I Swear It's True

After 36 years of marriage, I have accepted the fact that men are communicatively retarded.  And of all those communicatively retarded American men, I married their King.  As a result of his disability, he tends to say things that many would describe as thoughtless or insensitive.  Just when I think he can’t surprise me anymore, he finds another level of “Oh no you didunt” to add to his list of things better left unsaid.

A perfect example of his communication deficiency happened yesterday, but as with many of my posts, a little background information is required to completely understand the event.  I am not a very organized person, and I accept that as a part of who I am.  All of my bills are set up on automatic payment, and I have to force myself to put my W-2s and other tax related documents in a designated spot to avoid an April 15 meltdown.  So I have figured out how to compensate on many fronts, but I still suffer from misplaced-item-itis which is an affliction that causes the sufferer to ransack the house periodically looking for a lost article, usually an important document.  Having shared my condition, you might find it odd that I manage the finances, make most of the business decisions, and provide what meager organization can found in our household.  That is because one of the few people on the planet with less organizational acumen than me is my husband, John, and that is why I have spent the last 3 months trying to figure out how to navigate all the paperwork and phone calls that are required for him to retire.  I’m beginning to wonder how anyone actually retires because working until I die is looking more attractive all the time, but I digress.

One of the requirements to even get the application process started is the magic 4 digit pin number.  I’m not sure who invented the 4 digit pin number, but if someone knows my name, address, telephone number, social security number, date of birth, mother’s maiden name, and breed of dog I own, they are entitled to access any of my accounts.  I DON’T WANT A PIN NUMBER!!  Pin numbers are something to be placed in a special secure place that I can’t seem to remember on those rare, but important, occasions when I need them causing a severe case of misplaced-item-itis.

It was during one of those lost PIN searches that John decided to take me to task about my inability to find things by saying, “As many of those as you’ve lost, I’d think you find a place to put them that you could remember.”  Now my reaction should have been a hearty laugh because this was the quintessential case of the pot calling the kettle black, but for some reason, whether it was stress at work, lack of sleep, or general irritation from doing a job that should have been his in the first place, I didn’t laugh.  Let’s just say he quickly realized that no matter how firmly he believed that to be true, it was definitely something better left unsaid.

Seth Peckham, NFA national extemp champion

The faithful followers of this blog (both of you) will have to indulge me a little as I share two wonderful experiences that have truly made this a memorable month.  The first event was the birth of our fifth grandchild.  Hannah Diane Peckham joined the family on April 1.  She is absolutely beautiful and the epitome of perfection that you only find in a newborn.  You would think the fifth time around wouldn’t be quite as exciting as the first, but each new baby is just as special as the previous ones, especially when you know the joy you will experience watching each one grow and develop into a unique individual.

With each new baby, I can’t help but let my mind imagine the future.  What will she look like?  Will she be artistic, athletic, or both?  Will she be introspective or outgoing, a princess or a tomboy?  Whatever path they take, we want to be there to love and support all the grandchildren.

The second event occurred April 19th at the National Forensics Association annual tournament in Athens, Ohio.  With the popularity of the CSI franchise on television, many people think forensics refers to the use of science or technology to solve crimes, but it also means the art or study of argumentation and formal debate.  The use of argumentation or debate has been the cornerstone of our marriage, so it’s not surprising that at least one of our children would excel at it.  Our youngest, Seth, has competed at the high school and college level for the last eight years in numerous events with extemporaneous speaking being his specialty.  Since that event requires a vast knowledge of current events, both domestic and international, he has spent countless hours reading current events articles, filing the information, and giving practice speeches.

All his hard work paid off at the NFA tournament when he won the national championship in extemporaneous speaking.  He also placed 4th in impromptu speaking, 7th in pentathlon, and was a quarter-finalist in persuasive speaking and after dinner speaking.

I was so fortunate to be there to share what was truly a remarkable experience.  There were hundreds of other students there who expended the same, or perhaps even more, effort who didn’t have their hard work affirmed with a first place trophy, so we were both keenly aware just how fortunate he was to achieve his dream.

Whether I’m holding the new baby or looking at pictures of Seth with his championship trophy, I try to savor those moments because we all know that babies grow up and championship trophies get stored away.  There will always be new achievements and events that fill our lives with joy and excitement, but as I walk down memory lane, the events of Spring 2010 will be ones that I will never forget.

