Tales From the Hospital, II

"Angels have very nasty tempers.

Especially when they're feeling righteous."

~ Clive Barker

When last I left you, I was on my way to do a nuclear stress test at 1:00 pm on Sunday.

Head pounding and stomach queasy, I said to Gio the Tech, "I hope I don't throw up on the way down there."  He said nothing.  I made another comment, and again he said nothing.  It wasn't until he pushed the doors of the nuclear test lab that he finally addressed me.

"We're here."  He wheeled me to a counter and stopped.  "I'm sorry we're a little late, but I had two patients before you.  One was paraplegic, and I was with him almost three hours.  The other one took over two hours."

"They told me I'd be first today," I told him.

"When did they tell you that?" Gio the Tech asked me. I told him the story as he injected the isotope in my IV.  "They sent me home at 10 am yesterday because they said they didn't have any patients."  I probably don't need to tell you that my blood pressure probably went up at that point.  After 10 minutes, he wheeled me to the imaging machine.

Rather than go into a blow-by-blow of the test and everything that happened during my two hours in the downstairs labs, let me just say that I've had four stress tests. Three of the four included using the treadmill, but for this one, the injected Lexiscan, a medication that races your heart as though you were on a treadmill.  NEVER AGAIN.  NEVER. EVER. EVER. AGAIN.  If you've ever had the Lexiscan, you know what I mean.  If you haven't, remind me to tell you about that someday when the horror has passed and I can deal with the memory without wanting to pass out.

After the test, Gio the Tech took me back upstairs, and I climbed back in bed.  Mike the Husband had piled my clothes on the bed, so I gave him a quizzical look.

"They told me it would take 45 minutes for them to read the scan," he explained. "We're leaving in 45 minutes."

I admit that I was more stressed at that point than at any other.  My head was killing me. I was still sick to my stomach. I wanted to go home. I started crying.  Jenny the Nurse brought a lunch tray and coffee into my room.  All I cared about was the caffeine.  "Are you okay?" she asked me, looking at Mike the husband.  I nodded, and she left.

Let me interject here that when one goes to the hospital, the law requires the nurses to ask whether someone is abusing the patient physically or mentally.  They asked me that both in ER and the room.  Both times I simply answered, "No."  Mike the Husband was sitting there both times, and while my answer would have been the same, I thought it odd that they ask that in front of him. 

While Mike the Husband and I watched the football game, I mentioned what Gio the Tech had tole me about going home the day before.  Mike the Husband was not happy and paced my room.  I tried to sleep a bit, but I heard the door to my room squeak.  I looked at the clock and noticed that I'd been back 90 minutes.  Uh oh.  The door opened, and Mike the Husband walked in.  "They're going to release you in 10 minutes," he said.  Relief flooded over me as I figured my stress test had been okay, too. "Of course," he added, "that could be four hours from now."


Soon after, Jenny the Nurse hurried in with her little cart of machines.  She removed the IV line and telemetry unit. She hurried through discharge instructions and said, "Let me know when you're dressed so I can call a wheelchair." 

"Call them now," Mike the Husband said. Since I was still wearing the jeans I had worn the day before, I really just had to put on my shirt.  "She'll be ready in a few minutes."  Jenny the Nurse looked at him and scurried out of the room.  I had just finished putting my shirt on when someone knocked on the door.  I thought it was the wheelchair already, but instead I found the Laverne the Head Nurse (of the entire hospital) and Kim the Nuclear Lab Nurse.

What I did not know at that particular point in time was that Mike the Husband had held a bit of a meeting in my room while I was having the stress test.  Included were Laverne the Head Nurse, Dr. A-S the Admitting Doctor, Jenny the Nurse, and someone else I never met.

"We have figured out what happened," Laverne the Head Nurse said.  She and Kim the Nuclear Lab Nurse explained that the day before, the lab had not seen the orders for my stress test and let Gio the Tech go home. They both talked and talked.  I said nothing, but Mike the Husband, livid as he was, did not stay silent.

"We are NOT paying for this admission," he insisted.  "We are not paying a dime. End of story."

I have a few comments about this whole incident, so please bear with me.

• Chest pain, pressure, or whatever you want to call it, is nothing to ignore.  I made the right decision to go to the hospital.

• I went through the tests and feel okay that all came back negative. My internist is sending me to a cardiologist just to be safe, but I'm okay.

• That said, if I was in real danger of having a heart attack and needed that stress test, why did they wait for 36 hours? Did that not put me in more danger?  If it were not that critical, could they not have sent me home and asked me to return the next day?

• Why would they ask me if someone were abusing me if my husband were sitting right there? Does that make any sense in any stretch of the imagination?  By the way, truth be told, what I wanted to answer was, "Do you see that my husband is sitting here alive and well? Well, if he abused me, he wouldn't be either." 

• We all have to be our own advocates when dealing with health care.

• Chest pain is nothing to ignore.  I made the right decision to go to the hospital. I have to keep telling myself that.


The two nurses finally left my room, and Amy the Volunteer came in with my wheelchair.  She wheeled me down the hall, and not one nurse, CNA, or secretary was visible.  I wonder why.

Tales From The Hospital Room

In ER early Saturday

The fastest way to get attention in the ER 

is to utter the words, "chest pain.”
― Brenda Priddy

I'll concede that I didn't want them to admit me to the hospital Saturday.  In all honesty, I thought that they would do an EKG and some blood tests, figure out whether I had a heart attack or not, and either take care of it or let me go home.  I have always been naive.  At one point I asked Dr. Taylor if she really had to admit me.  "You're a grown-up," she snapped back at me. "I can't make you stay, but you have a 10% chance of having a heart attack if you don't. Do you want to take that chance?"  I said nothing, and by remaining silent gave my ascent, I guess.

