Ye Gods…

 

Here’s the thing: I am a terrible nurse, and this comes from being a terrible patient. I don’t like being unwell. It irks me. It stops me doing what I want to do when I want to do it, and therefore I avoid being ill as much as humanly possible. I get grumpy with myself if I am ever unwell. Unfortunately, this in turn makes me intolerant of illness in others, especially when I think ‘You could do something about your unwellness yourself and it is my opinion you are being awkward, nay bloody-minded, in not doing so.’ 

In my defence, however, I have all the time in the world for people who grab their unwellness by the throat and shake it until it surrenders. I am there, on the sidelines, shouting, ‘Keeping drinking the water! Keep moving! Distract yourself with something active or intellectual!’ I’ll 100% actively support people who need help, but the lead-swingers? Nah. I think this comes from being brought up in a household where illness was shrugged off with a dose of Lucozade and the words, ‘Off you go to school. You’ll feel better once you get there.’ 

Here’s another thing: Nell, who was spayed yesterday, doesn’t think there is anything to slow down for today, and is therefore trying to be her usual bouncy, curious, playful self.  And because I don’t want her surgery wound  to become unknitted, because I don’t think she’d let me sew it back up again (not without a fight, anyway) I am trying to keep her calm, yet lightly entertained so she doesn’t eat the furniture. 

This isn’t helped by the fact it is hissing down with rain. If the weather was lovely, we could be out in the garden and Nell would settle happily because she likes being outside, chewing a stick, squirrel watching, wondering what it is with butterflies exactly, stuff like that. But as it is, she is stuck indoors, clacking around in her buster collar, and on the prowl for mischief making. Also, she has TERRIBLE wind. Ye gods, she is pumping out sulphur fumes for the Devil himself. I’m guessing this is some enormously hilarious side effect from her operation. If she could go outside, this wouldn’t be a problem. But she can’t and I am feeling quite nauseous with it all. 

She didn’t want her usual kibble food this morning. Instead, because I am feeling anxious about her not eating, she has had: some tuna, some banana, some of her training treats, some toast and Marmite, and a nibble of marmalade cake. 

And a dentastix, and a carrot. 

She keeps going to the back door and gazing balefully at it. Because of her wind issue I think, ‘Well, I’ll have to take her out because the wind might be the precursor to an enormous poo,’ when in reality I know she just wants to go outside to arse around. In the humid rain. Which has encouraged mosquitos, so when we paused by the water butts first thing this morning so Nell could examine a particularly fine specimen of plantain, I got bitten firstly on my left foot, and when I brushed the mozzie away with the words ‘Oi, you little bastard,’ it immediately flew upwards and launched a second assault on my left wrist. I had to return to the house immediately to douse myself in TCP and take an antihistamine, which is my first this year so within half an hour all I wanted to do was sleep. The alternative i.e NOT taking an antihistamine was to blow up like a balloon, which is never a good look, not even for balloons. 

I have presented Nell with all her various toys, all of which she has rejected. She accepted a piece of junk mail that came through the post, and ripped into tiny shreds. I nearly broke my non-mosquito bite wrist retrieving one of her small tennis balls from underneath the dresser where it had become firmly wedged. She likes her small tennis balls because she can take a good hour or two unpeeling them like a satsuma. Did that happen today? No, it did not. This happened instead…

A moment of peace in an otherwise fidgety few hours. I daren’t move, because she’ll wake up and we’ll start all over again, but I shall HAVE to move because I need to visit the wee shop because I’m glugging back water to limit the inflationary balloon effect of the mosquito bites. 

Foolishly, I thought she’d be a bit quiet today, wanting to sleep most of the time, with occasional visits to the garden for pees and poos. You know, genteel pottering whilst recovering from her lady surgery. I thought I’d be able to crack on with a bit more business admin, but all I’ve done so far on that score is to order a new box of laminating pouches. 

Still, it is what it is. Not having her spayed would cause more inconveniences down the line that having to confine her to barracks for a few days.

 I asked Andy how long she needed to wear her buster collar. ‘Ideally, a week,’ said he.

Good luck with that, I thought. She’s already chewed a hole in it. 

Ye gods…she’s just woken herself up with an enormous fart. Ah well…