Pickles & Dimes

Last week, a day after we returned from camping, Shorty developed a runny eye. We thought maybe he scratched it playing with the four other dogs that were camping with us, but once his eye got redder and he looked more and more pitiful, I made an appointment with the vet.

It turns out he has an eye infection, which the vet determined after putting eye drops into Shorty’s eyes (gah!) and looking at them with a fluorescent light, which made them glow a bright, demon-dog green. It looked like the poor dog was crying radioactive tears.

The vet then told us we could treat it by putting a strip on his eyes 2-6 times a day for 7-10 days. That’s exactly how he put it: “a strip.” And Jason and I are both idiots apparently, because we both assumed that meant we had to put some sort of strip of paper onto our trusting dog’s eyes, the dog who was attempting to conceal himself under one of the small exam room chairs all, “Nothing to see here, folks. I believe there may be a little kitten outside who needs veterinary assistance, but I’m all good here, thank you and goodnight.”

“So…what happens to this…strip?” I asked, wondering if maybe the medicine was on a paper strip that dissolved.

“It just disappears into the eye,” the vet replied, looking at us like we were stupid.

“So how do we put it on the eye?” Jason asked.

“You just place the strip on the eye without touching the surface of it,” the vet said, clearly wondering how we were capable of keeping this dog alive, you know, because of our idiocy.

“Could you show us how to put the strip on the eye?” we asked, clearly not understanding this process at all, and did I mention we were supposed to do this 2-6 times a day for 7-10 days?

So a vet tech came over while we held a scrabbling Shorty in place and put a strip (of gel!) in each eye. Gel, strip of. Do you think they could have mentioned the word “gel” at any time during our conversation? No.

Anyway, because Shorty is a dog made out of obedience, trustfulness and love, he sits calmly in my lap while Jason pries open his eyelids and puts the strip (of gel!) on his eyes three times a day. He doesn’t fight us, he doesn’t move, and the whole thing takes less than 30 seconds.

And then he gets a piece of baked hot dog.

That’s how much Shorty loves hot dogs.

There has been significant progress made in the Canine-Feline Space-Sharing Treaty talks.

Jason and I just cleaned the house a few days ago. And yet the pets are finding ways to either get dirty or point out my sloppy housekeeping.

Shorty crawled under our bed for no reason other than to collect all the dust bunnies in his paws to distribute evenly throughout the house where they could be spotlighted by the sunlight.

Sunny went bug hunting in our unvacuumed sliding door track, developed half of a cartoon villian mustache, and then got visibly upset when we kept laughing at her.

And Abby made sure to keep changing positions on the couch so that she could cover every cushion with fur.

It’s a losing battle, people.

68, 69, 70, I count out loud, huffing with exertion. I finish the path and review the expanse of yard, a white canvas waiting to be broken.

This is absolutely ridiculous, I think, as I start again. Stomp, flatten, stomp, sink, flatten. I try dragging my leg through the snow but the top layer’s frozen, a crusty ice shelf covering my own backyard Antarctica. Back to stomping. I speed up my process. Stompstompstomp. My legs burn. It’s like trying to sprint through quicksand. Again, I think: Ridiculous.

I intersect the second path with the first and retrace my steps, making it more compact. I’ll have to go over it a few more times before it’s solid, but for now it’s a start. The sun reflecting off the glittering snow has made me sun-blind. It’s cold out, yet I’m sweating. My nose is running. My boots are full of snow, my pants clinging coldly and wetly to my legs.

Shorty sits primly on the ice-lined deck, watching intently. “This is for you, buddy!” I yell from the far corner of the yard, as he yawns and licks a paw.

I’m doing this because a few days ago Shorty was trying to chase a rabbit and kept falling in the snow. He’d leap, land on the snow, try to take a step and then just sink. Jump, sink, jump, sink. The rabbit was long gone and when Shorty came inside, his back legs were scraped and bleeding from the serrated snow.

“Totally stupid,” I mutter, as I stop stomping and start using my hands to remove the giants chunks of snow from my manmade avalanches, tossing aside gigantic pieces that look like the state of Florida, New York, Africa.

I spend 45 minutes making a dozen paths, Shorty’s personal trail system. A single path around the perimeter of the yard, with shortcuts interconnecting everything. This way to your bathroom spot! Rabbit Scent: 200 yards! Joggers on the left; walkers on the right! Scenic Vista: 40 yards!

“That’s enough for today,” I say, winded, as I come up the stairs to go inside. Shorty starts to follow, then suddenly turns around and sprints back outside.

He stops, looks at me with his head cocked, and then runs around his newly made freedom.