Pawcurious Vet Blog: Pet help, stories, and information with Dr. V

BlogPaws West is only a week away! I can’t believe it’s coming up so quickly.

I’ve debated attending conferences like BlogHer or BlogWorld in the past, but they always seemed so far removed from what I do and what I want to accomplish. I don’t really pay attention to SEO and Google rank and all that stuff. I just like to write and blab about animals, forget all that technical mumbo jumbo.

But BlogPaws- a conference made up of pet bloggers? That’s right up my alley. I attended the inaugural event in April in Columbus and let me tell you, it was so much fun. I loved every single person I met there. The whole conference was so positive and fun and invigorating, and made me so proud to consider myself a part of the pet blogging community. We rock.

My work, as I think you all know, is a bit of a challenge at times. I find myself reading articles about burnout and nodding my head in agreement: yes, I feel that, mm hmm, it is hard to stay motivated sometimes when you spend so much time feeling disappointment. It is a career with tremendous highs and tremendous lows.

It is easy to convince yourself that you’re the weird one for caring so much in a world where so many people you meet are just ambivalent about the cause you are passionate about. That even if you do accomplish what you set out to do, no one would care.

Going to BlogPaws reminds me why I got into this in the first place. By refocusing the energy away from the negativity and towards a group brimming with positivity and a love for pets, I can come away energized and recommitted to my favorite causes.

I feel so fortunate to have connected with all of you online, and I can’t wait to meet those of you who are going to BlogPaws in person! I can truly say the last conference was one of the highlights of my year.

So are you going? Anyone meeting up with me at the raucous table again? (We are all about shenanigans.)

The first day of September is like this abrupt line of demarcation between the lazy days of summer and the impending days of winter. Boom, one day you’re floating in the pool and the next day you’re panicking about getting Halloween decorations out and ready. How did so much of this year slide by already?

I have some very important decisions to make within the next month. Namely:

1. Am I doing another Brody calendar this year? (well, it would be Brody and Koa this time.)

2. What Halloween costume will I subject the animals to this year? (I have a rockin’ idea for Koa already, I’m just figuring out the logistics.) Now that the kids are stubborn enough to insist on their own choice of outfits, I must turn my creative mania upon the unsuspecting quadripeds instead.

3. Should I subject myself to another Thanksgiving Blogathon or was that a one time shot?

These are weighty issues. I am open to any and all input.

This week marks my daughter’s second week of first grade.

The first week of first grade was rather tough. They don’t post the list of classes until one day before- of course this is done by design, to avoid the principal being hunted down at her home by hordes of “concerned” helicopter parents wanting to discuss the reasoning behind Timmy’s classroom assignment.

Of course, my daughter was given the one assignment I didn’t want her to have- a combination class with a group of first and second graders. My reaction was so immediate and visceral that I thought I was going to vomit right then and there in the hallway.

I didn’t think I was going to be that kind of parent, the one who freaks out over things that in the big picture are probably pretty inconsequential, but there you go. I guess I am.

Because my daughter is pretty much a younger incarnation of me I was able to pinpoint my concerns right away. I don’t have any concerns about her abilities academically. She’s a smart cookie. Au contraire, I was much more concerned for her social well-being as far and away the youngest kid in the room, one smart enough to keep up but maybe not savvy enough to know she’s being a little nerdy.

I spent the entire night in a sleepless panic, imagining her sitting alone in the dust on the side of the playground while the other girls laughed at her glasses.

“You’re projecting,” said my husband, and of course he is right. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying.

“I’ll just share my concerns with the teacher,” I thought, and got to school a little early that first morning. As did every other parent in the school who has some worry or another. There was already a line in front of the beleaguered principal’s office, and classes hadn’t even begun yet.

I met the teacher, and immediately felt ten times worse than before. My sense of foreboding went through the roof. Fifty red flags were screaming “DANGER!! SHE IS GOING TO RUIN YOUR CHILD!” and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why, as she is actually a very kind and well regarded teacher.

