![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"Ugh, only icky people have tattoos" (In a thread full of tattooed people)
"Surely everybody can afford to charter a private jet to Oxford? Why, my coffee costs less than a flight! Tee hee!" (In a thread full of people debating whether they can afford to come)
and now, the latest from the most irritating TrekBBS poster I know:
"I don't do public transport"
Hunt, Naraht, for fuck's sake, give her the wrong directions to Oxford or the wrong date or something. Either that or bring a gag. Or handcuffs, so you can stop me fucking beating her up.
Grrr.
Also, and this is nothing to do with Chaverella, there is a fucking potty training thread in the RAL. The world's ending, I swear it is.
"Surely everybody can afford to charter a private jet to Oxford? Why, my coffee costs less than a flight! Tee hee!" (In a thread full of people debating whether they can afford to come)
and now, the latest from the most irritating TrekBBS poster I know:
"I don't do public transport"
Hunt, Naraht, for fuck's sake, give her the wrong directions to Oxford or the wrong date or something. Either that or bring a gag. Or handcuffs, so you can stop me fucking beating her up.
Grrr.
Also, and this is nothing to do with Chaverella, there is a fucking potty training thread in the RAL. The world's ending, I swear it is.
"Ugh, only icky people have tattoos" (In a thread full of tattooed people)
"Surely everybody can afford to charter a private jet to Oxford? Why, my coffee costs less than a flight! Tee hee!" (In a thread full of people debating whether they can afford to come)
and now, the latest from the most irritating TrekBBS poster I know:
"I don't do public transport"
Hunt, Naraht, for fuck's sake, give her the wrong directions to Oxford or the wrong date or something. Either that or bring a gag. Or handcuffs, so you can stop me fucking beating her up.
Grrr.
Also, and this is nothing to do with Chaverella, there is a fucking potty training thread in the RAL. The world's ending, I swear it is.
"Surely everybody can afford to charter a private jet to Oxford? Why, my coffee costs less than a flight! Tee hee!" (In a thread full of people debating whether they can afford to come)
and now, the latest from the most irritating TrekBBS poster I know:
"I don't do public transport"
Hunt, Naraht, for fuck's sake, give her the wrong directions to Oxford or the wrong date or something. Either that or bring a gag. Or handcuffs, so you can stop me fucking beating her up.
Grrr.
Also, and this is nothing to do with Chaverella, there is a fucking potty training thread in the RAL. The world's ending, I swear it is.
So, I'm back at Grimmauld Place. 
Mum's away for a week, and I'm here catsitting. Maisie usually leaves the house in a raging sulk when Mum's away, but it's been pissing with rain here so she's lurking malevolently in her little den in Mum's wardrobe on the sock shelf, muttering rude remarks about me and the dogs and ungratefully eating everything I put in front of her. I'm also supposed to be cleaning. I haven't got very far yet, because the whole place is so crusty, disgusting and stuffed to the gills with crap and shite that I just don't know where to start.
Honestly, you wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it. It doesn't need a cleaner, it needs a fucking blowtorch and a wrecking ball. It's scary. I spent nine months living in an abandoned, burnt-out hotel once, with an itinerant collection of homeless junkies, whores, alkies and four dogs, and I swear to Dog even that wasn't as bad.
Well, maybe it was. But still. I had to clean the bathroom a little yesterday before I could bear to have a piss or a shower, then I had to throw away four bottles of body lotion (which I think used to belong to Auntie Sue, now dead these ten years) before I found one that wasn't too rancid to moisturise with.
How long do you have to keep Vaseline before it turns brown with age and smells funny? And wouldn't any normal person throw it away when it reached that point? There are tubes of stuff in the medicine cupboard that used to live in my grandmother's medicine cupboard, and she died seven-odd years ago... some of that shit is older than I am. I sympathise a little, because I inherited those pack rat genes myself - but this is bad even by my standards.
If I don't make any more entries after this, you'll know that the clotted hair in the bathroom sink was galvanised into life by the chemicals in the drain cleaner and crawled out and ate me. Either that, or Lord Lucan knocked me on the head when I surprised him hiding in the cupboard where the cleaning supplies live... because that sure as shit hasn't been opened for a while...
Mum's away for a week, and I'm here catsitting. Maisie usually leaves the house in a raging sulk when Mum's away, but it's been pissing with rain here so she's lurking malevolently in her little den in Mum's wardrobe on the sock shelf, muttering rude remarks about me and the dogs and ungratefully eating everything I put in front of her. I'm also supposed to be cleaning. I haven't got very far yet, because the whole place is so crusty, disgusting and stuffed to the gills with crap and shite that I just don't know where to start.
Honestly, you wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it. It doesn't need a cleaner, it needs a fucking blowtorch and a wrecking ball. It's scary. I spent nine months living in an abandoned, burnt-out hotel once, with an itinerant collection of homeless junkies, whores, alkies and four dogs, and I swear to Dog even that wasn't as bad.
Well, maybe it was. But still. I had to clean the bathroom a little yesterday before I could bear to have a piss or a shower, then I had to throw away four bottles of body lotion (which I think used to belong to Auntie Sue, now dead these ten years) before I found one that wasn't too rancid to moisturise with.
