An ironic 24 hours

There are many advantages to having an island address; beaches close by, wildlife, community spirit, no urban sprawl, and peace and quiet whenever I want it.

There are also, at times, disadvantages and downright inconveniences, when the mood suits.

The last 24 hours have been a serious pain in my resolve to stay well and truly out of the rat-race, and stop being a rat.

It all started out well enough. I managed to get in a few hours of study and a couple of cups of tea on the veranda before one of my dogs started throwing up on the kitchen floor. She then staggered into the lounge room and fell onto the floor, shaking uncontrollable.

Naturally, I thought the worst and followed this up with a frantic phone call to my veterinarian on the mainland and booked an appointment for as soon as possible, basically as soon as I could get myself and my dogs off the island and onto the barge.

I locked up the house and packed my gear, the dogs and myself into the car in record time. It didn’t matter how fast I moved though, I still had to endure a rocky 20-minute hair-raising ride in a gale-force swell with a sick dog vomiting all over the back seat.

By the time I made it to the vets, I was feeling a little ill myself, which was exacerbated when I received the bill. It’s amazing just how much cystitis, a low-grade fever, painkillers, and  a course of antibiotics can cost.

I stayed at my father’s place on the mainland for dinner, which was not far away from the vets. It was only after we had cleaned up the car, packed the dogs in, and gotten down to the ferry terminal that I realised that I didn’t have my dog’s antibiotic medication.

We returned to dad’s house and found nothing. We searched the bags and the cars and found nothing. We went back down to the car park and found nothing. I found a green ant’s nest in the dark however, when I stood on it and stirred up about 50 of the nasty little stingers, that then proceeded to bite me all over my left foot and up my leg.

In an effort to get away from the ants, my mother and I sprinted towards the car. As my mother dived into the front seat, she slipped, and the containers full of dog food that she had hold of, flew all over her, me, and the interior of the car. Then it started raining.

My mother and I looked at each other. We both had dog food dripping from our hair. It was in our laps and all over the floor. My leg was stinging and my umbrella was in the other car. My mother started laughing. I looked at her and I laughed too. What else could I do? It was either laugh or go over the edge.

I decided to abandon the idea of getting back to the island that night, and had a sleepover at Dad’s house with the dogs. The next day I picked up the medication from the vets, which incidentally they had forgotten to give to me the night before.

Thank god for my mother, who could see the funny side of something that didn’t appear to be funny at the time. Once again, she has proven to me that there is humour, or a good side, to be found in what might seem to be a dark moment, if you look hard enough, or are warped enough.

I hope some of that has rubbed off on me.


2 Responses to “An ironic 24 hours”

  1. L.S. Engler Says:

    There’s also always the fact that, hey, at least now it’s over, right? What a nightmare. I hope the dog starts feeling better soon, though!

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