What do these two pictures have in common? One is a photo of a dog rescued from the animal shelter, the other is an image of a leaf.
Well, if you ever have the fortune to meet the character on the left (ie Luci the dog), you would most probably see why I'm comparing her to a leaf: She is so frightened of strangers, that on encountering one, she quivers harder than a leaf in a hurricane.
So why is this relevant? Well, because the cowardly nature of my mother's new pet resulted in a chain of events that has dominated my life for the previous two weeks. Let me tell you the story: It starts, as with all good melodramas, with darkness and drizzle, and features my mother, a hale and hearty 81 year old, out walking her dog - the cowardly Luci mentioned above, Dear Reader, please note the important fact that my mother wasn't wearing her 'sensible shoes', and that there happened to be a large group of rowdy kids in the vicinity.
We join the two adventurers as they return home, having successfully dodged through the busy streets filled with ogres and demons (aka other people). Only a few steps from safety, they encountered a sudden, unexpected and terrifying (to Luci) hazard. A large, many limbed and many headed monster (the group of children) of fluctuating size, surged out of the apartment block, wailing and shrieking.
The doggy heroine, attached to my mother by a sturdy leash, whilst trembling greatly with fear, attempted to save herself and her owner from the foe by jinking suddenly and with ferocious strength to the right. Her human sidekick, my mother, taken by surprise, aquaplaned on the wet tiles of her forecourt for a short distance before crashing onto terra-far-too-firma, using her elbow and the back of her head as a makeshift braking mechanism.
Luckily a couple of neighbours came to her rescue, and whisked her off to hospital, which was where I , still happy and rumpled from the day at the rugby 7s, joined the drama.
Hospitals are strange places. The rooms cost as much, or more, than a hotel room, but have few similarities. The lights make your skin look cadaverous however ruddy you are, the loos are spartan, and the mattresses are thin. And the chairs for visitors are constructed to discourage long visits, which is unfortunate if you are intending to stay around the clock, as I did.
Fortunately, my mother's 'head trauma' wasn't as serious as we feared, and she suffered little more than a sore noggin, but her elbow required surgery and almost a week of hospitalisation. It is presently held together with wire - a fact which is causing her concern as we head into typhoon season, as she is worried that her arm has become a lightning rod!
Somehow the days passed. My poor mother, weak and incapacitated by pain and by only having the use of one arm, mostly dozed, or worried about how the dog was coping without her. I, on the other hand, time-travelled back to my university days - specifically the week of all nighters I pulled when I was rushing to finish my final thesis.
I slept - when I slept - slumped in a chair with all my clothes on. I was jittery from too much coffee and fast food (mainly chocolate, and Starbucks sandwiches, though I once dined on a baked potato which was topped with a few tablespoons of cold tinned baked beans - prime university style fodder), and I typed deep into the night, catching up on my work as my mother slept, too alert to her unconscious groans of pain to sleep much myself.
By the end of the week, my mother had made good progress, whilst I had descended into deep caffeine dependency, near terminal grumpiness and had put on three pounds. And to think I thought that hospitals were places people went to get healthy! The blame lies with the person who rubber-stamped the idea of having a Starbucks in the hospital lobby.
Don't get me wrong, it is an inspired idea (though a coffee bar from Milan would have been preferable). But, if your hospital boasts only a Starbucks; a snack bar - at which the aforementioned baked potato, or lukewarm tinned soup, was the closest you could get to a gourmet experience; and a canteen serving any number of grey gloppy food options, aren't you just encouraging everyone in the hospital to become a Starbucks junkie?
Luckily, I was too tired to worry about my addiction. I found I needed more coffee than advisable to remain upright, and indulged freely. I visited Starbucks so many times everyday, that all the staff knew who I was, and on one occasion had started preparing my Americano with a touch of milk 'to stay' before I even opened my mouth. It sounds like a scene from 'Cheers' but I found it a tad creepy.
Having said that, I did worry about them when my mother checked out, imagining the management scratching their heads, trying to determine what had caused the big spike in the sales, as well as the subsequent drop.
Things have been considerably more pleasant since my mother left the hospital. She has spent about five days staying with us, which has been nice, as I am thus still able to help her do things (and it's amazing how mundane, easy things become impossible when you have lost the use of your dominant arm), whilst also being able to sleep in my own bed. The dog has been a house guest too. She is also getting better... sort of.
Still anxious on her own, Luci insists on following my mother, or if she was not available, then the second best option (ie myself), EVERYWHERE - even into the loo, where it can be a bit disconcerting to have such an attentive audience pressed against your legs. She will only eat if in a secluded and secure environment (ie my mother's bedroom, with the door shut), refuses to poo if walked by anyone other than myself or my mother, and hid behind a tree for ten minutes and had to be carried home, whilst on a walk one night.
However, she has stopped quivering in our presence, has begun wagging her tail at select times, and has begun to walk around with her tail curled upright at a jaunty angle, rather than straight down and stuffed between her legs. Progress, we call it.
Getting her trust is slow work, but is its own reward so we will continue to try to win her over. And, having read 'Marley and Me', as well as a very funny article called 'My dog is a whack job' (read it here), I'm beginning to think that Luci isn't too bad. Let's hope she continues to improve, as we're dogsitting her whilst my mother is away for a few weeks in May.
Fingers crossed!
