Nurse Pennie at breaking point

I have come to the sad realization that there is only so much that Compression Therapy, along with Naturally Humidified Healing Vapors, from both ends, can do. I feel like a failure. Please don't let Mulligan, the Patent-Holding Inventor of Compression Therapy, know how I have failed; he would be disappointed in me; or perhaps he was just able to provide better vaporage -- I am roughly the same size as Mulligan, but with the size of his cranium, tongue, curly butt doodles, he no doubt provided much more in the way of healing, naturally humidified vapors.

Mom became ill soon after Dad. Wee Lass was ill as well. Even Sophie rose to the occasion, donning her Nurse Sophie hat, and providing full time Compression Therapy for Mom. We seldom left Mom. Eventually, the germs won out. Dad took Mom away! Mom had been writhing in agony for several days, and Nurse Sophie and Me, Nurse Pennie, had completely wrinkled brows, and shook with worry. Dad returned home without Mom! I DEMANDED to know: Where IS MOM???? I looked all over the house. I looked outside. Dad had not suddenly decided to pour a concrete patio, so I knew Dad had not buried Mom somewhere on my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. (It is amazing, in all those Missing Person shows, how a person goes missing, and the Prime Suspect, in their supposed grief and despair, decides that instead of Searching for the Missing Person, it is the perfect time to lay out that new concrete patio they have been planning for years. And of course the detectives must think that pouring a concrete patio is part of the Normal Missing Person Grief Process, because the Detectives never dig up that patio for at least 5 years, usually after a Psychic says the person is buried under a concrete patio. But I digress.)

I THREW myself at Dad. I DEMANDED to know where Mom was. I STORMED Dad's car. It did not matter. Dad refused to take me to the hospital, where he had stowed Mom and her pneumonia. Apparently, hospitals do not recognize Compression Therapy as Treatment Modality for Pneumonia. Plus, I could have eaten all those perfectly good hospital meals that Mom was not eating, because she had too much nausea.

After several days, Dad finally brought Mom back home. Nurse Sophie and I have been Compressing Mom ever since she came home -- partly to further facilitate her healing and partly to ensure that Mom is rendered incapable of leaving the house because she cannot move with 85 combined pounds of Nurse Sophie and Nurse Pennie firmly planted atop her.

A Candid Statement to That Fat Mythical Elf

I fully admit that in a crazed fit of creativity I became Interior Designer Pennie and that I removed/shredded/ and/or mangled the basement carpet, necessitating it's removal so that now the top three basement steps are bare wood while the rest of the steps are still carpeted.

For the record I would like to state that the carpet was extremely ugly, and the remaining carpet is extremely ugly.

I fully understand that my pawrents were NOT as impressed with my creativity as I was, and that I was remanded over to the Naughty List of that Fat Mythical Elf, who is set to begin deliveries in just a few short hours.

To That Fat Mythical Elf:

I, Nurse Pennie, with no concern for my own safety, took care of Mom and Wee Lass for THREE Days, while they had Influenza, and Dad was off gallivanting in Northern Ohio, supposedly working for a living.

Yes, I did get help from Queen Sophine, for which I am grateful.

Upon Dad's return, I continued to care for Mom and Wee Lass, and additionally now Little Lad, who now was germ infested and disgusting.

If my care for Dad after his oral surgery, my care for Dad during HIS bout with Influenza, and my most recent grueling days as Nurse Pennie do not grant me "some" token GIFTs from That Fat Mythical Elf, then be it now known that I shall forever more be a Non-Believer.

I hate myself.

I am incapable of carrying out my threats. Oh sure, I can carry out threats to vile intruders into my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. Yesterday Sophie and I barked for over an hour at a workman who was working in the are behind our house. Mom said she was "on the verge of a nervous breakdown," from all the bark, bark, barking.

Just a few days ago I vowed that the next time that Dad was ill, I would show him my anger and NOT administer Compression Therapy OR Naturally Humidified Healing Vapors, after the way he treated me post oral surgery. I was Nurse Pennie-on-the-spot all during Dad's oral surgery recovery, and then once he was feeling better he spurned me.

