Slightly Off the Mark

Note: This was written before our dog Beowulf passed away last July.

Most people over the age of fifty can testify that growing old sucks. I mean, older. Growing older sucks.

One of the things that sucks is medication. Now, a person can avoid going on a lot of medicine by staying fit, eating right, exercising, meditation, yoga ... you know, all that stuff you didn't want to do, even before you could predict the weather with your knees.

Of all those things, the only one I came close to doing regularly was exercise, if by exercise you mean walking. I always loved to take hikes, and walks, the main difference being how far from civilization you are. I was going to say you could define hiking as walking on very uneven ground, but I've been on some sidewalks that made me think I was returning the One True Ring to Mount Doom.

(Why would someone name a mountain Doom, anyway? Is that where they met their future ex?)

You can see some neat things on hikes, though.

The walking by itself wasn't very helpful. First I had to take medicine for my cholesterol, which is a reaction to the human desire to intake things that are bad for you. Apparently there's a thin line between cream-filled donuts and ingesting high-test gasoline. My drug of choice is chocolate, which is the cocaine of foods. I never tried sniffing it through a straw, though.

Maybe next vacation.

Then they put me on a stress pill because of my job, which I couldn't quit because I had to pay for the stress pill.

Then, I discovered I had high blood pressure--while waiting to have a colonoscopy.

Well, duh. Of course I did--a whole room full of people were about to send a sewer router into a place where stuff's only suppose to come out. Just the same, I ended up on a pill to keep my blood pressure numbers below the height of the Empire State building. (In meters. Look it up, I'm not your accountant.)

Then my prostate blew up like a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

Eventually an entire shelf in the medicine cabinet was filled with drugs, and not one of them a fun drug. This doesn't include pain relievers ... we have another shelf for them. It seemed a good time for some kind of organization. Luckily, like many men who own homes, I had several stacks of empty cardboard boxes laying around.

No, I don't know why, but apparently it's a thing.

So I liberated a small cardboard box and put it on my desk, where I could spend half an hour every morning taking my meds without disturbing my wife. Well, she's disturbed by all the empty boxes, but never mind.

At about the same time, our dog fell over. Then he continued to fall over. He had developed a nerve related condition called ... well, I can't pronounce it, but we had to rush him to the doggie hospital. He got better, or possibly I got lopsided and he only looked straight. The vet also prescribed Beowulf medication for joint pain because--well, we grew old together, and it was his time. Emily left his bottle of meds where she could easily find it.

On my desk.

"Since you started feeding me those strange hot dogs I've been seeing ... strange things."

When I get home from work I race around in a half-unconscious state, trying to get all my 6 a.m. stuff done so I can go to bed and pretend it's night. (See above about stressful jobs.) The meds are an important thing, of course, although unlike Beowulf I don't get mine inside a hot dog. Lucky dog. I mean the dog, not the dog. The meat one. The other meat one. Never mind.

Trying to do three or four things at once, I got one of his pills, filled a cup with water for my pills, walked into the kitchen for a hot dog, then back to the desk where I discovered, of course, that I had swallowed the dog's pill.

The dog's pill is a narcotic.

Now, I should have done what Emily later said I should have done: Called the vet. "Hi, I took our dog's medication ... well, yes, I am a dumbass, but that's not why I called."

But I didn't want a bunch of people laughing at my dumbassery. At least, not until I could get a blog out of it.

Instead, I stayed up to gauge what kind of reaction it had on me. Let me assure you--it did have a reaction. It was, in fact, the same reaction I used to have to drinking alcohol, and illustrates the reason why I don't bother with illegal drugs.

I felt weird. I got drowsy. Then I fell asleep. Then I slept for a long, long time.

"So, listen ... since you got to try mine, do I get to try yours?"

It's the same thing that happens when I take melatonin, and that's perfectly legal. It just happened faster, and I didn't have the nightmares. I get half my best stories from nightmares.

So, now I can say I know how the dog feels, except that I can't lick my private parts--and my back is too stiff for that, anyway. Maybe, someday, some doctor will put me on a pill like that for some age-related discomfort I haven't even though of yet. If that happens, hey--the side effects from the other pills will no longer bother me.

I'll sleep through them.

Another note: Ironically, my doctor did, indeed, respond to my increasing chronic pain by putting me on the exact same med Beowulf was on.

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 When I complained to my surgeon that I was still having symptoms of sinus problems, he stuck a big metal tube up my nostril and worked it around for half an hour. Then he stuck it up my other nostril.

And now I no longer complain to my sinus surgeon--about anything.

Then he asked me how long it's been since I was allergy tested. It turns out people with allergies should be tested every few years or so, because in some cases allergies come and go, such as when you get older and your body starts to break down. Not that I'm describing me. Nope.

