I'll Be Dead in Two Weeks

It’s a few days before Christmas…the last one we’ll have if you believe the Mayans.  So, what better time to reminisce?

I have lots of Christmas stories, and I’m sure I’m not unique.  We didn’t have any weird traditions or anything, and we were always together at Christmas.   My dad didn’t dress up as Santa Claus.  We didn’t have wild holiday parties.  But each Christmas was special, nonetheless.

My parents did try to convince us that there was a Santa Claus, but they weren’t fully committed to the ruse.  One year, on Christmas Eve, they set up a wrapping station in the dining room and wrapped the gifts—and by “they” I mean “my dad.”  My mom would supervise and delegate to her staff of one.  And with each wrapped gift, my mom would summon my brother or me to come get it, and take it downstairs to place under the tree.

Harmless enough, right?  Well, because my mom also insisted on teaching us how to read right out of the womb, we’d sneak a peek at the tags on each gift.

Hmpf.  My brother & I suspected that there was, in fact, no Santa at all.  We tried to interrogate my parents.  My mother, who felt little compunction about perpetuating the myth, but still felt a slight pang of disobedience from her children, adopted the attitude of: “Fine.  If you don’t want to believe in Santa, that’s your problem.  I guess it’s all clothes next year.”

My dad, on the other hand, made some weak attempts at convincing us.

There endeth the magic, I guess.

By that time, though, we started getting ready for church.  We got all dressed up in our best church clothes, and piled in the car.

The best thing about Christmas Eve at my church was the candlelit singing of Silent Night.  Silent Night was always at the end…sort of a reward for behaving all the way through the sermon.  And that year, I asked my mom for my own candle.  Years prior, she had always held my candle for me.  But this year, with 5 years of life experience, I felt I was ready.  So after we settled into the pew, I asked:

Can I have a candle?
No.
But…
No.
What if…
No.

Folks were still filing into the church, so I busied myself with the offering envelopes while I contemplated a new strategy.  Asking for permission clearly did not work.  I glanced over at my mom, who sat on the other side of my brother.  She was distracted by friends and acquaintances wishing us a Merry Christmas.

It was now or never.  I loudly announced to no one in particular:

I was careful to act naturally.

I sneaked back to the door and stole a candle out of the greeters’ basket.  This was gonna be great.

Wait…I hadn’t thought this all the way through.  I had no pockets, and therefore, nowhere to hide my candle.  My parents had put me in a stupid dress with little white socks and patent leather shoes.  I was completely transparent.  So, I did the only thing I could do…I hid the candle in my ruffled underwear.

When the service started, I followed the order of things in the bulletin.  When the lights dimmed, I carefully reached under my dress, and pulled out my contraband candle.

My mother hadn’t noticed that I had scored my very own candle, and by the time the usher came around with the flame, it was too late.  I proudly stuck my candle out for Mrs. Glatz, the usher.

“Be very careful, darling,” she whispered as she lit my candle with her own.  Boy oh boy!  Would I ever!  I looked over at my mom, gauging how much trouble I was in.  She had a raised eyebrow, and her jaw jutted slightly.  Heck…that was only a 4 on the trouble scale.

“Silent night!  Holy Night!”  We sang in the candlelit church.  Now it was Christmas!  “Chriiiist the Savior is Boooooorn!”

Rev. Meier, our pastor, said quietly, “Let us pray.”  I bowed my head.

That’s when it happened.  I had set my hair on fire.

I don’t remember a whole lot, other than my mom frantically swatting me about the head as my grandmother loudly asked, “what’s that smell?”

After the fire was out, my mother forbade me to touch another candle until I was 30.  She may have been assuming…or hoping…she’d be dead by then, and wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Either way, it was time for me to start trying to enjoy less flammable holidays.

Hope you have a safe & flame-free holiday season!

Ok, so, once upon a time, I took a dare.  An incredibly stupid, pointless dare.  Turned into a bet, actually.  So, let me start over:

Many years ago (but not so many that I can blame this on ‘youth’) my friend, Nadine, bet me $20 that I wouldn’t bleach my hair.

Now, I should say that today, my hair is mostly gray.  But when I was younger, it was an extremely dark brown.  Almost black.

