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muttleecrewdogtreats · 2 years

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10 Natural Remedies for Common Dog Health Issues

It is bad enough when you or your kids are sick, but how do you know when your dog is sick? Obviously they cannot talk but you can look for the signs and symptoms they may be exhibiting. If serious enough it may warrant a trip to the vet. What if you cannot afford an expensive vet bill or even the treatment, medication or afford to stay home to keep an eye as they recover? If the symptoms are mild to slightly moderate, you can use these natural remedies to aid in the healing process. Of course, if your dog is seriously hurt, crying in pain or not breathing definitely get them to the vet ASAP!

So, let's begin.

Here are the Ten Natural Remedies for Common Health Issues of Dogs

Arthritis

What comes to mind when you think of this condition? An elderly women wincing as she climbs stairs? She may avoid walking long distances due to the pain in her knees. The same can be said about dogs.

Arthritis is a degenerative disease of the musculoskeletal system limiting a dogs activities to avoid the pain and inflammation.

It is prevalent in older dogs, but younger dogs may be susceptible depending on their breed. You may notice they aren't as active, reluctant to play with younger pups, wince when getting up or avoid jumping on the bed or in the car.

Currently, there is no cure but I am sure they are close to a breakthrough.

If your dog struggles getting on the bed, on in the car, you can use a ramp or stairs to relieve the stress on their back.

A diet rich in vitamins, minerals, and beta-carotene work to calm the inflammatory response in dogs. The following are nutritional powerhouses:

sweet potatoes, pumpkin, blueberries, peeled apples, cantaloupes, broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, spinach, kale, collards, salmon, mackerel, tuna, sardines, chicken and turkey.

Some great supplements to add:

Omega 3 oil, coconut oils, flaxseed, fresh ginger root, turmeric, cinnamon and parsley.

Other natural measures include:

a warm bath, using CBD oil, hot or cold compresses and quality hip & joint supplements.

Lastly, dogs can take herbal Arnica tablets (nature's Tylenol), hemp oil and salmon oil for their joints.

Depending on your dog's pain level and progression of the condition they may need traditional medical intervention.

You can discuss with your vet if NSAIDS, Gabapentin, Trazodone, Amoxicillin, Glucosamine and Meloxicam are the right medications to help relieve the pain and inflammation of arthritis for your dog.

Allergies

Allergies are the top reason dogs are euthanized because it is too expensive to treat and rarely works.

Is your dog constantly scratching? It could be allergies also known as sensitivities to dust particles, pollen, medications and insect bites. Beside itchy skin you may see hot spots on your dog’s skin, anal gland issues, digestive problems and chronic diarrhea. The truth is giving your dog Benadryl suppresses their immune system leaving them vulnerable to cancer, viruses and bacteria.

Some vets recommend expensive prescription dog foods to treat allergies but contain hydrolyzed protein (MSG) - found to be a harmful ingredient that exacerbates your dog’s allergies and clinical trials show it is not effective.

Fun fact: these prescription dog foods are full of starch known to aggravate allergies and include cellulose (sawdust) fillers which are low quality and do not help the issue. Talk about adding insult to injury!

You can make an appointment with your vet for allergy testing to find the culprit.

Once the allergen is known, you can begin to treat the symptoms with the remedies below:

Bovine colostrum contains PRP (Proline Rich Polypeptides). PRP improves allergies by creating helper T cells and suppressor T cells in the immune system to reduce inflammation caused by histamines.

Bovine colostrum has natural antibodies that are passed onto their calves against pollen and fleas. They work in unison with the immune system to let it know the allergies are not a threat and to calm down the reaction (reduces inflammation). The same thing happens when you add the colostrum to your dog’s diet.

Dosage is ⅛ tsp per 25 pounds. Best to give on an empty stomach mixed with yogurt or broth daily for 30 days then as needed.

Mushrooms have immune modulating properties called beta-glucans that bind to specific immune cells to change the immune response. It prevents inflammation, auto immunity and allergic reactions by targeting, trapping and removing foreign substances like viruses and cancer cells.

As a result of adding to your dog’s diet, their immune system becomes more active and powerful without the side effects of traditional medicines.

Not all mushrooms contain beta-glucans. Look for the highest content at least 30% or higher with a low starch content.

These following mushrooms have the highest content:

Reishi, Shitake, Cordyceps, Turkey Tails and Maitake.

As always, never give your dog raw mushrooms.

Cook or dehydrate the mushrooms first.

Dosage: 400-500 mg for a medium sized dog 1-2 times a day.

Quercetin is a phytonutrient, antioxidant, anti-inflammatory and natural antihistamine found in fruits and vegetables like broccoli and apples. It works to stop histamine causing allergies.

Quercetin supplements have more concentrated benefits especially when combined with bromelain (enzyme) that give it a boost.

Give on an empty stomach.

Dosage: 8mg per pound.

Nettles contain histamine and stimulates the body to protect itself when exposed in small dosages to build immunity against allergies.

Look for products containing Quercetin that boosts the anti allergy effects.

You can dry the leaves, make a tea, sauté and add to the dog’s food or as a tincture. For a tincture 2 drops per 10 pounds.

Can use the tea on itchy skin and as a rinse for itchy eyes.

Baking soda is an effective and cheap remedy to calm itchy inflamed skin. Make a paste with 1 TBSP of baking soda with enough water. Put on the itchy area and leave for a few hours then rinse. Great for itchy paws.

To use as a spray add 1 TBSP baking soda with 8 oz water in a spray bottle, shake and spray on dogs skin as needed.

Licorice contains glycyrrhizin acid, a substance with a codeine-like effect. More than just candy, it relieves inflammation in the digestive tract, helps remove mucus from your dog’s respiratory tract much like allergy medications but without the side effects.

To find the right dosage you will need to work with your vet since it varies depending on your dog's issues.

The starting dosage is 12-20 drops per 20 pounds of dog weight.

Fresh Aloe Leaf gel contains enzymes that heal itchy skin and reduces inflammation, but only if the leaf is fresh.

For an added cooling benefit, put it in the refrigerator before applying.

Once cooled, slice open and scoop out the gel then apply to itchy areas.

Don’t use the yellow goo - it’s a form of latex.

Probiotics use living bacteria to set up shop in your dog’s gut.

Did you know that 90% of a dogs immune system is in their gut?

Probiotics protect and reduce the bad bacteria, viruses and fungi in the gut therefore, reducing inflammation and autoimmune responses.

Research is still ongoing but promising results show it reduces allergies to almost removing them.

Look for soil based probiotics (they survive the trip through the digestive tract) with 1-5 billion CFU’s (Colony Forming Units).