Before the CNA wheeled me to my room, Mike the Nurse told me that it was best that they watch me and that I'd be first on the nuclear medicine list on Sunday morning.  "They start at 8:00," he told me. What could I do?

Don't Eat, Drink, or FallAll of the rooms at St. Rose San Martin are private, which is nice.  My room was on the third floor and had a beautiful view of the Las Vegas Strip (below).  It was across the hall from the nurses' station, which was not too great because every time a patient rang his/her call button, all of us in that area could hear the nine-note beep loud and clear.  Yes, nine notes. Do. Do. Do. Do. Dododododo.

A nurse admitted me to the floor and told me that I was not to get up by myself.

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"You're a fall risk," she answered as she snapped the yellow FALL RISK bracelet to my arm.

"I've been walking in ER all day by myself," I retorted.

"Not up here," she said and snapped the red ALLERGY bracelet next to the FALL RISK. She hung a FALL RISK poster on the door and added one that advised NO FOOD OR DRINK AFTER MIDNIGHT.  "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight," she told me, "or they won't be able to do the test in the morning."

As Mike the Husband was leaving, I asked him to close the door so I wouldn't hear that "dodo" all night.  With the door closed, I was also able to get up and move around without asking permission of my medical guard...not that I really had anywhere to go.  I fell asleep pretty quickly, but May the Night Nurse came in at 8:00 to do her rounds.  "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight," she advised me. "You'll have the nuclear stress test first thing in the morning."  She wrote NO FOOD OR DRINK AFTER MN on the whiteboard in my room.  I was surprised I didn't get a bracelet announcing that.

Evening view from my room

Who Needs Rest in a Hospital?
I fell asleep again only to be awakened by the squeaking of the door.  It was a little after 10:00.  Christina the CNA stuck her head in the door and said, "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight. You have a stress test in the morning."  I snapped back, "I KNOW," and turned over to try to fall asleep again.

The squeaking door awakened me once again, and I looked at the clock. 11:00.  "Hi," sang May the Night Nurse.  "I'm going to do your vitals early so you can get to sleep without being disturbed at midnight."  I stuck out my arm and let her do the BP thing.  "Don't eat or drink anything after midnight," she sang as she walked out of the door.  If I'd had something , I would have thrown it at the door.  Instead, I got up, walked around the room for a few minutes, and had a drink from my warm Coke Zero.

When the door's squeaking woke me again at 4:00, I expected to see May the Night Nurse with her little cart of vital-taking machines.  Instead, a gal came in to take blood.  I was still awake 30 minutes later when Christina the CNA came in to do vitals.

If you've ever been in the hospital, you know that the nurses come do vitals and the phlebotomists take blood at any time of the day or night.  I know I am not alone in wondering why hospitals require this intrusion for every patient all through the night.  Please, nurses and doctors, do not get upset.  I know that some conditions may require it, but everyone?  What would taking my blood at 4:00 am show that taking it at 6:00 am wouldn't?  And, I was on telemetry, so if there were a problem with my pulse and BP, it would show and a nurse could then come in at that point.


Does Anyone Around Here Know Anything?
I don't want to bore you with a blow-by-blow description of my wait for the stress test.  Let me say this, though.  Remember how Mike the Nurse and May the Night Nurse told me I'd have the stress test early in the morning?  Right.  Apparently they were thinking that the nuclear medicine department operated on Mumbai time because the med tech didn't come for me until, well, let me tell you.

A little after 8, Jenny the Day Nurse came in to do vitals.  "When will they come and get her?" Mike asked.  Jenny the Day Nurse said she wasn't sure but that they started at 8 am.  "So, is they should come up soon?" he continued.  She said it depended on whether they had to do any stress tests from ER first. That got my attention.

"Excuse me," I snapped.  "I was in ER yesterday and they didn't do it for me."  I was not happy.  I had a headache from lack of food, water, and mostly caffeine. Jenny the Day Nurse shrugged, admitted she didn't know, and shuffled off to do vitals elsewhere.  She reappeared around 9:00 to see how I was doing.  The headache worse, I begged her to find out when nuc med would come for me.

"You want me to call them?" She seemed incredulous.

"My head is splitting," I whined.  "Please."  At 9:30, Jenny the Day Nurse walked back into my room and said that the nuclear medicine tech said it would be between 12 and 1 before they came to get me.  "I cannot survive until even 12 with this headache," I moaned.  "Please. I need an aspirin."

"I'll see if I can give you Tylenol," she said.

"It doesn't work," I replied.  "I want aspirin."

"Do you want Oxycontin or Morphine?"  

"No-wha," I grumbled.  "I want aspirin.  Simple aspirin."

"Just aspirin."  The words trailed her out of the room.

View from my room during the day

I freely admit that I am addicted to caffeine.  If I do not have some bit of caffeine early in the morning, I start to get a horrible headache.  Horrible does not do justice, actually.  If you get migraines, you know what I mean.  Those headaches feel as though someone has put your head in a vise and, while tightening it, pounds on it with a sledgehammer.  Add in the nausea, the light sensitivity, and the eye pain, and the sufferer is having less than a pleasant day.

By 10:30, Jenny the Day Nurse had not reappeared.  "Please," I begged Mike the Husband.  "I have to walk a bit to get some fresh air. Maybe that will help."  I ripped the compression leg wraps off of my calves and asked him to unplug the machine.  "I cannot stand these things any longer. " (The compression circulation machine is another story altogether. Sigh.)

Mike the Husband held me as I stumbled out of the room.  Jenny the Nurse saw me and ran over to me.  "Are you okay?" she asked. "I haven't heard from the doctor yet."

"No, I'm not okay." I started crying.  I won't go through the whole conversation, but she finally said she'd call the doctor again.

Almost 45 minutes later, she shoved her vital machines into my room.  "The doctor said I can give you one aspirin," she announced. She handed me a cup of water and a tiny cup that held one aspirin. "Drink only enough to push it down."  She typed something into the computer and huffed out.

