Month: September 2019

Yet Another Trip to the Vet

Let me ask a hypothetical question. Say you have a really old cat. I mean really old. This animal is so old you have to pick it up and hold it next to the food bowl before it starts to eat. It’s so old, the cat’s idea of play is to vaguely wave a paw in the general direction of a toy. I’m saying people just have to look at the poor animal and they can immediately see, holy crap, that’s an old cat. Now say this cat starts to pee all over the house because it can’t always find the litter box, and you notice that there is blood in the urine.

Here’s the question: Do you take the animal to the vet, or just take it out into the backyard with a shovel, and dig a hole?

Now, before PETA starts rioting on my front lawn for even suggesting a painless, blunt trauma, euthanization of a cat, let me just clarify. I did end up taking her to the vet.

But she hated every second of it. We both did, actually.

The cat, Sheba, started yowling the moment she saw the carrying crate. She would have run away when I brought it out, but she was too tired to move from the spot she had been sitting in for the past two hours. (Did I mention this cat is old?)

I put Sheba in the crate and placed her in the car. She immediately started to throw up and pee in the carrier from panic. She panted and cried during the entire thirty-minute drive to the vet. I’m surprised the ride itself didn’t put her out of her misery.

When we arrived, I found clumps of hair in the carrier. Her fur was falling out because she was so stressed out from the trip. I wondered if, by the time I got her back home, she was going to look like one of those naked, loose-skinned cats you occasionally see on television (because no sane person would ever actually own one). You know the ones, I’m talking about. The cats that look like a cross between a newly hatched baby bird and a malformed demon from Hell.

Fortunately, that didn’t happen. She still has (most of) her fur.

At the veterinarian’s office, Sheba was pulled out of the crate and given a full examination, including taking her temperature (no, not oral) and stabbing her with needles to draw blood.

The doctor wanted a urine sample as well, but because Sheba had already peed in her carrier, they took her into a back room, kept her in a cage for two hours (not an exaggeration) so her bladder would fill back up, then used a catheter to get a sample. You can imagine just how much the cat enjoyed this whole process.

When the vet finished torturing Sheba, it was my turn.

“That’ll be $700, Mr. Wilbanks.”

$700!

I don’t pay that much when I take one of my own family members to the doctor. Why are cats so expensive? It’s insane. Especially when you can wander down to any animal shelter in the city and get a new kitten for free. Who sets these prices?

I don’t know who felt more violated by the trip; me or the cat.

I stuffed Sheba back into the carrier and brought her home. When I got into the house, I opened the door of the carrier and the cat had just enough energy to step out of it and lie down in the middle of the hallway. I poked her with a finger just to make sure she was still breathing.

She was.

The next day, I got a phone call from the vet. The vet told me Sheba had a urinary tract infection and it needed to be treated with antibiotics. I got a prescription (Another $100. Whee!) and brought it home.

The medication was a white liquid that needed to be sucked up into a dropper and squirted into the cat’s mouth. Twice every day.

For fifteen days.

I don’t know if you have ever tried to force something into a cat’s mouth but let me assure you it is not an easy or pleasant experience. Those furry little monsters have some nasty sharp teeth and they aren’t afraid to use them. I’m sure it’s no fun for the cat either. I can only imagine if twice a day for two weeks someone dragged me out from under the bed and stuck a turkey baster in my mouth. I might start wondering if simply crawling into a corner somewhere and letting death claim me might not be the better option.

Which brings us back to my original question. Did I do the right thing by dragging that poor old cat to the vet and putting her through two weeks of misery for a treatment that might extend her life for another sixteen seconds? I’m not totally sure.

I’m thinking about it from my own perspective as well. When I get so old that I start peeing all over the house and someone notices blood in my urine, I don’t know if I want doctors poking me with needles and making my last days absolutely miserable.

I’m just saying that maybe we should give the whole backyard and shovel thing some serious thought.

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Vacationing with a Workaholic

I am a writer. Most days, I am at home, sitting in front of my computer trying to create something both entertaining and commercially viable. This occurs with varying amounts of success. My friends and family do not see my activities in quite the same light that I do.

According to them, I am unemployed and don’t do anything all day long. My existence is just one long vacation with no responsibilities or concerns. Usually, I just smile and laugh off their comments. I can see why they would think that. My car never leaves the driveway and the only time my skin sees sunlight is when I stagger out into the open air long enough to grab the mail. However, these comments can get a little frustrating when I actually do want to take a vacation.

The stares I get when I bring up the topic are confused at best and threatening at their worst.

“What do you need a vacation for? You never leave the house.” This is the typical response I receive.

And that is exactly why I need the vacation. When most people have a day off, they are excited they don’t have to go to their place of work. They get to stay home. When I take a day off, I’m still right where I always am. Same four walls. Same view. Same everything.

When I take a day off, I want to go somewhere.

Here is where it gets a bit sticky. I am married to a workaholic. Even when I am ready to leave the house for a couple days, I have to convince my wife to go with me. Well, I don’t have to. I suppose I could go without her, but that would create a whole different set of problems that I really don’t want to deal with.

