"She" is Not Code for "Him"

Sam came with her name, which is a fine name, but not necessarily a name I'd give a pet. If I'd actually had the opportunity to name Sam, she would have been given a name generally reserved for pets, hillbillies or very old people, and it wouldn't have been anything like Sam or even Renee or Becky or Bobby Jo. On the other hand, it also wouldn't have been anything like Spot or Fluffy or Spike or Princess, either. The pets I've named include Jonesy (not named after the cat in "Alien", he was named after Indiana Jones - hey, I like Harrison Ford), Dakota, Sage (ok, ok, Kendra named Sage, but I had veto power), Puff (I was in 6th grade and he was white and fluffy, give me a break - I adored stuffed animals and thought Shaun Cassidy should grace more Tiger Beat covers back then, too ) and there was Sally, which breaks my rule, but I was 6, she was a guinnea pig and I gave her the second most beautiful name I knew at the time - the first being Ruthy and that belonged to my favorite doll (look, when you're limited to only reading Dick & Jane books on your own or the occasional Dr. Seuss, you'll find little Cindy Lou who's name hanging off your pet's ID tags, too). At least give me a few points for both Sir Gnawalot and Lady Nibblet, my regally named hamsters from 4th grade.

And really, the biggest beef I have with Sam's name is that most people tend to think she's male. At this point, Sam would like me to point out that she doesn't care, because she's not wrapped up in the pronoun game. She only cares about food and for that matter, she would add that she doesn't know the different between "he" or "she" when anyone is speaking, but she does know "Sam" and that sometimes follows with a little food and if food is involved, she doesn't care that you even call her "Sam" - whatever works for you as long as you hand it over, nice and slow - there's no need for anyone to get hurt.

Still, after seeing our fair share of specialists and their assistants and receptionists over the past few weeks, I find I say "she" every time they say "he" or I say "her" if they offer a "him" and there always seems to be a battle of wills until the conversation devolves into "she she she" versus "him him him" until one of us leaves with Sam in tow.

So, I want to clear up a little myth - not all dogs are male. I know, I know, it's hard to believe, but I have it on the best authroity that sometimes dogs named "Maggie" are actually female. For that matter, not all cats are female. Get up and walk away from the screen if you need to take a break; I know I'm throwing a lot at you. You see, dogs and cats are mammals, not single cell organisms, so the whole asexual reproduction thing is completely out of the question for survival of the species. I think most puppy mills will back me up at this point (guys, step away from the racks of small cages and your AKC paperwork and help me out here). It's crazy, I know, but there are actually males and females of each species and sometimes these animals have gender neutral names like "Sam", which can be short for "Samantha" or "Samuel".

See, Sam came by her flat-ish tummy honestly. I promise, she didn't come up to us one day and say "mom, I think I'm a girl - can we consult a surgeon about making a change and load me up on some hormones?" Since Sam only knows "Sam", "sit", "outside", "bedtime" and "go to your room" she can't really manipulate those into a request for gender reassignment.

So, if you hear me challenge your "he" with a "she" when referring to my dog, just roll with it. I know she's got a goofy name for a girl, but it can be a girl's name, too. And even if I were batshit crazy and she was a male, just be nice to the crazy person and don't set me off - I might gum something you prize.

The Chronicles of Sam: Week Two - Milestones

I know you've been waiting around all week hoping for the latest Sam update and you're in luck. I know! How exciting! (We all know "shut up about the dog already" is actually just a thinly veiled plea for more beagle news. It's "code". I have it on the best authority. Mine.)

This week Sam lost the cone, lost her stitches and went for a walk on an underwater treadmill. Of course, for Sam the most important thing she got to do after cone (AC) was scratch every little bit of itchy face and ear that she could convince one beat up leg to scratch. This occasionally involved pitifully just waving the beat up leg past the spot, but it counted. See, her humans completely failed to properly address certain itches appropriately over the last couple of weeks and she grew a little frustrated because she hasn't quite figured out how to vocalize, "ok, just a little to the left, no there, there, OMG THERE! SHEESH you lame monkeys with your opposable thumbs think you're soooo smart and you can't even figure out LEFT" (she can really hurt a person's feelings when she puts her mind to it - like I would hold the whole opposable thing over her head or hover it over a door handle or a food container latch - I try to keep the opposable thumb thing eye level - I mean, she's short, to do otherwise would be cruel). The next thing she did - dig up all of her crate blankets (four of them), throw them over her head and sit there looking at me with the blanket at a rakish angle across her face. This is the "I have BLANKETS! How cute am I?" trick and let's face it, she looked terribly cute. It doesn't score food, which is always her fondest hope, but hey, it was worth a shot.

