haaAACKgurglegurgleHACKKKK!

My dog has just hacked up on my rug. Not only will it stink up my room and leave a stain, it is also the sixth puddle of brown mess I have had to clean up. In the space of half an hour.

I am annoyed. Because she puked on my rug, instead of hers. Because I've never had to approach a pool of vomit with newspapers in hand before tonight. And because I am also starting to worry. If I'd wanted to worry over puke puddles, I would have got myself pregnant instead. When I paid for the yipping, hyperactive runt seven years ago, I definitely didn't sign up for this. Dogs are for cuddling in bed (incidentally, so are guys...one of the few things they're good for, haha) and for eating unwanted veggies.

And speaking of veggies, I suddenly remember that I had sneaked Pukeyface my celery sticks at dinner. Could it be the celery (which can certainly be puke-inducing)? Surely not, cuz that would mean that I’m to blame for the mess on my rug. And dammit, blame’s meant to be placed on other people/life-forms.

Still, unless I want to sleep in a dirty bed tonight, perhaps it’s time for a visit to the vet. So I bundle Pukeyface into the car along with plastic bags, newspapers and a bucket.

As I drive around looking for a vet, I realise that my dog might be really sick. I tell her, “Shit, I hope you’re not gonna puke in the car die.”

But the clinics are all closed! WHAT A BUNCH OF ‘CKING SLACKERS! Then it occurs to me that it’s now past ten pm. And this means that:
a. All vets (except one) are probably home in bed, cuddling up to their non-pukey dogs. But still, SLACKERS!
b. The only vet not in bed is a good 45 minutes’ drive away.
c. My dog has lousy timing.

Three wrong turns and five false alarms later, we finally pull up in front of the animal hospital. It’s in one of the dodgier areas and there’s a massive grill blocking the entrance. I ring the bell and wait.

And wait.

No one buzzes me in. I’m starting to feel a little nervous. If someone mugs me right now, there’s no one else (apart from other muggers) around. And with Pukeyface in her current state, the worst she can do is to give the mugger soggy shoes.

Bzzz!

Thank god. We scurry inside. In the bright lights of the reception area, I notice something else. Pukeyface now has a swollen rear end and has broken out in smaller, but equally swollen spots everywhere else. OHMYGOD! I just had her in my arms and what if she’s contagious and I break out in spots and is it bird flu and did she give it to me?!!!

And just then, my phone rings. It’s my dad. “We just found a bee near Pukeyface’s rug. She probably got stung.”

Is that it? The vet agrees. Definitely a bee sting. Not stings, mind you. Sting. I roll my eyes at Pukeyface. What an attention-seeker.

Three jabs later and it’s all over. The bloody dog doesn’t even stay awake to keep me company on the drive home.

But yeah yeah, I have to confess that I’m very relieved that she’s gonna be fine.

But she’s definitely not sleeping in my bed tonight.

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(Piratey) Arr, I'm back. After I finally remembered the network key to my connection.

So what have I been up to for the past week (besides collecting ang pows and gorging myself silly on Chinese New Year cookies)?

//Btw, Happy (Belated) Chinese New Year!//

I've been agonising over a lump on Pukeyface. It's not really all that big, but on a Pukeyface-sized dog, it’s worrying enough. Because it's fugly and it might be a tumour.

But mainly because it's fugly.

So it was off to the vet again. (Speaking of which, I honestly don't understand the dog. The only reason she ever gets a car ride is for a trip to the vet. And yet she constantly just about dribbles herself with sheer excitement when I open the car door for her. But I suppose allowances have to be made – after all, there can only be so much brain in that tiny a head.)

Back to the vet. Who took cell samples from the lump with a massive needle and analysed it while I entertained myself with the uber-cool weighing scale out front. Very fun things those, just like the ones at the airport’s baggage check-in counter. Though I have to say, airport personnel aren’t as nice as they used to be. When I was a kid, no one ever told me off for hopping onto a conveyer belt.

But yes, Pukeyface’s lump. Well, the vet thinks that it might not be a tumour after all. In fact, it’s most likely a Fat Lump. Which is just as disgusting as it sounds. It’s not in the least bit dangerous, but it will never disappear.

My dog will be hideous forever.

If it was just a tumour, at least I could have it surgically-removed. But the vet doesn’t advise putting her through surgery just for cosmetic reasons.

