Holiday: Reprise

Soon we will be embarking on another fishing/finishing my novel trip. Below is an account of what happened last time we went camping at this particular place.

To avoid such incidents in future, Frank has been advised that he may only show signs of illness within a 2 mile radius of home. Once outside those parameters, he will just have to suffer.

The "Holiday" Part I

Sunday, 12:00 p.m.
Truck departs with husband driving. Our cool new (to us) 13’, 1975 Trillium travel trailer is packed to bursting with snack food, fishing equipment and books. Dog wags tail merrily before he settles down for the drive.

1:15 p.m.
Dog makes his way to front seat. He is being extraordinarily affectionate. Must be the whole "family holiday" vibe. We are listening to Prince’s new album. We are a bit groovy if we do say so ourselves.

1:30 p.m.
Dog has oozed his way into my lap. How sweet! He’s never done that before.

1:32 p.m.
Dog has had horrible accident ON ME. That’s right, ON ME! Oh my god! Pull over! Pull over! Help! I’m going to be sick! Dog is very definitely sick. Somebody help. No, you fool. Not somebody giggle helplessly. I said help!

1:50 p.m.
Dog has been cleaned up. I have been somewhat cleaned up. We have used all the bottled water. Trip resumes. There is less of a groovy vibe in the air. It has been replaced by a very distinctive smell.

2:05 p.m.
The smell really has staying power. Husband has stopped giggling and now has a set look on his face. Dog seems fine. Windows all as far open as they can go and as a result my hair is in the early stages of dreadlocks. The smell seems to be coming from every direction. The whole world stinks. Nothing is fun.

4:15 p.m.
Pull into campsite. Ah! Here at last. It’s quite a nice spot. Fronted by ocean and backed by a lovely estuary. Perfect for flyfishing for pink salmon and getting some work done on the new novel. Husband and I exchange pleased pecks on the cheek as we set up camp. We are very happy to be out of the truck. Dog seems fine and also happy to be out of truck.

5:30 p.m.
Neighbors all friendly and the site is nice. But can't help but notice that the bathrooms are a bit far away. Showers in particular are sketchy. Nasty clumps of hair lurk on the floors under hideously filthy non-slip mats. Oh well, at least we aren’t rabid consumerists driving one of those giant half million dollar RVs like the couple from California beside us. Our little Trillium is just fine thanks, even if it does have shag carpet but no bathroom or TV. Sure, it would be nice not to have to walk half a mile to go to the Ladies, but there is the environment to think of.

6:45 p.m.
Dinner was okay. The pre- marinated "steak" was apparently a road killed animal that had been seasoned by leaving it out in the sun for 3 days. But the potato chips were good. Husband out fishing in his pontoon boat. I’m drinking coffee late at night because nothing keeps me awake when I’m camping! Yay! Dog is fully recovered. Double yay!

2:45 a.m.
Foghorn from lighthouse on nearby island begins to go off every thirty seconds or so. It is keeping me awake.

6:15 a.m.
Awoken an hour after finally getting to sleep by the sound of husband hosing down dog bed. Stumble outside the trailer. Dog is not recovered. Dog is very, very sick. The evidence is all over the truck, where he spent the night on his bed. Throw on some clothes, send husband fishing, telling him I can handle things, load dog into horrifying charnel house of a vehicle. Wonder if dog accidentally got into the pre-marinated "steak". Wonder if a person could actually die from an odour.

6:55 a.m.
Run into road work on the way into the nearest town. Flag person comes over to tell me about the delay, recoils as he nears the truck. Smell apparently emanating to a distance of just under 10 ft. Hope self and dog don’t die on the way to the vet. This is looking increasingly possible.

7:15 a.m.
Run into hotel. Ask for directions to the local vet’s office. Find out it’s back the way we came. Drive the stink mobile at top speed to the vet’s.

7:35 a.m.
Vet not in yet. Our cell phone, which I don’t actually know how to use, does not appear to be operational. Dog very, very, very sick. Sickeningly sick, in fact. Wonder if I am catching what he has. Don’t feel well at all and am not even anywhere near the truck.

7:55 a.m.
Vet not in yet. No one in yet.

8:15 a.m.
Car pulls up. It is lovely young vet assistant. She is very kind about not saying anything about the smell hanging over dog and me. She is really a consummate professional. Vet won’t be in until 9:30. How nice for vet. Think that James Herriot probably made it in before 9:30.

9:00 a.m.
Lady who works in nearby Humane Society building comes over to say hello. She wishes everyone cared about their pets as much as I obviously do. She is stressed out by her job. She thinks she may be burned out. She's on call 24 hours a day. With the RCMP! She finds herself crying a lot. Look! She's crying right now. But, on the plus side, she just bought a motorcycle. A big one. It calms her. She rides it around at night. The phone rings. She goes back inside the Humane Society building. She doesn't say goodbye. She just walks away. Crying.

