Warm and fuzzy

"I recently returned from tsunami-ravaged Aceh Province, where I saw utter devastation. Miles of nothing where there once were homes, schools and communities. But that isn't all I saw. I also saw hope and resilience. I saw children learning in schools, whether those schools were tents, or camps or blankets by the beach. I saw computers that had been used to trace missing children being packed away, because most kids have been reunited with relatives or are being cared for in safe environments. And I saw surviving boys and girls returning for the first time to the water's edge, where they sang and danced and started finding their smiles again."

-- Congressional testimony in support of increased UNICEF funding by Clay Aiken

Fancy

For Photo Friday.

Admittedly, I didn't look hard this week. The exams are over, and I can finally breathe. It was a late afternoon paper, and it actually turned out pretty okay, despite me doing badly on the mid-term quizzes. So we'll see. :)

We went to town for a nice dinner. I'm so tired from laughing so hard. I have been blessed with wonderful friends; I don't think I can ever say this enough. Before the semester started, J and I were talking about our results, and commiserating with each other. For most of us, our Year One results did us in, and even though we have been ploughing away, getting a good honours classification remains a mathematical improbability (or, for some of us, impossibility).

"We really played too much in our first year," J said, with a sigh of resignation, and a shake of the head.

That may be true. Perhaps during our long breaks, we should have stayed in the library to study, instead of driving all the way down to Katong to eat laksa, with the nine of us cramped into a car; perhaps those late-night studying sessions could have been put to better use if dinner had not extended to heart-to-heart talks that lasted for hours. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Someday, this might come and bite me in the ass, but I'm going to say it anyway: I wouldn't exchange those moments, not even for a higher CAP. I mean it. And I treasure every moment of it, of being with all of you.

I have unwittingly lost track, as you can see. I'm tired, and that was all I meant to write. But that wouldn't have been the complete story. I'm tired, but I'm unbelievably happy; I'm unbelievably blessed.

AI rant

It's been a while since I've actually sat down to watch AI; the past couple of weeks I've been catching snippets of it after dinner, or in school sharing headphones with HW while watching it on his laptop. I think this is the first time they've (finally) talked to the contestants' family and friends, and given us a glimpse into their personal lives! Cynicism about editing aside, it made me like Anthony a little bit more.

And it was wonderful to see Clay in the audience. He looked fantastic! :)

Bo is still sitting solidly in pole position -- at least in my book. His best performance to date; the amazing thing is that I think this every week. And he bought $6 sunglasses! Yay! :)

Scott has a beautiful voice, but to be honest, his recent performances have been horrendous. I don't think he has sung one song completely in tune the entire time he's been in the Top 12! But I love his voice, and he's still my pick for Top 4. (And who doesn't cry listening to "Dance with my Father"?!)

Vonzell has won me over in the last month or so. She's beautiful, and amazingly sweet. And she has the best (or tied-best, with Bo) stage performance of the finalists.

Anthony: see above, and nothing else.

Huh, I've unconsciously critiqued the contestants in the order that I think they should be ranked, which leaves us with Constantine (still creepy) and Carrie -- ironically -- the favourites to make it to the Big Finale. I don't suppose there is a chance that they will be the next(s) to go?

***

[Edit: It's the middle of the night and I'm reading blogs instead of studying. It's bad, I know. But I couldn't help but post this because it's so hilarious!

"Okay, Scott has a nice voice. Not the best voice but it's definitely soulful in a way. That said, his performance was EXTREMELY bland and he has trouble controlling his voice... Also, he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands so he sort of just flings them in frustration after making the same repetitive, unnatural movements. Overall, this was just average and kind of like a sedative."

WAHAHA! It made me laugh out loud because that's precisely what I think of Scott's hands! The AI community on LJ is a great read -- in a mindless nonsense way, of course. Kinda like Chick Lit.]

Grin with envy?

I went to collect my essay last Friday.



I really did mean to write "green with envy," which has made sense to me for as far back as I can remember. Certainly anyone is entitled to grin with envy (although I would be perplexed as to why envy would make someone want to grin), but I really did mean what I wrote; it was not a spelling error.

He even used green ink to correct it. Hur hur.

***

Two papers down, one more to go.

Whenever I've declared the commencement of exam season, and the possibility that the blogging might cease (at least temporarily) as a result, I've always found myself blogging even more. No such declaration this time, but now you'll know why when content goes a-missing (if it hasn't already).

***

Here's something for you to chew on while I'm (possibly) gone. In Turin, dog owners can now be fined if they don't walk their dogs at least three times a day. In Singapore, for a fine of roughly the same amount, you can get away with abusing 106 dogs. Talk about putting things into perspective.

Soft

For Photo Friday.

This was taken in a farm in WA. I don't actually know how soft they are, but they look like they'd make great pillows. Or candy floss.

Blogging ethics?

Tan Seow Hon has a read-worthy article in yesterday's ST ("A blog on your character"). She writes in response to the uproar generated by a certain incident (Singapore Angle has wonderful extensive coverage here), on the privacy issues (among other things) that pertain to blogging:

"The reality of blogging [is] that it is not just the private business of the blogger and his fans. Blogging about real persons -- individually or as a group -- implicates others.

"Blogging is revealing about the blogger... As there is no personal contact, bloggers can encourage uncivil and irresponsible statements...

