Have been having problems viewing comments on the last journal I created; so, I'm adding this one to see if I will be able to read comments left here.

When I read the story about the woman who took a butcher knife to a business meeting in her folder, I was reminded of the night I took my sword to the emergency room. Earlier in the evening I had been at the computer graphics lab at the local college working on an animation project for a class I was taking. Class time was nearing; but, I had to get one thing from my car. I strode out of the lab and walked briskly to Ralph Car. It was dark--I didn’t see the cracked, raised portion of the sidewalk. I don’t remember the journey down; but, I do remember being there and thinking I’d better get up or I’d be late for class.

As class progressed my foot got fatter and there was a throbbing thing going on. I slid one shoe off and toughed it out until break. That’s when I approached Mr. Chu, told him about the circumstance, and explained I didn’t want to be rude; but, I was about to abandon the second part of the class. I drove home and stretched out on my bed with a bag of ice. The operatic throbbing from the foot continued. Sleep was not an option. A bit before eleven I called a friend who was usually up until that time. She said she’d come right away and deliver me to the emergency room. I knew that going down my meandering, flat stone pathway to the car was going to be an issue. What could I do? I decided to take the cane my friend Marcus had given me. He got it in a vintage shop when he was in college and used it as part of a Halloween costume. The cane and I slip through the front door when my friend arrives, being careful not to let the two fretting Eskies escape. They did not think it was an appropriate time for me to leave home.

In the emergency room I’m gifted with a wheel chair. After about 45 minutes I meet with the triage team. They give me an ice bag, a miniscule cup of water, and two pills which are to alleviate my pain--NOT! After an hour or so, I get to meet Mr. X-ray Man. He’s pleasant and does his stuff. I’m happy to have progressed to this level; but, I have worries about my can. He seems amiable; so, I explain to him that the top of my cane can be twisted off and there is a sword which can be pulled out. Granted, it is not sharpened; but, I don’t want anyone to freak out about my having a concealed weapon in a public place. He looks at me, tells me I don’t have to draw it out, laughs, and says he would like to x-ray it--no extra charge. He does.

My body moves to a gurney and I’m parked in the hallway about twelve feet down from the emergency surgery room. At the end of the hallway are large sliding glass doors which open periodically when serious cases come in with ambulance drivers and the occasional police officer and--of course--cold whooshes of air. My sword is propped inconspicuously against the wall. Eventually I see dawn through the sliding glass doors. It has been a long time since I’ve been near any plumbing facilities. I get the attention of an aide who not so quickly summons another aide with a wheelchair. I make know that it is imperative I reach the bathroom NOW! He’s a strapping guy who informs me he’s going to lift me into the wheelchair. I inform him that I weigh 130 pounds and am not often lifted. He tells me he can bench press more than that. He settles me and drives fast to the bathroom. He opens the door for me, wheels me in, and says: Do you want me too--I interrupt with a definite no. Just wait outside.

Within the next hour I meet with a doctor, get fitted for a brace and crutches, and my friend arrives to take my sword and me home. The dogs are pleased to see me. The older one was stressed that I was gone so long. There is a mess near the back door. I don’t complain. I take a real pain pill, prop the sword next to my bedroom wall, and go to sleep. I slept peacefully, unaware that a concealed weapon charge would probably have been preferable to the shock of the size of the hospital bill that I would soon receive.

On January 26th, 2008 I got a call from Kym at the Heart Bandit Eskie Rescue Shelter in Fresno.  She alerted me that there was an Eskie at the Riberbank Human Society that was going to be put down that day.  She and Dan are licensed for forty Eskies, so, she couldn't take him.  She said his name was Dakota, he was five, and described him as being a shivery, scared dog sitting in the corner of the cage. The owner's reason for abandoning him was that she didn't  have "time" for him.  It was my birthday--not a good day to hear about an Eskie's end.  There was a problem; my car wasn't available.  Kym says:  No problem.  My friend Dan helps with the Eskie Railway.  He lives in Riverbank and he'll deliver.  Less than an hour later  Dan and Dakota are at my front door.  Dan guides Dakota into the living room and says:  You go with Linda now.