It had been ten years, so the next week they used up their entire supply of needles on me. If something swelled up and turned red, it wasn't a rebellious pimple: It was Mother Nature thumbing her nose.

Mother Nature has a big nose.

My entire arm, upper and lower, looked like a Braille dictionary. I was allergic to everything on Earth, half of everything on the Moon, and dust from Mars.

Okay, so that wasn't really true. For instance, I'm not allergic to Timothy Grass, who I'm fairly sure is the lead singer for Three Dog Night. Much to my shock, I'm not allergic to ragweed. Also, although I once had an allergic reaction after fighting a fire in a pine woods, I'm not allergic to pine. There must have been some cottonwood, birch, ash, red cedar, walnut, oak or hickory among those burning pines.

My cat allergy was confirmed, but--surprise!--I'm no longer allergic to dogs. We still aren't getting another one, though: We had the perfect dog for a decade, and he's not so easily replaceable.

Beowulf was very cuddly, and it turns out he never got his dander up.

Otherwise it was all the usual: molds, grasses, dust, politicians, and those dirty, nasty bed mites, which are much like politicians but with higher morals. Plants? Russian Thistle, English Plantain, Bermuda Grass--none a problem as long as I stay here in the good old USA.

Now, all but two of these tested at a "moderate" level. Only two read as severe and one of those was, naturally, Aspergillus, which can cause infections all over the place--including the sinuses.

It's a mold, which is a type of fungus, and (I learned) it can be really, really nasty. Being allergic to Aspergillus is like being especially susceptible to the Black Death.

Then came the real shock, and the second allergy testing at the "severe" level:

Horses.

If you know my wife, you get why hearing that was like being ... well, kicked by a horse.

An entire horse-sized battlefield, loaded with Mark-seeking guided dander.

Wait--she's wearing my hat!

And what are we going to do about this? Well ... nothing. I mean, sure, Emily will clean up as soon as she gets home, but it's not like I'm going to demand she gives up horses. It would be like telling me to give up chocolate, something I'm NOT allergic to. You gotta do what you love.

As for me, I have to choose between allergy shots and trying to get rid of mold like Penicillium, Eicoccum, and that wonderful Asperigillus, all of which can be found on ...

Books.

Guess I'll take the shots.

Hey ... are those books on my dusty carpet?

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Remember: Every time you don’t buy a book, I start sneezing. Save my sinuses.

No one knows where Beowulf came from.

He was very serious, and also very curious. I suspect he was mistreated by his former owner, because he would whine instead of bark, and was a little jumpy when touched. We did our best to make him feel at home, and I think it worked: One day he got off his line in the backyard, and when I started a panicked search I found him patiently waiting at the front door.

Gradually he relaxed and, as will happen, became family. He never chewed on anything unless he knew he was allowed to, and when someone passed by he would bark at them for one reason: He wanted us to let them in so he could make friends. (Having said that, he saw any animal smaller than him as food, giving us some insight into his former life.)

He loved every kid who came around, and most adults--unless he detected alcohol on their breath. Then he'd start to growl and become protective, which perhaps gives us another look into his past.

Like us he loved to travel, but he also loved to get home.

But he got old, as dogs do, and people. Neuropathy, hip dysplasia, hearing loss, cognitive problems. We were okay with him sleeping a lot--heck, I sleep a lot. But wandering in circles, steering himself into corners and just standing there, whining when he should have been comfortable ...

Sometimes there comes a time when you have to consider if you're keeping them around for their happiness--or yours. We got him about six months after Emily and I were married. The vet's estimation of his age meant he was around sixteen years old. It was time.

In the last photo ever taken with the three of us together, Emily and I were smiling, kind of. I think I can speak for both of us when I saw they were forced smiles.

He wasn't just a dog. He was family. Now he's crossed the rainbow bridge, to frolic with the family members who came before him (as Emily told him to at the end). There aren't any words to describe how much he'll be missed.

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 One stressful thing about being a dispatcher is that when the phone rings it could be anything. Many of us play Dispatch Bingo. A UFO report? A herd of cattle blocking the roadway? Lunch, interrupted? A couple arguing over who gets custody of their dog? That's a row--bingo!

For some dispatchers this is one of the perks of the job: the challenge and variety. For others, not so much.

Years ago the business line rang and, in a calm voice, a man gave me his name and home address, so we could notify his family. Then he gave me the location where we could find his body. Then he hung up.

Often, when a suicidal person reaches out, it's a cry for help. Not this time. When our units arrived they could only confirm my certainty: Immediately after hanging up the phone, he shot himself. I was the last person he ever spoke to.

It messed me up.