Supplements are the easiest way to provide the benefits. Make sure the bottle shows all the ingredients.

Best when combined with prebiotics (indigestible beneficial fibers) which makes probiotics more effective (feeds good bacteria to gut).

Follow dosing instructions on the bottle.

Omega-3’s are essential fatty acids aka the “good fats.” They work to calm the dog’s inflammatory responses.

Look for properties like Eicosatetraenoic Acid (ETA), Eicosatetraenoic Acid (EPA) and Stearidonic Acid (SDA). All three work to reduce itching and scratching.

Found in Hemp Seed Oil (SDA), Ahiflower Oil (SDA) and Green Lipped Mussel Oil (ETA & EPA).

Vomiting

Vomiting in dogs is normal and often a result of something they may have eaten.

Just like humans, dogs may experience indigestion after eating too much, eating bad food, consuming too much or being exposed to a virus or bacteria that can produce an infection causing diarrhea and vomiting.

What to look for is a loss of appetite and weight loss.

Pancreatitis and Giardia are more serious conditions requiring a trip to the vet.

It is best to treat vomiting and diarrhea with a bland diet.

Think BRAT: Bananas, Rice, Applesauce and Toast.

Keep it simple.

Cooked white rice with boiled chicken is easy on the stomach while producing energy and nutrition. Pumpkin, sweet potatoes and bone broth are healthy yet effective foods too.

You can give them regular dog food in small amounts. They may not eat right away but try again a few hours later.

Make sure they are drinking plenty of fluids to prevent dehydration which is a more serious problem.

Diabetes and Obesity

Both are linked together because canine obesity often leads to canine diabetes.

Complications of both are heart disease, arthritis, liver and kidney failure to blood clotting problems.

You may notice your dog drinking excessive amounts of water, changes in their appetite and possible vomiting.

Type II diabetes can be controlled by incorporating high fiber and low fat foods such as fresh fruit and vegetables into their diets, portion control and plenty of exercise.

Type I diabetes in dogs is managed by your doctor, an insulin regimen and diet.

Female dogs that are not spayed have an increased risk of Type II diabetes.

Fleas and Ticks

Fleas and ticks cause itchiness and discomfort due to the flea saliva containing allergens. Excessive scratching can lead to hair loss and other skin problems like dermatitis. Apply topical solution to your dog’s back once a month. You can also use flea and tick collars.

Heartworms, Roundworms, Tapeworms, Hookworms and Whipworms

Worms are contracted from being in contact with other infected animals by sharing food and/or water bowls.

Symptoms depend on the worm species.

Roundworms produce a large round belly causing digestive upset such as diarrhea, weight loss and loss of energy.

Heartworm causes pneumonia, coughing and lethargy. See your vet for vaccine information.

Kennel Cough

Kennel cough is either a viral or bacterial infection causing inflammation of the dog’s voice box and windpipe (respiratory system) making breathing difficult at times. Contracted from other animals and most common in large dog communities.

See your vet for vaccine information.

Cancer

The C word. Cancer is devastating to dog parents. It has become prevalent due to dogs being exposed to more carcinogenic substances.

Look for unusual odors, lumps, drastic weight loss or long lasting changes in behavior.

Unfortunately, there is no cure but the silver lining is dogs have a much longer life span thanks to medical treatment and advancement.

Most common cancers among canines are lymphoma and mast cell tumors.

Treatment ranges from surgery to chemo and radiation.

A diet rich in antioxidants, vitamins and minerals are known to provide some relief to some dogs. To treat the pain, vets may prescribe narcotics to ease the pain.

Broken Bones

Result from a fall from substantial heights or being hit by a car and quite traumatic for both dogs and dog parents.

The obvious signs to look for are wincing in pain with movement of limb, exposed bones, bleeding, limping and crying.

Treatment ranges from rest, a castor splint, surgery, metal implants to amputations. The best thing for your dog is rest during the healing process.

To make them more comfortable use a memory foam bed, restrict movement and shower them with love. Most will wear the cone of shame to prevent licking and tearing out the stitches.

Pain meds at regular intervals keep your dog comfortable, hydrotherapy is proven to strengthen the affected area once the cast is off or stitches have healed and given the ok at their 6 week checkup.

To keep your dog from boredom due to limited activities, you can find a good bone for them to chew.

To aid in the healing, you can feed your dogs calcium rich foods, pumpkin seeds, bell peppers, lean meat like chicken or turkey, sardines, and fatty fish.

So it all adds up to this: dogs are family and when they are hurting from illness or injury, we want them back to their normal crazy self as fast as possible. The best thing you can do for your dog is provide lots of love, kisses and attention during their recovery, follows your vet's instructions, and do your best to treat them with natural remedies.

In addition to showering your dog(s) with healing vibes, you can treat them to MuttLee Crew's Holistic Dog Treats. Made with superfoods like salmon, blueberries, honey, oat flour and more good stuff. It's more than a treat...it's a way of life.

#dogsarefamily

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actress4him · 3 years

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Querencia 2 - Abandoned

(Prompt #4 for Summer of Whump)

Taglist: @darthsutrich

Previous | Next

Warnings: lady whumpee, teenage whumpee, mild blood, fantastic prejudice (for lack of a better term??), parental abandonment, foster system

Some people’s powers manifest when they hit puberty. Others when they face a traumatic event, whether they’re a child or an adult.

Liliana isn’t really sure precisely when hers started, but she’s fourteen when she discovers what she can do. It’s a normal day at school, she’s hanging out with her friend Camila on the playground during recess, unaware that her life is about to change. Then Camila falls off the monkey bars and scrapes her elbow.

As she begins to cry, blood beading up around the torn skin, Liliana rushes to her and takes the injured elbow in her hands. Suddenly there’s some kind of blue aura dancing between the two girls’ skin. Gasping, Liliana lets go and falls back, but it’s too late. Camila is staring at her with impossibly wide eyes, cradling an elbow with only a bit of blood as evidence that it was ever hurt, and Liliana’s own elbow is smarting. She can hardly pay that any mind, though, not with her thoughts swirling around what she just saw.

Because she’s one of them. She’s a Non.

She’d been young when people with strange powers started popping up on the news all of a sudden, so she doesn’t know where the slang term came from. All she knows is that Nons aren’t to be trusted. Her father has said so, many a time over the dinner table. Her mother watches the news stories about Nons with a hand over her heart, frightened.

Camila’s mouth gapes open. “You...you’re…”

“Don’t, please.” She shakes her head frantically, tears stinging her eyes. “No lo sabia, I swear, Mila, por favor no...you can’t tell anyone.”

