It isn't always glamorous around here. I've tried to be reasonably honest about the goings-on at Smith Park, but I try to shield my audience from the truly gross stuff. I don't take pictures of the cat box, or describe the yuck that has to be cleaned regularly from Alfred's ears. I use euphemisms liberally when I talk about the effects my diet has on my body. I try to angle pictures so they don't show dog poo in the back yard. But every so often, the story is more scatological, and I have to be true to it. Today I can't hide the poop. I couldn't escape it, either.
I did what I could to clean house ahead of daughter #1's visit. I haven't had much energy the last several days, and my arms -- particularly my hands -- have hurt too much to do much. But I tidied a bit, shopped for dinner tonight and several days' worth of breakfasts, and took care of grown-up tasks. I even acquired a new bag full of crickets, and arrived home feeling like the ultimate hunter-gatherer, preparing to feed the entire family, just as soon as I could make it through the door. Agnes was first in line, because she hasn't had fresh crickets in weeks. I prioritized from there. I decided to make a dish from my childhood, that I haven't attempted to make or eat since the early 1980s: goulash. For it to be ready by the time my girl arrived, I wanted to start it before I fed dogs or cats. So I chopped an onion, and dumped it into a large Dutch oven over medium high heat. Elsa was at the sliding glass door while I started to cook, telling me that she has never been fed in ever, and it was exactly eleven minutes past her dinner time. So I told myself I could feed dogs quickly, and be back inside before the onions were even soft. I went out through the garage, scooping a big can of dog food and running cup of water to split three ways. Bump and Elsa danced and barked and reprimanded me for being late. There was no sign of Murray. I looked around the yard, and found him flipped over next to the fence, like he had been barking at our neighbor. He was whining and shivering in the cold. I fed Bump, to make him stop barking, and told Elsa to wait. Murray had been lying in a spot that was probably still ice before he got there, shaded by the privacy fence on the south side of our lawn. When I reached to pick him up, the smell of mud and feces was overwhelming. His wheelchair was a wreck, his saddle loops split apart, and he was hanging half out of it. It was a struggle to right him, and I was soon covered in the same muck that he was wearing from his ear to his tail. I poured his food, and he wandered around in circles, dangling from one leg stirrup, unable to bend down and eat. I had to fight the chair to get him out of it, and ended up wearing even more mud and poop. Murray was able to eat, and didn't resist too vehemently when I told him he needed to come inside and warm up. But he seemed to be "walking" funny, twisted a little more to one side than I remembered, and he was stiff. It could have just been from lying on ice and mud for the hour that I was gone, but I really worried for a minute that he was more damaged than usual after this experience. I called Mr X, who promised to bathe him as soon as he got home, and he reassured me that Murray probably wasn't hurt (more than before). I asked, if he had dislocated one of his back legs, for example, how would we know?
And then, as I stood in the garage, talking about Murray, I heard a noise. It was a sizzling sound. I swore foully, and hung up the phone. I had left the onions going this whole time.
So I had burned onion on the stove, and I was covered in mud and dog poop. I froze for a moment, trying to figure out which was the higher priority. I turned the burner off, and pushed the pot back on the stove. Then I set about washing my hands and stripping my clothes off directly into the washer. I dumped water into the pot before I dashed through the living room (past my large picture window facing the street) in the altogether to bathe. By the time I was clean and re-dressed, the onion pot was cool enough to wash and start over.
By the time my daughter arrived, things had calmed down. The goulash was way better than I remembered from my youth (when everyone used to make this stuff so often that I burned out on it for a lifetime). The smell of burned onions had dissipated, and Murray was nearly dry from his bath. My daughter and grand-puppy are here now, and life is good. Sheba is even snuggled next to me now, having decided that grandmas aren't scary after all. At the end of the day, it just feels normal again, poop or no poop.
No comments:
Post a Comment