by Melody Bowen
Rat Poison Reduction and the Dance of Queen Monkey Butt
That's progress! She's warming up to the idea, no?
Actually, my mother may have to compete with me for the "Most-Likely-to-Croak-From-Ingesting-Something-With-a-Skull-and-Crossbones-on-the-Label Award", because it has been one damned stressful week! The week began with a days-long migraine that felt something like a drill bit lodged in my left temple (day one was awful, two was agony, by three I was convinced my brain was going to explode). I missed two full days of work (never a good thing). And -- of course -- as always happens when one takes a little time off, everything goes completely and directly to Hades (no passing Go, no collecting $200), and one returns to the office to find a big fat mess, which takes one two full days of nothing but meetings-meetings-meetings-with-a-side-of-meetings to fix. (I have never had to hide in the ladies room just so I could stomp and curse like Courtney-Freakin'-Love so many times in my professional life. Swear.)
Just as the heat at work cooled to a slow simmer, the stress at home fired up when my puglets got sick. Well, sort of sick. (It's difficult to explain.) All of my pugs have -- for quite some time now -- been perfecting a little move I like to call the "hoo-hoo twirl". Not familiar with this term? Let me explain. Several times a day, all three of my pugs would sit in the middle of the living room floor and start twirling on their little butts. Not really their butts, actually, their -- well, you know -- their little "hoo-hoos". Just twirling and twirling in little circles like little snorting ballerinas shaped like pot roasts with smashy faces. Well, I gave them medicine in case they were -- gawdforbid -- wormy or something. (Um... gross.) It seemed to work. Sort of. Until late last week, that is, when Banjo (aka Banjolina Jolie) started doing the hoo-hoo twirl so fast and so often that it was obvious something had to be done. At night, she was scratching and rolling and twirling and twirling in her little kennel so badly that she kept me awake. All night. (No, no..., don't misunderstand. I don't mean she kept me awake a little. I mean she kept me awake A-L-L N-I-G-H-T until the sun was rising the next morning. Three nights in a row.) Finally, last weekend -- finding myself completely desperate on account of not having more than six hours of sleep in the course of three days and not having access to a veterinarian on a Saturday -- I did some research on the Internet (I typed "itchy pug butt" in a Google search, I swear!) and discovered that the problem was probably some little "glands" in their little booties causing the problem.
OK, STOP, STOP, STOP!!!! (What happened next I'm not going to describe. I'm going to spare you the agony I endured on Saturday. I will not write about the unspeakable indignities that I and my pugs (and my boyfriend -- pardon me -- fiance') suffered on Saturday, except to say that it was absolutely and unequivocally the grossest day I've ever endured with my puglets. So gross, in fact, that if anyone were to call into question my love for, or devotion to, my girls right now, I'd cheerfully punch the accuser in the neck. Hard. Twice...)
But I digress...
At any rate, the hoo-hoo twirling ceased, except for Banjo, who was still spinning -- quite literally -- out of control. I finally discovered she had a "hot spot" -- sort of a skin irritation on her lower back above her tail (not directly on her heinie, for once, thank heaven). I bought some medicine that promised to clear it up. But there was a catch -- the medicine called for "removing the hair in the affected area". Which meant I had to trim all the hair off her lower back by her tail. Which means my pug now has a non-furry bootie. (Actually, to put it bluntly, Banjo now looks a little bit like one of those freaky monkeys you see at the zoo with the red asses that they're so-o-o-o-o-o proud to show you anytime you happen to glance in their direction. I'm a little ashamed to admit that I've started calling her "Queen Monkey Butt" as a result. Shameful, I know, but she doesn't seem to care. Best of all, she's stopped twirling.)
Sigh.
So, after a long week of migraines and work woes and a killer migraine and dancing pugs, I found myself a little stressed out. So stressed out, in fact, that I caught sight of myself in the mirror Sunday morning and thought I looked a little Adams-Family-esque... like Uncle Fester in drag. (Gahhh! There's a mental image that could drive you straight into psychotherapy, no?) Luckily, Ned came to my rescue. He suffered through the pug indignities with me, and still was kind enough to grill some beautiful steaks and melt-in-the-mouth sweet potatoes, then curl up on the chaise lounge with me to watch a "Six Feet Under" marathon. I gave myself a facial, avoided at all costs the work awaiting me in my briefcase, propped up my feet, and I finally began to say, "Ahhhh, better..."