Even Angels Have Tempers, I
The squeaking door woke me up, and I saw it was 12:45.  Mike the Husband walked in.  He was furious. "I gave them 15 minutes," he told me.  I just looked at him. The pain behind my eyes was gone, but my head was still splitting.  I got up and walked toward the door.  "What are you going to do?" he asked me.

"I'm going to tell them to take this d@mn IV thing out of my arm so we can go." I opened the door and almost bumped into Jenny the Day Nurse.

"They're coming for you right now," she told me.

"What is right now?" I asked her.  "Another hour?"  She moved out of the doorway to reveal a guy and a wheelchair behind her.

"He's here right now," she said.

They helped me into the wheelchair, and Gio the Tech took off before I could refuse to go.

"I hope I don't throw up on the way down there," I said to him.  Gio the Tech said nothing.


Next: Angels really do have tempers.

Note for those not from Las Vegas: If you look at the photo I took from my room during the day, you'll see a mountain in the background. Sunrise Mountain, as we call it, is 28-30 miles from the hospital.  The mountain, which is actually Frenchman Mountain, resembles a man lying down.  You can see his head to the left and his torso to the right.

Emergency Room Observation

"There are always going to be hospital dramas because 

if you're sitting in an emergency room for two hours, 

I guarantee you you are going to see something that 

makes you gasp. That's where drama comes from."

― Rocky Carroll

 The pain and pressure behind my left shoulder blade woke me up. I tried to lie still and willed it to go away. It didn't. I raised my left arm to see if there was any pain there. Nothing. Good. The pressure got worse, so at 3:55 am, I finally woke Mike.

"Is it heartburn?" he asked me. We had had Mexican food the night before.
"This is definitely not heartburn," I whined.  I got up in hopes that standing would help, and I was immediately nauseous and dizzy.  Not good at all. "Oh, my God." I couldn't stand up straight.

Because we have a history of heart problems in our families, Mike and I have always been on top of our heart health.  I know the six signs of heart attacks in women, but I looked them up Saturday morning anyway.  "Pressure or pain in the back or chest.  Shortness of breath.  Pain in the neck, jaw, stomach, back, or arms. Nausea or vomiting. Sweating. Fatigue. My God. I have five of them."  We got dressed and headed to the hospital.

A nurse came out as soon as we told the desk clerk what was wrong, and as soon as I mentioned the pain and pressure in my back, he interrupted me.

"Let's get you back here right now." From the time we hit the door to the time I was on a gurney in ER32, maybe five minutes had passed.  One nurse asked me questions while another hooked me up to an EKG, blood pressure cuff, and oxygen sensor; inserted an IV line; and took a blood sample.  The ER physician came in and asked me a few questions.  X-ray came in and took a chest x-ray.  The ER doc came back in and asked more questions.  The nurse hooked me up to fluids and left.  It was, by that time, about 5:30 or so.

I ended up spending 13 hours in the hospital emergency room Saturday while they ran tests and admitted me to the hospital so I could have a stress test (more on that next blog).  For most of those 13 hours, I tried to get comfortable on the gurney—sit, recline, lie flat, sit, lie flat, recline—and watched what went on around me.

 The Old Man
About an hour after I arrived, an older man (aka Gramps) clutching a set of x-rays and doctor's notes walked into the ER9 across from me.  A female nurse  talked with him, and while I couldn't hear what she was saying, Gramps was loud enough for everyone within a five-mile radius to hear.  He proceeded to explain that he came in because he had a "retention" problem. His doctor had catheterized him and instructed him on doing it himself, but he was unable to do it that night, so he had retention. "I probably have an infection," he continued.  I tried to block him out, but he was so loud, it was impossible.  I put my arms over my head and ears and was able to fall into a slight twilight sleep.

 When I got back from my CT scan, Mike the Husband had returned from getting coffee.  "It seems the guy across the hall has a bit of a problem," he informed me.

"Yep. You missed the explanation of his problem to the nurse," I said.  Mike the Husband informed me that Gramps had loudly told the doctor what was wrong, too.  "Too much information," I said.

Oxygen sensor

The ER Doc
At 7, a new ER doc came on duty and came to talk to me.  Slight, young, and dressed in nothing that would lead anyone to know she was a doctor, she introduced herself as Dr. Taylor.  Wearing black jeans and a red shirt with "SCRIBE" stitched across the back, an equally slight and young gal pushed a mobile computer desk and followed Dr. Taylor into my cubbie.  While the doctor talked and I answered, the scribe typed into the computer.

When Dr. Taylor left, the young gal scurried after her. For the rest of the time I was in ER, I would see Dr. Taylor sprint down the hall followed momentarily by the scampering scribe.

The Old Lady
I was trying to sleep again when I heard commotion in the hallway.  Paramedics wheeled a gurney down the hall and stopped in front of my cubicle.  Sitting stock straight on the gurney was a little old lady (Mom) dressed in a black pant suit. She clutched a large leather purse in her hands and had matching black shoes on her feet.

"She had chest pain," one of the paramedics said to the nurse.  "She lives in Pacifica." (Pacifica is an assisted living facility next to the hospital.)

"She was here a month ago," the nurse replied and turned her attention to Mom.  "Honey, are you okay?"  The squad transferred Mom to the ER gurney, and while one completed paperwork with the nurse, the other wheeled the ambulance gurney into the hall.

"Ooooo.  There's a different uniform," Gramps said.  "You don't work here."  The paramedic looked at the old man.

"I work on the ambulance," he replied.  Gramps tried to engage the paramedic in a conversation about the guy's job and his experience with ambulances in the past. The poor tech tried to be polite, but he seemed extremely happy when his partner finished and they could go back to work.

The Old Man
"When do we get lunch?" Gramps asked our new nurse, Mike.

"Well," Mike the Nurse replied, "it's only 10:00 am. Besides, we don't serve lunch in ER."