The report from the vet is that she's looking good - her knee is "crunchy" due some arthritis in her knees, but in this case "crunchy" isn't necessarily bad. Her rehab gal measured her and declared she has skinny back legs, but they're mostly the same size and while she's not at an ideal weight, she's not as out of control as one snarky surgical tech would have you believe. The rehab gal then walked us through strengthening Sam's legs using a balance board (we're now the proud owners of our very own) and ended the first rehab session by placing Sam on a smiley face bouncy ball and bouncing her. Let's just say watching Sam dangle her paws over a gigantic yellow smiley face with her eyes half closed and panting almost made me laugh. This particular "exercise" allowed Sam to loosen up her back (after getting around on three legs and torqueing your spine, you need a way to just let go) and as a bonus each bounce comes with a back rub. The "exercise" also seemed to make Sam exceptionally happy; you could practically see the hearts pulsating from her eyes for the rehab gal. Our goal this weekend is to get our very own bouncy ball (may it be a smiley face) so she can adore her jailers just as much ("sure, we don't let you run around, but hey we have a bouncy ball! LOVE US!")

Sam is now a pro at "go to your room" and willingly bounds (err... more like gently hobbles, but you get the idea) into her crate. I really think having a mobile crate that allows us to haul her around from room to room makes all the difference to her being ok with the lengthy stays in there. We leave the top of the crate off for easy access to petting and puppy head kisses (I'm sure she's mortified - I even do this in public in front of her friends) and again, I think that helps things be ok for her. Not having the crate top on hasn't presented a problem since she can't leap out and quite frankly she hasn't shown any interest in trying that. She's even gotten so that she'll prep for zooming around the house by facing forward and sitting very still. I swear she tries encourage me to run over the cats who love to act as feline obstacles in the hallways. (This worked so well for them when she was ambulatory and now they're not quite sure how to impede her now that Sam has wheels.)

As week three begins, my hope is that the rest of the weeks normalize to the point I can comfortably come back and report that eight uneventful weeks have passed and our dog is reasonably normal and roaming the house. This, of course, means that I will have to find a new topic. Gads!

The Chronicles of Sam: Week 1

This first week has been about establishing new routines and I'm very glad to be on the end of that week and not back at the beginning. Taking a dog that used to have the use of four legs and free range of the house and forcing her to become one who lives with a gigantic and encumbering cone who gets to live in a mobile crate (lovingly referred to as "your room") was not exactly an easy or fun transition. We're slowly catching up on many missed hours of sleep (I think I worked all of mine in on Saturday) and discovering muscles we had no idea existed.

Our celebratory milestones have been simple:

Bodily functions - oh sure, you think this isn't a cause to clap and shout "good girl", but when you're rounding 12 hours and you're 100% positive they lobotomized your dog as a freebie to her leg surgery, this is quite exciting. I'm ok that the neighbors think I'm crazier than before after I cheered at Sam in the front yard. TMI WARNING: For the record, if you've ever had surgery where you've been lucky enough to undergo general anaesthesia you may have discovered that muscles that used to know how to work are on holiday and are basically giving the finger to all of your brain signals that are demanding "PEE!!!!!! Can't you hear those pressure receptors in your bladder screaming? They're not screaming a friendly hello, moron." (Ok, my brain signals may be ruder than yours.) If you're lucky, someone has taught you the water trick - that running water some how makes the whole body have that "ah hah, that's how we do it" moment. Well, I'm here to tell you, that works on dogs. Jay had his doubts as we stood with a pitcher in the front yard, but lo and behold "GOOOOOOD GIRL!!!!!!" (For the record, I'm pretty sure Sam looked us up and down and said disdainfully "freaks" in our general direction.)

Putting weight on the bionic leg - Sam has avoided using this leg for a good while, making all the instructions on how to ease her into walkiing with the leg rather pointless - none of them included what to do for days on end when your dog only hops on the three good legs. Of course, I've found a lot of encouragement on various Googled websites - namely, "your little dog hopper is going to tear her other CCL. Enjoy!" I made a call to the surgeon's and I was informed, "well, she's fat - she doesn't want to put weight on it, but in 7 more days if she hasn't, we'll address it". I sat stunned, because I was torn between "am I getting mad because they just insulted my dog or am I mad because they seem a little flip" (I can't take "flip" - it's up there among my pet peeves with "sass"). During all of this, I had contacted Ang, my DVM friend, and after many emails where she had to play counselor while reviewing photos of the Franken-leg that she had requested for my own sanity (further proof to Sam that I am a freak as I took various shots of her leg). Ang had me gently flex her foot and encouraged me to call the surgeon (where I got the "fat" news) and then I contacted the pet rehab place. Of course, Sam who works on her own schedule finally started placing some weight on it - gently tip-toeing on the very top of her pad and occasionally (but rather gingerly) putting it completely down.

