Friday, September 01, 2006

After Ernesto

Ernesto came and went very quietly here. A short spat of rolling thunder and lightning, all somewhere else. According to the weather service we had less than an inch of rain. The leak (only one produced) in the dining room ceiling resulted in perhaps a half-inch of water in one of the buckets I'd placed, decoratively of course, on the floor. The (first) roofer (who called) starts early next week and should be done in two . . . maybe three days. He's is a bit more expensive than the other one who gave us an estimate, but given they're both using basically the same materials, this one can be here faster, be done quicker and his ten-year- guarantee on workmanship is twice that the other one offered.

There was some positive news about Asshole, the horse. The vet(s) had finally figured out the reason for the sporadic, massive discharge of totally disgusting, stinky crap from his nostrils (one in particular) and mouth: an infection in the gutteral pouch. And he'd been allowed back on feed AND instead of diarrhea, sometimes explosive because of the alfalfa, we'd found a mixture worked. We had horse apples again! Except yesterday morning it all caught up with him.

Dogs you set free when their time comes. With a horse, you put them down because a prey species, meaning they're not the eater but the eaten, the very last thing to go is their legs. Their ability to stand.

Apparently shortly before I went out to feed Asshole laid down.

He kept trying to get up but couldn't. The vet gave us options, all of which — if any of them had worked — would have only delayed what had become inevitable for a day, maybe two or a few weeks.

We chose the option that was best for him.

"The Mayor," Herself's father, called a friend to bury Asshole out back for us.

Dingbat, his stable mate for 15 years, has been calling for him ever since. I'm hoping maybe, just maybe, he and Starbuck (the Wonderdog) will eventually stop their normal pattern of one chasing the other all over the place. Maybe, just maybe, Dingbat's herd instincts will change their relationship.

And no. It's not Starbuck chasing Dingbat to exhaustion.

I was doing a load of laundry when Da Kid — who was off duty today and had flopped on the couch when he got home this morning — yelled, "Mother! The roofers are here!"

A horde of bronze-skinned, half-nekkid young men unloaded from the three trucks, and not a one of them spoke English. Instead, their first language is Redneck although one, after the thumps and yelling, is obviously quite conversant in Anglo-Saxon, too.

I thought one of them had fallen off the roof but no. He'd only shot himself in the leg with the nail gun. While the portion of the anatomy hit varies, apparently this is a standard practice in the trade. Even a requirement?

From what I can gather evidence of a nail gun wound earns a merit badge of sorts, but his wound isn't even worth minimal bragging rights. Now if he'd shot through three fingers and nailed them together (like so-and-so did) THAT might be worth talking about.

And as he's "walking it off," he stops and apologies to me for any off-color language I might have heard that he used.

They should be done (including clean up) tomorrow.

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9 Comments:

Blogger pamibe said...

Oh, crud. I'm so sorry about Asshole. :(
Never had to put one down, but went out one morning to a previously fine but definitely cold, prone horse.
Never a good scenario. Hope Dingbat calms down soon.

Roofers? Real, honest to goodness, won't take your first born as a down payment roofers? Yes, I'd heard of such things, but thought the tales urban legends... ;)

8:22 AM  
Blogger ABFreedom said...

Sorry to hear about Asshole ... it's always a challenge.

5:19 PM  
Blogger doyle said...

It hurts, AB. You do everything you can for years (and years) to keep them healthy and then one day you have to do the complete opposite. Kill them.

I've been through this before. I know it's the right thing but it doesn't lessen the hurt, except to know that you're taking the pain of losing them so that don't have to hurt anymore.

Mileage may vary but I think horses are worse than dogs. They, horses, fight to keep standing or get back up to stand again. In doing the latter, they can hurt themselves even more.

We, Da Kid and I, were able to keep Asshole from doing that. The vet (not the Leg or Spider-bite one, but one they just added to their practice two weeks ago) sedated Asshole so he'd stop fighting, to make his final sedation easier on him.

The bottom line is it sucks.

8:13 PM  
Blogger doyle said...

Down payment, Pam? Uh, no. Due in full upon completion.

As far as I can tell they're real honest-to-goodness roofers, licensed and all. They finished up, had cleaned up and were out of here around 1:30 yesterday afternoon after thanking me for choosing them. Not just the crew boss but all of them.

Seems they're having a rough go of it because they're constantly being underbid (on both their commercial and residential sides) by companies whose employees don't speak Redneck.

And can't speak English, either.

6:39 PM  
Blogger Tammi said...

I'm so sorry to hear about Asshole. Neve easy. Never.

But - next time you're gonna have half nekkid men over, can you give me a call? Please. I'll make the drive. Probably in record time. ;-)

9:11 AM  
Blogger RightinFlorida said...

Sorry. Nothing else seems adequate.

11:31 AM  
Blogger Norma said...

Sorry for your loss.

6:51 PM  
Blogger Rob_NC said...

...been humming that tune all day.."Now that my life is sooo prearranged"...oh so true.

.sorry for your lost ...

12:00 AM  
Blogger PJ said...

I'm so very sorry about your horse, Donna.

12:10 PM  

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