Eighteen days ago we moved into the small, unfurnished, unpainted and somewhat unfinished apartment attached to what will soon be our new home.
So far, so good.
Sort of.
I don't know what it is that attracts the critters to a new abode, but as of this writing the death toll is as follows: two enormous, hairy, well fed, juicy Tarantulas; two teen-aged Tarantulas; one poisonous caterpillar; no children (so far), and a snake that got away from my shovel.
Quarters are cramped and damp, not unlike boat living, and everything is covered in a fine dust generated from the many workers sanding ceiling wood, cutting tile, mixing cement. Until we got the cement poured, we were surrounded by a moat of mud that turned slurry with the afternoon rains.
The ear shattering sanding, filing, pounding, hammering and sawing begins at 7:00 a.m. and grinds on till around dinner time. Larry, who of course works right along side the crew, has developed his own charming and slightly boisterous style of speaking Spanish to them. He can be heard for at least a block exclaiming "Bueno! Bueno!" in approval.
I spend my days dusting and tidying, endlessly washing the floor, or gathering up outdoor rubble. But mostly, and oddly, I'm happy and handling it. This is not to say that I don't have an occasional meltdown. But I know that we'll have more room soon and it's really up to me to maintain a happy flow for the family. If I'm not happy, I'll make everyone around me suffer, and I just don't want to do that.
William is, of course, in heaven. He took one look at the small and shabby apartment and exclaimed "Oh Mom. This is a beautiful house!" What more can an 11 year old want than a street chock full of kids, dogs, horses, chickens, passing Ngobe natives and trucks loaded up fat with onions and other farm goods. Our neighbor sells home made strawberry icy's and there is a perpetual leaky pipe on the street that makes for more fun with water.
In the midst of the semi-controlled chaos, it became clear that our dog Petey had to be fixed. And no, it couldn
't wait. Petey had gone from loving our kitty in a respectable and brotherly fashion, to practically licking and humping her to death.
It turns out that having your pet fixed in Panama is almost as easy as running to the store for a quart of milk. I'm not exaggerating. I tossed the dog into the car for the four minute car ride up a bumpy road to the house/office of Chely the vet.
Two hours and twenty-five bucks later, Senor Petey was a Senorita. My only instructions were to keep him quiet and make sure he takes it easy
. Okay I thought to myself.
This is a joke.
Petey, who initially appeared to be undaunted by the surgical removal of most of his genitalia, continued to springboard happily around the backyard, bouncing like a reindeer on a trampoline, ferociously tearing his head from side to side as he tried to rip apart the stuffy bear clamped in his jaws. And he did this for three days, until his wound was bleeding and swollen.
When I couldn't keep him calm and couldn't stand the suffering any longer, I did the only logical thing any Ballard girl would do. (No, I didn't give him a cocktail.) I did what my Dad taught me to do. I gave him a pill.
Okay, big oops. Turns out you're not supposed to give IBU Profin to a puppy.
(Of course, I didn't go on the internet till
after I had shoved it down his gullet.)
The Yahoo reports weren't encouraging. Apparently I had done the unthinkable and by midnight we could expect Petey to be in full renal failure.
I went into a Lizzy tizzy and frantically called my good friend Nairn, who, according to her husband, is saving the world one dog at a time by rescuing them. Nairn had actually saved Petey from a life of dog drudgery, leter entrusting his life to
me, the idiot chick from Connecticut who gave him people painkillers. Nairn knows from dogs. I apparently don't know from Adam.
Big "Phew" sigh of relief. According to Nairn's research, the dose was very small and Petey would survive. Nevertheless, I spent the entire night pinching Petey awake every half hour.
So, this morning? I'm beat.
And what of Petey? He woke up at 6:00, tended as best he could to the remains of his private parts, downed an enormous breakfast, charged out the back door, sprang three feet into the air and began to lick the cat silly.
It's the Before & After of it all.
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