Black Doggerel

Whenever my back is turned the dogs destuff sofa cushions. It's got to where there's no longer enough cushion left to stuff the stuffing back into.

This is totally a metaphor for my entire life.

when I fell in love with Spike, I didn't only fall in love with him as an individual. I fell in love with the entire breed. I didn't, and still really don't, ever want to have a dog that isn't a border collie again.

( Would you like some cheese with my whining? )

Added a new LJ friend today, which prompted a rush of ridiculous embarrassment at the sparsity of intelligent words in my journal of late. It can't be helped. Deathtired is bigger than I am and I can't even let myself think too hard about everything I want to be doing.

Have some linkspam as a cunning substitute for an actual entry. Many of these are regurgitated from my Facebook: I actually hate Facebook, but you wouldn't know it these days. It's just that I can forgive myself for short meaningless entries more easily on Facebook. Every time I try and write more than five words about my life it turns into bitter self-pitying whine; better just to keep my face shut.

( This got bigger than I thought it would )

Today, for the first time EVER, my dogs gave me an opportunity to shovel handfuls of treats into their faces as a reward for watching Big Brindle Dog out of the window without one bark.

WIN.

It's one year today since Spike's surgery!
I planned to celebrate with happy fun park romps and pics and videos of same, but deathtired is kicking my arse too much to do that today. So here's a small picspam of the last year's journey instead.

( Spiiiiiiike )

thank you all, thank you so much. we might not have got through this without you. I love you all.

Dear Spike,

I bought the zinger ringer flinger thinger because your face surgery has fucked up your ability to safely play with tennis balls, bursitis has fucked up my throwing arm and fatigue syndrome has fucked up my ability to bend over repeatedly.

I didn't buy it so you could fight the damn thing for possession of the rubber ring. If you'd actually let me PICK THE DAMN RINGS UP WITH IT you might get a fetch game again in this lifetime. Please?

(xposted to note_to_dog.)

spring has sprung, and the suburbs are alive with foxes busily and noisily making more foxes. it makes after-dark dog walking into a bit of an extreme sport. in fact if I marketed it right I could probably charge local thrill-starved teenagers to walk the fuckers for me.

Blood test this week normal for thyroid things. I don't have more details than that. Doctor says it can still take months to feel normal after this point but I am improving still.

example: Sunday, I threw balls for the dogs in the park, then walked to the corner shop and back a bit later, and then spent the evening roleplaying live on AIM. This isn't, objectively, very much but three weeks ago I might have been able to do one of those three things on a good day.

fucking baby steps.

Spike has been getting this weird swelling and redness inside his noseholes after playing ball. I'm hoping it's an effect of clamping his jaws round the ball so hard he often splits them without trying; either that or the way he ploughs the ground with his face when he goes to pick a ball up. Vet says she didn't think it looked cancery but there's only one way to tell. I've got an appointment for a biopsy but I'm considering cancelling for this reason: if the cancer's recurred there's fuck all left we can do about it, and I'm not sure it's fair to put him through it just for the sake of knowing.

besides, hope is a motherfucker from hell but denial's an old and dear friend.

meanwhile, we're back to playing fetch with home made stuffie toys instead of balls again. Both dogs are in favour of this.

Tonight I am an exhausted ball of bitterness, resentment, fury, fear and loathing. I can't pick on any coherent reasons why this should be so I'm assuming it's low blood sugar and fixing it with peanut butter and ginger marmalade.

Grrraar.