Week two promises even more fun. Sam goes to rehab, gets her cone removed (YAY) and then gets to enjoy the fun of the underwater treadmill. You know beagles, they're all about the water... or is that labs.

... and speaking of beagle traits - Sam would like me to add a general complaint about her cone. Beagles, as you know, are hounds and hounds really adore their sense of smell. A great day for Sam would be to stuff her nose down on the ground and snort every square inch of wherever she happens to be. Well, it turns out that cones are not exactly hound friendly. Sure, you can get the cone completely down on the ground and that's great if you just want to sniff that one spot, but pushing the cone forward with you is a bit of a pain in the snout for hounds. When we're outside, Sam treats us to the sound of plastic being pitifully dragged along the cement as she tries to make the whole thing work while promising that if we would take it off for a minute she wouldn't set about ripping out every stitch in her leg - honest - look at the eyes. Also, for the record, cones completely take away the joy of scratching your head and face - humans are great, but they don't quite get that perfect spot - and stills there's the matter of that paw that desperately needs to be licked - your humans never offer to lick the paws. If it weren't for the magic bowl of food that occasioanlly appears (though never enough), humans would be completely worthless.

Seven more weeks to go.

Worth It

Sam just got home... if she could speak I'm sure it would be something like: you feed me, you betray me and now you have a camera - on a suck scale you're rating a 10. Good job.

The Sam Chronicles: A Rant

"Is she worth it?"

If you suddenly feel this question coming out of your mouth and you're talking to me, the high-pitched sound of someone slamming on their brakes at top speed to avoid a disastrous incident with an immovable object better have played in your head before even the slightest little hiss pops out of your mouth. If you need to blink at me stupidly before gathering your thoughts to change the subject, I'll wait.

In exchange for not asking, I promise in turn not to ask the following:
"Was your vacation worth it?"
"Were the 17" alloy wheels worth it?"
"Was the new TV worth it?"
"Was (insert whatever frivolous thing you couldn't live without that you dropped a lot of cash on) worth it?"

I'll even go so far as to politely bob my head along as you brag about what a great little consumer you are. How you're single-handedly turning the tide on the recession. Bravo you, you great little spender.

To me, it's a matter of priorities. I could have an HDTV or I could have a healthy dog. You can choose the TV (it's your choice), but I'll choose my pets every time. Unless you're my husband or someone I'm borrowing from, my finances are not really your concern.

You see, if you're the kind of person who really feels compelled to ask me if Sam is worth it (or any other person's pet is worth it), I have only one response: I like Sam more than I like you. So, with that in mind it would be in your best interest that your care never falls to me.

(DISCLAIMER TIME: The time in my rant where I have to throw in a disclaimer. Some of you guys may be having an "I was just asking about the cost, sheesh!" moment - this is not aimed at you guys. It's a combo of stories from other pet owners and one very specific conversation about Sam. In fact, many of you have already seen me flap my arms and scream about it - lucky you!)

The Sam Chronicles: Surgery

As most of you know, today we start the lengthy process of getting our beagle Sam back on track to being the goofy, glad to greet the world, ever-starving, flappy earred mess that we love and adore. Sam recently tore her cranial cruciate ligament (CCL), which is a lot like your ACL - it's one of two ligaments that stabilizes her leg and, simply put, keeps her bones from shifting in ways they shouldn't shift.

Last night, the surgeon went in and examined her medial and lateral meniscus for tears (for you science nerds) and made the determination on how to address any that were seen, then they basically attached a piece of nylon that went from her femur (that nice big fat thigh bone) to her tibia (her shin for all practical purposes). This nylon cord will act as her new CCL where scar tissue will form around it and her knee will then become more stable. (Ang, if you're reading and I screwed up the basics or if you have any recommendations on how to better explain, let me know and I'll update.)

In about an hour, I'll call and find out when I can meet with the surgical technician so we can talk about our next steps. From there, I can bring one very sleepy beagle with a naked leg and a head in a cone home. Jay put together a new crate for her that's on wheels - since dogs are pack animals, she'll get to ride all over the house with the pack doubtlessly wondering where I learned to drive and cursing the person who didn't demand that crate pushers be licensed.

A huge thanks to her vet, Dr. Julien (and all the vets/staff in our little home town - they're a great group of folks) and her surgeon, Dr. Caplan. When I left Sam at Dr. Caplan's surgical center, I felt that she was not only in great hands and they were going to carefully monitor Sam through her recovery, but at the end of the end of the day we wouldn't actually have sucked Sam's soul out. (Soul sucking is a huge issue with me, because as most of you know, we adopted a pretty special girl who has her own issues. I really wish I'd known her previous owners so I could quite simply ask "what the fuck?") An even bigger thanks to Dr. Glasgow, who will always be Ang to me. From California, Ang helped me find the best of the best here in Austin and then spoke to her colleagues who happened to by friends with our surgeon (sychronicity) and who also spoke rather highly of her.

I have been very fortunate that I'm surrounded by very talented friends who excel in their chosen fields and thank GOD they have no taste in friends and occasionally slum so I can pick their brains for information.

... and that's all you're getting of "sane" me for awhile. Next up, a rant! My favorite!

Post to Friends: My Dream

Every year I'm asked what I want for my birthday, just like the rest of you, and I sit on Amazon trying to think of things I wouldn't mind collecting dust on a bookshelf; it's my annual birthday/Christmas routine.

But you know what I really want? and not necessarily for my birthday? I want as many of you as possible in one place. From Dayton to Davis - from Montreal and New York to Las Vegas and all the places in between (like Texas, Texas and Texas - oh, and Indiana, don't think you're skating Wee One or you Miss Arizona). We could meet up in Chicago (I'm officially declaring it "middle-ish" - has a lot to offer I'm told, I can only personally comment on the airport and that seemed perfectly airport-ish - lots of gates and such) - maybe for a nice four day getaway?

It goes without saying that the invitation is open to any and all you wanted to drag along and it wouldn't necessarily have to be a gathering of Texans and you ex-patriates (shame on all y'all) - you other state-ies are welcome. I even promise you won't be forced to stare at me the entire 96 hours (I mean, we'd have to sleep some time, right?)

I'm completely serious, so you tell me what you think - how can we make this happen?

BBM: The Christmas Edition or How I'll Miss My Aunt Philis

Well, the most notable thing to happen this holiday season is I had to disown my aunt. I feel really sad about it since she's the last of my grandmother's children, the last solid connection to my Mom, but it had to be done. I'm going to miss her. She's a great aunt - one of those who is very sweet and funny - a joy to be around type - the rock of the family; you'd like her.

Of course, I fully appreciate that this act is going to leave me in a bit of an aunt bind, so I'm going to be auditioning for a new aunt.

What I'm looking for is someone in their mid-60's, about 5'2" with a big smile who can put on puppet shows or maybe one act plays for birthdays - none of this singing. Who wouldn't agree that a birthday party wouldn't be 100 times more entertaining if the guests spontaneously burst out into a puppet show? (One of those well-rehearsed, everyone-knows-their-lines performances where the guests are holding professionally made/visually engaging puppets that require at least three handlers to manipulate - think the Lion King stage production of birthdays. Picture it, your guests dressed in black, as to not be distracting, and suddenly they spring up in unison and they're manipulating large puppets telling a birthday story. How is this not the greatest birthday idea ever?) I'm sorry, but if you're one of those singing aunts, you'll have to shop for another family. If you're the type that suddenly feels the urge to stand up in a crowd and lead choral lemmings in a round of "Happy Birthday," then I'm sure you'll find work elsewhere. I hear some restaurants are very big on eager birthday singers and you might even land at one where you get to bang things or whoop. Who doesn't like whooping? You're probably a good little whooper!

If you know of any out-of-work aunts looking for an aunt gig who have any puppeteering talent, please send them my way.

(Note: Inside joke - I'm actually not giving up my aunt for the holidays. Well... not yet. There are still a few more days until Christmas and my actual birthday.)

Rant: Tech Support

Well, it seems I can't avoid a rant and since Jay claims I can't just rant at an individual on my blog (something about how the rest of you were crinkle your brows and wonder why I went off the anti-psychotics), I'll try to pick on a topic everyone can relate to - Tier 1 Tech Support.

