Adventures on the High Sea

And by "high sea" I of course mean "snow-covered Midwestern prairie."

*sound of disgust*

I hate the Midwest. I lived in Omaha for a year and that was more than enough for me. It's too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, and too windy all year round. It's like hell without the impish demon minions.

I endured a 10-hour drive (I made it in 9 hours because I might have been exceeding the speed limit a little bit) to meet my ex-hubby Chris and his girlfriend in North Platte, Nebraska.

Yes, it's just as podunk as you imagine.

It was not a social call. While delightful people both, our meeting wasn't just for funsies. Constant Readers may recall prior posts about my dog Sophie's poopy problems. In a nutshell, she gets diarrhea very easily. I used to think that it was triggered by unfamiliar foodstuffs, but after making many diet changes, taking away all extraneous treats and ingestible items (including her doggy toothpaste), and feeding her medications, she would still get diarrhea. It was a fun cycle. Three or four days of solid doodoo, three or four days of squishy poops, and so on and so forth.

Last summer, I took Sophie to the vet regarding her diarrhea. I was given new food, antibiotics, and instructions to de-stress the dog's life as much as possible. The antibiotics and new food did the trick, and she was (mostly) diarrhea free for months.

And then Camille happened.

After Camille was born, Sophie's diarrhea came back with a vengeance. This is when the 3-4 day cycle began. Every 2 hours or so, Sophie would have to be taken outside to poop. All day. All night. So I'd be up feeding the baby, and then get up and take Sophie out to poop. I basically wouldn't get any sleep. But it was OK. I didn't have anything pressing to do during the day, so I could catch catnaps while Jake was at work or school. No biggie.

I systematically phased out all of Sophie's edibles with the exception of her food (which is medicated sensitive stomach food and probably about the mildest thing I could feed her). I had hopes to find the offending food item that was giving her diarrhea. After I took away all her treats and her toothpaste and she still had diarrhea, I started to wonder if maybe it wasn't a food issue.

After much pondering, I determined that Sophie was stressed. She's always had sensitive feelings. When she would be naughty as a puppy, if we yelled at her as punishment, she would sulk and mope so much it was like we told her that Christmas was cancelled. She's always been very eager to please and will put herself in the corner if she believes she's done something wrong.

Touchy-feely.

I think she was super stressed about Camille. Sophie was always an only child (with the exception of Hannibal the kitteh but she loved him soooooo much) so she was used to getting all the attention. When Camille was born, Sophie didn't get all the attention anymore.

Sophie was never aggressive toward Camille in any way. She showed nothing but love and a desire to lick. She is, after all, a nanny dog.

If you're a pit bull hater, get off my blog and go punch yourself in the groin.

Prolonged stress is bad for people and dogs both (probably cats, too), and I didn't want her to sustain damage from long-term exposure to elevated stress levels. Also, I was tired of walking her around in the middle of the freezing night and/or scraping poop and vomit up off the carpet.

So I called Chris and asked if he was willing to take her. He told me when we separated that if I ever found myself in a situation where I couldn't keep Sophie, to please let him take her rather than giving her to strangers (I'd have to be dead before Sophie would find herself at the animal shelter). He said of course he could take her, and we arranged to meet at the midway point between our residences.

North Platte, Nebraska. Weak.

We met, we ate Mexican food, I showcased Sophie's new tricks since Chris had last seen her (roll over, sit pretty, and high five), and we went to bed around 11 just as it started snowing. The next morning we had breakfast together and then went our separate ways.

I only cried a little.

OK, that was a lie.

When I got home today, I walked in the apartment and was struck by her absence. There are no dog toys strewn about. There are no dog blankets by the window where she used to sit and people-watch. Her house (crate) is gone, and the empty spot is about as noticeable as a hole punched through the wall.

