We figure he had to be at least 15 or 16, since we acquired him (read:  were talked into taking him by our daughter, his rescuer) in February of 1997.  He wasn’t a puppy then, so he must have been somewhere around a year or two old when we adopted him into our already dog-filled lives.

You see, in our 35 years of marriage we’ve been the ultimate suckers for abandoned and abused animals.  Mainly dogs, but the last few years we’ve expanded into the feline realm.  Currently we have six of those.

(It would be laughably easy to turn into The Crazy Cat Person.  I don’t say “Cat Lady” because my husband is probably more gaga over cats than I am—and that’s saying something since he originally wasn’t what you’d call a “cat person.”  Now, if he comes home from a trip to Walmart without a new cat toy for the two indoor cats, I’m tempted to take his temperature to make sure he’s not ailing.)

But back when we got Spunky, our lives were dominated by canines.  We had four “outside” dogs—all Collie mixes.  Three were siblings and the fourth was the mother, whom we had discovered lying by the gate to our place out in the country in California.

She’d been dumped on our road (unfortunately a common occurrence since we were not too far from Sacramento) and was really thin, with bald patches in her fur and was only one or two weeks away from delivering what turned out to be a litter of ten puppies.

Needless to say, we found homes for five of the eight puppies that survived and kept three ourselves, plus the mother.

Over the course of the next couple of years we also adopted a mini-Dachshund from the animal shelter and then a Chihuahua.  All six of our dogs made the trip to Texas with us when we moved here in 1996.

We all traveled together in our Ford Econoline van and spent the night at a rest stop on the border of Arizona and New Mexico.  When we took the dogs out in the morning, a lady who’d been parked next to us with her two Chihuahuas looked on us in amazement as one after another of the dogs came out of the van, reminiscent of one of those clown cars at the circus.  She said “You’ve got a real herd there!”

So, when my daughter called from Houston in 1997 during a visit to friends and asked if we would be willing to take another “Chihuahua” that was living a miserable life with two little kids and an overbearing Boxer dog, what else could we say except for “yes”?

The “Chihuahua” turned out to be a Toy Fox Terrier.  Kind of the same thing, but then again–not really.  He was nervous, not particularly affectionate, and it was hard to tell if he was happy because someone had docked his tail so close it was essentially non-existent.  Not much to wag there.

I really don’t know if he had a happy day in his whole life because he always looked kind of anxious and worried.

Sort of the Woody Allen of dogdom.

Plus, the other little dogs of ours did not cotton to him—at all.  There definitely was a pecking order, and he was at the bottom.  But, since he was so neurotic, I think he liked it that way.

Long after the other two passed away, he would always want us to go through what became a mealtime ceremony for him—the ritualistic “taking away of the food bowl.”  He wouldn’t eat unless one of us pretended to try to take his food from him so he could pretend to snap and snarl at us and ultimately “win” his prize.

I told you he was different.

So, last week old age, cataracts, deafness and general senility caught up with Spunky and we (meaning my husband) had to take him for that last trip to the vet.

Today we got a nice sympathy card from them, along with a doggie angel pin to remember him by.  I think that was really thoughtful of them to do that.  Our vets here have been great.

So even though Spunky didn’t live as notable a life as Uncle Chichi, it was a pretty good one.

Even for a neurotic.

Spunky as "spokesdog" for t-shirts my daughter created a few years ago.

Warming his behind in the kitchen of our previous old house in Texas.

Tolerating the proximity of Culvey, one of our indoor cats.

“A very pugnacious Mitt Romney is somewhat like a very disgruntled housecat. It can’t do too much damage before it gets skittish. It might break a vase, but that is about it, and it will injure itself more than the decor.”

Filed under: cats, Humor, Politics Tagged: attack dogs, breaking vases, cats, debates, G.O.P., Humor, Mitt Romney, Politics, Republicans ]]> http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2012/01/24/that-darn-cat-2/feed/ 4 texastrailerparktrash fight-cat-1 http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2012/01/14/i-wish-id-said-that/ http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2012/01/14/i-wish-id-said-that/#comments Sun, 15 Jan 2012 04:56:45 +0000 TexasTrailerParkTrash http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/?p=5505 ]]> Quote of the Month:

“My friend said, ‘Corporations are people when Texas executes one.’”

                                                             Bill Moyers on the Colbert Report

Went over to see my mother at the Hotel today after my Zumba class.

I figure if I can withstand 45 minutes of strenuous (but fun) dance routines to songs like Shakira’s “Rabiosa” and Arash’s “Boro Boro,” I can withstand 45 minutes of visiting with my mother.  Fun not necessarily included.