Generally speaking, I’m a self-sufficient person.  I’m independent and a pretty good problem solver, and I have many friends who share those traits.  However, most women from time to time would like to be rescued by their knight in shining armor who would save them from the tower, slay the dragon, and make telemarketers stop calling at dinnertime.  Personally, I would be satisfied if mine would just answer his cell phone during a crisis…like when my fuel pump goes out and leaves me stranded on the highway 70 miles from home.

I was pretty sure what the problem was when my suburban coughed and lurched to a stop on a busy two-lane highway a couple of months ago.  Even though I was 70 miles from home, I was only 4 miles from a town big enough to have a mechanic and an auto parts store.  Given the remote areas of Kansas that I often drive through, that alone was extremely fortunate.  Two other advantages were the time of day (stores still open at 3:00 p.m) and the fact that the life-threateningly cold weather we’d been experiencing had taken a break that day so I probably didn’t need to worry about hypothermia while I waited for help.

Even after 36 years of figuring things out on my own, my first instinct in a crisis is to call John, so obviously he has helped me out at times, but the only precarious situations that stick in my memory are the ones where he has been less than chivalrous.  On this particular day, my call for help was answered by his voice mail.  AAARRRGGGHHH, my personal pet peeve.  Why are we paying for a cell phone if I can never get in touch with him!!!  As I said, I am a problem solver, so I called a co-worker’s husband who lived in the small town down the road and asked him for the name of the local auto repair shop.  Armed with that information, I looked up the number on the internet and gave them a call.  After describing the symptoms and sharing my diagnosis of the problem, the repairman said, “We MAY have time to come out there and tow you in before we close.”  What???  I said, “I certainly hope so because I’m not going anywhere if you don’t, and I would rather not spend the night in my vehicle.  Is there a manager I can talk to?”  The manager was on another line, but he called me back and confirmed that they would be out within the hour.

While I waited for the tow truck, Sir Galahad finally figured out he had a missed call and checked to see what I needed.  After describing the predicament he said, “Well, it sounds like you have everything under control, but let me know if you can’t get it fixed tonight because I can drive over to get you if I have to.”  I’m sure in his mind that was a sincere offer to help, but as I sat in the vehicle watching semi trucks whiz by my door at breakneck speeds, it seemed he stopped short of adding, “…unless you think you could hitchhike home because that would really save me a lot of time.”

Three hours and $750 later I was back on the road, and I have to admit that I felt pretty confident and self-sufficient solving the problem on my own.  It’s probably a good thing that he hasn’t coddled me over the years as I really do value my independence, and I wouldn’t be the person I am today if he hadn’t established that expectation from the beginning of our relationship.  So I’m okay slaying my own dragons, and my hair certainly isn’t long enough for him to climb into the tower, but this damsel sure wouldn’t mind it if he kept his cell phone in his pocket and put us on the “no call” list.

John has a very unusual extended family, and I mean that in the best possible way.  We have a family reunion every Labor Day weekend that includes 4 generations of the family, and it is always very well attended with 50–60 people who come EVERY year.  We also get together for a family dinner every Christmas.  The one concession we have made to the growing family’s busy is schedule is to move the Christmas potluck and gift exchange to the spring, but it is also very well attended when we don’t have March blizzards like the ones that prevented us from going last year and this past weekend.  These two events are a big reason that we have such a close relationship not only with his cousins, but his cousins’ children and grandchildren.  I don’t know anyone who is so connected to family members who are that far removed from their parents and siblings.  My children know their second and third cousins better than many people know their first cousins.

In addition to the “large group” gatherings, we also go camping with some of John’s cousins several times a year.  Memorial Day and 4th of July have become “small group” traditions that are almost as special as the Labor Day weekend to those of us who attend.  We camp at different lakes around the state and enjoy food and friendship along with swimming, fishing, and other outdoor activities.  We were at one of these camping weekends several years ago when John shared with everyone exactly how his brain works.  He and his cousin, Lynn, were discussing some controversial topic in the news, but I can’t begin to recall the specific issue.  However, I clearly remember that as the conversation progressed and they discussed both sides of the issue, they came to the conclusion that they were in opposition to the view held by the majority of people.  John summarized their position by stating, “I guess our brains don’t work like most people’s.”  This met with some momentary agreement from the group, and the comment would have faded into obscurity if he hadn’t followed up moments later with a completely different observation.  As it turned out, it will live on forever as a part of family history.