"Hiding behind a blog seems to feed cowardice -- some bloggers rant behind others' backs. Perhaps they even hope that those they blog about will chance upon these postings because they say things there which they would not dare to confront others with.

"In the end, the question each blogger should ask himself is this: What does your blog say about your character?"

While I wouldn't say that every blogger should ask themselves what their blog says of them, it's pretty much the best guide for those of us who are looking for one, but have come to realise that no list can exhaustibly and agreeably cover all aspects of "blogging ethics"; you can't even find a group of people who'll agree that "there are no rules," online or off.

Because it's not just blogging; the things we do or think, day in, day out -- even the things we don't do or don't think -- speak volumes about us too. Whether or not someone can hold them against us is a different question, and frankly, quite secondary.

Training day

Winnie the Pooh has been on my window for so long that his red shirt is no longer. He has also contracted pox of some kind in recent times -- for the life of me I cannot figure out what those brown spots are.

***

Training sessions in JC -- whilst always immensely enjoyable -- was often marred by various field restrictions. The field conditions, for one, were nothing short of embarrassing; when you run into a pothole at full speed, expect your ligaments to die, is the moral of the story. We also had to share it with the softball team (who trained every day), so apart from running and full speed and avoiding potholes (which many of us did rather unsuccessfully), we also had to dodge (rock-hard) softballs.

The upside to all of this is that there was another field. I heard that they imported the grass from Korea; I don't know how true that is, but I do know that they have timed sprinklers to keep the field in tip-top condition. And it really was perfect, the field.

The catch? Only the boys could use the field. And the only time we got to step onto it was when we were playing with the boys. Equal rights? I think not.

So it was this one fateful afternoon that we were there for a friendly match. With the boys. So we could use the nice field. The whistle was blown. Play was started. Touches were flying in. Plays were called and executed (some not so successfully). When all of a sudden, with the ball in our possession, the boys raced in unison towards the touchline.

My team-mates and I looked at each other in bewilderment. Had the game ended? Or did they all decide to sub out at the same time? Do we go on? Run towards the try-line and score with no opposition?

We watched in bemusement as they ran up to an elderly man, and greeted him with a bow.

My coach -- after speaking with the boys' coach -- ran onto the field and explained, trying hard to contain her laughter: "Um, they have this rule: that if they see any teacher, they have to stop everything and greet them."

In the middle of the game? Apparently. Or they thought that playing with girls didn't count. Either way, they saw nothing wrong.

To laugh or to cry -- that is the question.

What star?

This is a pretty cool coupon-dispenser (at least, I think that's what it is). The trouble is that half of what it's supposed to dispense is always stuck. But I did manage to get some spiffy discount cards: one-for-one at The Soup Spoon, and 30% off at Spectacle Hut. Cool!

But the real reason why I'm posting a photo of it is because I don't get the name (of the dispenser, presumably); I refuse to believe that I'm the only one who drew undesirable mental associations from it. If it's supposed to be smart or funny, I don't get it. If it's supposed to be dumb... I don't get it either.

Library analogy

I was talking to an ex-classmate after lecture one day. She's due to graduate this May, and I enquired after her employment situation.

"So what are you doing to do?"

"Get a job. Get married. Have kids. Well, I'm not so sure about the getting married and having kids part, considering I don't even have a boyfriend yet. But I do have a job. I start work a week after graduation -- would you believe? Sometimes I just think it's unfair. Guys have it so much better -- they can just work and work until they're 40, accumulate all that money, and then get married. Us? At 40, who would want to marry us?"

Uh, actually... I was just asking about the job thing, I thought, but didn't find it polite to interrupt. I let her continue:

"As it is, once we graduate, we're RBR. When we hit 40, I think we become Closed Stacks."

If this is a joke shared by the NUS population, I hadn't heard of it. And it amused me to no end.

Happy Birthday, Bro!

I spent the whole day in bed with a fever and a stomachache. This is how I always imagined giving birth would be like -- hours of contractions -- except, of course, that the contractions would be of the uterus and not of the stomach.

38.3 degrees C. Is that high or low? I wondered. It's been a long time since I've been sick; I'm not complaining.

"You feeling okay?" my brother popped his head in to ask.

"Fever," I rasped.

He took a look at the thermometer.

"Whoa," his eyes widened. "You'd better go to the doctor."

"Uh huh," I muttered, half drifting back to sleep, half unable to because I'd been in bed the whole day.

He disappeared. That's it? You tell me that I have to go to the doctor and you just leave me here?

Then he reappeared, with a cold towel in hand, and put it across my forehead.

If I weren't sick from the fever and vomitting, I would have cried.

Happy Birthday, Bro. I can't believe you're 16 already. I probably don't tell you this enough, but you're a pretty swell kid. Just don't grow up too fast! :)

No and yes

My brother spotted a pair of -- well, I don't know what they are -- insects, I suppose. I hope that they're mating, otherwise they were just stuck in a very difficult situation.

We watched them for a while, but they weren't doing much else, so we were bored quite quickly. When I came back to the sofa (which they're on) afterwards, I realised they were gone.

"Mom?" I turned to ask. "Did you kill the mating moths?"

"No."

"Oh good. Then they must've flown--"

"I just caught them with a plastic bag and threw them away."

"..."

Sometimes it gets confusing when "no" actually means "yes."

