TG-EYE-Friday

Friday is supposed to be the best day of the week.
If someone could tell my family that, that'd be great.

                                       Meet Ryder Beau.
                                       German Shepherd.
Struggles with anxiety, abandonment issues, fear of change, and refusal to do what she's told. The dog version of me, basically.

Quincy May. 

Llassapoo.
Territorial, opinionated, semi-controlling, borderline intolerant, and struggles with general b*tchiness. 

The dog version of me on my period.

Bamberly James. 

Part Chinese Crested Powder Puff/Part Frat Boy A**hole.
Stirs up drama and then pretends to be confused by said drama. 

Soooo...Ron.

It's rarely a good thing when my dogs are the stars of the blog, but rat poison, dog fights, and roast thieving will occasionally land them here. When they earn it, they really earn it, so here we go.

Two weeks ago, I was having a pretty rough week. I kept telling my husband, "I can't wait until Friday." Our wonderful cleaning lady was scheduled to come and my day was going to consist of listening to true crime podcasts and solving unsolved murder mysteries, because somebody has to.

Twenty minutes before she was scheduled to arrive, I was listening to 'my stories', as I call them, and doing the pre-cleaning cleaning.
Women everywhere know exactly what I'm talking about. Nobody wants their house to look like it needs cleaned before the cleaning lady arrives, am I wrong?

Halfway through the unsolved murder of the day, I heard screaming. Wow. This podcast went above and beyond with the special effects background noises. I appreciate that.

If you're wondering why I didn't assume the screaming was coming from inside my house, it's because my husband wasn't home to cause any screaming inside my house, that's why. Just the 12 year old and the 3 dogs all asleep in my bed. Nothin' to scream about here, folks.

But when the screaming continued, I ran toward my bedroom. Caymen met me halfway screaming, "RYDER IS KILLING QUINCY!" Everybody calm down. Ryder wouldn't kill Quincy.

I ran into our bedroom as Ryder ran out and I saw Quincy laying on our bed. Oh sh*t. Ryder killed Quincy.

She was alive, but her right eye was bugging out, there was blood on our sheets, and poop all over the floor.

And I was worried about what the cleaning lady would think of dried ketchup on the counter. Psh. This is nothin, Jackie. Wait till you see our bedroom.

"WHAT THE CRAP HAPPENED HERE?!?"
Caymen: "Quincy wouldn't share the stuffed bunny."

Oh. Ok then. I'm sure the Vet will totally understand when he sees her eye and asks 'what the crap happened here.'

Let's go ahead and address what some of you might be thinking:
Ryder is vicious.
She's not. She's a gigantic fearful baby and that's why Quincy mothers her. The problem arose because neither of them realized that one could actually eat the other. Now they know.

But if you're still concerned, I would ask you this:
Who amongst us hasn't snapped when denied a turn with a stuffed bunny? That's what I thought.
And who didn't heed the warning of the raised back hair, hmm?
That's correct. So let's everybody keep the blame where it belongs.

Where were we? Ahhh. The Vet's office.
I politely asked the lady in front of me if I could please check in before her. One look at Quincy and she quickly agreed. But because nothing can be that simple, the lady interrupted my conversation with the receptionist to tell me that the dog she was holding lost all the feeling in his legs and she had to bring her coffee with her because she was in such a hurry. I could only stare at her because sometimes God renders me speechless for the safety of others. This was one of those times.

I sat in one of the 15 EMPTY chairs in the waiting room and if you're guessing that the weirdo with the coffee and her numb-legged dog sat in the chair directly beside me, you win the big prize. I looked at her and the guardian angels over my mouth permitted me 3 words, because she totally deserved it.
"Could you NOT?"
She quickly moved over one chair, but before I could go rogue and say all the other words that suddenly came to mind, the Vet appeared and called me back. My angels were on full alert that day.

I put Quincy on the table, had barely begun to explain our lapse in judgement of having 2 female dogs and only one stuffed bunny, and the vet said "We need to knock her out."
Knock her out? Because she wouldn't share her damn bunny?! Has she not suffered enough consequences?!?

Then they gave her a shot in her leg, her tongue drooped out of her mouth, and they went to work.

I didn't even have time to put my hands behind my back so they wouldn't accidentally give me the shot, which is what I always do when they give our dogs their rabies vaccine. Not that they've ever come close, but the thought of them shooting me up with the vaccine of my number one fear is too much to bear. You'd think receiving the vaccine would seem like a wise preventative choice for me, but surprisingly it doesn't. Neither does having me knocked out on the table beside Quincy with my tongue drooping out of my mouth, but that's what almost happened when he took her face in his hands and popped her eye back into the socket and then shaved her head and began putting stitches in it right there in front of me.

Oh lawd, I see funny colors and why do I smell toast?
This is now the second weekend in a row where I've stood over someone in my family getting stitches in her head, so my therapist will have to be tagged in. I have my limits.

Twenty minutes later, they said I could take her home, he was confident she'd regain vision in her eye, and he assured me that life would go back to normal in a week.

He was right.
Exactly one week later, my phone broke and we went to the local AT&T store to get a new one. Ron parked in the strip mall and while he was getting out of the car, I walked into the store. The guy behind the counter asked if he could help me and I explained that I need a new phone, but we needed to wait for my husband because he handles everything for me. Then Ron opened the door and said, "You're in Game Stop. AT&T is next door."
And that's why he handles everything for me, and why feminists hate me, as they should.

Later that night, he was outside on our driveway using his coyote caller when the neighbor texted and asked if our dogs were inside because her boyfriend was outside looking for the coyote. EVERYBODY. STAND. DOWN.

I get lost and Ron gets mistaken for coyote.
What the Vet doens't know is that 'back to normal' for us isn't necessarily a good thing.

TGIFriday, everybody.
It's gonna be a good one.
I know that because we're not leaving the house...just us and our two stuffed bunnies.