Highs and Lows

           Friday.

          It was Friday and the weekend was coming.

          (The weekend is always coming.)

          My thoughts turned to my letter blog.

          (The letter blog always occupies my thoughts at some level.)

          One thing stands out this week. An event we’ve been looking forward to for a long time. And it’s finally happened. The title for this week’s letter blog should reflect that and possible names ran through my head as I discarded one idea after another.

          Brushing my teeth.

I was brushing my teeth that night, before bed, and thought, this week has been full of highs (as I thought of the long-awaited event) and lows (as I thought of our weeks long struggle with Itsy).

And just like that a name was born.

Highs and Lows.

The high point…

We’ve been working with an RV dealership to purchase our RV. We’ve had to take a loss in order to make the deal happen but, in the end, all things considered, we’ll save money.

They flew a driver in from Florida to drive it back. But first he had to check it out and make sure it was as we represented it. Once he was sure it was, he dismissed his driver and called his boss, “You’ve got a heck of a deal on this one,” he told Gary. “It’s pristine.”

The papers were signed, checks were stuffed into a Fed-Ex overnight envelope and the deal was done.

That’s the condensed version.

“Peg, that’s not how you usually do it,” you say.

I know, right! I’m normally much more long-winded than that. But I’m afraid the details would just bore you to tears.

          “Peg! Give us something!” you beg.

          Okay. There are a few things.

          “Let’s go down and move the RV into the center of the bay,” Mike said. “Then when he gets here tomorrow, he can walk the whole way around it.”

          I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice. I haven’t been nice all week (as Mike will quickly tell you). The strain of dealing with Itsy has my nerves worn very thin. “We can do all of that tomorrow before he gets here,” I snipped. “What’s the point in doing it now?”

          “I need to get the plate off it and I can’t do that where it’s parked. Besides, I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

          My little worrywart. He’s always got to have something to worry about and he’s gonna worry himself right into an early grave.

          I took a deep breath and remembered something Chad, the agent for the dealership, told us.

          “Some people think that once our guy gets there that we’ll take it no matter what. But it’s not true. If we find something wrong, we’ll walk away from the deal. Our guy will turn around and fly right back outta there.”

          We didn’t misrepresent our RV in any way so I was sure that wouldn’t be an issue. Nonetheless, if he walked around it and didn’t like it, he could leave. It was better we do that in the barn so IF he walks, Mike doesn’t have to put it back away. That was a longshot but it made me feel better about walking down there with him.

          Parked in front of the RV was the Kioti tractor. It had to be moved and wouldn’t start. “It needs new battery terminals,” Mike said and fussed with the connections, cleaning, tightening them. “You get on and see if it’ll start now.”

          I tried the ignition but it wouldn’t start. Mike cleaned the other terminal and had me try again. Nope. We tried several more times as he fussed with it. Still no go.

          “Maybe we can push it,” I suggested.

          Mike scoffed. “You can’t push it, the bucket’s down. Maybe the battery’s dead.”

          I sat tight while Mike went for the battery charger. He hooked it up and we waited for a while. It still wouldn’t start.

          Mike got on the Gravely and tried to push the Kioti. It didn’t work. He got a chain and tried pulling it. That was only slightly effective.

         Mike knew he had to get the bucket off the ground. He got a pry bar; I slid an old fence post under the bucket and that helped some. In a last-ditch effort, Mike tried pushing the Kioti with the Gravely and this time managed to push it out of the bay the RV was in.

          And this is one example of Mike’s worrywarting paying off. I’m glad we didn’t have this problem to deal with on the day of the sale.

          “Wow, it’s been garage-kept,” the guy said when he saw it sitting there.

          “Yep.” Mike grinned. “It’s like new.”

          “What’s your name,” I asked.

          “Harmon,” he said.

          “Harmon?” I repeated.

          “No, Harmon,” I heard him say again. With masks on I couldn’t see what he was saying.

          “Spell it for me, please?” I asked.

          “A R M A N D,” Armand said.

