I went out with my adopted kid sister and her girlfriend last night. We decide Hibachi was the order of the evening so we went to Hinode. Hinode is kid sis’s FAVORITE place to eat and I must admit I do love the Hibachi Scallops.
As it was Friday, the place was packed. We were seated at a grill table with two older straight couples. The waitress did us a favor by placing us on the opposite end of the table, as it was immediately apparent the seven of us had nothing in common. These folks were very uptight.
The one older woman, who was wearing what appeared to be a dead poodle dyed brown around her neck, had this pinched expression on her face. It truly looked as though she had to go through life smelling a cat turd.
We settled in and placed our orders. The hijinx began immediately. I noticed a woman helping her elderly mother back to the Ladies’ Room. Grandma looked like she probably would have been able to get around fine if it weren’t for the seven inch wedge sneaker contraptions she was wearing on her feet.
I nudged Sis, “Did you SEE those shoes?”
Sis, being quite the shoe aficionado, whirled, “Where?”
I explained the woman had just gone into the Loo. So for the next five minutes our heads kept swiveling around every time there was movement in that direction.
Sis’s girlfriend quipped, “You two look like hyenas on the prowl for prey.”
Sis nudged me and said, “Yeah, you get the weak one.”
At the end of the table, Poodle Woman arched a contemptuous eyebrow.
When our chef came out, he looked like he was about 13 and said his name was Scott. Scott was about as close to being Asian as I am (and there’s a reason they call me the Irish Hand Grenade) and he was having technical difficulties with the grill. He informed us it’d be a few minutes before it would warm up.
At that moment, one of the older male codgers at the end of the table came to life. “What kind of Japanese name is Scott?” He said guffawing at his own comedic brilliance. It was my turn to arch the angry brow.
He continued to berate poor Scott until he changed Scott’s name to Chuck, because that sounded German. And THAT was HILARIOUS. Not so much.
Finally, Scott got to making hibachi and we all fell back into conversation. Sis started asking me about Portland, ME. I spent a lot of time in Maine during my straight incarceration. It really is a cool city.
I told Sis as much then warned, “But you don’t want to go this time of year. You’ll freeze your hooter scooter off.”
Why is it, just as you say something really provocative or embarrassing, when you think the noise of the restaurant will shield you, some how at that moment it just gets quiet?
Yeah. It got quiet.
Scott’s head whipped around, nearly losing his spatula and perhaps a zucchini, “WHAT did you say?”
Sis and her girlfriend were collapsed in gales of laughter. So it was down to me.
Sis made a joke about me not being right in the head. I followed it up with, “Well, the hospital GAVE me a PASS.”
Scott was cracking up. We were cracking up. The geriatrics at the end of the table were NOT amused.
They were now all eyeing us in that way some straight people do, when they realize they’re being confronted with The Gays. My friends and I don’t make a point of pointing out who we are but we aren’t ashamed either. We’re obviously lesbians and sometimes I think it really troubles people that we’re so OK with it.
Sis giggled, “They just figured us out … kind of. The one with that poodle thing is mentally checking through her Dyke Diagram and wondering where our flannel is but is convinced because we talked about dogs and there was a mention of a cat.”
I chortled, drawing more attention to us and cast my eyes down embarrassed. Then I looked right back up and smiled directly at Poodle Woman. There was a lot I wanted to say:
No, I don’t give a damn you don’t approve of me or my friends. I’d hate to live in that stuffed shirt prison you call a life. I laugh and I love and I know who I am which I’m gathering is a far cry from who you are. So pay attention to your own kind down there who’ve made just a big of an ass of themselves as we have and leave us be.
It was her turn to be uncomfortable and she did turn her attention back to her group. I guess the Irish Hand Grenade can still be menacing.
Scott was just relieved the attention was off of him for the moment and gave us some extra steak. I like that kid.
La Marmot
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Pride
I watched the last strands of sobriety drowning in my beer. Shifting on my barstool I offered up a prayer or made a wish, whatever would work, to please just make it stop hurting. Even copious amounts of alcohol weren’t making me numb.
It wasn’t even the brutal way she dumped me. Even before I’d met her in person, I knew she was trouble. Something in the way she cocked her head in her online photo, something in the way her emails read … I knew. I knew it was over before it began. Yet I couldn’t help myself.
I ran headlong towards all sorts of things that were bad for me then. I was smoking too much, drinking too much and loving someone completely incapable of loving me back. Somewhere, Logic was shouting very loudly at me that I was a complete idiot who needed to pull herself together. But Ego had turned Logic’s volume down.
