Nugget & Buddy: two-syllable, easy-to-say names for my two animals.

Nugget & Buddy: two-syllable, easy-to-say names for my two animals. One cat, one dog. Both ripe with character, both I love so much, both a big-ole pain in my ass, and pocket book.

First, Nugget, also known as 'beef stick' or 'Noooget' or 'Nugsie', bless her soul, is a 12 pound, 1/2 blind, diabetic, Chi-weinee (chihuahua/dachshund mix) who likes to chase anything that runs and throw herself off of high places even though she doesn't have the spine to support that impact. She was only two of these things, 12 pounds and a Chiweinee, when I got her off Craigslist with my former partner (ex is such a dirty word) from a clean-and-sober woman who was in the middle of divorce and selling everything (including her two dogs) so that she could live and drive her RV where ever the hell she wanted to go. We, knowingly, were getting Nugget to save our relationship in the same way that straight people have a baby to save a marriage.

A year after we got Nugget, after me and my "let's-get-a-dog-to-save-our-relationship" partner broke up and got together for the umpteenth time, on a weekend at the beach to revisit our relationship under more romantic conditions, Nugget came in after an afternoon pee only to turn around and pee again, and again. And then head for her water bowl with a voracious and unquenchable thirst and pee again, inside. Perplexed, we thought she'd got into a tide pool and ate some bad shellfish. But the peeing didn't stop, so we took her into the boutique-priced-vet that all vets are in Portland, when we got back into town and after several hundred dollars of testing found that, at the age of 3, she was diabetic, an illness that is expensive and hard to regulate. Even more expensive and hard to regulate for a 29-year-old, single woman, who likes to drink and go dancing, and is surviving on student loans and a server's income. Diabetes means a special diet and keeping a regular schedule and shooting your dog up with insulin every 12 hours (9 and 9).

Just so we're clear: Nugget isn't diabetic because I fed her twinkees and the fat off my steak every night, the diabetes came down through her genetic line.

At first I considered a rescue, or putting her back up on Craigslist because I didn't think I'd have the money to give her a good life, but after careful consideration and because I knew Nugget had been in three homes in her first year of life, I decided to give it a go and do my best to give her a stable home and a good life.

Needless to say, our first year was rough. Finding the right diet, not skipping shots, getting me trained to meet her needs was difficult. In May of 2008 she weighed 8 pounds and was practically a walking skeleton. Family and friends were split, as was I, on whether to put her down or try to help her recover. I decided to take the summer to try and get her regulated and make the decision after a more consistent regimen. Thankfully, we found something that worked: never missing shots, prescriptive food, lots of water, lots of money. Nugget is back at her normal weight and is doing fairly well, until lately when she's started having seizures.

This is the second episode this summer and it's gone the same way both times. In the middle of the night she pushes herself out from under the covers and falls on the floor without attempting to catch herself. Then she wakes up early and starts licking and pushing herself into my face, looking all around the room, her round body pulsing with muscle spasms. Then, for a few days afterward her muscles are weak and her balance unsteady. After this mornings episode I took her to the reasonably-priced-not-in-the-big-city vet for an exam and lab work. Our total expenditures for today: $201 and 3 lost hours of sleep. They gave me diazepam for her seizures (now you can be on the same medication as mommy!) and an anti-inflammatory (Metacam) and told me lab answers are to come by the end of the day...

Answers? Maybe...

Now, Buddy, the other break up based pet. Buddy, a short-haired, black and white who has also been known as 'Snake' and 'Budinski' and 'Fat bastard', came to me from the Oregon City projects shortly after my first major break up in 1998 with my first major boyfriend. I got him as a kitten and often slept with him in the nook of my collar bone, and since then he's thought it okay to still sleep there whether of not he weighed 9 or 15 pounds.

Today, Buddy is eleven years old (in his sixties in human years) and has lived with me in seventeen different home in three different states. He's been rather durable and accommodating, living with a variety of animals, in a variety of conditions and regions, with a variety of lovers and roommates. He's been the most reliable long-term relationship (which sounds like I've turned into that creepy cat person) up until recently.

About three years ago I took Buddy into the boutique-priced-Portland-vet for an exam for wheezing episodes. The vet blamed it on anxiety and I took his diagnosis as golden. But this year, when the wheezing episodes got more intense and were accompanied by a dilated pupil and raised third-eyelid, I took him into the reasonably-priced-small-town vet who found a lump in his throat and diagnosed him with Horner's Syndrome.

Since then, Buddy's appetite has decreased, his purrs and breathing have become more labored, he's lost weight, about three pounds, and sleeps all the time. I've tried changing his diet, giving him a variety of food, consulting the vet for treatments and what I've gotten is a shrug, following the offer to do an MRI to find answers, and another prescription for Metacam (at least both my animals are on the same drug).

Maybe I've always had a thing for differently-abled animals, after all, my first pet was a gray, one-eyed, long-haired, bladder-problem-ridden feline named Toke. But I've come to realize that at this point in my life of pet ownership, I am essentially running a convalescence/geriatric/hospice home for my pets. And that's okay. I love them both, and I am committed to them both, pain in the ass or not.

Not only is pet ownership expensive, it's fun, joyful, time-consuming, sleep-losing, awesome, heart-breaking, terrifying, and quite a commitment; a life-long commitment. I don't remember it being this way as a child. Was it that it wasn't as expensive, or that it wasn't my money being spent?

Regardless, I've come to understand that one should not take on the responsibility of pet ownership unless they are ready to spend the money, whether boutique-fees or reasonable-vet-fees, to maintain the health of their animal(s). And when my current pets pass I will likely take a break from ownership so that I can leave for the weekend without paying someone to come feed them, or without consideration of how to travel with them. But because I've been raised in a home that has always had pets as part of the family, I have a feeling it wont be long before I invite another animal into my home.

