Sink Or Swim Part II - My Dog Is Still Dying

Sink Or Swim -- Part II

Dec.11th

           Ahh --let me paint the scene. I am sitting here in "Woojie-world." A garden area alongside the Win-gate clubhouse which is is almost directly across the street from my house. It is teeming with lizards. (Until we arrive, at which point they scatter and hide.) Willow is moving from tree to tree hoping to get lucky (Won't happen. I shall, however, assist her momentarily by banging a sturdy palm-piece against the trees.)  I am typing on my ASUS transformer connected to the internet through some mystery Netgear router, fortuitously unsecured. I have music (sounding real good) from my Creative, X-Fi, FLAC player paired to a Cy-fi (no relation) bluetooth speaker which is shaped like a large teardrop and fits perfectly in my t-shirt pocket. It's 74 and sunny. (On Dec. 14th!) At this moment "Edward Sharpe" (Alexander Ebert) is whining that he has to leave L.A..  Pachelbel's "Canon in D" played prior. (From an album entitled: Pachelbel's Greatest Hit" which contains various interpretations of the "Canon in D" -- Willow is calling -- let me get my stick --brb.
       Whoa! We saw (and briefly pursued) a gecko. Only the third I've seen in the eight months I've been in exile here.) They are a highly preferable lizard species to hunt as they are approx. half as fast and are bright green ta boot. Not that either attribute (detraments for the gecko) helped us to make today its' gruesome last.
        Lizard hunting is an art. These creatures are cunning and impossibly quick. At times faster than the human eye can track. (These human eyes anyway.) They have dexterous hands with creepy human jointed fingers with which, after astounding leaps they may use to instantly change directions by grabbing an edge and swinging underneath with proto-simian precision. They are scary smart. They seem to know the perfect angles needed to to elude me. I swear they have vanished right in front of me. They adapt quickly. New evasion strategies are quickly adopted by all. As if they somehow broadcast the most effective maneuvers. My suspicions of their communicative propensities was corroborated after I accidentally exposed a partially burned section of leaf that was wedged in the hollow junction formed by the"shaggy-palm's" lattice-work trunk.

Shaggy Palm

       Special thanks are due to the photomicrography and herpelingusitics departments at UCF. The former who enlarged and /reimaged the document so that the latter could translate it. Upon enlargement appearing to be a hodgepodge of squiggles and dots. Nonsense to me --  easily decipherable by the herpelinguists. What was to me an astounding object proved nothing of the sort to these experts who have amassed drawers and drawers of similarly scrawled upon leaf fragments. (Huh, turns out lizards are quite prolific scribes; who'da guessed.) They had long been aware of the lizard society's monarchical governmental structure. "Every backyard a kingdom." They claim. Anyway, it certainly explains how such varied survival tactics are so quickly and efficiently propagated.
       Here it is in its' entirety:

                                       From the Royal (Shaggy) Palm of Lizard-King Jim
                                                          Here-ye loyal subjects!
             Following is an official decree from the most revered and extolled Lizard King Phil.

