target yesterday. She's used to a pack; it was hard to leave her at home. She seems resigned when I tell her to stay, and burrows under a sheet, despite the heat.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

A card

This week, a busy one, was brightened by a handmade, hand delivered card from an 8 year old girl who has a few cats. It was for me, VET, which I was highly flattered.

 And Oh!


Mo, according to the mother, is doing just fine. Which the girl said, No, she's not! And the mom said again, She's fine.

Thankfully, Tiny Dog is all over her bout of pancreatitis, begging for food off us, which is very hard to resist, though we should!: dancing, stretching, sneezing, staring, twirling, all the while, the tail back up and happy, swishing like a fast metronome.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

A month skittering by

One trip to Lake Superior.
Three to St. Paul.
Tiny Dog gets pancreatitis, trigger unknown.
Sara gets a new dental filling, when part of her tooth falls off, trigger unknown.
And the prairie garden goes crazy in bloom, thick with monarchs.

Sky in Minneapolis

I share breakfast with Tiny Dog in Minneapolis

St. Paul sidewalk

St. Paul coffee shop, Nina's

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Reptiles as barometer

Last night we went to try out a new fancy bar, and some exuberant and friendly folks sat next to us.

One guy was actively gesturing and got to talking about when he worked in Louisiana. He was at a company meeting, he explained. As boardrooms can sometimes go, things got heated, and employees started to raise their voices and the conversations were about to boil over. A local guy who could no longer take it, slammed his hands down on the table, and said in a thick Cajun accent, A gator got your leg?

What?, they all said.

Does a GATOR GOT YOUR LEG? Then he stood up and left.

He thought they were arguing over things that did not warrant it. If it was as bad as a large reptile eating your limb, well then, yeah, complain.

So this is a good barometer for drama: use it accordingly.

And in the meantime, here is a small bit of utter joy to help with all the rest:



Wednesday, July 1, 2015

What sound feels like

It was noon, it became suddenly clear. Up on the hill of the dog park, the tornado sirens starting to wind up across the city, and we were near the park gate, about to get blasted. I hoofed it to the opposite side of the park as fast as I could, but each time the siren circled towards us, the whine was unbearable, it hurt my ears, my skin. 

The first time it came around, we were close to the siren, and Wren went down to the ground on her belly, ears back, eyes squinted tightly shut, in what looked like actual pain. She’s hypersensitive to the sound of spoons being placed back in the drawer; the siren was a full-fledged somatic assault.

By the time we got to the other side of the park, it was over and Wren sniffed in the grass, oblivious, thankfully.

I thought of her on Sunday when Tiny Dog and I got a ride behind two 1800 pound draft horses, named Tom and Henry, at my friends’ farm. The clang of the metal and squeak of the leather of the harnesses and cart, the racket of the bouncing seat—it would have been too much for Wren. For Tiny Dog, tucked in my left arm, my right hand on the rail for balance, she settled in. As we clopped through the fields, the only thing I felt worried about was the occasional low oak branch I had to block as we ducked under.

Getting unhitched, after. Moss, the farm dog, by their side.

Afterward, I needled Tom, for an intermittent bloody nose. I don’t usually do acupuncture or anything on horses, but he’s a gentle guy, and I had some good points for that nose.  

Look closely: there's a needle coming out from his nose. GV25, Su-liao, Tip of the Nose. For nasal congestion, nose bleeds.

Big day for everyone. 

Asleep in her cat bed in the car passenger seat.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

When everyone is taller

Today at the dog park, the girls got their wheels out, as Sue likes to say. Revved up and doing circles, smiling, low to the ground and turning back around for more.

They are apt to do this in the small dog section. Then we go out in the main park, where Georgie whines at approaching dogs, Wren tries to stay in the periphery, and Tiny Dog insists I carry her.

The view is better up there anyway. And here, she’s sleeping, it’s so comfortable. 

We passed a very old yellow lab who did not know she was old or that she had arthritis or that she had lar par (laryngeal paralysis), her exhale like Darth Vader. She gamboled along heaving her ribs, bunny hopping her legs out behind her. I think she thought she was a puppy. It was cool out, overcast, so she could really get going and not pass out from lack of oxygen.

Wren snapped at this dog because she was just too plain exuberant and the lab moved on, not perturbed at all.

Another, younger yellow lab thought George was a terrific thing to chase and G did not agree. Thankfully, this dog came when called off, and G sat by the gate, glaring.

All the while, Tiny Dog was riding high, sniffing the air, and getting cooed at by passing dog walkers. This suits her, lifted off the ground, able to see what’s coming and so relaxed she almost doesn’t care.

Monday, June 15, 2015

When you are small, you cannot eat directly off the counter (no matter how much you want this)

“I standing right here, right HERE,” Sue will exclaim, Atticus up on his back feet, head in the sink lapping up whatever soaking pot or post-dinner plate he may find there. He slowly gets down, no remorse each time, over the past three years he’s lived with us. None. He will even lick hot pans on the top of the stove. 

It’s infuriating.

Me on the porch, those eyes willing me to spill from my plate.

One cannot eat in peace in this house without an eye on the kitchen, so Sue installed this, made out of a street find, a discarded baby cradle:

If I eat in my breakfast chair facing the garden, I have eight eyes on me, plus an ample drooler. George shivers, Chibi and Wren try to get in my lap with pleading eyes and feet up on the edge of the chair, and Atticus heavy breathes just too damn close to my plate. 

They all want my plate (quesadilla). The drooling is starting on the big guy. That's my pink toe peeking out, cross-legged.

I have trained no one. But I will complain anyways.

I want them to intuit, and then remember, by repetition, that I do not want to give them any of my egg sandwich. Do crumbs fall to the floor? (Do I love naps? Same answer.)

Back UP.  

If they could get on the counter, the chihuas would be as happy as this octopus.

It's all about size, the food cruising advantage. The tiny ones would totally get in the sink or up on the stove to lick things, if they could.