          I’d never heard that name before. “How did you get a name like that?” I was curious.

          “My father is French-Canadian from Quebec and one of ten boys. It was his name and his father’s name and now it’s my name.”

          “Ten boys! Wow. Any girls?”

          “Yep. Two.”

          During our conversation I found out he’s 77 years old, married for 59 years, has a slew of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and retired from 30 years in the Air Force.

          “How did you get this job?”

          “My granddaughter is married to a guy who did this job. They knew I had an RV and asked if I wanted to try it. I’ve been doing it for three years now and only take the job if I want to.”

          “And you wanted this one?” I wondered why.

          “I have friends about three hours south of here so I’m going to stop off and see them.”

          We did the paperwork, watched Armand put checks in the Fed-Ex envelope and seal it.

          “Can I take that to Fed-Ex for you?” Mike asked. He didn’t want to admit he didn’t trust someone else to do that.

          “What happens if he doesn’t put the check in the mail and he wrecks it,” my little worrywart worried a day ago. “Do I get it back then?”

          “No,” Armand answered him. “I can’t let you do that. I have to. Where’s the Fed-Ex office?”

          We ended up leading the way to Wysox to mail the envelope and Mike went inside with him when he mailed it. I waited in the Jeep. Armand and Mike came back out and said their goodbyes. Armand took his mask off on his way to the RV and this shot taken through the side window is the first I’d seen his face.

          Mike and I went in one direction, Armand was going in the other. We pulled out onto the road before I realized I hadn’t taken any pictures of the RV so I snapped one through the back window.

          “You know how sometimes you get buyer’s remorse?” Mike asked.

          “Yeah?”

          “I think I’ve got seller’s remorse. That’s the RV I’ve wanted for many years and we didn’t really get to use it.”

          I tried to remind him of all the reasons we did sell it but it didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

          The lease on our Jeep is up in less than a year and Mike is thinking about getting a van next. He must’ve been contemplating that as we drove home.

          “If we want to go anywhere, a van would be ideal. It’s comfortable to drive, you can haul lots of stuff, and you can help drive,” he said.

          “That’s not really going to work very well. For one thing, you hate my driving. I’ll only be driving for fifteen minutes and you’ll say, ‘Pull over, Peg. I’ll drive.’ Besides, you won’t take pictures for me. I’ll say, ‘Hey Mike! Get a picture of that!’” I pointed for emphasis and imaging what Mike would do in that situation, I adopted a goofy grin, held the camera at arm’s length, pointed it out the window and snapped off a couple of pictures in a haphazard manner. “’Oh, sorry Peg. I tried!’ That’s what you’d say.”

          He laughed. He knew I was right. He might take one or two pictures to humor me but it wouldn’t last.

          I downloaded the pictures and these are the two I snapped during my tirade.

          Yep. Upside down and all. Mike doesn’t take very good pictures, does he.

          In the end I did agree that I could help drive.

          Mike talked with Armand later that evening. He loves the coach and is thinking he’d like to buy it.

          And that was not only a high point to our week but, in Mike’s case, a low one too.

          The other issue, the lowest of the low issues this week, is Itsy. Her pain meds weren’t carrying her through to the next dose and, as I’ve told you before, I’m a bit of a rule follower. If it’s 12 hours between doses, by golly, I’m waiting 12 hours till I give it to her. What a mistake. For days we had to listen to her incessant crying for two to three hours at a time before the next dose and half an hour after till it kicks in.

          “I think she’s in pain,” Mike insists.

          I tend to think it’s itching of the rash. She can’t scratch her back so all she can do is cry.

          “Give her a bath with that shampoo the vet gave you,” Mike said.

          “What good will that do?”

          “It’s a special shampoo.”

          “It’s just a mild shampoo so as not to irritate. There’s no medicine in it.”

          At this point things were said. Some not-so-very nice things. I did get up and give her a bath and Google-searched for ways to relieve itching. Vinegar was suggested and I tried that first but it didn’t seem to make any difference. Baking soda was also suggested so I made a thin soup and poured it over her back. It dried into a hard, crusty coat of armor and there’s baking soda all over my floor. Whether it was the bath or baking soda, something helped, because she settled down after that. And if it helps then I don’t care how much baking soda drops on my floor.