I don't have to get up tonight to take her for poop walks. I don't have to get up and take her to pee in the morning. I don't have to worry that she's has an accident on the floor. But I also don't have her here to hug (even though you can tell she doesn't like being hugged, but she deals with it), or pet, and Jake has no one to fart on.

I guess I'll started petting Jake. He's not allowed to start farting on me.

I love you, Sophie. I miss you.

The Diarrhea Chronicles - Volume 2

Longtime readers may recall a post I wrote several months ago chronicling my dog's intense and explosive diarrhea.

Well, the diarrhea has returned. But this time, I'm not simply pregnant getting up at all hours of the night to walk around in the snow so Sophie can pee out of her butt (yes, that's what it looks like); I'm the sleep-deprived mother of a breastfed two-month-old infant AND I'm getting up at all hours of the night to walk around in the snow, etc. On top of all that, Jake and I both have the flu or something flu-esque. It's on the decline, but getting no more than an hour at a time of sleep at night isn't going to help any.

Jake gets up sometimes to take her out, but he doesn't even hear her pathetic little poo-cry in the middle of the night, and I do. The only time I wake him up to let her out is if she happens to whine when I'm feeding Camille. I can't exactly tell Camille to hold on for a minute, mommy has to take the dog out to crap. And Sophie is potty trained, but we all know that no matter how powerful your sphincter is, diarrhea bad enough can overcome. She can hold it for a good long time, but will eventually reach a bursting point. I'd rather not have to scrub that burst up off the carpet, so I wake Jake up and he takes her out.

To top it off, this round of diarrhea is accompanied by vomiting. The cure for the diarrhea last time was a week's worth of antibiotics from the vet and a change to medicated sensitive-tummy dog food. She's still eating the medicated stuff, and has diarrhea anyway. I don't know how much more medicated we can get before she's just eating a handful of pills for breakfast. I made an appointment with the vet for tomorrow (I needed to go get more heartworm medication, anyway), but I don't know what to hope for this time.

We determined last time that Sophie's intestinal upsets had been triggered by the drive from Florida to Utah in January. The stress of the move caused diarrhea, and she got a bout of bad bacteria in her gut, which caused further diarrhea beyond the stress-caused kind. The antibiotics fixed the bad bacteria, some probiotics helped good bacteria grow back, and the switch to gentler dog food helped her sensitive tummy resist future bad bacteria outbreaks. It was all fine for a while, too, but now... Now, I have to let her out every 2-3 hours or she'll poop on the floor (twice, and right next to the Christmas tree).

I suspect that her diarrhea is stress-induced once more, and that the stress-causing agent is Camille.

Dun dun DUNNNNN

Unfortunately for Sophie, I can't get rid of her stressor this time. Also unfortunately for Sophie, I can't afford to keep taking her to the vet. I also can't keep waking up at night (more than I already am) and taking her out to poop. I can keep cleaning poo off the carpet, but I choose not to.

The vet will probably give us the same antibiotics as last time, and I hope they work. If the pills don't work, Sophie is doomed to a life of diaper-wearing.

Six Weeks

Jesus tap-dancing Christ!

It's already been six weeks since Camille was born. Insanity!

But this blog post isn't about Camille (WTF?!); it's about me. Because six weeks is relatively unimportant for her in regards to me recording her progress in life, but it is important in regards to my recovery from labor.

I am now officially not "postpartum" anymore, and if we don't consider the minor baby-blues freakout that I endured for the first two-ish weeks, I managed to make it out of the postpartum period without experiencing Postpartum Depression or Psychosis (Tanya, I don't need to hear any cracks from you about non-Postpartum-related psychosis, thankyouverymucho).

I have my six-week checkup at the doc's tomorrow, and I'm sure it's going to pretty much be him saying, "You look great, cute baby, see you next time you engage in unprotected sexytime!"

Once I get the go-ahead from him, the real pain begins. And by that, I mean it's time to start working out again.

It's not a lady; it's a man with boobies!

