Jellyfish: they're not just for breakfast anymore...

How many times have you been late to work because you had to pull a jellyfish out of your air conditioner? I thought so.

The warm waters in the Gulf make jellyfish happy and prosperous. At this time of year they drift up the channel and into the waters of our marina. Unfortunately, as interesting as jellyfish are, they are a bit on the dim side and don’t understand air conditioning intake systems. Actually I don’t either, but I don’t swim in the marina water (yuck) and I am far too large to be sucked into the intake. Jellyfish slurp right in and, gooey as they are, jam (pun intended) the A/C flow. The happy trickle of water over the side, which means a functioning A/C and relatively cool boat inhabitants, stops dead when a jellyfish is sucked inside. The fan whirs but nothing happens and in a matter of minutes the temperature rises 3-4 degrees and we’re all sweating. This morning it goes off while I am dressing for work.

I investigate the strainer. Located under the sink in the head, it’s really hard to get to for me, since I am left-handed. I have to sit on the stool, reach in and behind with my left hand and shine the flashlight in the darkness with my right, while pretzeling to see what I am trying to get to. Then I unscrew the top of the strainer tube, pull out the little plastic basket and…eeeeeeew. Jelly. It’s clear as glass and looks just like soft-set Jello. Fortunately there are no tentacles, eyes, or condemning looks from the deceased, just a big glop of clear goo. Out comes the strainer, in goes the spare. I have to hold the new one in, twist it around until it fits, and hold it down while putting the top back on the tube and screwing it down. Not an easy job for someone with only two arms.

Not done yet. Then I get the hose off the dock and turn on the water. I attach that hose to the hose under the port side settee (which involves holding the long sofa cushion up with my head while I fish around in the storage area below), turn the valves, and turn on the water. Water from the dock whooshes through the system, chasing out the air bubbles and priming the pump, so to speak. After about a minute, I turn off the water, unhook the hoses, reverse the valves, stuff the settee hose back in the hole, toss the dock hose back out on the dock, turn on the A/C, and scramble up the ladder to see if there is a little waterfall out the port side of the boat. If so – rejoice and sit in front of the fan for a bit, since the temperature rises from 79 to 85 in the cabin while I am doing all that. If not, cuss like a sailor and do it again.

Try explaining that to your boss.

My dog is dying. She is a little over 15 now. I’ve had her for almost exactly 15 years. When she came to us, she was barely a handful of black fur. Now she is 20 pounds of gray fur, mostly deaf, mostly blind, but still herself. She hasn’t played in years, so maybe not exactly herself. When she was a puppy and a young dog and even a middle-aged dog, she’d run like a rabbit after squirrels or a ball, growl ferociously over a game of tug of war, and pull ahead on the leash like a sled dog. Now it is I who pull her, coaxing but insistent. I don’t take her for a walk, I joke, I take her for a drag. It isn’t funny, but I don’t want to cry. And she still stops now and then to sniff another dog’s passing. She doesn’t do that much any more either, because of the cancerous nose tumor that’s killing her.

We thought we had lost her this past weekend. On Thursday and Friday she refused her food, which she has been noisily gulping down all through her illness. She turned her head away from the water dish. She wouldn’t accept the pill pocket stuffed with her meds. That last was the scary part – one of those meds is a pain pill, and if she didn’t eat that, she’d hurt. I have no idea how much she hurts, because like most animals she doesn’t groan, moan, or otherwise tell you she’s in pain. I have been told that’s because in the wild that sort of noise would get an injured or sick animal quickly found and eaten. I do know she sleeps most of the time, hard, and barely walks, and wants to be lifted up and down the curb.

We made an appointment for euthanasia Saturday afternoon. They were booked, but they’d fit us in. Not a good situation, to say the least, but she still hadn’t eaten, and I was afraid the meds would wear off long before Monday. Our plan was, and is, to have the vet come out to the car to give her the knockout shot. We’d sit there, or drive around awhile in the air conditioning, and only when she was under would we take her in for the final round. Needless to say, I had to hold myself very stiff, mentally and physically, to keep from weeping. We sat there in the truck for 45 minutes, with no sign of the vet. David got madder and madder and finally we agreed just to go home and take our chances.

When we got home, I decided to try one more time. She’d refused chopped fresh chicken (cooked chicken thighs), honey, chocolate milk, jam, and cheese by this point. All of them are her favorites. But I had the chicken thighs out to feed our ancient cat (age 17) and had the thought to try a chicken shake for Schnitzel. I whirred up a thigh and some chicken broth to a nasty consistency, poured it in her bowl and….she ate it. No, she devoured it! Oh, glory! At least she wouldn’t have to be hungry, even if she did hurt.

Sunday morning, I made pancakes. It was sort of a “last meal” idea – she loves pancakes. I didn’t know if she’d eat one or not, but by golly she scarfed a piece down. So I wrapped her pills in more pieces, and she ate the lot. Later I tried dog food, pill pockets, etc. but she was adamant. Nothing but pancakes and chicken shakes.

She is still going to die. But maybe not today and maybe not at the vet.