Chemo

I've been a wuss about this whole situation, and maybe it's time I try to be rational about it all. After all, if the dog that's at the centre of all of this can handle the hardship with amazing coolness, I have no excuse not to try.

The tumours were malignant -- a cancer of his fibrous tissue (at least, that was the best the vet knew how to explain). The good news is that they are unlikely to spread to any of his vital organs; the bad news is that, without chemotherapy, they will almost certainly recur. And then what? Surgery after surgery? The very reason why we finally decided on the operation was because of how terribly painful his everyday activities had become.

The first (and, hopefully, only) round of chemo entails going for six single agent intravenous treatments, two to three weeks apart. Even as I'm typing all of this, I have no idea what it means. We'll have to go down to NUH or SGH each time to pick up a supply of his meds, before bringing them to the vet to administer to Rocky.

Apparently dogs don't suffer from hair (fur) loss -- as most humans do -- from chemo, but the other side-effects are similar: vomitting and diarrhoea. I don't know how long these effects will last after each treatment. What if they last the full two weeks, after which he will be due for the next treatment? That's months of nausea and diarrhoea, without any reprieve. It's the thought of that that cuts through my heart.

I don't know what else to say or think. This is it for now. This is all I can manage.

Thank you all for your kind e-mails -- we appreciate them all.

Meanwhile, I'll try not to let this chemo-monster eat us up even before it begins, if at all.

Mistakes

They actually published it. Now if I am unable to graduate, you'll know why. I think I cringed a couple of times reading such a badly edited version of what I'd written. I feel inclined to vindicate myself; this is the original letter.

[Edit: I've added a couple of links; the beauty of the internet.]

***

Dr. Lee’s letter, “’Successful’ operation was a mistake” (ST, April 13), leaves me part frightened by her slippery slopes and groundless presumptions, and part saddened by her insinuations.

Dr. Lee throws up a hypothetical scenario: had Jamuna and Ganga’s parents not chosen to go ahead with the surgery, the twins would have died earlier, and their parents could have “carried on with life and probably would have more children who are normal.”

Where does one start to tackle the blatant absurdity in that postulation? If there is some kind of crystal ball for us to reflect on all of our what-if’s in life, I would surely like to know where it is. If the parents had chosen to let the twins die, without giving them a chance at life, could they not also be wrecked with debilitating guilt enough to drive them to a lifetime of grief? Just ask the many women who deal with post-abortive depression.

Furthermore, having “normal” children, while being a blessing not to be taken for granted, is not the only indicator of the quality of life. The “abnormal” children, if we would only allow ourselves the privilege to learn from them, will teach us a different kind of love -- one that transcends “normality.”

Dr. Lee sweepingly asserts that “no parent can ever give a truly informed consent when first confronted with the news that their child... will be disabled.” What constitutes a “truly informed consent” begs definition; the parents were informed that the twins would be “significantly disabled.” It could not have been an easy choice to make. Would they have changed their mind if they were given more time to decide? How much time would we allow them to have before accepting their decision as a “truly informed” one?

Many women (and men) make decisions about whether or not to abort their unborn children who have been diagnosed with disabilities. Some choose to devote their lives to caring for their physically and/or mentally dependant children. I am doubtful that many of them think that if they had been more “informed,” they would have made a different choice.

Dr. Lee opines that the twins’ mother is on the same page as she is; the mother has stated that she has often thought of “[dying] with Ganga.”

To raise a child -- any child -- demands a great deal of responsibility, even more so to raise a disabled child. Feelings of despair and doubt are understandable, but many will tell us that, even so, if they had to do it over again, they would still have chosen to give their children a fighting chance at life.

Besides, there are many other things that can drive a person to suicide; not all parents of disabled children who express frustration and helplessness take their own lives (or their children’s). There are more parents who triumph daily in the face of such adversity.

Dr. Lee warns that it will “only get worse” as the twins “grow bigger and become more difficult to feed, bathe and carry.” No one would think otherwise. But if everyone gave up on the “difficult” situations, now that would be more cause for worry.

If it is to be increasingly difficult, it means that they are going to need more help. Instead of clamouring over a decision that cannot be changed, we would do better to focus our efforts on offering that aid.

If Dr. Lee does not agree with the action that the twins’ parents had decided to take, she is most certainly entitled to her opinion; if she ever has to make decisions of this kind, it is her prerogative to choose what she deems is best.

But to lash out at the choice to live as a “mistake” is appallingly insensitive, and -- above all -- disrespectful, not just to the parents of Jamuna and Ganga, but to everyone who chooses to valiantly fight the daily battles of raising “abnormal” children.

Rest

For Photo Friday.

Before Rocky went for his surgery, I lapsed into this crazy photographer phase and took photos of him wherever he went. No matter how much I tried to tell myself that he was going to be okay, I always worried that little bit more that he wasn't going to be. I even shot a couple of videos, because the pictures just didn't seem like enough.

This was taken late one night, less than a week before that fateful Thursday. I watched him sleep, as I have so many times all these years, and wondered how it was that watching someone's chest heave from their breathing could make me smile that widely.

I now realise that no matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to capture all of him -- his musky smell, the way he stretches when he wakes up, the sound of him sniffing in the nooks and crannies, the wetness of his tongue against my cheek.