Ego is a bitch.
I thought about pouring my heart out to the attractive bartender, but Ego had turned my volume down too.
Fortunately, Ego was taking a nap when I was talking to my therapist a few days later. I guess I’m a backstabber because I was running Ego down pretty good while she wasn’t around to defend herself.
Ego let me think I could make someone love me. Ego let me think I could keep being gay quiet from those who didn’t want to know. Ego let me think I could handle the eventual collapse of that house of cards. Logic knew better, but Ego wouldn’t listen.
“You’re awfully hard on yourself,” my therapist said.
Logic shrugged my shoulders and said, “I walked into this with open eyes. I knew I’d get hammered. I’ve no right to be surprised.”
“I’ll grant you that,” she said, “but you don’t think you deserve it do you?”
It was, of course, at that moment our time was up. I wandered out into the bright sunshine and behind the wheel of the car. As I drove, Emotion welled up and started clamoring for a vacation from all this.
Emotion, bless her heart, was battling my broken heart as well as Ego’s detachment from reality after I’d lost my job. Emotion had been working really hard to assuage grief and shore up Ego, but she was fighting a losing battle.
“Hiatus,” she whispered in my ear. “We need a break from all this.”
For a long time, I’d been thinking of just what I wanted to say to the one who broke my heart. Something more coherent and less full of vitriol than our last exchange. Logic and Emotion were both in agreement it would have no impact. It was, sadly, at that point Ego woke up.
I braced myself for the loud argument I was sure would ensue. But somehow, Logic and Emotion got it together and gave Ego an out. Put simply, it was time to say goodbye.
Time to say goodbye to unhealthy habits, unhealthy situations and unhealthy people. It was time to embrace the people, places and practices that were positive and supportive. It was also time grow up and stop expecting good things to just appear and work on making them happen.
The bad job was easy, it was gone and I was looking at a much greener pasture. I crumpled up my last package of smokes and shoved it in the trashcan. I sold some of that writing I’d been hiding on my hard drive. I made time for some of the people I’d been neglecting.
Logic and Emotion also came together to pen a letter to my heartbreaker. It wasn’t angry but not overly contrite either. Its most salient point was goodbye. I actually smiled when I hit send.
Ego had gone on permanent hiatus and Pride had taken her place. With the shadows of those dark days receding, I decided I was only going to try to focus on the things that filled me with hope and promise. I was only going to surround myself with the people who made me smile. I was only going to do the things that filled me with a sense of Pride.
It wasn’t even the brutal way she dumped me. Even before I’d met her in person, I knew she was trouble. Something in the way she cocked her head in her online photo, something in the way her emails read … I knew. I knew it was over before it began. Yet I couldn’t help myself.
I ran headlong towards all sorts of things that were bad for me then. I was smoking too much, drinking too much and loving someone completely incapable of loving me back. Somewhere, Logic was shouting very loudly at me that I was a complete idiot who needed to pull herself together. But Ego had turned Logic’s volume down.
Ego is a bitch.
I thought about pouring my heart out to the attractive bartender, but Ego had turned my volume down too.
Fortunately, Ego was taking a nap when I was talking to my therapist a few days later. I guess I’m a backstabber because I was running Ego down pretty good while she wasn’t around to defend herself.
Ego let me think I could make someone love me. Ego let me think I could keep being gay quiet from those who didn’t want to know. Ego let me think I could handle the eventual collapse of that house of cards. Logic knew better, but Ego wouldn’t listen.
“You’re awfully hard on yourself,” my therapist said.
Logic shrugged my shoulders and said, “I walked into this with open eyes. I knew I’d get hammered. I’ve no right to be surprised.”
“I’ll grant you that,” she said, “but you don’t think you deserve it do you?”
It was, of course, at that moment our time was up. I wandered out into the bright sunshine and behind the wheel of the car. As I drove, Emotion welled up and started clamoring for a vacation from all this.
Emotion, bless her heart, was battling my broken heart as well as Ego’s detachment from reality after I’d lost my job. Emotion had been working really hard to assuage grief and shore up Ego, but she was fighting a losing battle.
“Hiatus,” she whispered in my ear. “We need a break from all this.”
For a long time, I’d been thinking of just what I wanted to say to the one who broke my heart. Something more coherent and less full of vitriol than our last exchange. Logic and Emotion were both in agreement it would have no impact. It was, sadly, at that point Ego woke up.
