Warning: life is risky!
Warning: life is risky!
Wow. An article in today’s edition of the Vancouver Sun gives us quite a newsflash: U.S. government researchers reveal that pets can be dangerous to your health. To whit: one could trip over the leash while walking one’s dog, or a water bowl could spill, resulting in a dangerously wet floor. One could (shudder) sprain a wrist.
About a third of dog-related falls happened because the person tripped over the dog (hey, it happens) one-quarter just while walking (what does this mean??) one-fifth because the dog pulled them over (get a Halti, take a class, or don’t get a Mastiff if you weigh 120 pounds, how ’bout that?) 3% while running from the dog (idiot) and 0.5% while breaking up a fight (just let Darwinism work here.) Two-thirds of cat-related injuries are from tripping over the cat (shit happens, move on) 12% involved chasing it (why? Just why?)
The article goes on to detail the worst perpetrators (88% dogs, 12% cats) the largest age group injured (children under 14) and the worst-injured group (people age 75 and over). If I understand correctly, this research informs us that when kids play with pets – dogs mostly – they sometimes fall down and skin their knees. Old people who play with pets might fall down and break their hips.
The researchers went on to offer tips on avoiding such catastrophes, suggesting people educating themselves on how a pet behaves during “risky activities such as walks.” Obedience training is highly recommended, as is ensuring that rooms with a lot of pet and human traffic be well-lit.
To think that just last night, when we were curled up in the family room watching The Office, our safety and well-being was in jeopardy. Not only was the room dimly lit, but we had three dogs and a couple of cats lurking nearby, just waiting to trip us or spill water in our direction. (You know how much pets love being stepped on.)
Now you’ve wasted nearly as much time on this subject as I have.
If I’m still chasing my dog at 75, I’ll take the risk of breaking a hip, thank you very much.
The Glamour of Writing
The Glamour of Writing
Animals and writing have always been linked, for me. I work with animals, I live with them, I read about them, I write about them. Fiction and non-fiction.
My writing room is filled with pictures and paraphernalia about our various pets, and orange tabbies feature prominently. They’re not the most glamorous cats, at least the ones I end up with. But they have such great personalities! Right now we have two orange short-haired boys. Bryan, the exception to my rule, is gorgeous. His sleek fur is a rich, deep mahogany in the classic swirled pattern. He’s also about twenty pounds and most (not all, I’m not completely delusional) of it is muscle. Mylos, on the other hand, looks remarkably like my first orange boy, Simon. That is to say, the one that makes people ask, “What’s wrong with your cat?”
As it turns out, there is something wrong with Mylos. He’s got diabetes. Not that unusual in older felines, and definitely treatable. So, he gets insulin injections twice daily and I monitor his food intake and generally keep an eye on him. Bryan and the girls (Tabitha and Sophie) try to steal his food whenever they can, so it’s a bit of a job. But he’s worth it.
What does this have to do with writing, you’re asking? Before I got serious about fiction, I earned my Wheaties writing articles for the veterinary and pet-owning market. (FYI, I made more writing about animal health than I ever did practicing it in hospital. Veterinary technicians are notoriously undervalued. But I digress.) I wrote about dogs, cats, rabbits, horses, donkeys, goats and I think, an iguana once. I covered hairballs, house-training, inappropriate peeing and constipation (are you seeing a thread here?) Dental health, obesity, senior preventive health, pediatric spay/neuter protocols and puppy socialization were all ever-green topics that kept me in cat litter. But I also got some interesting assignments on less-known subjects, such as assessing the potential stud dog, and most memorably, cats that … um…licked themselves. Too much. If you know what I mean. The last, to my knowledge, never saw print, thank goodness. I got paid anyway.
The work was fairly reliable, I met my deadlines and even won awards for my articles. Because I wasn’t practicing as an animal health technician, it also kept me current on medical topics, which allowed me to keep my license. But eventually I realized that I’d rather remove my eyes with a spoon than write one more piece on flea prevention.
So I turned to fiction.
Newsflash: Fiction pays even worse than animal health articles. With non-fiction, you pitch ideas, get the contract, write your thousand-or-two words and wait for the cheque. Start all over again next week. With fiction, you write a hundred-thousand word novel, then pitch it and wait for the rejections to roll in. Do this every year and you’ll be famous before you’re 120. “Fiction,” I moaned, “is so much HARDER!”
