The Tramp

My dog Pippin had a rectal prolapse. Was it the Christmas light he chewed on, stress from the dog hotel he stayed at with his siblings over Thanksgiving, or an intestinal issue? I don't know. But it was horrifying. His colon literally exited his butt after straining, a few days after the holiday. It happened in front of me, in our backyard. Blood was everywhere. Like in The Shining. 

It's an emergency when this happens. You must rush the dog in for an urgent procedure where they put the dog under and fix it. Which I did. I drove 80 miles an hour to an emergency vet in Grand Terrance. Poor Pippin was in shock, just whimpering, and very quiet, I kept petting him telling him it would be okay, but I didn't know. 

The doctor who did the procedure was young. But kind. She did the procedure that afternoon. We picked him up at midnight that Sunday, only to find the procedure hadn't worked. It had happened again when he woke up from anesthesia and they had to redo it. I was panicked and questioned the vet's office who said that an older vet would be taking over and redoing it for free. I called his normal vet who explained that it was more an art than a science and the first vet probably hadn't put the sutures tight enough. He needed to sleep a bit more too. 

The second procedure was a success, and I brought Pippin home on Monday. I took the day off from work. He was in pain. And I had to help him do his business with a wipe. The stress was real. I breathed through it and as my sobriety program has taught me, told myself that I couldn't control this and to just let the universe take over. 

I did cry during a meeting. It was embarrassing, but felt like a catharsis.

I came home from work a couple of days right after court to watch over Pippin. On Friday and Saturday, we stayed home and did nothing, just decompressing, and aside from a Grinch meal run, I went nowhere and I cuddled him and his siblings. I realized how very much I adore these three shih tzus.

Then, finally, Sunday, they removed the sutures. Pippin's doing great. Back to normal. Running, playing, and barking like crazy as usual. I was singing The Lady and the Tramp song to him. The one by Peggy Lee. "He's a tramp, but I love him."

Mostly, I think to myself how life is so mercurial. It can change in an instant and then just as crazy, it can change back. So here I am. It's 5 am. I got to go feed the Tramp. 

Dear blog

I know I have been neglecting you. I have a new love, a substack on recovery, but I am still hopelessly devoted to you. 

So today, I am helping my shih tzu Pippin poop after he had rectal surgery post rectal prolapse which was so horrifying that I can't even write it. And you don't want to read the details, believe me. 

Yes, it's been awful, but somehow also okay. I love him so much that I don't mind. 

Pippin was always the least baby of my three puppies. Strong and the leader of the pack. A tramp. A rascal. Not anymore. He's a meek little baby with me now and very sweet and affectionate and I picture him saying, "Hey Mom, this sure sucks, but at least I have you."

My three shih tzus are always vying for my attention, like my different writings. Merry and Princess have been overtly jealous of all the attention Pippin is getting. I can tell they feel left out. But this too shall pass, and eventually, I will get back to all of them equally. 

So that's all I have got to say today. Other than this. Be grateful for those people, pets and things you love. As Joan Didion says, it all can change in an ordinary instant.

Day 71 and KA from my new substack on sobriety

Today’s daily reflection reminds us there are no coincidences.

It reads, 

“God is no stranger to anonymity and often appears in human affairs in the guises of “luck,” “chance,” or “coincidence.” If anonymity, somewhat fortuitously, became the spiritual basis for all of our Traditions, perhaps God was acting anonymously on our behalf.”

God for me is the universe. I picture God as a punk rock warrior fairy. I call myself a lapsed Catholic, Buddhist, Wiccan believer. I truly believe in the idea of what Stephen King calls KA, or what is also known as “the force”, or what some might view as destiny. I believe it because I have seen it. Everything is connected. There is a higher plan. In my own life, I was meant to be right here, right now, in sobriety. It was time. It was my time. 

I am re-editing my memoir for a second edition with a new press, and I see the references to alcohol all over it. It was always there you see. My quest was real and my search for something was true and I found it in sobriety and the program. 

It is KA. It is destiny. I am on my path friends. Just walking. Taking in the sights. It’s a beautiful view.

(I have a new journey, sobriety. Please subscribe to my substack, just search juanita mantz)

A poem for Pippin at 453 am

Scowling, I walk downstairs

Pippin is barking again, and again 

His bark as sharp as a Ginzu knife

It pierces the ears, makes eardrums

Metaphorically bleed with annoyance

"I am getting rid of you

Then I'll only have two

A caramel colored girl 

And a snowy white boy

The brown spotted shih tzu gone"

"But where would I go?

To the cornfields? To the beach?"

"No my little pretty," I cackle with glee

"You will go to she, the mother of me

Judy. She will fix thee."