Then too, I'll be there to hold their paw through whatever health issues come their way, and hopefully my income can support providing them with the best treatment I can afford, and that is possible.

Interfacing With A Murderer

Minam is a place of solace for me; a locale where my distant relatives once tended to timber and made moonshine up the mountain during prohibition times. I go there to listen to the Wallowa River rush by, to watch the cedar waxwings flip and fly over the river catching small flying things, I watch the rafters put in across the river at the boat launch, listen to the Osprey's clip cry, and joyfully tend to customers in the market and people lodging at the motel.

Although I go to Minam to get away I often find myself working on small projects or motel upkeep; mostly laundry, which is a never ending chore. I always try to get a ride on the lawnmower if only for the excuse to sip a cold one while doing circles in the front lawn. I spent seven weeks working at the motel last summer and enjoyed most of my time there, with the exception of a few nights where I found myself alone in the canyon with no one in the motel.

I am afraid of the dark - particularly dark wilderness areas with little light pollution. I like to see what is coming at me and this is problematic even when I have the porch lights on all night. One night in Minam during my stay last year, some raccoons were fighting in the middle of the night, or god knows what, which nearly made me pee my pants. During a spring time visit, a mob of dear were eating grass around the back side of the manager's unit, snorting and brushing up against the walls of the motel which also scared the bejesus out of me, even though I knew damn well it wasn't a crazed serial killer. The issue is that the motel is the only lodging place between Elgin and Wallowa - a 30 mile stretch of a scenic by-way - which is remote but beneficial for us because the weary traveler can find a place to stay when they come through the winding canyon in the dark. But every time someone comes in a little past 10pm, it rattles me just a bit.

I've been to Minam three times this year; I just arrived home from a week in the canyon yesterday. I arrived last Thursday, a little after 5pm, to an empty motel - which I expected - and a damn hot summer day. My first customer rolled in around 6-6:30pm. Being that we are along a thirty mile stretch of well, nothing, people from the country or adjoining towns often drop in to chat, or use the telephone if there is an emergency in the canyon somewhere, or to grab a cold beverage or ice cream. So nothing to be concerned with when my first customer rolled down the driveway in a dirty and dusty Jeep Wagoneer - complete with fake wood paneling and came to ask me if I had a paper. In the car was a woman smoking a cigarette, a couple of dogs bouncing about her lap.

I grabbed the paper and handed it over to the man. He was about my height, tan from days in the sunshine, had on a pair of white paint splattered pants and a myriad of tattoos about his torso. He had big brown eyes and his hair was done. He got down on one knee in the gravel drive-way and turned the page to a article about the recent find of a murdered woman and her dismembered hand that was found in a local pond; a news report that I had been following since before I headed down to the canyon. For a moment I thought it peculiar that he would come in, ask for a paper, and go for that column, but the county was alight with rumors and everyone was interested in the news - no one had heard of such an occurrence in years...

"Isn't that awful?" I offered.
"Yeah" he moved his finger quickly down the sentences, "she was a distant relative of mine."
I thought about the care I should take with my words. Nothing to strident, nothing to disregarding.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
He got up and handed the paper back to me, I forgot if he said 'thank you' or another 'yeah', he just turned around and headed back to the car and left.

I went back into the manager's unit and thought about my safety - I got a buck knife out of the kitchen drawer and set it next to the front door. I slept with it by my side that night, the front doors locked, the bedroom locked, the windows closed and locked on a 98-degree day.

The rest of the weekend was delightful: family came in to do some remodeling, some friends in for a little R&R on Friday. The great thing about Minam is that we really know how to have a good time: country drives, a little sauce and some music, some time by a fire telling fish-stories, good food, and good conversation. There is a welcoming aura there at the confluence of the two rivers, a feeling that you are free to enjoy time as you please, and we encourage those who visit Minam to do just that. After a fun weekend, everyone skirted out on Sunday and once again, I was alone in the canyon.

I went to bed on Sunday at 2:30am, anxious at being alone, and woke up to my mother calling on Monday around 8am. "They released a picture of the killer, Chels. I want you to get a good look at him."
By this time the news broke that there were three victims total, people in the county were so certain there was a serial killer on the loose that the police had to release a statement dispelling the rumors. There was also rumors of a head found in a backpack. Also not true. I wasn't reading the paper that was being delivered daily to the motel, I was only quickly glancing to see whether or not that murderer had been captured. In Saturday's paper there were three pictures - two of people in plain clothes and one of a young man in a mug shot. I figured that was their prime suspect and moved on with my day.
"Yeah mom," I said yawning, "I already saw the guy. I haven't seen him."
"Okay, well, I just want you to be careful."
She headed off the work and since I was awakened by the phone call, I was up. I turned on the news anyway to get a good look at the guy and to make sure I knew his face. And this is probably no surprise to any reader of true-crime, but when his face came up on the news I nearly fell off the bed: my first visitor on Thursday was the guy.

I called my mom - or at least tried to - to ask her what to do. Should I call the police since the guy is still on the loose? She wasn't there to ask.
I decided to call the Union County Police.
A 1/2 hour later the news broke that Gregory A. Cook was captured in Rainier, Washington.In a news report he confessed and apologized.

Although I am scared of the dark and the dark is where most of the "bad" things that have happened to me have occurred, it's no stretch to say that frightening things happen in broad daylight - and often within a mile of home.

Minam is not where I reside, but it is one of my homes.
Even though we fondly call it The Minam Asylum.