            A (quasi) danger has befallen our realm in the form of a loud, hairy and obnoxiously persistent grey monstrosity and its awkward bipedal (and balding) companion that carries a large, golden, banging-stick. Please assemble your neighbors, read, commit to memory and immediately destroy this notice. (As we can not leave these leaves around as evidence of our advanced cognitive abilities.)
            Should you  indeed suffer the misfortune of being approached by these creatures you are strongly advised to shelter in place. Do not let your curiosity get the better of you. Keep your heads (and tails) about you by keeping them down. Be assured, that aside from their ludicrously unwieldy size they are in all respects unremarkable and not worth further investigations. The tooled bipedal companion, however, does seem to possess a rudimentary intelligence. Do not be lulled by it's vacant glare. The inclination to not consider these buffoonish beings a "clear and present" threat, though understandable, may prove an egregious error.
            The good news: evasion is not only achievable but, pretty much, guaranteed. To assist in achieving the most beneficial outcome, I have assembled and convened the "Grey-Monstrosity Royal Evasion Task-Force" the findings of which are presented herein and designate several proven and approved strategies which you will do well to follow; minimizing the already negligible chances of meeting an inauspicious and violent end. (Note: These evasion tactics shall be appended as new (or refined) strategies are developed, tested and approved.)
            1) "Frick the Stick!" If the biped's stupid stick is not in imminent danger of wounding you -- don't move. Do not be panicked by the incessant banging. It is utilized to promulgate fear and cause you to abandon your shelter and flee. If  you are visible, you are vulnerable! Remember, shelter in place.
            2)When Hope You Lack, Feign Attack! For whatever reason, the biped will not hit us directly with the stick -- he uses it merely  to corral and shepherd us towards the grey-monstrosity.  Utilize this weakness against them by counter intuitively, leaping at, or upon, the biped. (No, seriously!) This will, most likely, cause it to drop the stick and flail wildly as you drop to the ground and hightail it beneath the nearest plant. During the final phase of this maneuver be cautious of the biped's stomping feet.
            3) Utilize the "270 Up" -- Your tree is your friend. Neither the bulbous biped nor the grey monstrosity can circumnavigate at the speed all but the most elderly of our kind is capable of. If you have been exposed and the stick is near you, continue laterally (at 2/3 speed) while maintaining an approximately 30 degree incline around your tree. When at the 270 degree mark (or  3/4 of the way from the point at which you start;  make a full speed vertical dash (90 degree) toward your tree top. Your position upon shooting vertical will usually, (but not always,) coincide with a point almost directly above the grey-monstrosities head) Do not slow, do not look back.
            4) "Panic, No! Instead, Go Low!" In the unlikely event the biped has succeeded in driving you within striking distance of the Grey-monstrosity.  Don't panic, go low. Believe it or not,  the best place to escape the beast is to place your self directly beneath it. Scary, yes; but an effective escape strategy.  The beast is easily confused. It pounces and almost always overshoots, permitting us to exit from beneath it's foul, mid-section-bulge while it is busily snorting through the empty dirt beneath it's front limbs. Note: occasionally it does not overshoot. Last week we sadly lost a royal subject from Duke Eli's palm; his torso violently twisted at an impossible angle to his lower extremities, and  to whose family I extend my deepest royal condolences and the King's blessings.
            5)  Lizards Don't Cry! If you have made the fatal error of fleeing to an open area and you are cornered, exposed and exhausted -- don't cry. We are lizards. Lizard's don't cry. (The fact that we don't have tear-ducts is beside the point!) Please show some restraint and do not throw your tails! Nothing says impotent ruler more than subjects running around with little stumps where their lovely tails should be. Not to mention the steep physical toll incurred by regeneration. Instead, go limp. The Grey monstrosity will take you in it's mouth and may indeed puncture your body. The smell and heat are as excruciating as is the possible pain. However, many of my subjects have survived this encounter. Here's how:  it will most likely carry you over to the grass. The beast will at this point put you down in the grass with the intent of reliving it's initial strike and thrill of capture. (Beast!)  At the moment of release you must remain perfectly still -- but only for a moment. When you feel the heat of it's fetid breath diminish, immediately burrow yourself down into the roots of the grass with arrow like focus, form and precision. Do not use your limbs but keep these pressed firmly against your sides as they may snag against a root and prevent your deepest penetration. Utilize a side to side writhing form like our cousins the legless serpents. Continue moving at the deepest possible level. Then, move laterally towards cover in brief  two to four inch bursts between twenty second periods of complete immobility.
            It is the opinion of your King and his Royal council  that these assaults can not continue indefinitely and we may some day, perhaps soon, be free of these unprovoked assaults; able to once again resume our peaceful existence. However, in the meantime, know that  your Sire and Lord and has been regularly meeting with his most wise and trusted advisers and consults with the goal of devising some effective countermeasures for use against these foul creatures.          
            My blessings and prayers I now extend upon all my subjects in these trying times!
       
            Your Kind and Caring King -- Phil

A Grain Of Rice

Lest you disbelieve a document of such length could be inscribed upon a small section of  (partially burned) leaf -- I direct your attention to the following: http://listverse.com/2010/02/06/top-10-unbelievable-miniatures/

Sink Or Swim; Part I: My Dog Is Dying.

