Shit Happens...

I'm supposed to be here partying with Ted Kennedy and my "friends in high places":




Instead, I'm here (I have no idea what the "Emo" reference in this illustration means, so let's just pretend it says "Memo," since the rest of the drawing is tragically accurate, except there should be three dogs spewing shit on me instead of one. Being the luckiest bitch on earth, only the puppy was spewing vomit):


I thought the exploding asses were due to the fact that Mama was packing up the truck on Wednesday morning. Having evil geniuses for dogs, you learn that they'll try just about anything to keep Mama from leaving. They see suitcases, and they freak out and behave like rotten little brats. Evidently, life is no fun without me around, so they plot against me and cut their paws open deliberately or fake limp around the house with their sad eyes following my every move. This time, they pulled out all the stops and, well, you know already.


As it's been explained to me by two vets and four vet techs and Google and my trusty vet dictionary that helps me diagnose every single dog illness, it all started when Rebel (name a dog Rebel, and what do you expect) went on his morning jaunt and ate some rabbit shit or raccoon shit or whatever delectable appetizer was on the menu in our Backyard Wilderness Restaurant. Who knows what he ate, but the joke was on him or should I say me, because someone's shit contained these kinda cute flagellated protozaol parasites, a/k/a Giardia intestinalis trophozoites.




I love their frowny little faces. Don't you? Anyway, they took over his body, and like a snot-nosed little kid who can't wipe his butt correctly and then doesn't wash his paws correctly, he passed it on to Mojo, and they both passed it on to Stella, the pup. She got really, really sick late Wednesday night. We thought she was dying, had maybe eaten a stick or a Lego and now she needed surgery. After staying up with her all night, dressed and ready to head off to Thieves University School of Veterinary Medicine to drop a minimum of $2,500, which I avoided by having her lick ice cubes to stay hydrated, thank you very much, I ended up spending a mere $350 at our regular vet yesterday morning. Of course, I'm not happy about the 350, but seriously, the emergency visit to Tufts at 1 AM would have been at least five times that. It always is.


She got a shot to stop her vomiting, and I was told that Giardia has moved in for the weekend. No Cape of Cod for me. No stalking the Kennedys for me. No clam chowder that I've been dreaming about for days. Instead, I get to be on toxic shit patrol, which means trying to pick up all the piles that have been rained on non-stop for a week, disinfect the grass and, most importantly, bathe all three dogs after they finish their meds on Saturday.



Oh, did I mention that these loverly little parasites can be transmitted to humans? I must have blocked that little tidbit out of my brain for a second. Silly me. Since the threat of massive diarrhea hasn't kept the boy from sticking his face right in the dogs' faces, things could get a bit more interesting around here. Can you imagine a better holiday weekend? No? Me either.


I've told you before how awesome my mother is, but just in case you didn't believe me, I'll tell you that she offered to do all of this toxic clean-up from three dogs so that we could head off to the traffic capital of the world for our annual Fourth pilgrimage with our great friends Penelope and Skipper. Now, I may be a self-absorbed bitch of a person, but I'm not pathetic enough to dump that kind of mess on a 73-year old woman just so I can go party at the ocean, even if it might be the last summer I can talk big Ted into making me an honorary Kennedy before he writes his final will and testament.


Ahh, don't cry for me, Blogentinaaaaa (I know you're really laughing at me). The truth is I'm not all that upset right now. I've accepted that shit happens and plans have to change, especially when you have kids or animals. I'm mostly pissed at my usual procrastinating self for going against my tried and true wait til the last minute ways and packing up my entire truck Wednesday morning so we could leave early on Thursday. Every single thing is packed, except my makeup, and the truck is sitting out in the driveway waiting for me to unpack it all. I will never pack early again! Procrastination is the key to survival.



Of course, yesterday our son was devastated, because he expected to be at the ocean with his best friends, but the husband might take him later today after work; although, they're both saying they won't have any fun without me there. Awwww. Yeah, right. I'm really not that much fun, REALLY. My "kids" just like to have me around to feed them and clean up after them.


What will I do on the Fourth all by myself, you ask? Well, after I bathe all three dogs and disinfect the grass, I've got parties to attend. See, I've got friends with waterfront property all over New England, friends who have parties on the Fourth. There won't be a boat parade with the Kennedys, and there won't be huge fireworks displays over the harbor, but I'll be able to get drunk and obnoxious on our friends' deck while their neighbors have the annual fireworks showdown over the lake.



I so love bellowing, "Is that all you've got" across the lake at the Podunkians. Neighbor guys with fireworks is like a Who's Got The Biggest Dick competition, and I've been known to get a tad bit carried away with my cheers and jeers. Hey, I don't have to live there. I just get to cause trouble and go home to my toxic paradise on the hill.



The "kids," the trophozoites and I wish you a wonderful, parasite-free holiday weekend!