How long do you have to keep Vaseline before it turns brown with age and smells funny? And wouldn't any normal person throw it away when it reached that point? There are tubes of stuff in the medicine cupboard that used to live in my grandmother's medicine cupboard, and she died seven-odd years ago... some of that shit is older than I am. I sympathise a little, because I inherited those pack rat genes myself - but this is bad even by my standards.
If I don't make any more entries after this, you'll know that the clotted hair in the bathroom sink was galvanised into life by the chemicals in the drain cleaner and crawled out and ate me. Either that, or Lord Lucan knocked me on the head when I surprised him hiding in the cupboard where the cleaning supplies live... because that sure as shit hasn't been opened for a while...
Tags:
So, I'm back at Grimmauld Place. 
Mum's away for a week, and I'm here catsitting. Maisie usually leaves the house in a raging sulk when Mum's away, but it's been pissing with rain here so she's lurking malevolently in her little den in Mum's wardrobe on the sock shelf, muttering rude remarks about me and the dogs and ungratefully eating everything I put in front of her. I'm also supposed to be cleaning. I haven't got very far yet, because the whole place is so crusty, disgusting and stuffed to the gills with crap and shite that I just don't know where to start.
Honestly, you wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it. It doesn't need a cleaner, it needs a fucking blowtorch and a wrecking ball. It's scary. I spent nine months living in an abandoned, burnt-out hotel once, with an itinerant collection of homeless junkies, whores, alkies and four dogs, and I swear to Dog even that wasn't as bad.
Well, maybe it was. But still. I had to clean the bathroom a little yesterday before I could bear to have a piss or a shower, then I had to throw away four bottles of body lotion (which I think used to belong to Auntie Sue, now dead these ten years) before I found one that wasn't too rancid to moisturise with.
How long do you have to keep Vaseline before it turns brown with age and smells funny? And wouldn't any normal person throw it away when it reached that point? There are tubes of stuff in the medicine cupboard that used to live in my grandmother's medicine cupboard, and she died seven-odd years ago... some of that shit is older than I am. I sympathise a little, because I inherited those pack rat genes myself - but this is bad even by my standards.
If I don't make any more entries after this, you'll know that the clotted hair in the bathroom sink was galvanised into life by the chemicals in the drain cleaner and crawled out and ate me. Either that, or Lord Lucan knocked me on the head when I surprised him hiding in the cupboard where the cleaning supplies live... because that sure as shit hasn't been opened for a while...
Mum's away for a week, and I'm here catsitting. Maisie usually leaves the house in a raging sulk when Mum's away, but it's been pissing with rain here so she's lurking malevolently in her little den in Mum's wardrobe on the sock shelf, muttering rude remarks about me and the dogs and ungratefully eating everything I put in front of her. I'm also supposed to be cleaning. I haven't got very far yet, because the whole place is so crusty, disgusting and stuffed to the gills with crap and shite that I just don't know where to start.
Honestly, you wouldn't believe it if you didn't see it. It doesn't need a cleaner, it needs a fucking blowtorch and a wrecking ball. It's scary. I spent nine months living in an abandoned, burnt-out hotel once, with an itinerant collection of homeless junkies, whores, alkies and four dogs, and I swear to Dog even that wasn't as bad.
Well, maybe it was. But still. I had to clean the bathroom a little yesterday before I could bear to have a piss or a shower, then I had to throw away four bottles of body lotion (which I think used to belong to Auntie Sue, now dead these ten years) before I found one that wasn't too rancid to moisturise with.
How long do you have to keep Vaseline before it turns brown with age and smells funny? And wouldn't any normal person throw it away when it reached that point? There are tubes of stuff in the medicine cupboard that used to live in my grandmother's medicine cupboard, and she died seven-odd years ago... some of that shit is older than I am. I sympathise a little, because I inherited those pack rat genes myself - but this is bad even by my standards.
If I don't make any more entries after this, you'll know that the clotted hair in the bathroom sink was galvanised into life by the chemicals in the drain cleaner and crawled out and ate me. Either that, or Lord Lucan knocked me on the head when I surprised him hiding in the cupboard where the cleaning supplies live... because that sure as shit hasn't been opened for a while...
Tags:
First off, the Maisie update. She's fine. Her leg is a little stiff and uncomfortable still, but it looks like she was either phenomenally lucky or the first vet was being very alarmist.
This is the full story. I have half a mind to post it in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
stupidpetowners, and if Mum hadn't been so very, very upset I might have ripped her a new one.
Thursday afternoon: I go over to Mum's, I can't remember why. Mum tells me that Maisie has been in a fight, she's limping, but she's gone outside and now Mum's worried because she's outside. I question Mum carefully - she's already distraught and worried, and it's hard to get any sense out of her, but she tells me Maisie has been in and out of the house a couple of times since the fight. So I thought she probably wasn't all that badly hurt - she tends to clear off outside if the dogs turn up when she's in the mood for peace and quiet anyway, if she's been back in the house since the fight she's clearly not slinking off somewhere to die or anything dramatic like that. I tell Mum this, and I tell her that even a small cat bite can cause nasty infections, and when Maisie comes back in she's to look her over carefully for flesh wounds, and if there are any we'll get her to the vet for some preventative measures. I tell her not to worry so much, and I go home.
