Son of a bitch

I just spent two and a half hours writing a 1500-word post and the computer crashed and the draft on Squarespace was blown away. My own damned fault for not putting it in Scrivener, the writing software I use, and which never blows anything away, but I thought it would just be a quick update and then it dragged on. you know that feeling of having been way too tired for way too long, and then your goddamned computer screws something up for you and you'd like nothing more than for a meteor to drop through the roof on you or one of the right wing snipers out there fantasizing about nailing a libtard finally getting to use the .338 Lapua he's been cherishing for just such an occasion? Come on, everybody knows that feeling.

The post went into detail about how Roo has been feeling. I don't have the strength to rewrite it. I had to go the urgent care tonight for some infection or who knows what that I've been putting off but couldn't any more. Roo, in her capacity as ride-along dog, of course came with me and waited in the car. The picture is of her on the way. She went insane today trying to dislodge some sort of sea-faring rodent from underneath the bank of a lake and in the course of her excavation reached new levels of filth that even Roo might not have experienced previously. Her coat was filled with thousands of gritty particles that were in all likelihood remnants of ancient civilizations that might have rewritten everything that is know about Early Man had Roo not gotten to it ahead of a team of archeologists. That bit of the History of the Planet was hosed off back at the campground.

She's been seeming fine, a little tired, maybe, with two days of being back to normal, starting after I posted last, but then suddenly getting nauseous again, eating grass again, not throwing up, having a so-so night, me up with her the whole time the last two nights, and certainly tonight again, though she was sleeping and I was just worrying whether her snoring was actually groaning. In the meantime she's tired in the morning but then runs around like the mad dog she is, having fun, hunting, murdering, removing creatures from the holes they were quietly enjoying, shaking them to pieces and placing them in the holes she has chosen for them to spend eternity in. Then, today, soft stool again. As I write, she is bugging me for something to eat and is either moaning to complain about that or because her belly hurts. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can't really tell. She's bored and hungry. Especially, though, she's been disgusted by the way her diet has gone the last ten days. No fatty stuff at all, other things she misses. I'm not really sure how to recalibrate her entire diet, but that's going to have to be next if she does indeed have pancreatitis. 

In the morning we drive the 140 miles to Tulsa to see the veterinary internal medicine specialists. I hope we get some answers, because this thing dragging for so long can't be much fun for the Kahoo and it's really starting to worry me. I mean, really. Poor Bearface. Do you think she's worried? At least dogs don't know about cancer. And something's got to give, anyway. The exhaustion, the living in this little box—it's all too much now. I can't take it any more. Maybe the two of us have just had it. Life is a long sequence of tasks designed to satisfy a finely tuned cascade of financial demands precisely timed to drag out just long enough to wrest everything away from you. When you're worthless enough, you die.

The picture is of Roo on the drive to the ER tonight. She looks as healthy as she ever has, though she is getting some of that cute grey fuzz on her muzzle. that should be the sign of wisdom. In Roo's case, it is the sign of having grey hair on her muzzle. This question of what's going on in her gut is driving me the short remaining distance to crazy.

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