I woke up this morning to the grind of a wood chipper, and the whine of a bucket truck as it began the laborious task of removing the giant Oak tree in front of my house. This hunk of wood was so flatlined that ants had invaded it (and my home; Raid’s stock price rose simply because of me), and it looked like something out of a movie.
You know the one – the old gnarled DEAD tree in front of the spooky haunted house.
Imagine all these mechanical noises overlapping my hangover, compliments of the Cash-A-Thon the night before. Pulling my dehydrated heiney out of bed, I realized I had about twenty minutes to get Folly to the vet.
First I peed. Then I took foster dogs Snickers and Dragon outside. Then I fed them. Then I raced back upstairs, donned clothing with appropriate undergarments, smoothed out the fuzz and pulled my hair back in a clip.
Then I had the joy of carrying 50 lb Folly down the stairs.
Took her out and then hustled her in the car.
Then I realized my purse was in the other car now being driven by my SO because greyhounds aren’t allowed on leather.
Fortunately a set of keys was hanging on the fridge (don’t ask)
Then I realized my wallet was in my purse – in the other car.
Christ on a Cracker.
So I grabbed the checkbook and headed out. And forgot my Gatorade. Fuck.
For those of you not following along, Folly suffered some sort of injury over Memorial Day weekend and her leg swelled up like a club. After $700 in vet bills, we still have no diagnosis. She recovered for a time and then began limping again. So I’ve been running her to the vet every couple of weeks for the past, oh I dunno, month or so. We have lab work, we have meds, we have poking and prodding. What we don’t have is a diagnosis.
Lovely Dr. Adkins wanted to take x-rays. While Folly was gone, I sent a few text messages and leafed through ancient copies of National Geographic Magazine. Seriously, one was from 2001, and the other from 1992.
During this lull, “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne began playing in some part of the building.
And two separate groups of elderly folks came in to the waiting room with their respectively portly dauschounds. One brindle with an errant stitch and one little red oompa-loompa named Amber.
I grew up with Doxies so I sorta love ’em.
Sitting alone in the exam room with olive green tile and copies of “Bird Talk” (my other option beside NG), my friend Frankie Garisto from American Dog texts me in response to news I was at the vet:
Responsible pet owner or are you getting spayed?
Finally Dr. Adkins returns, telling me that Folly is in too much pain so they want to shoot her up with heroin (obstensively) to “take the edge off” and sedate her enough so they can move her into position for the x-rays. This will, obviously, take some time.
So I drive home.
The tree people are gone. But so is my tree.
I sit down at the computer to begin wading through my email. I throw pizza rolls in the oven (Yes, I’m a grown woman and one of my dietary staples are pizza rolls – what of it?). I chug a pepsi (hangover). I manage to shower.
After a phone call from Dr. Adkins, I sprint out the door again to retrieve my pooch and see the resultant X-rays. Yes, there’s strange occlusion on the leg she’s favoring but we don’t know what. She wants to send it out to be read by “experts”. Sure. She took a sample of fluid from the inflammation on the inside of her flank, revealing spindly-shaped cells. She wants to send that out too. Fine.
Folly is so stoned that Dr. Adkins and a vet tech carry her to the car. Her ears are off-kilter, her facial fur is all rumpled, her eyes are half-closed and as we drive home, she is actually drooling.
We pull into the garage and in an homage to Russell from “almost famous”, Folly says “I am a Golden Goddess!” springs from the open car door and proceeds to crumple in a heap on the concrete floor.
“Just stay!” I order. She does.
I grab a towel, help her up and thread it under her belly, taking much of the stress off her back limbs. She’s so under the influence that I have to keep pointing her snout in the direction I want her to hop or else she’s veering into furniture.
Finally I get her into her bed in the office where she spends the rest of the evening. Meanwhile, Dr. Adkins has upped her daily dose of Tramadol to get her through the weekend until the tests come back.
At least we’re no longer the neighbors with the ugly dead tree in the front yard.