I love language. I love dogs. I love the feel of mechanical keyboards. I love writing rather than typing. I love vintage Littlest Pet Shop toys. I love my cat. I love squishing into a tiny little cozy ball under my comforter when it's cold out. I love spreading out like melting butter on my sheets when it's hot out. I love to read. I love making schedules. I love to write. I love bourbon. I love oversize blueberry muffins. I love being able to fix computers. I love the hoodie I'm wearing right now, which I recently realized I've had for over ten years. I love pens that write really, really smoothly. I love to shower. I love the smell of my Old Spice deodorant. I love my tattoos.
I hate feeling like I talk too much. I hate it when dogs whine incessantly. I hate that nasty crunchy feeling when crumbs get stuck in a keyboard. I hate when my writing gets spidery and drugged-looking because my wrists are starting to cramp. I hate the fact that I misplaced a giant tub of Littlest Pet Shop toys sometime over the last fifteen years, and might never find it. I hate cat litter stuck to my feet. I hate having to get out of my cozy bed into a freezing apartment. I hate hot nights sweating under the pressure of too many blankets and not enough sleep. I hate bad books. I hate never having enough time. I hate not knowing what to write about. I hate being drunk. I hate the fact that I will never stop worrying about my weight or how much I eat, no matter how wise, trusting, or thin I am. I hate not being able to fix computers. I hate pens that don't have any damn ink in them. I hate being dirty. I hate the fact that the smell of my Old Spice deodorant will never stop reminding me of someone I once adored, who wore the same deodorant as me. I hate my body.
For every action, there is, always has been, and always will be an equal and opposite reaction. The words of love are often simpler, more concise, more acceptable than the words of hate. It's important to acknowledge the existence of both, as denial serves no purpose whatsoever. It's also important to strive to make the first paragraph longer, more detailed, more emotive, and generally of more import than the second.
I will continue to strive.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Saturday, April 4, 2015
hooked.
When not horsing around with web dev gigs from the comfort of my thrift-shop desk, I play ringmaster to a an entirely different sort of dog-and-pony show. Yes, those two words on my "about" page aren't just remnants of a bygone era; I work five days a week as a veterinary assistant at a full-service animal hospital, and let me tell you, son, the shit I deal with as a developer at least doesn't stain quite as badly as the shit I deal with in my fur-covered niche of the medical field.
Confidentiality rules mean I need to be quite a bit more privacy-conscious when writing about my work experiences at the hospital, but I don't see why I can't share a few careful anecdotes with y'all, especially when they're just so freaking entertaining, so, here goes.
Along with our vaccine protocols, we administer regular doses to our canine patients of a broad-spectrum dewormer called Pyrantel pamoate. It's a thick yellow paste, flavored, I'm told, of cake batter. I was told this by a fellow assistant who offhandedly mentioned to me once that he doses himself with Pyrantel every few months, "because I figure, hell, you can never be too careful, right?"
At first peek, this endeavor, the endeavor of asking a dog to consume something flavored like dessert, sounds like a walk in the park. I ask you, those of you who have dogs - what would your dog do if you offered him or her a spoonful of cake batter? You don't even need to waste your time replying, because I know good and dang well what that dog would do. They'd nom that stuff so fast they'd send the spoon flying - or, if they were a Labrador, they'd swallow the spoon, too, just to make sure they got the last bits.