The first thing I notice about Dakota is that he is a very "pretty" white dog.  My dog friends haven't really fit in this category before; but, he seems friendly and I like to think I'm open minded about such things.  I take him to the enclosed backyard and introduce him to Nyo, my dog.  They do their sniffing introductions and frisk around for awhile.  We all go back in the house.  I replenish the water bowl--no problems sharing that.  I offer two bowls of food spaced four feet apart.  Dakota inhales his food and Nyo savors hers.  I decide a nap would be in order.  When I go to the bedroom Nyo takes her customary position on the floor at the foot of the bed.  Dakota decides to join me on the bed.  The bed is set against the window.  Dakota surveys the front of the property for a bit, then stretches out--back legs flattened to the bed and front legs stretched to the window.  He gives out something between a groan and a sigh.  I interpretate this is mean that my queen size bed is preferable to the cement floor at the pound. All goes well for the next few days.  Then--2 be continued

I think I was around six when I heard kittens crying in my wall on a Saturday night as I tried to go to sleep.  On Sunday afternoon I heard them again.  My mother was napping in her bed and my father was snoring on the couch.  He had a baseball game on television.  You didn't disturb my father on Sunday afternoons--that was the only day he took a nap.  I went out to the packing room of the cheese factory we lived in.  I saw Mama Cat up there.  She was thinner so I figured kittens had been born.  I crawled  up on some protruding boards that worked like ladder steps.  I was careful to step only on sturdy rafter boards, not in between.  Once a man was doing some work on the roof up there.  He stepped  on the thinner boards and his foot came through the kitchen ceiling. 

I followed Mama Cat to the back of the attic which was above my bedroom.  There were openings that went 8 feet down.  I could hear kittens down there.  What could I do?  I went back down to the main floor of the packing room.  My dad's fishing rod and reel was laying above his tool bench.  I took the rod, reel, and a flashlight and ascended to the attic.  Mama Cat was mewing pitifully at the back of the attic.  I tangled up a bunch of fishing line and lowered it down.  It took awhile but I pulled those four kittens up one at a time.  Their little claws would get tangled in the line and I'd carefully reel them up.  Mama Cat was pleased.  I put the kittens in a box with a piece of cloth.  They all flourished.

When they grew up they had more kittens.  I think I had about eleven cats eventually.  They were similary colored so my mother didn't know how many cats I had.  My father was a bit more observant.  One day my uncle and aunt were visiting.  My uncle mentioned to my father he could use some cats for his barn.  He had a mouse problem.  My father asked me how many cats I had.  I sheepishly reprlied:  eleven.  I was told to catch seven so they could go live in my uncle's barn.  All the animals I'vre had as an adult received the ultimate in dog or cat birth control.

  I live in Central California with Nyo, Dakota, and Amber.  Three of us have issues; one does not.  Nyo has endured more than the rest of us.  When she was young she lived on a busy street in Los Angeles with a woman who had some type of drug addiction.  There was another woman in the neighborhood who was fond of Nyo’s geneology.  She noticed Nyo tearing open bags on the street and searching for food.  Twice she caught Nyo and returned her to the owner, who was sometimes prone to leaving her front door open.  Rescue woman was irked the third time; so, she stole Nyo.  Due to the size of her household she couldn’t keep Nyo; so she sent her to a rescue home on the outskirts of Fresno.

 Nyo had medical issues; but, the shelter people were kind to her.  They made her and the other residents inexpensive, nutritious food in industrial size crockpots.  Nyo loved to go for rides in their older Ininiti I30--that must have been when she developed her love for leather upholstery.  One day I decided to go meet Nyo.  It took me a long time to get there because I was on the wrong highway--I have a lousy sense of direction. 

 More later--time for me to explain to the California Credential Commission why they should renew my art teacher’s license.

I'm going to skip ahead in Nyo's story.  Nyo had to have three teeth removed.  She also has a skin allergy condition.  She is leery of being brushed; the people at the rescue shelter thought she may have been hit with a brush.  I can't groom her; she will snap and growl.  Recently I found a groomer who can do her without muzzling her.  I'm happy.

Many commercial dog foods aren't good for Nyo.  I put skinned chicken thighs, brown rice, carrots, broccolli, or other vegetables in the crockpot.  The two dogs, the cat, and I eat the same meals.  I add extra seasoning to my portion.  For those of you with pets,  this is a way to save on grocery purchases.  On a day when crockpot food is being made, Nyo and Dakota spend a lot of time sitting on the floor next to the counter where the crockpot is plugged in.  When I remove the crockpot lid, chaos happens in my little kitchen.  Nyo spins in circles; Dakota starts walking on his two back feet. Much barking occurs.  I get the food in their bowls and add some cold water to cool it.  Dakota eats in the kitchen; Nyo eats in the bathroom.  Dakota is a rapid eater and will go after Nyo's food when he's finished his own.  Amber cat eats on the front steps or up on a utility shelf in the garage.  I usually sit on the loveseat to eat my food.  The creatures in this household don't sit down to the table together.

Reply to Post

 

to Post