I think I may have been adopted.
If you've been following my various travails, you might remember Miss Daisy (well, I call her DaisDMona, based on her vocal protestations every time you stop petting her). She and Lili are Mom's dogs, and we've been taking care of them while Mom's in Oregon. For the most part, Daisy has decided that she's my puppy to deal with, and Lili has sensibly chosen Roger, although they tend to switch back and forth, based on who currently has food or open lap space.
Anyway - yesterday, Rog and I had a "town day". We went to Roosevelt to meet my new doctor (and get prescriptions filled - yeah! It worked!) and run errands, but by the end of it all, I was hitting the wall, big time. Hard core wiped out, had a hard time just getting down the hall. Daisy was very good about applying oxytocin, though - stayed mostly in my lap, making sure I was ok. But then, during the night, about 3:30, she started shoving me and dancing on top of me, trying her best to wake me up. Turns out that I was having a low blood sugar episode, and somehow, the little darling knew that I needed to wake up and deal with it - just like Moose used to. I have no clue how she knew - but then I'm starting to get used to miracles occurring.
Anyway - I got up, ate, spent some time watching political tv while I could without inflicting it on anyone else and finally slipped back into bed about 6ish. She let me sleep until 9, but then she started a terrorism campaign to get me out of the bed - barking at me, dancing on top, shoving cold noses into my back... I finally gave in to her terrierist ways, got up - and she snuggled back under the covers and promptly went to sleep, as if her work here was done. Yep, she's definitely got some Moose in her.
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Thoughts on the shutdown
In almost every Government office, there's one person who is essential. It's not the one with the big office with the windows, although they are usually allowed to think they're the one. No, it's the survivor in the corner, the one who has been there forever (usually), who has seen everything and knows how to navigate around it. They know how to fix the latest computer mess-up (generally because they schmoozed the ones who installed it, and paid attention). They know who to call when the copier throws another fit. They know who to talk to in Finance to get the needed supplies approved sometime before the next ice age. How do you find them? Look for the person with the best chair - the chair that's ergonomic perfection, that's like sitting on a cloud.
Ok, you might say - why is this important, and what does it have to do with the shutdown? In general (and for very limited periods of time), you can actually keep an office running with just these people. Not for long, and not at top efficiency, but at least the lights will stay on and basic functions will continue. In previous shutdowns, these were considered "essential employees" - they were designated as such, and came in and worked without a paycheck. Mostly because they were invested in their jobs - it meant something to them that the job get done, as well as it could. Civic duty, and all that. But also because they were fairly confident, under the Clinton and Obama administrations, that at some point they'd be made whole.
As for this shutdown - I'm not as sanguine. For one thing, this administration has been leaking these employees like a sieve. They've been reassigning them to worthless positions, or canning them with no notice, or just making life miserable enough by preventing them from doing the job they signed up to do that they go ahead and put in their retirement papers. They've also been installing management idiots that wouldn't recognize genuine skills if they were whacked over the head with them. Then there's Mic Mulvaney - have you listened to this guy? Good luck getting paid back for that unpaid overtime from this schlub...
I'm just saying - I think this one is going to be painful. More painful than previous shutdowns, for both federal employees and for the general public.
Sincerely,
She who used to have a chair with a higher IQ than some congressmen
Ok, you might say - why is this important, and what does it have to do with the shutdown? In general (and for very limited periods of time), you can actually keep an office running with just these people. Not for long, and not at top efficiency, but at least the lights will stay on and basic functions will continue. In previous shutdowns, these were considered "essential employees" - they were designated as such, and came in and worked without a paycheck. Mostly because they were invested in their jobs - it meant something to them that the job get done, as well as it could. Civic duty, and all that. But also because they were fairly confident, under the Clinton and Obama administrations, that at some point they'd be made whole.