"Okay," Gramps said. "I'll wait.  Can we order what we want, or do they just bring something." Mike the Nurse explained again that they didn't serve meals in ER. 

The Old Lady
A portly man with long, curly hair lumbered into Mom's cublicle.  "What happened this time?" He asked his mother.  I couldn't hear her answer.  He reminded me of Newman from Seinfeld if Newman had long, curly hair.  Dr. Taylor dashed into the cubbie, and the scribe skidded to a stop behind her.

"I'm Dr. Mike So-and-So. I'm a pediatrician here," Mike the Son said to Dr. Taylor.  They proceeded to discuss Mom and her condition for a few minutes.  Dr Taylor, followed by her scribe, hurried away, and Mike the Nurse went in.  "I'm Dr. Mike So-and-So. I'm a pediatrician here," Mike the Son informed Mike the Nurse who asked him a number of questions about Mom for the record.

Mike the Son's phone rang after Mike the Nurse left. "Yes," Mike the Son answered, "she's here again.   It's the same-old-same-old," he whined. "She had chest pain, and they called for an ambulance. So, here we are."  He handed the phone to his mother. "Here. Talk to Martha." Mom  chatted with Martha for a few minutes, and when she hung up, she and her son discussed her condition.

"I don't know if they'll admit you again," he informed her. "They may send you home."

"I can go back to Pasadena?" she asked.

"No, you can't go back to Pasadena," he told her. "You live here now. I chose the place next door since it's close to me, my work, and the hospital."

"Oh, Michael. Why don't you go home? I don't want to be a problem."

"It's too late, Mom," he snapped at her. "You already are."


The Old Man
Dr. Taylor dashed into the old man's cubicle around noon to let him know that they had found nothing and that he could go home.  Gramps started to cry. 

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"I know something's wrong," he insisted.  She told him that all the tests were negative, even the one that would show an infection.  "But," she continued, "we are going to do a culture just to make sure. That will take a few days, though, and we can't keep you here that long." 

Dr. Taylor skated down the hall with the scribe close behind, and Mike the Nurse went in to help Gramps calm down and change. Mike the Nurse closed the curtain, and Gramps gave him a lesson on insurance and the insurance business.  Thirty minutes later, the old man shuffled out of the cubicle clutching the same x-rays and doctor's notes he had brought with him. 

In ER

The Old Lady

 Mike the Son had left for a bit, and while he was gone, Mom called to everyone who walked by her cubicle.

"Nurse.  Nurse.  Nurse."  Most of them walked past without stopping, but the CNA would go in.  Usually Mom just wanted to go to the restroom, and she needed help since they had leashed her to an IV pole. 

"Nurse," she called out as one of the gals working another area walked by.  The nurse made the mistake of going into the room.  "I want lunch," Mom informed her.

The nurse repeated basically what Mike the Nurse had told Gramps earlier.  "We don't serve lunch in ER."

"Well, you better get me lunch," Mom threatened, "or I'm leaving here.  I will not stay."  The little nurse walked out and rolled her eyes.  "I mean it," Mom yelled from behind her.

Mike the Son came back, and Mom asked him why she was in the hospital.  He explained, and for a minute, Mom was silent.  She said, "I can walk home from here when they let me go."

"You cannot walk home, Mom," he again snapped.  "I'll have to take you." His phone rang again, and he answered and repeated his mantra.  "Yes, she's here again.  It's the same-old-same-old. Chest pain. Ambulance.  Here, Mom. Talk to Celeste."  Mom was talking to Celeste when a cardiologist walked into her cubicle. Sonny stood up and offered his hand.  "I'm Dr. Mike So-and-so," he said.  "I'm a pediatrician here."

The cardiologist glanced at him and replied, "I know who you are." He turned his attention to Mom who was still chatting on the phone. Mike the Son grabbed the phone from Mom, and the cardiologist started asking her questions.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked her.  "What hospital is this?"
"Kaiser," she replied.
"No," Mike the Son said.  "You're not in Pasadena. You're in Las Vegas."
"Oh," she replied. "That's right. I forgot." 
 'Let her answer," the cardiologist said. "I'm talking to her."  For the next 10 or so minutes, Mom and the cardiologist talked, and the son interjected comments here and there. "She needs to learn when to call the paramedics and when to let the nitro do its job," he moaned to the cardiologist. 

The Voice From Somewhere
The cardiologist left Mom's room.

"Get that doctor here now or I'm walking out," someone not in my line of sight hollered.

"You'd leave the hospital without being discharged?" a nurse asked.

'You bet your @$$ I would," the slightly angry voice replied. "When the #3!! is that doctor going to get here?"

"We've been busy all day," the nurse replied, and Dr. Taylor scampered past my cubbie on her way to the voice. "Here she comes now."  The scribe dashed after her.

"It's about %$@%@^& time," the voice said.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Taylor sprinted up the hall with the scribe in hot pursuit.

The Gal in ER 32
Mike the nurse came to talk to me.  "What are my chances of getting a room sometime in this century?" I asked.  The hospital was completely full, and I had been number 6 on the list of admits from ER Saturday.  He checked and came back to tell me that they were readying my room as we spoke.  It was 4:15 or so.

Mike the Husband returned from a trip home to walk Riley, and I told him I was going to have a room for the night.  We watched football again for a bit while we waited for my transport to the room.  At 5:15, Mike the Nurse took the old wires off my telemetry unit, put a portable unit on me, and told me one of the CNAs would take me upstairs.

At 5:30 pm, 13 hours after we arrived in ER, the CNA rolled me into room 316.