After a second sleepless night spent wondering if I had now blown her chances at getting into a good college, it finally hit me: her first grade teacher is a dead ringer for Charity McKay, the most dastardly internal medicine resident ever to terrorize the halls of Davis during my tenure there. Beneath her bubbly facade was the heart of a rabid killer: lord help you if you didn’t remember the sodium content in a bag of Lactated Ringer’s.

A snotty senior student tried to correct her once. She ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti. We cowered in terror when her 5′1 shadow darkened the corridor, signaling the impending arrival of our doom.

So here I am, still neatly conditioned one decade later to a submissive huddle at the mere suggestion of her, and now her doppelganger is in charge of my daughter’s development.

No matter. I can be reasonable. I can’t imagine she would have gotten very far in her career as a teacher if she actually devoured small children as I suspected Dr. McKay might do on the weekends, so I’m going to be open minded and give her the benefit of the doubt.

But if she mentions at any point she has a sister who’s a vet, I’m joining the line outside the principal’s office.

In a small lake somewhere close to the Canadian border in the Pacific Northwest, the mallards slumber.

Until the loud hairy Goldenbeast arrives, that is.

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Thank you all for the lovely birthday wishes yesterday. It was a wonderful day despite dentist, doctor and 100 degree nasty weather. My husband brought home cupcakes, the kids had a great day at school and Brody found, then ate, a whole bag of goldfish crackers. Two out of three ain’t bad. I guess he was mad he didn’t get a cupcake.

It’s been a bad year for fleas, even worse than normal. With the long hot days of late summer dragging on with no signs of cooling off, they’re not going away anytime soon. Clients are understandably frustrated when they buy the right flea control, use it correctly, and are still seeing fleas because of the persistent reservoir in the environment. The idea of alternating treatments, vacuuming religiously, AND getting a pest control service in for cases of bad infestations is pretty unappealing. I get that. I have several conversations a day about that.

I also have several conversations a day with owners who had no idea their pet had fleas until we point the little bugs out to them. There’s at least a couple a month who, even when you DO point them out, flat out deny their existence. I think this conversation will sound awfully familiar to all the veterinary professionals out there:

Cue the Madonna CDs and bust out the ice cream, because August 26th is our favorite day here at pawcurious.

1. It is National Dog Day, which is awesome because dogs are awesome and deserve a day of acknowledgement.

2. Most importantly, it is my birthday, and even though I’m way past the age where birthdays were fun and well into the stage of “oh no, my age plus one is sounding kind of old right about now,” I can’t bring myself to be upset about it. For one, It’s NATIONAL DOG DAY, for goodness’ sake. How cool is that? It also means one more year I didn’t contract rabies, and that is a good thing.

As this is the first birthday in 5 years or so I’ve not been at work, I theoretically should be spending the day floating in the pool with a pina colada while Brody tries to clamber on. That is how it should be.

Of course, now that I’m old and responsible for all manners of things, I’ll be spending it at the dentist and the doctor being reminded of the myriad ways my body is going downhill. I have so few days off, it seems, I just had to use the time to get things done.

But no matter! Even the thought of the dentist isn’t enough to bring me down! The nice thing about getting older is that I don’t care if it’s socially inappropriate to make a big deal out of birthdays after 21. I do what I want.

I look forward to laying down in the chair mumbling “Ish mah berhghie” around the little spit sucky thing.

When they asked me at work what theme I wanted for the work birthday potluck, I said, “All desserts,” and my co-workers complied.

They bought me a balloon and I asked if I could take it home. For the kids.

I will buy a useless impractical toy for myself, simply because I want it. As further proof the universe does want me to have a good day, look what I got! The new Vet Barbie who’s not dressed like a go go dancer! SWEET! I’m so installing a cat slide at work. Cats love slides.

I’m taking a break from life’s drama and melodrama and proclaiming it A Great Day, no matter what. So do me a favor, and celebrate with me today- hug your dog, eat a Snickers for breakfast, do something you don’t do often enough that brings you joy. I would love that.