Plus, the sound systems for Zumba and my mother’s TV share about the same decibel range for creating nerve deafness, give or take the loss of a few inner ear hair cells.

When I got there, she had just finished having her lunch in the dining room. 

The Retirement Center (aka the Hotel, as I call it) has chef prepared meals that are nutritionally balanced.  The noon meal is typically the largest one of the day, with the evening meal being lighter due to the elderly clientele’s general preference for that kind of thing.

When my mother and I go out anywhere for lunch, she always complains about the size of the portions of the meals, to which I always tell her she doesn’t have to eat it all if she doesn’t want to.  Everybody has different appetite levels and not everyone eats like a sparrow like she does.

Being the Virgo that she is (laser-like in her observations of others), she has taken to commenting to me about the eating habits of her tablemates in the Hotel’s dining room.  She observed that several of them usually left most of their vegetables untouched on their plates. 

The other day she said that none of her friends had eaten their carrots, even though she’d told them “You’ll eat your carrots and like it!” 

(Some of you may remember this is similar to what she’d told my brother at a family dinner years ago, right after he’d told her he couldn’t eat a particular Mexican dish because he was allergic to cilantro.  Pay no attention to that man swelling up with anaphylactic shock over there.)

So today she launched into a critique of the lunch; its size being too big, its general fat content being too much, and the fact that the pumpkin pie they served for dessert had a huge mound of whipped topping on it that was just too much for words, so on and so forth ad infinitum.

I started to say that she didn’t have to eat all the dishes of the main course if she wasn’t that hungry and that she could always scrape off some of the offending topping if she so desired, but I was quickly cut off when she casually remarked:

“But, I ate it.”

Ah.  I see. 

And I’m sure she liked it, too.

Filed under: Aging, cooking, health care, Humor Tagged: Aging, anaphylactic shock, brothers, carrots, cilantro, cooking, daughters, health care, Humor, mothers, nursing homes, nutrition nazis, pie, Virgos, Zumba ]]> http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2012/01/12/methinks-the-lady-doth-protest-too-much/feed/ 8 texastrailerparktrash pie http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2012/01/09/hello-i-must-be-going/ http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2012/01/09/hello-i-must-be-going/#comments Mon, 09 Jan 2012 22:50:41 +0000 TexasTrailerParkTrash http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/?p=5469 ]]> Note from the Eldercare Underground:  Marriage Edition

My mother has never liked my husbands. Either one of them—past or present.

That is, until I get divorced and then that husband becomes the greatest guy that ever lived.  When I try to remind her just what a putz Husband #1 was during our 10 year marriage, she blithely replies with “People can change.”

This from the woman who never met an opinion that she wouldn’t cling to beyond all attempts at reason on my part.

In other words, don’t confuse her with the facts.

Husband #2 and I have been married for 35 years.  He’s done his darnedest to do everything he could for my mother since she moved here 12 years ago.

Sometimes she has been appreciative, but most often he just makes her nervous.

Today when I went to see her at the Hotel, she asked if I was still living with him.

I had to laugh at that one, because it came from so far out in left field.

When I asked her why in the world she would ask that, she said since I don’t bring him with me she was wondering if we were still together.

Wishful thinking, maybe?

If she really wasn’t all that crazy about him, why would she want to see him?

She said:

“Well, I may not be wildly crazy about him, but he could visit me once in a while.” 

Go figure.

Hello, I must be going.

I cannot stay, I came to say I must be going.

I’m glad I came but just the same I must be going.

For my sake you must stay, for if you go away, you’ll spoil this party I am throwing.

I’ll stay a week or two, I’ll stay the summer through, but I am telling you, I must be going.

Here’s an excerpt:

Madison Square Garden can seat 20,000 people for a concert. This blog was viewed about 68,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Madison Square Garden, it would take about 3 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

When my mother was still at the nursing/rehab facility the week before Christmas, they had a big party for all the residents. 

I wasn’t aware of the festivities because my brother (“What’s-his-name,” as my mother now calls him) was down from Colorado to see her and I hadn’t been by the home for a few days, mainly to let him get the full brunt of her focus for a change. 

I’m not dumb.

I was surprised to find, a day or so later, that my mother’s fingernails had been professionally done.  They were all filed and painted a pretty, deep red and the ring fingernail of each hand sported a decorative design. 

She said they had taken her to the beauty salon room the day of the party and did her nails, hair and even makeup for the Christmas big wing-ding. 