Please note, I never saw Maisie myself on Thursday.
Thursday night, around midnight: Mum phones me. She tells me she can't find any flesh wounds, but Maisie's leg is swollen and she's complaining. (I can hear her complaining over the phone.) Mum is panicked, almost hysterical and making very little sense. I didn't ask, but she'd also had a fair amount to drink. I tell her the vet has an emergency number, but she decides to wait till morning.
Friday morning - Mum calls me at tennish to ask for the vet's phone number, which I know by heart since Spike and Squish are such accident magnets. She calls back to tell me she has an appointment at 2.30, and she wants me to come and hold her hand. She's still distraught and not all that coherent. Before I left to go over there I had an email conversation with my sister E, who's also been on the phone with Mum, but I learn from the emails that Mum hasn't been coherent enough to explain anything except how upset she is that Maisie's hurt - E doesn't know until I tell her when it happened or that we have a vet's appointment or really anything at all.
Friday afternoon - I arrive at Mum's at 2.15, with only a few minutes to spare before we have to leave. Mum calls down from upstairs to ask whether she should put Maisie in her carrier or just hold her. I tell her to use the carrier. At this point, my cousin's boyfriend (who does Mum's garden and had turned up unexpectedly to do the lawn) accidentally lets Squish out of the back gate and he takes off up the road, so I'm distracted by that while Mum packs Maisie up. Squish is found and stuffed back into the house, I wedge the back gate shut and we go to the vet's.
Maisie is huddled in the back of the carrier. This the first time I've laid eyes on her since the fight. She's clearly unhappy, but she's sitting so I can't see the leg. I decide against trying to get her out to look at it, since the vet will be doing that anyway in a matter of minutes.
We get to the vet's surgery and Mum is so shaky, distraught and weepy she can't manage to get Maisie out of the carrier, so I do it for her. This is the first chance I've had to look at the leg - it's huge and Maisie's clearly very unhappy and in pain. The vet feels the leg and tells us it feels like it's swollen with pus. He pulls the leg forward to get a better look.
This is when I notice the strand of elastic looped round Maisie's shoulder. Maisie wasn't injured at all - she'd somehow gotten her leg caught in the "safety" elastic on her collar.
I wanted to sink into the ground. I could practically see the thought bubble over the vet's head - how the hell do you not notice that?? I told Mum back on Thursday afternoon to check her over carefully and she told me on Thursday night that she had. I'm assuming she was too scared of causing Maisie any pain to go over her really thoroughly, I don't know. I can't get my head around this at all - the woman I grew up with was never the type to lose all her common sense in a crisis, but that's what seems to have happened. I'm still baffled.
The vet we saw on Friday gave us a very poor prognosis. Maisie's leg was cold and he couldn't feel a pulse in it, but he said there was an "outside chance" (his words) that she wouldn't have to lose it. He gives her a shot of antibiotic and a shot of steroids for the swelling, a course of tablets and tells us to massage the leg and bring her back in the morning.
Maisie was very pissed off and unhappy still, but her leg was warm again and supporting her weight inside two hours, and by morning the swelling had almost completely gone and she was using it to swipe at Spike, who was even more stalkerish than usual - obviously he could tell she wasn't happy and he was worried, but she wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.
( And now, a whole passel of daft memes to lighten the mood. )
This is the full story. I have half a mind to post it in
stupidpetowners, and if Mum hadn't been so very, very upset I might have ripped her a new one.Thursday afternoon: I go over to Mum's, I can't remember why. Mum tells me that Maisie has been in a fight, she's limping, but she's gone outside and now Mum's worried because she's outside. I question Mum carefully - she's already distraught and worried, and it's hard to get any sense out of her, but she tells me Maisie has been in and out of the house a couple of times since the fight. So I thought she probably wasn't all that badly hurt - she tends to clear off outside if the dogs turn up when she's in the mood for peace and quiet anyway, if she's been back in the house since the fight she's clearly not slinking off somewhere to die or anything dramatic like that. I tell Mum this, and I tell her that even a small cat bite can cause nasty infections, and when Maisie comes back in she's to look her over carefully for flesh wounds, and if there are any we'll get her to the vet for some preventative measures. I tell her not to worry so much, and I go home.
Please note, I never saw Maisie myself on Thursday.
Thursday night, around midnight: Mum phones me. She tells me she can't find any flesh wounds, but Maisie's leg is swollen and she's complaining. (I can hear her complaining over the phone.) Mum is panicked, almost hysterical and making very little sense. I didn't ask, but she'd also had a fair amount to drink. I tell her the vet has an emergency number, but she decides to wait till morning.
Friday morning - Mum calls me at tennish to ask for the vet's phone number, which I know by heart since Spike and Squish are such accident magnets. She calls back to tell me she has an appointment at 2.30, and she wants me to come and hold her hand. She's still distraught and not all that coherent. Before I left to go over there I had an email conversation with my sister E, who's also been on the phone with Mum, but I learn from the emails that Mum hasn't been coherent enough to explain anything except how upset she is that Maisie's hurt - E doesn't know until I tell her when it happened or that we have a vet's appointment or really anything at all.
