There are moments when I am driving down the road listening to the news and I need to start screaming at the radio. I’m aware of how dumb this is, it’s not a two way transmitter (no matter what the foil hat brigade tries to tell me).
They want to ban certain dog breeds in Minnesota. I wonder how often I can use the word “asinine” in a post. Let’s not find out.
Banning specific breeds will do nothing to solve the problem. Nothing at all. The third paragraph of that article even illustrates that this really has nothing to do with facts or statistics, but with knee-jerk reactionism…the kind of knee-jerk reactionism that an uneducated constituencly loves. “You saw something troubling on a 45 second newsbite stuffed between the weather and jokes about hairstyles? You say they used scary graphics? Well, let me get right on that!”
Banning specific breeds for dog bites is a lot like banning alcohol completely for drunk driving deaths. These dogs themselves are not violent, their owners are. Their owners do not take the time to properly train their dogs, the owners may even be trying to make their dogs violent. You cannot blame the dogs, you must make stronger legislation to hold the owners responsible.
We do not blame the car or the alcohol, we blame the person who shrugged off responsibility.
And I say this even though I live in a neighborhood where every month I see a new wanna-be thug and their pit bull puppy walking around. I have seen guys jabbing and poking their dogs as they played so that they would become angry and aggressive. I have these thugs kick their dogs for pulling on the leash when they took them out for the daily thug strut. I look at each of these dogs and my heart breaks because I know that each dog has been handed a death sentence by its owner and it will never be able to plead its case.
I’ve seen these dogs out there. I understand the fear people have, but it is misplaced.
The dogs that are raised as such surely will have to be put down. I understand this. If you cannot trust that a dog trained to be violent will forever be non-violent then that dog must be put down. This is sad, but necessary. We do not, however, need to ban all dogs. We need to make the dog owners as responsible for the damage their dog does as they would be if they used a weapon on a victim. These dogs are raised to be weapons and should be treated as such.
The dogs that are not, should not be treated like this. Milo, Doti and Bela are and were the sweetest dogs around. They do no harm, they are well trained (or being trained). They are fun and gentle and rambunctious happy dogs. Under this legislation it would be a misdemeanor for Dena and Levi to have these dogs. That is wrong.
People need to stop being reactionary and start thinking for once.
boom-bah-latt
Friday hauled ass out of work to get home, grab maddie and get to the other side of town to the vet’s office.
Let me demonstrate for you the amount of driving I had to do
1) hold your arms in such a way that your left arm is down at an angle, perhaps 4 inches from your hip. Hold your right arm in the air, about 180 degrees from your left arm.
2) I work somewhere to the right of your navel
3) I live on your left wrist
4) the vet is on the middle finger of your right hand, right there on the tip
I did all of this on the day when they decided to turn the bowels of hell into a steam room but they didn’t bother to seal it very well. The land was covered in a thick hazy, steamy, humid heat. The AC is still broken on my car. The AC will get fixed very soon. I missed the exit and ended up driving about six inches past your middle finger and had to turn around and go back.
I was hot and crabby and I was damn fucking tired of the MPR member drive. Maddie thought she would express her discomfort by sitting in the back seat and panting wet dog breath on my face.
We got there, on time even, and she tried to figure out if she could actually fight the cat in the cat carrier. Ever since my mom’s cat tried to kill me and bury my body in the dirty laundry Maddie has issues with cats. She choce not to fight the cat, though it seemed obvious the cat wanted to fight her.
As a side note, I could not sit down as my butt was all sweaty and I did not want to leave a sweaty butt print on the bench.
Then the magic time came, we got in to se Dr Pierce Fleming, International Vet of Mystery! You know, whenever you go in to meet him he’s just regular. His name truly suggests he’d pull some crazy James Bond gadget out of his pocket and incapacite me while grilling me on my plans to take over the world. He doesn’t do that. He just does vet things. Don’t get me wrong, they are awesome vet things, but I haven’t yet seen him use his spy stethoscope, his nerve gas filled ear cone light looker thingy or even his secret rectal thermometer radio transmitter.It’s so weird that he would be named Pierce Fleming and not utilize his special spy tools more often.
On the other hand, he utilized much awesomeness and that is an acceptable substitute. We discussed Maddie’s condition. Not only did her infected feet come flaming back in but also she was losing patches of fur. The patched of fur are a staph infection that comes from the same staph infection in her feet. Okay. So that can be fixed. Our previous plan of “hold down this infection and punch the shit out of it until it dies a wet and gasping breath” did not work out as well as we hoped. We now moved on to Plan B.
Plan B involves trapping the infection in a cage and regularly poking it with a stick for the rest of Maddie’s life. We’re still going to beat up the infection with the cephalexin. Beat it up so hard it will beg for mercy. It will get no mercy. I will eat a giant turkey sandwich while it begs and I will laugh at the infection, spraying it with partially chewed sandwich as that is the most disrespectful thing I can come up with (maybe Pierce Fleming and I should join forces and he can catch the baddies and I can interrogate them…hmmm). At the same time that she is receiving the cephalexin for the infection, she will also be getting a lot of prednisone to help keep the swelling and inflammation down.
