Zero naps were taken today, mostly because I stayed away from the couch. An early-morning walk was followed by speech therapy, and then I stood while working at my computer, Muriel anchored at my feet to create a dangerous obstacle course. By the time Crankenstein got home I’d finished some housework and was yanking more weeds that inflame ‘Niles,’ who I’d like to spray with Roundup.*
Every time I mention ‘Niles,’ our name for Crankenstein’s OCD and health anxiety, someone probably thinks “Argh, not this again,” which is exactly how we feel about it. (No one hates ‘Niles’ more than Crankenstein, and I’m second in line behind her.) Every time it seems he’s calmed down, an exciting new opportunity to obsess about something unusual — and typically deadly — presents itself.
This spring and summer there’s been a huge fixation on Muriel ingesting things outdoors that will kill her. When we’re in good moods, we navigate these episodes almost merrily, cracking jokes as we nip Crankenstein’s anxiety in the bud: “It’s not like she’s roaming the radioactive ruins of Chernobyl — we did that last week.” But when one or both of us is irritable, we bicker and bruise each other’s feelings.
None of our ‘Niles’ arguments get more heated than those involving Muriel, so I expected the worst when I came downstairs from a post-weeding shower and Crankenstein pointed to a soiled rug. “She threw up. I cleaned the wood but you’ll need to get that.” I waited for ‘Niles’ to tell me for the 87th time this summer that if Muriel dies, her blood’s on my hands; surely he’d already convinced Crankenstein that I’d been careless while joining her outside or homicidally negligent while gardening (which I’d done solo while Muriel watched from the door).
As I prepared to preemptively testify that Muriel hadn’t eaten anything unauthorized on my watch (and hadn’t been anywhere near the plants and berries I’d carefully disposed of a half-hour earlier), Crankenstein, who I now noticed was dressed for a run and fiddling with headphones, spoke. “I saw what looked like berries in her puke,” she began, and I sighed in irritation.
“But it wasn’t berries,” she concluded, having already conducted a forensic investigation as I’d obliviously conditioned my hair and sung “You put the boom-boom into my heart” in the shower, Wham! still lodged in my head. I sighed again, but in relief. She went for a run and Muriel supervised again as I cleaned the carpet, then whined for dinner not long afterward, right on cue.
Our latest imaginary crisis had been averted, but tomorrow will bring with it new hazards. Danger lurks everywhere for a dog that eats first and asks questions later, and for a physician with health anxiety.
* Why not spray the backyard with it instead and not have to deal with weeds? Mostly because of neighborhood bunnies that hew close to a part of our yard that offers plenty of shade and decent protection from non-Muriel predators. We try to minimize use of anything that might be harmful to them.