Just moments after making his “brain” comment, he shared his recent activity at a local car wash.  I think the incident came to mind because he was wearing sandals and just happened to look down at his feet.  He told everyone that he washed his pickup a few days earlier while wearing the same pair of sandals.  When he finished, he noticed that his feet were quite dirty so he decided to use the power washer to clean up.  He informed the group that they might want to avoid this method of personal hygiene because the highly pressurized water from the nozzle, “almost ripped the toenail off my big toe.”  Without missing a beat, Lynn’s husband, Dave, said, “You’re right John.  Your brains don’t work like most people’s.”

Although the line is used primarily with John, over the years other family members who did things that can be characterized as less than brilliant have heard the explanation of how the brain works.

When we bought the property adjacent to our country home, we had many other things to fix there along with the decrepit house.  The property also had a pond with a partially submerged boat dock that could only be accessed by descending a very rickety set of stairs that went down the bank.  Although John is not much of a carpenter, he is not completely lacking in skills, so he decided he could replace the dock and stairs himself.  I have to admit that I was very impressed with his design and construction of the dock.  He attached a platform to some 55 gallon barrels to form the dock, and he connected that to a walkway that ran over to the stairs. The walkway was even hinged to allow the dock to adjust to the varying water levels in the pond. He did such a great job, that I had complete confidence in him when he brought home a set of metal steps he’d acquired to replace the current ones.

After several weeks of working on the stairs, he proudly announced that they were in place.  I was really impressed by the great job he did when I walked over to look at them, as they looked every bit as good as the new dock.  Unfortunately, the one important detail he failed to mention was that having them in place was one project.  Having them securely attached to the bank and ready for use was another completely different project, at least in his mind.  Of course to me, the announcement that they were in place, meant “Change into your swimming suit and enjoy the dock!”  So that’s exactly what Seth and I did the next day.

The first step onto the stairs gave no indication of the danger I was in.  Only after stepping on the second step, eliminating the option of going backward, did the stairs start on a rapid descent down the bank. The following thoughts flashed through my mind:  Should I jump off and risk breaking a leg or ankle in the fall or should I stay on the stairs and see where that ended?  With only a split second to make a decision, I decided to stay on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride to the end.  If I’d had on shoes, I might have avoided anything except some bumps and bruises, and initially, I thought that was the extent of my injuries.  After untangling myself from the wreckage, I slowly limped over to the dock and tried to assess the damage. The bottom of my foot seemed to be causing the most pain, so I thought the cool water of the pond might offer some relief.  I quickly realized that wasn’t the thing to do as an intense burning encompassed my foot after I dipped it in the water, so I looked to see why I was in such excruciating pain.  That’s when I discovered that the second toe on my right foot was only partially attached courtesy of a metal support that became exposed when the stairs detached from the walkway. I sent Seth to get his dad because I knew I couldn’t walk back to the house in that condition.

John helped me up the bank and into the pickup. When we got back to the house, he convinced me that this was going to require a trip to the emergency room.  After the doctor examined my toe, he asked if I wanted to see an orthopedic surgeon.  I declined the offer as it was just a toe after all, and the chances of a career as a ballerina or a foot model seemed fairly remote.  I did ask him how many stitches he thought it would take, and he said probably 5 or 6.  I said that seemed like a lot for a toe, and if he charged by the stitch, I wanted an estimate on how much it would cost to just remove the toe.  If that was cheaper, I might decide to do that because I wasn’t sure I really needed all 10 toes.  He gave me a quizzical look and replied that I would miss it more than I realized.  I guess not everyone gets my sense of humor.

Five stitches and almost two hours later, I hobbled out of the emergency room.  The next day John secured the stairs to the bank, and we have enjoyed the dock immensely over the last 9 years. And I have to admit, the doctor was probably right. If you have a choice, you really do need 10 toes.

John is not what you’d call a handyman.  However, when you compare his expertise with mine, he becomes Bob Vila.  I readily admit that I am mechanically and spatially challenged, and I’ve known this all my life.  As a child I could never remember which way to turn the handle on the outside faucet, and even as an adult I catch myself muttering, “Righty tighty, lefty loosey” when I’m shutting off the sprinklers.  As a teenager, the army recruiter who reviewed my ASVAB tests expressed skepticism that anyone with mechanical aptitude and spatial reasoning scores so low could park an automobile, operate an electric toothbrush, or tie shoes.  I have learned to compensate for my deficits by avoiding activities that require these skills whenever possible and only passing other cars when there are no oncoming vehicles in sight.  However, on at least one occasion, I let my pride override my common sense with pretty dire consequences.