Her friend’s eyes are wide, uncertain. She looks from her own elbow, to Liliana’s hands, to her face. “Okay. Está bien, no lo haré. No se lo diré a nadie. I promise.”

And she keeps her promise. Camila never breathes a word of Liliana’s newfound powers to anyone, and Liliana makes sure not to touch anyone who’s hurt for a very long time.

Or at least she tries.

One time she touches her brother’s forehead when he’s sick, and he makes a ‘miraculous’ recovery. She, on the other hand ‘catches’ his cold, only she never actually runs a fever or needs to blow her nose. She just feels sick.

Thankfully no one suspects.

Another time she bumps into someone in the grocery store and hisses as her arm begins to throb. At home, she pushes up her sleeve to find out what’s wrong and sees nothing. Just her skin, smooth and brown as always. It feels like there’s a giant purple bruise there, though, the pain much worse when she brushes a finger across it.

Accidents happen. Liliana takes to wearing shirts with sleeves long enough to pull over her hands, no matter what the weather, to try to further avoid contact. She’d wear gloves all the time if that wasn’t sure to raise questions.

And all the while, the foreboding news about the Nons continues.

A Non robbed a bank. A Non killed three people. A Non cut off the electricity to an entire city.

She’s convinced that she’s the only good person with powers in the world. And her power could be so helpful for so many people, too, if only she was free to use it. Sure, it seems to transfer pain and sickness directly to her, but it never lasts. Even the scar that she got from Camila faded after a while, about the same time she stopped noticing it on her friend’s elbow, too. It’s possible that she could save people’s lives, rather than threatening them like all the other Nons seem to do.

Liliana manages to keep her secret for over a year before everything falls apart.

Her whole family is at the neighborhood’s Fourth of July celebration. Her mother is introducing her to Mrs. Bently, an elderly woman with kind blue eyes and wrinkled, gnarled hands. One of those hands is reaching for hers, and Liliana is frozen, wanting to pull away, afraid of what it will look like if she does, knowing somehow without a doubt that she cannot let this lady touch her hand, but unable to figure out how to stop it before it’s happening. The small white hand is clasped around her own. Liliana’s wearing long sleeves, as usual, despite the heat of July, but that doesn’t keep her fingertips from sticking out and touching skin.

She doesn’t dare to look down. She can feel the power going out of her, can hardly bite back a gasp as her fingers stiffen and begin to ache. But there’s still a smile on Mrs. Bently’s face, she hasn’t looked down, either, hasn’t seemed to notice. Maybe she can get away with this one more time, maybe her luck will continue and no one will know…

A strangled sound comes from somewhere to her right, and she remembers. Mamá is watching.

Don’t look don’t look don’t look she might not have seen she might not know if you look she’ll know she’ll see it on your face

Mrs. Bently’s friendly smile fades into a frown. Releasing Liliana’s hand, she brings her own hand up to look at it, flexing her fingers in a way that Liliana knows she can’t do herself right now.

“That’s...that’s so strange. My hand...it…” She laughs, incredulously, and Liliana wants to laugh with her, anything to break through the fear that’s pounding in her eardrums, but all she can do is pull her sleeve farther down to hide her aching fingers, pull until the shirt is threatening to fall off her shoulder. “It’s almost like when you touched my hand, my arthritis just...disappeared.” Another short laugh, and she reaches the same hand up to softly pat Liliana’s cheek. “Either I’m finally starting to lose my mind, or...or maybe you’re an angel sent to help an old woman.”

Another strange noise from the right, and Liliana finally gives in and looks.The expression that she sees is exactly what she feared. Mamá knows.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. All she’s aware of is that she’s bundled quickly into the car, harried excuses are made to friends, and she spends the evening in her room, hiding underneath the covers.

She doesn’t know what her parents are thinking right now. Are they mad? Disappointed? Scared?

“Anyone who says not all Nons are bad is an idiot,” Papá’s voice echoes in her mind. “An idiot who clearly isn’t keeping up with what’s going on in the world. None of them can be trusted. They all need to be rounded up and locked away for good.”

Liliana buries her head further and tries desperately to let sleep take her away from her worries.

The next morning someone knocks on her bedroom door. It isn’t locked, so she sits up quickly, combing her fingers through her mussed up hair - the fingers of her left hand, after she discovers that those on her right aren’t fond of the motion - and tries to rub away the restless night of tears from her face. “Come in.”

It isn’t her mother, father, or even her brother who enters. It’s a stranger, a tall, thin woman with her blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun. Liliana bolts upright, heart thumping wildly.

“¿Quién eres?”

“You need to pack your things.”

Shaking, Liliana attempts to back away, her thighs quickly bumping into the mattress. “What? Why?”

The woman sighs, pursing her lips, though it’s unclear whether she’s actually sympathetic or she’s just aggravated that whatever this is about hasn’t been explained yet. “Your parents have turned you over to the care of the state. I’m here to escort you to your new home.”

Liliana’s mind goes blank other than a high-pitched screeching in her ears. The woman is saying something else, she thinks, but nothing is processing. Finally she finds her voice enough to murmur, “No, no no no no no, that can’t...que no puede ser cierto, that’s...that’s not right, they wouldn’t...they can’t…”

The next thing she knows she’s pushing past the woman, ignoring whatever protests she’s giving. The house is quiet. Too quiet. There’s no music coming from her brother’s room, no pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, no tv incessantly blaring the news. But she searches each corner of the downstairs anyway, still hoping that she’ll find someone in her family who will tell her that this is all a mistake, a nightmare, maybe, that they would never, ever, send her away just because of something that she can’t control, that she would never use for anything but good.

She approaches the front door and it opens suddenly, letting in yet another stranger, a broad-shouldered man who just stands there, blocking the exit. “I’m going to have to ask you to follow the lady back upstairs and do what she says.”

The blonde woman appears behind her, at the foot of the stairs. “Your parents aren’t here. Everyone knows that Nons can be...volatile. It’s generally best if the family isn’t present when they’re taken into custody.”

Tears finally begin pouring down Liliana’s cheeks. “But I’m not, I’m not, I swear...I’ve never...I wouldn’t hurt anyone! My power is healing, anyway, I don’t…” Her babbling trails off, lost in the tornado of her thoughts.

Her family really called the government on her and...and left her.

They never even asked her any questions.

They didn’t try to find out what was going on, didn’t ask what her powers could do, weren’t concerned about the fact that she apparently has arthritis now, at the age of fifteen.

The fact that she’s their daughter, that they raised themselves and that they know, means nothing to them. She doesn’t even get the benefit of the doubt.

The blonde woman plasters a fake smile onto her face. “I know, sweetie. I’m sure you wouldn’t. But I’m afraid there are rules in place that have to be followed in cases like this.”