Dec. 2nd

       Well...  I'm back... eight months later. Really?  Eight months?  Almost to the day. April 1st - Dec. 2nd. Longer since I completed "Marriage Autopsy" (I just reread it. Though an emotionally contrived bit of caustic-matter-splattered, pulp -- I find it quite humorous and brutally honest. With some interesting technical acrobatics and erudite word choices. (As usual.) Considering the quite dire emotional circumstances they were composed under, I am, mostly, pleased.)
       Eight months -- huh.  Tempus fugit n' shit.
       In my casually lateral traversal through daily routine, I confront no challenge more existentially confounding  than my inability to grasp the passage of time. Hours are to me undifferentiated from decades; minutes from months, seconds from centuries. It's as if all time will be/is/was -- one. I don't know if this is a form of brain damage or higher awareness (I suspect the former.) Life is zipping by all around me and I have yet to attempt plant my feet within it's fecund promise. Surely, if I jump at this point... tumbling wildly I'd be violently sent.  A violent and shocking condition perhaps preferable to my current roadside state of fetid decay. Eschewing participation to instead impotently masquerade as a "conscientious-objector." In reality (it's subjective!)  a psychologically and emotionally mangled victim of my own, insecurities, fear and cynicism. What could be worse than to be forever/momentarily left wondering what I am capable/incapable of accomplishing. Developing neither the courage nor will to act; instead, spitefully railing against injustices (real or perceived) that permeate every facet of our technology-mainlining society that puts profits before people and monetizes our every itch.
      How convenient are these paralyzing inadequacies/grievances, simultaneously affirming and diminishing strapped  together by an encircling of vitriol and resentment; affixed upon which and scrawled in a childlike hand, a label: "DEPRESSION"
     "Of course you're depressed. If I were you, I'd be depressed too." A somberly pronounced professional diagnosis from several years past.
      Well fuck her.
      Here I am on the cusp of 50 -- alone, broke, jobless, scared, sick -- with a dying dog... but I'll be damned if I'm just  going to throw in the towel and succumb to my own morose stupidity. (Like I have a choice.)  No, I do --  damn it! I choose to live. I choose to make this world a better place. I choose to reach out and hopefully...a hand will be there to grasp upon and pull me out of this soul-sucking mire in which I am sinking. If not --  perhaps in kicking wildly (while unavoidably speeding my decent) I will find a foothold, a soul-purchase -- by the fortuitous presence of which, I'll be able to climb out of my own accord.
          Shit -- somethings gotta change... and quickly. I'm sinking fast.

Dec. 4th --

Willow late Nov. 

The x-rays showed something quite irregular with the imaged size of her her heart. The theory is that a tumor is either attached to the heart itself or on the lungs pressing the heart upward (outward) causing it to assume an awkward, angled positioned and appearing ginormous (non clinical terminology) within the chest cavity. Blood tests show only minor irregularities with liver function. Her (nearly) life-long heart-murmur has risen from a "1" to a "5" (a "6" being the highest)
I would like to believe the stubborn beast just moved a little as the image was taken.  I mean she would rather break a leg (or bite off my hand) then allow me to cut her nails so I can't imagine they were able to keep her still enough for an x-ray. That's Willow --  indomitable. Without my presence and a leash she would be run down every time she crossed the street. She refuses to acknowledge cars as anything more than abrupt air oscillations with no more capacity to damage than the wind. She wants to go "over there," she goes ... end of story.
     Quite a simple creature she.  Eats, drinks water,  (resultantly poops and pees) sleeps (more and more), hunts lizards with admirable dedication and determination bordering on obsession. (Even my dog has an occupation!) She chases squirrels, and loves her daddy. Simple. I'm pretty sure she "knows" she is quite adored. (Actually, I sometimes believe she takes my doting affections for granted; like the air she breathes or the ice cubes in her water bowl. Though to be fair she does occasionally attack me with spontaneous and profoundly heart-felt kisses. I raised her to be self-willed. To know that her wishes and desires are important and always carry weight. (With me anyway.) When we are out on walks she picks our routes, often surprising me. (They're her walks after-all -- why shouldn't she decide where they lead.)  One of my favorite exhibited character traits is her stubbornness. I see a dog approaching or sprinklers on up-ahead and try to get her to cross the street -- she sets herself and will not budge! I plead and she looks me dead in the eye (or sometimes completely ignores me) just set in her previously chosen direction. Awesome. (I mentally register "parental success" in these instances - however frustrating they may simultaneously be.) She'll register her error as she hears the forceful patter of the water against the concrete. She'll look over to me like "do something about this!" At which point I usually pick her up and carry her safely around it. If it's the lady with the two pit-bulls coming towards us -- she's overruled (and scooped-up) straight-away.