So, I called a high school classmate of mine who had her own salon, and I gotta say…she wasn’t crazy about the idea.  For one thing, I hadn’t spoken to her in years.  And when I called and reintroduced myself, the conversation was a little awkward:

“I was wondering if you can bleach my hair.”
Silence.  Then “Is this a joke?”
“No, no…I was dared by a friend…” and launched into way too much information.
She sighed and asked, “So you want to bleach you hair?”  Actually, it was more of a reflective statement.
“Yes” I replied.
“Your very black hair.”
“Yes,” I said tentatively, not exactly sure what the problem was.  After all, this was a pretty simple question, wasn’t it?  Just looking for a yes or no here.

She seemed to mull it over for an eternity.  Finally she said, “Ok, but come in at 7AM tomorrow.  I want to do it before my first appointment.”

The next morning, bright and early, I reported, as assigned, at 7AM.  She let me in the salon, and immediately started examining my head.  She’s a lot taller than I am, so I kind of just stood there while she picked through my hair like a chimp looking for bugs on her young.

She let out a deep, long sigh.  “You’re sure you want to do this?”  I assured her I was.

She sat me in a chair, and began to apply…something.  I’m not altogether sure what it was.  It smelled horrible.  And it took a while to get my whole head coated.  Then she put me under one of those big hairdryers — the kind that comes down over your head and makes you feel like you’re an astronaut about to blast off.

She gave me a magazine, and then left to get the shop ready for the day.

I read for a few minutes, and I began to feel a little, um, uncomfortable.  But I figured, hey, no pain no gain.  I’d be collecting my 20 bucks in no time.

A short while later, I could tell my scalp was really heating up.  I mean…Really.  Heating.  Up.

A few minutes more, and I was in a full blown panic attack.  Finally…mercifully…she appeared.  My gratitude came out in the form of screaming.

“Get this stuff off me!”  (Although, I’m pretty sure I didn’t say “stuff.”  And, just for the sake of accuracy, I’m reasonably certain there were some other colorful modifiers in there.) I ran across the room and stuck my head in the sink, all the while screaming at her to GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!  When the water hit my head, it felt so hot that I began to levitate.  I threatened to slaughter her entire family if she didn’t turn it off.  Not my finest moment, to be sure.

She insisted that it was cold, but I was completely irrational.  I was screaming at her incoherently, until she sprayed the water in my face.  Yep.  Cold water.  Freezing, actually.

Still screaming, I yelled, “then why is it hot on my head?”
“Because you’re stupid,” she said.  “Bleaching your hair is really bad on your scalp.”

When the bleach was all out, and the pain subsided to a reasonable level, she said, “Well, your hair’s not black anymore.”  Assuming we were done, I removed the cape.
“Whoa…what are you doing?”  she said.
“Aren’t we done?” I asked.
“No,” she said, treating me like a toddler.  “We need to put toner in it.”  Like I had any idea what toner was.
“Oh no no no no no no…I’m done,” I said, halfway to the door.
“Your hair is colorless right now.”
“Then it’s colorless.”  Tell it to someone who cares, princess.
“We’re not done…” she trailed off in a sing-song voice.
“But it’s bleached right?  It’s bleached?”  It’s all about keeping your eye on the prize.
“Uh, yeah.  It’s bleached, all right.”
“Then we’re done.”
“Ok,” she said, resigned, “you owe me 30 bucks.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  The bet was for $20.  But it cost me $30 to bleach my hair.  The only thing I can say is that pain of that magnitude negatively impacts your math skills.  But there I was, happily shelling out 30 schmackers for the atrocity that now sat atop my incredibly thick, chemical-burned skull.

Wait.  It gets better.   THIS idiot thought it would just be a grand idea to go to my mom’s office and show her my new ‘do.  Yeah.  Stupidity was in full force that day.

As soon as I got off the elevator, I ran into long-time family friend (and priceless intermediary,) Jini.

Jini offered up a small laugh, then a deep sigh.  She had already begun leading me down the hallway to my mom’s office as I was explaining about the bet, my experience with the bleach, blah blah blah…she wasn’t listening, anyway.  She just nodded her head as I gleefully chatted away with no idea whatsoever of the amount of trouble I was about to get into.

She opened the door to an empty office, and I walked in.  I turned around to face her while I finished the story that she wasn’t listening to, but she was already gone.  A moment later my mother appeared.

There was no discussion.  No dialog.  No exchange of ideas.