She doesn’t really have a choice. Between the two of them, they have her trapped, and what’s her alternative, anyway? Stay here and wait for a family that doesn’t want her anymore? Live her life with them always watching her, always distrusting, always waiting for her to snap and turn evil like the Non she is?

Liliana follows the woman back up the stairs and throws a few belongings into a backpack. She’s numb, moving on autopilot, no idea what she should actually be bringing. It feels like she’s packing for a weekend trip, not for the rest of her life.

The tears never stop the whole time.

As she’s escorted out to the black sedan waiting in the driveway, she swears she sees a glimpse of her parents’ car across the street. The driver is staring straight ahead, refusing to look this way, but the woman in the passenger’s seat’s cheeks glisten.

It’s probably just her imagination, though.

Spanish translations (please please let me know if I got something wrong):

“No lo sabia, I swear, Mila, por favor no...” - I didn’t know, I swear, Mila, please don’t...”

“Está bien, no lo haré. No se lo diré a nadie.” - Okay, I won’t. I won’t tell anyone.

“¿Quién eres?” - who are you?

“que no puede ser cierto” - that can’t be true

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump4 #abandoned #querencia #liliana the healer #lady whumpee #lady whump #teenage whumpee #backstory #mild blood tw #parental abandonment tw #foster system #prejudice tw #magical whumpee #magic powers #healing power #painful healing

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realyouearthing01 · 3 years

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The benefits and advantages of Earthing / Grounding for animals/pets – Grounding to the Earth

As you will discover in this post, pets also benefit from Earthing / Grounding. So here is the testimony of different people who tell their experience with their animals and Earthing / Grounding, the connection to the earth.

When indoors, pets sense something familiar and beneficial when they come in contact with an Earthing mat or other grounding product. They are definitely drawn to Earthing. Although they can’t articulate what they feel, their actions and responses speak louder than words, as these accounts clearly indicate:. Here is a sampling of feedback:

Extending Quality and Quantity of Life

The second edition of the Earthing book (2014) included a report from Sandra Wong, a musician in Boulder, Colorado, about how Earthing was helping her aged Grand Pyrenees dog, “Raffie.”

In 2013, she had first told us that “Raffie,” then 11, was suffering from severe, painful arthritis and multiple structural issues. She had exhausted conventional options, including medication that just made him sick to his stomach. She was reluctantly considering putting him down. Then a friend suggested Earthing and she obtained an Earthing throw for the dog. The results, she said, were striking. “Raffie” began resting and sleeping grounded. His energy amazingly returned, as did his mobility and zest for life.

In April 2014, the dog passed. “He made it to a miraculous 12 years of age, almost unheard of for his breed,” Sandra told us. “Grounding gave him an entire extra year of life and with quality that I didn’t think was possible.”

In early 2015, she told us she has helped other animals with Earthing. “The week before ‘Raffie’ passed, ‘Mosey,’ went into a steep downward spiral and was diagnosed with the lumbosacral disease, among other things. She’s another one of my Pyrenees. Her back legs were going out much of the time. She had full urinary and fecal incontinence. The vets didn’t have much to offer but after several months of using homeopathic remedies and encouraging her to spend more time on the Earthing throw, she has made a rather miraculous turnaround. She has been able to walk to and from the backyard without assistance. Her urinary incontinence and 99 percent of all accidents have stopped in the last three months. ‘Mosey’ is now 13 years old and a few months, and although fragile, she’s going stronger than I could have imagined possible with the only changes being nerve tonic (homeopathic), Traumeel (homeopathic), and her Earthing throw.”

Sandra continued: “A friend of mine has a rescue black Lab/chow mix with severe hip dysplasia. The old dog took a turn for the worse with the coming of colder weather. The pain meds he was prescribed left him lethargic, yelping, and disoriented. My friend put him on similar homeopathic as ‘Mosey’ and installed an Earthing throw, as I had done, in the dog’s bed. Now, two months later, it’s as if the dog was two years younger. He’s clear-eyed, connected, happy, and exhibited significantly less pain.

“Earthing also helped my mother’s dog, my grandmother’s dog, and my other Pyrenees, ‘Serafina.’”

In 2017, we heard from Sandra again. Both “Mosey” (14 ½) and “Serafina” (13 ½) had died the year before, 18 days apart. “However, both of them had a good quality of life up until the very end, despite their advanced age, with the help of the Earthing throw,” she said. “’ Serafina’ had a stroke shortly after ‘Mosey’ passed. I think she missed her sister.

“All this is to say, in my experience, Earthing is incredibly helpful to animals, including older ones with sensitive systems who reactive negatively to strong medications.”

Less Shedding

From Yavor Kresic in Ottawa: “My Siamese ‘Alexander’ loves going on the mat. I’ve noticed that he hardly sheds now. He’s an older cat and rarely goes out.”

More Comfort, Less Itching

From Ambien Hay of Vero Beach, Florida: “‘Jackson,’ my Jack Russell, loved his Earthing mat. It relieved his arthritis and pain due to Lyme disease during the last years of his life. He died at 16. After sleeping on it all night, he clearly felt more comfortable in the morning, as he pranced outside and had his breakfast.

“‘Sailor,’ my 12-year-old Westie, heads for his Earthing mat any chance he gets! He has been Earthing for more than eight years and is healthy and happy. The mat helped relieve his skin allergies and itchiness. He hogs my Earthing mat under the computer desk, his favorite place to snooze.

“All creatures large and small love to be connected to Mother Earth!”

In 2012, Karen Kolczak from Phoenix told us she obtained a mat for her cat after experiencing the benefits of Earthing herself. She said: “My old cat doesn’t get outside much anymore, but now she is going up and down the stairs much more frequently and curls up to me purring on the bed as if to say ‘thanks mom.’”

In early 2015, Karen reported that her cat had passed away and that she brought a new cat into the house who “loves the mat as well.”

Togetherness

New Hampshire researcher James Oschman sent this picture (below) from a doctor friend who commented: “Here are my daughter’s three cats. Ordinarily, they stake out separate rooms for their morning naps, but this is what they’ve been doing since I came to visit and installed an Earthing sheet on the guest bed.”

More Togetherness

From Linda Olk in Winston-Salem: “I have five dogs and a cat. And most of them, along with me, have been Earthing since 2013. The dogs get their indoor ‘dosing’ at night like I do, and sleep on the Earthing sheet I put over the sofa. Sometimes all of them pile on at one time. From time to time, some of them jump into my bed and onto the Earthing sheet. I have to shoo them off.

“The animals have all been in good health. After I added the Earthing sheet, they absolutely became calmer. Not that they had been rowdy or unruly, but they carried a certain agitation. That changed a lot.