I braced myself for the loud argument I was sure would ensue. But somehow, Logic and Emotion got it together and gave Ego an out. Put simply, it was time to say goodbye.
Time to say goodbye to unhealthy habits, unhealthy situations and unhealthy people. It was time to embrace the people, places and practices that were positive and supportive. It was also time grow up and stop expecting good things to just appear and work on making them happen.
The bad job was easy, it was gone and I was looking at a much greener pasture. I crumpled up my last package of smokes and shoved it in the trashcan. I sold some of that writing I’d been hiding on my hard drive. I made time for some of the people I’d been neglecting.
Logic and Emotion also came together to pen a letter to my heartbreaker. It wasn’t angry but not overly contrite either. Its most salient point was goodbye. I actually smiled when I hit send.
Ego had gone on permanent hiatus and Pride had taken her place. With the shadows of those dark days receding, I decided I was only going to try to focus on the things that filled me with hope and promise. I was only going to surround myself with the people who made me smile. I was only going to do the things that filled me with a sense of Pride.
Dykes with forks: I'm sick of Progresso Edition
I have cabin fever. After coming home from work early on Monday, I never made it out of the neighborhood on Tuesday. Oh sure, I got out to try and put ice melt on the driveway so I could drive to work. Which resulted in my falling.
But then, the mere act of waking up often results in my falling. I digress.
The weekend is upon us and I figure the rest of y’all have thoughts towards finally escaping the house, so I give you a very special Dykes With Forks, Dear God I’m Sick of Progresso Edition.
We’ll start with the bad news first. Usually, I give a restaurant at least two tries before I write it off entirely. This is not something I’ll do for Rivals Casual Grill on Glenstone. As the girlfriend says, “The food sure is bad, but at least it costs a lot.”
The girlfriend had ribs and I had a burger. We should have known we were in trouble when the ribs came out with a steak knife. Eek. Don’t know about y’all, but those of us what spent time in the South know ribs are supposed to just fall off the bone when you look at ‘em cross. These ribs darn near needed a chainsaw to separate them from the bone.
The bacon cheeseburger tasted a bit like barbeque-flavored sawdust with some strips of leather tossed on for color. The cost for our meal, with tip was about $35. As I said, I generally give a place two shots but given our waitress completely ignored us, couldn’t tell me what the beer specials were and seated us right in a draft despite the establishment not being too crowded … I’m not feeling too charitable.
The good news, Pan Asia on Walnut between Campbell and South rocks the cat box. The place is small, quiet and as yet doesn’t have a liquor license but the food is delicious and the prices are great. So far I’ve sampled the Ginger Chicken, the Chicken Pad Thai and the BoBon. All of which are phenomenal. The girlfriend has also had the Pad Thai and the Cashew Chicken. Her only complaint was the Cashew Chicken was a little too salty. We’re also big fans of their Crab Rangoons and California Rolls.
We’ve eaten there at least four times and the tab has never been over $30 with tip. Well worth the trip downtown and, given I’m getting old and crotchedy, the quiet atmosphere doesn’t hurt. Quiet that is except when I drag the lesbigaggle there … in which case there’s a racket.
But then, the mere act of waking up often results in my falling. I digress.
The weekend is upon us and I figure the rest of y’all have thoughts towards finally escaping the house, so I give you a very special Dykes With Forks, Dear God I’m Sick of Progresso Edition.
We’ll start with the bad news first. Usually, I give a restaurant at least two tries before I write it off entirely. This is not something I’ll do for Rivals Casual Grill on Glenstone. As the girlfriend says, “The food sure is bad, but at least it costs a lot.”
The girlfriend had ribs and I had a burger. We should have known we were in trouble when the ribs came out with a steak knife. Eek. Don’t know about y’all, but those of us what spent time in the South know ribs are supposed to just fall off the bone when you look at ‘em cross. These ribs darn near needed a chainsaw to separate them from the bone.
The bacon cheeseburger tasted a bit like barbeque-flavored sawdust with some strips of leather tossed on for color. The cost for our meal, with tip was about $35. As I said, I generally give a place two shots but given our waitress completely ignored us, couldn’t tell me what the beer specials were and seated us right in a draft despite the establishment not being too crowded … I’m not feeling too charitable.