We had recently purchased an adjoining property and started renovations on the dilapidated house that came with it.  Because of the previously mentioned lack of home improvement skills, we hired someone to do the construction work, but I thought I could save some money by doing the finish work myself, so I had been sanding sheetrock and painting in the basement for several weeks.  To provide a bit of a break, I decided I would sand and varnish some of the new woodwork.  Since one of the pieces of wood I needed to work on was a long capstone at the top of the stairs, I decided the job would be much easier if I used the electric sander rather than expending the effort required using a manual block sander.  At this point I should have called John to ask where to find the appropriate power tool.  Unfortunately, I thought I could find the orbital sander on my own and surprise him with the finished project when he got home from work and avoid any teasing from him about not knowing my way around the shop.  As it turned out, a little teasing would have been a lot less painful.

I found the orbital sander and a sanding disk quickly, and walked the half mile to the property and set about my business.  I peeled the adhesive backing and put the sanding disk in place.  After plugging in the sander, I flipped the switch and started sanding.  I stopped almost immediately as the sandpaper dug into the wood leaving obvious gouges, and the sander emitted a high pitched whine that I’d never heard before.  I tried again with the same result.  Fortunately, I shut the power tool off before holding it up to look for a slower speed setting.  Unfortunately, I didn’t wait for it to come to a complete stop.  As I looked at the handle I was holding, the sanding disk suddenly flew off and hit me in the face with enough force that I took a step back, momentarily dazed.

It only took a second to realize what had happened and quickly run my tongue along my teeth to check for any missing dental work.  Everything appeared normal, and for a fleeting instant, I thought perhaps I had dodged a bullet.  That dream quickly ended as blood started dripping on my shirt.  I pulled the hem of my shirt up to my face to catch the blood as I ran to the bathroom and paused in front of the mirror, reluctant to view the full extent of the damage.  When I finally mustered the courage to look, what I saw wasn’t good, but it also wasn’t horrifying.  My lip was pretty mangled, but the cut stopped just short of my nose, so I thought it might be possible to avoid a trip to the emergency room.

Grabbing a wash cloth from the bathroom, I headed back to the house where I had medical supplies and air conditioning.  The room was suddenly stifling hot and my skin was clammy.  Walking the half mile back to the house in 105º weather with my head spinning was an ordeal, but I didn’t have my cell phone with me, so I didn’t have any other options.  Back at the house, I gingerly cleaned the wound and assessed the damage.  The gashes left by the sandpaper were fairly deep and something appeared to be sticking out of the two cuts that ran from the edge of my lip just clipping the middle of my nose.  Using a pair of tweezers, I carefully grasped the object and pulled it from my lip.  It was a small piece of grit from the sandpaper.  Okay, this was going to be fun.  I irrigated the wound and pulled a few more pieces of sandpaper from my face before calling it good and retiring to the sofa with an ice pack to keep the swelling down.

After 30 minutes or so I decided I’d better call John so he wouldn’t be surprised by my appearance as I now looked as though I’d had a cleft palate repaired.  After recounting the incident and describing the “orbital sander” to him, he let me know just how lucky I’d been.  It seems my orbital sander was in fact an angle grinder, and the uncharacteristic whine I’d heard was the difference between the sound of a 3,000 rpm motor on the sander and the 10,000 rpm motor on the angle grinder.  After he got home and took a look at my injuries, he summed up my luck by saying, “I can’t believe you didn’t cut off your nose.”  I’m happy to report that the cuts healed with minimal scarring; although, 5 years later an occasional fragment of sandpaper will still work its way out.

I continue to avoid situations that require mechanical aptitude whenever possible.  When I’m forced into using anything gas or electrically powered outside the kitchen, I make sure I’m closely supervised.  John continues to be incredulous that my brain is just not wired to use, repair, or purchase machinery.  I, on the other hand, accept the fact that I will never be able to have fun with power tools.

Over the past 36 years, I have gradually assumed more of the driving duty whenever John and I travel together.  It has been a fairly steady transition that gained momentum when he took a job as a truck driver in 1981.  Driving 10-14 hours a day, 6 days a week renders driving on your day off a less than enticing activity.  However, if you would have been in the vehicle with us when I was driving in the early years of our marriage, you never would have predicted my ascension to head of transportation services.