“When the cat developed an infection from a bite, I noticed he spent more time than usual stretched full out on the Earthing mat I placed in the living room under my desk. The cat usually stays outside, right on the ground, under a tree, except when it’s very cold. Then I set the mat out and typically he gravitates to it.

“After I bought an Earthing yoga mat for myself, the dogs, and even the cat, want to lay on it. I sometimes have to shove them off when it comes time to do my exercise.”

It Works in Finland, too

Sisko Pynnonen from Kangasniemi says her dog usually sleeps on the floor during the winter and outside on the ground when the weather is warmer. “After I put an Earthing sheet on my bed, ‘Tahvo’ started to climb up into the bed in order to be able to sleep on the sheet. One night he even brought a bone into the bed. He seems to sigh with relief when he sleeps on the sheet…and sleeps there all night!”

Satu Laitinen, from Siilinjarvi, says her cats love the Earthing plush pad and compete to use it.

Maine Cats Know When They Need Mother Earth

From JJ, in Maine: “My two indoor cats don’t seem unusually drawn to Earthing sheets or their grounded pet beds when they’re healthy. However, when my cat Cleo had an inflamed paw pad, we noticed her resting on my daughter’s Earthing sheet in an unusual manner, with her arm stretched straight out in front of her, the sore paw pad placed gingerly on the grounded sheet.

“My other cat, ‘Pixie’ is an obsessive washer. Since she’s been sleeping grounded (two years), her fur has grown back on her sides and some on her tummy. Grounding seems to relax her and reduce the hyperexcitability of her condition.”

Don’t Get Crushed!

From Deborah Ebbers, Suttons Bay, Michigan: “I have a story concerning my earthing journey, started one and a half months ago. I bought the earthing mat for my bed and the results have been very positive; deep sleep, arthritic pain reduction, calm energy… and now my dog (who sleeps with me) has decided that since I’m earthed that it is perfectly natural for her to sleep on top of me……. there’s one little problem…she’s a Great Dane. Beatrix is 116 pounds!”

They Hog the Bed!

From Tina Morin, a German Shepherd breeder in North Bay, Ontario: “I have 7 dogs and they all try to get a piece of the mat on the floor lol I have a sheet on my bed and sometimes I catch them up on there too. They all sleep on it or on my bed lol as I have a grounding sheet there. They sure gravitate to grounding.”

Golden Retriever in Healing High Gear

Karen Poizin of Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, reported that “Lance,” her Golden Retriever, had surgery to remove a large lipoma in his armpit in December of 2013. He slept on a pet mat during his recovery and, according to the veterinarian, “he healed quickly.”

“Juniper the Rat” − Life after a Stroke

Diane Higgins, of Toronto, is an ardent animal rescuer. “From fish to horses,” she says, and including rats. In 2015, she communicated to us about “Juniper,” her very senior and nearly three-year-old hooded female pet rat. The rodent had had a stroke, a fairly common affliction among elderly rats, and often fatal.

“I’ve become all too familiar with the symptoms but this time I had a new weapon and so I decided to use one of the Earthing bands,” Diane recounted. “Rats, no matter how well we feed and take care of them, don’t live very long, but if this could improve the quality of her life, I was all for it. Often there’s nothing you can do to help them in these situations, the time between a stroke and their unfortunate demise is swift.

“’ Juniper’ is one tough little gal. She had difficulty getting around so I decided to try the band on her and within twenty minutes she was able to raise her head. Within an hour she was able to use her legs again. After a few hours, she exhibited more mobility and was able to lift her head.

“I put her in a safe, warm, and comfortable location with the band attached (she had wiggled out of it once, but I got her back into it) and she settled in and let the band do its thing.

“I got the shock of my life the next morning. ‘Juniper’ had climbed onto the roof of her mouse house ALL BY HERSELF!! She climbed up and ate breakfast! She gave me a bit of trouble getting her into the band this morning but I got her in. She has MUCH better mobility and is much improved.

“She does the rat equivalent of purring (bruxing) when she is in the band. This can also occur when a rat is upset, but she seems to be a happy little rat when she does this.

“On the third day, she was having less problem holding her food, all the red stuff around her eyes is gone. That’s porphyrin, a secretion indicative of stress, sickness, or poor diet. Her eyes look clear and her coat feels silky.”

“On day five, she continued doing well. She has made daily progress. The old girl is now able to get all the way up to the third tier of the cage. She seems to recognize her limitations with ‘down.’ She actually signals me when she wants to come down and I either pick her up and place her on the bottom of the cage or I gently ‘escort’ her with my hand and assist her.

“She has never eaten commercial pet food. She gets filtered water, organic fruits, vegetables, nuts, and seeds, as well as avocadoes, bananas, mangoes, grapes, corn on the cob, carrot, spinach leaves, kale, and chaff from my juicing as well.

“Everything has worked in harmony. TLC without Earthing or Earthing without TLC would not have produced these results. When I first started this therapy with her, I was thinking she might not last another day. But she is doing so well and has been a great surprise.”

A week later Diane reported: “She is doing amazing!! She was able to fend off her younger companion ‘Thea,’ when I gave her one of her favorite treats, a piece of Pita bread. ‘Thea’ does NOT share. ‘Juniper’ is now able to drink out of the water bottle on the second cage level now. Her front paws are no longer tensed up and she is able to wash like she used to. She appears very calm and does that bruxing thing, which is so cute and endearing. OMG, she is so smart!”

“Juniper” lived actively for more than a month after her stroke, and then died peacefully. “I hadn’t expected her really to live another day after her stroke,” reported Diane. “She was a real trooper.”

Sweet Dreams

“I actually had to buy myself a second Earthing mat, because the minute I put my mat on the floor to put my feet on while watching TV, my Golden Retriever immediately would make a beeline for it. He then falls into a wonderfully deep sleep with lots of squirrel chasing dreams. For me, this disproves the Earthing doubters who explain Earthing benefits as a placebo effect. Both my dog and I know that earthing REALLY works!”

For more information, please visit https://realyouearthing.com/

#Earthing / Groundingn #animals #health #home & lifestyle #cat dog

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bugsandburners · 3 years

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The worst part of having broken/healing bones all the time is when the weather starts to change. Like. We get that nice two week long stretch of warm weather, shorts, tanks, and sandler's type weather right? The kind of hot during late winter where it's not spring weather yet but you still crack a window when you're in a car. And your bones feel this and they feel great and it doesn't hurt as much. You can go for a light jog, you can handle the stairs, you can bend over again.

Then

You get hit with a six day winter storm that's supposed to leave anywhere between 4 and 86 inches of snow.