The good news, Pan Asia on Walnut between Campbell and South rocks the cat box. The place is small, quiet and as yet doesn’t have a liquor license but the food is delicious and the prices are great. So far I’ve sampled the Ginger Chicken, the Chicken Pad Thai and the BoBon. All of which are phenomenal. The girlfriend has also had the Pad Thai and the Cashew Chicken. Her only complaint was the Cashew Chicken was a little too salty. We’re also big fans of their Crab Rangoons and California Rolls.
We’ve eaten there at least four times and the tab has never been over $30 with tip. Well worth the trip downtown and, given I’m getting old and crotchedy, the quiet atmosphere doesn’t hurt. Quiet that is except when I drag the lesbigaggle there … in which case there’s a racket.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Adventures in plumbing, or how to know she really cares
No Fiction for Your Friday this week, but in this case I think you'll find fact is far funnier than fiction:
I am not butch. Androgynous maybe, but butch not so much. I like shoes and cosmetics way too much to be a self-respecting butch lesbian. I am, however, that lesbian who feels empowered enough to try and fix the stuff that breaks around my house.
And as we all know, Harriet Homeowner always lands herself in hot water.
I am, of course, referring to the incident all those who know me refer to as “The Great Toilet Paper Caper.” For those of you new to my world, the story goes something to the effect of: I got it in my head I was going to change the toilet paper holder in our bathroom. I purchased the new hardware, got my tools and sauntered into the bathroom to be Ms. Fix It.
I got fixed all right … right between the cabinet and the commode. I had to lie on my back to get at the old hardware and through arduous torques on the screwdriver, wedged myself in. Of course, I did what any confident, independent woman would do in a situation like this. I freaked the fuck out.
The girlfriend was on the job in Joplin, not due home for several hours. My cell phone was precisely out of reach on the cabinet above me. Just as I was about to have a thermonuclear meltdown, the Hamdog wandered in and started licking my bare foot. It tickled. A lot. Which resulted in squirming, squirming to a degree I was able to wriggle free.
I solemnly swore not to undertake anymore bathroom projects. Even to the effect of studiously ignoring the fact that the hall bath toilet had started to run longer than it should when flushed. Basically, every third time it gets used, the lid has to come off the cistern and the ball has to be manually lifted.
I wake promptly at 4:45 a.m. every day to get the pooch’s food together, give him his shot and get myself ready in time to be at the job by 6:00 a.m. Needless to say, I’m less than alert at that time. This morning was no different other than the girlfriend was feeling a little puny and I wanted to let her sleep a little longer. After all, this is the woman who bakes me chocolate cake when I’m a crabby, premenstrual mess. She is to be kept happy.
So I was trying to be quiet. TRYING operative word.
I slipped into the hall bath, home of the runny toilet, to take care of some business in hopes of staying quiet. I then proceeded to go into our room to take a shower in the master bath. ( Why I thought it would be quieter to pee in one room and then shower in the room where she was sleeping is beyond me, but see above: not terribly alert.)
When I got out of the shower I could still hear the other toilet running.
“Well hell,” I said under my breath and walked briskly out, towel wrapped around me. I noticed the girlfriend was still sleeping. As I rounded the corner and heard water splashing on the floor, all pretense of being quiet left me.
I’m told I made a sound roughly like a wounded, off-key banshee as I saw over an inch of water running onto the bathroom floor and out into the hallway. The sound propelled the girlfriend out of bed. She later told me the one thought running through her head was, “Someone better be dead for this much damn racket.”
Sick, bleary-eyed and startled, I don’t think she was quite prepared for the naked, yelling maniac trying to sop up buckets of water with nothing but a pale lavender towel. But after living with me all this time, she’s become used to the roller coaster ride that is me pre-coffee.
“Just go finish getting ready. You have to go to work,” she said calmly.
Because one of the other things she’s learned being with me is the best way to stop a full on freak out is to get me distracted. Work was a buzzword for me this morning. My annual review was today.
Like a robot following a command, I abruptly turned and went right back to our bathroom to finish getting ready.
And this is one of the billion reasons I love this woman. Even ill and hardly conscious, she’s able to manage my insanity. If I could have her sainted, I surely would. But in the meantime, I think I’ll fix that toilet. Alert the authorities.
I am not butch. Androgynous maybe, but butch not so much. I like shoes and cosmetics way too much to be a self-respecting butch lesbian. I am, however, that lesbian who feels empowered enough to try and fix the stuff that breaks around my house.
And as we all know, Harriet Homeowner always lands herself in hot water.