9:30 a.m.
Vet ready to see us. Apologizes for the wait. He’s been doing housecalls. What is this? The Yorkshire Dales? Who does housecalls anymore? I should get 10% off for picking up. Or, I guess, dropping off. Vet is very young and nice and sincere. Like his assistant, he is a consummate professional and only winces slightly when I bring dog and dog’s smell into confines of examination room.

9:40 a.m.
Vet agrees dog seems very sick. You can tell by the smell. Goes over a list of possibilities. All of them are serious. We will need blood tests. An I.V. At least one overnight stay. And $420. Dog is led away to be fitted with I.V. and giant plastic hood. He looks how I feel. And the two of us smell pretty much the same.

Get in malodormobile and drive back to campsite to await the verdict…

The "Holiday" Part II

Monday, 5:00 p.m.
Husband rushes to greet me as I pull in. How is dog? Where is dog? He is very sad to hear dog is in hospital. We begin a downward spiral of what-ifs: What if dog dies? Would we get another dog ever? What if dog needs major surgery and ends up without the use of his hind legs and we have to pull him around in a red wagon? Or would we get him more of a wheel chair arrangement? What if our insurance doesn't cover renovating the house?

After reveling in this for a while, we clean out truck. Or rather husband cleans out truck. I retire to bed to continue dwelling on worst case scenarios. What if vet accidentally euthanizes dog after getting him confused with another dog? What if vet sells dog for medical testing? What if another dog with rabies bites dog and we have to put him down like in Old Yeller? What if I’m the one who has to do it? What if I miss and hit a cat?

Begin wondering if I might have some form of pet owner's Munchausen by proxy disorder. Poor, poor dog.

5:20 p.m.
Word has gotten around campsite about sick dog. People begin to stop by to pay their respects. I feel a bit like royalty lying in wait in the Trillium. Or Tony Soprano.

5:35 p.m.
Vet calls. Dog seems much better. I neglect to mention this to the next neighbor who stops by to ask how dog is. It looks like I do have Pet Owner Munchausen By Proxy. Wonder if Jonathan Kellerman might end up writing about me. Sure, his detective Alex Delaware is a child psychologist. Maybe he can have a mid-life career change and become a vet. Or a pet owner psychologist!

6:50 p.m.
Neighbors invite us for dinner. They are very sympathetic. Again I do not mention that dog seems to be on the mend. I really don’t feel like cooking. Definitely don’t mention that dog will probably be coming home tomorrow.

Tuesday, 9:30 a.m.
All is right with the world. Show up to collect dog. Cell phone not working so don’t call first. Vet takes me into his office. He’s sad to say dog has had setback and been very sick in the night. Dog is in isolation. Dog’s bloodwork is troubling.

In addition, and unrelated to current problems, has anyone ever suggested to us that dog might have Cushings Disease? Have we ever wondered why dog has ratty looking tail?

Bite back usual snippy retort to any comments about inadequacies of dog’s plume. Finally admit that dog does have a bit of hair loss. But it suits him really.

The bad news is dog has to stay. The good news is, I can visit him. At least he hasn’t been euthanized inadvertantly!

9:45 a.m.
After passing through several levels of biosecurity, get to dog’s isolation chamber. It looks as though they’ve begun medical testing on him RIGHT THERE IN THE VET’S OFFICE! OUR POOR PUPPY! He is passionately, extravagently unhappy. He is wearing a giant plastic hood and has needles coming out of him. Immediately feel awful for using his illness to get free meals. I would even eat fake steak and cook it myself if dog will just get well!

9:47 a.m.
Vet shows me how to hold up IV bag while keeping dog under control. I take dog outside and dog gives me several looks. The looks say: What the hell? And: Hello? What the hell?

I try to get him to lay in a little patch of sunlight on the lawn beside the vet clinic. I begin to see myself as a bit of a vet/nurse combo. I am proving quite good at holding IV. Suddenly, in a trailer across the way, a dishevelled young woman wearing pajamas, begins screaming at her German Shepard, who is attempting to slink away from the trailer.

Goddamn it Spike! Get back here now! bellows the unpleasant young woman. Then she goes back into her trailer and turns up Hilary Duff’s latest CD so loud that the trailer begins shaking. I begin shaking. The dog begins shaking. Poor Spike continues his retreat, also shaking. But the girl is back on the porch.

Spike! GET BACK HERE! NOW! she screams, rivaling the volume of even the horrific Duff.