You can't even move you hurt so much. And your wife from georgia insists that it won't be as bad as the weather man says but your bones know! You bones don't let you out of bed, they make you move ever so slowly. You know what's coming so you head to the store and get ready.

Only all the other people with arthritis and the elderly and the locals have wiped out the store completely. And your wife says that she'll just go to the stores one county over tomorrow, you know, when the storm hits. You advise against this. Her bones don't hurt like yours do. She doesn't know. You're ignored.

"it'll be fine, just you watch," she says. "You're making a mountain out of a mole hill."

So G-d hears that, and being a vindictive little shit, she wiggles her fingers and that storm hits early, as coloradian storms often do. Now all of the roads are closed. The high way too. There's no food in the house. Your wife's car can't get out if the drive way let alone out of the neighborhood, and your bones still ache. It's a taunting ache. Like they're laughing at you. They warned you. You had three days to act and now you're cold, in agony, and hungry. Starving actually.

Foolishly you think, "perhaps it will not be as bad as they say. Maybe the wife is right." But your bones. Oh those bones. The pain they harbor has doubled. There three feet of snow outside, it's only day two, and it's about to get so, so, so much worse

#snow #personal #vent #storms #winter storms #i love my wife #not so much right now #sorta pissed at her at the moment #we cannae open the doors #my knee has swollen to the size of my thigh #and we're having power outages #this #sucks

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renaer-is-allegedly-hot · 3 years

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session 18

Session 18

Sunday, February 28, 2021 7:33 PM

- "we're all gonna die"

- Lilguerite talking about soup and secondary soups and tertiary soups

- Last week on

- We went to the hideout thing

- In the prison thing

- "you take little bites you fool"

o "take bigger bites you fool" - marguerite, judging marianne

- There's a minotaur

- We tried killing this one guy but it didn't work lmao rip us

- 6 for initiative

- 19 for L (22}

- 14 for M (17}

- Theo shoots, misses (10}

- Dwarf

o Sylvia: "how big is his ass"

- Dwarf has an axe

o Aerana is probably the closest

■ Is hit

■ I'm unconscious

■ "I'm expendable" "no binch I won't take any of this negativity"

- Halfling asks theo for the lockpick

o Theo gives it to her

- Asyna turns into a crocodile

- Adam o o o o o

Tries to bite and misses

Cutting words Hits

Next minute dwarf is completely unconscious Strums one note for hypnotic pattern

Falls on his face (the dwarf not adam}

- Time to go get his keys

- Asyna has to roll a saving throw as a crocodile (17} ; she's fine

- Cel adds 8 to aerana

- Asyna turns into ape, grabs key, 11+2 for dex

- Throws keys to adam

- Adam lets big boys out first

o minotaur, ogre, another w ogre-like features but not quite sure what type of creature it is

- Cel lets out human and drow

- Asyna takes battle axe

- Asyna looks through pockets, 4 for investigation

- Asyna gives adam the axe and gives the axe to the minotaur

- Theo gets lockpick back

- Aerana moves to the back bc she's casually bleeding out

o Aerana in back with sword

- Asyna still an ape

- Theo doing smth I didn't hear lmao oops sorry lillian

- Dwarf gets up

- Adam "so you wanna surrender now?"

o Dwarf grunts

o Adam tells minotaur to sic him

- Cel rolls to hit, dirty 20 w disad

- theo rolls to hit, 15 w disad

o Cel hits

■ 12 damage

■ "can I shoot him in the ass?"

- Adam has to persuade minotaur

o 11, persuades and minotaur

o Hits, 21 damage

- Back to theo

o 18 to hit

o 9 damage

- Halfling looks around, turns to squad, says we have everything covered

o Adam asks for any helpful things

■ 27 for ?? Persuasion ??

- Asyna

□

21 to hit

Sighs and has a crude shiv and walks up and shivs the dwarf Hits, damage ig

o 6 damage

- Dwarf uses half his movement to stand, tries to run

o 18 damage from ppl around

- Asyna gets to hit again

o 21 to hit, 9 damage

- He runs off to the right

o Adam is like 80? Ft away from him, casts sleep ?

- Cel peeks out, sees arena with a bunch of blood

o No bodies ???????? Ew

- Arbys is the minotaur

o Because he's got the Meats

- Dom asks us for our passive perception

o We apparently don't see the thing

- Drow woman steps out

- Does blood trail stop?

o Adam investigating, 11

■ "sure" there's a trail of blood leading to wall, adam pushes wall, it swings inwards

- Cel goes in first, adam right behind her

- "are you guys finding the way out?" "we're finding the way in, dawg"

- Inviting them to come with us

- Ask them their names

o Human names

■ Arthritis

□ "there you go. He's smoking hot"

□ This is an elderly man

□ Why are we into him

♦

■ Claudio

■ Jia

OH WE'RE NOT ACTUALLY TALKING ABOUT ARTHRITIS

o Drow

■

Raylan Arwindar(?}

"if you follow quickly, minotaurs have an uncanny ability to memorize where they've been"

Looks @ asyna and aeranan and in elvish says if we're interested in visiting below, operation works on level 5

□ Puts on a ring and disappears

o Humans choose to follow minotaur

o Halfling is gone

- We can still pass without a trace

o Time to go down secret passage

- Adam peeks head into somewhere and sees four pillars glowing w sickly green/yellow light

o 100 ft long

o Urns scattered throughout

o Via thaumaturgy dims the lights, walks over to urns

■ Stealth check to go to urns

■ 30 stealth, notices some things abt room

□ Nine alcoves in wall; ones he can see have murals w beholders painted on them

□ Diff patterns + colors + eyestalk shapes

□ Large statues of beholder heads that look similar to the ones in the murals placed in front of them

□ To right, carved stone display of a scowling beholder flanked by two statues of wizards

□ Beneath each wizard's hood a light that pulses

□ The pillars are kinda pillars but they have bubbling liquids w a beholder n all of its eyes shuts in the tank

- Adam wants to let them out

o "bitch what the fuck" - sylvia

- Adam looks back at everyone else and says "what the fuck"

- There's an exit to the south, ahead of us

- Adam investigates

o Walks up to biggest beholder and "no don't do that" (sylvia} looks at it

o They're frozen in a serene pose; the furthest one is jet black and chonky, larger than the one that attacked our house