I am, of course, referring to the incident all those who know me refer to as “The Great Toilet Paper Caper.” For those of you new to my world, the story goes something to the effect of: I got it in my head I was going to change the toilet paper holder in our bathroom. I purchased the new hardware, got my tools and sauntered into the bathroom to be Ms. Fix It.
I got fixed all right … right between the cabinet and the commode. I had to lie on my back to get at the old hardware and through arduous torques on the screwdriver, wedged myself in. Of course, I did what any confident, independent woman would do in a situation like this. I freaked the fuck out.
The girlfriend was on the job in Joplin, not due home for several hours. My cell phone was precisely out of reach on the cabinet above me. Just as I was about to have a thermonuclear meltdown, the Hamdog wandered in and started licking my bare foot. It tickled. A lot. Which resulted in squirming, squirming to a degree I was able to wriggle free.
I solemnly swore not to undertake anymore bathroom projects. Even to the effect of studiously ignoring the fact that the hall bath toilet had started to run longer than it should when flushed. Basically, every third time it gets used, the lid has to come off the cistern and the ball has to be manually lifted.
I wake promptly at 4:45 a.m. every day to get the pooch’s food together, give him his shot and get myself ready in time to be at the job by 6:00 a.m. Needless to say, I’m less than alert at that time. This morning was no different other than the girlfriend was feeling a little puny and I wanted to let her sleep a little longer. After all, this is the woman who bakes me chocolate cake when I’m a crabby, premenstrual mess. She is to be kept happy.
So I was trying to be quiet. TRYING operative word.
I slipped into the hall bath, home of the runny toilet, to take care of some business in hopes of staying quiet. I then proceeded to go into our room to take a shower in the master bath. ( Why I thought it would be quieter to pee in one room and then shower in the room where she was sleeping is beyond me, but see above: not terribly alert.)
When I got out of the shower I could still hear the other toilet running.
“Well hell,” I said under my breath and walked briskly out, towel wrapped around me. I noticed the girlfriend was still sleeping. As I rounded the corner and heard water splashing on the floor, all pretense of being quiet left me.
I’m told I made a sound roughly like a wounded, off-key banshee as I saw over an inch of water running onto the bathroom floor and out into the hallway. The sound propelled the girlfriend out of bed. She later told me the one thought running through her head was, “Someone better be dead for this much damn racket.”
Sick, bleary-eyed and startled, I don’t think she was quite prepared for the naked, yelling maniac trying to sop up buckets of water with nothing but a pale lavender towel. But after living with me all this time, she’s become used to the roller coaster ride that is me pre-coffee.
“Just go finish getting ready. You have to go to work,” she said calmly.
Because one of the other things she’s learned being with me is the best way to stop a full on freak out is to get me distracted. Work was a buzzword for me this morning. My annual review was today.
Like a robot following a command, I abruptly turned and went right back to our bathroom to finish getting ready.
And this is one of the billion reasons I love this woman. Even ill and hardly conscious, she’s able to manage my insanity. If I could have her sainted, I surely would. But in the meantime, I think I’ll fix that toilet. Alert the authorities.
Monday, January 19, 2009
FemeNazis at Library Station
This little tid bit in the News-Leader made my stomach churn:
It would seem the National Socialist Movement (read Nazi Nutjobs) is upset that the white race doesn't get its due. Sigh. Really. Further, they take issue with those who support diversity saying that we don't really support diversity if we want to interbreed because then we wouldn't be diverse.
I'll give you a second to wrap your head around THAT logic.
Further, the group calls for all immigrants to be deported either peaceably or by force. Oh, and there's no room in the U.S. for Jews or homos.
Not that I'm particularly surprised by this group's beliefs, but wow. 1957 called, they'd like their racism and lynchings back, thanks.
I make light, but the reason I'm even giving these imbeciles the time of day is because these are the kinds of idiots we need to be on the look out for. I know, I know. It gets wearing just dealing with the cranky Baptists and AG's who want to fix us. But these gals, kids, might just want to do us harm and we've got no one to stand up for us but ourselves.
Knowledge is power.
Around 30 members and supporters of the National Socialist Movement came to the Library Station on Saturday night to listen to speeches and take questions from opponents and potential recruits.
It would seem the National Socialist Movement (read Nazi Nutjobs) is upset that the white race doesn't get its due. Sigh. Really. Further, they take issue with those who support diversity saying that we don't really support diversity if we want to interbreed because then we wouldn't be diverse.
I'll give you a second to wrap your head around THAT logic.
Further, the group calls for all immigrants to be deported either peaceably or by force. Oh, and there's no room in the U.S. for Jews or homos.
