Thursday, September 4, 2014

Adventures in Adulting

Some days I don't know if I'm cut out for this whole being an adult thing. I mean, I guess I've got some shit nailed down around here. I have the job and the house and the retirement accounts. But when it comes to meal preparation, if it takes more effort than spreading nut butter on bread or pouring cereal into a bowl or pushing a button on the blender, I simply won't do it. And yesterday, I came home and Mozzie was limping, so I looked at his paws and saw that his nails were bleeding. (The vet had cut them way back last week. She sedated him first he wouldn't feel any pain, but he was still a little traumatized by the whole ordeal. She later told me that blood was spurting across the room when she cut the nails. And just like that I'm grateful to have a job where everybody's blood stays on the inside.)

So Mozzie was getting blood all over himself and the carpet (because my whole downstairs has hardwood flooring and the couch is leather and easy to clean, but of course the dog is upstairs on the one spot of carpeted flooring he has access to when I'm not home) and the vet's office was already closed by this point. I tried to wrap his paw in gauze and tape but it wouldn't stay in place. Then I asked Mr. Internet how to stop the bleeding and he suggested dipping the paw in cornstarch or a cornstarch/baking soda mixture. I didn't have any cornstarch. To be honest, I don't even know what cornstarch is. But I had baking soda, so I tried that. It didn't work. By this point Mozzie was looking at me like Human, what the fuck? And here's where the real adults would come up with some ingenious solution and make everything better. Me? I put a sock on his bleeding paw and we went to sleep. When I took Mozzie out to do his business in the morning, the lady across the street and her son were on their porch waiting for the school bus, probably wondering why their weirdo neighbor was walking a dog that was wearing one rainbow colored sock. Or not. Maybe they assumed he is in some kind of canine pride gang, I don't know. I called the Vet as soon as the office opened and they told me to bring him in. Of course, Mozzie's paw was no longer bleeding by that point and, remembering what happened the last time I brought him to the Vet, he was hell bent on not going back in there again. So he went all dead weight on me in the parking lot, which is what he does when he doesn't want to go somewhere. Coaxing didn't work, so I picked him up and carried him inside. (Having a 68lb dog is the most adorable form of strength training.) The Vet gave us antibiotics to make sure his nails don't get infected and then we went home. I tried to explain to Mozzie that I'm trying to help him, not torture him, but I don't think he was convinced. I am, after all, the mean human who doesn't let him eat old chicken wings he finds on the sidewalk. And he has seen that my approach to adulthood is pretty much try a bunch of stuff and if all else fails, put a sock on it and go to bed.

Lyric of the moment: "When I grow up, I'll be stable. When I grow up, I'll turn the tables..."

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