The Saga of Baxter

For those of you keeping score at home, Baxter has now cost $4,400 in the last seven months. Thankfully, I've had many people donate money to his cause and help with $625 worth of his bills.

In case you missed what's been happening, in April (end of) he'd started having nose bleeds. He had an xray, rhinoscopy, and blood work. A few months after that he started puking, and puking, and then began bleeding from him bum. I called out of work and rushed him to the emergency vet clinic where he stayed overnight on an IV drip (they say it was something viral).

Most recently, he had this on his leg:

We referred to it as his sausage. The vet took one look at it and said, "Yea, that's going to need to come off." She didn't touch it or anything. He was brought in for surgery the following morning and has since looked like this:

He rams things straight on, hard enough we have to put his cone of shame on a few times a day, but he's recovering well, which is nice.

Just before Thanksgiving, I'd like to say that I'm thankful to have Baxter with me, still. 2013 was rough on both of us, but things are always looking up :)

After Two Years, It's Over

So long, so long

Effective today, I turned my keys back into what I've affectionately dubbed, "The Soul Suck."

Two years ago, I'd moved to Maine without a place to live. I became a snowboarding instructor and my manager blatantly said, "We don't pay well, and your hours will be variable. You'll need a second job to survive the winter."

I put in an application, and after a rather extensive background check, I started working for Rite Aid. Because of the mental state I was in, it did not go smoothly for a long time. I fought with managers, I dropped stuff. Eventually, I was promoted to a Shift Supervisor, which is where I've been for the last year and a half.

One of the things I'd hated:
You load the cart up....

I spent two years putting my life back together after it felt apart. Rite Aid helped fund my travels to Michigan, to writing conferences, for a snowboard, for housing, for Bax's vet bills, for clothes. It was a safety net that I'm letting go of, and as I counted down the register for the last time last night, I was kind of scared. What if I fail at my new job? What if something happens?

And it'd all fall...

Every time.

But I guess that's part of life, isn't it? We don't know what'll happen. We're just along for the ride.

So after three pairs of ripped khakis, four navy blue shirts that are permanently stained, five name badges that were chronically lost, countless scrapes and bruises, and far too many energy drinks, I say goodbye to the place that helped put me back on my feet.

Goodbye, Rite Aid. Thank you for the last two years.


There are things I won't miss like, the marquee board that caused me to scream and curse and hope there were no customers around. mean customers to scream at me regarding the fact I'm IDing them, taking the trash out....and having it fall all over the parking lot, etc.

To My Little Mouse Friend

I've been living in my gingerbread house for the better part of a year now. While it has its charms (like snow coming in the walls), it has been a pretty okay place to stay. Plus, I haven't been moving every three months, and my landlord rocks.

Meanwhile, while we've been here, each night, there's a scratching deep within the walls that clearly says, "Something lives inside here!" When I sit on the couch, I can hear it run over top of my head and it scares me to death.

A lonely sugar wafer. Our little friend
loved sugar.

A few weeks ago, my roommate told me he'd found two mice nests with little babies inside. He put them outside, checked on them the next day. They were gone. I assumed that their mama found them and now they're living somewhere happy. He maintains they were probably eaten.

Then one night, I was sitting on the stairs chatting with my roommate while Baxter and Kyla played tug-of-war. From my right side I saw movement. Sure enough it was a tiny mouse going after my mint oreos. I screamed, he screamed, he ran, I screamed more. 

My roommate and I more fully began discussing getting a live trap so we could catch the little guy and send him packing without killing him. A few mornings later, however, I woke up. Fed the dogs, and just before I went to leave, I remembered I hadn't checked their water. 

I stood on my toes, and there, in the water bowl was a floating mouse.

Needless to say, I couldn't stop screaming and my roommate had to take care of our little dead friend.

I'm sad because I hate finding live mice in the house. I know they'll die in here and I'll have to deal with their small adorable bodies. Realistically, I just don't like things dying because it makes me sad.

So here's to my dead little mouse friend: may you rest in piece with as much sugar and oreos as you can stand.