The day after arriving home from a twelve-day sunshine break in California, I got into our van and noticed a particular smell. “What is that smell?” I asked the kids. “What smell?” they said in unison. Oh well, I thought, I didn’t have time to clean it before I left, there is probably some garbage inside.
I didn’t take the time to clean it for another number of days. After a dog walk one day, I noticed that the plush dog bed was pushed up against the backseats; I reached in to straighten it out, and saw that it was covered in small pellets. No, No, No, I thought, instantly recognizing the tiny black bits. I brought the dog bed close to my face, and stared at the dot-to-dot picture forming in my head. How did mice poop get into my van?! My whole body shuddered as reality hit, and I threw the dog bed across the drive-way.
I pulled things out of the van. There were three reusable grocery bags on the back seat. All three had been chewed right through. Poop was scattered across the seats, on the floor, on the console, and even inside the cubbies in the front doors. I have a back-support seat on the driver’s seat; I carefully lifted it up—mouse droppings were scattered across it like confetti.
I felt ill, and went inside to lay down. (Yes, I am that sensitive!) My hands covered my eyes in an attempt to erase the images that were forming of a small rodent reunion, with nimble mice feasting on the debris of our living, while contaminating our transport vessel.
Holy crap—what am I going to do?
I took the van to the gas station to use the super sucking vacuum. You cannot even imagine. Every crevice had droppings in it. But the creepiest were the pockets on the backs of the front seats—which unbeknownst to me had been stuffed with garbage by the kids. Ketchup packets (from take-out) had been shredded, and streaks of red spread across the seat like a miniature battlefield. A package of gum had been partially chewed through, and I envisioned mice having a bubblegum-blowing contest, or with their mouths stuck shut. (I preferred the latter image.) I shook my head. I put on winter gloves, and pulled everything out of the two pockets, each time I reached in, I did a little jump, certain that a mouse would scurry up my arm.
I steam-cleaned the van seats and carpets. I loaded two traps with peanut butter, and placed them under the seats, and I took all garbage and debris out of the van every single day.
I did not find a single mouse. I assumed they had moved on to explore another territory. Well done, Wendy; I congratulated myself for single-handedly disassembling their party headquarters, and reclaiming what was rightfully ours.
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Late last week on a dog walk, I noticed that our “old gal” Abby, had a couple of rounds of diarrhea. This created alarm for me because last spring, Abby was hospitalized for acute diarrhea and dehydrated. After hundreds of dollars, and a weekend full of anxiety and tears, we found out that she had a lump on her spleen. Preliminary tests revealed that it was likely benign. Nonetheless, they recommended a splenectomy—because you never really know—and it would cost about $4000.00.
Two thoughts entered my mind at that time: Abby is almost ten years old; and there are people in other countries dying of curable medical incidents all the time because of lack of resources.
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| Ethiopia 2013, Canadian Humanitarian Expedition |
Abby did not get the surgery, despite the fact that the emergency veterinarian told me that the spleen tumour could progress slowly and quietly, and then rupture, at which point nothing could be done. I simply sat in the clinic room and cried, and nodded.
Last week, Abby’s diarrhea lasted two days.
Our other dog—seven-month-old Wylie—had his chances to procreate lopped off, one by one. Poor guy didn’t even see it coming.
I arrived at the ranch with Laurèn, and the two dogs.
Abby was 48-hours post diarrhea.
Wylie was 24-hours post-op, and had tons of restrictions. Unfortunately, when I told him not to lick his incision, but to keep it clean (i.e., don’t lie down in a field of manure), and don’t rabble-rouse, run, or jump . . . he simply cocked his head to the side, and barked. I put a plastic cone on his head, and put him on his leash. Then--before I could lift him out--he leaped out of the van, as if it were merely an obstacle on an “Superdogs” course. He grabbed his leash in his mouth, and began a mighty game of tug-a-war with me. “Wylie, enough,” I said.
You might be wondering why I even took the pup with me. Believe me, I was asking myself that same question. But, he couldn’t be left alone, so that was that. I didn’t want to disappoint Laurèn, who was eager to ride, after being away sick with a bad cold.
We were the only people at the ranch, which meant that I had to supervise Laurèn. She grabbed her horse’s halter and lead rope, and we headed off into the pasture. Laurèn walked with confidence and a skip in her step; Abby loped along; and Wylie looked like a calf that had been entered in a calf-roping competition. His legs kicked out in one direction while he pulled his leash in another. I gritted my teeth, sure he was going to rip his stitches wide open.
Just then, Abby circled and squatted to poop. She strained, but nothing came out. Then she circled and squatted again, and slowly shuffled forward doing a crab-like walk. I went over, and lifted up her tail to take a look. Pardon my candour—but her asshole was completely closed off by impacted and dried poop.
Let me just say at this point in my week—a very difficult week at home—I wanted to lay down in that filthy field of manure, and “let nature take its course”.
But, I couldn’t. Living beings counted on me to be able to “do the right thing” regardless of my own struggles.
I put Wylie into the gated dog run. He howled as if it was a full moon. I took Abby into the barn where Laurèn was grooming her horse Pita. I got some gloves from my first aid kit in the van, found some hydrogen peroxide in the barn, and I went to work on Abby’s butt. I lifted her tail up, and she bit me. This is uncharacteristic behaviour for our adaptable dog. I swore. Laurèn, who was tucked around a corner said, “You all right mom?” “No, I’m not all right!” I huffed, “Abby bit me.” Wylie’s howling provided just the eery background music that the situation called for.
Let’s just say that I de-bunged her with a skill that only a previous health care employee and current mother could have demonstrated. I took her outside, then cleaned up my “clinic” room—aka the barn floor.
I made it through that day, but barely. Just two days later, after a soccer game, I found more mouse poop in the van. I looked up into the sky…where some imagine heaven to be…and said out loud, “Really God? REALLY!”
Last night I arrived at the cottage for an overnight. I went into the basement to turn on the water. I noticed Wylie “digging” at something beside the dryer. I called him off, and took a look. There in a metal mouse trap lay the fattest mouse I have ever seen. I threw a towel overtop of the trap, and ran out, hyperventilating.
I am searching for the metaphorical meaning in all of this. You know, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” But, I just can’t come up with anything. Knee-deep in shit, and still standing? Too pooped out to party?
It simply feels like too much, too much shit for one week.
