Medicated Part Two

This post will make more sense if you read last week's post first. It's ingeniously titled Medicated Part One to distinguish it from this one, Medicated Part Two.

Then we get to the worst part of the day. I was feeling better in the afternoon after a long, damp nap (reference is from last week's post) when I heard sirens in the distance. Why is that important, you ask? Let's back up a bit.

The nice thing about Korean Jindo dogs is that they don't bark much. Caleb would bark to alert me when a person came on our property, but he wouldn't bark at birds, squirrels, or paper bags flying in the wind. Which was good, generally speaking. 

My problem was that on the few occasions he did bark, he only barked when outside. I wanted him to bark when he was inside and someone came to the door (especially while Jay was at the fire station for a 24-hour shift and I was home alone). Caleb's fierce, white-wolf looks didn’t intimidate strangers when he was silently peeking from around the corner. 

Our vet told us we'd done an amazing job with Caleb's rehab so far (a neighbor rescued him and gave him to us several months earlier), but advised us to continue to build his confidence until he felt secure enough to bark while in the house. The vet was an older man with a heavy European accent, and since I'm illogically convinced that a heavy European accent guarantees expertise, I raptly listened.  

While looking for ways to boost Caleb's confidence, I noticed that when he was outside, he howled happily, tail wagging, when he heard firetruck sirens.

 

A light bulb went on (bing!). I figured that if I could encourage him to howl indoors, then he would eventually feel secure enough to bark indoors as well. Brilliant!

So, the next time Caleb was inside and I heard sirens, I cleverly said, "Howl," and gave him a demonstration. He looked perplexed that I was howling in the house, but eventually joined me by making some faint, strange noises, with his forehead puckered. He was possibly asking if I was losing my mind, but I praised his vocal efforts with an enthusiastic, "Good howl!"

When Jay came home from work the next morning, we heard sirens again (no, we don't have an arsonist on our street; we live a couple of miles from the fire station.), so I commanded, "Howl," and we both howled for Caleb. After a few minutes of our idiotic indoor bawling, he finally joined us with a response that sounded like a dying moose.

Most likely it was doggy laughter.  

But I exclaimed, "Good howl!" to encourage him.

 

Back to the worst part of my day...I was feeling better in the afternoon after a long, damp nap (reference is from last week's post) when I heard sirens in the distance. Caleb was outside, and I knew he'd howl when they came closer. Excitedly, I shouted for Jay, who was in the kitchen, to rush outside and join him. 

Jay obligingly ambled out the side door. He's very good to me.

Thinking, I, too, could help, I climbed out of bed and went out on the back deck. I couldn't see Jay, who was around the corner of the house, but when I couldn't hear him, I had an annoying suspicion that he was humoring me by standing there whispering, "Howl. Howl. Ah-rooo. Ah-rooo," under his breath. 

The sirens were lessening, but I smugly decided that I, at least, was dedicated enough to our pup's rehab to continue the exercise. 

I leaned over the deck railing in my powder blue, snowflake pajamas and howled. 

To my joy, Caleb raced from the side of the house, barking! I proudly assumed that he was responding to my feral vocalization, so, although the sirens were long gone, I threw back my head and howled again. 

Nice and long and loud. 

It was a spectacular howl!

As I slowly lowered my head at the end of my award-worthy canine call, I noticed that Caleb had kept running because he was actually barking at the neighbor who lives behind us; she was next to our back fence, partially concealed by the bush she'd been clipping, staring at me in open-mouthed shock. 

She abruptly put her head down and scurried away. 

We don’t know her well, so I desperately wanted to yell to her rapidly retreating back, "I'M MEDICATED. HEAVILY!" 

Verse of the day:  (2 Corinthians 15:13-14) "If it seems we are crazy, it is to bring glory to God. And if we are in our right minds, it is for your benefit. Either way, Christ's love controls us."

Zoe pretending she wants a howling lesson (I wasn't going to lean over the railing this time).

She didn't let out a sound, so I began to suspect she was just egging me on.

Confirmation of the set-up complete when she burst out laughing.
"Humans! Ha! They're so gullible."

Follow up:  I stopped taking that prescription (to the great relief of my husband and several neighbors). So I can no longer use medication as an excuse for my behavior.

I miss that.

Medicated Part One

A few years ago, in March, I sent a cousin several birthday cards. It would have been a sweet gesture except that each card was exactly the same. And her birthday is in July.

My defense was that I was medicated.  

I was trying a new anti-seizure medication for pain-control, and the side effects were dizziness (Whee!), drowsiness (Yawn…) and brain fog (Who is this cute man in my house, and why does he keep calling me his wife?). My doctor warned that it takes a while to adjust this particular medication and that I might act a bit strange for a month or two. Of course, with me, how could one tell?

One morning, I woke to find myself with a nearly-empty cereal box on my lap cramming granola into my mouth with both hands. There were empty wrappers on the bedside table, evidence that my binge hadn't started with nutty oat clusters. 

Another morning, I tried to take a dose of the new pills and at some point lost consciousness. I didn't pass out, I just checked out. When I found myself back in reality, I was leaning on my elbow staring at the medicine bottle. It was filled to the brim with water. 

Incorrect

Something seemed wrong, and I realized that I had to get the water off the pills immediately, but instead of pouring the water into the cup conveniently located on my nightstand, I poured half of the water directly on the nightstand.
 

Also incorrect

That also seemed wrong, so I dumped the remaining water on the bed. 
 

Surprisingly, this, too, was incorrect

I reiterate; I was drugged.

At that point, I knew I was incapable of rationally dealing with the situation further and woke Jay. He patiently took over, spread the capsules out to dry, and cleaned up the nightstand. He left the soggy bedding alone. He figured it would dry on its own, and, after all, it was on my side of the bed.

Jay tried to put a positive spin on my actions. He said, pragmatically, "You came up with viable options. Not normal options, but options, nonetheless." He added, benevolently, "You were thinking outside the box!" 

To this I replied, "What box?"

Then I went back to sleep.  (To be continued next week. It gets worse. Much worse.)


Verse of the day: (Matthew 9:36) "When (Jesus) saw the crowds, He had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless..."  I know the feeling.