Rather then tell me what happened, she's mad as hell and wants to tell me why. Marshall seriously misbehaved at the oncologist's office. And assholes in cars. And someone took her parking spot.
Dr Doggie Onco was very nice, explained everything, and gave options.
First, the idiot vet who removed the lesion missed the second lesion, inches away. This has to be removed.
Second, no chemo. There's a new treatment done with vaccines. Once a month for a few months, then a booster. Before they start, he needs yet another test to make sure they're treating the right cancer, possibly because the previous test was not expensive enough.
We've already paid for the vet's Mercedes and her daughter's education. Plus a kitchen redecoration for the ear surgeon. Now the oncologist needs a winter home. It was bad enough when I worked to pay for our medical costs and the occasional pizza. Now it's vet costs and no pizza. And you cannot write off pet medical expenses on your taxes.
According to Dr Doggie Onco, Marshall will be with us for 2.5 to 3 years after treatment. As that's close to normal, we'll take it. I guess we never thought about the end, but today put a period on it. That's probably why I feel way worse than I should for a guy whose best friend is going to live for a few more years.
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With that bright news, followed by the financial news, I decided it was past time to get working on the other job. And POOF - their server was down. No work.
Since no work, it was time to work on the basement. Yesterday I vacuumed the living room and it was a piece of cake. The basement did not go so well, largely due to three inches of water from a pipe that's older than me. Pipe repaired, water not.
Wife says she has 3 wheels for the wet-vac. Why not four? No one knows. I look at the beast and it has no provision for wheels - it just has 2 leg things, one of which was, you guessed it, missing.
Plug in and go. Well, not so much go as Nothing. Maybe there's a switch with that outlet? Why yes, there is. VOOM. Water starts getting sucked up! As does all sorts of crap that I try to avoid. No matter, the vac takes it in stride. Until the yelling. I leap to turn it off and ask what's wrong.
"It's spitting water on my books."
Sorry, it's got some sort of tiny leak or something.
"Well, you can run it then."
Yes, I was running it, until you screamed to turn it off.
Back to vacuuming water, and my Special Supervising Assistant left me to it. It filled up rather quickly. And don't you know it - water's frigging heavy. I'm struggling with the vac and my Special Supervising Assistant is standing exactly where I'm going to dump it. Like a cat.
WHOOSH - one bucket down.
Now that I have a rhythm going, it feels better. I'm getting the damn water up and making a visual impact. Then AAAAAHHHHHH. I rush to turn the thing off and the noise is coming from the machine because it's lying on its side. Why is it lying on its side? I have no idea. I didn't even see it go down.
Believe it or not, this has not brightened my day. In fact, my neighbors are no doubt aware of this for two blocks, even though I'm in a sealed basement.
Another bucket's full. Pull the top off the vac and SWISH, the water's all over me. More exclamations and suppositions as to the vacuum's parentage. The vac, however, was ahead of me: when I brought the bucket back, the top had rolled right in my path, almost tripping me.
The old lefty would've been screaming that this is personal. The new lefty was trying to maintain his composure (which, unbeknownst to him, walked away earlier) and swears that this only looks like it's personal.
A couple more buckets and the job is done. I felt accomplished and my wife only had to throw down a rope, which I tied around my waist, allowing her to haul me up the steps. Yes, I felt accomplished, but I couldn't feel many of my extremities. I don't do manual labor - I'm a Knowledge Worker.
Off with the shoes, which weren't that wet. The socks, however, were soaked and the legs above them had dirt on them. So there I sat, sockless. Why was I sockless? Because every matching pair was in the dryer. Why? Because we couldn't use the washer til we fixed the pipe. Eventually my wife appeared with fresh socks. Normally everybody loves socks fresh from the dryer, but it's over ninety here with ninety percent humidity, so I waved them about til they hit room temperature. If it were still light outside, I would've waved them about outside, for the pleasure of the neighbors. I'm like that.
We got through dinner swimmingly. At no time did I grab an entire stick of butter, like I did the day before. Then, just in case I forgot what it felt like, I grabbed it again. It's a good thing they don't let me play with fire.
Tired, full, and sore, we sat down for some tv time. The tension was starting to abate. I was feeling a nice kind of tired. Then I remembered I HAD TO PLAY ADULT AND TAKE OUT THE GODDAMN TRASH. At 9:30pm.
It might have been worse than waking up ten minutes before the alarm goes off but who's counting. The paranoid schizophrenic's motion-activated lights are a great help when I take out the trash, as I can see what I'm doing. Unfortunately they were not working, which must have him in an absolute tizzy. They snuck up and killed my lights, man.
I got one can out and BANG- the gate slams shut. As long as I've lived here, the gate has never slammed shut. I'm not mad - I'm more amused because the old lefty would say this was personal - the new lefty says it only looks like it's personal. Another can out - another BANG - SLAM.
Really?
Now to bring out the recyclables. Oops - there's a dog in the way of the door. He's looking at me, with bags, then chooses to lay down. I politely ask him to move. I impolitely ask him to move. I notice he's playing this almost deaf thing for maximum effect, as he can hear the sound of cold cuts being opened in the kitchen from the basement. So I do what we always do: open the door, which, in turn, pushes him along the tile floor. No one gets hurt and he can go back to snoozing (or whatever he gets into while I take the trash out).
I pick up the recyclables, which knocks twelve other things down. Week after week I tell the wife we need to find a more intelligent way of dealing with the recyclables. Week after week she agrees. Week after week I pick them up and knock twelve other things down, making a mental note (with a clear marker) to talk to the wife about finding a more intelligent way of dealing with the recyclables. I pour them into the can and only a third of them go vaulting to the ground and flying about. Boy, it's a good thing this isn't personal.
Back on the couch, Marshall appears to have no water. Off to the fridge, because we have a Water Ritual. We take a water bottle, fill it up, chill it, then pour it out very slowly into the bowl. Marshall stands there, drinking from the stream until it stops, then he takes a few sips from the bowl, and proceeds to either go swimming in it or use a paw to redistribute the water to the floor around the bowl. We have absolutely no idea why.
After the Water Ritual, I finally sit down and take the shoes off. I'm relaxing again, which is always a bad sign, when BARK - DAMMIT - I SAID BARK! The little monster, after redistributing water, opened the door I closed and decided he needed to go outside. I was about to tell him to pay for his own cancer treatment when he made it through the door.
Giving up, I went back to the couch. On the way, I stepped in the water Marshall redistributed to the floor. With my warm, clean socks.
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