Now Dad has succumbed to Influenza, the flu. I tried to ignore him. He has been isolated to the upstairs bedroom, in an attempt to keep the germs to one quadrant of the house. I could not stay away! My Nurse Pennie instincts took over, and I soon found myself joining Dad upon the Concrete Queen Bed, but NOT touching him. No, I decided that I would allow him and his lungs the healing powers of my Naturally Humidified Healing Vapors, but NO Compression Therapy.

By last night I had given in to full force Compression Therapy and Naturally Humidified Healing Vapors.

I believe that my Healing Vapors, from both ends, were exceptionally strong last night. I ate all the candy that Little Lad had received as a small Christmas gift from his piano teacher. I ate the candies, wrappers and all.

I think the candies, plus wrappers, made my vaporage very strong, until finally, in the wee hours of the morning I came downstairs, stood next to the couch where Mom was sleeping, and vomited forth the candy plus the wrappers on the carpet.

Mom was quite surprised at my vomitus (not that I had vomited, but at the contents itself.) She said that she could have simply picked out the candy wrappers and reconstituted the original chocolates, had she been so inclined.

In the meantime, I hate myself for not standing firm in denying Dad my Nurse Pennie powerful healing prowess.

No Thanks to Nurse Pennie

Dad had the rest of his Wisdom Teeth out on Thursday. He had two of his Wisdom Teeth out when he was a teenager. It went badly and Dad was scarred for life. As long as Mom has known Dad, he was supposed to go back and get the other two teeth out, or else he would get an infection. Well, Dad never would go back, and then he got an infection and that was that; face the fear or die of infection. Mom assured Dad that THIS oral surgeon (the same one who took out her wisdom teeth) passed out drugs like it was candy, and that Dad would be fine. Plus, despite my lack of faith in Mom's Maternal Skills; Mom actually DOES possess "some" maternal skills, plus there was ME, Nurse Pennie to take care of Dad, and all would go well.

I took care of Dad from the time he stumbled into the house post oral surgery Thursday afternoon, all through Thursday, Friday, and into Saturday as well. I rarely left the couch except to eat and provide myself with nourishment -- even caregivers must eat.

Last night, Dad went to bed, but was now "off drugs." Mom encouraged him that perhaps he should take a pain pill; after all he had worked all day and it would help him sleep. Dad did not want to take a pain pill. After all the time that I spent as Nurse Pennie, attending to every post oral-surgery whimper that Dad uttered, I "thought" that I had earned the right to touch Dad while sleeping upon the Concrete Queen Bed.

I was wrong. I spent all that time as Nurse Pennie, hour upon sleepless hour, only to be informed that No Dogs May Touch Dad While Dad Sleeps On the Concrete Queen Bed. To add insult to injury, Dad was in quite a surly mood.

Dad's surliness immediately made both Sophie and Me, Nurse Pennie, feel extreme guilt, and like all dogs, we had an immediate need to touch and smother Dad. The more we touched and smothered Dad, the more Dad became annoyed because he could not sleep, AND because we were touching him. Mom kept attempting to intervene, encouraging us over to HER dog-friendly side of the Concrete Queen, but of course, being dogs, we HAD to make it right with Dad, and touch him until he loved us again.

I have given up on being Nurse Pennie to Dad. Next time he is ill and needs Compression Therapy, or has post-surgical pain and needs a Dog Heating Pad and Naturally Humidified Healing Vapors, I shall not administer them. I don't care about the Hippocratic Oath. I have my pride.

Interior Designer Pennie Reputation

I am amazed what just one hour as Interior Designer Pennie has done for my reputation as an Interior Designer. It's true -- using Facebook and electronic media as an advertising tool really works!