One week.  That’s how long it was bleached.  Exactly one week…during which I neither saw nor heard from my mother.  That was probably a good thing, since my hair was so short — and so black — that when it began to grow, it just looked dirty under my Big Bird Yellow.  It just would have incensed her all over again.  But it wasn’t without suffering, let me tell you.  I had chemical burns all over my scalp.  It was August, and I couldn’t bear to be in the sun.  I would pour cold water in a baseball cap and dump it over my head.

6 days after my dye job, my brother, Greg, appeared at my door with 5 words:  “Mom wants to see you.”

By this time, it was getting dark, and admittedly, I briefly attempted to rationalize not going.  But the bleach had seeped into my barely functioning brain, and I couldn’t come up with any kind of remotely plausible excuse.  So, I drove over to my parents’ house and shuffled up the steps to the deck.  I was startled to see that my mom was waiting in the near-dark.

“Sit.”

I did not hesitate.  I was like a golden freaking retriever, so obedient was I, yet…apparently unfinished with my complete and utter lack of judgment.

I started:  “Sigh…Mom, I…”
“Do not speak.”  Okay, then.  This conversation won’t last long.

She glared at me over her glasses, speaking in a lowered voice — her scariest, by far.  It’s not the yelling you need to watch out for.  It’s the “not-yelling.”

“You’ve had your fun.”  I sat motionless.  Her eyes narrowed.
“You’ve had your little…game.”  Poker face.  Poker face.  Poker face.  Don’t let her smell the fear.
“It’s time to dye your hair.”  She slid a blank check across the table.  “You have an appointment tomorrow at 4.  Do.  Not.  Miss.  It.”

And you know what the kicker is?  Nadine never paid up.

When I was 5, Steve Austin was my hero.  I’m not talking about the wrestler.  I’m talking about The Bionic Man.  The Six Million Dollar Man.  The man who was rebuilt… better… stronger… faster.

If you’re not familiar with the Six Million Dollar Man, I’ll catch you up real quick:  it was a television show in the 1970s, starring Lee Majors.  Steve Austin (Lee Majors) was an astronaut who lost his legs, an arm, and an eye in a crash.  But because he was so awesome, the government decided to “rebuild” him in a surgery that cost six million dollars.  Steve was given new “bionic” limbs and a bionic eye.  He could run 60 mph on his new spiffy legs, and his arm was much stronger than a normal man’s.  His bionic eye was capable of a 20x zoom and even had infrared capabilities.

I wanted to be bionic so badly that I would pretend to be bionic in my everyday endeavors.  I sprung out of bed with my pretend bionic legs.  If I was brushing my teeth, I made the bionic sounds with every stroke of my bionic arm.  I pedaled my Big Wheel at astonishing speeds.  With my awesome eye, I zoomed in on the cockpits of airplanes flying high above.  All in my head.

Steve Austin's Squinty Eyebrow Look

I even practiced squinting my eyes while lifting one eyebrow…just like Steve.

He was so cool.  My brother, Greg, and I never missed an episode.

Until…

One day, we had an absolutely brilliant idea: we should reenact the crash scene that appeared at the beginning of each show. Greg is two years older than me, so at 7, he was much more analytical and positively full of wisdom.  He had all the logistics thoroughly planned out.  We would launch the “space capsule” (a laundry basket) down the runway (the stairs of our townhouse).  We needed a passenger-restraint system, so we found a thin, red cord-like belt (like the ones that serial killers use) from one of my mom’s old robes.  Safety first and all.

Guess who got to be the astronaut…

No need to worry.  I was in good hands because my brother thought of everything.  I climbed into the laundry basket at the top of the stairs.  My brother methodically wound the bathrobe belt around me and through the weavings of the laundry basket.  Before long, I was ready for launch.

Now, because the stairs of our townhouse were right inside the front door, they tended to “collect” things.  You know….mail….shoes…laundry that needed to go upstairs…that kind of thing.  So, after I was secure inside my spacecraft, Greg ran downstairs to “clear the runway.”  As he did so, he began the countdown:

“T-minus 10, 9, 8…”

I was literally shaking with excitement!  This would be the coolest stunt ever!  I would be legendary.  I imagined myself giving Phil Donahue an exclusive:  “Well, Phil, heh-heh…yes, it was remarkable…”  Then I shifted my weight in the laundry basket.