          For two days, twice a day, I’d douse her in baking soda.

          I called the vet and they upped her dose of pain meds. That worked for a couple of days and I slacked off on the baking soda then it was back to the same routine of whining and crying for a couple of hours till another dose was due.

          Friday, I called and talked with Dr. Lori for half an hour. We’re going to give her a half dose between the two full doses. I had high hopes this would work. Friday night she had a full dose at six o’clock. I put her to bed around 8:30. One o’clock I got up and took her out to pee and gave her a half dose of pain meds. By four-thirty she was crying. I was awake and heard Mike take her out. She cried for a while after he brought her back in but she soon settled down. At five thirty I got up to her cries.

“What’s the matter, Itsy,” I cooed as I picked her up. Then to Mike, who was watching TV, I said, “I heard you take her out an hour ago.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think she peed.”

I headed to the kitchen with Itsy in hand and spy a wet spot on the carpet. “Awww. There’s a wet spot!”  

That’s the second (or maybe third) time this week she didn’t make it from one to five-thirty without peeing on the floor.

I fed Itsy and gave her a full dose of meds. Six hours later I gave her a half-dose and she spent the next hour crying. Fed up to my gills, I mixed a baking soda soup and gooped it on her hoping she’d get some relief.

“How did it work?” you want to know.

It didn’t work right away but after about 45 minutes she settled down.

          But life is seldom all highs or all lows. There’s plenty of ground in between.

          We had really strong gusty winds and lost a tree. It fell across the road but we didn’t know it till the Kipps came in from their morning walk and told us.

          The next day I took a ride with this beautiful lady and her handsome buddy. Mick had a follow-up appointment at Cornell University and I was asked to ride along. A little girl time with my best girl was just what I needed! We yapped the whole way, only missing one turn.

          It was starting to flurry when we left and it was getting heavier as we headed north out of Wysox.

          I didn’t take many pictures. This is like the fourth time I’ve been on these roads.

          As we got into New York, we ran out of the snow.

          Somebody, somebody loved died here. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a motorcycle accident.

         Mick is suffering from allergies. His feet swell up double their normal size and get open sores on them. Between the special diet, meds, and good care Jody gives him, the vet is pleased with the progress he’s made. He doesn’t have to go back to the clinic anymore but will likely be on meds the rest of his life.

          “We have to stop over at the hospital and get some meds for him,” Jody told me as we left the parking lot.

          I waited in the car as she went to the door to get them. It looks like a people hospital with several floors and lots of windows, some of them lit up and some had TVs on in them.

          Jody saw my camera pointed at her as she came back to the car. She’s such a good sport about it and I love her.

          She got in, buckled up, and headed out the driveway.

          “So, this is an animal hospital?” I started.

          “Yep,” Jody agreed.

          “Then how come there’s TVs on in some rooms?” I wanted to know.

          “I don’t know. Maybe they’re lounges for the people who work here,” she guessed.

          Me? I’m gonna guess that some of the critters like the noise and light of the TV. I know people sometimes leave a TV on for their pets.

          I took more pictures on the way home.

          There’s a lot of wheels in this picture. I can count four without looking too hard.

>>>*<<<

Mice!

Those meases!

Mices!

Mouses!

I guess it’s been a while since I’ve used my Cricut machine. With gift-giving season soon upon us, I decided to get my machine out and cut some 2020 stickers. That way you always know what year I gave it to you — and they’re easy enough to peel off if you don’t want them there.

My Cricut machine sat on top of its box, next to a big ole bag of sunflower seeds. I didn’t know I was operating a bed and breakfast for the nighttime vagabonds. Other than using it to hide the evidence of their sneakery, I don’t think they hurt it. I dumped out the empty hulls, vacuumed, thumped, and finally, wiped it down. Then held my breath when I turned it on. It seems to be working okay and I made some stickers.