Word got around, and my boss called to check on me. I told him I would be okay, which was true in the long run. I don't know if I told him that in the short run I wasn't okay at all, but my wife was with me, and I hung in there.

I've served in three branches of the emergency services: EMS, Fire, and 911 Dispatch. If anyone mentions PTSD or critical incident stress, I immediately flash back to one particular call in each of those three areas. But a lot of time has passed since those incidents, and although they still dwell in the dark corners of my brain, they don't control my life.

Usually.

Earlier this year we received a report of a person threatening to kill themself with a gun. I didn't take that call, but the moment I heard the details my body chilled, I could barely breath, and my mind went numb. That suicide from so long ago crashed out of the cage I'd trapped it in and rampaged through my head.

It turns out the person in this case did not have a gun, and the whole thing ended peacefully. Still, it was a wake up call. A jangling alarm that took about five years off my life ... and after three decades at this job, I've already lost enough. It's one of the reasons why I've been pushing my writing career: Not only because I have a lot of stories to tell, but because I'd like to spend my time writing them instead of screaming into a pillow after work every morning.

(This is one time in this blog when I exaggerate: No, I don't scream into a pillow after work. I kiss my wife, hug the dog, and hit the bed, where I usually get a good eight hours of sleep in between the weird dreams.)

I'm not writing this to get sympathy for me. I just wanted to remind everyone that the person you think is strong and "normal" may be battling monsters inside. In fact, they may be the most cheerful people you know, always with a smile and a joke. But the effects of stress are real, and the challenge of maintaining our mental health is a stigma that still remains, even today.

Look after yourself. Look after your friends. And if someone says they're having a problem with their emotions or their mental state, take them seriously. Sometimes we make it look way easier than it is.

Now, I'm off to write some humor ... we all have our ways to cope.

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 With blogs like this I've learned to make it abundantly clear: He's OK.

Beowulf is about fourteen, as near as we can figure, which is Methuselah in human years. According to the Bible, Moses lived to be 120; Beowulf is that close to making it to the promised land. What that brings with it, at least for owners, is worry. After all, we've had him for ten years. That's way older than anything ever found in the back of my refrigerator. Except that one time. Let's not talk about that.

So when the side of his face started to get sensitive, we worried. When his snout swelled up to grizzly bear size, it was time for a run to the doggy ER, which does indeed exist. It turns out he had a tooth abscess, which is every bit as horrible as it sounds. He had to be on antibiotics for weeks before they could even think about treating it.

We thought about it, of course. A lot. For three weeks.

I felt guilty about that. Dental work and I have a long history, and there's no "good" about it.

He had a tooth removed, and ended up with stitches where the abscess was, um, abscessing. The first day that didn't bother him much, what with how very, very drugged he was.

"Duuuuddddeeee .... good, good stuff ...."

It got a little harder after that, although we were given pain pills that, it turns out, were for him, not me. Not that he was hungry, but a roll of turkey lunch meat with a lump in it goes a long way.

Every time we coaxed him close to the food he'd lay down, and just look at us. Since getting him in the car for our Pet ER trip is probably how I screwed up my knee a few weeks ago, you can imagine how anxious I was not to move him around. So mostly we let him sleep, although he would periodically stagger to his feet and do his regular patrol.

I know what you're thinking: "But Mark, aren't you taking advantage of Beowulf's medical problem to put out a cheap blog?"

Well, yes. But in my defense, it's not cheap, it's free ... and the subject remains cute and photogenic.

Besides, it's compensation for how I completely freaked out when Emily took the bandage off his leg and I thought I was looking at doggie bone. (I wasn't--they'd just shaved him down to his skin, and I've never seen his skin before.)

The important thing, and let me stress this: He's improving.

The newsletter for this month (well, it was supposed to be the February newsletter) covers Ukraine, cute dogs and grandkids, and a story excerpt, and that ain't too shabby:

https://mailchi.mp/91ed436f9f33/ukraine-and-free-novella-excerpt-in-order-of-importance

Remember, every time you sign up for a free newsletter from a live author, a dead author gets his wings*.

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*I can't guarantee it'll be a good dead author.

Before we start, let me stress: Everyone's doing better.

So, how has 2022 been for you, so far? A rerun of the last two years? Me, too.

The first week of the year we had to take Beowulf to the animal hospital in Fort Wayne, and we returned just in time to learn my 96 year old grandmother was being taken to a human hospital with a possible broken hip. This was the day my three day work weekend started: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, 12 hours each. Some of the kids at work like having more days off, but for me it takes a couple of days after to recover.

The horse was not involved with her fall.

 But never mind that, the important stuff is as follows: Grandma Nannie (Nannie is her real name) did not have a broken hip, although she did bang it up pretty good. She's going to have to have physical therapy, and as a person married to someone who just finished that, I can tell you it's no fun even for someone younger.

