Helpless (not for the weak)

I've never felt so helpless in my life.

This past weekend, Rain got sick. Not only did he throw up all his dinner and breakfast on Saturday afternoon, he started a horrible bout of diarrhea. I made him some boiled beef and rice and he ate that all up Saturday night and I felt all was good.

About 3am Sunday morning I woke up startled to Rain puking. I opened his crate, he ran out, and I began to pull out his bedding in a daze. In the darkness of my bedroom, the bottom blanket got stuck on the sides within the metal. I started to cry. My mom, who had been visiting and had a flight home in a few hours, wanted to know if she could help.

I finally got the blanket out and found a puddle of blood just outside my bedroom, with a few dribbles around it. In the living room was two very large puke stains on the rug. My body and mind can't function in the morning on a good day, this was too much. Blood. "Is that from one of the cats?" asked my mother. No. There was blood stuck to the fur on Rain's bottom.

I brought him with me when I dropped my mother off at the airport, and we went back to bed as soon as we got home. He slept for another few hours.

When we got up, he wouldn't eat. If he drank some water, it came right back up.

When we went outside to use the bathroom (which we did about every two hours), he would squeeze and push and his little legs would shake as a small amount of liquid and blood would come out of his rear end. He would struggle like this three times each time.

I did some research, only finding the worst case scenario with treatment I couldn't afford. After an internal struggle, I chose the home remedy. Grocery store to get Pedialyte and Pepto.

I used baby syringes to try and force feed him both of these things - he's a struggler. He would move around and hide his face (sometimes he would hide his face into me). Soon after her would throw it all up anyway. I found that putting a bit of Pepto on my finger and sticking it on his teeth (with struggle) was all I could do. And I could only give him a very small amount of Pedialyte at a time. But I kept giving him small amounts.

By the end of the day, he was starting to seem a little more like the wiggle nugget he typically is and was actually holding down water. By evening he was even eating some of his kibble (I was afraid to give him too much). And he seemed to like the organic baby food sweet potato I bought him. His number two was still no good.

He did sleep through the night. But wouldn't eat in the morning before I left for work, and his number two still was no good. I thought about him all day, sure I was going to come home to blood and puke everywhere. Knowing there was nothing I could do until then; and trying to decide what I would do then.

Wow, did my apartment smell when I got home. I found a semi-solid small poo on my living room floor. And he did a small amount of poo I could actually pick up when I first took him out too. Gross, but progress. And then I found a nice puke stain running down my couch (that's older than I am) down onto the floor. Open all windows and patio door. Light all candles. Hope for the best! He had eaten all his breakfast! And, hey, little wiggle butt was back in full force! His personality is back and he ate all his supper (so far it's still with him). Unfortunately, the last time I took him out he struggled and struggled but couldn't poo.

It's so hard to care for a being when that being can't tell you how he's feeling. I couldn't tell him it would be okay - I didn't even know if it was going to be okay. I just watched him and felt so helpless. Heartbreaking for sure. Or maybe I was just overreacting (not something rare for me). If I had a tummy ache and diarrhea, I wouldn't think anything of it (past the complaining I would have shared with everyone who'd listen).

I don't even know what happened. Something he ate? A bug from another dog? Stress from being kenneled?

Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

And what now?

I started writing this blog when I was 22 (and I've only written a handful of posts - maybe I suffer from a lack of motivation). I had this, what I believed to be, profound notion that if I started writing about the things I wanted to learn, maybe it would help me "figure things out." I'm almost 27 and I still feel that pressure of being lost.


I'm currently in bed with two cats, while my dog heavily sighs in his crate. I think I'm still working on figuring out who I am, never mind where I'm supposed to be. My animal farm is simply a distraction (or so I've determined it to be). And honestly, part of me thinks that this animal farm is becoming an excuse to keep me grounded right here (in a job I'm not sure of and in a space I'm not sure of).


When I was younger I didn't want to go to college. I wanted to join the Peace Corps or something like it. Then, I decided that I needed to go to college because I would be able to better serve another country with a degree (and they preferred applicants with a degree). Well, the truth is I went to college because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. Nearing the end of my college career, I filled out half the Peace Corps application and had two of the three recommendations before I chickened out. I feel very strongly that I am meant to help people and I feel this weight of needing to leave my mark on the world. I'm not saying that I don't have a good job, because I do, and my job also does have an element of helping people - I'm just saying that I know this isn't where I need to be. But where am I supposed to be?