(That's how it is with blogs too, I guess; words on a page that will never replace the human touch, the soft whispers, the warm hugs, the tears falling on your shoulder -- no matter how hard we try.)

***

My head hurt, and I felt like throwing up.

Things'd been going so well that I'd just assumed... I'd totally forgotten about the test results.

The voice over the phone hit me like a ton of bricks.

Cancer. Chemotherapy. Diarrhoea. Vomitting. I heard only snippets.

He hates going to the vet. Every visit means only one thing to him: pain. But every time he comes home, he's so happy to be running around, wagging his tail, splashing in water; he forgets it all so quickly. And perhaps that's just what might save his life.

He won't understand -- and that hurts me more than anything else -- but it's his only chance.

Chemotherapy -- such a huge word for such a small dog.

Daydreams and records

The trouble with blushing is that you wear your heart on your sleeve whether or not you intend to. You always think you'll outgrow this embarrassing habit; what makes it worse is that you don't necessarily blush at the things you're expected to. Sometimes seeing someone reminds you of an embarrassing incident, so you blush. Other times, your mind irrationally extrapolates a random scenario, so you blush.

It's worse when you try to explain yourself: "No, really, I was just thinking of something totally unrelated. I didn't even see that cute guy!"

They give you the eye, accompanied by the sarcastically intoned "Yeeeeah... right."

Apparently I do more than blush, which is a total catastrophe, because I don't even know when it happens.

I was having lunch with HW the other day, when I noticed him staring at me.

"What?" I asked, looking up.

"Why are you smiling to yourself?"

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. You're doing it now!"

"I'm smiling now because I'm amused that you thought I was smiling before!"

He gave me his best come-on-that-is-completely-untrue-and-you-know-it-so-spill-it look.

"Okay, it's really nothing," I confessed. "I was just thinking... that left-handers are really cool."

He looked at me, puzzled. "That made you wear that stupid grin on your face?" (Now it's a "stupid grin"?)

"I just kinda pictured someone writing with his left hand."

"WHO?" he persisted.

"I don't know." This is true. "I just saw his left hand... writing."

(This is the reason why I don't tell people my preposterous daydreams, okay?)

"You know, sometimes, you just make no sense." HW pointed out helpfully, and proceeded to rant about how my list of "fetishes" (which I vehemently the existence of) was getting longer by the minute.

Before the conversation could be laid to rest and (hopefully) forgotten, KR joined us at the table.

I was innocuously playing with my food when I looked up to find him eyeing me suspiciously.

"WHAT?" I asked, now defensively.

"What's funny?"

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Why are you wearing that grin on your face?"

HW choked on his food, and was about to answer that when I interjected in exasperation: "NOTHING!"

***



Stitches are out! :) After getting home from the vet's, we took Rocky for his first walk in a long time. After cleaning his wound, I plopped myself on the bed; I went to sleep before 10 PM. Must've been some kind of record.

CL: Juventus 0 - Liverpool 0

Euro joy for heroic Reds in Turin



A nail-biting match, but only for Liverpool (fans) who were hanging on by a thread. You know what would be fun? Since fourth place in the Premiership seems increasingly impossible, wouldn't it be awesome to qualify for next season's CL by virtue of being defending champs? Seriously, boys, no pressure, but just for kicks (pun intended) you might want to consider that. ;) Meanwhile, though, it's payback time.

Seeing stars

This was some time ago. We were doing our work in school, when -- as it too often happens -- we stopped working and started talking.

I don't know what led to what, but an ex-classmate (he has since embarked on a different course) began talking about his romantic escapades.

"You know, when I was in JC," he reminisced. "I blindfolded my girlfriend and took her to the rooftop to see stars."

I realise that it was supposed to be something exotic or exciting, but at that point in time, it sounded anything but.

Barely able to keep a straight face, I turned to Z (whose attempt to do the same was betrayed by the hint of a smile) and couldn't help but inquire: "Blindfolded -- how to see stars?"

With that, we dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. When we finally looked up, he was still staring at us in bewilderment, before the realisation of what he had implied registered on his face.

"Crazy girls," he huffed, and stormed off, sending us into new fits of giggles.

(This is not why he decided to change course, right?)

Because a picture paints a thousand words

(Click for bigger pictures.)


Dog on bed. McDonald's Big Breakfast on bed. Dog makes no advances. Strange -- dog must really be sleepy.




As if on cue, dog stirs in sleep... Naked dog alert! Human panics at sight of exposed stitches and spots forsaken shirt in corridor.




Human cajoles dog into putting on shirt. Dog is not amused and embarks on adventure to shed artificial skin again.




Lather, rinse, repeat. Not so cute after 32153612578 times. Human needs sleep.

Dogs and tigers

We use the term "dog ownership" too loosely for my comfort. They're really only "our" dogs in the same sense that our mommies and daddies are "our" parents. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that I'm Rocky's human, rather than his owner.

I'll be the first to admit that I call myself a "dog owner" in the presence of casual conversation; somehow I don't think it'd go down well with others if I tried to explain the ambiguity or inaccuracy of the term.

(Perhaps the only other term we use most without any concept of its non-existence is "race." Another story, another time.)


Peanuts by Charles M. Schulz

***

"OH. WOW. In your life have you seen anything like that!" (Via Chris.)

Score one for Nike. And yes: WOW.

