S left last weekend to Africa for work for a week. Then everybody got sick. Lil' S1 has a fever and a cough; Lil' S2 has some sort of chest congestion going on and is also running a fever today; and I got wiped out by whatever it is two days ago. I woken up the past few mornings feeling like absolute dog doo, but after I pop an Advil to bring my fever down, I start to feel a little better. S's mom is here to help out, which has been huge. She's totally fine -- not sick at all -- and she sleeps in the same bed as Lil' S2 every night. It's crazy. I think her immune system is like -- please, I was fighting sicknesses in India in the 1950s, you think your weak-ass germs can beat me?!
Anyway, I don't have a lot of energy at the moment, but I still wanted to put up a post, so I decided to tell a story -- a slice of life anecdote -- from my past that I thought of randomly the other day. Here it is.
Back about 15 years ago, I had a friend -- she was my girlfriend, actually, but that's not particularly relevant to the story -- who lived in the DC suburbs in Virginia with her mom and her little brother. They had a dog too -- a big mutt of some sort, I think mostly golden retriever. I can't for the life of me remember what its name was or if it was a boy or a girl, but that's not particularly relevant either. It was an old-school family dog. It roamed the woods behind their backyard, ate table scraps, gnawed at bones, and had its own little dog quarters adjacent to the laundry room.
This dog was really old, and its health was rapidly deteriorating. It was way overweight, which given its diet isn't surprising (although if I was a dog who could live fat and happy for ten years or eat bland dog food everyday for 12 years, I might pick the former), and it had trouble hearing... and seeing... and walking... and eating... and breathing. It spent most its time sleeping, and when it was awake the only way you could tell it wasn't asleep is that its eyes were open. When it did have to move, it would walk a few steps, and then lie down on its belly and pant for a few minutes, and then repeat the process. Basically, this dog was about to go. The inevitable was nigh. It happens. Dogs don't live that long.
Everybody knew this, except my friend's mom, and even she knew it on some level, but she was in deep denial about this animal's prospects. She was constantly taking it to the vet for various (unhelpful) treatments; she was convinced, I think, that it was going to pull through and live forever. She refused to even consider euthanasia as an option, even though many people, including the vet, were subtly (or in some cases overtly) pushing her in that direction.
So, one night, I drive over to their house, and as I'm pulling up, I see an ambulance leaving their driveway. I get out of my car and rush up to the door, slightly alarmed, and ask what happened. You can probably guess. That's right, her mom called an ambulance for their dog! Apparently, its breathing slowed to almost a complete stop, and it literally couldn't move at all. Her mom freaked out, so she called 9-1-1, and pretended like she didn't speak much English. (She was a nonnative speaker, so she could pull this off convincingly, even though she'd been in the U.S. for like 30 years.) She didn't lie -- she never said the creature in question wasn't a dog -- she just let the operator assume she was talking about a human, which, given it's 9-1-1, is a very reasonable assumption!
I'm indignant upon hearing this. I cannot believe somebody would abuse a public emergency service like this. What if there had been a real problem -- one involving a human? I'm also mortified beyond belief, and I wasn't even there when it happened. It's like watching the most cringe-inducing episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm ever -- times one thousand. I'm feeling an unusual mix of second-hand embarrassment and first-hand righteous anger.
But then I'm told the part that really blows my mind: The EMTs treated the dog! Apparently, the crew chief was a huge dog lover, and he was moved by the situation. He got his team to put the dog on a stretcher and carry it to the ambulance. Then they gave it oxygen, like they actually put on one of those masks and hooked it up to a tank and pumped oxygen into its lungs. Eventually, they got it breathing again regularly on its own, and then they brought it back inside, packed up and left.
Hearing this, I'm utterly dumbfounded. I want to yell at her mom for being so foolish, and I want to yell at the EMTs for indulging such foolishness. But what can I do? What right do I have to get mad? The entire situation really has nothing to do with me. Plus, nothing bad happened -- on the contrary everybody came away from the encounter happy. The dog was happy; its owner was happy; and apparently the EMTs were happy. Everything worked out. All is well.
Until the dog actually died a week later...
Anyway, I don't have a lot of energy at the moment, but I still wanted to put up a post, so I decided to tell a story -- a slice of life anecdote -- from my past that I thought of randomly the other day. Here it is.
Back about 15 years ago, I had a friend -- she was my girlfriend, actually, but that's not particularly relevant to the story -- who lived in the DC suburbs in Virginia with her mom and her little brother. They had a dog too -- a big mutt of some sort, I think mostly golden retriever. I can't for the life of me remember what its name was or if it was a boy or a girl, but that's not particularly relevant either. It was an old-school family dog. It roamed the woods behind their backyard, ate table scraps, gnawed at bones, and had its own little dog quarters adjacent to the laundry room.
This dog was really old, and its health was rapidly deteriorating. It was way overweight, which given its diet isn't surprising (although if I was a dog who could live fat and happy for ten years or eat bland dog food everyday for 12 years, I might pick the former), and it had trouble hearing... and seeing... and walking... and eating... and breathing. It spent most its time sleeping, and when it was awake the only way you could tell it wasn't asleep is that its eyes were open. When it did have to move, it would walk a few steps, and then lie down on its belly and pant for a few minutes, and then repeat the process. Basically, this dog was about to go. The inevitable was nigh. It happens. Dogs don't live that long.
Everybody knew this, except my friend's mom, and even she knew it on some level, but she was in deep denial about this animal's prospects. She was constantly taking it to the vet for various (unhelpful) treatments; she was convinced, I think, that it was going to pull through and live forever. She refused to even consider euthanasia as an option, even though many people, including the vet, were subtly (or in some cases overtly) pushing her in that direction.
So, one night, I drive over to their house, and as I'm pulling up, I see an ambulance leaving their driveway. I get out of my car and rush up to the door, slightly alarmed, and ask what happened. You can probably guess. That's right, her mom called an ambulance for their dog! Apparently, its breathing slowed to almost a complete stop, and it literally couldn't move at all. Her mom freaked out, so she called 9-1-1, and pretended like she didn't speak much English. (She was a nonnative speaker, so she could pull this off convincingly, even though she'd been in the U.S. for like 30 years.) She didn't lie -- she never said the creature in question wasn't a dog -- she just let the operator assume she was talking about a human, which, given it's 9-1-1, is a very reasonable assumption!
I'm indignant upon hearing this. I cannot believe somebody would abuse a public emergency service like this. What if there had been a real problem -- one involving a human? I'm also mortified beyond belief, and I wasn't even there when it happened. It's like watching the most cringe-inducing episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm ever -- times one thousand. I'm feeling an unusual mix of second-hand embarrassment and first-hand righteous anger.
But then I'm told the part that really blows my mind: The EMTs treated the dog! Apparently, the crew chief was a huge dog lover, and he was moved by the situation. He got his team to put the dog on a stretcher and carry it to the ambulance. Then they gave it oxygen, like they actually put on one of those masks and hooked it up to a tank and pumped oxygen into its lungs. Eventually, they got it breathing again regularly on its own, and then they brought it back inside, packed up and left.
Hearing this, I'm utterly dumbfounded. I want to yell at her mom for being so foolish, and I want to yell at the EMTs for indulging such foolishness. But what can I do? What right do I have to get mad? The entire situation really has nothing to do with me. Plus, nothing bad happened -- on the contrary everybody came away from the encounter happy. The dog was happy; its owner was happy; and apparently the EMTs were happy. Everything worked out. All is well.
Until the dog actually died a week later...
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