Along with suffering from a motivational problem, I also suffer from a lack of confidence in anything I do. Once upon a time I thought I was really good at writing. Now, I'm not so sure. I've found myself being that person who comes home after work, takes off my shoes (and pants) and just sits down to watch TV for the rest of the evening. Finally, once I feel sufficiently tired (or I acknowledge the fact that I do, actually, need sleep to function the next day) I go to bed. I go for months without even picking up a book. When I was younger, I read like my brain depended on it to live (which, in many respects, it does). I don't even really want to admit that the amount of time I spend writing is embarrassing for someone who once called herself a "writer."


Unfortunately, I do not have the answers. And I get worried that I will never have any of the answers. And I am petrified (quite metaphorically "(of organic matter) changed into a stony substance") that I will fall into this deep pit in which I cannot get out from. A deep pit of self-pity because I failed to recognize my full potential with only myself to blame. Becoming one of those people who constantly bitches about her job, but does nothing to change it... I'm already there.








Petrified: http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/petrified

Let it Rain

I've adopted a dog into my life.


I can't say it was the "best" decision - nor can I really say I am 100% sure I've made the "right" decision - but here we are. Me and Rain. A bright, 1.5-year-old, Aussie from unknown origins. (Beautiful little - yet quite solid - boy.)

The first night was great. I put him in his little crate and we went off to sleep as if everything was right in the world. The next day (Monday) was also great. A new adventure.


I spent the next two days in tears.


How could I do this... again?! (Did I mention I'd previously fostered another dog for a month before my mind broke into a million pieces and, with tears in my eyes, I dropped him off at a Petsmart 30 minutes away to find his "furrever home?") The responsibility clouded my mind and built up my anxiety to a level I'd quite sufficiently forgotten existed.


(Did I also mention I've got two cats? Neither of which are totally pleased.) My poor kitties thought I was over this "dog thing." Little did they know, I'd been searching dogs on Petfinder non-stop. I told my mom, "No, I'm just looking." The trick is to just plain not look if you're not sure - once you start looking you are going to end up with whatever brand of animal you're looking at.


I'd set up my cats a few days prior to the arrival of Rain with a nice high feeding space away from any prying dog (so, obviously, I was prepared). This is where my cat Sadie spent the first week and a half. Callie, on the other hand, spent the first week and a half taunting Rain (when she wasn't also hiding). She'd come out of hiding and roll around on the floor within his eye-sight. Then, when he'd get close, she'd start hissing and hitting at the floor. Rain, not knowing what to do with this demon-creature, would nip at her. If Callie wasn't in eye-sight, she'd make noise by clawing at something (anything) so that Rain would come find her. Then she'd hiss at him, and hit at the floor until he came just close enough for her to decide it was best to go back into hiding. I only saw a chase once (and quickly put an end to that). I caught her clawing at my luggage in my room multiple times, each just staring at the other, and Rain wondering what she would do next (she just NEEDS attention).


I put a call into the behavior counselors at the shelter. This lady told me to start back and square one - the hissing (and Sadie hiding) was a sign of stress and I needed to reintroduce them all. This didn't help, I'd kind of gotten used to the idea of a dog, and now I had to start all over!


Her suggestion: separate the two species (... I live in an apartment) and once they all start acting normal, introduce each with the other's smell. Once that seems to go well, create a barrier between the two so they can see each other, but not touch. Then, finally, once everyone is again acting normal, have a controlled meeting (Rain on a leash).


I'm on step one. It's been 4 days. Callie is acting just the same as before (with a little less hiding as there is no need), and I barely see Sadie. I did let Rain enter into my bedroom doorway today - Callie looked, meowed about three times, then hissed (Sadie continued to be MIA). Oh, also of note, Rain is still kenneled in my room (the cat space) at night (he suffers from separation anxiety - which means he whines a bit if I put him outside my room without me and I can't handle it).


He's currently sleeping on the couch next to me.  He thinks he's cute. Meanwhile, my (company) car is covered in muddy dog footprints.