The dogs in the Human Society impound nearby begin to bark and howl. Poor Spike grovels his way back into the deafening Duff din. And my nice nurse moment is ruined. I give up and take dog back to his isolation cell. Worried that any more exposure to Duff might kill him in his weakened state.

9:55 a.m.
As I leave the isolation unit, dog begins to make otherworldly howling noise in the back of the clinic. Vet kindly suggests dog might stay calmer if I don’t visit. I pull myself into truck for the drive back to the campsite and look over to see horrid Duff fan dancing. Dancing! Music to deafen a dog by: that’s what Hilary Duff is. Beyond that weird thing she does with the big poof of hair at the front of her hair, her music is also used to abuse animals. Down with Duff!

10:15 p.m.
Have spent entire day in bed in Trillium. Calling vet every few hours. Dog seems to be getting better. Which makes it okay that I have been eating the whole time I’ve been in bed. Snyders of Hanover seasoned pretzel pieces. They are the perfect grief food. I wish the neighbors would bring over a casserole. I’m not up to cooking.

Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.
Dog is coming home! No setbacks in the night! Suspect fear of further exposure to Duff may have speeded his recovery.

Husband and I both go to pick him up. We buy him a squeaky toy with 5 squeaks in it! Nothing is too squeaky for our boy!

Husband takes dog for a walk while I get the latest report from vet. Dog has drug regimen that will keep me busy stuffing pills into peanut butter for some time. Husband rushes back to report that dog has just had a … successful … you know. We all rejoice. A corner has been turned. As though on cue, the harridan in the nearby trailer cranks Duff. Fortunately, she lets poor Spike, the deaf Shepard, stay outside.

I gladly pay $800 bill. It’s a small price to get away from Duff. Oh yeah, and to reclaim dog.

It dawns on me that now that dog is on the mend, I’m actually going to have to fish. I can’t get away with spending all day laying in the Trilly eating pretzel pieces. Realization puts a damper on my joy. But still…

Thursday
Lose anchor for husband’s pontoon boat. Worry will be swept out to sea. That’ll teach me to read when I should be fishing. Good thing was only about 6 feet from shore or it could have been serious.

Lose multiple flys. Casting technique is a bit rusty.

Husband starting to regret dog’s recovery and my emerging from trailer.

Fall in about 6" of water and slice hand open on barnacle. With blood running freely down my arm, actually catch fish. Speculate it was attracted by blood. Just glad it was a salmon and not a Great White Shark. Husband is very proud or at least somewhat less embarrassed by my antics.

Friday, near dawn
Topple over in about 2 feet of water. Fish for 15 minutes until cold morning air on soaking shirt threatens to give me hypothermia. Go back to campsite to change. As getting undressed, realize that water that got into my waders has settled rather suspiciously around my, um, lower midsection. New group across the way watch as the woman who apparently "couldn’t wait" gets out of her waders. Resist the urge to make excuses. It only makes things worse.

Pack up trailer for the drive home. Breath sigh of relief.

Now Raising Funds

for the ESL Lessons for Spammers Project and Initiative.

Today's worthy candidate is "Mickle Johnson", head of "Any Trans". This fine company apparently specializes in "rendering the services consisting in reception of payments from clients of the various companies when the client and the company are in the different countries. To open the representations in each country is rather problematic and, in some cases, unprofitably. Therefore we invite people to a post of the financial courier; which will carry out some functions: reception of money resources on their bank accounts and the further transfer it on our bank account in other regions. The thought over circuit [Note: Aha! Those damned thought over circuits really are a pain. Thank God Mickle's on it!] allows us to save maximum on percent. Start to work right now!

As my man Mickle puts it: "It is your really favorably chance to earn!"

Let's help "Mickle" and "Any Trans" get the success they deserve! Let's send him the latest edition of the ESL for Spammers Compendium and we can all really favorably chance to earn!

(A two-blog day to make up for one of them being about a toothbrush!)

(And one more thing: today is Meg Cabot Day in Bloomington, Indiana. I've decided it's Meg Cabot Day at our house too, so look out for some very princess-y behaviour. Hey! Frank! Go fetch my flip flops! And you, James: I'll take an iced tea. Pronto my man! RUN! RUN! Now where did I put that tiara? I'd just like to say that Meg Day is rapidly becoming one of my favourite days of the year.)

Blinding White Smiles

Sorry for the infrequent updating. I've been buried in the revisions to the new book and am jealously guarding each word. Hey! I can't use that word in my blog! What if it would fit perfectly in the book! Can't be squandering words all over the place.

Yes, it's ridiculous. No, that's not how prolific, endlessly creative writers think.

The big news has nothing to do with the TV show or the writing. The big news is that I have finally had a dental breakthrough. I have experienced a lot of dentistry in my life. Braces, headgear, caps, root canals, you name it, I have endured it in the name of a straight, white smile. And in that whole time dentists and their trusty hygienists have been giving me advice to make my smile better and my gums pinker. Apparently flossing almost every day and brushing three times a day is not enough.