My workout of choice is a nice long run. Which is strange considering I have the worst knees of all time. But running makes them feel better. True story. This winter, Jake and I are also going to give Nordic skiing a whirl.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Nordic skiing, let me pose one query: are you familiar with Nordic Track?

That thing she's doing with her feet - sliding them back and forth - is basically the same movement you do with Nordic skiing. If you've gone Alpine (downhill) skiing before, you've no doubt had to traverse level ground in those skis, and you know that shuffling forward (in my case, backwards) at an agonizingly slow pace is the only way to Alpine ski on level ground. But Nordic skis allow your heel to come up, so it's easier to push your foot and the ski forward, so you don't slide backwards like I do.

Apparently, Nordic skiing is a helluva workout. And I need a helluva workout, because I'm not exactly super-sexy right now. But I will be (marginally sexy, anyway)! In March, Jake and I are taking a vacay to see my fambly in Florida, and I fully intend on hitting the beach with Camilleworm. But I used to watch the old fat pale Snowbird tourists like crazy when I was in high school, and I got grossed out when I saw them rolling up and down the beach. I still do. If you're over 80, or if your diet consists entirely of Twinkies and Big Macs, you probably don't need to be wearing a g-string bikini while in the line of sight of other humans.

Yowza.

My point, before I went on my short fat-person rant right there, was that I don't want to be one of those people who I used to get grossed out by. I'm not sure I'll be able to do much about my Steves (stretch marks, for those of you who didn't read my blog pertaining to them), but I certainly will be able to do something about my jiggles.

I went on a walk this morning with Sophie and Camille, because Sophie is such an awesome dog, and I wanted to reward her. She loves food and treats, but she loves walks even more. So a-walking we did go. Three miles. Pushing a stroller is a breeze unless it's uphill for three miles. I rewarded myself with Cadbury chocolate when I got home. Don't judge me!

Camille and Sophie

I spent some time tonight letting the baby and the doggy get acquainted!

Action shot of some licking.

Blanket-sniffer.

My favorite picture!

Sophie was getting too excited, so she got yelled at and she started pouting.

Camille's "Oohhh doggy's in troouubbleeee" face.

Shhh Baby Sleepin'

I think I'm starting to get used to this whole baby thing. I don't freak out every time she squeaks anymore, which is an improvement. I actually got to brush my teeth before noon today... hooray!

On the other hand, my house is kind of in disarray. I need to do laundry... BAD. Fish tank is still clean-ish, but the water needs to be changed soon. And the dog... poor Sophie. She gets a potty walk in the morning and at night, but I just don't have the energy to take her on a long walk yet. Yet. I will. But I figure, I only have time to go to the bathroom two or three times a day, and she doesn't get more potty time than I do!

Oh yeah, I have the best husband of all time, for a million reasons. I won't brag. But yeah. He's the best.

I'm kind of stressing a little, because my boobs don't seem as full as they were last week. Last week, I felt like a dairy cow. Now, the milk has slowed. I try to pump at least one bottle a day in addition to what Camille eats, and it seems like it's getting a lot harder to fill the bottles up. But I guess the more I pump, the more milk will be produced. That's what they say, anyway.

Speaking of Sophie, she's doing great with Camille. When I put Camille in her swing or bassinet or on the couch, Sophie is usually there sniffing Camille's feet or hair, tail wagging. She hasn't been too overexcited, which is cool, because I was expecting her to totally flip out.

Urp, the Beast stirs!

It's a WTF Kind of Day

In early June some time (I forget the actual day), my mom ordered a crib mattress cover sheet and a crib mattress for me. The crib mattress is a really nice one! I've been stoked to get it and put it in the crib and poke it several times a day.

The crib sheet got here within a week of her ordering.

The crib mattress still has not arrived.

So I was talking to my mom last night, and I mentioned to her that the mattress still hadn't arrived. She assured me that she would check with Amazon.com, whom she had ordered it from, and would see what's going on with it.

