Friends,
It’s been a while since I checked in, and the universe has dealt one punch in the face after another after another. Rather than work in chronological order, it might be better to work in order of impact and import.
We went on something of a summer holiday to Southern Oregon towards the beginning of July. At first, when the trip was planned, we were going to go see the in-laws and stay at a little fly fishing resort on the Umpqua River to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary. This sounded great and presented a wonderful opportunity to try out the new camera. The updated plan had us spend a couple days at the in-laws’ house first, divvying up their possessions to prepare for their move to a retirement community near our house. More on the retirement community in a bit, but this haggling led to a talons-extended wariness that would filter into the time spent in the forest.
So we ate the meals and slept in the cabin and hiked around a bit, but it felt like the last half of the third sequel. Going through motions. That was until we started hiking out of the trail leading to the largest falls we would visit. I spun my ankle on a trail-colored rock, and spent the next week hopping around and complaining to whoever would listen.
Did my complaining matter? Not one wit.
Once we arrived back home, where complaining continued to not matter, I noticed that the leak under the Wrangler hadn’t got any worse in our absence. I put in a new serpentine belt to replace the one that was starting to go before we left, and headed off to bed. My first day back to work would be in Temecula, so I wanted to make sure I was good to go.
The drive was uneventful the next day. The arrival in the parking lot was not. I knew that thrip-thwap-thwip noise was another belt flying apart. Time to consult experts…
Well, it should have been time to consult experts, but I consulted gifted psychics instead. How do psychics become gifted? They cheat, of course. In this case, the mechanics at the nearby service center had seen this before and knew what to look for. Excessive runout of the thrust bearing causing the crankshaft to move in and out too much. The pulleys go out of alignment and cut the new belt to pieces. Plus, the crankshaft seal is damaged in the process, thus the oil leak I couldn’t identify. The motor was cooked save for the seizing, the smoke and the fires. I still had time to find this old dog a new home and the local Jeep dealer gave me a reasonable price. An auction price, but that’s okay. I’d rather not see it driving around town.
I cast around for a replacement while driving around a rental from Avis and was reminded that a) Avis sells their cars after a while at pretty decent prices, and b) I still have a Grand Cherokee that isn’t running, and c) I miss the interior room and utility of a midsize SUV like the Grand Cherokee. So I bought one that’s a year and a couple months old from them in the weirdest sales transaction I’ve ever conducted (and I once bought a Volkswagen Beetle in the dark).
So much for not having a car payment, eh?
All this time, something’s been wrong with the dogs since we brought them home from the kennel/spa/cages. Food’s not staying down, or not getting consumed at all. Lots of pacing. Lots of trips outside overnight. The puppy pad bill is going to break the bank and after coming home after work to a couple mortifying shitstorms, it was time for the little one to go to the vet.
She hadn’t eaten in a few days, even though we tried to coax her with the most expensive ground up things in tins we could find. The veterinarian drew some blood and took an exceedingly lengthy time to call us with the results. Extraordinary because her health continued to deteriorate over the long weekend. Finally, we took her in to maybe get a feeding tube or something, but the prognosis was grim and final: pancreatic cancer. Looking back, I should’ve kept her head in my hand as the drugs were administered that would end her life. As she stopped controlling her neck, her head flopped over, giving Teresa a start, “Oh god! That’s horrible,” she gasped through the tears.
Mocha was the littlest one, the bravest one, the one who had been through the most. She was a one-doggy puppy mill and had been put through the ringer. She had the scars from being tied up all day and the nervous demeanor of a dog who’d never been socialized. I had an affinity for her that I can’t really describe. She’d been through a lot and deserved to have a nice safe life. I’d like to think that she enjoyed her last three years with us. And just like that, she was gone.
So, how’ve you been?
Your pal,
– bob
UPDATE: Here’s a better picture of the little dog. She’s pictured here on her preferred tower, where a girl can get away from it all, like another dog seven times her size who’s constantly menacing her.