Have you thought about brushing your teeth while you watch TV?"" more than one dental type has asked brightly. (To which I have silently replied, 'A person can't brush her teeth and knit and eat popcorn while watching The Office. Guess which one is going to go?')

One charming fellow, a recent graduate of the Case Western Dentistry and Torturer's School, thought my gums were puffy because I am a night-time mouth breather. (He had no evidence of this, but was the sort of person who was comfortable making wild and unsubstantiated accusations.) His suggestion: "Why don't you try TAPING YOUR MOUTH SHUT AT NIGHT?" Yes, he actually suggested that. I thanked him graciously for his excellent suggestion and went home and had a long talk with my teeth and assured them that I wouldn't be locking them in at night. Yeesh.

Another hygienist thought I should try rubbing Vaseline all over my gums before bed. Yes, that sounds delicious. And when I get done with that I'll put a dab of hair dye in my eye, just to see what happens!

Finally, after my last cleaning, complete with worried, muttery noises from the hygienist, she suggested that I go buy a Sonicare electric toothbrush. Which I did, just to get her and all the rest of the dental professionals off my back. I was worried it would be like that crappy old water pick I had when I was a kid that used to shoot water all over the bathroom mirror and up my nose and had no discernible effect. But it turns out the SONICARE (I'm shilling all caps now, out of sheer enthusiasm) is a miracle tool for those with less than perfect gums.

It vibrates like like a buzz saw and "sonics" your gums into pinkness and health! It also has a two minute timer so you brush long enough. My gums have never been pinker. Every day I Sonicare (my favourite new verb!) and then stare long and hard at my smile and every day there is less gum and more tooth. I'm a Sonicare addict and will be applying to be an after model in the advertisement any day now. So there. I've done my bit to keep the consumer economy chugging along.

(Note to the makers of Sonicare electric toothbrush: you can send my cheque to the house. It'll be the one with the loud vibrating noise going day and night, much to the confusion and alarm of the neighbors.)

Did I really just write a whole blog about my toothbrush? God, no wonder I never update this thing...

Chat! Chat! Wherever you may be! I am the Lord of the Chat said she...

Well, Magnificent Meg Cabot is, anyway.

For all you Meg Cabot fans, and I know you are legion, she and I are going to be chatting about Realist at Last on her fabulous book club on July 26th (4:00 PST, 7:00 EST). For more information go to http://www.megcabotbookclub.com/

Now I'm going to go back to finishing my new novel... before my head explodes. I'm just saying.

From My Blog ...

to God's Weather Control Desk

Today at 4:00

A Simple Demand

I would like to know who cancelled summer without my authorization. Yes, I know I'm always complaining about global warming and its effects. Perhaps I should have been clearer. My problem is actually CLIMATE CHANGE.

It's mid-July and we have yet to have a single nice day. My horse and dog are growing winter coats. Our vine maples are CHANGING COLOUR! I have to wear socks because it's too cold for sandals.

And don't think you're going to punish me by turning things scorching hot and leaving them that way until January. I've reached the end of my patience with global climate change. I want seasonally appropriate weather and I want it NOW.

(If you can't manage that, please give some thought to throwing at least two or three nice days our way. I promise we'll all make good use of them.)

Thanks.

Apologies to the Thespians

I've just heard that the casting call is Canada-wide, but it's not open. I think this means that you need an agent. And 8 x 10 glossies. And acting lessons. Etc. The actors among you probably know what that means.

I still don't know whether the producers and casting agent will visit Northern BC, but I'll let you know when I find out. As you've probably figured out, I don't know anything.

For those of you who've been practicing your Alice moves (getting your teeth chipped in preparation, wearing thrift store finds, making acidic comments about the sixties) I'm really sorry. But remember that no effort is wasted. Well, some kinds of effort can be wasted. For instance, any time spent at the video gaming terminal is pretty much gone forever, but creative work will only make you better and more interesting.

If I ever write an Alice play, I promise my casting call will be open. I'll hold auditions on the street. At bus stops and cafes and outside A&W: places where THE PEOPLE gather. I will allow men and women, young and old to audition. And when people tell me to get lost, that they want nothing to do with me and this Alice person, I won't be deterred. Even if they try to run away from me, I'll chase them down. I'll say: "Hey you! You in the flood pants! Come back here! I like the way you flap your arms like a goose when you run. Dude, you should totally be in my play!"

Disclaimer: Please note that I am not writing a play any time soon. I promise. And I promise not to accost people outside fast food restaurants, either. Even if they do have unusual hair or an innovative running style.