As for this shutdown - I'm not as sanguine. For one thing, this administration has been leaking these employees like a sieve. They've been reassigning them to worthless positions, or canning them with no notice, or just making life miserable enough by preventing them from doing the job they signed up to do that they go ahead and put in their retirement papers. They've also been installing management idiots that wouldn't recognize genuine skills if they were whacked over the head with them. Then there's Mic Mulvaney - have you listened to this guy? Good luck getting paid back for that unpaid overtime from this schlub...
I'm just saying - I think this one is going to be painful. More painful than previous shutdowns, for both federal employees and for the general public.
Sincerely,
She who used to have a chair with a higher IQ than some congressmen
Monday, January 15, 2018
Day 5 at the Ranch
The little girls cuddled briefly this morning, but since then have been staging a "not the mama" sit down strike out on the driveway, while Duke patrols the ranch, keeping out evil-doers. I'm not too worried - I have two main advantages over the girls. I have a knowledge of the refrigerator, and an opposable thumb. They'll come in when they're hungry.
It's definitely different here - Saturday night was family night, with lots of people, lots of dogs, and clay pigeon slaughter out in the backyard. One of the cousins was surprised that Roger knew how to shoot, and I had to remind her that he was in the Army - in fact he spent time in South Korea at Camp Gary Owen, among other places.
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Notes from the road: Steven King Meets Mayberry
On our trip, as we passed through the wilds of Eastern Oregon, we had just passed Baker City when Roger's gas light came on. We were a little worried because Ontario was still farther away than we wanted to try to press our luck, but fortunately, both GPS systems indicated that Huntington was within range, with both a Texaco and a Chevron, so we should be fine. First lesson - put not your faith in GPS systems.
We hit the turnoff for Huntington, and I started to get nervous - there were several suspiciously gas-station shaped buildings boarded up, and a general air of abandonment. Not to mention that there was low-lying fog, several mournful looking cows, trucks appearing from nowhere to pass us heading back to civilization... the only sign of habitation was a hand-lettered Truck Repair sign. Nevertheless, we followed the GPS coordinates - straight to a State Park. Not good.
We went back to the Truck Repair place and sent Daniel in to knock on the door - the red door. The only spot of color in an otherwise gray landscape. The perfectly nice man told us that we just needed to head on down the road a couple more miles - "It's right after the marijuana dispensary, you can't miss it", he said, going back to his odd-smelling barbeque (ok, I may be embellishing a little - but I swear, he looked like he owned a cleaver and knew what to do with it.)
So, we continued on, past barbed-wire fences, poles tilting toward the road as if something had escaped captivity, over the part of the road where it seemed to have been washed out, until suddenly...
The sun appeared, the weed store was on the left, there were white picket fences everywhere, and there was an honest-to-God Country Store, with one fuel pump and a lovely, helpful proprietress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Aunt May. We filled up the trucks, escaped with our lives and headed on down I-84... but I think I heard a deep chuckle behind us, as though we were allowed to leave as a warning to others.
We hit the turnoff for Huntington, and I started to get nervous - there were several suspiciously gas-station shaped buildings boarded up, and a general air of abandonment. Not to mention that there was low-lying fog, several mournful looking cows, trucks appearing from nowhere to pass us heading back to civilization... the only sign of habitation was a hand-lettered Truck Repair sign. Nevertheless, we followed the GPS coordinates - straight to a State Park. Not good.
We went back to the Truck Repair place and sent Daniel in to knock on the door - the red door. The only spot of color in an otherwise gray landscape. The perfectly nice man told us that we just needed to head on down the road a couple more miles - "It's right after the marijuana dispensary, you can't miss it", he said, going back to his odd-smelling barbeque (ok, I may be embellishing a little - but I swear, he looked like he owned a cleaver and knew what to do with it.)
So, we continued on, past barbed-wire fences, poles tilting toward the road as if something had escaped captivity, over the part of the road where it seemed to have been washed out, until suddenly...
The sun appeared, the weed store was on the left, there were white picket fences everywhere, and there was an honest-to-God Country Store, with one fuel pump and a lovely, helpful proprietress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Aunt May. We filled up the trucks, escaped with our lives and headed on down I-84... but I think I heard a deep chuckle behind us, as though we were allowed to leave as a warning to others.