My wife is an elementary school principal, and she absolutely hates taking time off.

She works late most nights, and when she gets home, she is still checking emails and making phone calls right up until she goes to bed. On weekends, she is frequently fielding questions from parents and teachers at her school, so the time we spend together is usually me on the couch looking at a paused television screen while listening to my wife explain to a hostile parent why little Johnny is failing arts and crafts despite his surprising facility at eating paste.

If I can’t get her to pay attention to me for five minutes on a weekend, you can imagine the lack of success I have getting my wife to leave town with me for a few days.

Our last camping trip together is a perfect example.

We had a reservation at a camp site from Thursday through Monday. I asked my wife if she could take a couple days off. I told her I wanted to leave Thursday so we could have three full days at the campgrounds.

She took Friday off, but decided she still wanted to work on Thursday. She suggested I go to the campgrounds, set up our camp, then drive back into town on Friday to pick her up.

I took a hard pass on that suggestion.

She next suggested she could work a half day on Thursday, then we could leave town in the afternoon. I agreed to that one, albeit reluctantly.

Thursday arrived, and apparently there was “an incident” at school that day. While she did come home in the afternoon, my wife was writing emails and talking on the phone the entire time I was packing the truck and hooking up the trailer.

And during the hour and a half drive to the campgrounds.

And while I set up camp.

And while we ate dinner.

And … well, I’m sure you get the picture.

Friday was not much better. I sat in a folding chair in front of a campfire the following morning, while my wife wandered through the trees looking for better cell reception.

The weekend did improve slightly. I believe we had a couple five-minute conversations between emails. I finally got her settled in and got her to turn off her electronic devices about halfway through Monday morning. Of course, that was also the day we had to come home.

During the drive home, I could see her brain start to heat up again as she thought about going back to work the next day. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she started having imaginary conversations with parents and students. She could have passed for a Baptist minister at a tent revival meeting.

That was our last vacation. I did get away from the house, I suppose. But it would have been nice if there was someone to talk to while we there. Someone besides the kids, I mean. I talk to them enough already, and most of those conversations start with one of them asking for money.

The next trip we have planned isn’t until next summer. That’s about ten months away. My wife will have to miss a couple days of Summer School for us to go.

I should probably start easing her into the idea of it now. I hope there’s enough time.

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Blowing Hot Air

My air conditioner stopped working. One day, it was humming along just fine, and then the next, I get nothing but hot air blowing out of the vent. Not a great outcome when it’s over a hundred degrees outside and you were hoping for something better than the mid 90’s on the inside.

Fortunately (maniacal laughter in the background), a few years ago I purchased one of those home maintenance warranties for the appliances in my house. The plan includes air conditioners, so I immediately got online and put in a service request for a repair. I received an email thirty seconds later advising that my credit card had been charged $100 and my service request was being reviewed to be sure it fit within the restrictions of my coverage.

That’s right. They were reviewing to make sure they had to fix my air conditioner, but in the meantime they were happy to take my money. I wish I could do stuff like that. It would be nice to work at a store and tell someone, “I will take your money right now, and then I will review our policies to see if I actually have to give you anything in return.

Anyway, apparently the contract said they did have to fix my A/C after all. They sent me another email stating they had sent my request to a local contractor. I would hear from the company within the next twenty-four hours.

I did not hear from anybody within the next twenty-four hours.

I rechecked my email and found some contact information for the contractor and decided I should reach out to them. The email address for the company was just someone’s first name at a personal gmail account. Not exactly the pinnacle of professional presentation. But I was stuck. One of the downsides to a home warranty plan is you don’t get to pick who they send to do the work.

I called the phone number listed and was immediately routed to a voice mailbox with no name on it. I was starting to feel a little insecure about this “contractor” they had chosen for me.

I left a message and asked for the unknown recipient to call me back as soon as possible.

Forty-eight hours later I was still waiting.

I called the number again and this time someone answered the phone. The guy that answered said, “Yeah?”

Good lord. I knew I wasn’t going to be dealing with a Fortune 500 company, but was this really the best my homeowner’s insurance could do? I told the guy my name and what my problem was. First, he asked if anyone had already come out and looked at the A/C unit. My first impulse was to tell him, “I’ve tried hundreds of other places, but I finally realized the only person capable of fixing my A/C is someone with a gmail account who doesn’t know how to set up their voicemail properly. You’re my only hope Obi Wan.” I resisted that urge to be a dick and just said, “no.”

He told me he was really busy and couldn’t come out before next week. I replied that would be fine (despite the weather reports that we would be having 100+ degree heat for most of the coming few days), and he made an appointment to come to the house the following Wednesday.

At the time he made the appointment, he did not ask me for my address or phone number. Imagine my surprise when, a week later, he actually showed up on the day he said he would. It was a small miracle, but it was the only good news I was going to get that day.