Once we get everything under control we keep doing the same thing for 14 more days. This is important. Even if everything looks perfect we still keep kicking the infection in the ribs. If you are a staph bacteria on my dog, I will be a total asshole to you.
After her 14 days we will then ramp the prednisone down and try to find the lowest dose we can give her that will still be effective on her feet. This is where things can get troublesome in my heart.
If we can get her down to 1/2 pill every other day there should be no long term side effects to her health, even if she takes it for the rest of her life. I know without a doubt she will need more than that. Long term usage of prednisone can cause some side effects that may tend to shorten a dog’s life. This is where we balance quality and quantity. Obviously I want my dogs to live forever and never leave me. Obviously I learned last November just how impossible that it. As such, I want my dogs to live the dog-happiest lives possible, I want them to not only be comfortable but to feel good. Last year when we treated Maddie her whole demeanor changed. She was happy. She brightened up, she was goofy and playful. She was enjoying her life.
And as a person who tries not to anthropomorphize her dogs as much as possible, I mean it when I say she was happy.
This is my goal. I would rather she have fewer happy years than more uncomfortable years. You’d think that would be obvious, but it’s hard to accept. It’s hard to know that you are going to choose a course of action that could shorten your dog’s life, even if you know that the infections make her miserable at least that was not something you chose.
Maddie had such a tough time of it before she came to live with us and my commitment to her is that for the rest of her life, she will be happy, she will be comfortable and she will live without fear.
Last night when I got into bed she laid down next to me and stretched out against my belly. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her head and I knew I was right.
I am a wiener
Took the Myers-Briggs again for the hell of it. As usual I came up as an INFP. I am always the INFP. Essentially I am the wiener of the bunch.
From Keirsy.com
Healer Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in striving for their ends, and investigative and attentive in their interpersonal relations. Healer present a seemingly tranquil, and noticiably pleasant face to the world, and though to all appearances they might seem reserved, and even shy, on the inside they are anything but reserved, having a capacity for caring not always found in other types. They care deeply-indeed, passionately-about a few special persons or a favorite cause, and their fervent aim is to bring peace and integrity to their loved ones and the world.
Healers have a profound sense of idealism derived from a strong personal morality, and they conceive of the world as an ethical, honorable place. Indeed, to understand Healers, we must understand their idealism as almost boundless and selfless, inspiring them to make extraordinary sacrifices for someone or something they believe in. The Healer is the Prince or Princess of fairytale, the King’s Champion or Defender of the Faith, like Sir Galahad or Joan of Arc. Healers are found in only 1 percent of the general population, although, at times, their idealism leaves them feeling even more isolated from the rest of humanity.
Healers seek unity in their lives, unity of body and mind, emotions and intellect, perhaps because they are likely to have a sense of inner division threaded through their lives, which comes from their often unhappy childhood. Healers live a fantasy-filled childhood, which, unfortunately, is discouraged or even punished by many parents. In a practical-minded family, required by their parents to be sociable and industrious in concrete ways, and also given down-to-earth siblings who conform to these parental expectations, Healers come to see themselves as ugly ducklings. Other types usually shrug off parental expectations that do not fit them, but not the Healers. Wishing to please their parents and siblings, but not knowing quite how to do it, they try to hide their differences, believing they are bad to be so fanciful, so unlike their more solid brothers and sisters. They wonder, some of them for the rest of their lives, whether they are OK. They are quite OK, just different from the rest of their family-swans reared in a family of ducks. Even so, to realize and really believe this is not easy for them. Deeply committed to the positive and the good, yet taught to believe there is evil in them, Healers can come to develop a certain fascination with the problem of good and evil, sacred and profane. Healers are drawn toward purity, but can become engrossed with the profane, continuously on the lookout for the wickedness that lurks within them. Then, when Healers believe thay have yielded to an impure temptation, they may be given to acts of self-sacrifice in atonement. Others seldom detect this inner turmoil, however, for the struggle between good and evil is within the Healer, who does not feel compelled to make the issue public.
This definitely describes me. Except for the ugly duck/swan family thing. That’s just weird.
And then there’s this:
INFPs have the ability to see good in almost anyone or anything. Even for the most unlovable the INFP is wont to have pity.
Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!
–(Steven Vincent Benet, Elegy for an Enemy)
This is also me. No matter how much of an asshole or jerk someone is, I know that person has a mother or sibling or friend or child or lover who truly loves them. That there is no one unloved and as such, no one unworthy of at least one kind thought. Even if I do think they are jerks.
So there it is, complex personality analyses in just a few short paragraphs. God bless this crazy modern age.
Besa me, por favor
This is why I hate you.
I have fucking Journey stuck in my head. Over and over again Steve Perry is imploring me to continue to believe in something. Listen, I don’t want to believe in anything Steve Perry is selling. I just don’t trust the man.