Dog Tales, V

Decker

“It's hard not to immediately fall in love with 

a dog who has a good sense of humor.”
― Kate DiCamillo

On the day we moved into our house in Nashville, a litter of Welsh Terrier puppies entered the world in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was, at that time, a member of Welsh-L, a group mailing list for Welsh Terrier owners. Judith Anspach, owner of Merrylegs Welsh Terriers and that new brood of puppies, was also a member of the list.  Judy and I became friends, and I mentioned I would love to own and show a dog.  Not long after, I agreed to co-own one of the males with Judy.

Thirteen weeks later, I hurried to Nashville International Airport to pickup my new puppy.  His flight was due to touch down at 1:30, and I didn't want to be late.  I arrived at the airport at 1:10 or so and immediately hit a traffic jam. Every car in every lane stopped where it was. We waited and waited. Waited. Ten minutes. Waited. Twenty minutes. Waited. Finally, at 1:40 or so, traffic started again. I rushed to the cargo terminal, parked, and ran in.

Behind the cargo agent's desk sat a blue dog crate.  I know I talked to the agent and signed a paper, but I don't remember doing any of that.  I do remember going to the crate, opening it, and cradling a scared little puppy.  He had thrown up all over himself numerous times.  I carried him in my right arm and the crate in my left hand to the car.  All the way home, he nuzzled the hollow of my neck.  I was in love immediately.

Decker, Kasey, and I in Nashville

Kasey, by then 13 months old, was interested in the little guy when I brought him home, but I'm not sure she was too thrilled.  Her only-child status was gone in the blink of an eye. However, she took on the role of a caregiver, and whenever he whimpered, she ran over to him.  That evening, we put him in his crate, and he started crying.  She took one of her toys and pushed it on the crate door in an attempt, I believe, to comfort him. I cried.

We once again faced a name dilemma. Mike suggested Decker, the name of a Wire Fox Terrier one of our friends had owned years before, or Dexter.  I liked Decker but not Dexter. Jason suggested Donald. I did not like Donald. "How about Chang?" he asked.  "Good grief, no!" I replied.  Chang was worse than Donald.  "He's Decker," I decided. Michael was glad; Jason was not.

Since Decker was going to be a show dog, I had to come up with a registered name for him. That is not quite as easy as it sounds because, believe it or not, the AKC has rules for naming dogs.  The names usually include the kennel name plus the dog's "official" name.  In addition to a bunch of little guidelines, the AKC limits the number of characters in a name to 50 (including spaces and apostrophes).

I played with a variety of names:  a) Merrylegs Black and Decker (26 characters!).  b) Merrylegs Hit the Deck (22!).  c) Merrylegs All Hands on Deck (27!).  d) Merrylegs Cut the Deck (22!).  I proposed those four names to my friends on Welsh-L.  Everyone weighed in with why I should name him Hit the Deck or Cut the Deck or All Hands on Deck. 

"Cut the Deck is a homage to Las Vegas," a few people said.  Mike liked that one.

"All Hands on Deck is good, like a judge putting his hands on the dog during a show," others said.  Another show-dog owner preferred that one.

"Hit the Deck is so appropriate for rambunctious terriers," my friendly terrier-lovers thought.

Kasey and Decker

No one liked Black and Decker.

"Why," most people asked me, "would you name him after a tool company?"

"Where in the name of heaven did you come up with that name?"

Judy, God love her, preferred Cut the Deck, but she left the decision up to me.  In the end, I chose Merrylegs Black and Decker.
Here's the thing.  I loved going to the Black and Decker store in the outlet malls.  "It's my favorite store," I insisted.  In addition, the name was a play on words in a way.  Judy told me that Decker wore a black ribbon while he was with the rest of the litter (Breeders put a different colored ribbon, cord, band, etc. on each puppy so they can identify each one.).

I thought the hard part of owning a show dog—naming him—was out of the way.  Little did I know.


 

Dog Tales, IV

Kasey on the day she arrived at Casa Cutler.

“It's just the most amazing thing to love a

dog, isn't it? It makes our relationships with

people seem as boring as a bowl of oatmeal.”

― John Grogan

Within a three- or four-month period prior to Kasey's arrival, we experienced a number of difficult things. My godmother, Aunt Margie, and Mike's mother were both on life support for different reasons, and they passed within a few weeks of each other.  By the time Corky passed, we were ready for something to take our collective minds off of all the crap.  Kasey fit the bill.

Energetic, sociable, and mischievous, Kasey took up a good amount of our time once she arrived.  Like most puppies, she loved to get into things, and we'd find her rooting through the laundry or the magazine rack to find something to chew up.  She was a voracious eater, and the only big negatives we experienced with her were her growling and snapping when anyone got close to her food and coprophagia (eating feces).

Let me step out of this story again to comment on the food problems.  A good number of experts believe that puppy mill puppies experience food aggression because of their first weeks of life.  Often, the puppies do not receive adequate food and water.  The puppy mill breeders often use lower quality food and water.  Many times, dominant dogs guard the food dish and prevent submissive dogs from eating. The submissive puppies learn to become food agressive.  Coprophagia, another food-related problem, is disgusting to humans.  Both habits are hard to break.

Kasey Girl

So, back to Kasey:  We had to deal with the food-related problems and were pretty successful with the coprophagia within a few weeks.  In addition, we were able to housebreak her pretty quickly which, according to articles I've since read, can also be difficult in puppy mill puppies. 




Four things stand out in my mind from Kasey's first few months with us:

The house we were living in at the time was a two-story house, and we had to carry Kasey up and down the stairs for a few weeks as her little legs were not long enough for her to make them on her own. In addition, she had a bit of a fear of any height.  We had a door that led to the backyard, and the height of the stoop between the door and the patio was about one inch. Kasey was afraid to step off of the stoop onto the patio, and for weeks she would stop, look down, and refuse to take the step.