This morning, Mom had to stop off at another Band Mom's house to pick up a fund-raising order. Parked in the driveway was Calbert's Mom, who was duly picking up HER fund-raising order. Calbert's Mom stopped by the van, where Sophie and I were along for the ride, to say how impressed she was with the Facebook pictures of my Interior Design Work on the Basement Steps. Calbert's Mom freely offered the opinion that she was pleased that Calbert had not done such a thing.

In other words, Calbert's Mom immediately recognized that it is ME, Pennie, that is a truly gifted Interior Designer, and any Interior Design work that Calbert would attempt, would be shoddy in comparison. Perhaps next time the Calbert family takes on a home renovation project, instead of just borrowing Dad's workshop and Dad's tools, they will also bring Me, Interior Designer Pennie over for a Consult!

Furthermore, when Mom first discovered my extensive Interior Design/Renovation on the basement steps, she took a picture with her camera phone and she texted the picture to Dad. Mom was afraid to wait for Dad to arrive home and see how much destruction, I mean how much Design work, I had accomplished. Dad received the picture in the middle of a sales meeting, and he was so shocked at the beauty of my work, that he gasped. At his gasp, the meeting attendees just HAD to see my picture. Dad passed his phone around and the meeting attendees were awed at my work! Several attendees asked for Dad to text mail the picture to them so that they could pass the picture on as well!

I highly recommend electronic media, such as Facebook and Text Mail, as an advertising tool. I suspect that any day my Interior Design Business shall blossom. Obviously the next thing is for me to open a Twitter account.

Tossing barks across the demilitarized thicket

The new Pittie neighbor has been out in her backyard and we have started to toss barks across the Demilitarized Thicket separating our two yards. Mom refused to let me actually meet Pittie neighbor, who is named Lindsey. Lindsey has a bit of Kennel Cough from her time in The Shelter and Mom also does not want me to overwhelm Lindsey.

Mom and Dad's bathroom has an exhaust fan that exits out through the ceiling of the bathroom, out through the attic, and then vents to the outside. When I stand at the perfect spot in the back yard, and BARK, my barks are transmitted up to the roof of the house, and Mom can actually hear them echoing, inside the attic venting! It's totally awesome! It's like having a barking Pennie right there in the bathroom, with Mom.

Of course, I don't "normally" have a reason to stand in that exactly perfect spot. Usually I only pick that spot when I have treed a squirrel in the maple tree in the back yard. However, the perfect spot to bark at Lindsey just happens to also be the perfect spot to send my gorgeous BARK straight up over the roof of the house, and into the attic, down into the bathroom!

This Demilitarized Thicket Barking is going to be even more awesome than I imagined!

The Demilitarized 0.46 Acres of Suburbia

Things are heating up at my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. This afternoon Mom heard what she
"thought" was the normal Pennie/Sophie ruckus of guarding our front sidewalk. Some intuition forced Mom to open the front door and there she saw our next door neighbor walking: a dog.

Mom was certain that neighbor was simply dog sitting, so Mom called out an inquiry as to whose dog it was.

We have a new neighbor. It is a female Pittie, and it was newly home from the Shelter.

This certainly changes things at my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. There has NEVER been a dog on either side of this 0.46 Acres of Suburbia. There is a dog across the street. There were two dogs, and now is one, diagonally across the street. However, the neighbors on either side have respected a vast no dog's land and all has been quiet.

It's going to heat up really fast. In the back yard there is a large thicket of honeysuckle that separates the two yards. In the front, there is nothing but a dip in the grass to demarcate the separation between MY 0.46 acres of Suburbia and New Pittie's 0.466 Acres. Yes, new Pittie has 0.006 more acres of property to guard.

I propose that the honeysuckle thicket shall act as the demilitarized zone; the demilitarized thicket, and let the barking war commence.

Creative Outlet

I had a particularly unhappy Thanksgiving weekend, as Sophie has already written in her Sophathetic diary. Although it was not MY Gotcha Day, I too spent Thanksgiving Day eating cold hard kibble, stranded in an steel cage, with just a thin blanket to warm my shivering Pennie bones. To make it worse, I knew that just after I had been dropped off at Camp Kennel, Oldest Lad arrived at home for a short visit. In his grief at not being able to spend time with Sophie and I, he requested that Mom drop us off at the kennel before he arrived at home. Oldest Lad did not want to say "hello," only to be forced to say "good-bye," in a matter of minutes.