Eating glass

I am sitting with my shih tzus, Merry, Pippin and Princess Leia. The Christmas trees are decorated, yes we have two, one pink and one green. Both decorated in pink and gold. 

Pippin had a bad week last week. He ate a glass Christmas light. A small one, but it caused blood to come out of his butt. The blood was bright red, like in The Shining. I was terrified the glass would cut his stomach or intestine while coming out. So after taking him to emergency, I fretted and then figured out to give him bread. 

The bread helps pass the glass you see. It catches it. It took four or five days, but Pippin is now blood free, and very happy. 

He is now part of the baby cakes club. Before, Merry and Princess Leia hogged my affections, but through this ordeal, Pippin and I bonded and he's very lovable with me now and fights his siblings to sit on my lap. Only baby cakes get to sit on the lap, and now, they're all part of the club. 

Back when I was drinking, it was kind of like eating glass. I didn't realize how harmful it was to my body, to my soul and to my mind. It cut up my relationships too. Into pieces. There was sober Juanita. Drunk Juanita and hungover Juanita. I was always trying to figure out who I was that day.

But now at least, I know who I am. I am just the sober one. There's still a lot of levity. I laugh often and see things clearly. No more eating glass for me. It's too painful. It's not worth it. And for me, being sober is life saving. I feel like the real me again, the me who believes in possibilities. 

Now, as long as I'm not eating glass, anything is possible. I'll stick to bread, well actually, toast with butter. 

Dancing with myself

Sometimes, I feel as if I am writing into a void. I'm working on a novel and it feels weird, lonely, and sad at times. My protagonist is unhappy. Her world is a mess. 

She's an alcoholic and spends most nights at her favorite bar by herself, barflying it. Mornings are spent at the outpost cafe where she works as a truck stop waitress.

My deadline is coming up. Not yet, but soon. It's a self imposed deadline for a collective I'm part of next year. I will be workshopping my book with two other writers. They are both writing fiction and I know and love their work, so I'm excited. But I've never written fiction, and it's going way slower than I anticipated. 

Plus, I only have weekends to write this novel, my weekdays are work filled and my early mornings during the week are reserved for my blog, substack and my recovery 6 am meeting. I figure, hey, if I don't finish in time, I'll just submit a book of essays for the collective. It might not be in pretty shape, but at least I have most of that in separate pieces. 

It's my backup plan; I always need one. 

Maybe because I'm primarily a memoirist and essayist, it feels odd not to reach into my own experience. I want to write in my voice in the novel, what I am calling my truck stop waitress novel. Yet, I'm not this protagonist. I mean there are a few similarities, she used to be a lawyer for example, but she is not me. 

So where exactly do I go from here? I guess I just need to sit my butt in my chair this weekend and write. Write. Write. Then write some more. I suppose I'm just dancing with myself here. Dilly dallying. Finding a way to not do what I need to do. Put away the Gilmore Girls reruns and write! I'm talking to myself now too. 

I better go write. Love you all. Thank you for listening.

Book baby twin

Recently, I've been thinking of how hard I am on myself. I always cross examine myself. I suppose it's the drawback of being a defense attorney. Is it normal to ask yourself, why'd you do that? Or say that? 

I want to live a more peaceful life. Last night, I meditated but it didn't work very well. My back was hurting so much I could barely catch my breath. But meditation helped a little. I did sleep. Other than when the dogs started barking at midnight, I didn't wake up until now at 4:15 am. 

I've been really stressed recently, trying to figure out what will happen with my memoir Tales of an Inland Empire Girl if it goes out of print. It is my book baby. It took me over 15 years to write and publish my memoir. And my small press publisher passed away recently. His memorial is this weekend. His press will likely not continue unfortunately and in losing him, I lost one of my dear friends as well as a huge supporter of my work. 

Frank Kearns of Los Nietos Press was why my book went to print. I remember him pushing me to finish my final manuscript. We went back and fourth on edits for the final manuscript for months via email. He was so kind, lovely and a wonderful writer himself. I'm so sad he's passed, but the heavens have a beautiful scribe. 

I had avoided thinking of the book for a couple months. I had twenty or so copies. But then, I thought, I have to deal with this. I approached a couple of small presses and got no response quickly and because this is just a super time sensitive issue, I started panicking. Would I have to self publish it? 

Then I approached a press owning good friend and he said okay. He would help me and release a new second edition on his press. My book baby would not go out of print. I spent Sunday gathering the original manuscript, the original photos we had used and the cover art, and my friend even agreed to design a revised cover. 

After, I thought to myself, was I too much? Should I have asked?

But then, I thought, you asked with grace, it's okay. 

So there we have it. My book will live on. Tales of an Inland Empire Girl will have a second edition. A twin! Now if that's not ironic . . .