Yesterday, Artie started pooping blood.

It started off like a normal day, Artie body slammed the bed around 9am, chased the cats downstairs and waited for me to roll my lazy bones into some clothes and down the stairs. While I stumbled around the bathroom, he danced in anxious circles around my feet waiting for the magic words – wanna go bye bye?

The walk seemed normal enough. He treed a few squirrels, chased a cat or two over a fence and tried to eat a couple of gardeners. About ten minutes into the walk, he assumed the squat position. Like a dutiful owner, I always bring a bag. When he was done, I scooped and we continued on our way. We only got another block before he was doing the hunching hieny again. This time, it was the runs. While I watched and contemplated whether or not to try and pick up that mess, I saw the blood. It wasn’t too much but it was noticeable. I decided to turn around a call the vet ‘cause I wasn’t going to take any chances. One more block and he went back into squat mode. Only this time, there was no poop, only a flow of mucus and blood. A lot of blood.

So by now, I’m panicking. We sprint home and I call the vet. It’s 10am and the first opening they have isn’t until 2:45. The next four hours were the longest hours of my life. The hardest part was that Artie seemed so fine. We was spatting with the cats over who got the sofa, snorking his food, and sleeping with his head resting in my lap just like always.

Now, I have never had a dog of my own before so this whole pooping blood thing really had me scared. In those four hours, I had convinced myself that he had some sort of inoperable intestinal cancer and would have to be put to sleep immediately. Just the idea of having to go through out the day without my dog, well, it was like someone stabbed an icicle in my heart.

You see, Artie has really turned into my best friend since I’ve started staying home. He’s my morning alarm clock, my exercise buddy, my lunch date and gardening pal. He follows me from room to room while I work on my crazy projects and reminds me to take a break and smell the roses. He’s my doorbell and security alarm. He’s, well, he’s really my shadow. I mean, right now he’s wedged under my feet snoring away. There are better places to sleep in this house than under the computer desk, but since that’s were I am, that’s where he’ll be too.

So it was with great trepidation that I loaded him into the car and drove to see the doctor (who was pretty cute by the way). He ran some tests and listened to his belly and told me that no, my dog was not dying from intestinal cancer. He merely had an upset tummy. Probably ate some cat poop or drank some bad rainwater. Just put him on a bland diet of rice and cottage cheese for a week and he’ll be as good as new.

I was astounded and relived. He’s always drinking stagnant rainwater and eating gross stuff so I’m not too surprised. The vet gave us some pills and sent us home, very relieved.

Today, the walk went great. Treed a squirrel, barked at a kid, tried to eat a mini-poodle, and had a nice blood free poop. Looks like the fat sausage is going to live after all. Oh yes, during the weight in, he was a whopping 96 lbs. At his rate, I may have to change his name to enormous sausage.

Our friends rock.

Over the weekend, we dropped the pooch with Kat & Josh and headed to Spokane to celebrate Aunt Arnie’s 50th birthday. The celebration was a blast and Kev got to mingle with the relatives which is a real treat. We don’t get over to Spokane often mostly because it’s a heck of a drive. Six hours each way of boring eastern Washington terrain. This time we were especially daring and decided to do the drive back-to-back. We left around 11am on Saturday, arrived at 5pm and headed straight to the party. Then we woke up and headed out at noon Sunday to drive back. We jammed 12 hours of driving and we were felling the pain. (Of course, all that wine/beer Sat night probably didn’t help much either!)

By the time we pulled into Portland around 7pm, I was tired, stiff, and my back was on fire. Poor Kevin had cramps in this arms and back from the drive. Since we don’t have cruise control on the little civic, he took a beating too.

The one bright spot on the horizon was heading over to pick up the pooch. We were dreading having to make dinner and unpack and do last minute errands so it was with much gratefulness that we accepted Kat & Josh’s dinner invitation.

This is where the rocking comes in.

When we arrived, we found a very mellow and happy dog, marinated chicken kabobs on the grill, and fresh baked cookies and ice cream. After a weekend of McDonalds and Burger King, we were in heaven. They popped a beer for us, settled us on the sofa, and let us unwind, relax, and gab with them and Josh’s father.

When we left that night, Kevin and I were all smiles and full bellies. I can’t think of a better way to unwind after a long and painful drive and Kat & Josh must of read our minds. There are many things I’m thankful for but after last night, these two awesome friends were sitting on the top of my grateful list. We love you man!