Friday afternoon - I arrive at Mum's at 2.15, with only a few minutes to spare before we have to leave. Mum calls down from upstairs to ask whether she should put Maisie in her carrier or just hold her. I tell her to use the carrier. At this point, my cousin's boyfriend (who does Mum's garden and had turned up unexpectedly to do the lawn) accidentally lets Squish out of the back gate and he takes off up the road, so I'm distracted by that while Mum packs Maisie up. Squish is found and stuffed back into the house, I wedge the back gate shut and we go to the vet's.
Maisie is huddled in the back of the carrier. This the first time I've laid eyes on her since the fight. She's clearly unhappy, but she's sitting so I can't see the leg. I decide against trying to get her out to look at it, since the vet will be doing that anyway in a matter of minutes.
We get to the vet's surgery and Mum is so shaky, distraught and weepy she can't manage to get Maisie out of the carrier, so I do it for her. This is the first chance I've had to look at the leg - it's huge and Maisie's clearly very unhappy and in pain. The vet feels the leg and tells us it feels like it's swollen with pus. He pulls the leg forward to get a better look.
This is when I notice the strand of elastic looped round Maisie's shoulder. Maisie wasn't injured at all - she'd somehow gotten her leg caught in the "safety" elastic on her collar.
I wanted to sink into the ground. I could practically see the thought bubble over the vet's head - how the hell do you not notice that?? I told Mum back on Thursday afternoon to check her over carefully and she told me on Thursday night that she had. I'm assuming she was too scared of causing Maisie any pain to go over her really thoroughly, I don't know. I can't get my head around this at all - the woman I grew up with was never the type to lose all her common sense in a crisis, but that's what seems to have happened. I'm still baffled.
The vet we saw on Friday gave us a very poor prognosis. Maisie's leg was cold and he couldn't feel a pulse in it, but he said there was an "outside chance" (his words) that she wouldn't have to lose it. He gives her a shot of antibiotic and a shot of steroids for the swelling, a course of tablets and tells us to massage the leg and bring her back in the morning.
Maisie was very pissed off and unhappy still, but her leg was warm again and supporting her weight inside two hours, and by morning the swelling had almost completely gone and she was using it to swipe at Spike, who was even more stalkerish than usual - obviously he could tell she wasn't happy and he was worried, but she wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.
( And now, a whole passel of daft memes to lighten the mood. )
First off, the Maisie update. She's fine. Her leg is a little stiff and uncomfortable still, but it looks like she was either phenomenally lucky or the first vet was being very alarmist.
This is the full story. I have half a mind to post it instupidpetowners, and if Mum hadn't been so very, very upset I might have ripped her a new one.
Thursday afternoon: I go over to Mum's, I can't remember why. Mum tells me that Maisie has been in a fight, she's limping, but she's gone outside and now Mum's worried because she's outside. I question Mum carefully - she's already distraught and worried, and it's hard to get any sense out of her, but she tells me Maisie has been in and out of the house a couple of times since the fight. So I thought she probably wasn't all that badly hurt - she tends to clear off outside if the dogs turn up when she's in the mood for peace and quiet anyway, if she's been back in the house since the fight she's clearly not slinking off somewhere to die or anything dramatic like that. I tell Mum this, and I tell her that even a small cat bite can cause nasty infections, and when Maisie comes back in she's to look her over carefully for flesh wounds, and if there are any we'll get her to the vet for some preventative measures. I tell her not to worry so much, and I go home.
Please note, I never saw Maisie myself on Thursday.
Thursday night, around midnight: Mum phones me. She tells me she can't find any flesh wounds, but Maisie's leg is swollen and she's complaining. (I can hear her complaining over the phone.) Mum is panicked, almost hysterical and making very little sense. I didn't ask, but she'd also had a fair amount to drink. I tell her the vet has an emergency number, but she decides to wait till morning.
Friday morning - Mum calls me at tennish to ask for the vet's phone number, which I know by heart since Spike and Squish are such accident magnets. She calls back to tell me she has an appointment at 2.30, and she wants me to come and hold her hand. She's still distraught and not all that coherent. Before I left to go over there I had an email conversation with my sister E, who's also been on the phone with Mum, but I learn from the emails that Mum hasn't been coherent enough to explain anything except how upset she is that Maisie's hurt - E doesn't know until I tell her when it happened or that we have a vet's appointment or really anything at all.
Friday afternoon - I arrive at Mum's at 2.15, with only a few minutes to spare before we have to leave. Mum calls down from upstairs to ask whether she should put Maisie in her carrier or just hold her. I tell her to use the carrier. At this point, my cousin's boyfriend (who does Mum's garden and had turned up unexpectedly to do the lawn) accidentally lets Squish out of the back gate and he takes off up the road, so I'm distracted by that while Mum packs Maisie up. Squish is found and stuffed back into the house, I wedge the back gate shut and we go to the vet's.
Maisie is huddled in the back of the carrier. This the first time I've laid eyes on her since the fight. She's clearly unhappy, but she's sitting so I can't see the leg. I decide against trying to get her out to look at it, since the vet will be doing that anyway in a matter of minutes.