Now, I ask you, what would Timmy the Hypothetical Lab do if, instead of a spoon, you offered him his liquid Duncan Hines in a syringe? And also, you're pressed for time, so it's important Timmy noms quickly, and also, you happen to be syringing Timmy his yum-yums in the middle of, say, a Middle Eastern war zone? NOW you've got a more accurate picture of what it's like to try and deliver a dose of Pyrantel to Timmy, the squirming, kicking, foaming hellbeast who would RATHER DIE WITH HONOR THAN DRINK THE YELLOW DOOM-OOZE YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO BUTCHER ME WITH, TATTOOED LADY
I've got to admit, it's not always exactly like that. Like medications themselves, resistance comes in flavors. Take, for example, Mack the Shetland Sheepdog, a visitor to the hospital today. Mack accepted his vaccines, his toenail trim, and the embarrassment of a rectal temperature with the dignity of a true purebred, but, when it came time for his Pyrantel dose, he accepted the proffered syringe, even made a show of not flinging his head violently about as I depressed the plunger - then, once the syringe was empty, he looked me dead in the eye and spat the paste right into my face. Right, if I'm being accurate, into my own mouth, which happened, probably due to my casually commenting "He's being so good for this!" to be stupidly open.
Good news, readers. If I had hookworms before, within 24-48 hours, I definitely won't have them anymore.
Another of today's hospital patrons, sensitive Lizzie the English Mastiff, simply froze in horror for all of her treatments. When Pyrantel made its way into the equation, Lizzie lowered her head and allowed the liquid to dribble sadly out of her jowls, taking no action to either rid herself of the inconvenience or participate in its intake. Lizzie just didn't damn well want any part of this whole fiasco, that's all.
Snowflake the West Highland White Terrier was one of the aforementioned head-flingers, spattering the assistants, walls, table, and neighboring countries with cake-battery goodness. Monkey the Papillon gritted his teeth so tightly it was physically impossible to pry them open, and when we tried, he emitted a horrifying squeal and tried to apply said teeth to my hand. This earned Monkey a fashionable stint in a muzzle and the ignobility of Pyrantel delivered into a corner of his clamped-shut mouth, while all the while he raged, scrabbled, and bubbled golden foam. After it was all over, of course, we removed the muzzle and Monkey pranced happily back out to his devoted owners, assuring them with his high-flung tail and cake-flavored kisses that he DEFINITELY won that round.
Yes, after a day spent squirting all manner of substances into every imaginable mammal orifice, it's easy to go home feeling like a rapacious monster.
When King walked through the door, I was pretty sure at least I'd be able to hand off the mantle of "monster." King's fluffy mane of thick red hair and startling-to-the-ineducated blue tongue marked him as what is, in my book, the most grievous of mixed breeds - that which includes Chow Chow in its genetic grab bag. Chows are notorious among dog professionals for their poor behavior around strangers. Ask any vet assistant what to do with a Chow or Chow mix, and "muzzle" will be one of the first ten words out of their mouth, guaranteed. The second I laid eyes on King, I was already mentally fitting him for said muzzle, and planning how I'd get that syringe of goodness down his gullet without losing >1 finger ( =< 1 was too much to hope for.)
Imagine my shock when King accepted the syringe with not so much as a flick of the falsely cyanotic tongue, obligingly swallowing as I gently filled his tummy with liquid pastry. When all was said and done, King sported nary a fleck of yellow upon his chestnut whiskers, and I boasted ten intact fingers, even after counting twice.
After 10+ years of work in the pet care field, dogs, like CSS and IE9, continue to surprise me. Also, if anyone's on the prowl, I'm single, and hookworm-free.
Confidentiality rules mean I need to be quite a bit more privacy-conscious when writing about my work experiences at the hospital, but I don't see why I can't share a few careful anecdotes with y'all, especially when they're just so freaking entertaining, so, here goes.
Along with our vaccine protocols, we administer regular doses to our canine patients of a broad-spectrum dewormer called Pyrantel pamoate. It's a thick yellow paste, flavored, I'm told, of cake batter. I was told this by a fellow assistant who offhandedly mentioned to me once that he doses himself with Pyrantel every few months, "because I figure, hell, you can never be too careful, right?"