But the good news is that for rehab she's been transferred to Lutheran Life Villages in Kendallville, where she's stayed before, and so at least is not in a pandemic overwhelmed hospital.

I found out about her fall when I got to work Friday night. Earlier in the day I'd laid down to take my pre-work nap, but after about an hour Emily woke me to say the dog needed to go to the vet. Waking me and using the word "vet" are not things she takes lightly.

We had a chore getting Beowulf in the car, and they had to take him into the animal hospital on a cot. If you're not a pet lover, you might not understand just how distressing that is. Well ... it is.

He kept throwing up and stumbling into things, veering constantly to the left. He was like a drunk Democrat. ('Cause--left. It's a joke, like when I had a right leaning lawn mower.) The verdict: Vertigo. The Doc said he had a neurological condition (dog, not Doc), which comes in two types: The "In a few days he'll start doing better" type, or the "would you prefer burial or cremation" type. After numerous tests, the Doc thought it was the "good" one.

With me working twelve hour shifts all weekend, which I can only handle with a dose of melatonin and ten hours of strange dreams in between, it was left to Emily to nurse poor Beowulf through the weekend. (It was Emily who took these pictures of him--she would send pics to me as updates.)

Granted that once the meds took effect he slept a lot, but she had to be near him the whole time for when he woke up and tried to stagger around. Also, she had to give him the meds that we couldn't sneak into food, because the meds made him lose his appetite. Personally, I think she deserves a reward other than a good night's sleep, which she also deserves. Cheesecake?

So that's how the opening of 2022 went for us. Everyone seems on the road to recovery, so I guess you could call that a win, although I'd just as soon not have things like this happen to begin with.

In  this month's newsletter we discuss tired dogs, almost-horses, fire photos, summer, and the health risks of competitive clogging:

https://mailchi.mp/956dcca14183/summer-and-new-projects-loom?e=2b1e842057

Did I mention summer? I'd be so much happier with its arrival if it actually stuck around for more than a few days. Heck, I'm still waiting for Spring to arrive--apparently I blinked.

Still, any season with flowers is better than a season without them. 

This one has somehow survived all my lawn care efforts for decades. I don't know how.

Or, for you Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans, maybe midgets.

Do you ever get the feeling that some animals have a death wish? Me, too. Deer running in front of you, birds playing tag with your car--on the interstate.

Then there are the more gentle daredevils.

A family of bunnies has been living in my back yard. I don't have a problem with that, but in both the previous photos the little youth rabbits were hanging out only a few feet from our back door. This would be the same back door our dog comes out of when he has to do his business. There's a cat that's been prowling around that same area.

Have you seen my dog?

He's not small. And I've learned he likes little animals ... for dinner.

And get this: I'm finding the little piles of bunny pellets inside the range of Beowulf's line. (By the way, they're not chocolate candy. Remember that.) It's like they're pooping on his turf just to antagonize them. I'm living on the same property as Bugs Bunny.

My only conclusion is that they're teenage bunnies. You know how teenagers are: always taking chances, thinking they're indestructible. That has to be it.

This one's probably mom, hanging out safely at the end of the driveway. Doesn't she look worried? Yes, she does. If I could speak rabbit, I'd probably hear: "You bunnies get out of that dog's range! You're going to fall down and break your leg and put your eye out, and if you do, don't come running to me!"

Here in dispatch we got all sorts of goodies this year in honor of Public Safety Telecommunications Week, much of it in the form of food from various appreciative members of the public. I especially liked one of the first ones, a paper bag full of all sorts of neat snacks, many of them of my favorite type--chocolate. But I wasn't able to partake right away, because right after I got home we had to leave again, to see my mother in the hospital. So, I left it on the kitchen counter until we returned.

The dog ate it.

He left most of the list, so I could see what I was missing.

Most of the chocolate was gone. Dogs love chocolate for the same reason humans do: It's bad for you. But, I'm happy to report, Beowulf made it through the crisis with a smile on his snout and an ache in his stomach. Okay, I'm not so very happy.

It's hard to tell how much of the bag he swallowed, but he didn't get to the microwave popcorn, and apparently the can cooler was too chewy. The green stuff at the bottom left is from one of those Scentsy wax smelly things--but that's another blog.

He also didn't get the gum, which is maybe for the best. Imagine that moment of panic the first time he passed gas after a whole pack of gum moved through his system.

In any case, although I remain less than happy with him, at least Beowulf didn't make himself sick going places he wasn't supposed to go. And me, I've learned my lesson: First, never take your work home. Second, whenever you get chocolate--eat it. Right now.