- Adam looks inside an urn

o Adam makes constitution save

o Dirty 20

o Unique smell that makes adam wanna puke

o Quickly shoves lid back on, adam picks up urn and takes it with him

o No one is hiding in alcoves

- Go out south door, see a hallway that looks like another hallway we were in earlier

o In front is heavyset wooden door, another passageway extending to right

o Door swings open, aerana looks inside; pitch dark which is unusual

■ Heavy desk made of stone in corner, ornate chair behind it w a spider motif

■ Bookshelves not really w any books

■ Two open crates

■ 25 for perception

□ Nat20 bois "it's an 8" "no it's a 6" - lillian and marguerite

◆ Spider motif gives off drow vibes

◆ Crates: stuffed beholders in them

◊ Grabs a bunch of them

◆ Small statues in other crate like trophy depicting smaller beholder being caressed by hands

◊ Looks kinda nice

◊ Some type of stone

◆ Empty bookshelves

◆ Chair smushed

◆ Drawers in the desk? Pull desk back

◊ Nat20, we move desk and it grates against stone; see different compartments in desk

◊ Nothing on or behind the walls

► Asyna recognizes chair theme

- Not made of wood, made of mushrooms

- 13 history check

• Looks like a chair from menzo bonanza

• Basically drow capital

• Asyna remembers that her mother used to hide things in her chair

•

- "guys there's a key in the chair. Can we look for a keyhole"

14 investigation

There's a sealed compartment in the chair, pulls out a small black key

o Try desk keyholes

o Left cabinet

■ Silvery silken sack

□ "what's in the sack" - adam

□ Asyna pulls out sack, hard to see

♦

o Right drawer

Nothing in it

Adam cannot tell us what it is

Jacob cannot tell us what it is either Asyna puts her hand in it, feels around Fits her arm in the bag

Tardis bag

■ Heavy tome

■ "it's not even a book. It's like a tome. This big black book"

■ Wrapped in webbing

■ Asyna recognizes it as just a typical book protector

■ Pages of symbols n words; some in elvish

■ Arcana check 17

□ It's a wizard's spellbook

- Use naya to find the jailer

o Goes out of pathway and to left

o Let's go kids

- Puts a plushie in the bag

o Puts 30 plushies in bag, they fall out one at a time

o Bag does not get heavier

o Puts urn in the bag

o Takes urn back out

o Only fluff in the plushies

o 10 investigation to see if there's anything in the plushies

■ Yellow n blue beholder

o Puts book in sack

- Aerana wonders if turning bag inside out is infinite

o Everything falls on the floor

■ The animals and the trophies

- Theo steps into the bag

o Put on the ground, oh never mind it's been 15 minutes

- 70 ft down hallway, see an eyeball thing

o Looks like a living thing, alien, looks back and forth every once in awhile

o Doesn't see us

o Sneak past it?

■ Narrow hallway

o Theo + aerana 20 to hit, same time

o Cel 17 to hit

■ Creepy shriek noise

■ Liquid slips out, drips, turns into cloud of green dust

o Dust in the bag

o Adam tries to do monster lines

o "now it's a bag of . beholding" - lillian, 2021

o We get some beholder dust in the bag by blowing

- Hallway continues, ends at a doorway w heavy wooden door w side passage and stairs heading up

o Naya looking up

o Adam peeking into other door

o Black smoke billows out of room, adam sees room lit with a halfling male with a dirty apron on, running around frantically

■ Appears to be cooking

■ Adam opens door and salutes

■ "head chef I'm here to help ! I was sent by the upper"

□ "finally I haven't had a break"

□ Gives adam the apron and mans leaves

◆ Leaves out off to right

□ "does the apron say anything"

□ Cel says if we survive she'll embroider "kiss the chef" on the apron

■ Adam puts food on top of rack, two halflings on bottom?

■ Adam rolls 14 investigation, sees one dirty apron and chef's hat combo

□ Aerana puts on chef's hat and apron

□ Thinks this is stupid

□ Asyna and aerana cook

□ Nvm asyna and aerana r following naya

- Adam pushing cart towards good smelling food

o V elegant chef ppl walking around

o Hallway transforms into smth less dingy

o Two large stoves

o Spice rack

o More elegance here

o Seven chef ppl

o Two small beholders; gazers

■ Floating above, chef gazers

o "well fuck you too" ???? Cel to adam ???

o Adam goes to most important looking chef and says he's responding to duty, says he was instructed to feed lord silgar but bc new doesn't know where to go

■ Gives self bardic inspiration

■ 17 for deception

□ Chef goes "what are u doing w that"

□ Can't give food to silgar

□ Cobalts look like little lizard ppl

□ Adam instructed to follow stairs from outside

◆ Left right left right again for xant chambers

#dnd #d&d #18 #sn

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here4theheartbreak · 5 years

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Spooky Stories with Bangtan 7 (final)

Story Seven: Delicious (Jin)

AO3 Link Here! Relationships: Hoseok x Jin, OT7 Poly

Genre(s): general, spooky/kiddie horror Rating: Teen

Tags: scary story, mild blood/gore, body horror, ghosts

Summary: Jin knows he can't let Hoseok figure out his mistake. No one has to know.

Word Count: ~1.6k words Written For: @btspolyshipbingo (Square: Free Space)

A/N: The final fic in my series of Halloween shorts. Some have ships, some do not, but they are all based on the kid’s book series Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. They may or may not all be connected ;) you’ll have to stay until the end to find out. Some will have character death, others are more funny. Hope y’all enjoy and have a happy Halloween!

Hoseok was a hardworking man with a fierce temper. This temper was something his boyfriend Jin knew all too well. His anger was often displaced onto Jin or his other few friends, who did their best to appease Hoseok as much as they could.

So, it was no surprise when Hoseok brought home the fresh, large liver from the butcher that Jin was eager to agree to cook it for dinner.

Hoseok was in a tense mood that day already, and as Jin served him lunch, he struggled to soothe Hoseok’s temper. He knew his cooking would help; Hoseok had said many times that Jin’s cooking was one of the few reasons he kept him around. That and his oral skills.

As they sat for lunch, Jin chatted at Hoseok about the death of a downstairs neighbor and the procession of mourners to the funeral home next door. He could sense Hoseok didn’t care, but he wasn’t being told to shut up, so maybe it was doing some good for Hoseok’s mood. When Hoseok finished lunch, he dropped the silverware into the bowl and pushed it toward Jin.

“Okay, enough. I have to go back to work.”

“Sure, of course. I’ll see you tonight?”

Hoseok grunted at him on his way out, slamming the door and leaving Jin in silence.

Later that afternoon, Jin began working on the meal for Hoseok. He hadn’t prepared liver in a long time and wanted to make sure he could do it well. After simmering it for a few hours, the air fragrant with cooking spices, he cut off a bit to taste. It was perfect. Jin’s stomach grumbled and he realized he had skipped lunch in his haste to impress his boyfriend with the meal. He cut off another bit, popping it into his mouth with some of the vegetables. He groaned, leaning on the counter as he took another bite, his stomach gurgling happily. It was absolutely delicious. Best thing he’d cooked in a while, if he was being honest.

