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captainsblogEbony's going on a week now in various stages of lameness and swelling. We've had her medicated since the beginning and, while it took a positive turn after the first few days, she's now back to a rear paw almost always in the air when she walks, low appetite, and generally looking pained and pitiful. Yet she never complains, she maintains much of her routine (including barking her brains out at the gas meter reader yesterday), and she's had this before and it's passed, so we're probably more in the realm of faith healing than medical science right now.
Or possibly the cable company. That was behind one of the two Ebony Funny stories from early today.
I'll start with the earlier one. I've tried to maintain the morning order of the drill as much as possible during this time, since the other four mooches really don't care that she's sick and in pain. WE WANT NOMS. And so they get them, in a long-defined order:
First, the youngest cat, crated, because otherwise she'll mooch everyone elses' food.
Next, the oldest cat, also solo, because otherwise everyone else will mooch HIS food (he lost a pound over the year before his last physical and the solitary confinement seems to have helped with bulking him back up to his fighting weight of around eight pounds).
Now, at least Tasha the older dog, who will bark to the ends of the earth if I leave her sight without feeding her. Usually, this is also where I feed Ebony, but she needs extra attention now, so I've been putting that off (with no complaint from her, before or during this ordeal) to feed the last cat downstairs.
Finally, the patient. She's been turning down masses of kibble, so I've been giving her less, and Eleanor cooked her some rice with chicken stock, so I gave her a bowl of both after putting Tasha out and then pilling Ebony. She went at it nicely, but left maybe a third of a bowl. Convinced it was a decent effort, I poured the rest of it into Tasha's bowl, since her appetite is unabated. Whereupon, Ebony scoots right over and eats most of her remaining breakfast out of her sister's bowl. Not sure if this is her way of wanting a more attractive garnish on the dish, or if she's just determined that sis just ain't gonna get HER noms.
----
Everyone fed, Ebony seemingly stable, I head back to my stable, where , as I try to get back to sleep, I hear the distinctive sounds of CRUSH DRAG GRIND. I know what this is: she's gone under my desk, and in an effort to splay her entire body in such a small space, she's disturbing all the assorted wires that lead to lamp, laptop, adding machine, phone, and the wireless router. I nod off despite the racket, but when I awaken and hit the desk, the GMail blue ! is there, and my tabs aren't.
She didn't just joust the router; she unplugged it, shooting the cord back under the desk where it will take half an hour and a small army to get the router end of the plug back into it. Internet briefly blinks a few times, but ultimately, nada. Finally, I consider the worst thing in the universe: calling the cable company to talk me through fixing it.
And that's where I realize I'm going to begin a call by saying, Hello, my dog has arthritis and knocked the wireless router offline. I suspected they'd prescribe a full season of Dog Whisperer and a Shamwow to clean up the dog hair around the modem.
Instead, a reboot seems to have done the trick. But God help us all if she ever cuts the power to my iron lung.
Or possibly the cable company. That was behind one of the two Ebony Funny stories from early today.
I'll start with the earlier one. I've tried to maintain the morning order of the drill as much as possible during this time, since the other four mooches really don't care that she's sick and in pain. WE WANT NOMS. And so they get them, in a long-defined order:
First, the youngest cat, crated, because otherwise she'll mooch everyone elses' food.
Next, the oldest cat, also solo, because otherwise everyone else will mooch HIS food (he lost a pound over the year before his last physical and the solitary confinement seems to have helped with bulking him back up to his fighting weight of around eight pounds).
Now, at least Tasha the older dog, who will bark to the ends of the earth if I leave her sight without feeding her. Usually, this is also where I feed Ebony, but she needs extra attention now, so I've been putting that off (with no complaint from her, before or during this ordeal) to feed the last cat downstairs.
Finally, the patient. She's been turning down masses of kibble, so I've been giving her less, and Eleanor cooked her some rice with chicken stock, so I gave her a bowl of both after putting Tasha out and then pilling Ebony. She went at it nicely, but left maybe a third of a bowl. Convinced it was a decent effort, I poured the rest of it into Tasha's bowl, since her appetite is unabated. Whereupon, Ebony scoots right over and eats most of her remaining breakfast out of her sister's bowl. Not sure if this is her way of wanting a more attractive garnish on the dish, or if she's just determined that sis just ain't gonna get HER noms.
----
Everyone fed, Ebony seemingly stable, I head back to my stable, where , as I try to get back to sleep, I hear the distinctive sounds of CRUSH DRAG GRIND. I know what this is: she's gone under my desk, and in an effort to splay her entire body in such a small space, she's disturbing all the assorted wires that lead to lamp, laptop, adding machine, phone, and the wireless router. I nod off despite the racket, but when I awaken and hit the desk, the GMail blue ! is there, and my tabs aren't.
She didn't just joust the router; she unplugged it, shooting the cord back under the desk where it will take half an hour and a small army to get the router end of the plug back into it. Internet briefly blinks a few times, but ultimately, nada. Finally, I consider the worst thing in the universe: calling the cable company to talk me through fixing it.
And that's where I realize I'm going to begin a call by saying, Hello, my dog has arthritis and knocked the wireless router offline. I suspected they'd prescribe a full season of Dog Whisperer and a Shamwow to clean up the dog hair around the modem.
Instead, a reboot seems to have done the trick. But God help us all if she ever cuts the power to my iron lung.
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no subject
Date: 2011-10-26 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-26 11:34 pm (UTC)LOL I can't even imagine what the cable company employee's response to such a statement would be!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 01:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 01:54 am (UTC)