Yesterday, I thought my head was going to implode. Between work and bullshit, I managed to wrangle the paper pushers at the IRS into faxing me my tax transcripts. Bureaucracy is the procrastinator's worst nightmare. Later, I spoke with my lawyer about my I-751 and her outlook was optimistic. One less fear of the unknown. When this is over, I can finally settle into my life here.

But my life has been weird lately.

I really had no idea how much I factored mags into so many parts of my day. She's gone. I didn't expect that I'd be reminding myself so many times each day. She's gone. I've never lost anyone close to me before. She's gone. Am I as sad as I should be? I'm free. Am I taking it too hard? She's really gone.

So, I'm dealing. I'm grabbing onto the things that are positive and using them to mop up the suck. The result is semi ok.

Nisha (RIP), Zero (RIP) and Mags circa 1996

This week Mags started having seizures again.

t's been close to a year since the vet diagnosed her with Insulinomas, pancreatic tumors, that cause bouts of hypoglycemia resulting in seizures.

A dog's pancreas is so tiny that it's almost impossible for a regular vet to perform an ultrasound. The vet seemed annoyed that I didn't want to shell out for an ultrasound by a specialist. Even if they determined it was only a small tumor and surgically removed it, it would likely grow back in 3-6 months and a 2nd surgery would be out of the question. If it was determined to be more than one tumor, surgery would not be an option. Sooner or later, the tumors would metastasize in her liver. It seemed futile.

I said fuck it. I'm not going to put my 11 year old dog through surgery. Animals don't understand hospitals, medication and operations. They only know pain and separation. I don't believe in extending my aging pet's life for my own benefit. Mags has lived a long and full life; she's old, tired and easily confused.

After more than a week of hospitalization and draining my entire savings account, I told the vet that if she wasn't well enough to come home than I was willing to consider putting her down. They maxed my credit card with prescription drugs and prescription dog food (read: scam) and released her that same day. She's hasn't had a seizure since. Until this week.

Last night I was consumed with guilt. I'm neither emotionally nor financially prepared to deal with this. Despite the vet's best intentions, I know there is nothing they can do for her aside from stick an IV in and pump her full of drugs that will make her miserable and incontinent. All I can do is try my best to get her blood sugar back up and hope for the best. Failing that, I guess it's back to the vet with the hope that they have mercy on my bank balance.

I can't go through this again.

I just had to take a moment out of my day to declare my love for Randy. I can't stop singing "Beware!"

Beware (You don't want your babies to grow up to be punk rockers)
(feat. Fat Mike of NOFX)

Beware of the songs I'm singing
Beware of these words I speak
Beware of the way I'm living my life

Beware of the things I do
Beware of my friends too
Beware of the way I'm spending my time

If you don't want your babies to grow up to be punk rockers
If you don't want your babies to grow up to be a punk rocker
Just like me

Beware of the friends I keep
Beware of the nights without sleep
Beware of venereal diseases

Beware of the hearing loss
Beware of liver transplant costs
Beware of the trays of bread and cheeses

If you don't want your babies to grow up to be punk rockers
If you don't want your babies to grow up to be a punk rocker

If you don't want your babies to spend their time
with their best friends in the band
If you don't want them to see the world
through a window in a van

If you don't want them to live their dreams
maybe dreams don't matter that much
If you want them to bourgeoisie
like doctors and lawyers and such

If you don't want your babies to grow up to be punk rockers
If you don't want your babies to grow up to be punk
If you don't want your babies to grow up to be punk rockers
Just like me

I've been doing a great job of singing out "beware of venereal diseases" every time someone walks by my office.

There is an on-going debate around my office regarding how much longer I should/will be able to self identify as Canadian. "At what point does Dusty become a Texan just like the rest of us?" The time nears, my friends. The time nears.

Yesterday, Canadians all across the Great White North celebrated Thanksgiving. I, on the other hand, completely forgot. In the end, it was an e-card from a friend in Houston that jolted me out of my Texas state of mind.

This marks the first year that I didn't throw a Canadian Thanksgiving dinner and the first time I've actually forgotten a Canadian holiday. I'm a bad, bad beaver.

Someone give me a spanking. Quick, eh.

Monday, I became the star of my metal smithing class. Initially, my teacher gave me a pretty strong "not liking you" vibe, then 2 things happened.

1. the educational coordinator told the teacher that she knew me and
2. I showed up on Monday with my stellar project ready to solder

I'm inclined to be overly critical and say that the success of my project is mostly due to my computer-generated template. Being a graphic artist makes it easy for me to create clean designs, which gives me a pretty obvious advantage over most of my class mates. The thing is, it's not easy to be humble when their misshapen blobs and deformed flowers are next to this...



The garnet hasn't been set yet. I just laid it on top for reference.

That's right... I'm super.