These guys represent the first roadblock you encounter to getting your problem resolved. They're usually armed with a script and tend to short-circuit if you attempt to stray from that script. For example, we all know that step number one is: power it down. It doesn't matter what "it" is (router, cable modem, DVR), "it" just needs to recycle or reboot or rethink why it's freaking out on you. Turn it off. Turn it on. Easy. Now most of us who are a little ahead of the game do this, because we know the drill and because sometimes waiting for something to reboot can take an agonizing couple of minutes - a couple of minutes that you prefer to do alone without the joy of a phone cradled on your shoulder while listening to your soon-to-be tech nemesis breathing heavily in your ear or blathering to the person next to them. You just made your first mistake. If you call your soon-to-be tech nemesis, it doesn't matter that you've turned whatever "it" is off and back on again 10 times before you made the call, they want you to do it again. Sometimes I oblige, because like many of you, I secretly believe in the magic that can often occur when someone else is watching/listening and I believe it will be a benevolent form of magic (the other occurs when you say "look at me" while attempting to perform some amazing feat and end up eating dirt before a crowd of friends and family), but again, we tend to believe that if the tech nemesis is listening, "it" might work better. OR if you're not feeling the magic, you just listen to the heavy breather while pretending it's booting up while making happy reassuring noises or saying things like, "ok... I'm shutting it down now - just a sec... yeah, it's coming up now... hang on" while you make a grocery list or examine your toe nails.

Now, I'm not saying that this baby-step approach to troubleshooting issues can't help other people, I'm sure it takes care of 90% of their calls, but I think I should be able to earn some special rating - something that says "ok, she has IT experience, isn't a moron and she likely turned off the device, reseated all her cables and verified all the lights that should be blinking are in fact blinking". I want a rating that says "she is beyond our Tier 1 skill level and we need to send her straight to Tier 2 or 3 - the folks with the IQs that are OVER 100 and are capable of independent, unscripted thought." I'd even be willing to just walk through the steps "yes, I have done x, y, and z" if it would mean that I didn't have to do it while they were snuffling in my ear waiting for me to scramble around on the floor.

To avoid flipping out on the phone, I occasionally opt to send an email where I can lay out all the steps I've taken and succinctly state the issue. Again, this is another huge mistake, because I make the assumption that tech support has basic reading comprehension skills. They don't. After the first two sentences, you've lost them and they're just going to troubleshoot what is in those two lines. It's actually gotten so bad that I type and edit and re-type and re-edit in some vane attempt to make my note as clear as possible and the little tech gnomes ALWAYS blow it (and when I say "always" understand that I'm not making a simple generalization, I mean 100% of the time - not 95% of the time, not 99.9% of the time, I mean ONE HUNDRED BLOODY PERCENT OF THE TIME. Thankfully, I'm not bitter about this.)

I could type "my orange tree has a parasite and has not produced fruit, how should I treat it?" and the response would be, "why is it orange? Lemon trees are heartier during full moons when Saturn is in retrograde. We are closing this ticket on the color of your tree because the issue has been addressed. Thank you for contacting tree support. If we can be of further assistance..." And you sit and say "buhhh...? WHAT?"

I wish, if the tech world absolutely refuses to give me some sort of rating that would allow me to skip ahead to Tier 2 support or above, that we could come to some sort of truce - maybe draft an agreement that read something like: We understand and agree that the annoying tech tard (hereafter referred to as You in the document) wrongly believes that I, the angelic tech protagonist (hereafter referred to as I/Me in the document) am stupid with a hint of mean thrown in for spite, and we further agree that I have no doubt that you are actually knuckle-dragging-slope-browed stupid; however, despite your short-comings and lack of complex thoughts you will agree to read ALL of the little words and listen politely so that I don't turn blue and scream. At the end of all the little confusing wordy bits that seemingly stump you, you will then attempt to troubleshoot my actual problem and not some interesting little shiny word or sentence you've latched onto. We also agree that it is a bad thing when I (the aforementioned angelic, ever-right, put-upon protagonist who also happens to have a laid back type B personality) am compelled to "nut up" (thank you, Lynn) on you and that it is our mutual benefit that my blood pressure remains low. Swearing only makes angels, bunnies, ponies and knuckle-dragging tech tards cry and crying will not help us achieve our mutual goals that involve resolving my actual problem, not some made up problem you invented by reading between the lines. To re-establish the lines of trust, you will sign this document in blood (yours) and disclose your address, your home phone and the make/model/license plate of your car for my reference should I find myself dissatisfied with your solution.

I'm eye-balling you, Symantec