I moved my bag of seeds back outside into the lidded trashcan where they used to live until the raccoons found them. The meases will have a harder time getting at them there and I’ll worry about the coons later.

And my Cricut? When I finished cutting a few stickers I put it back in its box.

And speaking of mice…

I have to tell you something that puzzles me.

Friday night, as we were watching TV, I heard a mouse trap spring. I didn’t get up right away but did check it before going to bed. I found a mouse caught by his right front foot.

          “It’s just his little foot that’s caught,” I told Mike as he sat at the computer checking email.

          “Is he dead?” he wanted to know.

          I held up the trap and shook it.

          “Don’t let him get away,” Mike admonished.

          “I think he’s dead. He’s not moving.”

          Tiger was just outside the door waiting to come in. When I showed him the fresh kill, he just had to have it. I gave it to him — and made him stay outside with it.

          And I’ve been trying to figure it out since then. Why did he die if it was just his front foot caught in the trap?

>>>*<<<

          This morning, Sunday, brought a conundrum of a whole new kind.

          I was sitting at my computer, drinking coffee and working on my letter blog. I hear Mike put the recliner down. I hear the front door open and close. I know he was playing doorman to one of the cats.

          “Itsy’s headed your way,” he called.

          If she’s wandering the house it usually means she has to pee. I got up to get her but she wasn’t in the dining room heading my way. “Where is she?”

          “I don’t know. She’s not in her bed.”

          Well, that started a hunt. Mike was on his way to the fridge for some orange juice and looked for her along the way. I checked behind the furniture and in the other beds. She wasn’t there. Maybe she circled the dining room table and I just missed her, I thought. I’ve seen her do that before. I checked but she wasn’t there either.

          “Maybe she’s in the closet,” Mike suggested.

          I’ve caught her coming out of the closet before with no idea of why she’s there so it was worth a look. But she wasn’t there either. I called her. She never verbally acknowledges when I call but she’ll usually come to me. Not this time though. I rechecked the pet beds, this time turning on lights along the way but she didn’t magically appear in any of them. I called again and watched for her to come from around a corner. But no Itsy. By this time Mike had joined in the search and we both ended up standing in the middle of the living room floor, scratching our heads.

          “You don’t suppose you scooped her under the recliner when you got up, do you?” I wondered aloud.

          “I hope not.” Mike sat in his recliner and reclined it. I got down and peeked under.

          “Yep. There she is.”

          I called her but she didn’t want to step over the black bar. That gave me a chance to get the camera and snap a picture of her along with the dust bunnies and all the other detritus that lives there.

          “Come on Itsy,” I called again. But she just scratched at the black bar still not wanting to step over it. I got down on my knees, reached under, pulled her out, cuddled her, and took her out to pee.

          You just would’ve thought she’d’ve squeaked when he knocked her in under with the footrest, wouldn’t ya!

          >>>*<<<

          I have a possum using an old whistle pig hole. We had the hole stoned up so I don’t know who un-stoned it but the other day I stepped out on the back patio and saw Tiger chasing a possum. The possum scooted into the hole and Tiger sat down to wait.

          The old woodchuck hole tunneled under the foundation. On the inside there used to sit a de-barker to take the bark off the trees and it had a trough the whole way around it. Now we have stuff stored back there. One day, I was standing in the trough, looking through boxes, and the two-inch thick concrete floor of the trough collapsed down into a vee. No rebar, no supports under it. It scared me. Now I’m guessing the critters could come up inside if he so chose to do so.

          I checked the way back and see no evidence the possum has been inside, and trust me, they don’t care where they leave their poop. I set a live-trap inside and baited it with a couple of cookies but all I’ve done is feed the mice.

          “We’ll have to close it back up,” Mike said.

          “But first, let’s make sure he’s not in there. I’m not going to intentionally entomb an animal.” I don’t know how we’re going to do that but it’s on my list of stuff to get done.       

          And with the help of my little orange buddy, we’ll call this one done!