I readily admit that I was an inexperienced driver when we married.  However, I disagree that I was the highway menace John insinuated I was every time I got behind the wheel.  From the moment I turned the key in the ignition, my performance was under constant assault and critique.  Whether it was my position in the traffic lane (too close to the center line) or my lack of consistency with the speed I traveled in the days before cruise control, I endured an unending litany of complaints.  It got to the point where I would elicit a promise from him that he would not comment on my driving before I would get behind the wheel.  Although it didn’t completely solve the problem, we took a huge step forward the day I gave HIM a driving lesson.

I’m not sure why I was driving on this particular day in 1975, but for some reason I was behind the wheel as we headed over to pick up hay from a nearby field.  As was usually the case, I drove too fast (or was it too slowly), I hit every pothole in the road, and I was responsible for the escalating tension with the Soviet Union.  You get the picture.  So I was already completely irritated by the time we got back to the house and headed up the drive to the barn.  I passed by the first gate as we rarely, if ever, used that entrance, but for some reason known only to John, that was where I was supposed to go.  Suddenly, I was the most incompetent driver on the planet because I missed my turn.  I was already going slowly as I approached the turn at the second gate, and that was how I was afforded the opportunity to avoid any further insults to my driving ability as I put the pickup into neutral and bailed out of the vehicle.  Of course this left John rolling down the driveway seated on the passenger’s side.  I didn’t look back, but I have a pretty good picture in my mind of what that driver-less vehicle and it’s stunned passenger must have looked like as he assessed the situation.

It only took a few seconds for him to slide behind the wheel, bring the vehicle to a stop, and shout out the window for me to “Get back here right now!”  I just kept walking to the house.  The command was repeated verbatim a couple of times before he accepted the fact that I wasn’t coming back.  In a vain attempt to save face, his last verbal missive actually made me chuckle because I knew it carried no real threat when he shouted, “You better not come back because I’ll kill you.”

He later apologized, and I declined to drive for the next few weeks to reinforce my point.  As I said, the driving “advice” didn’t stop immediately, but things gradually improved from that time forward.  I still get unsolicited advice, but that is the exception rather than the norm.  I’m not sure which has improved more, my driving ability or his ability to withhold comments about my driving, but apparently we are both trainable.

We never planned on having 8 dogs. Wait, I never planned on having 8 dogs. Actually, I doubt that John ever had that as a lifelong goal either since deciding in the morning what he wants for supper constitutes long range planning in his world. I can’t even pinpoint when the dog population started spinning out of control. All I know for sure is that we have 8 dogs, and we will never have 9. I’m putting my foot down!

I had a poodle when we got married, so we’ve always had dogs, but we usually had 1 or 2, never more than 3 at any one time. The oldest dog in the pack we have now is Champ, our 13 year old Yorkshire terrier. He’s also the one that John will not accept responsibility for acquiring, even though he bought him as my Christmas present in 1996. Champ must have been a cat in a previous life because he has cheated death on several occasions including a serious attack by a dog that outweighed him by 50 pounds, 2 hospitalizations with pancreatitis, and back surgery to remove a ruptured disk. If he were a car, I probably could have had him replaced under our state “Lemon Law,” but he is my baby now that all the kids are grown.

Sis, the 12 year old German wire-haired pointer, is one of 2 puppies we kept from a litter we raised. Keeping the 2 puppies pushed us over the previously mentioned 3 dog limit, but John rationalized having 4 dogs by convincing me the older hunting dog he had was 8 years old and probably wouldn’t be around much longer. That sounded somewhat logical, and since we were planning to move to a place in the country, it didn’t seem like an unreasonable request. I was on a slippery slope and didn’t realize it.

After a couple of years with the 4 dogs, Seth (the only one of the 3 kids still at home) and John were visiting some friends who had a litter of rat terrier puppies. The owner of the puppies decided that Seth needed a dog of his own, or more accurately he saw an opportunity to find a home for one of the puppies. That’s how Susie became dog #5.

Nature eventually took its course and John’s beloved hunting dog, Garth, died from an abdominal aneurysm, but our numbers didn’t stay down for long. In a moment of weakness, I agreed that raising a litter of puppies out of Susie seemed like the thing to do. After an emergency C-section by our awesome team of veterinarians, Scott and Debra Randolph, they were able to save Susie and 3 of the 6 puppies. After finding homes for 2 of the puppies, we added Tuffy to the group as the new dog #5.