Yeah, like the bulk of fucking america I have that damned song stuck in my head right now. Unlike the bulk of fucking America, I did not watch the HIGHLY ANTICIPATED series conclusion to the Sopranos. I did not watch it but everyone has to talk about it and talk about the damned song and then they have to analyze it and break down the hidden messages!
There are no hidden messages! Shows are not written by amazing space aliens! They do not filter onto the television like magic. Shows are written by people. People like you and me. The ending sounded really obvious! Writer sits down and says “man, how should I end this? I want to surprise everybody. Already everyone is speculating about prison or guns or something. If I want everyone to be surprised I have to write an ending no one will expect. No one will be expecting onion rings. I will write about onion rings.”
I’ve just laid out the bulk of the writing process. There were no hidden messages or agendas or clues to the future. Just straight up the least expected thing.
Okay, but seriously, beyond all the weird analysis of the show, could people stop talking about Journey? Please. They suck. They have always sucked. They have never had a moment when they did not suck. Time has not lessened the suck.
Also, Mary Lucia of 89.3 The Current (minnesota public radio’s hip radio station) was interviewing 2 of the guys from Fountains of Wayne and she asked them about the fucking finale and even managed to sound like a gushing 14 year old girl. I’m pretty sure she even used ‘ohmigod!’ at least once. Between her and Kerri Miller I’m beginning to think that the art of the interview is dying a cold and slow death.
ps I’m not actually cranky today! I was running late this morning and David offered to make and bring a lunch for me. Sandwiches always taste better when someone else makes them.
Specimen Cup
That girl careening down East Lake Street at 7:41 this morning with her entire right hand in her mouth? That was me. Once again Sweden has betrayed me with its shitty cupholders. This is even more of a problem since my new awesome travel mug is much more top heavy than the previous one (please note the super keen features of the new mug such as the built in french press and the hidden storage compartment for more coffee grounds for more coffee later (or I could hide some blow in there and get me a hooker). Apparently one must never go flying around corners when you have a mug of coffee next to you in a flimsy crapass cupholder. The laws of physics do not take into account such factors as 1) the atm at burger king was broken 2) I had an 8am appointment over on riverside 3) i needed to find the other TCF atm which was on East Lake Street to get out the cash that I would for my various activities.
I’m not one to waste coffee, even if it is on my hand.
The completely perplexed girl at the volvo dealership? me as well. There was some sort of recall on the emissions something or other on my car and I figured that after 2 years and 7 letters it might be time to take it in and get it fixed. Of course they also found something that would cost $520 to fix. I told them to hold off on that.
But why, you might ask, why was I a confused retard? I walked into the lobby looking for the service desk. A very very old and mumbly man came up to me and mumbled something at me. What? He mumbled something about “are you looking for so and so?” I was in fact looking for something, but it wasn’t a person. then he said “if you’re looking for the mayor, he just went that way!”
What the fuck? It is slowly dawning on me that this guy doesn’t work there so he’s not responding in some customer service capacity to my “i’m looking for something” face. He is also old enough to be of the generation when the mayor of a town was pretty big stuff. He was kidding with me! oh that goof! Can’t wait to see what the fucking orderlies think of him down at the nursing home. Jesus, I don’t even think I could pick the Mayor of Minneapolis out of a line up. Could I describe him? “standard white guy, middle age, white, and a guy. Also…standard.”
The girl crying in the vietnamese restaurant in St Paul, that was ME! Went to lunch with my dad and lunch was good. My dad is very concerned and was asking all about things, but then we talked about Ghengis and I lost it. I can keep it together so well around most people, but my dad is awesome and sometimes awesomeness means that it’s easy to cry around him. We talked about my depression at length, he wanted to make sure I was okay, and not like “the only correct answer is to say you are okay”. he was genuinely concerned. It made me cry more, but it made me feel better. He promised to do anything I needed, no questions asked, to help me get past this thing.
girl swearing at a fucking mid-afternoon traffic jam making her late for the next appointment…yeah, fuck it.
If you were driving on West Lake Street, just past Lake Calhoun and you happened to look up at the Calhoun Executive Center (the building with the neon windsurfer thing on it) and you saw a naked dugong on the second floor, that was me.
…some minutes later, that vagina you saw was mine as well.
I always thought it was peculiar that my doctor’s office was in an office building (presumably with gigantic rent) and half of the exam rooms faced out over one of the busiest streets on that side of town. The other exam rooms face Lake Calhoun and are very peaceful. I just think that they should really think about what procedures are going to happen before they assign a room. If it’s an old guy with butt pain, he can be in the room over the street. Fat girl getting a pelvic? Put her over the lake, dammit. Do not subject her or the city to this. The funny thing, however, was that I just didn’t care. I was standing there getting undressed, a little mesmerized by the traffic and it occurred to me that I was getting undressed in front of many people…then I realized I didn’t really care.
By the way, my vagina is fine, thanks for asking.
and lastly, the girl in Barnes and Noble shoving various blank journals into her crochet box trying to find one that would fit with all the other stuff in there. Me too.
Dugong Out.