Once home, I knew from the smell of the house that Oldest Lad had been there AND that I had missed him. I also missed Thanksgiving dinner. It was a useless waste of all those plates scraped into the "Insinkerator" kitchen sink disposal, where the tasty bits were ground to oblivion and then sent out to the sewer system, to end up in Lake Erie. They all could have been mine.

Today, Mom went out to run errands, and did not realize that I was left in the basement. In my still over-anxious state of missing Thanksgiving, missing Oldest Lad, and my normal state of separation anxiety, I turned to creativity to ease my mind. Mom has been turning to Mindfulness Meditations to ease HER anxiety, but she is unwilling to share her iPod Nano Ear Buds even with ME, Pennie, and my luxurious bi-fold ears. I feared Mom would have a meltdown if she discovered someone, even ME, Pennie, had dared to put her earbuds into mythically contaminated ears, so I chose CREATIVITY as an outlet.

I became Interior Designer Pennie. As Mom was gone for quite a while, i was free to exercise my Interior Designer Pennie creativity burst of energy for over an hour. In that time I removed the carpet from the top three steps of the basement stairs. Granted, I had begun work on removing the carpet from the top step some time ago, but I finished the job of that top step, plus added two more steps. I am quite proud of myself, and have a picture posted of my fine work.

Crushing Mom

Mom sat on the recliner today to have a quick time to let some migraine medication do it's work. I was quite certain that it was time to Crush Mom beyond all resistance, I mean it was time to apply some Compression Therapy. I pawed at Mom's leg until she shifted over so that I could climb on top of her. Then Sophie trotted over and stared at Mom expectantly until Mom let Sophie climb on top of her, as well.

Mom wondered if instead of receiving the ministrations of Compression Therapy; she was actually stricken with polio and was in an Iron Lung. Mom complained that with the crushing weight of over 80 plus dog pounds placed upon her, she had lost feeling in her extremities, and instead of the warmth and movements stimulating healing and blood flow, the crushing weight was causing paralysis. Mom further hypothesized that perhaps the crushing weight of 80 plus dog pounds AND all those natural vapors were causing her lungs to be incapable of breathing independently; much like the polio victims of bygone days who were forced to breath inside an iron cylinder.

Sophie and I assured Mom that we had proven qualifications to provide Compression Therapy, and if she would simply submit to our crushing, er, compression, then she would breathe better quite soon and her body would heal quickly due to our body heat, vast amounts of vaporage, and our ministrations. Mom either soon submitted, or passed out, for all too soon she was up and about her normal duties, proving that Compression Therapy IS the best natural healing method available.

Synchronized Sleeping with Dad

I do not know how Dad could possible think that he is anything but loved and adored. Or simply used.

It is a well known fact that Dad does not like any Dog Parts to touch him while he sleeps on the Concrete Queen. The Concrete Queen Mattress is almost 20 years old -- it was one of the first purchases of Mom and Dad's marriage, but as the name "Concrete Queen" would suggest, the mattress is as firm as the day that Dad chose it for it's kinship to sleeping on, well, concrete. (The other first purchase was a dishwasher. Dad informed Mom prior to marriage that he did not "do dishes." This did not sit well with Mom, so in order to not remain a bachelor, Dad immediately purchased a convertible dishwasher; one that was on wheels that could later be installed into the cabinetry when the kitchen was remodeled and room was made for it.)

Anyhoodles, last night Dad was forced to suffer through dog parts touching him, but I think he must appreciate the coordination of the effort.

There was Me, Pennie, curled up at Dad's lower legs and feet.

There was Sophie curled up at Dad's bottom.

There was Mom, curled up at Dad's back and neck.

All three of us were in basically the same position, snuggled up against Dad, completely synchronized. He "should" have felt either loved, smothered, or used.