Archives
Sep 1999
Oct 1999
Nov 1999
Dec 1999
Jan 2000
Feb 2000
Mar 2000
Apr 2000
May 2000
Jun 2000
Jul 2000
Aug 2000
Sep 2000
Oct 2000
Nov 2000
Dec 2000
Jan 2001
Feb 2001
Mar 2001
Apr 2001
May 2001
Jun 2001
Jul 2001
Aug 2001
Sep 2001
Oct 2001
Nov 2001
Dec 2001
Jan 2002
Feb 2002
Mar 2002
Apr 2002
May 2002
Jun 2002
Jul 2002
Aug 2002
Sep 2002
Oct 2002
Nov 2002
Dec 2002
Jan 2003
Feb 2003
Mar 2003
Apr 2003
May 2003
Jun 2003
Jul 2003
Aug 2003
Sep 2003
Oct 2003
Nov 2003
Dec 2003
Jan 2004
Feb 2004
Mar 2004
Apr 2004
May 2004
Jun 2004
Jul 2004
Aug 2004
Sep 2004
Oct 2004
Nov 2004
Dec 2004
Jan 2005
Feb 2005
Mar 2005
Apr 2005
May 2005
Jun 2005
Jul 2005
Aug 2005
Sep 2005
Oct 2005
Nov 2005
Dec 2005
Jan 2006
Feb 2006
Mar 2006
Apr 2006
May 2006
Jun 2006
Jul 2006
Aug 2006
Sep 2006
Oct 2006
Nov 2006
Dec 2006
Jan 2007
Feb 2007
Mar 2007
Apr 2007
May 2007
Jun 2007
Jul 2007
Aug 2007
Sep 2007
Oct 2007
Nov 2007
Dec 2007
Jan 2008
Feb 2008
Mar 2008
Apr 2008
May 2008
Jun 2008
Jul 2008
Aug 2008
Sep 2008
Oct 2008
Nov 2008
Dec 2008
Jan 2009
Feb 2009
Mar 2009
Apr 2009
May 2009
Jun 2009
Jul 2009
Aug 2009
Sep 2009
Oct 2009
Nov 2009
Dec 2009
Jan 2010
Aug 2010
Sep 2010
Oct 2010
Nov 2010
Dec 2010
Feb 2011
Mar 2011
Apr 2011
May 2011
Sep 2011
Oct 2011
Nov 2011
Feb 2012
Mar 2012
May 2012
Apr 2023
May 2023
Jun 2023
Jul 2023
Sep 2023
Oct 2023

Jun
4
2007
The diet for last weekend was mechanically separated chicken. Robots, no doubt, play chaperones in the henhouses, keeping a proper distance between the animals, lest their flesh become less edible than the stuff inside the chicken nuggets. Nuggets weren't the only chicken on the list last week: Chicken pot pie, chicken fingers cut up in a salad, chicken and dumplings, garlic chicken pizza...pre-cooked fowl that repects a proper social distance is a major part of the food economy these days. It's also cheap -- a whole chicken, whose respect of personal space is unknown, is going to cost less than a gallon of milk soon. Chicken is everywhere, getting too close to others, touching inappropriately, making rude comments...chickens are an unsavory lot, despite how good it tastes.

On Thursday morning I was shaken to awakeness at the bathroom sink, my first destination after barely opening my eyes. Turning on the water resulted in the acrobatic drain-escape attempt by a house spider, who shocked me with his speed; the basin was too deep and he eventually succumbed to the flood, much like his relative I met a few months ago. They may be working hard to make sure I don't wander through the day in a half-daze, ensuring my wide-eyed awareness by jumping out at me when I least expect it, violating my personal space, making me think something's crawling on me for the rest of the day. On Saturday night that feeling paid off; somehow, somewhere, a wood tick ended up on my body, and managed to crawl up to the base of my neck before being caught, flicked off my finger, then stepped on twice. Being stepped on wasn't enough to even phase it, but it was done for my own sense of well-being. Take that, foul intruder! Were I to mechanically separate ticks, I wouldn't have to check every little air movement past my armhairs for the presence of an interloper. Finding a woodtick is also of the gravity that not only am I creeped out, but those around me also spend their time checking the slightest touch for the sign of a bloodsucker.

At first leaving work Thursday night, I thought the car in front of me was swerving to avoid a bag slowly blowing across the street, but once I got closer I realized what was being circumvented: a mama duck and what appeared to be two dozen ducklings crossing the street. The curvy streets and mixed-use zoning created 'dead-spots' in between lots, lower areas that end up being shallow reservoirs of rainwater, full of bugs and perfect for a duck family to move into. The family was moving to a larger, damper area cross the road to the west, presumably for swimming lessons. I did my best not to intrude upon their personal space, moving my van towards the middle of the road to discourage other drivers from driving right through the buggers -- who, for as late at night as it was, should have been wearing 3M reflective products, or at least something bright and visible -- and waiting until they had made it as far as the curb before proceeding.

Saturday, however, required my incursion into the personal space of others, man and animal alike. I recieved a call at seven am, asking for my attendance; at noon I was called again, letting me know the event was moved up, so I hurredly made my way over to my parent's house. My grandparents were already there, offering their support to my mom. When I arrived, the travelling vet had just given Max, my parent's dobie-something-cross, the last shot to stop his heart. He, as a small puppy, wasn't taken care of well, and between those problems and others he never grew out of it, remaining fearful of others and ready to use his sharp teeth to let you know his emotional state at the time. As a puppy, not so bad; as a hundred-pound beast, unacceptible. He should have been put down long ago, when he grabbed the arm of my stepson (no major damage, but I made sure Max understood it wasn't acceptible, which then put the fear of children in the dog's mind and we stopped bringing the children into their house); when he ripped up my mom's hand, requiring stitches, it definitely should have been done then. His antisocial behavior had finally made my mom worried enough for the safety of others that she saw the need to put him down. It's not that he's a bad dog -- it is that he could not follow the social boudaries set for humans and dogs. Dogs bite to tell each other 'back off'; humans frown on using teethmarks to communicate. The few times we dogsat, he was put in his place quickly; he was fine after that, however still a bit too much of a risk to be allowed around children unattended.

I went and sat with my mom and petted Max as his breathing grew shallower; he began to shiver, and his breathing stopped. His loose skin reacted when you pet him, pulling and bouncing back, but after a minute or so it felt different, like a rubber glove, lifeless and artificial. I helped load him into the vet's trunk, destation creamatorium. Instead of burying him in the back yard, as mom wanted, I suggested putting up a marker instead; the vet pointed out the legal issues of burying such a large body in the back yard. I offered my condolences to my parents, making sure to offer to dad as well, since my mom was getting the majority of emotional support. I left shortly after, leaving them to their own feelings and dealing with mine.

That's sad the poor pup started acting out, but like you said, sounds as if the euthanization should have happened earlier.

--furiousball , 06/04/2007 14:42:42


Your Name:
Email:
Webpage:
Your comment:



blog advertising is good for you
Looking For "Wookies"?