We get to the vet's surgery and Mum is so shaky, distraught and weepy she can't manage to get Maisie out of the carrier, so I do it for her. This is the first chance I've had to look at the leg - it's huge and Maisie's clearly very unhappy and in pain. The vet feels the leg and tells us it feels like it's swollen with pus. He pulls the leg forward to get a better look.
This is when I notice the strand of elastic looped round Maisie's shoulder. Maisie wasn't injured at all - she'd somehow gotten her leg caught in the "safety" elastic on her collar.
I wanted to sink into the ground. I could practically see the thought bubble over the vet's head - how the hell do you not notice that?? I told Mum back on Thursday afternoon to check her over carefully and she told me on Thursday night that she had. I'm assuming she was too scared of causing Maisie any pain to go over her really thoroughly, I don't know. I can't get my head around this at all - the woman I grew up with was never the type to lose all her common sense in a crisis, but that's what seems to have happened. I'm still baffled.
The vet we saw on Friday gave us a very poor prognosis. Maisie's leg was cold and he couldn't feel a pulse in it, but he said there was an "outside chance" (his words) that she wouldn't have to lose it. He gives her a shot of antibiotic and a shot of steroids for the swelling, a course of tablets and tells us to massage the leg and bring her back in the morning.
Maisie was very pissed off and unhappy still, but her leg was warm again and supporting her weight inside two hours, and by morning the swelling had almost completely gone and she was using it to swipe at Spike, who was even more stalkerish than usual - obviously he could tell she wasn't happy and he was worried, but she wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.
( And now, a whole passel of daft memes to lighten the mood. )
This is the full story. I have half a mind to post it in
stupidpetowners, and if Mum hadn't been so very, very upset I might have ripped her a new one.Thursday afternoon: I go over to Mum's, I can't remember why. Mum tells me that Maisie has been in a fight, she's limping, but she's gone outside and now Mum's worried because she's outside. I question Mum carefully - she's already distraught and worried, and it's hard to get any sense out of her, but she tells me Maisie has been in and out of the house a couple of times since the fight. So I thought she probably wasn't all that badly hurt - she tends to clear off outside if the dogs turn up when she's in the mood for peace and quiet anyway, if she's been back in the house since the fight she's clearly not slinking off somewhere to die or anything dramatic like that. I tell Mum this, and I tell her that even a small cat bite can cause nasty infections, and when Maisie comes back in she's to look her over carefully for flesh wounds, and if there are any we'll get her to the vet for some preventative measures. I tell her not to worry so much, and I go home.
Please note, I never saw Maisie myself on Thursday.
Thursday night, around midnight: Mum phones me. She tells me she can't find any flesh wounds, but Maisie's leg is swollen and she's complaining. (I can hear her complaining over the phone.) Mum is panicked, almost hysterical and making very little sense. I didn't ask, but she'd also had a fair amount to drink. I tell her the vet has an emergency number, but she decides to wait till morning.
Friday morning - Mum calls me at tennish to ask for the vet's phone number, which I know by heart since Spike and Squish are such accident magnets. She calls back to tell me she has an appointment at 2.30, and she wants me to come and hold her hand. She's still distraught and not all that coherent. Before I left to go over there I had an email conversation with my sister E, who's also been on the phone with Mum, but I learn from the emails that Mum hasn't been coherent enough to explain anything except how upset she is that Maisie's hurt - E doesn't know until I tell her when it happened or that we have a vet's appointment or really anything at all.
Friday afternoon - I arrive at Mum's at 2.15, with only a few minutes to spare before we have to leave. Mum calls down from upstairs to ask whether she should put Maisie in her carrier or just hold her. I tell her to use the carrier. At this point, my cousin's boyfriend (who does Mum's garden and had turned up unexpectedly to do the lawn) accidentally lets Squish out of the back gate and he takes off up the road, so I'm distracted by that while Mum packs Maisie up. Squish is found and stuffed back into the house, I wedge the back gate shut and we go to the vet's.
Maisie is huddled in the back of the carrier. This the first time I've laid eyes on her since the fight. She's clearly unhappy, but she's sitting so I can't see the leg. I decide against trying to get her out to look at it, since the vet will be doing that anyway in a matter of minutes.
We get to the vet's surgery and Mum is so shaky, distraught and weepy she can't manage to get Maisie out of the carrier, so I do it for her. This is the first chance I've had to look at the leg - it's huge and Maisie's clearly very unhappy and in pain. The vet feels the leg and tells us it feels like it's swollen with pus. He pulls the leg forward to get a better look.
This is when I notice the strand of elastic looped round Maisie's shoulder. Maisie wasn't injured at all - she'd somehow gotten her leg caught in the "safety" elastic on her collar.
I wanted to sink into the ground. I could practically see the thought bubble over the vet's head - how the hell do you not notice that?? I told Mum back on Thursday afternoon to check her over carefully and she told me on Thursday night that she had. I'm assuming she was too scared of causing Maisie any pain to go over her really thoroughly, I don't know. I can't get my head around this at all - the woman I grew up with was never the type to lose all her common sense in a crisis, but that's what seems to have happened. I'm still baffled.