She called me this morning and said that, according to Amazon, I had received and signed for the mattress on June 19th. Umm... yeah, no. I certainly did not. I thought maybe it was delivered to my apartment when I wasn't here, so the delivery person took it to our apartment's office. They usually leave a note on your door saying that you received a package, but I never had one there. Maybe, I reasoned, the note fell off or the guy forgot to put one on my door or something, and the mattress is still sitting in the office. Since no one is there on Sundays, I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see if that's the case. Meanwhile, my mom is about to get medieval on Amazon's ass.

So that was my first WTF moment of the day. My mom called just as I was saddling Sophie up for her walk. I make her wear a doggy backpack so that if she poops, she can carry the stinky poo bag until we find a garbage receptacle.

Sophie hates her backpack

I decided not to let this unsavory news ruin my day, so I proceeded to take Sophie on the walk. I decided that today, I would take my empty refillable gallon water jug down to the grocery store (which is like a mile away), refill it in the water machine outside, and then walk back home. Water only weighs 8lbs per gallon, and I brought my backpack to put it in, so it wasn't hard to carry or anything. I kind of felt like some native in a jungle somewhere, balancing my water jug on my head, going down to the river to refill and probably contract dysentery. Only without the dysentery (hopefully).

On the way down to the store, I passed a U-Haul truck. They all have those little "Did You Know?" tidbits on the side, and being the nerd for stupid useless info that I am, I was trying to read the fact and walk at the same time. Something about the only city in North America that's surrounded by a wall. I didn't get to read which city it was because I stepped on an uneven part of the sidewalk and twisted my ankle. This uneven part of the sidewalk happens to be in front of a church, and it being Sunday morning, there were several hordes of people entering the church, and they all saw me trip and almost fall and then limp away. I'd also like to report that no one offered any help. Thanks, fuckers!

So I limped down to the store to refill my water, and there was a sign on the machine that said, "I work now!" And I thought, "This does not bode well." And it didn't. It worked, kind of, but I ended up with a water jug that had probably 5/6th of a gallon INSIDE and 1/6th of a gallon OUTSIDE, and a wet backpack and shirt. Sigh.

I limped home. I took a different route into my building than I took out, and I saw a nice pile of half-cleaned vomit on the floor. The college kids on the third floor had a party, it seems! I heard them stomping around last night, but none of the usual screaming and loud music. I have the apartment complex security people on speed-dial, just so you know. Sophie tried to eat the vomit, and fortunately, I stopped her before she did.

In my apartment, I unsaddled Sophie and myself, fed her, put the water in the fridge, and then tried to figure out what I want for breakfast. I've been having a hard time breathing lately, so eating has become extremely uncomfortable.

I'm pretty sure the breathing difficulty is happening because the Beast is using my lungs as back support while s/he kicks the bejesus out of my abdominal cavity. The kicking is so hard that it hurts now. And not just like, "Oh, that was uncomfortable," but like, "FUCK I THINK I JUST GOT SHANKED!"

Also, the Beast apparently disapproves of me eating anything at all, and will punch me in the stomach so hard that my stomach will try to eject the food out the way it came in. It's not barfing, exactly, more like reflux. It feels wonderful to eat something and then burp 15 minutes later and have half of what you just ate try to escape out of your mouth. I lied. It's not wonderful at all.

So that's my Sunday so far. All that occurred before 10am. And I still have to clean the fish tank, do my laundry, and tidy up for when my dad gets here on Wednesday. Standby for blog post regarding a spilled bucket of shitty fish water, or an exploding washing machine.

I Overdid It

So yesterday, I cleaned my house. I really cleaned my house. I inherited neat freakness from my mom, and it all came out in one tremendous surge all day yesterday. I usually clean every Sunday, and do a deep clean once a month; however, I've been slacking lately on my weekly cleaning sessions. I still manage to change the water in the fish tank and tend my jalapeños, but vacuuming and scrubbing the toilets and that kind of thing had fallen by the wayside.

