494: this is what it means to be home again

Hay Creek at dusk is difficult to photograph, especially if your subjects are whirling dervishes of adorable energy.

On the morning of our ultrasound, Ryan took the dogs up Memorial Bluff, where he played his standard fetch, using a stick he'd found along the trail. Zephyr, who is a champion stick-fetcher, apparently was simply trotting back to him when he somehow got the stick lodged in the back of his throat--not the roof of his mouth, mind you, but the very back, sensitive and tender. Zeph fought to get it out, but couldn't on his own, and Ryan confessed he even had a little trouble dislodging the troublesome stick from our dog's maw. There was blood, of course, but Zephyr didn't seem fazed; they continued their walk, and we continued our day, cooing over our injured friend. That night, the dogs slept with us, because my mother was sleeping on the futon, and we didn't want her disturbed by our overly-friendly pups, and at four in the morning, we awoke to this strange chuffing and snorting. I turned on my bedside light and Z was pacing the room, trying to dislodge the injury; we decided to call the vet. There was a furious red spot in the back and in the center, something gray or brown, and the only way I could get the kind doctor to see it was by shoving my fist halfway down his throat, holding it open myself; I'm fortunate that our vet allows owner-participation, as I don't think any of them were tempted to dangle their head in front of the lion. She suspected the spot was still stick, and while I rubbed my hands vigorously on a towel (oh, how I loathe saliva and how I need to get over it with a drool-machine on the way) while she went to get a sedative--Zephyr was cathertized in his leg and put into a stupor-sleep, his fat tongue lolling onto my jeans, drool pooling in my socks. Apparently he needed his mama at his head, me constantly telling him what a good boy he was for not snarling or fighting back. There was nothing there, fortunately, and we were loaded down with antibiotics. He's perfectly fine, save the struggle it is to give him plastic-coated pills (we use peanut butter); his energy hasn't waned a bit.

I feel fully home again, what with Zephyr getting into things, leaving me an empty box of Triscuits to vacuum up before my mother arrived, selecting random double pointed needles made of bamboo as chew toys. He's our boy, through and through, that ridiculous happy grin and waggy tail, that propensity to fill us with frustration and love simultaneously.

Meanwhile, I am reading books that are too easy to put down, catching up on Netflix (currently: Discovery Channel's Human Body: Pushing the Limits) and thumbing through a baby name book. (I'm sure the process of settling on a name will take some time, but I promise we aren't keeping it a secret until The Day.) I am feeling baby flicker inside of me, loving every moment, precious, thinking about what I want to do with these last four months before freedom is revoked and my world takes on a new tilt.