The vet we saw on Friday gave us a very poor prognosis. Maisie's leg was cold and he couldn't feel a pulse in it, but he said there was an "outside chance" (his words) that she wouldn't have to lose it. He gives her a shot of antibiotic and a shot of steroids for the swelling, a course of tablets and tells us to massage the leg and bring her back in the morning.
Maisie was very pissed off and unhappy still, but her leg was warm again and supporting her weight inside two hours, and by morning the swelling had almost completely gone and she was using it to swipe at Spike, who was even more stalkerish than usual - obviously he could tell she wasn't happy and he was worried, but she wasn't in the mood to appreciate it.
( And now, a whole passel of daft memes to lighten the mood. )
LJ Friends Meme by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
coolerq
• You must tell 9 people about this game.• Herbie is the one that you love.
• Mogh is one you like but can't work out.
• You care most about Huntingdon.
• Niorah is the one who knows you very well.
• Neal is your lucky star.
• Gimme Back My Bullets is the song that matches with Herbie.
• Black Dog is the song for Mogh.
• First We Take Manhattan is the song that tells you most about YOUR mind.
• and Idiot Wind is the song telling you how you feel about life
Take this quiz
Hmm....
Not entirely inaccurate - depending on one's definition of "love", anyway. Love, yes - in love, no. And it's wrong about Gimme Back My Bullets as well, and I hope it's wrong about my Mogh.
This morning the Captain woke me by jumping on my bed, grabbing my arm and making Wookiee noises while trying to get me to wrestle him, so things are back to normal here. I took him out for a little ball game yesterday afternoon since the toenail hasn't been bothering him, but he was licking it for a while afterwards and it was raw (though not bleeding) so I may have jumped the gun a bit there. But the poor bugger's not been allowed out for three weeks now...
Mum went out to dinner last night with a guy who used to sleep with her friend Carol (who died a year ago) and she came back at midnight, crying and frightened - apparently he'd turned nasty when it finally sunk into his thick skull that she wasn't planning on having sex with him. This guy is in his seventies and married, mind you... Well, I did warn her. It was obvious from the beginning - like a sign pasted on his forehead - that he was "Only After One Thing". Which in itself needn't be a problem - but it's unwise, in my opinion, to keep on going out with someone like that when you've got no intention of ever providing that "One Thing". It can't lead anywhere good.
Mind you, Mum has been pulling this stunt on unsuspecting men for decades now, and this is only the second one who's turned unpleasant on her. And neither of them did worse than give her verbal grief, luckily - this one even drove her home. So it could have been a lot worse - but still...
I have another fanfic taking shape in my brain, very loosely based round the story of the Kendra Valley Massacre - let's see if I can stalk it, ambush it, beat it into words and pin it down...
Tags:
LJ Friends Meme by coolerq
• You must tell 9 people about this game.• Herbie is the one that you love.
• Mogh is one you like but can't work out.
• You care most about Huntingdon.
• Niorah is the one who knows you very well.
• Neal is your lucky star.
• Gimme Back My Bullets is the song that matches with Herbie.
• Black Dog is the song for Mogh.
• First We Take Manhattan is the song that tells you most about YOUR mind.
• and Idiot Wind is the song telling you how you feel about life
Take this quiz
Hmm....
Not entirely inaccurate - depending on one's definition of "love", anyway. Love, yes - in love, no. And it's wrong about Gimme Back My Bullets as well, and I hope it's wrong about my Mogh.
This morning the Captain woke me by jumping on my bed, grabbing my arm and making Wookiee noises while trying to get me to wrestle him, so things are back to normal here. I took him out for a little ball game yesterday afternoon since the toenail hasn't been bothering him, but he was licking it for a while afterwards and it was raw (though not bleeding) so I may have jumped the gun a bit there. But the poor bugger's not been allowed out for three weeks now...
Mum went out to dinner last night with a guy who used to sleep with her friend Carol (who died a year ago) and she came back at midnight, crying and frightened - apparently he'd turned nasty when it finally sunk into his thick skull that she wasn't planning on having sex with him. This guy is in his seventies and married, mind you... Well, I did warn her. It was obvious from the beginning - like a sign pasted on his forehead - that he was "Only After One Thing". Which in itself needn't be a problem - but it's unwise, in my opinion, to keep on going out with someone like that when you've got no intention of ever providing that "One Thing". It can't lead anywhere good.
Mind you, Mum has been pulling this stunt on unsuspecting men for decades now, and this is only the second one who's turned unpleasant on her. And neither of them did worse than give her verbal grief, luckily - this one even drove her home. So it could have been a lot worse - but still...
I have another fanfic taking shape in my brain, very loosely based round the story of the Kendra Valley Massacre - let's see if I can stalk it, ambush it, beat it into words and pin it down...
Tags:
...or, Dog vs. Broken Glass, episode 468.
The next time I see those fucking teenagers who use my dog park as an underage drinking hangout and leave their fucking broken alcopop bottles everywhere, I'm going to drag them out of the park, break those bottles into tiny sharp pieces and make them fucking well eat them.