That’s the last thing I remember about the crash.  I do remember that, miraculously, the only injury I sustained was a dislocated nose, for which I had to wear a piece of tape across my face for what seemed like an eternity.

The rest of this story has been pieced together by eye-witness accounts:

Greg’s version:

“She’s breaking up…she’s breaking up…”

As my brother tells it, he went down the stairs to clear some things and start the countdown.  The next thing he knew, I started rolling and bouncing down the stairs, flying just past his head, and impacting face-first into a closet door in a spectacular explosion.  (Please excuse my lack of illustration skills.  You can click on the image to make it bigger.)

I imagine there were some pretty deafening crashing and banging sounds of my face destroying the closet.  When that all ended, and I lay in a crumpled heap on the floor looking like a chalk outline, my mom shouted from the living room at my older, wiser, boy-genius brother in a conversation that went pretty much like this:

Greg's Eyewitness Account - Exhibit A

Greg's Eyewitness Account - Exhibit B

Greg's Eyewitness Account - Exhibit C

Greg's Eyewitness Account - Exhibit D

Mom’s version:

When piecing together this posting, I recently asked my mom what happened after I flew into the closet.  Her reply?  “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you ‘don’t know?’  How could you not know?  Your youngest child lay dying in the closet.”  I was incredulous.

“Puh-leeze.  That wasn’t exactly a unique occurrence,” she said matter-of-factly.  “I may have taken you to the hospital.”

“You may have?”  How could my own mother not remember my near-death laundry basket experience?  Was it so insignificant that it didn’t even warrant a place amidst the myriad of her other memories?

“Or maybe we went to the doctor’s office the next day.  I don’t remember.  You might have been complaining that your face hurt.  Maybe you were black and blue, or your nose was crooked or something.  It doesn’t matter now.  You’re fine.”

“I cannot believe you don’t remember,” I said, idignantly.

“Uh…I do remember seeing a placard in the emergency room that listed the signs of child abuse.  But I might have seen that on one of the many other occasions you were there,” she said, pointedly.

Hmpf.

It appears that by the time I was 5 years old, my mother had already grown so weary of my stunts and shenanigans that my brush with bionic death was met with disdain and apathy.

Although, now that I think about it, that might have been about the same time I abandoned Steve for Isaac Washington—the bartender on the Love Boat.

I’m a hypochondriac. It’s not something I’m proud of. I’m also terrified of doctors, which leads to an awful lot of self-diagnosis on the internet. It’s not a good combination.

In the past two years, I had convinced myself that I had any number of diseases, including SARS, West Nile Virus, Bird Flu, Swine Flu, Mad Cow Disease, parasites of varying origins, the Ebola virus, flesh-eating diseases, vitiligo, Bell’s palsy and lead poisoning, just to name a few.

Two weeks ago I began having a pain in the center of my chest. On Friday of that week, I told my friend, Jamie, that I had Hodgkin’s disease. Now, I don’t really know anything about Hodgkin’s disease, other than my cousin had a tumor removed from his chest due to Hodgkin’s, but I was undeterred. Jamie asked if this was a recent contraction of Hodgkin’s, or if I’d had it for a while and was only just now confiding in her. I told her that I had acquired it on the past Monday. Despite my emphatic proclamation, she insisted I didn’t have Hodgkin’s. I quickly dismissed her, though, as her judgment was clearly lacking.

My brother seemed skeptical, as well, however. So, I went to WebMD, and by Sunday night I’d learned that I did not have Hodgkin’s, and instead had paraesophageal hernia, which, as I understand it, is a kind of hiatal hernia that strangles your stomach and intestines. It can also make your chest hurt. As if that weren’t bad enough, there was also a possibility that it was esophageal cancer, but I couldn’t bring myself to think about that. I was too busy losing sleep over the hernia. The next day, I mentioned my new self-diagnosis to another friend, who convinced me to try the chiropractor before purchasing a burial plot.

Well, I went to the chiropractor, Dr. Guy, who enjoys the exclusive and privileged status as one of the handful of people who I allow to touch me, and I explained what was going on. I somberly broke the news: I was fairly certain I had paraesophageal hernia, or worse, esophageal cancer. He said he was pretty sure I didn’t have either of those things, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t serious. I was in pain, after all. He began asking questions: was I in a car accident? Did I recently take a blow to the chest or collar bone? I’m clumsy, so it was certainly a possibility, but I think I would have remembered a blow like that. But it made me wonder: what the heck did he think I did when I left his office? Fight club?