Morning madness

X has a strange aversion towards Stabilo merchandise; she says the swan (which has since faded from my highlighter, but which you can see at the website, if you are not already familiar with it) scares her. (Yes, normal friends are hard to find these days.)

I received an SMS from her the other day, and the following exchange ensued...

X: "I am using a Stabilo highlighter."

Me (snickering): "I distinctly remember you flinging my highlighter across McDonald's when we were in secondary school, because, you know, the swan is evil."

X: "I know. I have no principles."

***

Pet peeve of the day: "Sigh" can be used as a verb or noun, or even singly (and ungrammatically) -- to express sardonic exasperation, for example -- but one thing it is not (or shouldn't be) is an onomatopoeia.

An example of bad usage: "Sigh," she sighed as she sat down.

You're either sighing, or you're just saying it.

[Edit: On hindsight that wasn't the best example. I just mean that "sigh" is a word and not a sound -- you knew I meant that, right? Okay. And that sentence was just bad for many other reasons anyway. Isn't it crazy the things that occupy my mind? Oookay.]

***

Se7en Redux (via John Holbo).

I actually laughed out loud (and really loudly) at this. Clearly, I am nuts.

Two weeks?

(Warning: You know, pictures that you shouldn't view while eating.)

Has it really only been two weeks?

We've been so used to Rocky's sluggishness in the past year or so, that we're struggling now to cope with his sudden increase in energy; I feel like the surgery reversed time somehow, and now I have back a puppy! Rocky doesn't walk anymore -- he runs, leaps, bounds. Sometimes I just stare in awe at how he can bounce around with all four paws off the ground.

I'm not complaining -- it's part of the happy problem that comes with the unbelievable success of the surgery -- I just never expected the surgery to be this successful.

Of course, with this apparent youth, comes differences in opinions with regards to the limits on his activities. Rocky is amazing with the split-level steps that separate our living room and dining room, but he hasn't attempted to climb the real stairs. My mom thinks that we should start letting him try, because he can probably manage it now; I don't think we should, because no matter how young and energetic he seems, he's still a 15-year-old dog with brittle bones and -- in the words of the vet -- "there's a 99.9% chance he has arthritis." Man, I'm going to be the kind of mother who will ground her kids until they are 80.

If anyone knows whether 15-year-old dogs are adept at climbing (full flights of) stairs, it would greatly help. I suppose, for now, we will have to work out on our own these disciplinary issues. No one said it was easy rearing a dog; I take my hats off to those of you who've endeavoured raising a child. Be good to your mommies and daddies, everyone.

One last look at the stitches (I count 32, how about you?) before we get them removed this Thursday.



Has it really only been two weeks?

Let us moove you

So that's why buses and cabs have been sprouting tails. :) (Click to read. Well, sort of, anyway. From The Straits Times.)

Late-night ramblings III

I was in school the other day, where the computers use IE and (I'm told) don't allow you to download and install Firefox. I kept hitting Ctrl-T, and no new tabs appeared. I must've banged at the keyboard like, 431 times, thinking that it was stuck.

***

Dr. H was discussing The Matrix but insisted on ignoring the third instalment because he'd written his lecture before it came out...

Dr. H: "It's not my fault that they made a bad movie; I wrote a good lecture!"

***

I've caught a couple of episodes of Without a Trace and Cold Case on Channel 5 -- the two other investigative dramas in the world of local television (the free-to-air part of it, at least) dominated by the C.S.I. franchise. I thought they had some nice touches, but mostly I kept thinking to myself: "Horatio could do better." (And also, that Holt McCallany is very hot.)

It would appear that C.S.I. has ruined all other investigative dramas for me.

I think that the only one other investigative series that matches up, for me, is Monk, which the now-defunct Channel i used to show. Monk's unique wit and humour set it apart from all the others that were simply too easy to draw comparisons to C.S.I. with.

I suppose there's something to be said about character development, and perhaps if I faithfully watched them all, I would find something more to like. Unfortunately, spending more time on television is the last thing I need.

Also, is anyone else indignant alarmed disturbed amused that we are up to date (with the US) for 7th Heaven, but we're two seasons behind for E.R.?

***

I'd forgotten to mention that my neighbours also have a cat, Mimi. We seldom see her around; you know how it is with cats. I've seen her rolling around with Bobby (playing); they get on pretty well. But when things get too rough, Mimi runs into the house, which Bobby is not allowed in. Score one for Team Tabby.

I wonder if she misses him too.

Manchester City 1 - Liverpool 0

City strike late to dent hopes of 4th

As I was saying...

Dear Blogger

Dear Blogger,

I'm just wondering: why do some comments come through to my mailbox, while others bounce? I'm told that I have more than 80% of my 2073 MB available. That should suffice, should it not?

Just curious,
Me

Plastic

For Photo Friday.

(Anyone tired yet of how much down time Blogger has been having lately? Yes? No? Maybe? Okay.)

I bought this set of paper fasteners for under $2; colours make me feel that things are more fun that they actually are, which definitely helps when it comes to work.

I'm quite the stickler when it comes to organisation. The degree to which that last statement is true, however, is inversely proportional to the nearness of my impending exams. Worryingly enough, there is, at present, an appalling neatness to my desk.