At first peek, this endeavor, the endeavor of asking a dog to consume something flavored like dessert, sounds like a walk in the park. I ask you, those of you who have dogs - what would your dog do if you offered him or her a spoonful of cake batter? You don't even need to waste your time replying, because I know good and dang well what that dog would do. They'd nom that stuff so fast they'd send the spoon flying - or, if they were a Labrador, they'd swallow the spoon, too, just to make sure they got the last bits.
Now, I ask you, what would Timmy the Hypothetical Lab do if, instead of a spoon, you offered him his liquid Duncan Hines in a syringe? And also, you're pressed for time, so it's important Timmy noms quickly, and also, you happen to be syringing Timmy his yum-yums in the middle of, say, a Middle Eastern war zone? NOW you've got a more accurate picture of what it's like to try and deliver a dose of Pyrantel to Timmy, the squirming, kicking, foaming hellbeast who would RATHER DIE WITH HONOR THAN DRINK THE YELLOW DOOM-OOZE YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO BUTCHER ME WITH, TATTOOED LADY
I've got to admit, it's not always exactly like that. Like medications themselves, resistance comes in flavors. Take, for example, Mack the Shetland Sheepdog, a visitor to the hospital today. Mack accepted his vaccines, his toenail trim, and the embarrassment of a rectal temperature with the dignity of a true purebred, but, when it came time for his Pyrantel dose, he accepted the proffered syringe, even made a show of not flinging his head violently about as I depressed the plunger - then, once the syringe was empty, he looked me dead in the eye and spat the paste right into my face. Right, if I'm being accurate, into my own mouth, which happened, probably due to my casually commenting "He's being so good for this!" to be stupidly open.
Good news, readers. If I had hookworms before, within 24-48 hours, I definitely won't have them anymore.
Another of today's hospital patrons, sensitive Lizzie the English Mastiff, simply froze in horror for all of her treatments. When Pyrantel made its way into the equation, Lizzie lowered her head and allowed the liquid to dribble sadly out of her jowls, taking no action to either rid herself of the inconvenience or participate in its intake. Lizzie just didn't damn well want any part of this whole fiasco, that's all.
Snowflake the West Highland White Terrier was one of the aforementioned head-flingers, spattering the assistants, walls, table, and neighboring countries with cake-battery goodness. Monkey the Papillon gritted his teeth so tightly it was physically impossible to pry them open, and when we tried, he emitted a horrifying squeal and tried to apply said teeth to my hand. This earned Monkey a fashionable stint in a muzzle and the ignobility of Pyrantel delivered into a corner of his clamped-shut mouth, while all the while he raged, scrabbled, and bubbled golden foam. After it was all over, of course, we removed the muzzle and Monkey pranced happily back out to his devoted owners, assuring them with his high-flung tail and cake-flavored kisses that he DEFINITELY won that round.
Yes, after a day spent squirting all manner of substances into every imaginable mammal orifice, it's easy to go home feeling like a rapacious monster.
When King walked through the door, I was pretty sure at least I'd be able to hand off the mantle of "monster." King's fluffy mane of thick red hair and startling-to-the-ineducated blue tongue marked him as what is, in my book, the most grievous of mixed breeds - that which includes Chow Chow in its genetic grab bag. Chows are notorious among dog professionals for their poor behavior around strangers. Ask any vet assistant what to do with a Chow or Chow mix, and "muzzle" will be one of the first ten words out of their mouth, guaranteed. The second I laid eyes on King, I was already mentally fitting him for said muzzle, and planning how I'd get that syringe of goodness down his gullet without losing >1 finger ( =< 1 was too much to hope for.)
Imagine my shock when King accepted the syringe with not so much as a flick of the falsely cyanotic tongue, obligingly swallowing as I gently filled his tummy with liquid pastry. When all was said and done, King sported nary a fleck of yellow upon his chestnut whiskers, and I boasted ten intact fingers, even after counting twice.
After 10+ years of work in the pet care field, dogs, like CSS and IE9, continue to surprise me. Also, if anyone's on the prowl, I'm single, and hookworm-free.
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