As it turns out, the first rib on my right side moved out of place. He said it definitely could have been aggravated by sleeping wrong, using a computer, slouching, or coughing, but without an initial injury it seems unlikely that sleeping or computer work, alone, would have done this.

Regardless, he sat me in a chair, and got behind me. He put his right arm under my right arm, and put his left arm over my left shoulder. He put the ball of his left hand on the top of my sternum and put his right hand on his left hand. Then he said, “This is going to hurt. Just take a deep breath and try to relax.”

“How bad?” I asked.

“How bad what?” He asked.

“How bad is it going to hurt?” I clarified.

“A lot,” he said. “Just keep breathing.”

Perfect.

It was then that I had a fleeting thought: This pain isn’t so bad. I could live the rest of my life feeling as though I had a chimpanzee repeatedly kicking me in the chest. After all, I’d already lived like this for a week, so I mean, how bad could it be going through rest of my days taking shallow breaths, not being able to look to my left, and wincing any time I tried to lift either arm? I could adapt, right? Suddenly realizing he already had me in a bear hug and wasn’t letting go, I was resigned. So, I took a deep breath.

He pushed the top of my sternum down toward my feet. Oh. My. God. I nearly lost consciousness. I can’t describe the pain. I think there might have been screaming involved, but I couldn’t swear that it was my own voice. It seemed far away, like an indeterminable and wounded animal caught in a trap somewhere deep in the forest.

Three times he did this. Three. Times. By the end, I melted into the chair, a fleshy, gasping mess of what I once was. No longer a human form, I slid off the chair and into a heap on the floor where I wept quietly on my knees, ashamed of the amoeba-esque mass I had become. The only sounds were my own sobs and the softly fed Muzak through the office’s speakers. Being brutalized to a clarinet-led instrumental of “if you like piña coladas” only added to my humiliation.

I have had to go back for adjustments almost every other day since then, and I’m still not done. While I do feel better, I have to admit that I’m not looking forward to more treatments, and for the first time, I’m glad my crappy insurance only pays for 20 visits a year.

A few weeks ago, I was at my brother’s house watching his dog while he was away.  Everything was fine until Sunday afternoon.  I was upstairs doing dishes when I heard a loud banging noise coming from the garage.

I ran downstairs and into the pitch black garage and it was just deafening: BANG, BANG, BANG!  I flipped the light on and quickly realized that the washing machine was demonically possessed.

It wildly charged me from across the room.  I tackled it but it bounced off the ground and managed to shake me to the floor.  We squared off, and it took a swing at me.  But I was quick.  I blocked it with my left, clocked it with my right, and then I tackled it again.  I had it pinned in a sleeper hold and it let out a guttural moan.  I kneed it in the side, and it gasped to catch its breath.  I kneed it again, but it managed to summon some fiendish strength from its underworld appliance-god, and it threw me to the ground.  While I struggled to find my footing, it banged loudly, mocking me.  But I knew it was only a weak intimidation tactic.

That’s it.  This thing was going down.  I wasn’t playing anymore.

It came at me again.   Too late, sucka!  I was already on my feet.  I lunged at it, and hit it hard with my shoulder. Before it could recover, I gave it another quick left, then another knee, and another right. I had it on the ropes.

I was enraged. I began kicking and screaming…”AND (kick) I (kick) DON’T (kick) WANT (kick) TO (kick) HAVE (kick) THIS (kick) CONVERSATION (kick) AGAIN (kick)!

The mechanical menace coughed up one last death-throe-squeal in defeat.  I reached deep into its belly and ripped out its clothes-guts…still sopping from the failed spin cycle.  I held them above my head in triumph!

AAAAAAAAHAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAH…

…just as my brother, home from his trip, entered the garage and said, “What in the name of all that’s holy?”

Epilogue:
After my righteous battle, the Maytag lay there, withered, much to the  delight of my nephew’s golf clubs.  Apparently, the laundry-beast had been bullying the other garage-dwellers for some time.  The empty fish tank, utility sink and hockey sticks let out a cheer, and the snow-blower sat there looking rather droll.  Of course, the snow-blower is never truly happy unless it’s chewing on something.

