What A Washout

I knew it was going to be a rough day when I got out of bed to find I could barely get out of bed.

The ‘leg day’ of the previous day was repaying me in pain with no payoff of a positive kind just yet (what can one expect, I guess, having been to the gym but once in the past 2 years).

So I staggered into the bathroom, reminiscent of the floppy fish foot experience of 6 years ago (part of the reason for my lack of gym time), dragging my sorry self in for my morning ablutions.

I thought I was being clever utilising my time on the toot to rub some menthol based anti-inflammatory cream onto my aching extremities…only to be faced with the fact that I still had to, well, er conclude my business with at least one menthol-coated hand (I did have the forethought to use my left hand for the pain rub, leaving my right to wipe). But then I had the dilemma of pulling up my pj pants again, or walking like a cowboy to the shower in case I rubbed pain relief cream where it would in fact cause extreme pain…

Settling the matter with the latter, I entered the shower and whimpered as quietly as I could in case I woke my slumbering family (why are they always asleep at these crucial times I do not know).

Dried and dressed and ready to face the day I hit the highway for my early morning commute. As the sun hit the windscreen it dawned on me (literally and figuratively speaking) that the car didn’t get the bath it was supposed to over the weekend. The kids drive a hard bargain when it comes to chores and I was thinking of a less expensive choice.

Since I still had time, I decided to do what I’ve done on many an occasion, and zip through the 24-hour carwash down the road. It’s never busy at that time, and the distance of my drive to work ensures the duco gets a decent blow dry.

This time I wasn’t alone in my cunning plan, the car wash also doubles as a dog washing centre and there was a woman already there doing the shampooch thing.

Given that I didn’t have an exorbitant amount of time, or money, I chose the budget Express Wash.

Oh the irony.

At first the machine wouldn’t accept my shiny new note, and kept insisting on giving me change in return. On the third attempt, a coin made a break for it and rolled underneath my car, leaving me short.  So I reversed my car, got out and under the driver’s side to retrieve the errant dollar and try again.

Success?

Not so fast.

The word “Enter” lit up so I did as the sign said, and also came to a “Stop” when told to, albeit a little crookedly alongside the safety rail at the wheels.

The carwash bay doors swung inwards and shut in front (an important point to note), and the L-shaped washing bar of the machine swung into action. So far, so good.

After an initial rinse the machine proceeded to spray the soap all over my grotty little vehicle, then started the next rinse.  After a minute or so I realised that the right rear panel of my car must’ve been particularly dirty, or the thing was stuck.  Another minute or so of spraying in the same spot, I decided the thing was definitely stuck, but so was I. (I mean, who hasn’t seen those videos of people getting out of the car in the car wash and copping a washing of their own?!)

It was when the sign light went out altogether, and the spraying ceased to a half-hearted squirt I became concerned for my predicament.  It was 6.40am, I was seemingly stuck in a carwash, with only one other person around, and like the movie says: In space (or inside a car inside a carwash), no one can hear you scream.

Thank goodness for modern technology- present carwashing company excluded- I searched on my smartphone for the number on the off-chance that there was someone onsite (or even up) that ran the place.  Nope, voicemail, informing me of the staffed hours (from 10am!) and to leave a message about any issues with the equipment. I briefly informed them there were indeed equipment issues, where and when I was calling from, and think I ended with a frustrated “Dammit” before disconnecting. I did not leave my return number so am not expecting them to get back to me as promised.

Here I consider my options:

#1: Sit in the car until someone shows up (only 3 and a half hours later!)

#2: Give it another minute or so in case it starts up again (maybe I wasn’t the only one having trouble moving this morning).

#3: Get out of my car and see if I could in fact get my car out. The front way was a bust, the aforementioned inward-opening doors were not in my favour.

I gingerly opened my door and stretched out the back, giving the washer bar a prod to see if it would start moving again – ready to dive straight back into the car if that was the case (I’d already had my shower thankyouverymuch). It stayed stuck.

So I gauge the distance between my tyres and the safety rail down below, and the gap between my car and the bar at the back. I figured it was worth a shot in view of Option #1.

I put my window down, pull my mirror in, and put the car into Reverse. Boy those rails are close and tricky to navigate backwards! Happily I have a little SUV so I went slightly off road and onto the rails to ease her back. Next I summon my superhuman strength that seems to show in times of stress and physically push the machine out of the way so it doesn’t take off my mirror.

Both me and my car made it out in one piece, although half my car was covered in suds (the right rear panel mind you is absolutely gleaming!)  I see as I start to make my way out of the carwash centre that there was now another car lover in the bay next door now, using the one hose I could’ve commandeered to clean off the shampoo.