For those of you who don’t know, I suffer from a potentially life-threatening disease called EDDES. There is no known cure for EDDES as it appears to be hereditary. My father and grandfather suffer from EDDES and my sister may also have a mild case. Although painful at times, I think EDDES is most difficult for those who must live with the person suffering from this disease. My only hope is that some famous celebrity will be diagnosed with EDDES and it will then receive the attention it deserves.

I don’t know the scientific name for my condition but I have termed it Early Death Due to Extreme Stupidity. And yesterday, I suffered a major attack.

I’m suppose to be on vacation. You know, taking time off, enjoying the good life, kicking back and drinking beer. Unfortunately, due to EDDES, I decided to set myself on a break neck course for an early death. I was working on several projects for 10 hour days. After a cup of coffee and a mile walk, I’d throw myself into my project and wouldn’t look up until 5pm. Skipping lunch and always pushing myself are classic symptoms of EDDES. My poor body couldn’t take it and just gave up. My back, well, just crumbled under the stress.

Poor Kevin, he actually took me by the shoulders and began shaking me saying, “Now I know how your mother feels. You must take care of yourself. I don’t want you to die before me. You must take care of yourself!”

This last plea must have reached me because I dropped the paintbrush from my twisted hand and proceeded to collapse.

There is some crazy Terry curse I have inherited. We don’t know how to pace ourselves and slow down. Once we start something, we get this maniacal focus and go go go go go until it is done. So my dream to re-do a room in 5 days was, well, a tad ambitious. I mean, if all I wanted to do was vacuum and tidy up, no problem. But then EDDES kicked in and I attempted a major month long renovation by myself in under a week.

I know that EDDES is hereditary because my dad has it. He tried, at age 50 something, to re-roof his house BY HIMSELF. My grandpa Terry, at age 80 something tried to climb up a ladder and prune his tree BY HIMSELF. Both gentlemen fell. My father, luckily, had tied himself to the roof so instead of hitting the ground, he hit the end of his rope and swung back and forth in front of the bedroom window. My grandfather wasn’t so lucky and broke his hip on his fall. However, both of the gentlemen, clearly suffering from EDDES, came within inches of doing serious harm to themselves causing their wives and families significant stress and muttering.

And now, at the tender age or 20 something, I find that I too appear to carry this horrible disease. Yesterday, while trying to replant my entire yard by myself, I appear to have injured my back. So today, I rolled out of bed and, feeling better, I laced on my shoes and took the dog for our normal mile stroll. My back pain, much to my surprise, resurfaced. I was, honestly, planning on going inside to lie down but on the way in, I spotted my plants. They were scattered all about from where I left them yesterday. Some in pots, some not. Open bags of dirt and gloves and shovels all over. Before I know it, the EDDES had kicked in and I found myself squatting over the dirt, digging away. Kevin says if I end up in a wheelchair due to permanent back injury he won’t take care of me for the first month since I’m not listening to him. I don’t think he realizes that I’m in the grasp of a horrible disease and cannot be expected to control myself. I did, however, lie down for the rest of the afternoon and watch back to back episodes of Emergency Vets. Although I have not found any more dead birds in the house, you can never be too careful.

So far, the bird count is holding steady. However, while in the backyard working with the garden, I seemed to have managed to paralyze myself. I was bending over, shoveling dirt, when I heard this “pop” in my back. I think I may have broken it as I am unable to move the left side of my body without pain. Grrrr.

You will be glad to know that the dining room renovation is complete. I merely have to snap a few more photos to show my work. I’m thinking I may have missed my calling. It is quite possible that I am the next Michelangelo. I am a painting Goddess. I have decided to enroll in a painting class to further develop my clearly god-given talents. You doubt me? Just wait till you see the pictures. Basically, I rock.

Now, I must drag my broken body back upstairs to the sofa where I will lie until my spinal collum mends. That’s ok, I really only need to use the right side of my body anyway.

And the terror continues.

I just got up from my computer to get a coffee refill and found another bird carcass lying on the bottom of the stairs. This poor chick-a-dee had its head viciously gnawed on. My initial reaction was denial. “It was some other cat you killed the bird and came into our house. It just can’t be my angle kitties.” But Kevin says I need to face reality.

