A drowned mouse, a stuffed dog, and marky mark

Who was the asshole that told me this shit falls in threes and that it's safe to come out now? Who was it? 'Fess up! Cuz this shit is still fallin' and my umbrella's about busted up.

Again, like before, it all started so innocently. I was outside hanging my laundry. Don't rub your eyes. There's nothing wrong with the monitor. I was hanging my laundry. Outside. In the sunshine. A very unAmerican thing to do, admittedly. And yet oh so Heather. A good deed to boot. And green. Good, green Heather.

Paving the way to hell.

So as I'm hanging my laundry, I hear I banging on the sliding glass door behind me and turn to see my sweet baby, wireless mouse in hand, pounding a rhythmic beat to the refrain so often heard from her, "Da-da Da-da Da-da Da-da." So adorably smiling and happy, I almost forgot to get angry.

But then I remembered.

"No, no, no! Put that back. Do not play with Mama's things!" I shouted through the door as I wrestled a gigantic, wet bra onto a deck chair.

"Heeeeeee!" Iryna laughed and stomped her feet with glee. "Da-da Da-da Da-da," she sang and pounded some more.

I dropped the bra which luckily just missed my toes or I might have been seriously injured with the weight of it, and took off to save my mouse. As I grabbed hold of it, ripping out of the hands of the babe, I notice something that sent me off the edge of Mommy Sanity and into the Abyss of Mommy Dearest: there was water, pouring out, draining out of my poor little wireless mouse. A steady stream of water. I just watched it like a mini Niagra Falls splashing onto the hardwood floor below.

"Boo da-da da-da duck duck. Whish frooo duck duck. Froo-ish duck," said Iryna in a language understood by her and her alone.

I don't recall much after that. I know I put her in her crib to cry her sad little self into a tizzy. And then I sat at my computer, cradling my dead mouse, mourning the loss of my only link to the outside world. As I've said before, the internet is my village. To lose it is like the Vikings coming in, stealing everything, kidnapping the women and children, and slaying all the men, leaving me all alone in the world. My village was burning down and my sweet little Iryna was the Vikings.

I know a few people called me during this time of shock and grief. I answered the phone with a curt, "In a bad place right now. You don't want to talk to me. Call back later." Funny, nobody called an ambulance or a firetruck. I guess my people know me.

Fortunately, there is happy ending here. Microsoft is sending me a new one. In fact, they are sending me a whole new set. Can you believe it? I called them up, and a very nice lady asked me, "What's the problem?"

"My daughter drowned my mouse and now it's dead," I explained.

"What's the name of your mouse?" she inquired.

"Ummm..." I hummed lowly. Then, to myself I thought, "I did dial Microsoft and not the vet's office, didn't I? I'm not that far gone into Lala Land to have done that. Or am I?"

"I... uhhhh... I didn't actually name it," I confessed.

"That's okay," she giggled, "There's a name imprinted on the underside."

So, wow. How's that! Your mouse, provided it's from Microsoft, actually has a name. And they're replaceable! Just don't tell Bill. I know he's generous and all. What with that killer foundation and his donating all those whoozy whatsits to the developing world. But I ain't in the developing world and I'm afraid if he hears they're giving out his mice to dumbasses who drown theirs, he'll put a recall on 'em and I'll be back to being the lone survivor in a burned out Internet village.

That was yesterday.

Last night I noticed Truman was panting a lot. But it is hot. And I've got the temperature set at 80 in an attempt to cut back on energy consumption. Good deed, green, yada yada, blah blah blah. Then he started drinking a lot of water. Again, though, it's hot. I put him to bed and forgot about it.

At about 5:30 this morning, he started barking and wouldn't stop. I figured he must have had to pee with all that dang water he guzzled. I dragged my half asleep ass downstairs and let him out. He made a bee line straight for his water bowl and drank the whole, freshly poured bowl all the way down. That's 18 oz. Without a break. Something was definitely wrong.

I let him out to pee and he hardly managed to get himself back up the two low steps of our deck. I picked him up and he yelped in pain. His belly was very large, distended, and hard as a rock. While he's fat and fluffy, nothing about Truman is hard or rock like. He's soft and jiggly. Rock hard is cause for concern.

I woke the kids, tossed a few cheerios at them, and we headed out to the animal hospital. After a quick exam, the vet came back to proudly display the xrays.

"I've got your problem!" she cheered.

At this moment, I envisioned swallowed magnets or a Hot Wheel. Maybe a baby diaper. Or one of my beautifully line dried towels.

"He's eaten himself sick," she said and smiled. "I'd heard that dachshunds are food driven, but he's practically eaten himself to death!"

I just sat there with a silly grin on my face trying to figure out what he'd eaten.

The vet pointed to the xray. "His stomach is four times as big as it should be. I'd say he has at least three cups of food in there. Perhaps more. Can you think of what he might have eaten?"

I rambled on and on about the baby throwing her food down to him. I admitted not having sat down to have a meal with my kids since Mike left. Something about how that is one of the few times I have to myself. Reiterating that my husband is gone for six months and that I am normally much more in tune to what is going on with my dogs and kids. So I really couldn't say how much food the baby's given him. But it couldn't be that much. Could it? On and on and on I went.

Then Reilly Kate piped in.

"He ate Freyja's treat bag," she said.

Then I remembered. I had found the treat bag laying on the floor of the family room, torn open and the contents eaten. I had assumed it was Freyja. And I didn't think it was that much. But it wasn't Freyja. It was Truman. And it was the better part of two enormous bags of Pupperonis, cut into tiny bite sized pieces.

They kept Truman all day, giving him IV fluids and some injections to keep his digestion moving. And cleaning up after his "plentiful bowel movements" (their words, not mine). All to the tune of $300. And I get to bring him back tomorrow for more xrays and fluids.

By the way, Reilly Kate admitted to having watched him do it, too. She just didn't think it was a big deal. And she didn't feel like taking it away from him. But $300 is about the cost of a kid's birthday party these days. Guess who just had her birthday party at the vet's office, complete with xrays and IVs and Pupperonis? Yep. RK.

And lastly, it was same said daughter that allowed her dog to eat himself practically to death that also decided she didn't like any of the pencils she had at her disposal and would instead take down all her Daddy's writing implements and find one she did like. Leaving the rest of said writing implements well within grabbing range of her baby sister who then grabbed herself a black Sharpie marker (why? why? why always the BLACK SHARPIE marker? Why is it never a pastel pink, washable Crayola marker?) and wrote all over herself, her clothing, the carpet, the guest bedding and the guest bed.

And it just ain't comin' out. Nor can I be bothered to try. Nope. I'll just sit here on the internet, hanging in my burning village and waiting for the shit storm to ease up. Anybody got a shitty umbrella they wanna send me?