Not that I'm particularly surprised by this group's beliefs, but wow. 1957 called, they'd like their racism and lynchings back, thanks.
I make light, but the reason I'm even giving these imbeciles the time of day is because these are the kinds of idiots we need to be on the look out for. I know, I know. It gets wearing just dealing with the cranky Baptists and AG's who want to fix us. But these gals, kids, might just want to do us harm and we've got no one to stand up for us but ourselves.
Knowledge is power.
Biting diabetes back
Continuing with the bitter theme, our own Disgruntled Whistle Pig has a gripe or two of her own.
My dog is a portly fellow. Ever since we had him neutered he has had issues with his weight. Early last spring, I began to suspect his thyroid might be the culprit. When I took him to the vet on an unrelated issue, they immediately landed in the middle of my back about my “morbidly obese” dog.
Ham dog was 70 pounds, which is WAY overweight for his breed. I’d cut him back to two cups of food a day and a couple of slices of very thin lunchmeat turkey. His weight hadn’t budged. When I suggested to the vet he had a thyroid problem, the vet insisted it was my fault and said I should put him on a vegetable soup diet.
No. I’m not kidding.
I’ll spare you the details except to say, it REALLY didn’t work.
Just after Christmas he started drinking an obscene amount of water and having accidents in the house. This is totally unlike my dog so I took him to the vet, a different vet.
Within moments of having a urine sample taken, I was told they suspected he was diabetic but a blood test was needed to confirm. I agreed and asked if a thyroid test was in that round of blood work. The vet said no, but that he could run that test if I’d like
Oh yeah. I’d like.
Sure enough, now diabetic, Ham dog also has a thyroid problem. I can’t help but wonder if this simple test had been done months ago when I’d asked if he might not have become diabetic. The vet tells me that once we get his weight down he may be able to go off his twice daily insulin shots.
On the positive side, I’m now taking Hamish to the Grant Avenue Veterinary Clinic and I’m thrilled with them. They couldn’t be nicer and have taken very good care of my baby.
Grant Avenue is located at 1037 S. Grant Avenue, 417-869-1581, if you’re in the market for a vet.
While I’m not naming the vet who suggested the soup diet, because my hope is that all the staff at that office aren’t that daft, if you want to know where not to go please email me. I’ll be glad to share the details.
Hammy is now doing quite well with his shots and his thyroid meds. He's biting the disease that bit him He's lost two more pounds since has last vet visit a week ago. He's also my happy, peppy, bouncy puppy again and I couldn't be more relieved.
My dog is a portly fellow. Ever since we had him neutered he has had issues with his weight. Early last spring, I began to suspect his thyroid might be the culprit. When I took him to the vet on an unrelated issue, they immediately landed in the middle of my back about my “morbidly obese” dog.
Ham dog was 70 pounds, which is WAY overweight for his breed. I’d cut him back to two cups of food a day and a couple of slices of very thin lunchmeat turkey. His weight hadn’t budged. When I suggested to the vet he had a thyroid problem, the vet insisted it was my fault and said I should put him on a vegetable soup diet.
No. I’m not kidding.
I’ll spare you the details except to say, it REALLY didn’t work.
Just after Christmas he started drinking an obscene amount of water and having accidents in the house. This is totally unlike my dog so I took him to the vet, a different vet.
Within moments of having a urine sample taken, I was told they suspected he was diabetic but a blood test was needed to confirm. I agreed and asked if a thyroid test was in that round of blood work. The vet said no, but that he could run that test if I’d like
Oh yeah. I’d like.
Sure enough, now diabetic, Ham dog also has a thyroid problem. I can’t help but wonder if this simple test had been done months ago when I’d asked if he might not have become diabetic. The vet tells me that once we get his weight down he may be able to go off his twice daily insulin shots.
On the positive side, I’m now taking Hamish to the Grant Avenue Veterinary Clinic and I’m thrilled with them. They couldn’t be nicer and have taken very good care of my baby.
Grant Avenue is located at 1037 S. Grant Avenue, 417-869-1581, if you’re in the market for a vet.
While I’m not naming the vet who suggested the soup diet, because my hope is that all the staff at that office aren’t that daft, if you want to know where not to go please email me. I’ll be glad to share the details.
Hammy is now doing quite well with his shots and his thyroid meds. He's biting the disease that bit him He's lost two more pounds since has last vet visit a week ago. He's also my happy, peppy, bouncy puppy again and I couldn't be more relieved.
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