Only to dinner, and only to the Dreamaway, a roadhouse about 8 minutes away, but still. Amazing what a vodka and tonic and pasta primavera can do to one's mood. David Jenkins' treat, too. David who was going to drop off the 4x6 rubber-horse-mat-soon-to-be-kitchen-flooring if we can figure how to cut the sucker, seems his friend Scott over in Middelfield broke his circular saw trying to do this once. Anyhow we couldn't unload it from the pick-up, too heavy, and we are not wimps (it is HEAVY), so guess will have to enlist help from Outside Bob on Monday. Am starting to be sorry I bought this horse mat.
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STAFF ON CALL:
Terri, who Odd-sat while I hit the Dreamaway, also did some secretarial work and scanning for me. One thing all this caregiving has taught me is how to delegate. In fact I now excel at delegating. If a staff member were here at this very moment, for example, I would delegate one of them to shoot out the television screen at the butcher block where Odd is presently glued to North To Alaska with John Wayne and Ernie Kovacs, at peak volume.
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HIGHLIGHTS:
Went to see Peg today. She is fine but wants to see the dog. She wants us to bring the dog to the nursing home for a visit. I said over my dead body; Bonnie, also here today, said "sure". This is a dog that jumps a foot in the air and disappears around the corner in a panic whenever you: a) drop a tissue; b) call "Come!"; c) turn on the kitchen tap; d) hold out a biscuit; e) push back your chair to leave the table. And about twelve hundred other normal actions. I want no part of leading it into an environment full of wheelchairs, walkers, trolleys, beeping oxygen machines and people with Huntington's disease who, the poor buggers, have no control over their arms and legs and flail around like windmills and are in the lobby a lot. We're going to be peeling this dog off the ceiling. Well, Bonnie will be. I will be having a coffee somewhere.
This dog, which I would refer to by name if anyone could decide what to call it. Spurn-Me-Not arrived via a breeder eighteen months ago. Dawn, who used to work here until she and Peg came to blows about To Label or Not To Label plastic containers in the fridge and Bonnie moved up into Numera Una position--found this breeder and helped arrange what I thought sounded like The Perfect Deal, considering that Peg, at 96, was angling for two eight week old collie puppies. Peg who can't bend down or see too well and stumbles a lot.
The deal was that Spurn, of excellent pedigree, would be purchased for $2000 (I know, but wait), then when she came into heat, the breeder would breed her, take her back for the birth and whelping period (or does "whelping"mean "birth"?) Anyhow, after which, Peg would get the proceeds from the sale of one of the pups: $1000. This would happen twice. So Peg would not lose any money, really, and should something happen to Peg, such as Dawn or I killed her, the breeder, CarolAnn, would happily take Spurn back into her home. A GREAT DEAL.
Except, and here is where it all fell apart--Peg refused to let the dog be bred, in fact refused to let it out of her sight (even though it was mostly a foot in the air around the corner anyway). This all turned into a HUGE transcontinental issue, culminating in Peg saying she knew nothing about any such deal to have the dog bred, that Dawn had "put her hand over that part of the contract" when she "made" Peg sign, which is all utter bollocks but when I say so, which I do, I am accused of "siding with Dawn". End of the day, the dog has never come into heat, which CarolAnn the breeder suspects is the result of being overweight, which everyone but Peg knows is the result of giving the dog taramasalata, ice cream, cinnamon coffee cake, peanut butter and anything else going on the butcher block instead of, say, dinner.
Adding to the dog's neuroses was Peg's refusal to call it by its name, saying Spurn sounded too much like "sperm", so she decided to call it Piper. Then she decided to call it Angel, then, finally, Honeybear. Bonnie still calls it Angel. I call it Spurn or, if I'm in a particularly charitable mood, the Fucking Four-leg-ged Lunatic That Charges Off Into The Woods Because I Dropped My Phone and It Made A Noise.
The weird thing is, about a week before Peg was carted off to the ER, Spurn, suddenly, and I mean suddenly, became her best friend. Not only slept BY Peg but got ON her bed, plus would lick Peg's arm all night. Peg was thrilled by the unprecedented attention, of course, figuring all the taramasalata bribes were finally paying off but my friend Annie thinks maybe it's one of those "cancer" dogs, animals with a sixth sense that "know" when something's bad with your body chemistry and tries to tell you. Who knows. Hang on a minute--just have to get the dog off my lap and her tongue out of my ear.
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WHAT I WOULD LIKE TO STOP DOING:
- Coming over here to this part of the kitchen carrying something to go in the microwave but opening the door to fridge, not the microwave, and trying to work out what I am doing.
- Tripping over the phone cord when I set the phone on Odd's hospital table so he can speak to Peg.
- Wishing I were somewhere else.
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