RIP: Bobby

Bobby, my next-door neighbour's doberman, died this week. My eyes immediately welled up with tears at the news. Even though I know that large dogs have shorter lifespans, it seems like only yesterday when he was a little puppy. By the time he was six months old, he was double Rocky's size. Fully grown in less than a year, his paw was bigger than Rocky's head. I remember how fun it was waking up in the morning and marvelling how he'd grown from the night before! ;)

The neighbours' grandchildren have been coming over to play with Rocky recently, who -- dressed in babies' clothing -- now looks like a little puppy, especially when compared to big ol' Bobby.

Despite his hugeness and the deepness of his bark -- which scared everyone who came to my house -- Bobby remains one of the most good-natured dogs I've ever had the fortune to meet. Sure, he has a ferocious bark, but you know what they say about barking dogs. He was a guard dog; that was his job.

(I've often wondered if people who complain about dogs barking know what they're saying; that's like complaining about people talking. Dogs don't (always) bark for the sake of trying to scare or annoy people; they bark when they're hungry, they bark when they're angry, they bark when they're happy. They say that up to 93% of all human communication is non-verbal, more so with our canine counterparts, who haven't the ability to communicate words to us -- there's much to learn when it comes to interpreting their body language, their tone, and even the rumbling of their tummy. The dynamics of relationships don't stop at human ones.)

The bottom of our main gate is meshed up because Rocky is small enough to squeeze through the grids, but Bobby's house has no such feature. On Rocky's walks, we would sometimes unleash him as we approached our house -- it's a lot more fun for him. Now and then, he would annoy Bobby (or at least, I know I would be annoyed) by burrowing past their gate and into enemy the neighbour's territory. The first time he did that I went nuts. I mean, seriously -- Bobby was five times his size; I just watched helplessly as I expected my dog to get torn apart by the big bad dobe. I was later told that all colour had drained from my face; I was too frightened even to scream.

Then Rocky lifted his hind leg up and peed on Bobby's paws, while Bobby docilely sniffed Rocky's butt and licked his face. And everything was good -- the beginning of a strange friendship.

Rocky hasn't been out for walks since his operation (infection risks); I wonder if he will notice that Bobby is gone now. For a dog his size, Bobby has lived a long, good life. I've stayed here the past 11 years -- I reckon that's Bobby's age. I've noticed, in the past few months, that he, too, had struggled with walking, and balancing on all four legs. I guess it was always time.

Goodnight, Bobby. We'll miss you, too.

[Edit: Excuse me, Bobby's a rottweiler. Huh, 10 years of thinking that that's what a doberman looked like. Good thing I don't have to explain Rocky's breed. Which makes me think of the rogue rottweilers in my neighbourhood. A $200 fine is not a deterrent, okay? Poor Buddy.]

Late-night ramblings II

Unfortunately, our education system does not cater to those of us who work better at night. Well, that's my excuse, anyway.

This is why when it comes time to choose modules, I try my best to bid for those that give greater weightage to take-home assignments. I've tried to sleep early and wake up early, but even when I wake up at five o'clock in the morning and force myself to stay awake throughout the day, I can't sleep until at least 2 AM. See where this is going?

The work I churn out in the day, I will toss when I re-read in the night. I don't know what it is that makes the cogs in my head run that much more smoothly at night.

***

I've never liked to be cooped up in an air-conditioned space. Some days, though, the heat is just too much to bear. It's the lack of oxygen, I think -- I can't help but feel restless or lethargic after a while.

In the night, however, you get the cool night breeze and ventilation. Besides, there's something very precious about the quietness and comfort of knowing that no one is going to interrupt your train of thoughts. The predictability is furthered by the sound of the ignition of the (fishmonger) neighbours' pick-up at 2:30 AM, and the "thud" of the Today paper at our doorstep at 4 AM.

***

This is just school. The question is: what kind of job will accommodate such nocturnal characteristics? Hold that thought, and wipe that grin off your face -- of course when I talk of night jobs, I also mean those pertinent to my field of expertise. Wait, that didn't come out right either. Well, you know what I mean. I hope.

***

While we were eating the other day, XL spotted a worm on KR's shirt. All she managed to muster -- apart from a shrill cry -- was to point at the worm, while KR proceeded to jerk around awkwardly in a bid to shake the crawlie from himself.

"Stop moving," I instructed. When he did, I picked the worm off his shirt and flicked it to the ground. "What's wrong with you people?" I asked, in mock disgust. "Never played with worms before?"

KR stared at me for a while, before coming up with one of the most informative reponses I'd ever heard: "You're a girl, you know?"

I always get a kick out of that. The abolishment of stereotypes -- fun stuff.

YaGoohoo!gle

YaGoohoo!gle (with the exclamation mark!) -- now you can have the best of both worlds. :)

David Johnston asks that you say it 5 times fast.

CL: Liverpool 2 - Juventus 1

Reds win Round One



Perfection undone -- and by one of my favourite Italian hotties. Unfortunately, this means that Juve only need a 1-0 win to take the tie. I can't see Liverpool scoring in Turin; to tell the truth, I think very few people can. But Hyypia, Garcia, and even Carson, all gave us something to cheer about. Someone tell me, though, why is it that they can only play like this -- get their crosses in, make complete strings of passes -- in European ties? It boggles the mind.

At least I didn't kill anyone

Counting down the hours of the day that saw me fatally misread a test question and drop an eclair on myself.