When the repair guy opened up my A/C unit, he found several dead frogs that had crawled in, gotten electrocuted, and shorted out the system. Yes, you can read that sentence as many times as you like, it isn’t going to change. I said, “frogs.” The repair guy (let’s just call him “Bad News #1” from now on) looked at me and said:

“I don’t think frogs are covered by your insurance.”

“How do we find out?” I asked.

“You have to call them and ask.”

I called my insurance company and talked to … well, let’s call her “Bad News #2.” I explained the situation and, although I never thought these words would ever come out of my mouth, I asked “Are frogs covered by my insurance?”

BN#2 said she needed to put in a repair request and ask. I would hear back within a couple days. As soon as I passed the word along to BN#1, he was in his truck and driving away. Such a helpful fellow.

I still didn’t have air conditioning.

The very next day, my insurance company called to inform me that they would not cover the repair expenses. Frogs were not an insured item.

“What if the A/C had been hit by lightning?” I asked.

“We would absolutely cover that,” the woman (BN#3?) told me. “That would be considered under the ‘act of God’ part of your contract.”

I hung up in shock. How much more ‘act of God’ do you get than an actual, historical biblical plague of frogs? But nope. Didn’t count. I was going to have to pay for a new air conditioner out of my own pocket. The insurance company had bailed on me.

And they refused to return my initial deposit.

This whole ordeal is why nobody likes insurance companies.

Let this be a lesson to anyone reading this blog. If you ever sign up for a homeowner’s insurance plan, check the fine print.

You might be covered for “Acts of God,” but make sure you’re also covered for acts of frog.

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What a Difference a Year Makes

My youngest child packed up all of her things a couple weeks ago and moved back into her dorm room at college for another year of higher education. Last year, before she started her freshman year, the process of packing took four weeks and multiple trips to the store to buy school supplies, books, new clothes, food, printer ink, etc. etc. When I loaded everything into the back of my truck it stacked up above the height of the cab and I had to tie it all down with several heavy-duty cargo straps so it wouldn’t topple off into the roadway as we drove.

This year, it only took EM2 a few hours to cram everything she owned into an assortment of suitcases, plastic bins and boxes then load it all into the back of my wife’s car. My wife and I kept asking her if she had everything she needed and she repeatedly shrugged and told us, “I’m fine.”

I suppose that’s a good sign. It means that during her first year at school, she figured out what stuff she actually needed to get by and what was just junk and clutter. I am a bit concerned that most of the things she opted not to take with her this year were school supplies, but she’s an adult (sort of) and I just have to trust her.

Another big change from last year was the moving in process. In her freshman year, my wife and I helped EM2 lug all her crap to her dorm room, then sat around as she made her bed and arranged her stuff. We tried to leave a few times, but she kept insisting that she needed us to stay a little longer and help her organize the room. When everything was put away at last, we tried again to say goodbye, but EM2 asked us to take her out to dinner before leaving. She said she was hungry, and we were terrible parents if we didn’t feed her.

Guilt is a powerful motivator. So, we fed her.

After dinner, it still took about an hour before my daughter let us leave. I could tell she was already a little lonely and worried since she had never been away from home on her own before. My wife and I reassured her as best we could, then drove home feeling awful because we had left our baby behind to face the cold hard world all by herself.

This year, after helping her carry her belongings into her new dorm, EM2 shoved us outside and closed the door in our faces. I tried to say goodbye, but all I heard was a muffled “whatever,” from the other side of the closed door.

Again, I guess I should be happy. My daughter is becoming more confident and self-reliant. She doesn’t need her parents as much as she once did. If it wasn’t for the fact she still needs our money, EM2 would probably already have kicked us to the curb. She has her friends and a place to live. What does she need us for?

Becoming irrelevant in your child’s life is part of being a parent. It’s the natural way of things. I did it to my parents, and now EM2 is learning to exist without needing me and her mom. I don’t really like it, but the alternative is having a child that plans on living with you and letting you take care of them forever.

Like EM2’s older sister, who dropped out of college and moved back home with us.

But I don’t want to talk about that particular fiasco at the moment. We can pick at that scab another day.

In just one year’s time, EM2 has gone from being the helpless waif I abandoned at college with tears in her eyes and a note pinned to her shirt that said, “Somebody please take care of me,” to the independent, young lady that boldly slammed the door in my face.

I couldn’t be more proud of her, although I do admit to having a few concerns. If she has made this much progress in only twelve months, what will she be like a year from now? How will she treat her mother and father after another year of living on her own and making her own decisions?

I have this image in my mind of going to her apartment and knocking on the door. When she answers, she sprays me with pepper spray then pushes me down a flight of stairs. Afterward, she says, “Oh, sorry, dad. I didn’t recognize you.”

Okay, maybe that’s taking it a bit far. She isn’t going to forget what I look like in only a year. What is more likely to happen after she pepper sprays me and pushes me down the stairs is that she says, “Don’t forget my tuition payment is due next month.”

I will wave at her and try to say something back, but she will already have closed the door.

That’s my girl.

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Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.