Like many homeowners in Las Vegas, we had a pool in the back.  A few days after Kasey arrived, Mike was doing some yard work while the little munchkin and I walked around the backyard.  Mike picked up a shovelful of rocks and threw them into an empty wheelbarrow.  KABOOM.  Kasey and I both jumped at the loud bang, but instead of coming down from her jump on the pool deck, she tumbled into the shallow end. SPLASH. I ran over, plucked her out of the cold water, and tried not to laugh too much.  She never did like water after that.

Kasey and the cow-ee

A day or so after that incident, Mike and I sat outside and watched Kasey run around in the little grass we had.  Suddenly, a little bird flew out of a bush and onto the deck railing.  Kasey stopped and stared.  The bird flew from the railing to the roof. Kasey's eyes followed him.  I will forever remember the look of wonderment on her face as she watched the bird.  From that day on, she always watched birds with a bit of wonder in her eyes.

Finally, I gave her a little stuffed cow as her first toy. She loved that thing and would carry it around the house.  She would pick the little thing up and walk from the living room to the family room to the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the family room to the.... You get the picture. 

She may not have liked water, but Kasey liked snow.

Kasey had been with us about three months when we moved from Las Vegas to Nashville.  Mike and Jason went to Nashville while I finished up selling and packing the house.  Since my mom had never had the opportunity to see much of the country, I invited her to drive with Kasey and me as we crossed through Arizona, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, and Kentucky on our way to Tennessee. I'm  not sure what Mom enjoyed more, seeing the sites or playing with Kasey while I kept my eyes on the road.

Our move to Nashville brought changes to our lives—a new job for Mike, a new school for Jason, and a new house for me to get in order.  Little did Kasey know she was in for a big change, too. 

Dog Tales, III

Miss Mischief

“Every dog deserves a place to live.

Every dog deserves a place in your heart.

Every dog deserves a place to walk.

Every dog deserves a place to run."

John Duncan

"I'm never getting another dog," I said to Mike. "I can't do this again."  Mike said nothing but knew my resolve wouldn't last long.

The next evening, he took me for a ride, and we somehow ended up looking at a litter of Miniature Schnauzers.  They were adorable, and I sat on the ground and played with them for a bit.  They climbed over me and nibbled my fingers.  "This isn't working. I'm not getting another dog," I told him.

"I just thought you'd want to hold a puppy," he told me.  "It's good therapy."  Right.  We left the puppies and headed to the mall which just happened to have a pet shop. 

I have to step out of the story for a second to tell you that I am not a fan of pet stores because they often sell puppy mill puppies.  The owners of said mills keep dogs in small pens that are often outdoors and not protected from the elements.  The poor mothers have litter-after-litter so that the owners can make money. Once the mothers are no longer able to birth a litter, the owners abandon or euthanize them.  The mill owners do not breed for temperament or health, and their puppies often have a number of health problems that may not show up until years later.


At any rate, we walked into the pet store, of course, and playing in a pen were about five or six puppies, two of which were a Scottie and a Welsh.  The Welsh had a cast on her front left paw, but it wasn't slowing her down, and she was batting the Scottie in the head with it.  I had not seen many Welsh Terriers in past 14 years, and I hadn't held any, so I was anxious to get my hands on the little girl with the cast.  One of the pet shop employees handed her to me, and I saw that Elvis and Marilyn Monroe signed her cast. 

"How did she break her leg?" I asked the woman.

The laundry helper

"She was playing on the floor and some little kid stepped on her," she replied. "She has two or three broken toes." I was appalled that something like that would happen.  Accidents do occur, of course, but a good breeder would be careful not to allow little kids that close to puppies.

"How much is she?" I asked. I was dead-set against pet store dogs, but I was worried about that little one.  Her future, because of the broken toes, was not too bright.  Most people would not be too interested in buying her, and who knows where she'd end up if she didn't sell. I had to do something.

"$1500," the woman told me as she put the feisty little girl in with a Basenji, and she immediately smacked the Basenji with her cast.

I didn't sleep that night because I was worried about that puppy, but there was no way I could afford to pay $1500 for her.  Still, I felt I had to rescue her.  Mike and I talked about it.  I felt I had to rescue her.  He felt she had to rescue me.

"Offer them $500 cash," he told me.  "All they can say is, 'No.'"

I went to the pet store the next morning after a work meeting and looked for the Welsh. She wasn't there, and I burst into tears.  The woman with whom I had spoken the previous evening came up to me.

"What's wrong, Honey?" she asked me.  I told her that I was there to see the little Welsh, and someone had bought her.  'Oh, no, no, no.  We still have her.  She's just at the vet getting her cast removed."  Still crying a bit, I told the woman that I wanted her but could only give her $500.  She told me to come back in 20 minutes because the puppy would be back by then, and we could talk about it.

I walked around the mall and took my time getting back. When I got to the store 35-40 minutes later, the lady was waiting for me.  "I don't know," she said.

"Cash," I insisted.  "$500 cash.  Right now.  That's all I have."  Ten minutes later, I was on my way home with a little ragamuffin in a box on the seat next to me.

Once everyone was home, we played with the little girl and discussed what to name her.  I had taken her to the vet earlier, and he had a name for her.  "She looks like a sweet Sara," he said. "Call her Sara."

"Sara?" Mike exclaimed when I told him. "That's not a dog's name. Call her Bunker."  I was *not* going to call her Bunker, so he continued.  "How about Cheyenne?  Dakota?  A name with a western ring."

"How about Abcdefg?" Jason suggested.   I have no idea what he said, but it was something that a 15-year old boy would like, and I wasn't buying that one, either.

We couldn't come to a conclusion that evening, so we called the little puppy everything from "Baby" to "Girlie" to "Monkey."

Seven month of age

The next night, Mike and I went to a Las Vegas Stars (AAA baseball team) game. During the pre-game warm-up, the stadium piped music over the loudspeaker.  One of the songs was a country song that I used to hear all the time.  The refrain lyrics contained the lines, "We like our beer cold as can be...Something, something, something K.C."  (I can't remember the words before K.C.)