But the one that really takes the cake...

While I was taking out my water bottle from my bag today, it slipped from my hands. Under many other circumstances, that would have been a non-detrimental affair. But this happened while I was on the stairs (for those of you who are familiar with the NUS campus, the narrow stairway above The Grinning Gecko cafe), and when I say that it slipped from my hands, I naturally also mean that it flew off the ledge and fell three storeys down. That's right: Three. Storeys. Down.

I was too shocked even to scream; my first thought was that I'd just killed someone.

"WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?!" XL screamed, as if I'd meant for it to happen.

"M-m-my hands slipped!" I sputtered.

We rushed down. Thankfully no one was hurt -- although I did see many patrons of the cafe holding their hands to their chests in shock. I'm not sure which I felt more -- relieved at not having killed anyone, or embarrassed at claiming possession of the water bottle.

"At least you didn't kill anyone," KR attempted to comfort. But when you can append that sentence to virtually any bad situation, it doesn't really help. I hope he knows that.



"Drop from so high, dent so small, ah?" I mused, upon examining my bottle. This was after the fiasco was over and we were sitting at The Grinning Gecko, snacking. (Still at the crime scene; I don't think I'd make a very good criminal at all, I know.) On hindsight that was possibly one of the worst things to say in the history of things not to say, which my friends wasted no time in informing me of via their glares.

Easter, bunnies, and dog

My sister and her housemate adopted a bunny that was found abandoned near their church.

"She's all black, and she has a big nose, which just reminds me of Rocky," she sobbed over the phone. (This was before the surgery and we were trying to make difficult decisions; one of the reasons why we were considering putting Rocky down if there was a high chance he wouldn't survive the surgery was because we didn't want his last memory to be that of being abandoned. We just couldn't bear that.)

"So what's her name?" I asked. Just making small talk to make the conversation less sombre, you know.

"Vicki," she sniffed.

A couple of days later, something strange happened. So apparently bunnies do this thing, where they can make their testicles disappear -- the causes of which range from stress levels to weather conditions. Yes, "Vicki" turned out to be a "he." Very funny, God.

"What're you going to do with his name now?!" I enquired, the next time we talked.

"We'll just call him... Bunny."



He really does look like Rocky -- in the weird way that bunnies look nothing like dogs. I mean, that was Rocky's favourite lying position -- until he grew that lump, of course, and now because of the stitches.

***

Speaking of bunnies, I was so inspired by Brad's entry that I made Easter cupcakes for everyone (over Easter weekend, of course). Yeah, life was still going on, even if the blogging wasn't. ;)



***



Rocky's finally able to bend both his legs comfortably and get into a curled up sleeping position! :) And I found three lumps of poo in the garden; I've never been so happy to see faeces.

HFMD

My brother started having red spots on his hands and feet, and white spots in his mouth; I thought it was chicken pox.

It's not.

He has HFMD.

For those of you who can manage a prayer, it would be much appreciated.

Although mention of the disease brings back frightening memories of the outbreak, the doctor says it doesn't look serious, and gave him some medicine and a week's worth of leave from school. They will also be contacting the school to put the rest of the students on alert.

I have to admit that ever since I heard the news, my body has been itching all over. To which my brother only has one thing to say: "It doesn't ITCH, lah!" Hur hur.

The first thing my dad did -- impulsive as they come -- was to blame it on Rocky. Which makes sense, of course, since HMFD cannot be transmitted through animals. Sometimes you really have to wonder why people say the things they do.

Speaking of which, the doctor also said: "Not to scare you guys, but a 29-year-old guy recently died of HMFD."

I mean, you seriously wonder: no sense of timing, or abject lack of sensitivity?

Friends to thank

If this blog is any reflection of how the past week has been, it would seem that my life was put on hold for a while. In some ways, it kinda was, I guess. But some days, when the majority of your time is spent on work, putting it on hold is actually not that bad a thing.

It wasn't all doom and gloom, even in the days leading up to the surgery. In fact, most people around me had no idea what was happening back home. I guess I was just afraid of people saying stupid, insensitive things -- and how I would react to them. I used to think that I was justified in hitting out at them, because they're the ones who bring out the worst in me, after all. I've since realised that the worst in me is me; I have no excuse.

It's easier, too, pretending nothing was wrong. I was already crying bucketfuls privately; the last thing I needed was to burst into tears in the middle of a lecture.

But you make plans, and they don't always work out. And on Monday night, I ended up blurting out my irrational fears to Z at 2 o'clock in the morning; mostly I was just sobbing really hard, and I cannot remember a thing that I said, only that they probably came out sputtering and incomprehensible. Perhaps that makes me even more grateful that Z so patiently listened and comforted me. Thanks, babe, you have no idea.

If the response online was anything to go by, I really had nothing to worry about -- there was nothing but words of comfort and enouragement, for which I am immensely grateful.

I did, however, actually have people say stupid, insensitive things, but to my surprise, they amused me more than anything else. I guess with people like HW, you can ask yourself "What is wrong with this guy?" only so many times before frustration turns to entertainment. I mean, because, seriously, what is wrong with this guy?

"So how come you're not free on Thursday?" he asked.

I stiffened. I didn't want to talk about it, especially not with HW. But I couldn't make up any excuse in time didn't want to lie.