When Sis’ littermate, Spot, died, John was convinced that her demise was also imminent, so he started looking for a replacement as he couldn’t endure a single hunting season without a bird dog. After quite a bit of web searching, he chose one of Jill Manring’s Deutsch Drahthaars as the breed of choice, and Jack became the new dog #5.

Many people might think that 5 dogs would be too many, but that number seemed to work as we had 2 large hunting dogs (Sis and Jack), 2 small outside dogs for varmint control (Susie and Tuffy), and Champ whose sole purpose in life had become keeping our savings account from growing above the limit insured by the FDIC. I look back fondly on these BCH years (Before Coon Hunting).

I don’t know how John developed an interest in hunting raccoons. He had gone a few times with a neighbor many years ago, but it didn’t seem to pique his interest. He was a hard core upland bird hunter for many years who developed an interest in waterfowl hunting or an obsession with decoys or both, but coon hunting never seemed to be his thing. At any rate, he started talking about getting a coon dog, and he is nothing if not persistent. However, I am just as determined and kept telling him that we absolutely could not get another dog. I was putting my foot down. That’s how Penny became dog #6, and our first pet with a disability. It didn’t take long to discover she was deaf. Unfortunately, a deaf dog is at a distinct disadvantage when navigating traffic, so we lost her after only 18 months.

I tried to convince John this was a sign, but he immediately started negotiating with Penny’s former owner to acquire Penny’s brother, Razor. I kept insisting, “No more dogs” right up until he left to go pick him up. I have to admit that the difference between 5 and 6 dogs really wasn’t all that discernible since he wasn’t loose in the yard. Razor’s penchant for disappearing for long periods of time necessitated his incarceration in a pen, so he was never underfoot. However, he also wasn’t much of a coon hound. He would do some of the right things, but he just couldn’t seem to put a coon up in a tree, and John became convinced that the only remedy was to find some older, more experienced dogs to take along to teach him. He called a hunting buddy in Wisconsin who has even more dogs (and less sense) than John to see if he could bring some of his dogs down here. That’s when I learned there are people who, for a fee, will transport dogs anywhere you need them to go. I put my foot down and said absolutely no way was he getting two more dogs delivered from Wisconsin! That’s how Nicki and Barney became dogs #7 and #8. They are also penned up with Razor, and most of the time I try to pretend they aren’t out there, so in my mind we only have 5 dogs, and that’s all we’ll ever have. I’m putting my foot down!

I hope I don’t have to start every post with a disclaimer, but I want to make it clear that we would never intentionally poison a dog.  If you look in the yard, that would be obvious since we have 8 of them. In fact, if you want to get rid of one, just call John.  He’ll probably adopt it!  However, most of the events that will provide grist for this blog mill will be, or were caused, inadvertently.  With that said, I’m sure you are wondering, how do you poison a dog.

That’s not a typo in the first paragraph.  We have 8 (eight) dogs.  How we came to have 8 dogs is a topic for another day, but to understand how the events of this past weekend occurred, you have to understand how expensive it is to care for that many canines.  If you have a dog, you could take your expenses and multiple by 8.  If you have a small dog, you probably should multiply by 8.5 because 5 of our dogs weigh more than 50 pounds and eat accordingly.  If you don’t have a dog, just imagine driving your car into a pond once a year and buying a different one.   That would give you a pretty good idea of what we spend on our four-legged friends.

Since John grew up on a farm and raised various types of livestock, buying and administering medication to animals is second nature to him.  As our dog population increased, he gradually began to do more and more of the veterinary procedures himself.  Of course we still had to use our local vet to cast a broken leg on one of the rat terriers, and we had a wonderful surgeon who flew in from Tennessee to repair the Yorkshire terrier’s ruptured disk in his spine, so it’s not like he does everything himself.  However, administering medication for internal parasites, also known as “worming” has never been a major procedure, until now.

