Wednesday night I thought I might swallow an entire container of Atavan and fall asleep in my hot tub and drift off to the big spa in the sky.
The day began with a dog walk. That was fine. Then I left for the ferry for Nanaimo and went directly to the vet’s. Total bill to date: $3,800! Poor Ethel. She’s been through so much. I drove as quickly as I could and missed the first ferry by one car. I had to wait another hour with poor Ethel howling.
As soon as I got home, I cancelled next Monday’s trip to Vancouver. I’m a wreck. The stress of the past few days has me barely coping. Sheba’s eye infection exploded, Fred has disappeared and caring for Ethel is non-stop right now. It’s as though my birthday didn’t happen.
Fred emerged very late in the evening. He was in the house hiding the whole time. I thought he’d gotten out when I brought Ethel in. I’d been feeling sick and processing losing him when he came down from the loft. I was absolutely thrilled to see him, but something was wrong.
He hisses and growls at poor Ethel whenever he sees her. He’s totally freaked out. There are signs he scared of her and that he hates her. He returned to the loft and he stays there except to come down and to periodically be a shit. I just don’t get it.
I do nothing but watch the three of them. A fight would be disastrous; he is twice her size. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.
I went to bed a mess, happy to escape into dreams. “One day at a time,” I think to myself. “Thursday will be better,” I tell Sheba. “We’ll get through this,” is my mantra. It comes to mind every ten minutes. I
knowhope that down the line, all will be well again.
I reached out to every pet sitter I know but they are all busy. I will have to do this on my own.
It’s now Thursday morning and no one is happy. Ethel is, perhaps, in the best shape. Fred is prowling around growling and hissing, Sheba is outside pissed at my lack of attention and I want to get out of Dodge. At least Fred hasn’t attacked Ethel and Ethel’s wound is still closed. Plus: I got her medicine into her and I feel I can endure the day. And tomorrow.
One hour at a time.