We’re back from San Francisco where we’d gone to attend our friend’s (Kevin, aka Kdog) wedding. When it was in doubt whether or not we’d be able to make it down I joked with him and said, “No worries, dude, I’ll make your next one.” Trust me: I did not repeat the joke in front of his bride, Vanessa. He chose well, no? We enjoyed the wedding ceremony and the reception, both held at the Kohl mansion in Burlingame, CA. Dinner was good. The bride and groom were nicely primped, as you’d expect, and if I don’t say so myself Happy Wife (HW) and I cleaned up rather nicely as well:
Except… What’s that you say, my head looks like a beet? Yes, well, we’d been out in the sun all the day before, walking the northern reaches of San Francisco, around fisherman’s wharf, near Chinatown, etc.. We walked a grand loop that must’ve been been 7-8 miles, going and coming along Market street where HW remarked in a moment of surliness that she half expected to see a zombie with its flesh falling off. This, prompted by the all too frequent sighting of the frightfully psychotic denizens of Market street. Why surly? Well, in addition to my fried scalp, she suffered significant blisterage on her feet during the walk despite the fact she was wearing flats, which were evidently ill-suited for distance walking. She stopped at a Walgreens to purchase an assortment of band-aids, which were either too small for said blisterage or which fell off quickly because the adhesive would not adhere to sweaty skin. All the while my uncovered scalp continued to burn. We stopped at a bar for liquid relief where we briefly argued over the merits/demerits of using the maps app on a phone for navigation, versus googling in a browser for a map. It wasn’t so much HW disagreed with my logic that the former was better, she just wanted the damn — I believe other adjectives may have been used — browser on her phone to do the right thing RIGHT NOW.
By the time we found our way back to the car you’d have thought, judging by our mood and appearance, that we had just traversed the Gobi desert.
Note to newlywed husbands: When your bride of many years has blisters on her feet, is mildly dehydrated and beginning to see zombies, this is not the time to try to convince her of the merits of some arcane fact of technology. Better to just order her another glass of wine, smile and say, “Love you button.”
What else? Got back home and all was well in the house. Our friends Willy and Mel stayed here with Lucy and their dog Duke. Harry we boarded with a woman who sits dogs in her own home. A first time for Harry at her place, but it was only four days and we had reason to trust her. Well, HW picks him up early Sunday morning, brings him home where he’s understandably anxious and whatnot, feeds him, after which his stomach inflates to the size of a large watermelon. This is accompanied by signs of distress. End of summer tranquility. Panic ensues. WHAT NOW?! Recall we’d opened him up less than a month ago to remove tampons from his gut. HW whisks him off to the vet. Not our vet, of course, they’re closed on Sundays! These things ALWAYS happen on Sunday or a holiday. Only dogs know why.
X-rays, IVs, sedatives, special radiography consult. $$$$. Diagnosis? Inconclusive. Great. Though the vet tech assures us by phone that Harry is now resting comfortably. Well, sure, but I could have put him up in the Hyatt penthouse suite downtown to rest comfortably with what you charged us, and had the doorman tell me he’s unsure what’s bothering the dog. I resisted actually saying this.
I insist Harry come home. HW agrees. He’s still loopy from sedatives but overall better than when we’d taken him in. Inflated stomach has deflated measurably. Out of the woods? Maybe. HW feeds him, then almost immediately regrets this decision after his stomach begins to re-inflate. More panicked calls to the vet. Walk him, they say, see if he’ll poop. HW walks him. Poop is made, though it’s minimal, and what there is appears to be half poop and half dirt. HW mentions to me he ate dirt earlier. Dirt? You don’t say.
Eventually we get him settled. He is resting quietly. I take the time to finish tending to the 111 things I need to do before the bike tour begins — THURSDAY. HW prepares us both a plate of dinner. It’s about 7:00 pm. We sit down to eat and watch the last two episodes of Fargo. Harry continues to degas, loudly. I agree with HW that anal vapor under the circumstances is a good thing. Peace at last.
Then Lucy begins to whine.
Arggh.
She wants treats because one of the medicines we give her (Prednisone) makes her hungrier than a spring bear out of hibernation. Pretty much constantly. HW gives her copious treats. Harry is now restless because Lucy is restless. Oy vey.
I pause Fargo. Lucy is let outside. Given more treats. Chicken strips this time (the ones made in the USA because of government warnings that the Chinese ones are unsafe). Ten seconds later she paws at the door, wants back in. I pause Fargo again as HW lets her back in. She wants more treats. HW obliges her. Harry changes positions and moans as he does so. HW says he still looks bloated.
Oy vey.
9:30 pm. BOTH DOGS ARE RESTIVE.
We go to bed. “Will you listen during the night and get up if he whines?” HW asks me.
“Yes, button.”
One whining episode ensues, about 2:30 am, but it’s short lived and his belly at the time looks to me to be normally sized.
I drift off to sleep.
Morning comes and my eyes feel swollen, like I’m looking through slits, turning Asian. HW examines me and agrees the skin beneath my eyes is swollen. Edema, she says, from having burned your scalp. Which is now flaking away. Put some ice on it she says, you’ll be fine.
She dresses for work, I make her latte. Harry is acting normally! Lucy is behaving normally!
HW comes down stairs, smartly dressed, kisses me goodbye and she’s off to work.
I cross my fingers and check the extended forecast (6/26-7/3).
Oh, please please be true!: