Holy hell, it's been awhile. Yeah I know I completely spaced, and I'm sure you all have missed my odd ramblings and rants. This week has been full of activity, none of which included writing, so to make up for it I'm posting on a Saturday, something I never like to do but stories are starting to back-up on me like bran in a muffin. Or does that make you go? Oh well, sorry to be gross, but then again, gross is the topic at hand.
WARNING- Do not read ahead if you have eaten, are eating, or about to eat OR are easily queasy.
As some of you may recall I've been dealing with a bothersome rash that appeared only on the right side of my body. Well, it's been spreading. I noticed a few more bumps around the original area, and now there are some on my ankles, on my leg, my back, even one on my cheek (and I don't mean on my face...). Luckily these are easily hidden-not some much the case for the three on my arm.
I try like hell not to scratch, especially at work. I really would prefer to not have people walk by and see me scratch myself, wondering what the hell I have. So I slather on the Cortaid (thanks again, Mrs. G!), which does soothe it enough so I don't notice. But every once in a while, something will graze the surface of my skin (a desk, a door, my jeans) and suddenly the itch is ignited furiously. I feel like a torture victim, trying to will away the urge to grab a piece of paper, a pen cap, even the little "innovation" toy the company gave us (with the perfect little sharp edges) and scratch myself into oblivion. You ever see that episode of Friends when Pheobe and her boyfriend get chicken pox and she tries to scratch herself with the Monopoly pieces?...I understand her character's pain.
Instead I just try to pretend I'm crossing my leg over my lap or stretching so that I can satisfy the smallest amount of scratching relief. Even still, I worry my coworkers are going to glance over and catch on, so instead I just go into the bathroom and hide like someone sneaking a smoke, where I can scratch to my heart's content.
So on Tuesday I was coming right home, something I hadn't done for a few days since Joe's truck broke down and we had been sharing my car, but his friend/bandmate Dyl was picking him up from work. I was all set to make some dinner, go for a nice jog, come home, light some candles, put on some Barry White, and scratch myself to death. I never once suspected the horror I was about to be faced with.
Now, let me explain that Georgia has been doing better and better at being left home alone. She only whines and barks a little when we first leave, and she holds her little bladder until we get home. Only occasionally, when she just can't hold it anymore, does she have an accident. But nothing, NOTHING has come close to this...(also, Joe's parents were coming for an overnight visit, and being the spaz that I am I had wanted to clean the place top to bottom, even though they were only coming for the night. But really, the place wasn't in shambles, so I figured a good hour of cleaning should do it...)
I open to door and am met with the stench of death and misery. Georgia hops off the sofa and as I come in further is see the carnage. A cow-patty sized (and color) pile of vomit on the floor. Coming in closer I see another, this one more orange-reddish and on the rug. Then I see another brown pile. I face the sofa and on the small square rug I spot two fresh urine stains. I go carefully into the kitchen to see another brown pile of vomit, followed by a few chunks of poop by the door. I was flabbergasted.
I quickly ushered her outside and grabbed my phone to inform Joe. As I did that I noticed Georgia eating something else and realized it was the bits of old food that were coming through the hole in the garbage bag in the trash can. I shooed her away and let her drink water instead, waiting for Joe to pick up the phone. When he did, I could barely suppress my frustration.
"You know all those brownie points she got for not messing in the house?? She just cashed them in!", I said.
"Uh, oh, what did she do?" he said.
I startled prattling on about all her various excrement littering the house. He let me go on and then said finally, "Well, leave me something to clean up."
"No," I bit back, "there's no point, I'll just clean it all up, don't worry about it." He said he'd be home around 8 and that they'd probably end early. Still, I knew he would be exhausted by then, and besides I wanted it to be cleaned up right away anyway. Truthfully, it didn't take all that long, it was more just the drudgery of it.
When I had cleaned up all the piles of vomit and poop, I decided to still try and take the dog for a jog, hoping whatever was left in her system that was making her sick would be cleaned out thoroughly with a little exercise. Thinking back on it now, it probably was minor animal cruelty. Imagine you had been sick all day- would you want someone yanking you along for a freaking jog? Sure enough, as we made it to the top of a hill she began wheezing and then threw up whatever she had been eating from the garbage right onto the pavement.
I cut it short and instead we walked the rest of the way. Finally at home, she drank lots of water and played outside while I cleaned. Afterwards I let her back in and she seemed fine. At around 8 Joe and Dyl showed up and Georgia got up from the couch and puked again, right on the rug, right after I had JUST scrubbed the damn thing clean! They left again, and I still monitored her, to make sure she was ok and had lots of water. That night Joe and I were awoken numerous times by the sounds of the poor dog heaving. I had resolved that if she hadn't improved by the morning I would call the vet's office.
Thankfully, she woke up with an appetite and ate her food right after away (something she hasn't been doing at all lately). And I am happy to report that whatever her stomach ailment was has gone away. She's back to frolicking in the yard, chasing squirrels, and playing with her toys.
I, on the other hand, continue to look at sharp objects as possible scratching tools for these odd bumps. Oh, well. You can't win 'em all.
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