It all started with Sophie. It was heartworm pill and flea medicine day, and whenever it's flea day, it's also bath day. I bathe her first, dry her as much as I can with a towel, put flea meds on her, and then give her the heartworm pill. She likes the pill, but she hates the flea liquid. I guess it's probably that feeling of something wet dripping down her back that she dislikes. Whatever the reason, her normal routine after bath/flea time is to run around the house like a maniac and then slide around on the floor on her back, trying to get the flea medicine off.

Like this:

To prevent this, I'll take her for an hour-long walk afterward; this air-dries her and also gives the flea medicine time to soak in and dry.

So, a-walkin' we did go, and she loved it, and it was good for me. Yay.

When we got back, I noticed a wet spot on the couch. I sniffed it, as I do with all mysterious wet spots around the house, and it smelled vaguely chemical. I determined that Sophie must have brushed up against the couch and gotten her flea medicine on it, and I started to freak out. I didn't know how badly that stuff would stain our couch, so I tried to blot it off. Didn't work. The next logical step, of course, was to strip the cover off of the couch cushion and hand-wash that spot. And I did.

When I was disassembling the couch, I noticed that there were surprises under the cushions. So I vacuumed them up. Then I wondered what would be under the couch itself, so I moved it and vacuumed there. Then I vacuumed the living room. Then I dusted. Then I moved into another room, and another, and upstairs, and so on. Five hours later, I felt that I should stop.

Up side: the house is super clean. Whee!

Down side: I think my back is on strike.

I could barely roll out of bed this morning. My back hurts soooo bad. I might not get around to my normal Sunday routine things (which is pretty much only aquarium maintenance today). I tried to take Sophie for a walk, but it hurt too much. It kinda looks like rain anyway, though, so... meh.

Oh! Last night, I was trying to do a kick count but the Beast was sleeping or meditating or something. So I was poking myself in the belly to antagonize the Beast into moving, and s/he started kicking back at where I was poking. HARD! I got it on video!

The kicking starts around 9 seconds in. It made me think of that part in "Alien" where the baby alien came screaming out of that guy's chest.

Gonna Kill the Dog

I posted previously about how adorable and wonderful my dog, Sophie, is. However, some days, I want to kill her, or at the very least throw her out a window.

Today is one of those days.

She won't eat. I put food in her bowl this morning, and it's still there. It's almost dinner time! She walked over, sniffed it, and then walked over to me and started whining. I want to scream, "WHAT?! Do you know how expensive that food is?? It's some of the best food on the market! EAT IT!!!!!!"

I told her to go away, and she did. She's now sitting in the living room, pouting, whining pathetically. I took her out to potty about an hour ago, so I know she doesn't have to do that. She has food in her bowl. She is surrounded by toys. I don't know what her deal is.

I thought briefly about taking her for a walk, but it's too hot. I'd be dead before we crossed the street. Sophie doesn't like the heat, either. There's a little enclosed dog area in our apartment complex, but there's no shade over there and it's full of shit piles because people let their dogs dump in there and don't clean it up. I used to, but it's really hard to bend over now, so I just pick up my own dog's dumps.

I'm worried, too, that her lack of appetite means that her diarrhea is coming back. Refer to my blog titled The Diarrhea Chronicles: Volume 1 if you want to know more about the explosive nature of my dog's rectum. In a nutshell, when she gets an upset tummy, it results in me cleaning dog shit off of everything for hours at a time. I do not enjoy this.

I imagine this is good practice for later, when I have a willful child that refuses to eat what I serve him or her. Is it against the law to just crank open your kid's face and mash food in there until they've consumed a serving? It is? Damn.

The Diarrhea Chronicles - Volume 1

Not MY diarrhea... the dog's diarrhea.

I'm currently pregnant with my first human baby, but I've had a fur-baby for a little over three years now.