I’m harboring two bird killers.

I took some pictures of the dead bird carcass but Kevin said no one wants to see that sort of thing. It was kind of cool because I placed a coke can next to the body so you could get a “feel” for the bird’s size just like CSI. Am I cool or what?

I’m scared to go to bed tonight. What if they drag one onto the bed itself? All of a sudden, the idea of sharing the bed with Artie is looking better and better.

I suppose I should have known better. You see, every good story has a beginning, middle and end. Last night was only the beginning of the bird story. This morning, it wound down to its inevitable end. But I’m skipping the middle which is a most important part since it the there that we learn a Lesson.

The beginning you know. Little bird caught by big mean black cats and brought into the house. Last night before I went to bed, I placed a small amount of birdseed and a capful of water next to the bird. I was hoping a nice meal, drink and calming evening would help it take wing again. Yes, I am a sucker for animals.

Being a very hot night, I opened the windows and turned on the fan before slipping into bed. Now, you must understand that our bedroom is in a converted attic at the tippy top of the house. This makes it cold in the winter and hot in the summer. It is also two very long flights of stairs up from the basement and kitty door.

So at 5:05am this morning, Kevin and I were sleeping in bed with the dog wedged between us when we both shot upright.

We heard the chirp.

It was that same death chirp that tormented us earlier that evening. It was the sound of a small and defenseless bird being gnawed on by a cat. For the briefest of moments, I thought maybe it was outside and the sound coming through the windows. Kevin got up and turned on the light but saw nothing. It was eerily quiet and then.

CHIRRRRRRP!

It was definitely in our room and being attacked. I flicked a light on and instead of looking for the bird (which is very small) I began looking for a cat. And there she was. Baby Wicks was crouching under the desk, swatting at something.

Now, this being the middle and all, there’s a Lesson. And that Lesson is, Kevin is a wimp. Perhaps this was already known to some but early this morning, it was confirmed.

Picture it. Baby bird screaming, Wicks swatting, me yelling “get Wicks out of there!” and Kevin leaning over the whole scene saying, “stop it Wicks, go away!” Kevin later admitted to me that he was afraid to pick up Wicks for fear that she would scratch him. Yes, Kevin, who out weights Wicks by 50 to 1 was afraid of the cat. So I got out of bed and grabbed her. I threw Kevin a towel and told him to grab the bird but he couldn’t. You guessed it, he was afraid of the little baby bird. Sigh.

So I hunkered down and grabbed the bird and we all tromped outside. Last time, the bird looked a little rumpled but ok. This time, after being dragged up two flights of stairs by a cat, the bird was bleeding heavily on her side and totally unresponsive. So once again we placed her up high on the fence and went back inside. Having learned our lesson, we did return directly to bed. Instead, we went down to the basement and feed the cats Fancy Feast. While they were munching, we quietly locked the cat door to insure no more bird trophies for them.

And now, the ending. This morning when I went to take the dog on his walk, I checked the fence but no bird in sight. We proceeded around the block when Artie stopped dead in his tracks. I went over to investigate what had his attention and there was a dead bird.

All of my time spent watching CSI and Emergency Vets must have affected me subconsciously because I immediately cleared the scene of the crime. (This involved pushing the dog out of the way.) Next, I stuck my hand in the plastic bag I carry for picking up poop. (Don’t worry, it was empty.) Carefully, I rolled the bird over and inspected her. Same type of bird, same color and markings. The ants had found her and she had no eyes but I didn’t find any indication of rigimortous. (Do birds even get that?) With the initial inspection completed, I began to look for cause of death.

There, on the top of the skull was a bite mark. Clearly, this had been the killing blow because there was profuse bleeding from the fang bite and, as we all know, wounds inflicted after death don’t bleed.

With this last piece of information, I could proceed on my walk secure in the knowledge that my girls were not the murders of that bird. Some other cat must have found her and killed her. Relieved, I came home and unlocked the kitty door.

Last I saw them, they were hiding by the bird feeder, watching the little chick-a-dees with hungry eyes. Having tasted little bird blood, I think they might be hooked. Anyone know how to stop a cat from hunting birds? Yeah, I didn’t think so. I am, however, going to pay carefully attention next time the Emergency Vets treat a bird on TV as it may become important later on.