Caitlin Doughty on Talking to Your Children about Death

Caitlin Doughty, of "Ask a Mortician" fame, has some wonderful advice for talking to children about death and trauma. It's so good, in fact, that I think it's also quite sound advice for speaking to adults about death and trauma. Advice tidbit #1: be honest. Advice tidbit #2: hug them whether they like it or not. (okay maybe not so appropriate for adults or children to whom you are not a parent or guardian.)

After the breathtakingly quick succession of senseless acts of violence across the world over the past week, it's nice to hear someone who works with death daily tell you to "turn off the death porn" and discuss your feelings with a loved one.

Click through to her original post from yesterday for links to even more sound advice -- both hers and Mr. Rogers'.

The Suffering of Saint Roscoe Bueno, Martyr

Poor Mr. Coe. Saturday before last, I took him to the vet to treat a wound I found right above his tail the night before. It was a raw spot the size of a quarter, no hair on it, and Roscoe wouldn't let me or Jason inspect it or clean it. I ended up resorting to spraying it with Bactine while Jason kept him pinned down to the kitchen floor. NOT A HAPPY DOG. Frankly, I wasn't very happy, either. I was shocked, shocked, that Jason hadn't noticed it earlier during the day, and couldn't figure out how he had hurt himself. Was he injured while rough housing with Rusty?* Did he get caught up in something in the yard? Did my crazy next door neighbor sneak into the yard and do it?** I WAS A HYSTERICAL PERSON. 

At the vet's, the vet tech deduced that it was a hot spot Roscoe had created biting and scratching and chewing an itchy patch of skin (his butt). They shaved his butt and exposed an entire constellation of raw sores, scabs, and hivey, red, irritated skin. It. Was. Horrible. It looked like leper skin. It looked like meth skin. It looked like zombie skin. It was mortifying. I felt like a negligent dog owner. I communicated this to the vet tech and she told me, "Oh this is nothing! Sometimes owners don't bring their dogs in until they smell and the skin's rotting and has maggots." And I barfed and died (as I'm sure you just did, sorry).

Anyways, we're thinking that the hives were caused by an allergic reaction to a new food Roscoe had been eating for the last month. After cleaning his butt with an antiseptic solution, the vet sent us on our way with some antibiotics and antihistamines, and strict orders of: NO BITING.  Easier said than done! But that's what the cone's for...

Roscoe's only ever had to wear the cone of shame (or, in his case, the cone of paralyzing fear) once before. It was horrible then, and it's been horrible this time, too. Completely debilitating. After leaving the vet, I went out and found an inflatable collar that, though absurd and heavy, at least allows him to see where he's going and reach his food and water. It isn't as effective as the cone (he can still reach his butt if he really, really works at it), so he wears it under adult supervision only. When he's alone he's in the cone (poor dog).

Cone and inflatable collar, lots of bed rest and down time, short walks, no baths, no hikes, and, most tragically, no beach. This dog has been stoically suffering the most boring week of his life. The good news is that the medication is working its magic and his skin's looking much better. Scabby, but better. He's back to his old food and now salmon oil in the mornings as well, and I'm looking forward to having a cone/life preserver-free dog back very soon.

* We had been sitting my parents' dog Rusty for three weeks while they were away on a trip. Conveniently, they had just picked Rusty up earlier that same day.

** Though my neighbor is a pain in the ass, the idea of him sneaking onto my property to torture my dog is, in and of itself, insane. Hyperbolic histrionics on my part, clearly. (though he's horrible.)

Wintertime is for Postcards, Too

Just the front of the postcard this time. 

I'm happy that we're receiving some much-needed rain after an incredibly dry year, but it's been non-stop mist, fog, rain, storm up here the past couple of weeks. Looking at this photo of the postcard I received from Sarah T last week -- and then comparing it to other photos of postcards received over the summer -- I note the paleness of my fingers, the (perpetual) sogginess of the lawn,* the morose grey sunlight. Winter is here in all of its central coast, Wuthering Heights, doom & gloom glory --and I love it!-- but boy do we have a long winter ahead of us.

Wintertime is wonderful for its storms and winds and cold and spookiness, the move to insularity, introspection, quiet, and aloneness. But, sometimes, it becomes lonely. In a Stephen King-protagonist-isolated-in-a-snowed-in-cabin/closed-mountain-resort** kind of way.

The academic quarter has come to an end. The past couple of weeks have been long, sleep-deprived, manic and exhausting. I found this postcard in the mailbox late Thursday evening of last week, and it's been brightening up the large pile of unattended mail ever since. Thanks, Sarah T.

* The lawn has become a perpetual mushroom pit of fungal despair. I'm pulling out handfuls of mushrooms on a daily basis.

** MADNESS.

Found: Medieval Well

Colin Steer and his wife Vanessa.
Photo: SWNS, Source.

Going through my (very long) backlog of news articles and online ephemera earlier today (Happy Thanksgiving! We're celebrating tomorrow because I'm exhausted and why not!), I found this delightful article about a man in Plymouth, Devon, UK who found an old well under his living room while doing some home improvement chores one day. He's dug down 17 feet so far (all in the past year -- this is what he's doing with his retirement); found a crude, peasant's sword; and installed lights and trap door (see above).

According to living room adventurer and hobby historian Colin Steer's research, the land on which his home was built was woodland until the late 19th century, and archival plans date the well to at least the 16th century. He now wants to hire a professional to see if he can date it even further back in time.

Steer states:

I love the well and think it's fascinating. I'd love to find out who was here before us. I've got a piece of Plymouth's history in my front room. 

 Colin's wife, Vanessa, is less than enthused (just look at that glare on her face in the photo above), and says:

I hate the well. 

I just think this story's great.

Perhaps this will become a (relatively) regular sub-feature: Medieval Found Objects? Refer to my previous Found entry on Medieval Underwears, here.

Señor Babándose Mogollón...

Source: El Hematocrítico de Arte

When all else fails, laughing at the fake titles for works of art on the El Hematocrítico de Arte tumblr page really takes the edge off of an evening (or very early morning) of grading essays. 

Did you notice the new blog design? I lost my mind a couple of weeks ago, and redesigning the blog was one of the weird things I did to NOT DEAL WITH IT. A bit much? I don't know, I kind of like it's ultra femininity; it's certainly a far cry from the previous serial killer green. 

I'm still working out some of the new blog design stuff (new pages under construction, for example), but I'm getting anxious to get back into blogging about the ridiculous. Thanksgiving break is quickly approaching, and I look forward to a break from the grading insanity. Is a new Procrastination Investigation in the cards? I do hope so!