“Penny Dreadfuls” and a Rant

It would appear that in the mid-eighteen hundreds Valentines Day was more of a chance to lampoon love than celebrate it. I came across a reference to “vinegar valentines” today, and since I am who I am I had to find out what that meant. This lead to me several illuminating sites on “Penny Dreadful” valentines, the best of which was Valentines & Dabbities, a review of a book that includes quite a variety of samples of this genre. The sardonic, anti-Hallmark part of me is rather taken with this variation of our favorite saccharine-sweet holiday, even as the softer yet greedier part of me yearns for a bunch of purple larkspur and a bottle of perfume. All in all, this year I believe I prefer my ring to some rude verse in a card with a caricature of a fishmonger on it.

But come on, everybody. Admit it. There’s someone in your life you’d like to send a Penny Dreadful to today. Deep down in our hearts we all have a little unfinished business, even if we are far too polite to follow up on it.

It begins to sound more and more like this weekend is going to be nearly a complete waste. Snow is supposed to start tonight, with significant accumulations tomorrow. A second storm is due to hit Sunday, with perhaps more accumulations. One estimate I heard said the city may get nine inches total from all this. We’re north of the city, and so are predicted to get less. That is only minimally comforting though, as I had quite forgotten that the Socialist and I were committed to meeting his aunt and uncle from Oregon in center city tomorrow evening for dinner. I need to check out train schedules for this – I doubt that driving into the city is a brilliant idea if we really do get any real snow.

I doubt I’m getting my taxes done this weekend. Still, the ideal time to hit H&R Block might be in the middle of a blizzard. I’m so close to getting all the important stuff done; I hate to procrastinate yet another week if I don’t have to. I worry about what happens if I get the call for my new liver with some of this stuff still outstanding.

Some of you might recall me mentioning my Minion in a few previous entries. He’s the only one in my department who reports directly to me, and while he’s a good worker, his personal philosophies and mine are often at right angles to each other. He has a dog, fourteen years old, that has had increasing problems with its back legs. He began speaking of this early in the year, and I suggested then that he take his dog to the vet’s to be evaluated. Today he waltzed into my office and announced that he’d scheduled his dog for an appointment at the vet’s on Monday – to be euthanized.

He never took the dog to the vet’s to be worked up. He just waited until the dog deteriated to t he point that it can no longer walk unaided. The Minion has now decided that a fourteen-year-old dog is going to die soon anyhow. He pointed out to me that the dog has a cataract in one eye, doesn’t do much anyhow, and is painful when someone tries to help it move. I pointed out that the dog might have something easily treatable. The Minion’s response was to complain about the cost of all the tests that would dibe. He insisted that dogs don’t live much past fourteen anyhow, and that throwing money away on tests would be useless.

OK, granted, this guy has a working wife and two kids and isn’t the richest man in the world. But why did he ever get a dog if he can’t afford to pay for a veterinarian when it becomes necessary? This is a living, breathing creature here, not a Walkman to be thrown out and replaced when it breaks. There is a certain obligation that goes with pet ownership. You can’t simply write a dog off because it gets sick when it gets older.

Yes, if it turns out to be cancer or a degenerative neurological process, then euthanasia is the kindest decision he could make. But what if it’s something easily fixed with a shot of cortisone? How can you condemn an animal who’s been a member of your family for nearly a decade and a half without so much a attempt to discover what’s wrong? Many dogs live into their late teens, and the record holder lived nearly thirty years. Advancing age is insufficient reason to kill a dog. Inconvenience is also insufficient cause. If you won’t make the lifetime commitment to take care of the animal, don’t get it. They aren’t disposable lighters.

This is why I could never be a small animal veterinarian. I’d end up sending “Penny Dreadfuls” to certain clients. Either that, or I’d end up pink-juicing the owner instead of the pet. Neither would be terribly good for business.