I’d noticed that her fingernails had been getting kind of long and ragged looking, so I was glad that she’d had that attention.  But it was her toenails that had caused me the most concern.

I hadn’t really had occasion to see her feet sans socks for quite some time and I have to say that when I did see them in the nursing home recently, I was pretty taken aback.  It was quite apparent that she hadn’t cut her toenails since maybe Kate Gosselin went on her pretend camping trip with Sarah Palin.

My mother was about to be transferred to her new digs at the “Hotel,” so when we saw her physician prior to the move I asked if someone would cut her toenails for her.  Please. 

Apparently, and probably with good reason, nobody wants to do that, so the job is referred out to a podiatrist. 

(Now, I was a dental hygienist for over 20 years and I have to say I’d rather muck about in people’s dirty mouths than fiddle around with their feet. )

Brief digression: 

When I was in college before getting accepted into the dental hygiene program, I attended some classes with pre-RN nursing students, many of whom already had been LVNs and had experience in the medical field.  When they found out a group of us were applying to the hygiene program, they told us they would rather “wipe a poopy bottom” than have to clean someone’s teeth.  To each her own, I guess.

Anyway, the doctor told us that there were two podiatrists in town:  one who made “house calls” to the nursing homes and one who didn’t.  Naturally, I asked for the one who would come to the Hotel and do the deed.

But several days after her move, the nurse at the Hotel called and said my mother had an appointment Jan. 5th with the one who didn’t make house calls.  Whatever.

So yesterday when I was walking from the parking lot into the Hotel, a man carrying a medical bag passed me on his way out.  It immediately struck me that this must be the “house call guy.” 

I have never personally encountered a doctor actually carrying a “little black bag.”  I always thought that was just on TV, like in “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.”

When I opened the door to my mother’s room I found her sitting in one of the lovely chairs we’d brought from her house, leaning over and picking up something off of the carpet.

It was toenail clippings.

She was surrounded with them.  It reminded me of when we used to get our old pony’s hooves trimmed by the local farrier.

I helped her pick up the detritus and was grateful that the doctor had saved us (by us, I mean me) the trouble of another doctor’s visit and all that entails.

I’m just glad she didn’t get this look for her Christmas party:

Filed under: Aging, Christmas, Family, health care, Humor, Women Tagged: Aging, brothers, daughters, health care, Humor, mothers, nursing homes, podiatrists, Sarah Palin, toenails ]]> http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2011/12/28/toeing-the-line/feed/ 17 texastrailerparktrash lolcat claws ghetToes http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2011/12/23/merry-chrysalisyall/ http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/2011/12/23/merry-chrysalisyall/#comments Sat, 24 Dec 2011 01:15:50 +0000 TexasTrailerParkTrash http://youcallthatart.wordpress.com/?p=5433 ]]>

And thanks for visiting my blog in 2011.

Have a very Happy New Year!

As you’ll recall, dear readers, my mother had been in the nursing/rehab facility since the end of October after she suffered a fall at home; one which was precipitated by a mild heart attack.

She successfully went through a vigorous program of physical and occupational therapy during that time.  (As an example of the sense of humor all the wonderful people at the nursing home share, the therapist told my mother on her first day that “No, occupational therapy doesn’t mean we’re going to give you a job.”)

She later let me in on her joke by saying that if the patient “got” the joke, then she knew that they were with it enough mentally to be able to follow instruction on dressing, using the bathroom themselves, etc.

Of course, my mother smiles and laughs even when she doesn’t have a clue what the person is saying to her, so if she truly “got” it or not is anybody’s guess. 

But she did pass Toileting 101, so maybe she really did.

Things were going along swimmingly until “the roommate” arrived.  Poor Annie.  She never had a chance with my mother.  Even lying motionless in her bed and staring at the wall were considered suspect on my mother’s part. 

What was she plotting over there?  *sigh*

So.  After listening to the litany of complaints, I took action and got the okay for my mother to transfer to the Retirement Center that’s run by the same family that owns the other three facilities in town.  I have taken to calling the RC the “Hotel,” because all it seems to be lacking is a casino and a cocktail lounge. 

All the staff at the nursing home either had worked there at one time or knew of it.  They all spoke in reverent terms about the size of the walk-in closet space in each of the residents’ rooms. 

Maybe my mother could convert hers into a mini-cocktail lounge. 

If she added slot machines, I bet she’d be really popular.

Today was the big move, and after tearful goodbyes and thank yous all around with the dedicated staff at the nursing home, we took the short drive over to the Hotel.  My daughter came along for moral support and took my mother for a tour of the place while I finished putting some of her things away.

