Monday, October 7, 2013

Of Slips and Walks.

Last week was a very, very long week.

Mr Wrath has a slipped disc. Medicine doesn't seem to even touch the pain, and his recovery has been slow going. Right now the pressing issue is that he can't sleep for more than an hour at a time. He's bearing up better than I would in his position. I'm a wimp. As proof, I offer up these two examples:
- in an act of solidarity, on Wednesday I did some of the simple back stretches he's undertaken to alleviate his pain. And I hurt myself. My pain was no where near what he felt, but it was enough to make me cry.
- a pair of vise grips richoted off my front teeth. And I cried.

More about that latter point:

After seven days of undertaking nearly all of Fogo's four daily walks, I was done. This is an admittedly ridiculous number of walks for a dog, but in her puppy-hood it was necessary. Mr Wrath habitually took the early morning and the evening shifts. I took the boys along for the lunch hour walk and went solo for her late afternoon walk. It amounted to at least 2 hours of exercise a day for her. I don't mind taking over Mr Wrath's morning dog duties, but it was the night time walk (which usually involved prying the dog off the chesterfield and dragging her outside) that sent me over the edge. I want to be in pajamas at 9pm, not standing around in a reflective jacket by the road hoping she would be inspired to have a bowel movement.

Our intention was to dog-proof our fence this summer. Wait. That is slightly misleading. The plan was to Fogo-proof the fence, as best we could. The fence worked just fine and dandy for the 9 years when the yard was the domain of our original dog, Falafel. But Fogo jumped over or climbed under it when the mood struck. Mind you, we knew that the new fence was not going to deter her from taking herself for a walk. It was mostly going to be good PR. "I'm so sorry that Fogo ran passed you, through your open door, chased your dog around your living room, and then ran downstairs to roll around in the clothes piled in your laundry room. Our yard is fully fenced now. We're trying our best." I could see myself saying. And yes, this is an example pulled from real life.

 It was the construction of this new fence that lead to Mr Wrath's slipped disc. The recovery time for a slipped disc means there's no way the fence will be finished before the snow falls. This week we decided the best compromise was a sturdy overhead trolley system. This way I can send her outside for pee breaks. She'll have a 10m+ long area to roam and will always be visible from the kitchen. Plus it won't let her approach  her favourite restaurant  the compost heap. And I won't need to go outside at 9pm. Yesterday, with Mr Wrath's guidance we set it up.

I was putting a wire eye lag into a post when the vise grips I was using slipped off the bolt and out of my hands. Straight into my front teeth. While I was standing on a ladder. By the time I stumbled back to ground level so I could have a good cry, two searing threads of pain were radiating from the teeth, up my face to the bridge of my nose. Thankfully the teeth didn't chip. If I'm lucky the roots will heal, and I can eat non-mushy food within a few days.

Needless to say, the forthcoming week looks like an improvement over the last one.

4 comments:

  1. I don't know which is worse, back pain or tooth pain, but I'm so sorry! Ugh! I was cringing in sympathy reading this whole post.

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  2. Just a word to the wise: cats don't need to be walked. And what's some clawed furniture compared to that?

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  3. Oh, oh, oh! Ouch. Oh my. I think I am having sympathy teeth pain. OMG! The horror! ...

    Oh.

    I can't imagine.

    Vise grips.

    Teeth.

    I think I might ask to be put out of my misery in those circumstances.

    *shudder*

    And I really did shudder. For reals!

    I hope you feel better!

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  4. I'm also a terrible crier any time I get hurt. I can just tell my husband, through gritted teeth, is screaming "BUCK UP" inside his head. So you have my completely sympathy, and full endorsement to cry all you like. It's called for!

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