"That's her name," I shouted.  "K.C"  Mike looked at me.

We ended up spelling her name K-A-S-E-Y, and while she didn't take Corky's place, she did fill the hole in our hearts his passing made.

Next: Mischief's Little Miss

Dog Tales, II

 

Corky the Wonder Dog

“Dogs have given us their absolute all. We are 

the center of their universe. We are the focus 

of their love and faith and trust. They serve 

us in return for scraps. It is without a doubt 

the best deal man has ever made. ”
― Roger A. Caras

 After Bunk passed, we got a dog almost immediately, and as I had done seven years before, I looked in the newspaper to see if anyone had dogs for sale. I found an ad for people selling Keeshond puppies.  I knew nothing about that breed, but I thought I'd hit a home run with the Welsh Terrier and would try with the Keeshond.  I made a horrible mistake.

Keeshonds are a type of Spitz, and their personalities are different from terriers. Let me just say that I am a terrier person, and while Keeshonds are lovely dogs, they are not the breed for me.  For six weeks, Keesha tried my patience by chewing up carpet in both the living room and bedroom, by jumping over every fence we put up to keep her in, and by rolling around in the red Georgia clay. A family with a large property eagerly adopted her from me, and I started looking for a terrier.

Corky liked to sleep under the dresser.

I couldn't look at Welsh Terriers because the pain was still too great, but I decided to find another small terrier. Luckily for me, a family had one Cairn left.  As with the Welsh and the Keeshond, I didn't know the Cairn, but I thought I'd just go to look at the puppies.  Of course, I ended up falling in love with one little fur ball, and Jason and I headed home with him.

"Can we call him Toto?" Jason asked me because he'd just watched The Wizard of Oz and saw that our new little guy looked just like Toto.  I talked him out of that name, and we ended up naming him "Corky."  The name just seemed to fit him.

Corky at about 2 years

Corky fit in immediately.  He whined a bit the first night, but after that, he was fine.  He and Jason would run up-and-down the sidewalk in front of our apartment, and Jason would collapse in giggles while Corky covered him with puppy kisses. Three-years old by that time, Jason was no longer throwing food at mealtime, but he would sneak little bits of food to Corky who was more than happy to eat whatever Jason shared.

After four years in Atlanta, we moved back to Columbus.  Jason was in first grade, and I was teaching at one of the area high schools.  Every afternoon, we took Corky outside when we got home and would then change into casual clothing.  Jason would do his homework and play with his friends until it was time for dinner.

Corky in Las Vegas

On the afternoon that Rock Hudson passed away, I was sitting on a recliner and watching the news about it when Mike called to say he was one his way home from work.  I got up to cook dinner, and Jason came home from playing with his friends.  Jason asked me if he could take Corky for a walk, and I told him he could walk him on the driveway.  Corky, however, was nowhere around.

I ran to the back door and saw his chain on the stoop, but there was no dog.  Since the chain was in a heap, I figured Corky had not slipped out of it.  I ran around the backyard calling him, but he was not there.  I ran back inside, and Jason and I checked every room.  No Corky.  I could not figure out what happened to him.  I remembered letting him out, and I thought I remembered letting him in.  Maybe I had unleashed him from the chain and closed the door without noticing that he wasn't in the house yet.  I ran back outside and ran around the house.  He was nowhere.


Mike came home to find his family hysterically calling for the dog.  Always the calm one, he said that we should retrace our steps.  We both tried to remember what we did. Jason walked to his room and pretended to change, came downstairs to "do his homework," and went outside to play.  I let the dog out and back in, sat on the recliner to watch TV, and went to cook dinner.  I was crying that the dog had disappeared into thin air.  Standing up,  I leaned on the back of the recliner, and the footrest flipped up.  Out ran the little monkey.  I didn't know whether to hug him or shoot him.

"Couldn't you at least whine or something?" I said as I hugged him.

Jason and Corky

Not long after that incident, we came home after shopping one Saturday. Corky greeted us at the door and ran to the family room coffee table.  He barked and barked at the table—an early American-style coffee table that had legs, a base, and cabinets.  Bark. Bark. Bark.  Mike lifted one end, and underneath it was a mouse.

"OH MY GOD," I screamed.  "IS IT ALIVE? DON'T LET IT GET AWAY."

"He's dead," Mike said and went to get a box lid to pick the thing up.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW?" I was less-than-calm.

"His four legs are sticking up, and he's not moving. He's dead," Mike snorted as he took the mouse out to the garbage.  "Corky probably scared him to death."

"Mickey almost scared me to death," I replied.

Jason has Corky, and our exchange student Michael is in the hat.

When we moved to Las Vegas, Corky, Jason, and I drove cross-country together. Jason and Corky shared the back seat since they had more room back there, and I loved to listen to Jason read to the dog.  One afternoon, we ran out of water for Corky, and Jason put a little Pepsi in the dog's bowl so he'd have something to drink while we looked for a rest stop.  Corky did not like the bubbles on his nose.

We'd been in Las Vegas about five years when I came home to find blood all over the kitchen and family room floors.  I swore someone had killed someone in the house, and the only person in the house that day was Corky.  I called Mike.

"SOMEONE KILLED CORKY," I waled into the phone.  He was interviewing a reporter candidate at the time, and my screams got his attention.  Mike told me no one killed Corky.  "YOU CAN'T SEE ALL THE BLOOD IN THE HOUSE."  The reporter had no idea Corky was a dog, so imagine his concern and confusion. 

I ran outside screaming for the dog and yelling into the phone.  No Corky.  I ran back through the house and saw a little butt behind the living room sofa. The butt moved.  "I FOUND HIM," I announced.  "HE'S ALIVE."  Mike told me to take him to the vet and he'd meet me there.

