An Aries (Who Knows Some Stuff)
Current Photo Friday theme: Pet
This right here is someone I like to call Oh No, I Would NEVER Keep You Awake All Night With My Crying and Barking.
Tyson sleeps in a crate at night because he can’t be trusted not to make an appetizer of electrical cords. This is never a problem at Tim’s. Thursday night when Tim went in the hospital, Tyson and Rex stayed at Tim’s with Greg, and Greg said Rex was fine, but Tyson had a little trouble falling asleep. Since Tyson was going to adoption day on Saturday, we moved his crate over here and he spent Friday night with us. He whimpered a few times, but nothing serious. Saturday night, I didn’t put them in their crates until 4 a.m., and they were too tired to care. Sunday night, Tyson barked and cried all night long, so Monday night, I just shut all four dogs in the room with us and let them sleep uncrated because I was too exhausted to listen to him.
When I told Tim what was going on, he said Tyson was upset because he couldn’t SEE us. So we moved Rex’s and Tyson’s crates into our bedroom, intending to let the boys sleep in their crates and Margot and Guinness sleep with us (as usual). This left us with only a small path to move through our bedroom, plus we have to keep one of the bedroom doors closed to make room for a super size crate. But we don’t care because it worked. The barking and crying stopped.
Now Rex and Tyson actually want to get in their crates, but they keep getting taken over by squatters. Today, I intended to do a bunch of stuff, including taking a nap. Guinness and Margot stretched out together in Rex’s crate, Rex curled up against my back, and Tyson had my legs pinned down in case I tried to escape.
He needn’t have worried. When I went to the hospital early this morning, Tim looked fantastic. While I was there, they moved him out of ICU and into a room. He’s on serious pain medication and is very sleepy, so I’m staying away in hopes that he can get rest. He’s doing really, really well. Later, I’m taking back his gum, Jolly Ranchers, phone charger, jammies of his own to wear, and whatever else will fit in my backpack.
Yesterday, I spent most of the day looking at this:
Except sometimes when the door would open and I’d see things like this:
Tim isn’t visible behind a curtain at the end of that long hall, but I could see his anesthesiologist and assistants giving him his thoracic epidural. A few vertebrae lower, and he could have given birth.
Speaking of babies…
That’s the baby from the King Cake Greg brought us last week from New Orleans. They can no longer put the baby IN the cake (lawsuits!), so they sort of stick it under the cake. Anyway, I didn’t eat so many slices of King Cake because it was delicious and I’m a hog. I did it to find the baby. Except Greg found it. Now the baby can find YOU something to be happy about–OTHER than Tim’s recovery and Tyson’s restful nights–from this book if you comment with a page number between 1 and 611, and another number between 1 and 25.
In 2007, when Tim was in the hospital, he let me take a few photos. When I was in his room Thursday night, going through a bag he usually hauls around with him, I found his camera. When my eyes lit up, he said, “NO.” But if you ever think I’m a wonderful friend, let me dispel that with what I did when he was helpless while phoning home yesterday:
His room looks over the entrance to the Houston Zoo. If anything escapes, we’ll be in the perfect spot to watch the drama unfold. He also has a view of the downtown skyline. At least he does if he sits up, scoots down, and can focus through the pain (pausing for groan at the pun):
Apparently, X-rays show that his lung keeps trying to collapse again. This is the reason for surgery, which has now been rescheduled for Monday afternoon. They are removing scarred parts of his lung and assure him he won’t even miss them. Then they are attaching his lung to his chest wall so it won’t collapse again. It sounds like a good time to me!
I spent the afternoon with him yesterday and am about to see him again before Greg’s signing. Friday evening, Rhonda and Lindsey arrived at the hospital with Greg and a care package containing movies, gum, magazines, and an electronic device with some word games (which he told me on the phone last night he likes). After he received the wrong dinner (all liquids), they finally delivered a cheeseburger and fries. I don’t know if it was any good, but he scarfed it down. We left him in good spirits, considering. I know it was nice for him to see something other than hospital walls and my old face for a change.
Note to Tim stalkers: There’s a policeman stationed outside Tim’s room 24/7. We suspect one of his roommates may be entangled with the law in some way. Tim really should write a group of short stories detailing the colorful cast of characters he’s met on his two stays in this hospital.
