A Girl's Best Friend is Not Her Diamonds

Last night, we had to rush our sweet beagle to the emergency vet clinic.  It was probably one of the scariest things I've ever had happen.  I was in the kitchen getting dinner ready to put in the oven, when I heard a loud thud in the other room.  When I walked into the living room, D'Artagnan, our beagle (yes, he is named for a character from The Three Musketeers - the book, NOT the Disney movie), was writhing around on his back, awake but unresponsive, and completely not in control of his body.  I was terrified, alone, and armed only with my iPhone, with which I promptly attempted to locate the nearest emergency vet clinic.  The closest one was in Manhattan, just over the bridge, which might as well have been an hour away with no car.  It's times like these when I horribly miss having a car.  Public transportation is great until you are hit with a true emergency.


After a couple of minutes, he seemed to come back to himself somewhat, responding when I said his name and regaining the voluntary use of his limbs.  The whole time I kept thinking, "Man.  I am Awful in a crisis."  I was a total mess, sobbing uncontrollably and, for lack of a better phrase, freaking out.  I tried to mutter soothing comfort to my poor dog, who was obviously scared as well, not knowing what on earth was happening to him.  I'm sure my tension probably only added to his stress.


We met the Hubby on his way home as we were making our way to the train.  At this point, it seemed like the worst was over; Dart seemed better, he was able to walk, and he seemed to have his senses back.  Our hope ignited, we thought we might just take him in to the vet the next day.  That idea was short-lived as we realized the minute we walked back into our apartment that he was having another attack.  Thus, we packed up and headed to the emergency vet clinic.  Damn the train!  We were taking a taxi!  I had wrapped him in a towel to keep him warm and in case he had an accident, but I was still anxious that a cab driver would take one look at the dog and blow past us with an unfriendly shrug, or, even worse, complete indifference.  Due to the lack of taxis cruising around our Queens neighborhood, we were forced to take a car service, which I hardly ever do since they ALWAYS charge exorbitant amounts.  This, however, was an emergency, and I was compelled to lay aside my "yellow cab vs. car service" prejudice.


When we reached the animal hospital, they took him right back to do tests, monitor him, and ultimately thwart another episode should one arise.  As we waited, I played a lot of the "what if" game.  What if I taken him in sooner?  What if he had another attack?  What if this was in reaction to something I had done or not done?  What if he died?  That last "what if" was definitely the kicker.  Dart has been a member of our family almost as long as we have been married.  We raised him from the time he was six weeks old.  What would a life without him in the world be like?  I know pets don't live forever, but for some reason, we seem to take them for granted, thinking they will always be there, tail wagging and waiting at the door when we come home from work, stealing unmentionable things out of the bathroom waste basket, and eyeing our dinner askance while pondering the best strategies of getting said dinner off of our plates and into their furry little tummies.  My dad would say, "Remember, he's just a dog," and I know he's right, but he is MY DOG.


I am writing this right now with a warm little beagle body nestled against me on the couch.  The Hubby and I were able to bring him home, but the waiting continues to find out what is causing him to be sick. In any case, this latest misadventure in our lives is definitely a lesson in mindfulness, a reminder to not take things, people, and a girl's best friend (I am referring to her dog, not her diamonds) for granted.

Carrying on in the Midst of the Smell

I actually had two auditions in the last two days.  They were my first auditions in the past... oh...let's say couple of months.  It was definitely good to get back in the game, as it were.  Especially considering I've been having a slight meltdown over the last few weeks.  I've been having moments of slightly-past-quarter-life-crisis, in which I stand in the back of the kitchen of the restaurant, sneaking toasted almonds from my secret stash and polishing silverware with my tears while bemoaning the fact that I wait tables for a living in spite of having a Master's degree.  Not that there's anything wrong with waiting tables as a profession.  Some people are never happier than in the hustling and bustling environment of a busy restaurant.  I, dear reader, am not one of those folk.  I chose waiting tables since the schedule is flexible (for auditioning purposes), and the pace tends to be quicker than that of, say, retail, which I did for two and a half years before grad school.  Retail made me to want to stab my eyes out with a pencil rather than go to work one more day.


It was retail that brought me to my original quarter life crisis, the one that prompted the journey to obtain my Master's in the first place.  I remember it was New Year's Day, and as per our  tradition, the Hubby and I were analyzing our places in the world - together, professionally, creatively, figuratively, etc.  We both were wondering what exactly had happened to the past few years.  You know those years.  The years between college and the Now.  Well, that heavy duty conversation, in which I revealed that retail was making me die a little more inside every day, led us both to pursue furthering our educations, and, ultimately, guided us here - to a tiny apartment in a city that often smells strangely of feet and pot, thousands of miles away from our families and any semblance of decent weather (except yesterday which was glorious and curiously out of place for February), and a day job that frequently makes me long for a "normal" life with a paid vacation, 401K, and a house - a house that I own and in which I don't live above my anxious Italian landlady who refuses to allow us to use the brand new washer and dryer in the basement for fear of the "wear and tear" it will cause.


I've been reading a lot lately on patience and contentment, definitely not my strongest characteristics.  I am hoping that some revelation will lodge itself in my psyche, causing me to be at peace with my situation.  Not complacent, but less prone to hide in the back of the kitchen eating contraband almonds and shaking my fist at the sky while silently screaming, "I have a Master's damn it!" (in full Shakespearean voice of course).  Guess I'll just have to wait and see.  For now, I'm trying to remember to be grateful for the auditions, my landlady, and the overpowering smell of feet and pot.


P.S.  When the Hubby read this entry, he promptly responded with this little ditty.  Maybe you'll enjoy it as well. Cheers!