Poor Cubbe is having a bad week.
First it was her Frontline medicine. We've never figured out her
objection to it. Last month I figured I'd get it out nonchalantly, go
up to her when she was on the couch, and put it on her back before she
knew what was happening. Except she wasn't in an accessible place on
the couch when I got there. She figured out what was going on and had
run under the futon before *I* figured out what was going. Jim and I
had to pull her out and tackle her.
Last week I nonchalantly closed the door to the computer room with the
futon AND the bedroom doors before nonchalantly approaching. This time
she knew something was up from the moment I opened the drawer with her
meds in the bathroom. It was back to tackle.
So she already didn't trust us when it was time for her annual bath. We
try to choose the hottest day of the year. Of course, that means that
we're sacked out and don't feel like moving. Really it's not that bad.
She makes a few shows of trying to avoid the garden hose, but she's
stopped fighting during the lathering up process and even seems to enjoy
it now. Rigging up the hose through the bulkhead makes the biggest
difference. We can wash her with warm water.
She then gets a wet walk in the neighborhood so she can shake off a few
times before being allowed back in the house. It's cool for her, baking
hot for me.
She doesn't mind fireworks as much as thunder, and we've been getting
thunder every afternoon. It's real Miami weather. She's not exactly
phobic, or she doesn't express emotion well. She hears the noise and
gets close. Normally in the summer, she likes anyplace cool and
comfortable. Add thunder, and she prefers to lie down behind the
computer chair as close to her people as she can get.
--Lia
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