This is the second time in three months I've gone to the vet with a profusely bleeding, distressed dog and left the surgery distressed and dogless. It's the Captain this time, with a nasty, deep cut on the underside of his right wrist, right under the little fourth pad. It didn't bleed quite as much as Squishy's leg did (when was that? November, early December? Not bloody long ago, anyway) but it was enough to leave bloody prints on the pavement walking home and blood on the carpets before I slapped a bandage on it - and enough for the vet to advise sedation and suturing. So I've had to leave Spike there... fortunately, it was early in the day, he hadn't eaten since last night and they don't have many patients in, so they're doing it today and I don't have to spend the night without him.
Of course, these things always happen on a weekend or when I have somewhere else I'm supposed to be. Last time I was supposed to be at a recruitment evening at Sainsbury's - today I was supposed to visitwatervole - which, (unlike Sainsbury's) I was really looking forward to. Bugger, bugger, bugger!
Aaaand the really fun part is yet to come - attempting to keep the Evil Bugger quiet and on restricted exercise for the next ten days... *whimper*
Edit: Two hours later, he's back. He's very stoned and sorry for himself... the first thing he did when he got home was stumble upstairs to find the cat and collapse next to her. She rubbed her face on him and licked him... very sweet and touching.
I think I might get drunk now... *growl*
( Memeage, because it's not like I have anything else to do all fucking afternoon now... )
The next time I see those fucking teenagers who use my dog park as an underage drinking hangout and leave their fucking broken alcopop bottles everywhere, I'm going to drag them out of the park, break those bottles into tiny sharp pieces and make them fucking well eat them.
This is the second time in three months I've gone to the vet with a profusely bleeding, distressed dog and left the surgery distressed and dogless. It's the Captain this time, with a nasty, deep cut on the underside of his right wrist, right under the little fourth pad. It didn't bleed quite as much as Squishy's leg did (when was that? November, early December? Not bloody long ago, anyway) but it was enough to leave bloody prints on the pavement walking home and blood on the carpets before I slapped a bandage on it - and enough for the vet to advise sedation and suturing. So I've had to leave Spike there... fortunately, it was early in the day, he hadn't eaten since last night and they don't have many patients in, so they're doing it today and I don't have to spend the night without him.
Of course, these things always happen on a weekend or when I have somewhere else I'm supposed to be. Last time I was supposed to be at a recruitment evening at Sainsbury's - today I was supposed to visit
watervole - which, (unlike Sainsbury's) I was really looking forward to. Bugger, bugger, bugger!Aaaand the really fun part is yet to come - attempting to keep the Evil Bugger quiet and on restricted exercise for the next ten days... *whimper*
Edit: Two hours later, he's back. He's very stoned and sorry for himself... the first thing he did when he got home was stumble upstairs to find the cat and collapse next to her. She rubbed her face on him and licked him... very sweet and touching.
I think I might get drunk now... *growl*
( Memeage, because it's not like I have anything else to do all fucking afternoon now... )
Tags:
...or, Dog vs. Broken Glass, episode 468.
The next time I see those fucking teenagers who use my dog park as an underage drinking hangout and leave their fucking broken alcopop bottles everywhere, I'm going to drag them out of the park, break those bottles into tiny sharp pieces and make them fucking well eat them.
This is the second time in three months I've gone to the vet with a profusely bleeding, distressed dog and left the surgery distressed and dogless. It's the Captain this time, with a nasty, deep cut on the underside of his right wrist, right under the little fourth pad. It didn't bleed quite as much as Squishy's leg did (when was that? November, early December? Not bloody long ago, anyway) but it was enough to leave bloody prints on the pavement walking home and blood on the carpets before I slapped a bandage on it - and enough for the vet to advise sedation and suturing. So I've had to leave Spike there... fortunately, it was early in the day, he hadn't eaten since last night and they don't have many patients in, so they're doing it today and I don't have to spend the night without him.
Of course, these things always happen on a weekend or when I have somewhere else I'm supposed to be. Last time I was supposed to be at a recruitment evening at Sainsbury's - today I was supposed to visitwatervole - which, (unlike Sainsbury's) I was really looking forward to. Bugger, bugger, bugger!
Aaaand the really fun part is yet to come - attempting to keep the Evil Bugger quiet and on restricted exercise for the next ten days... *whimper*
Edit: Two hours later, he's back. He's very stoned and sorry for himself... the first thing he did when he got home was stumble upstairs to find the cat and collapse next to her. She rubbed her face on him and licked him... very sweet and touching.
I think I might get drunk now... *growl*
( Memeage, because it's not like I have anything else to do all fucking afternoon now... )
The next time I see those fucking teenagers who use my dog park as an underage drinking hangout and leave their fucking broken alcopop bottles everywhere, I'm going to drag them out of the park, break those bottles into tiny sharp pieces and make them fucking well eat them.
This is the second time in three months I've gone to the vet with a profusely bleeding, distressed dog and left the surgery distressed and dogless. It's the Captain this time, with a nasty, deep cut on the underside of his right wrist, right under the little fourth pad. It didn't bleed quite as much as Squishy's leg did (when was that? November, early December? Not bloody long ago, anyway) but it was enough to leave bloody prints on the pavement walking home and blood on the carpets before I slapped a bandage on it - and enough for the vet to advise sedation and suturing. So I've had to leave Spike there... fortunately, it was early in the day, he hadn't eaten since last night and they don't have many patients in, so they're doing it today and I don't have to spend the night without him.
