hope for penelope

We came home today to find that Penelope had gotten sick all over the kitchen and was completely disinterested in any form of food, including processed sandwich meat (which she'll gobble down, even if she is generally not interested in food as normal dogs tend to be). I've paged our veterinarian to call us back so we can talk symptoms and whether or not going to the emergency clinic is a wise choice, and K is curled up with her. She's completely lethargic, a small bounce up when we walk in; generally she's bouncing off the walls, so thrilled that we are finally home and let's play, play, play! We haven't even reached the one year mark of having Penelope in our lives. I now know what Kelly had been going through only a little while before, so worried was she at the sheer amount of waste, at discovering the snuffled through medicine cabinet. We don't know what this could be, but we hope, we hope she will pull through. I hate that we discovered this at 6:30, not so long after our own vet closed, and I hate that we're in such a small town because the nearest emergency clinic is forty five minutes away. And here I am, wasting my time, waiting for the pager to pull our vet to us. I imagine her out to dinner, with family, at a movie, doing something important, and here we are, feeling a little hopeless. K seems much more laid back about it, but I'm in a bit of a panic.


I remember when Gatsby snuck off. We had just gotten him a few months before, an adorable kitten, all fuzz and energy. He would sleep between our heads, nuzzled up against our noses.

(Above, a picture of him when he was just new to the world, K in the bathtub with him, so he wouldn't be quite so afraid. A piteous cry from his mouth.)

One day, we came home from work, and Gatsby was not there. We didn't notice at first in our large two bedroom apartment; often the cats tucked themselves in strange places. But just before bed, K asked where Gatsby was--we began a methodical search, through the apartment, then up and down stairs of the building, in the garage, and on. Nothing. Calling his name, desperately. We put up posters around the building before we fell asleep and left a message on the caretaker's phone. There was nothing I could do but cry myself to sleep, anxious for morning, hopeful someone had taken the adorable kitten in and left their own message on the machine, promising they had found a missing feline. Hours after waking, a caretaker knocked on the door, had found our cat in the dumpster room, afraid to come out, claws splayed, ears slicked back. K thinks someone sent him down the garbage shoot, but I am hopeful he simply was well timed in his creep down the steps. I hope it was dark, someone wasn't paying attention to the cat on the stairs. K's theory might be correct, which is very depressing indeed. And Gatsby is back with us, safe and dog-like in his devotion and behavior.


So now we just have to hope, as this is the same pit-in-the-stomach feeling, that Penelope will pull out of her nausea will dissipate and when we arrive at the vet's tomorrow, it will turn out she swallowed something easy, something that will pass without any more pain from her, and she will return to us in good health, ready to celebrate her one year anniversary of being in this household with camping.


And elsewhere:

Yearbooks have been distributed at my school this week; they leak into the classrooms and are shoved in faces, "Will you sign my...?" Sharp voices, thick blue book, actual journalism pressed between photos of happy teenagers, memories that seemed tedious then, but now that it's over, there is sappy nostalgia, much false, but there is genuine sadness lingering. Next week, I am sure, it will all be worse, and I have faith I won't cry as I go, alone in my classroom, if I can just manage two things: to be nearly moved out by the end of the day on Thursday (I'm so afraid of that last glance back) and for no one to say anything too sweet. It's the compliments from the department, the things they tell me that warm me and make me feel as if it is true (I will be missed) (right?). These are the things that will get that lump to harden in my throat.

So I have to think of this: Local High School [and] MFA (we hope). It is to be my Friday mantra. One week from today, one week from now, and I will be done with This High School forever. {gasp}

Still thinking about poetry, still on my mind. Still puddling in little circles of happiness over this.

Links of interest:
Poetry:
- National Parks Artist in Residence program
- Bryant Park Reading Series

Tomorrow: our main priority is obviously now the vet, but I also have a floral appointment in the morning and a wedding shower in the afternoon. Emily and I pig-piled a gift (and when I say this, I mean we made a lovely theme and filled a big ol' bag full of stuff from the registry, and this will be from us, and it was fun and hopefully fits what she is looking for), and Emily has it right now, so if I must remain in town, which I might with Pen being so unwell currently, I may have to miss it all. Kelly rain checked to Sunday. But really, I just want to make sure Penelope is on the road to wellness. I'm so afraid something horrifying is wrong; I love her too much, I think.



PS: Pictures with me in them courtesy of K, who cannot keep a steady hand and cursed me not telling him how to get the flash working.

PPS: Penelope and Zephyr are spending the night upstairs. I kept promising Penelope whatever she wanted, as long as she got better, so she's getting her wish (and K's wish)--she sleeps in our bed tonight. (I generally tell the dogs not to be upstairs so the cats can have a safe haven, but when we are feeling generous, or mean to the cats, I suppose, the dogs end up curled in our bed. I don't think I'll have room when I finally make my way up there!)

PPPS: The times on this weblog are way off. I have to fix that at some point. It's nearly midnight where I am from... I can't believe I made it this late after such a long week! Ah, three years ago, when nine o'clock was not bedtime but just before getting home time, where one o'clock was not the middle of the night but the end... I feel old, I think.