I arrived home last night to the best evening ever. Greg had spent the afternoon making his fantastic potato and leek soup. Rhonda and Lindsay and Tom made a big salad. All the dogs were fed and happy. We ate, watched Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist, and Lindsey baked cookie brownies which she and Tom served up hot with scoops of Blue Bell vanilla ice cream. I suspect we had a better night than Tim. Well, most of us did. Then there were the ones who don’t understand why he doesn’t come home:
Sad Rex curling up next to Greg.
Tyson ignoring toys.
For those who asked, you can send cards to Timothy J. Lambert, P.O. Box 131845, Houston, TX, 77219. Thank you again to everyone who’s been checking on him.
…and shooting photos of random items before I put them where they belong?
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
William Shakespeare, Henry IV
Hmmm. This looks like the Leaning Tower of Cake. But it wasn’t really leaning. Nor were we on board a listing Love Boat, hearts notwithstanding. We were at The Compound. Clearly, I don’t know how to hold my camera. Monday was Lindsey’s birthday, so this is the heart cake I made for our celebration Tuesday night.
Note the nod to Mally the Duck among her gifts. I was initially calling this one Mally, as well, but I think his name is Honor. At least I heard someone–maybe Rhonda?–say, “Honor the Duck.”
Kipper in Oklahoma says that reading is hot.
Behind the cut, he has more photographic proof.
…you know I don’t do well with dog death. This is why, if a dog is a character in a book or a movie, my friends pre-read or pre-screen for me, or give me a “dead dog disclosure.” It’s why, one year when Timmy did not pre-read a book he gave me, after I finished it, I took a photo of my tear-and-mascara-stained face, then e-mailed the photo to him with a simple, “Thanks!” much to his remorse. (Don’t worry. I’ve forgiven you, Timmy.)
It’s why, when Lynne had bad news to deliver last week, she freely admitted to being a coward and calling Tim so he could tell me instead of calling me herself.
Though I’m sad that a wonderful dog has left our lives, there’s so much to be grateful for. We’d never have known him if his previous family hadn’t encountered a challenge. As much as they loved him and wanted him, their baby was severely allergic to him. Jess and Laura, even with two large dogs already in their home, made room for this gentle giant. They chose to keep him when their own newborn complicated logistics, although there was another home willing to take him. Laura said she just couldn’t let him go through another displacement.
So he stayed. He was nothing but good. Nothing but loving. Nothing but kind. In spite of his size and his big bark, he had the sweetest of natures. His name, which he already had when he came to Laura and Jess, is one of my favorite names. I’ve used it for two characters–one in an unpublished novel, and one in a just-published novel.
In his last hours, Lila played with him, laughing, falling on him, and burying herself in his thick coat. He loved the attention and understood that he was her guard and protector as well as her playmate. He embodied everything that is good and noble about dogs in general and his breed–bullmastiff–in particular.
Sam, you will be missed.
Artist Andrew Wyeth has just died at age 91. I was reading about his perspective on art a few months ago and stumbled over a quote that I wrote down:
You can lose the essence by detailing a lot of extraneous things.
I’ve always thought Wyeth’s paintings are the perfect illustration of a New England sensibility: spare, stark. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot going on. It’s the way I perceive that when someone from Maine answers a question with the affirmative “ayuh,” there’s a ton of unspoken (and intriguing) information behind it.
Contrast that to traditional Southern storytelling, which is rambling, expansive, with tons of details that seem relevant to only the speaker.
I struggle in my writing to retain the flavor of a Southern storyteller with at least a bit of a New Englander’s reticence. I can be the Queen of the Extraneous. I wish I could be a little more Andrew Wyeth.
The dog in this painting looks like Rex, who’s currently on bed rest from a possible torn ligament (playing too hard with his foster brother, so at least he got it having fun). I think he may have gotten a pickle last night, along with his pain medication. I hope so.
Sir Tyson, who is fostered by Timothy through the amazing rescue organization Scout’s Honor,
is happy when surrounded by toy carnage.
Tyson will gladly find YOU something to be happy about from this book if you comment with a page number between 1 and 611, and another number between 1 and 25. Unless, you know, you hate dogs, happiness, and America.