Monday, January 8, 2018
Monday Mourning, Coming Down.
I want to say that mornings are the hardest... but then again, it's all pretty rough. However, our morning routine was so practiced, so absolute - it feels like every motion I go through is truncated, incomplete somehow.
First off - there's no one to nag me about spending too much time in the bathroom. I can sit there, reading to my heart's content, without the gradual escalation of first hearing his heavy breathing under the doorway, followed by a soft little "wuff", and then the heavy artillery - the low whine. The "I'm a poor abandoned orphan" whine. The whine that has everyone with any heart reaching for the phone to call the ASPCA. I could actually finish a WaPo article if I wanted to... I just don't have the interest anymore.
Then there's the chair. I have full occupancy of the chair now - I don't have to contort my body to make room for a furry comma to wrap itself around my body, settling at the hip. I can count out my various morning pills in peace, no wet little nose nudging my arm, trying for a few more ear skritches. God, I miss that warmth!
And typing... I can go ahead and type at full speed, not having to deploy my arms in a contortionist's pose around a rub-starved belly shoved between me and the keyboard. I just can't see what it is I'm typing because my eyes are swollen from too many tears.
I know - this is just the first couple of days, I'll get over it, I'll move on. Well, literally, I'm moving on - we leave for Utah tomorrow. But for today... God, I miss my boy.
First off - there's no one to nag me about spending too much time in the bathroom. I can sit there, reading to my heart's content, without the gradual escalation of first hearing his heavy breathing under the doorway, followed by a soft little "wuff", and then the heavy artillery - the low whine. The "I'm a poor abandoned orphan" whine. The whine that has everyone with any heart reaching for the phone to call the ASPCA. I could actually finish a WaPo article if I wanted to... I just don't have the interest anymore.
Then there's the chair. I have full occupancy of the chair now - I don't have to contort my body to make room for a furry comma to wrap itself around my body, settling at the hip. I can count out my various morning pills in peace, no wet little nose nudging my arm, trying for a few more ear skritches. God, I miss that warmth!
And typing... I can go ahead and type at full speed, not having to deploy my arms in a contortionist's pose around a rub-starved belly shoved between me and the keyboard. I just can't see what it is I'm typing because my eyes are swollen from too many tears.
I know - this is just the first couple of days, I'll get over it, I'll move on. Well, literally, I'm moving on - we leave for Utah tomorrow. But for today... God, I miss my boy.
Saturday, January 6, 2018
Too Many Ghosts In This House
I don't know how widows and widowers do it. How do they survive the first day? Hell, how do they survive the first hour? It feels like he's everywhere in this house - every time I go to do something, I get reminded that there should be a little furry tyrant dictating exactly how that thing should be done. Oh, right - I don't have to worry about leaving the bedroom door slightly open so that he can guard the house in the middle of the night anymore. I can go ahead and eat that last bite of sandwich - I don't need to appease the walking stomach. I can go to the bathroom now, secure in the knowledge that my own little Norman Bates won't be breathing his hot breath under the door, trying to lure me out of my sanctuary. I don't have to make sure there is a clear path across the couch to my chair... hell, I don't have to deploy his favorite blanket across my lap the minute I sit down. I'm never again going to be ruled by his loving demands...
God, I've got to stop crying! I'm making myself sick from dehydration, and I can't afford to be sick right now. We're moving on Tuesday, and I've never been more certain of the need to move - I can't stay in this house where every single piece of furniture reminds me of my little furry shadow. 13 years we were together... a quarter of my lifetime. Not nearly long enough. Never long enough.
God, I've got to stop crying! I'm making myself sick from dehydration, and I can't afford to be sick right now. We're moving on Tuesday, and I've never been more certain of the need to move - I can't stay in this house where every single piece of furniture reminds me of my little furry shadow. 13 years we were together... a quarter of my lifetime. Not nearly long enough. Never long enough.
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