Her name is Sophie. She's a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. I got her from a breeder in the UK when she was 8 weeks old, and she just turned 3 in March. She's a generally well-behaved dog; a little whiny, but apparently, that's a Staffy thing that they all do.

So anyway, I'm posting about Sophie because ever since I moved to SLC, she's had horrible, chronic, explosive diarrhea. It. Is. Awful. She's always had a sensitive tummy, and I kept it under control by always feeding her the same food and the same treats. She's not allowed to have people-food. The only thing she's allowed to ingest that is not her pre-approved dog food/treats is grass. She's a grazer. She doesn't eat grass when she feels sick, she eats it because she likes the way it tastes, or something. I don't know. She's weird.

Diarrhea. I figured she was having intestinal upsets at first because she was adjusting to the move. I mean, we drove across the country in less than a week. I can't blame her for being a little upset, mostly because she suffers from carsickness. She's better now, but she used to throw up if she even saw an open car door. She's endured a couple of semi-cross-country drives in her three years of life, though (as well as a transatlantic flight from London to Tampa, FL), so she's learning to cope.

Well, Jake and I moved into our apartment at the beginning of March, and Sophie has had several diarrheapalooza nights since then. And guess who gets to get up and let her out?! Yep. Me. She sleeps in a kennel at night (her "house," as in, "Sophie, go to your house," and in she goes), and the kennel is downstairs in the living room. At 2am, when she needs to poo viciously all over the lawn, she will bark and whine. Jake doesn't even wake up, but I can hear ONE of her poo-cries, and I'm wide awake.

So I will get up and take her out. And she'll crap herself silly and immediately become happy. Inside we go, and she goes back in her house, and I go back to bed.

An hour and a half later, more poo-cries. So I get up, let her out to shit, bring her back in, go back to bed.

An hour and a half after that... poo-cries. Repeat. All. Night.

I'll do it all night, too, because I love this dog. I mean, come on, how could someone NOT love this face?

I don't know, but I sure do.

She's really lucky that I love her as much as I do, or I would have thrown her out the window a long time ago.

Twice now, she's had diarrhea during the day while I'm at school. Inside her house. All over her bed. So when I get home all tired and ready to just sit down and take a load off, I instead am hit with a bitchslap of dog poop odor as soon as I open the door, and I have to spend the next hour or so cleaning the kennel, the bed, and the dog herself.

I had to do all this yesterday, and I still have the scent of feces in my nose.

However, as bad as it is for me, I'm sure it's worse for her. I mean, chances are, if you're reading this blog, you've experienced explosive (or near-explosive) diarrhea in your life. I think the diarrhea is worse for the person who has it shooting out of their butt than it is for the person standing nearby. So I started thinking that maybe - just maybe - Sophie's diarrhea isn't being caused by post-moving anxiety.

While I was scraping dookers off of her kennel, Jake called a nearby vet and made an appointment for today at 2:45. The vet is within walking distance, so around 2:15 or so, Sophie and I are going to trot on down to the vet and have her butt swabbed.

Now, Sophie loves walks. And she loves the vet. But I don't think she loves butt swabs. Two outta three ain't bad, though.

I don't know what I want or expect from the vet. OK, no, wait, I know what I expect. I expect them to give me probiotics to add to her food, and I expect them to not take me seriously when I say I've already been prescribed probiotics by a vet in Augusta and said probiotics didn't work. I expect to take their dumb probiotics anyway, and try them anyway, even though I know they're not going to work.

I'm really afraid that they're going to do a butt swab and discover that she has some kind of horrible intestinal condition that will require surgery and therefore a buttload (GET IT?!) of money to fix. Or, I'm afraid there will be some kind of intestinal condition that has no fix at all, and I will be condemned to mop up dog diarrhea for the next 10 years.

So yeah, I am filled with trepidation. And for those of you who are like, "Cleaning up dog shit is just practice for cleaning up baby shit later!" I say to you... Fuck You. Not the same thing.