Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Pyrrhic Victories

I'm good at this sort of thing...winning the battle and then spectacularly losing the war...it's been one of those weeks, and I think I'll just blame the full moon. That's convenient, anyway.

We got off to a great start when I received the daily crime report from the state police post back home on Monday morning- there was a murder, and I recognized the victim's name. He was one of exactly six boys who ever openly expressed any interest in me, five of them prior to high school (before they were promptly shamed out of it by the arbiters of taste, a.k.a the popular clique). By the time we were older, he'd moved to the neighboring county and fallen in with a bad crowd; I was told very emphatically by his relatives to avoid him. In discussing this with his cousin after I realized it was he who was killed, I found out that he'd been spiraling ever-downward pretty much from that day to this. It was depressing.

The next fun moment came on Tuesday when I dared weigh in on a discussion regarding an animal hoarding situation in which I'm tangentially involved. Some man down in Knoxville decided that my last name was Guantanamo, as in waterboarding and illegal detainment- although he later mentioned, very much further down the thread, that his phone's spellcheck had done that. I don't quite think that's the truth, but I spent most of the day being righteously indignant about it. Riight. My father's near-death experience in a Navy seaplane going out to Guantanamo Bay to pick up his NROTC cruise in 1950 is my only association with Gitmo- except for the plethora of Marines in my family.

Later that evening, my cell phone rang. It caller-ID'd as one of the other Airedale rescue coordinators in Kentucky. I thought it was probably something routine, so I answered it. It was not routine. A dog that I'd placed- a healthy, young dog- had literally dropped dead at his adopters' feet while playing ball with them just a few minutes earlier.

I've been in rescue for six years. NONE of my dogs, including the ones infested with heartworm and mange, practically dead from starvation and abuse, or who developed chronic diseases like diabetes, have ever died. Aside from a few intestinal parasites from outdoor living, his health was excellent. Until we receive the results of the necroscopy (that's what an autopsy is called when the subject is not human) I can't say much more. Basically, I've been crying off and on since about five-thirty last night. I keep fighting the urge to lean over and vomit in my office wastebasket; our associate dean is out until Friday, so I have to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on until she comes back. I'd really just like to go hide somewhere instead.

Meanwhile, one of my friends is undergoing radioactive iodine therapy for thyroid cancer, my first cousin is facing particularly gruesome cancer surgery, and I've got this Airedale mix who was involved in the aforementioned hoarding situation to get healed up from hernia repair and shipped off to rescue in Pennsylvania. There are things in this world that are so much infinitely worse, I suppose, but I'm already pretty low.

It's only Wednesday. My tolerance for BS and nonsense is absolute zero at the moment. Stay out of my way, people, I'm a librarian with attitude, and I am not afraid to shelve your bad self.

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