Dec. 5th - 6th

    From my Dec., 2nd blog (that's still this one, only higher-up the page -- duh)  you may have (justifiably) received the impression that I am unhappy. "Paralyzing, inadequacies/grievances." "state of fetid decay" "psychologically and emotionally mangled victim of my own insecurities, fear  and cynicism." "soul-sucking mire in which I am sinking." Hyperbole aside, all true! But unhappy? Quite the contrary! (Perhaps this is a big part of "the problem.") If I were fully sane I believe I would most certainly be miserable. Thank God, I'm far from it. (And far from miserable.) Alright, maybe a little  miserable (Is that even possible? Can you be a "little-bit" gay or a "little-bit" of a genius or for that matter, partially sane? (I strongly urge you, dear reader, not to draw any inferences from what are merely (poor?) examples.) "Miserable" may, in itself, be more exaggeration. Deep frustration and sadness caused by emotional, psychological, physical stress and disappointment in myself. Vague, but a tad more accurate.(Yes, I collect all the stresses. Strangely, they seem to be a byproduct of a "stress-free" existence.) I shall address these stresses at a future date. Surely, a good deal of this stridently decried soul-malaise is due to the imminent departure of my sole companion and terrestrial responsibility  It is hard to face such profound loss without some resentment and anger. I truly love the "stubborn monkey." (I often expressed to Crystal that it wasn't possible for Willow to be "spoiled" because that would imply she expects more than she gives and to the contrary, she has always given fully and unconditionally of her Willowness. She is quite a loving and spiritually generous creature and I will miss her profoundly. To the point of not knowing how I will deal with her being "gone." (But it has to be better than dealing with her sick and dying.)
     Perhaps I can go to the pound and find another dog... for a heart and lung transplant! Do dogs have blood types? Can I sew fast enough to keep her from bleeding out? (I'll need clamps and a scalpel.) Could I remove the "donor" organs without damaging them? Can I rent a respirator?  I'll need to remove the bed from the spare bedroom and get a large aluminum (stainless-steel? ooh... expensive) table... How sanitary is "sanitary enough?" I will need more light. Disinfectants (iodine?) and anti rejection medications. Strong pain medication. Anesthesia... This could work! Yeah... maybe -- if I were Tony Stark. (I just had an image of Willow with little crimson booties and a glowing blue circle in her chest rising up three feet of the ground to snatch a stunned lizard in her grinning maw.)

Dec. 10th

     Well, sheet. This is rough. Willow is still having really good days. I can't say the same for the nights. After sundown she is pretty much comatose. She started having some trouble sleeping a few nights ago -- periodically, shifting and her breathing is becoming more labored; Bad sign. I do not want her to suffer. She is still eating, drinking and joyfully chasing lizards. I have been debating on whether or not  the best time to "put her down" (oh Lord!) might be when she is outside chasing lizards, with  belly full, bowels yet empty, and the breeze ruffling her hair. (Schnauzer's don't have fur.) Her (lifelong) glory, her element; happy. Perhaps I could have the vet meet me out there. Would this be an act of compassion or selfishness? I am living in a state of semi-shock caused by the soul shredding sadness of her impending departure. (Couldn't have come at a worse time either, because I do not want to leave her alone (and thereby miserable) and yet, I am in a real financial bind. I was already in a funk -- but this episode has brought it to an entirely new level.) I know, I know it's just a dog. The closeness I feel, mostly, illusory; an affectation brought about by our (decade-plus, long)  proximity and reliance on one another's presence. Her's for companionship (far more successfully than Crystal) and me as slave to her every desire.
        Part of me even wonders if I am depriving her of something important by just suddenly ending it. If those moments of revelation --  that her body is dying -- is an integral part of her journey through this plane of existence.
       This is so difficult. Her "mother" hasn't called once. Oh wait -- she did . About a week ago. To ask about a package that was erroneously shipped to my old address after which she inquired after Willow.  I had called her the day I got the diagnosis -- and told her I would bring Willow back up to Pensacola for "goodbyes" (I think Willow would like that -- but Crystal said she rather I didn't. That she wasn't as good as I am dealing with "death." (Translation: I am her emotional superior. Intellectual too. (Yes,  I know the latter is rather obvious but I felt like proclaiming it!  While I'm at it, I might as well lay claim to emotional superiority. (However developmentally-arrested --  my emotional "purity" sanctions and affirms this claim. This particular triptych may, in fact, entitle me to wear the "spiritual" crown as well.  (Debatable; she is a youth minister after all.)  None of this changes the fact that it's all-the-more difficult going through this alone. Then again, I know, first hand, how difficult this is to deal with and wouldn't wish this emotional trauma on anyone -- even my monstrous minister ex. So, I forgive her. )
       Willow wants to go out -- couldn't possibly refuse.