Getting Ready

Tomorrow, I leave for Edmonton. I'm going not for fun, but for a conference that my work is organizing. Somewhere along the way, I thought it would be a good idea to have a volunteer coordinator. And volunteered myself for it. Like with the iron, a smart person who does stupid things.

Normally, if I were about to leave for a few days, I'd be going nuts cleaning and doing laundry and tidying and buying wine for the housesitter. But I'm not going to have a housesitter because Freya is going to stay at the vet's while I'm gone. Eric, being his regular nice self, emailed an offer to take care of her. "Hmm," I wrote back. "You might want to wait to make a definite decision until I explain everything."

Later that night I showed him the insulin and the needles and read bits of the care sheet out to him. When I got to the part about how she might die if he got it wrong, he thought that maybe the vet's would be better.

I was super nervous about starting her on the insulin, but she's been fine. Better than fine. She's stopped drinking so much and she seems less lethargic. She's actually quite alert in that photo.

Giving the needle is awkward. I'm at the stage where I can see how it might go easier and faster but don't seem to be able to make my fingers do it. I think longingly of the practice shot with the vet tech, where Freya was nervous and so just sat there. At home, where she's more comfortable, she starts walking away from me, or flops down on the floor just after I've gotten the needle in. Oh, fun times indeed.

But no, no crazy scrubbing or bubbing, none of that, just an 85 ride to Boyd St with Freya in her rucksack, open at the top so I can peek in along the way and picking out my clothes for the next few days. And getting my apartment and myself cleaned up for a shit hot date with my lovely paramour.