One man's old shit is some 25 year old's treasure.

I have always had the bad habit of infusing inanimate objects with emotions and memories. Whether it's a certain smell that takes me back to laying on those blue mats in Pre-K at Kids Kondo (my childhood daycare), or coming across a book that I adored and ending up transported back to the bedroom I had

This may not be a good thing....
My 6 year old bedroom was kind of horrendous.

when I was 6 years old, or going to Gram and Gramp's house for dinner, and having Gram's homemade shepherds pie, I am very easily sucked back into my past.

For some strange reason, I found myself confronted by a memory earlier today. It was of Gram's older than god Kirby vacuum. She got rid of it several years ago, and upgraded to a Dyson (I adore my Dyson, so I can only imagine she was happy with the decision... of course, I'm one of those weird people that really, really loves to vacuum).

Anyway, I found myself remembering Gram's old Kirby today. I'm guessing it was from the mid-70s. It was this monstrous thing that had to weigh a billion pounds, at least. It had this steel head with a light built into it, and a giant, itchy, uncomfortable, wool-like plaid vacuum bag. The rest of the damn thing was either steel or thick burgundy plastic.

Gramps, me, and my tiny, adorable Gram. 

The most hysterical thing I remember about this giant, heavy, monstrous thing was watching my 90 lbs, 5' nothing grandmother whip it around the house like it was nothing. She would flail it around, gathering crumbs that my grandfather scattered around the house like he was the guy that taught Hansel and Gretel everything they knew.

Not only would Gram vacuum like a boss, but she would haul that giant thing upstairs, to hit the bedrooms and hallway, and then down two flights of stairs so she could vacuum the den (they lived in a 2.5 story house).

Does anyone else ever just remember some random fixture of their childhood, for no apparent reason?

That random, unsuspecting nostalgia is always a bit off-putting, but entirely welcome.

Love to you, dears.

-L

From what I can recall, this is the giant Kirby that Gram had.
However, I haven't seen it since I was a kid. I had to go on memory,
and a Google Image search for "old Kirby plaid bag". 

One hell of a tail....

Oh, puns....

The past couple weeks have been trying, at best. For Labor Day weekend, I ended up going to Charleston on a last-minute trip. I stayed at a dog-friendly hotel, and had Lucy (my Dane) and Regan (my cattle dog foster) with me.

On the second day there, the huge, heavy door slammed shut on the end of Lucy's tail. She flipped her shit, jerked her tail out of the door, and screamed like a woman being stabbed. The door was still cracked because the skin she ripped off of the end of her tail was holding it open. I could see the bone of her tail, through the blood, and I thought I was going to be sick or pass out.

I took her back into the room, put her in the bathtub, and searched for an emergency vet. Then I walked her down the stairs (I didn't want her bleeding all over the elevator), and got her in the back of Honda. Every time she touched anything with her tail she screamed. There's still blood on the rear window of the car.

It took forever for the vet to actually see Lucy, only because it was a holiday, they were understaffed, and they just had a dog come in that was hit by a car. I ended up sitting on the cold floor, with Lucy, holding a rag on her tail and trying to comfort her. There was an older woman and her husband sitting nearby. They had their three-legged cat with them. She had to have a leg removed because of cancer, years before, and they were worried that the cancer was back. The woman was crying softly, as was Lucy, and the whole thing was tragic.

As freaked out and upset as I was about Lucy bleeding everywhere, and having her bone exposed, I was so grateful at that moment that she just had a (severe) flesh wound, and not dog cancer.

The woman and I chatted for a while. I managed to make her smile, and even laugh a bit, and I complimented her adorable three-legged cat. She told me Lucy was darling, and we kept one another company while we waited to have our babies looked at.

Once in the exam room, the vet tech tried to inspect Lucy's tail. She had a hard time of it. Then she wanted to take Lucy to the back, in order to give her a shot for her pain, etc. She ended up holding Lucy's leash with one hand, and leaning over at a 90 degree angle so she could also hold a hand towel on Lucy's tail with the other. It was kind of hysterical, actually... despite the circumstances.

When Lucy came back, she was high as a kite. She was wagging her freshly wrapped tail, and drooling, and just enjoying her drugs. Silly dog has never really been drugged, so I'm sure she was on cloud nine.

I had to leave her there overnight, because the surgeon wasn't going to be in until the morning. When I picked her up on Tuesday, she ran to me and just shoved her face into my leg. She wouldn't move or let up for several minutes, and was just so happy that I was there to get her that she even wagged her tail.

She's spent the past week being really mopey, and generally depressed. I had a trip planned for this past weekend, to the Georgia mountains, and I had to leave Lucy with a friend. I was so upset that I had to leave her behind. But I knew it was what was best for her. So I took Regan, and we had a phenomenal time. It was even better because the Broncos kicked the SHIT out of the Steelers on Sunday.

Lucy seems to be feeling a lot better, and isn't really chewing her nubbin anymore. And that's what's been going on.

Hope all is well, lovies.

-L