Of course, these things always happen on a weekend or when I have somewhere else I'm supposed to be. Last time I was supposed to be at a recruitment evening at Sainsbury's - today I was supposed to visit
watervole - which, (unlike Sainsbury's) I was really looking forward to. Bugger, bugger, bugger!Aaaand the really fun part is yet to come - attempting to keep the Evil Bugger quiet and on restricted exercise for the next ten days... *whimper*
Edit: Two hours later, he's back. He's very stoned and sorry for himself... the first thing he did when he got home was stumble upstairs to find the cat and collapse next to her. She rubbed her face on him and licked him... very sweet and touching.
I think I might get drunk now... *growl*
( Memeage, because it's not like I have anything else to do all fucking afternoon now... )
Tags:
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86 %Nicked from
niorah - and yes, I am a Libran, and I've always thought of myself as pretty typical of the genre. Clever little meme!Very little to write, really. There's a man fixing the fence between here and next door, he turned up at nine, before I'd had a chance to poop scoop the back garden - I should have done it yesterday, but it rained all day... did it in a big hurry before my first cup of coffee, which wasn't nice.
Next door will be relieved, though. They're trying to sell their house, and it can't be very tempting to show buyers their back garden with no barrier whatever between it and the dogs' carefully-crafted reconstruction of one of the messier First World War battlefields (trenches, bones, chemical warfare... it's all there). We had them asking us politely last week just when the fence would be fixed - at that point, we hadn't heard from the agency the Housing Association employs to do repairs, so we weren't able to give a real answer, only that it would be "soon." Mum, of course, left this awkward conversation up to me - it wasn't made any easier by the fact that I'm not allowed to tell the neighbours this house belongs to a Housing Association. They all own theirs and she's convinced they'll look down on her if they know she doesn't... I think she's nuts, but it's her tenancy, I guess it's not my problem if she wants to be ashamed of it...
The foul moods and paranoia have passed. I have no words for how much I hate PMS. I think of myself as a reasonable person, and it's disconcerting (to say the least) to find myself alternating between weepy drama queen and Psycho Bitch from Hell. I've made an appointment for the 27th to see about getting Mirena fitted - that should get rid of this problem. Been meaning to get round to that for ages...
What sign of the Zodiac am I?
Take the Zodiac test here! |
86 %Nicked from
niorah - and yes, I am a Libran, and I've always thought of myself as pretty typical of the genre. Clever little meme!Very little to write, really. There's a man fixing the fence between here and next door, he turned up at nine, before I'd had a chance to poop scoop the back garden - I should have done it yesterday, but it rained all day... did it in a big hurry before my first cup of coffee, which wasn't nice.
Next door will be relieved, though. They're trying to sell their house, and it can't be very tempting to show buyers their back garden with no barrier whatever between it and the dogs' carefully-crafted reconstruction of one of the messier First World War battlefields (trenches, bones, chemical warfare... it's all there). We had them asking us politely last week just when the fence would be fixed - at that point, we hadn't heard from the agency the Housing Association employs to do repairs, so we weren't able to give a real answer, only that it would be "soon." Mum, of course, left this awkward conversation up to me - it wasn't made any easier by the fact that I'm not allowed to tell the neighbours this house belongs to a Housing Association. They all own theirs and she's convinced they'll look down on her if they know she doesn't... I think she's nuts, but it's her tenancy, I guess it's not my problem if she wants to be ashamed of it...
The foul moods and paranoia have passed. I have no words for how much I hate PMS. I think of myself as a reasonable person, and it's disconcerting (to say the least) to find myself alternating between weepy drama queen and Psycho Bitch from Hell. I've made an appointment for the 27th to see about getting Mirena fitted - that should get rid of this problem. Been meaning to get round to that for ages...
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niorahI'm pissed off with my radio station this morning. http://www.planetrock.com/ usually play classic rock all day with no ads and no irritating talking, but today they've been taken over by UK Radio Aid. I'm all in favour of people giving money for the tsunami victims - I've given as much as I could manage already - but does it have to involve forcing me to listen to perky DJs running a telethon, yakking endlessly about crappy celebrities and playing ear-bleedingly shite pop music all bloody day? I thought I'd entered the mirror universe when all the digital radio stations turned out to be broadcasting the same fucking thing.
I'm getting there. I don't suck, but I've got a ways to go.
| 65% Of The Internet Loves Me! |
| I am loved by 65% of the population, including:47063 people who love night people 13735 people who love masochists 28398 people who love bloggers In return, I love 91% of the population, including: 34377 happy people 24665 freaks 12306 webmasters |
| show the love at spacefem.com |
Nicked from
niorahI'm pissed off with my radio station this morning. http://www.planetrock.com/ usually play classic rock all day with no ads and no irritating talking, but today they've been taken over by UK Radio Aid. I'm all in favour of people giving money for the tsunami victims - I've given as much as I could manage already - but does it have to involve forcing me to listen to perky DJs running a telethon, yakking endlessly about crappy celebrities and playing ear-bleedingly shite pop music all bloody day? I thought I'd entered the mirror universe when all the digital radio stations turned out to be broadcasting the same fucking thing.
I'm getting there. I don't suck, but I've got a ways to go.
.