“Hah.” I muttered later. “She's not the one who has to go to sleep every night knowing that there’s a Fat Lump barely five inches away from her.” But I suppose she’s right. I’d look a real bitch if I let my dog die on an operating table just so I can sleep better.

Besides really, I love my Pukeyface, Fat Lump and all.

Just as long as the FL doesn’t grow any bigger.

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"Darling!" My father called out as he stepped through the front door. "I got you a going-away gift!"

I ran to fling myself into his arms. He bought it! After weeks of wheedling and Daddy-pleeeeeeeeease!ing, he finally bought my Stella McCartney Running Trail Fleece with handwarmers!

"Err, no. Not the jacket. It's something a bit more practical."

I skidded to a halt, confused. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE MORE PRACTICAL THAN HANDWARMERS?!

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In response to an email mentioning a hot Mauritian guy from soccer:

Jamie

can't you find a nice Chinese boy and be happy??? wish I had married you off before sending you to perth.

Love - Dad

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Yesterday's text conversation with my mom:

Me: I've got the flu. :(
Mom: Bird flu?
Me: You should be so lucky. More like I've been working too hard at uni.
Mom: Maybe it's because you've never worked hard before.
Me: What sympathy. I realise you still have 2 spare daughters if I die, but REALLY. *Shakes head sadly*
Mom: Don't forget the dog.

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From the man who once received a letter from the government advising him not to leave the country:

When my sister blew her computer up



When my mom wanted something

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Phone conversation yesterday morning:

Me: Hi, mom. Can you please get me the number for dad's chiropractor?

Mom: God, you sound awful! What happened?!

Me: Did something to my back. Hurts like hell right now.

Mom: Now what have you been doing? You see! I told you not to get into kungfu! But you never listen! Look what you've done to yourself. I saw you put your rugby ball into the car. Were you playing rugby?! Why do you keep playing such violent sports?! You see, now you've hurt yourself! I told you so, I TOLD YOU SO!

//Pause//

Me: Actually, I just bent down to start the car.

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I am bleeding.

Horror of horrors, I am bleeding.

This, kids, is what happens when you play with knives. How foolish I was to attempt to cut a tag off my shirt with a penknife. I should have let my little sister do it for me.

And now here I am with a wounded finger. It may not be a fatal wound, but still it bleeds. Look at it...dripping,
          dripping,
               dripping.

I rummage through a drawer in search for a plaster, leaving little dots of blood in my wake. It doesn't look dramatic enough, so I smear the little dots into medium dots. I would prefer them to be large dots, but there isn't enough blood for that.

I find the plasters. We've run out of dinosaur plasters and I have to make do with a regular flesh-coloured one. Curses. I don't like flesh-coloured ones because they camouflage too well against the rest of me. If no one notices it, who will fuss over me?

MY MOTHER WILL!

I shakily make my way downstairs in search of my angel of nurturing love. I hope that I do not pass out before I get to her. The last time I passed out from a cut, I woke up again before anyone found me. That was more upsetting than the cut.

I stumble from room to room, already dizzy from blood loss. "M-mom?" I call out in a tremulous voice. How can she be playing hide-and-seek at a time like this? I try again. "MOM!!!" I bellow.

"WHAT?!" Her tender reply drifts in through an open window like music.

I slowly make my way to the window through a haze of pain and lean out. There she is, my beacon of comfort, sitting with the dog and scratching her chin. The dog's, not my mother's.

"Mommy, I cut my finger." My voice trembles with the effort of staying conscious. "Look." I shove my finger towards her.

She doesn't look away from the dog. "Mmm. Stick a plaster on it."

Duh. "I brought one. Stick it on for me."

"Do it yourself. Your dog's enjoying her scratch."

I glare at the dog. She is indeed enjoying herself. Too much. Her eyes are shut in ecstasy as my mother (MY mother, MINE!!!) lavishes attention on her. My dog (MY dog, MINE!!!) doesn't bother to inspect my wound either. Let's see how she likes it when I bleed all over her (the dog, not the mother) in bed tonight. Bitch.

I turn away from the window in rejection. In dejection. In heartbreajection. As I make my way back upstairs, I hope that my finger bleeds on the floor. Bright red blood on the cold white marble, cold as my mother's and dog's hearts, to confront them as they walk in.

It doesn't happen, my finger has stopped bleeding.

But my heart hasn't.

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