I’ve been writing primarily fiction since 2006 and now have around 25 novels and novellas published, plus a couple of short stories in anthologies. I recall those lovely non-fiction assignments where someone asked – ASKED – me to write and promised to pay me for it. I recall the slightly delayed gratification of seeing my words in print. My by-line. “Ah,” I thought, polishing my rose-tinted specs. “Those were the days.” Who are you kidding? the early doubts whispered. You can’t be a novelist.
Typical writer stuff.
Shortly after Mylos was diagnosed, I figured I might as well write about our experience, exercise a few different writing muscles. Fiction was going nowhere at the moment. I hadn’t pitched to the animal health market for awhile; I’m doing the research anyway. Why not get paid for it? Plus, I’d get to interview the top people in the field and ask questions about my very own cat.
Board-certified feline specialists gave me advice and helped me shape a pretty good, if I do say so myself, informative and engaging piece on feline diabetes. I learned a lot about how to give Mylos the best treatment and it was good to touch base with the pet writing world, that small community of dedicated pet-lovers and talented writers.
I also discovered something else: I couldn’t wait to get back to fiction. I kept wanting to add tension, conflict, dialogue and character arcs. Unfortunately, that’s not really what Catnip newsletter had in mind. “Non-fiction,” I reminded myself, “is so much HARDER!”
I’ll probably continue to do the odd article now and then, when the topic strikes my fancy, just for the variety. But that spoon stays on my desk, to remind me of the ever-present threat of DIY eye enucleation.
Back on the weight loss plan…
I’m back on the weight loss plan, with Herbal Magic, that is. I joined in spring, 2007, lost 23 pounds and kept it off for over a year. Then, well, it all started to go sideways. I blame my good friend Miss Vickie. And her Mexican cousin, Dorito. And my genetic tendency to bake cinnamon buns when experiencing stress.
And last but not least, Maui. Look at the photos. See the one with the fondue? I think I gained 5 pounds that night. It was awesome. See all the photos with us raising umbrella-festooned glasses? That frothy stuff? Fat, booze and sugar. With pineapple on the side, so we can call it health food.
Now, I know I’m not really overweight. At 5’7″ tall, I can hide a fair bit of poundage, as long as I wear drapy tops. By the insurance charts, I should weigh between 120 and 150. I was nearing 170 when I decided to do something about it and I’m glad I did. A tendency to overweight runs in my family, as does hypertension.
But dieting is a “heavy” issue for me. Taking the plunge took me back to a place I was reluctant to visit. In my late teens and early 20s, I was fortunate enough to receive psychiatric treatment from an eating disorder specialist. Dr. Thakur probably saved my life or at least changed its direction. So, I know about obsessive eating and dieting and what kind of mental torture a person can put herself through in the quest for perfection of one kind or another.
Me, I ate to “stuff down” those bad, bad feelings that a person has when she doesn’t like or even know herself very well. Then I purged to get rid of it all. Worked well. Until I discovered that a) a person could kill herself that way and b) there’s a better way. You can learn to face life, even the tough stuff.
Now I’m a grown up, with kids the age I was when I was bulimic. They know about this part of my history, even though I don’t talk about it much. It’s uncomfortable. Embarrassing, even. I mean, really. What a disgusting thing to do. But we all have a dark side, an ugly, disgusting, incompetent, frightened, inadequate side. I got to know mine early on and learned to look after her, like the needy child she was (and sometimes still is.)
And I continued to take care of myself. I ate well, properly, and enjoyed myself. I exercised and thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t permanently screwed up my metabolism. I decried every diet as a “four letter word that starts with DIE!”
Then I hit forty.
For the first time in my adult life, my weight began to creep upwards for no apparent reason. I still exercised but it wasn’t enough. First I wore size 8 jeans. Then size 10. Then I had to buy size 12s. Again, not terribly overweight. But, given my particular history and body and brain, I weighed more than I should have.
That’s when I did it the first time. Herbal Magic is probably no better or worse than any diet plan, but it worked for me. If I hadn’t gotten lazy – especially in Maui! – I’d have kept it off. (Seriously, I really enjoyed that fondue.)
For the record, I’ve been sticking to the plan since Friday. That’s five whole days. I’ll keep you posted. Maybe I’ll even put up a photo, once I’m back into those size 8 jeans!