I had the flu in July.  Unfortunately, since I’m also a lousy grocery shopper, I never have the things that sick people need.  When I feel the flu coming on, I usually find myself running to the store for a few packs of Nyquil capsules, often forgetting things like tissues and soup.

Miserable and already having missed 2 days of work, I was determined to beat this thing into submission.  I was coughing up a storm, my nose was running like it was trying to get away, and I was exhausted and dizzy.  I opened up a package of Nyquil pills and crawled into bed, instantly irritated that I didn’t have any water.  I threw back the covers and stomped across the floor as if it were the house’s fault.  I made a pit-stop in the bathroom for the toilet paper that I was using as tissues, and went to get water from kitchen.

When I came back, I couldn’t find my pills.  I staggered through the house, checking everywhere, and holding onto things to steady myself in my afflicted state.  I retraced my steps, even looked in the fridge.  Finally, I had to consider that my little dog, Putt Putt, ate them.   I eyed her warily, then opened another pack of pills, and held one in front of her as a test.  I hoped she would turn away from it, but no, the little canine garbage disposal licked it and tried to take it from me.

Shoot.  She ate them.  I knew it.

I called the poison control center, frantic.  I talked to Linda, a saint who was a trying to understand what I was saying through coughing fits.  I had no idea what information she needed, so I rapidly told her everything. Putt Putt’s age, her weight, other medications she was on and for what ailments, what kind of Nyquil it was, the color, shape, and size of the Nyquil…everything.

When I finally took a breath, Linda saw it as an opportunity.  She sighed and said, “Let me make sure I understand…”  I imagined her on the other end repeatedly stabbing herself in the eyeball with her pencil.  “Your 9 pound, 14 year old dog ate two oblong Nyquil Cold & Flu Liqui-tabs that are transparent-green in color and approximately 5/8 inches in length, and she takes Phenobarbital for seizures and hyroxizine for allergies?”

“Correct,” I confirmed.  “Oh, and she’s a dachshund.  A miniature.  If it matters.”

“It doesn’t,” she quickly said, lest I offer her more information.  “Ok, do you have any hydrogen peroxide in the house?” she asked.

I didn’t even have tissues.  “No,” said I.

“Are you near a store?”  I was.  She said, “go there, and get hydrogen peroxide and a baby syringe.  When you get back from the store, give her a little bit of something soft to eat…cheese, soft dog food…something soft.  Then give her 2 teaspoons of hydrogen peroxide through the syringe.  It will make her throw up.  If she doesn’t throw up on 2 teaspoons, wait a few minutes and give her a little more.  After she throws up, call back.”

I raced to the drugstore, where I wandered through the aisles in delirium, talked to myself like Rainman and drew pitiful stares from the other shoppers.  I found the hydrogen peroxide and a baby syringe, again forgetting tissues, juice, and soup, and, somehow, made it home unscathed.

To her thrill and surprise, I gave Putt Putt a little dog food.  Then I put her in the bathtub to induce vomiting, where she began to panic.  Was she surprised?  Yes.  Thrilled?  Not so much.  I grabbed her by the snout, and, despite her incessant wriggling and desperate protestations, I pried her mouth open, forced the hydrogen peroxide in, and waited expectantly.  After feverishly trying to lick the taste out of her mouth, she looked at me like I was a lunatic who snapped and was now trying to drown her via baby syringe.

We  just stared at each other.  For minutes (plural.)  The sounds of the hydrogen peroxide bubbling in her stomach echoed against the porcelain tub.  Then I gave her a few more drops and waited again.  “Puke, dammit!” I screamed.

Heave…heave…  It all came back up.

I called my new best friend, Linda.  She asked if I could see the pills in the bathtub.  Reluctantly, I admitted that I could not.  She asked if I could see her food.  I said yes, I could definitely see the food.

Barely containing her exasperation, she asked, “Ma’am, are you sure she actually ate the pills?”  In light of the lack of evidence, I had to admit that no, I wasn’t sure.  She said, “well, this won’t hurt her.  If she did eat them, she definitely threw them up.”

I was relieved.  I hung up the phone and looked down at Putt Putt, still in the tub.  She was so small, that only her eyes were visible over the side, like a crocodile tracking a duck.  I turned around to get some toilet paper to wipe her mouth before picking her up.  Next to the toilet paper that I had been using all week in lieu of tissues, were the missing Nyquil pills.

I’m still dodging the ASPCA.