But by the time this sudsy saga played out I was now running late for work, and the budget Express Wash had cost me dearly.

Next time I’ll just pay the kids extra to do it for me.

Jx

© 23 January 2017

No Fleas Please

Took the family to the Vets yesterday.

Not that it wouldn’t be entirely out of place for our little band of 5 to require those particular medical services, but no, this trip was in honour of the newest addition to the ranks- Chester the dog.

Mostly of unknown origin (he was an RSPCA rescue pet) we think he is of Shih Tzu descent (with the regular Heinz variety thrown in for good measure), about 2 years old (maybe more, judging by his lack of teeth, but that could be from the ‘affections’ of the *previous owner). He is also the sookiest little furball I’ve ever encountered (again, remnants of the above*). And he is, we have discovered, allergic to fleas.

Given our geographical location, and the early onset of summer, you have no idea what joy that brings (it’s the gift that keeps on giving).

With temperatures soaring into the 40s I decided the furry little monster needed another haircut, so took to him with a pair of scissors last weekend (leaving enough fluffy stuff lying around for Dr Frankenstein to create an entirely new creature, should the desire strike him). This is how I discovered his whole-body aversion to fleas. Even just one of the little suckers will do it.

Being a good (if not reluctant) pet owner, I booked him in for a total health check up, and annual vaccination. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, the children insisted on tagging along. This is how our entire family came to be perched on two plastic chairs in the Vet’s waiting room, trying to break up the stare-offs and sniffing contests that ensued with other pending patients. Not to mention apologizing for the piddle puddles (boys will be boys, even if they don’t have all the ‘toys’, if you know what I’m saying).

Two hours and $186.02 later (good lord, I don’t spend that much money on myself!) it was home-again home-again jiggedy jig with a 3 month supply of flea/tick treatment, a bottle of specially-medicated shampoo, and 3 weeks of antibiotics in the form of 42 not-so-little white pills.

As I am always thinking of others, I thought it fair to share with you. I have previously posted my experiences with washing the dog (see Doggone It) so you can imagine the fun I’ll be having twice a week for the next 4. And so I will cut to the chase and present “Jo’s Guide to Dosing your Dog” (also applies to cats, with an additional warning/step of applying full-body armour to avoid the subsequent scratches).

Consider it my contribution to the pet-owning community … and my mother’s calendar of entertainment.

1. Get tablets
2. Get gloves
3. Get dog

Now, anyone when has ever attempted this knows all too well that numbers 1 & 2 combined can take a lot less time than number 3. Especially if the dog in question has been subjected to the pill popping process before. I have also found from previous personal experience that surprisingly, large dogs are easier to catch and hold than small dogs. Unfortunately, due to a paralysis tick, we have been forced to trade our large dog for a small one. :-(

4. Find a comfortable position (NOTE TO SELF: squatting down on the floor does not meet the criteria: little dogs can generate a great deal of forward momentum, and face planting is no fun for anyone)
5. Get dog
6. Firmly park backside on floor (can’t fall too far from there)
7. Put on gloves (MENTAL NOTE: probably should move this one up a few numbers)
8. Get dog
9. Wrap legs around dog
10. Using gloved hands, tilt dog’s head back and open mouth (the dog’s that is, yours is best screwed up tight, with or without lips between teeth to aid concentration)
11. Holding tablet between two fingertips, gingerly poke into dog’s mouth, in general vicinity of throat
12. Hold dog’s mouth closed
13. Release dog’s jaw
14. Pick up saliva-coated tablet from floor (not as simple as it sounds, I can assure you)
15. Get dog
16. Attempt to repeat numbers 9 to 11, poking pill further down back of throat (trying to avoid gag reflex for both dog and self at same time).

If successful, again move through numbers 12 & 13.

17. Providing there is no remnants of tablet within visible range, carefully release dog and prepare for small furry object ricocheting across the floor
18. Remove gloves, wash hands thoroughly (resist urge to use bleach) and follow with antibacterial rub for good measure
19. Refrain from cursing Veterinarian as you repeat steps 1 through 18 twice daily for the next three weeks.

I tell you, next time the kids ask for a pet, I’m going to recommend a rock.

Jx
©2009

Doggone it

If there’s one smell I cannot stand it is damp dog.

No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.

After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.

Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.

Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).

With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.

As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.

After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.

There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).

After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.

At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.

I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.

Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.

At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.

Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.

How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?

Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.

I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).

At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).

But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.

Jx
©2009