My mother holds back on the complaints when my daughter is there, but when she left my mother started to grouse some about minor things.  I figure she was somewhat overwhelmed by the whole change of venue, so I’ll give her a pass on that.  For now.

Before I left I wanted to be sure she could use the bathroom on her own, especially since she now wears those “pull up” incontinence briefs.  So I went into the bathroom with her and observed. 

Everything went fine until she flushed the toilet—which promptly started to rapidly overflow onto the floor of the bathroom.

As fast as I could, I reached down and turned off the water valve at the base of the toilet.  The floor was covered in water already but it hadn’t spread out onto the carpet of the living area.

I hurried down to the front desk and told the nurse what happened and after about fifteen minutes a very personable maintenance man named David came to the room to ascertain what had caused the overflow. 

He said he’d worked as a manager of a hotel/restaurant in the 80′s and the main cause of toilet blockages in those days was pagers—of all things.  David said they would fall out of people’s pockets as they used the toilet.  Nowadays, he said that cell phones are often the culprits.

On the floor of the bathroom he found a hearing aid battery which must have come out with the overflow.  Too tiny to cause the blockage, but who knows what else could have been down there.  A pacemaker, perhaps?  A set of dentures?  Some Depends that the resident tried to flush?

David was really grateful that I’d had my mother use the toilet before I left.  He said that one lady resident had gotten up in the early morning to use the toilet and then had gone back to bed—with the toilet overflowing.

The nurse’s aide came to check on the resident later (after about an hour and a half of overflowing water) and discovered the entire carpet was under more than an inch of water.

David laughed and said that this is the way he gets to meet new residents.  I told him I was glad that we’re on a first name basis so early, in case we need him in the future.

You never know.  Maybe my mother might need help sometime with the slots.

Well, the shit has hit the proverbial fan.

Last Friday I accompanied my mother to a doctor’s appointment.  She had to see a neurologist as part of the follow-up to her hospital stay.

Basically, it was a CYA visit.  (Also known as “Cover Your Ass.”)

This is where the primary care doctor has to refer the patient to a few specialists to make sure that every possible reason for hospitalization would be looked into, thus releasing her doctor from any blame further on down the line for not doing “enough” for her 92 year-old patient. 

Having been in the medical/dental field myself, I can fully understand the reasoning behind this.

It’s spelled l-a-w-y-e-r-s.

Anyway, we were gone only about an hour, or an hour and a half.  Upon our return, we found my mother’s room at the nursing facility transformed.

She now had—-a roommate.

Complete with new, tacky (in my mother’s eyes) room decor that encroached on her own spartan living space, since the alcove that holds the two matching closet/dresser wall units is mostly on my mother’s side of the room.

She had been using her side plus the other (up to now) unused side for displaying the cards that family and friends had sent her.  She’d been resistant to photos or other tchotchkes from home and only reluctantly allowed my daughter to bring her some new photos of the great-grandkids and also a lucite display case with some butterflies encased inside.

Didn’t want anything else.

However, Annie’s family, the new roommate, had decked out her side of the unit with all kinds of photos and gewgaws, to the horror of my mother.  They’d even moved (how dare they?) my mother’s cards to the top of the unit and onto her own side now. 

Personally, I thought it was nice of them to take the time to display them the way they had been and not just pile them in a heap.  But that’s me.

Anyway, I knew this new situation did not bode well and I left soon after.

In the meantime, I came down with a whopper of a cold and didn’t make it back to the nursing home until Wednesday of the following week.  My daughter had been there on Sunday and reported that my mother was all fussed up about Annie, who, God bless her, pretty much just lies there in her bed and says “Wha?…”

When I finally recovered enough to go see my mother yesterday, she was not a happy camper. 

She’s built this whole scenario in her mind about Annie being the one who moved her stuff, even though Annie probably couldn’t move two feet from her bed on her own.

She also has concocted possible future scenarios about what Annie “might” do—like come over to her side during the night and yell at her. 

Or peek around the curtain and tell her to turn out her light or the TV.

*sigh*

So, I’ve started the ball rolling to get my mother transferred to the assisted living center next door, where she can have a private room (with shared bath).  The nursing/rehab center where she is now only has semi-private rooms—which to me is an oxymoron because either a room is private or it’s not.  Come on, people!

My mother’s doctor has to agree to this move, so I personally went to her office and spoke with her nurse and told her that my mother is ambulatory now (remember the candy apple red walker?) and doesn’t need skilled nursing, just assistance with the basics like bathing and medication management.

So…we’ll see what transpires.

Stay tuned….