The dogs are at the vet.
I’m trying to tell myself that it’s a spa day for them. They’re getting their nails done, their teeth cleaned, and lovely people will be telling them they’re good dogs in crooning voices all day long.
It’s not working. They’re going under general anesthesia and I have this feeling like something heavy is sitting on my chest, shutting down my lungs. My nose prickles like I want to sneeze, but I know what I really want is to cry.
On the form I filled out, there was a question — would you like your pet to be given anti-anxiety medication? Why yes, yes, I would. And could I have some myself, please?
The problem with anxiety is that it feels so much like premonitions. My head knows that the dogs are going to be fine, but my body is sending me all sorts of messages of danger, and they’re hard to ignore. I was doing okay until the vet called. Interestingly, I didn’t breathe until he told me he was calling about Bartleby and then my breath left my body in an explosive huff. It’s not a surprise that I’m more worried about Zelda than I am about B — he’s a loved pet but she’s an adored angel, one who’s ten years old in 11 days. But that moment of panic, that fear that he might have some bad news about Z, it hasn’t left me yet. The chemicals are still churning their way through my system.
Yoga in half an hour. I hope it’ll settle me down enough to get something done today. Well, something beyond the hyperactive dusting, dishwasher-unloading, breakfast-making, cleaning-out-of-cupboards that I’ve been engaged in since the vet’s phone call. I could almost wish I had some laundry to fold, but maybe I’ll clean out some drawers while I wait to leave for yoga. Ooh, or kill some monsters in WoW. I’m trying not to play until after I’ve written but I know I’m not going to write in the next twenty minutes. And killing monsters is always soothing.