"Rocky's going for surgery," I said impassively. "But I don't want to talk about it, okay? Please."

"Okay," he replied, and managed to keep quiet for a full five seconds. "Is anyone going with you? Your mom?"

"Yes, probably. I really don't want to talk about it, okay? I mean it."

"Okay," ten seconds this time. "What is it? His heart? Or..."

"His lump. HW -- Really. Stop it now."

"Okay okay," 4... 3... 2... "Aiyah, this is why I will never get a pet! I mean, what's the point, they can only live for a few years, unlike having children... It's just not worth it, lah."

(If nothing else, then just... Dude, I have one word for you: timing.)

"Look, HW. Now you are just being ridiculous. You are saying that your criterion for loving someone is their life expectancy? You cannot expect me to believe that if you fall in love with someone who's terminally ill, you're going to leave them, or just stop loving them. And if you're going to do that, then that's you. Besides, you can't say something is not 'worth it' just because it causes you pain. If you want, you can spend your whole life trying to avoid pain -- don't love, someone may hurt you; don't trust, someone may betray you. But in the process you would have missed out on a lot. Would it be painful for me to lose Rocky? Yes. But if I had to choose over, would I do it all again? A thousand times, yes. HW, you only see a small part of what he does for me. I cannot tell you how many times he's rescued me from those lonely nights -- and I know that you've had many of those too. And sometimes, HW, it's not just about you. Sometimes, there are other people -- or animals -- who just need a shelter from the cold. If along the way, love blossoms, that's really just a bonus. If everyone decides that they don't want to adopt someone in need, then... no, wait, that's the whole point. There are already too many orphans and abandoned pets precisely because of that."

(You can see why I didn't want to start.)

"Okay, okay," he quietened. "I just never thought of it that way, I guess," he finally got it, I think -- I hope. Although, with HW, you never know. "Let's go for lunch," he offered.

"Okay," I conceded -- tired from the barrage of emotion, as if I wasn't already from the sleepless nights.

Three years I've known the guy, and he still manages to frustrate baffle me on an almost-daily basis. It's a good thing I've learnt to laugh about it. Kidding (partly) aside, thank you, HW, for the amusement -- sometimes laughter really is the best medicine, even though you didn't quite mean for it to be funny. You almost never do, actually. :) But at least we've gotten to a point where we can let it slide most times; sometimes, you just have to count those little victories.

Hot and others

For Photo Friday.

I wasn't planning to post anything this week, but I happened to chance upon this photo, so there you go. That's my brother pretending to drink some strange bubbling concoction -- which is actually just dry ice (from the ice-cream cake for my birthday) in water. :)

***

I have enough images of cows on my computer to change a new profile picture every month -- possibly every week. So we'll see. This new one is from Sparkability (via Karen). Cuteness!

***

Rocky update! (Didn't think I could go a whole entry without this, did you? :p)

I can't believe how well he's doing. He's been sleeping a lot (which means I finally get to too!), and his walk has steadied tremendously. He's eating well now -- if there was one thing to indicate his wellness of health, it would be that. His eyes are so much brighter. I would like to see him take a dump, though. Just so I know that everything is functional, not because I have an affinity for poo.

I still do the crazy worrying thing all the time, but mostly I'm more concerned with doing the more crazy happy things with him -- like watching him sleep, raving about how cute he looks in the baby clothing, getting exasperated about how greedy he is. If it wasn't more evident before, every day is a bonus now.

Recovery II

(Warning: More graphic images ahead!)

In the 48 hours leading up to the surgery, I slept about three hours. I would have all these worst thoughts about what could go wrong, and proceed to cry myself to sleep, have nightmares about all these worst thoughts about what could go wrong, and then wake up crying.

So I guess one of the things I was grateful for, post-surgery (apart from the obvious joy of having Rocky back), was that I'd finally be able to sleep in peace. Or so I thought. Rocky had other plans.

No food or water for the rest of the night, the vet'd said. I looked it up online; it didn't occur to me to ask her why when we were at the clinic. Any food or drinks before or after surgery would cause nausea, vomitting, and diarrhoea. Fair enough.

Of course, it didn't matter that I understood, the point is that Rocky didn't. He was parched from fasting since the night before his surgery, and was going to get water even if he had to stay up the whole night begging. I tried to explain to him the irony of barking through the night when he was thirsty, but he was having none of that. I was surprised the neighbours didn't come knocking.

5 AM: Long enough, I reasoned. I got him his bowl of water, which he proceeded to gulp down and throw up. It broke my heart when he looked at me with those eyes -- you didn't tell me this was going to happen, they seemed to say. Very funny, Rock. In any case, that seemed to do the trick; he stayed far away from his bowl afterwards.

He finally went to sleep at 6:13 AM. Yuh-huh. Count those hours. It's a good thing that I didn't have classes today, although I can't speak for the rest of the family.



It's dark, I know. I didn't want to disturb him with the flash, and Picasa can only do that much.

***



Cleaning Rocky's wound. That's just one of the scars -- but it's the longest one. He has another one across his chest.

Seeing as how this is going, I might have to rename my blog "The Rocky Chronicles" or something.

***

I should have done this earlier, but I hope guess it isn't too late; I'll be sure to send a card their way. Much thanks to the folks at Vet Practice. You have saved me in ways that you don't even know. :)