Corky at 12

The vet did tests and found that Corky had an acute case of pancreatitis.  The blood was from diarrhea caused by the episode.  Once we stabilized him and fed him special food, he was fine, and we never had another attack.  It's a good thing because I'm not sure that reporter could have handled hearing me scream into the phone again.

Three or four years after that episode, Corky passed away. He had slowed down a bit, but was doing pretty well until one night when he suddenly couldn't move. I never knew what had happened to cause that, but the vet did emergency surgery. Corky survived the procedure but had a heart attack in recovery. 

I loved that little guy and, as with Bunk, I mourned him greatly.  "I'm never getting another dog," I said to Mike. "I can't do this again."

Mike said nothing, but the next night, he took me for a ride to get my mind off of Corky.

Dog Tales

Bunker right after I adopted her

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil 

or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside 

on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where 

doing nothing was not boring—it is peace.”
~ Milan Kundera

Dogs have always been a part of my life.  I tried, once, to bring a kitten home, but that didn't work out too well.  About five-or six-years old at the time, I saw the little thing roaming our new neighborhood and somehow sneaked into the house and my bedroom without getting caught. Unfortunately, my adverse reaction to the grey fuzzball—swollen eyes and face, severe breathing problems, and hives—gave me away.  Out went the kitten.

Little Lady Bird

Not long after, we ended up with a black-and-white Cocker Spaniel mix, Lady, so-named for Lady Bird Johnson.  While she was really my mother's dog, Lady was also a very big comfort to me.  There were many days that we hid in the knee well of my desk or, as I aged, between the bed and wall, trying to stay away from the noise and confusion of my father's rants.  The night he died, Lady and Snoopy (one of her puppies) lay on the bed with me, rocks that anchored a very confused me.

Lady (L) & Snoopy, her puppy

I got my very own first dog after I graduated from college and moved to Columbus, Ohio, to teach. I knew no one and was lonely, so I looked in the paper to find a dog.  Someone was giving away a Welsh Terrier. I had never heard of a Welsh Terrier, but I wanted a dog, and those people didn't want a dog.  I went to pick her up.

I like to think that my first view of that Welsh Terrier was of her whirling around and doing doggy back flips as she rushed to the door to meet me.  (Anyone who knows the breed will understand what I mean.)  In reality, what I saw was a blur of fur—a swirl of black and tan streaking toward the wooden screen door and crashing into it just as a man came into view.  By the time the man opened to door to admit me, his wife, bouncing the screaming baby on her hip, joined us.  Tail springing back and forth, the dog wiggled around me as I stood talking to her soon-to-be former owners.

Bunk on her throne

Bunker apparently wasn't too wild about staying with her former family, and she yanked me down the steps and whizzed on their meager lawn for the last time.  I opened the car’s back door, and she jumped in and immediately bounded over the seat back and onto the passenger seat.  Bunk sat on the seat next to me, and we were on our way.  I didn't give it much thought, but Bunk never seemed depressed or upset that she was in a new place.  Perhaps it was because she knew she could rule my world simply by wagging that moldy hot dog tail, but she settled in and never seemed to give her former owners another thought.

Our first family portrait

Luckily for me—or perhaps it was luckily for him—Mike bonded with Bunk. She usually bounded right onto his lap, enjoying the additional attention that Mike bemusedly bestowed on my little princess.
    “It’s a good thing Bunker likes you,” I informed Mike, “or I’d have to rethink our relationship.”
    “It’s good that she likes me?” he asked.  “What if I didn’t like her?”
    “We’d miss you,” I joked . . . I think.


Before the wedding, I decided that it would be grand to dress Bunk as a flower girl so that the photographer could take a few shots of her and me before I left for the church.  I bought a few extra feet of the peach ribbon used in my bridesmaids’ bouquets and made bows for her hair.   On the morning of the ceremony, my mother Lady, Snoopy, and Bunk in the basement so they wouldn’t be in the way.  In the chaos and excitement that ensued, I completely forgot about the photo.

When I became pregnant, hormonal changes wracked my body.  For months, I suffered from severe nausea, and the mere smell and sight of food would sicken me.  I spent a good portion of five months bent over the beige commode in our townhouse.  Bunk followed me from the bedroom to the bathroom —putting her little head on my foot and watching me while I gagged and retched—and back to the bedroom—laying her head on my shoulder while I tried to lie still and calm my queasy stomach.

Bunk meets Jason

By the time Jason was born, Bunker was seven years old.  My feeling had always been that the people who gave her to me had gotten rid of her because they had had a baby and didn't want a dog anymore.  I made sure to let Bunk know that we were not going to abandon her.  We brought Jason home from the hospital and introduced him to Bunk immediately.  I sat on the couch and called her to sit next to me.  Michael handed me the baby, and I held him so that Bunk could see and sniff him.  Her tail wagged the entire time, and she poked him with her cold, wet nose.  Then she lay down and put her head in its usual place on my lap.  Later that afternoon, we found her asleep under Jason’s crib.

After that, she spent most days sleeping under his crib and would run to alert me if he started crying.  As he grew and was able to sit up, she tried to get Jason to play with her and would bonk him in the head with stuffed animals and rubber balls.  She sat near his high chair while he ate, always willing to eat any food he rejected and pitched her way, and there was a lot.

Our Christmas photo when Jason was 11 months old

Fast forward three years to a time right after we moved to Atlanta because Mike had accepted a job at CNN.  I can't go into it even all these years later, but suffice to say that one night not long after we moved, Bunk got sick. I rushed her to the vet the next morning, and he kept her to do tests. By the time I got home—not 15 minutes later—she was gone. Gone.  I had no warning, no chance to prepare.  I didn’t get to say good-bye.

I still miss Bunker.  I like to remember her in that wedding photo that we never had taken:  Dressed in my white, silk organza gown and veil, I’m bending over and staring into the black, button eyes of my hairy flower girl, a wreath of white mums crowning her little head, peach and white ribbons flowing from her pink, rhinestone collar.