Ivermectin is a parasite control drug found in Heartgard, Ivomec, and various other products. It is expensive when purchased as a name brand in pre-measured doses for dogs, but purchased in bulk for large animals such as horses, the cost drops dramatically. However, measuring the exact dosage becomes a little trickier. It is relatively safe when the proper amount is administered, but it can have some very scary side effects in the case of an overdose as our 5-year-old Jack Russell terrier, Tuffy, learned. About 3 hours after receiving her dose of ivermectin, Tuffy came staggering into the living room and collapsed near my chair.  Before I could get to her, she struggled to her feet and ran into the couch giving the appearance that she was blind.  She was shaking and having mild convulsions.  Thinking she might still have some of the drug in her stomach, I immediately gave her anything and everything she would eat to dilute the concentration including a big bowl of milk.  I’m not sure if the treatment did any good, but if she had any of the drug left, it was eliminated in the middle of my living room carpet.

After a short break in poison control to clean up the mess, I switched over to administering water from a syringe.  I wish I would have taken a minute to Google “side effects ivermectin overdose” because I would have been greatly relieved to learn that her symptoms were all caused by the drug and were all temporary as long as she didn’t lapse into a coma.  Unfortunately, I was too busy freaking out with a blind dog that couldn’t walk.  As with most crises in my life, John was out hunting when the symptoms started.  He did come home after I called him on the phone, but his moral support didn’t do much to ease her condition.  I asked him how much wormer he had given her, and he said he gave her a scientifically measured “dab” on his finger. Nice. I spent the night holding her on the couch, and she settled down enough about 2:30 that I fell asleep.  She was steady enough at 5:30 to take a quick bathroom break outside, and 24 hours later her vision and motor control were back to about 85% of normal.  By the following day, she’d made a complete recovery.

I guess the upside is that Tuffy is undoubtedly parasite free at least until she catches her next rabbit or finds another roadkill entree.  Even better, now you know how to avoid poisoning a dog.

How long does a honeymoon last?  I’ve heard some people say that the first year is considered the honeymoon phase of marriage.  The concept of a honeymoon originated in a less civilized time when a man kidnapped a woman and hid out until her relatives stopped looking for her, roughly a month.  During this period of time they drank a fermented wine made from honey.  That explains the word, but it doesn’t sound at all like our modern concept of a fun-filled getaway where the newlyweds relax and spend time together without the stress and distractions of their regular routines.  From my own personal experience, I would say the honeymoon lasts until you get back home.  In my case, exactly a week.

The event that marked the end of my honeymoon was a bath.  More specifically, it was my brand new husband’s bath.  The evening after we returned from a wonderful, romantic week in Chicago, I was unpacking our suitcases and putting away laundry when he called to me from the living room to ask if I would run his bath water and put out some clean clothes for him to wear.  After a long pause, I said, “I guess I could.  Are you sick?”  To which he replied, “No, but my mom and my sisters always did that for me.”  Another long pause.  Trying to choose my words carefully, I finally said with as much love as I could muster at this point, “Well, I guess you know where they live.”  Now I’m guessing most men would recognize this as the end of the discussion, but my knight in shining armor was more persistent than most so he countered by saying, “If you really loved me, you would want to do this for me.”  I admit he made me think for a moment because I truly did love him, so if his argument had merit, I probably should comply with his request.  My contemplation was only momentary as I realized the flaw in his logic and pointed it out by replying, “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t expect me to wait on you when you are completely capable of doing it yourself.”  He ran his own bath that night.

Not many days later, we had our first fight as a married couple.  The details of the conflict have long since faded from my memory, but I will never forget how the exchange occurred and how we each responded.  We had a very short but disagreeable exchange about some inconsequential topic that ended with me yelling at him.  It ended because he had a visible, physical response to my shouting, and he abruptly turned around and walked out of the house.  I found this rather odd as vociferous arguments were not uncommon in my family and walking away was rarely the way we ended disagreements.  After about 30 minutes I was really wondering where he went and what he was doing.  Not wanting to appear worried about him, I quietly exited the back door and began to look around our country house.  I finally spotted him down by the garden felling weeds with a weed whip.  I returned to the house and waited for him to come back so we could make up.  It took him almost 2 hours to finally come back inside, not because he was that angry, but because he was totally unprepared to deal with my style of conflict resolution.  His family dynamic was much more passive-aggressive, rather than the in-your-face, lay your cards on the table approach I grew up with.  He looked so forlorn when he came in prepared to head for divorce court that I really regretted not having better prepared him during our courtship.  He has since learned how to stand his ground, and he even wins an occasional argument, but I think it was pretty apparent to him that the ride from here on out might get a little bumpy at times.