Posts Tagged ‘dogs’

Dude, I should blog more.

December 31, 2012

I just got my 2012 year in review and it basically tells me that I haven’t blogged since my 2011 year in review.  My dude is at least partially responsible for those fireworks on your email thingy, so he  got to be amused to see what would happen when a person had exactly one post.  January 1.  1 firework blast.  And there was much rejoicing.

It seems like most of the people that find me by search terms are looking for information on Tibial Plateau fractures.   I had one on January 25, 2009.  It’s an easy date to remember because it’s about 12 hours after this happened:












It looked like this a few days after surgery:

It looked like this a few days after surgery.













About 2 years later I had the 6 screws and the plate taken out. It looked like this (I particularly like the “yes” which means “Yes. Please cut open this leg. Again.)
For the TPF curious: It was very painful after repair and didn’t feel like my own leg again for the two years between the addition and subtraction of metal bits. When the metal bits came out it stopped feeling like there was a car bumper in there and I mostly don’t notice it any more. It hurts if the weather changes or if I try to kneel on it, or hit it with the car door. Otherwise, aces.


















In other news, I have two awesome kids.










My dog is Bean, because she has pintos over her eyes.












I have a very nice husband too. This is part of his face.









Happy new year. This is my favorite shoe.





Sweet Sweet Olive

September 4, 2010

In 2004 I was a depressed and lonely woman in a strange city half way across the country from the place I considered home.  My solitude was intentional, a product of the denied grief of a lifetime and two all too fresh deaths.  I rented a two bedroom duplex and hid there, rejecting the idea that a good life was worth the effort.  I mentioned off handedly to a coworker that I thought I needed a dog.  She brought me an adoption booklet from her vet’s office and there, about halfway in was a picture of my heart’s dog, Olive.

She was called Duma then, by the ladies that ran the rescue she’d been living at for six months. She’d been found wandering the streets of northeast Georgia alone and hungry.  She seemed easily startled and they soon realized that was because she could not hear.   She was camera shy, so in the picture her face is turned back towards the camera over one sholder.  She’s standing still for the photo, but you can tell she doesn’t like it.  She’s doing it because she knows these nice people want her to, and she usually does what nice people ask.  I knew she was my dog before I even read the caption under her picture.  I thought she was all soul.  It turned out she was also very largely joy.

Olive, named for the sound a deaf friend made when he said “I Love You” quickly became the most important piece of my life.  She was waiting for me every morning when I got out of bed and in the afternoons when I came home.  She was so horribly shy at first that she couldn’t stand to see me leave the room without her, and followed each of my steps.  Though I was still deeply sad and anxious, I got up on weekends to make sure that Olive had a walk.  The desire to let Olive see more of her own kind got me out of that crappy apartment to the dog park, where I began to see more of mine.  Her oddball tummy made me search out good food for her, and realize what I was eating myself.  And then that day when the bottom finally dropped out, Olive sat between my legs in the floor while I held on to her for hours.  She was what I gripped when I decided to go ahead and try the climb.

She became the friend that would walk beside me across half a country, down 100 pounds, away from a life I was designing to be free of anyone I loved enough to weep for, and towards the courage to find the one I live today.  Olive gradually made me remember that the flow of love is worth the pain it brings with it, and that despite my many faults I am a person who loves well.  She found the heart I tried to throw away, and brought it back to me.  That was the only thing she ever bothered to fetch.

More than six years ago she found a woman alone, with a stale and blank face.  This morning my kind husband told me that he loved me and took our two month old daughter from the room.  I held sweet sweet Olive against me and she took her leave.

Go go gadget squirt bottle!

March 8, 2009

I sometimes wish that I had a squirt bottle attached to me a la Inspector Gadget.  I never seem to have one at hand when Nero decides to eat packing peanuts, Jeffrey decides to run head first into Olive, or both decide to trap Hazel under the piano in the vain hope that today she likes dogs.

They DO like each other!

October 16, 2008

Olive hates her picture taken, but she hasn’t figured out the cell phone camera yet.  Jeffrey has no such issue.

Olive and Jeffrey learn to share

Olive and Jeffrey learn to share

The difference between cats and dogs.

March 20, 2008

My girl Olive came to me in 2004 while I was living in Athens, GA. She’s a sweet natured dog, who is as content to sit with her chin on my knee staring soulfully at my face as she is to spin herself in circles of happiness until she falls over. She’s deaf, so we have a few hand signals that mean “come here” or “sit” or “no.” Other than that I’m a non-fussy dog owner who just enjoys companionship on road trips and someone else to blame farts on.

Busted. Asleep in my chair after spreading a sack of flour around the kitchen.

The idea to have a dog came to me after watching an episode of CSI. That week, a rather stereotypical crazy cat lady was murdered and left inside her house full of felines. It is apparently a well known fact that almost as soon as their owners die, cats view the newly minted corpse as a food source. The chewing commences at once. I was living alone at that time. Just two sweet-seeming cats, Nero and Hazel shared my post-graduate duplex. From that day forward I began to notice that they watched me closely every time food went down the wrong pipe, or I tripped on my untied shoelaces. My pets wanted to eat me. I was certain.

Dogs, on the other hand, must be locked in a home for days with a dead owner, and nearly starve to death, before they will break the taboo. It comforted me to know that when the inevitable finally happened, and I died falling off a counter I was climbing on, that one of my pets would look on disdainfully while the other two began to snack upon me.