Today. Was a doozy. Dingo grub had his weekly appointment with his wonderful and ever-so-helpful physical therapist (he has a mild case of Torticollis).
Notice his slight head tilt toward his right side? Torticollis. It also impacts his range of motion when turning towards the left. It’s not life threatening, so you can exhale. Baby is fine. Therapy is working wonders.
While she was here (yes, she does all of his work in-home, shout out to Tiny-K in Douglas County because they are incredible), Oren’s therapist couldn’t help but fawn over this boy and his cat. Oren was completely sprawled out on George, petting, tugging, tasting. You’ve seen the photographic evidence of these occasions. They are such endearing moments, even if George is trying to escape by slowly pulling himself across the carpet.
This is going somewhere that involves George. I promise. Stay with me while I stray. Michael and I made an early evening trot to the garden, and I suppose the baby came too. We pulled two more turnips, discovered one surprise zucchini, and treated our blighted tomatoes. Doug got sprayed with the hose and shrieked with delight. Then screamed when I turned the hose back on the veggies. Babies. Our walk home found us with a stroller full of turnips and a soaking and delighted baby.
Michael and I had planned this deliriously amazing meal. Fried catfish sliders with tangy slaw and homemade tartar sauce on pumpernickel rolls. Mashed root veggies (with fresh turnips) and dill. Sauteed zucchini. So, as those of you with children are aware, our evening slipped into a blur of tantrums and whining while I tried to cook. This is due to the law of child-rearing #4308b, that states: anytime a parent goes above and beyond (lentils or beans) to ensure the family enjoys a special meal from time to time, the spawn must act a fool about you preparing this meal. Such is life. I soldiered through the chopping and mixing and frying and rinsing while baby grub flailed about in his papa’s arms, imitating the creature we’d soon be eating.
This is where it takes a turn for ridiculous. Where it gets to that place of total surrender. Enter George. Our dear cuddly pony. He is sprawled on the kitchen floor, rather lethargic. I’ve sensed that he’s been “off” for a couple of days. I take a moment from whipping up the slaw, Orie-bore still going strong in the background with his insistence on doing everything or nothing, and I bend down to pet the poor beast. When a flea jumps off of him, straight for my leg. I kill this invader and inspect our cat’s lush coat. He is beyond infested. Ah. Hellno.
Cue panic. George is thrown outside, the pot of root vegetables is boiling over, my cocktail has melted it’s ice and is watered down, I am now directing Michael to figure out what we do about fleas, Michael goes into “I can feel them hopping on me” paranoia, and we try desperately to figure out how to keep dingo off the carpet, where surely there is an entire host of breeding fleas awaiting his tender thigh rolls. Deep breath. It can’t go more awry, there is a silver lining after all. Michael is yelling something about cedar chips and salting the carpet, which is largely inaudible over the frying fish. Oren has been cuddling, stroking, pulling, and burying his face in this cat all day.
Dinner was still incredible. Oren thought the fish was just okay, though he ate plenty of zucchini and bread. It was one of those meals where you can’t decide what to put in your mouth next. That good. Post dinner included a mad dash to get papa and Orebore out of the house so I could vacuum and pour salt on our carpets (this is going to act as a desiccant to the larvae) which I have to re-vacuum before said baby can crawl around in the morning. We’ve also placed shallow dishes of watery dish soap near light sources for the evening. In their stupidity, the fleas are going to be attracted to the light and jump right into our basins of soapy death. I have sat on the porch, pulling fleas off of our docile and mangey beast, combing out his flea dirt. I coated his neck skin in advantix. I had a second drink because the first one didn’t count, the ice cubes diluted it.
And now we are here, together. I’m eating (drinking?) a milkshake out of a cottage cheese container because making a milkshake in a pint glass just would not suffice this evening. Only a bucket of ice cream will do on evenings such as these. Sigh. Tomorrow we’ve decided to just rot at the pool while George’s fleas die and our home is slowly consumed by the offspring of survivors. Flea traps. Tomorrow we will buy flea traps.
Hoping your dinner ritual was purifying and joy-filled,