if it's weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all ... anyone remember Hee Haw? No? ... never mind. Still, luck, or rather the lack of it, seems to be the theme of the month of August for my human and animal family. Quite a few posts back I'm sure I mentioned "the Irishman's" visit to the doctor wherein he (we) found out he was not only allergic to the birds, but also to the cat and the two dogs! How nice.
Over a month later and several prescription medications consumed he is still not one ounce better than he was the first day he decided to go get needle poked by an overzealous receptionist (I swear), and told that perhaps he had a very slight allergy to our non-human children ($700 later). (Imagine being told you are allergic to your children?) Okay.... not the teenagers (whom I realize we all have allergic reactions to now and again) but rather your little toddlers? That's what it was like! An additional $300 in Heppa filters later, he's still coughing.
So I moved the birds upstairs. Oh my ... lucky you weren't here THAT day! Lucky no one was. The dogs hid, if that's any indication of how fun it was. You see, the bird cage is very large because it contains two parrots. So, I let the parrots play on a bookcase while I emptied out the cage, dragged it through the kitchen, knocked down several cups and cherished pottery pieces in the process, cursed, got the freaking thing down the stairs, and zapped it with the power hose. In the meantime, the parrots were unusually quiet. Good, you're thinking, right? No. Not good. Parrots being much like small children.
I then cleared out a nice spot at the top of the stairs by the big window where they could watch the workmen on the lot next door build the 18 houses that will destroy the neighborhood ... but that's another story. Then, back downstairs (there's 13 of them by the way, weird, huh!) and down another three to the patio where I then hauled the dripping bird condo back inside, took out several more precious nick nacks, and hoisting the thing half on back, precariously slipping on the wet stairs, lugged it up 13 stairs where I did battle with the thing (and they say most accidents happen in the home ... wonder why?), all the foul words I was merely thinking did in fact escape my lips (no sign of the dogs at this point), and finally after much repositioning and dagger looks at anything that moved in the vicinity, I got the thing situated. Then I packed up and down the stairs another three times to gather the grate and perches and feed dishes until everything was in place and perfect.
By the time I got back to the computer room which was the previous home of Mr. R and Ms. L ... there was a pile of confetti (I think that might have been a very thick book about hypnosis) and a half eaten bookcase. Luckily, I didn't like that bookcase very much because it was one of those put it together yourself Target specials. So ... I'm still relatively sane at this point.
After situating the birds in their new home, which they were very suspicious of and perched precariously on the door and stared at me in utter confusion and uncertainty without so much as one indication that they might actually ever inhabit their old condo in its new location ... I went back to the computer room to "de-bird" it. This took me most of the rest of the day. The birds watched from their perch at the top of the stairs. Worried expressions lingering on their brows. Yes, birds do actually have brows.
By the time the allergic Irishman got home, you'd never know a bird lived in our house, what with a pristine environment and heppa filters blowing fresh air all about the place and not an animal to be seen (the dogs and cat were still hiding) ... except for the fact that two very nervous parrots were screeching from the top of the stairs ... it sounded something like "HELP ... SAVE US!"
I swear it was the very next day when I noticed our little Esky, Mr. E., who'd finally come out of hiding to eat, came down with a terrible rash all over his body following a reaction to his flea medication. I clipped away at least twenty-five pounds of hair and still couldn't find his skin ... but eventually, after continued snipping and pulling and coming to understand what a sheep shearer must feel like, I did ...and slathered his rash with neosporin, the wonder drug of the century. At this point our dear Mr. E resembled something like a French poodle who'd received his last hairdo at the nearest hedgeclipper's. Needless to say he was mortified to go out in public.
The very next day, truth, our beautiful golden Shepard Ms. S was bitten by something, I think it was a brown recluse spider ... and suddenly her eye, cheek and nose swole up (I do realize swole is not a word, however, here it fits quite nicely) with blisters that popped and began to bleed. Gahhh! At this point, I had to chase her with the neosporin.
Okay, perhaps two days later, Mr. E's "hot spots" were not doing so well, despite neosporin, Reiki treatments and oatmeal baths ... and so it was time to bite the bullet and go to the vet for a cortisone shot. However, the vet thought it would be very nice to shave his tail, to help heal one of the more severe "spots." I had to hold Mr. E because he was growling like a hyena, bearing his pearly whites, and acting totally in character. But if you'd seen what that vet did to his tail, you'd sympathize. Now he looks like a weird white lion with a naked tail and a baboon's bottom. Every time my eyes happen to fall upon his backside he is prone to growl at me or look certifiably embarrassed. The very nice vet also gave us some antibiotics to help him heal quicker.
In the meantime, Ms. S's spider bite has spread. I looked it up on-line and there are horrid photos of spider bites! Now I'm feeling very frantic and slathering neosporin on her every two hours, and giving her Mr. E's antibiotics. She runs from me every time I reach for the neosporin and tries to hide her huge bulk under the bed.
The Irishman, by now, has gotten no better at all and continues to hack like a 30 year smoker and has given up all faith in the medical establishment. But back to the doctor he goes, and now they think he's aspirating or maybe he has acid reflux. GAHHHHH ... he takes a new bunch of pills (these are purple) and once again there is no response. He goes back to the allergy specialist's nice receptionist ... apparently there are shots that can give you immunity. Really? Who knew? Immunity to what? The birds? The dogs? The cat? Acid Reflux? Aspirating?
He keeps asking me, like I actually know something, what do you think it is? They've x-rayed, they've poked, prodded, checked his throat, his esophagus, his larynx, his lungs ... it appears he's coughing for no reason at all! I think a minute and look him in the eye. I still think it's the birds, I say. So now he walks around the house with a mask. Should we move the birds out of the house? I ask. No, he says, I love those birds! Are you crazy? I'm getting those shots! But in the meantime, he wears the mask and takes the purple pills, just in case the doctors do know what they are talking about, but which I very highly doubt.
Amid all these goings on, the birds, who have yet to truly accept their new home, repeatedly leap from their perches to land at the bottom of the 13 stairs, sort of like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when they leaped off the cliff into the raging river miles below! I can just hear them say, "but I can't fly ... so what, we'll probably die from the fall anyway!"
In the meantime, the "young man" has turned his ankle skateboarding for the umpteenth time and is hold up on the couch or in bed with his foot up in the air and wrapped in ice or generally wimpering and limping about the place and begging for room service.
This week, with all of the forementioned taken into account, despite painting, making jewelry, preparing for a houseload of company, I'm running up and down the stairs with two insecure birds on my shoulder, caring for two-legged and four-legged patients like a much friendlier version of Nurse Ratchid ... ( right about to fly over the cuckoo's nest myself!) Just picture me chasing down dogs, cornering them, slathering on neosporin and stuffing hot dogs loaded with antibiotics down their throats. It doesn't actually bare thinking, does it?
Trouble is, I'm not sure at this point if it was the teenager who got that last antibiotic stuffed in a hot dog or the Irishman who got the neosporin slathered on his eye. And who, for godsakes, took the last purple pill!
A spa sounds "real nice" right about now ... actually a small cave in the Andes shared with nothing but a family of roving coatimundies sounds heavenly.
Note: For those of you who DON'T remember ... here's words from that infamous country variety show of the 60's featuring Buck Owens and the Buckaroos, Roy Clark, Grandpa Jones,and a whole slew of old time country-western singers which I must say I loved to watch and who's huge audience base shall forever baffle mankind, science and the arts, while somehow managing to remain time immemorial:
"Gloom, despair and agony on me
Deep dark depression, excessive misery
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all
Gloom, despair and agony on me...."
That's about it.