What a Holly Jolly Christmas

So my chinchilla, Scooter, had to be put on antibiotics because of a recurring wound on his foot. So far, so good. His vet prescribed him oral Baytril, which apparently tastes terrible, because Scooter wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. That's a pretty big deal, because this little dude loves medicine. Put a little bit of fruit flavoring in it and he'll lap it up for hours. Anyway, Baytril tastes so bad that a small minority of animals will go off their feed while on the antibiotic. And of course, Scooter was one of that small minority.

And unfortunately, when chinchillas don't eat, their gastrointestinal systems shut down and getting them started again takes four-figure vet bills. And so that's why we spent Christmas Eve rushing Scooter to an emergency clinic. He had to be hospitalized in intensive care while they ran the gamut of tests and injected him with fluids, and then hospitalized yet another day when he didn't markedly improve.

About a thousand dollars later, he's improved enough that I can take him home, though I'll have to force-feed him and pump a zillion different medications into his gut twice a day. He's looking better than he did before we took him to the clinic, but he's still not quite back to normal. Here's hoping he turns the corner soon.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Poor Gracie

I've written in the past about all the rules I have about parking my car so that I minimize the chances of someone denting my car with their door. I mean, I frequently park, back out, park, back out and then finally park while people stare at me. Whatever. I'm neurotic. I know that already.

Well it was all for naught, because my dear Gracie has a dent on her door from some asshole. To be honest, I sort of feel liberated...I still want to kill whoever did it, but after that first dent, well, I don't worry as much as I used to. I still worry, though.

Here We Go Again

You know, for a while I blogged and I hated it. But now, after a three year hiatus, I kind of miss it. It's funny how things work sometimes. I think it was good practice writing every day; I don't do nearly enough of it anymore and now I can barely pass a third grade essay exam. I'm at that age now that when it comes to your brain, the operative phrase is "use it or lose it."

Well, unfortunately, I have a lost a lot, because I used to write at an 8th grade level, AT LEAST, but now I can't even remember the word "plausible." Oh, aging. I love you.

Stay tuned, nonexistent readership.