Before Jin realized what he had done, the liver was completely gone. A panic rose in his throat like hot oil. It was too late in the day to get another one, and Hoseok monitored their money closely. Someone else might understand; Jin was under a lot of pressure as well and indulgences of this sort rarely happened – but not Hobi. Perfection was the only tolerable trait, and this was far from perfect. Jin stood in the kitchen, wracking his brain for what to do. How could he salvage this, making Hoseok happy and save himself from the tongue lashing or worse he was bound to get with an unhappy lover. And then it hit him.

The funeral parlor was abandoned and silent as the grave. A frighteningly fitting description, Jin knew as he snuck through the small window into the basement. He made his way up the stairs, palms clammy as the reality of what he was about to do settled into his bones. He had no other choice. He had to make sure Hoseok was happy or he’d pay Hell.

The neighbor’s casket was sitting in an icy cold room just as barren and terrifying as the rest of the place. Jin lifted the heavy wooden lid, startled to see just how peaceful the elderly woman looked. If he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed she was simply resting in an odd choice of a bed.

But a closer look revealed the heavy makeup used to hide the bruising around her eyes and the ghostly pale sheen of her skin hiding under the caked on cover up. Jin tried not to look at her face as he undid the smart outfit she’d been dressed in. The material was beautiful and heavy, it had to have cost quite a bit. Jin scowled at the pale flesh, a shadow of veiny marbling that remained. Was he really about to do this? Jin asked himself. He withdrew the large hunting knife from his inner jacket pocket. It glinted off the sickly grey lights, catching his attention. His jaw twitched. He very nearly turned and ran, but the fear of what Hoseok would say or do was too strong. Taking a steeling breath, Jin lifted the knife to the smooth, pale flesh in front of him.

“That was really delicious, Jin. Thank you,” Hoseok said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He sat back and patted his stomach. Jin smiled softly, trying to hide his unease.

“I’m glad.”

“Did you want any?”

“No, I’m full – I ate earlier. You finish it… Was your day better?”

Hoseok nodded. The question set him off into a ramble about the students he was teaching new choreography to, effectively shutting off any concern he may have had about Jin’s expression as he finished up the perfectly fried liver.

That night, Jin laid next to Hoseok, listening to him breathe steadily as he slept. The image of the elderly woman continued to swim in front of his closed eyes. The coldness of her flesh, the sounds her body made, the smell of cooking liver. His stomach twisted and flipped and Jin was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten for many hours – he knew he would have lost everything in his stomach if he had. He reached out, touching Hoseok’s hand. As gruff and cruel as he could be, Jin did care for his boyfriend.

He began to count his breaths, still holding onto Hoseok’s hand lightly, and found himself drifting off. And then he heard it.

“Who took my liver?”

Jin’s eyes snapped open. He had to be dreaming.

“Who took my liver?” The voice came again, closer to their closed bedroom door. Jin’s heart began to pound faster. The door creaked open, loud as a scream in the quiet room. Jin’s breath caught in his throat.

“Who took my liver?” Closer now. Footsteps tapped toward the bed. Now Jin saw her. The same greyed face, mocking life for the final time. She stared at Jin with wide eyes, dull and dry. “Who took my liver, boy?” She rasped, her voice sounding like sandpaper over rough wood.

Jin’s voice caught in his throat, a scream bubbling against his vocal cords. Her cold hands reached out, clawed, arthritis bulged knuckles that even death couldn’t resolve.

“Did you take my liver? I want it back!”

“He did!” Jin finally sobbed, pointing to Hoseok’s sleeping form. “I—I fed it to him! Please!”

The woman hesitated for a second, fingers inches from Jin’s tear streaked face. She stared at Jin, unblinking, as if deciding.

“And then she pounced!” Namjoon screamed the final word. As he did, Jungkook leapt from the bush nearest to them, landing square in Jin and Hoseok’s laps.

Both screamed and Jin shoved, rolling the cackling Jungkook off them and nearly landing him in the crackling fire.

Namjoon cracked up, holding his stomach as he was hit with peals of laughter.

“Oh, Namjoon-hyung, stop being mean!” Taehyung lamented, wrapping his arms around Hoseok to try and calm his shivers.

“Sorry! I couldn’t help it!” Namjoon said between laughing fits, a signal he wasn’t really all that sorry.

“Why’d you make me the bad guy?” Hoseok whined, leaning into Taehyung.

“He’s just mad you made him do extra choreo last week,” Jimin joked. He smiled softly at Yoongi, who looked paler than usual in the firelight. “You okay?”

“Me? Psh.” Yoongi shrugged. “I’m fine. Just dumb kid stories.” He moved a little closer to Jimin. “But if you’re scared… I’ll hold your hand.”

Jimin grinned and took his hand, kissing it. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” Jimin whispered, and Yoongi smiled a little. He lowered his gaze, relaxing against Jimin’s side.

“That was mean, Namjoonie,” Jin whined.

Jungkook climbed back into his lap, pressing apologetic kisses over his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon finally said, his laughter finally fading. “But it’s Halloween and we’re camping in the woods. I had to tell ghost stories.”

“Those were terrifying,” Hoseok grumbled. Namjoon rose and wiggled himself between Hoseok and Jin, wrapping his arm around their middles.

“I love you all, no matter what I did to you in the stories.”

Jin rolled his eyes, smirking. “You just don’t want us to say no sex because we’re mad.”

“Hey, he killed me in my story,” Jungkook tried to defend.

“And made spiders burst out of my face!” Jimin said, shuddering visibly. “I’m not a scaredy cat but that’s just twisted.”

“At least Taehyungie just got a ghost puppy,” Yoongi said.

“I’ll take my flesh and blood dog, thank you,” Taehyung said, still curled up against Hoseok.

“Should we go to bed?” Jungkook offered.

“Yeah, now that you two have scared almost all of our boyfriends into insomnia,” Taehyung said.

“Hm, yeah, but if they can’t sleep, we can always find other ways to tire them out.”

“Don’t even think about it, I’m not fucking you in a tent,” Jin grumbled. Jungkook pouted, but smiled through it.

“How about just some cuddles then?”

Jin glared. “No more jump scares.”

“No more until next year,” Jungkook agreed.

The seven made their way into the large tent behind them until only Jin and Jungkook remained to take care of the fire.

“It was fun, right? Even though you were scared?” Jungkook worried.

“Of course. It’s Halloween babe. I’m not bitter and neither is Hoseok. You spooked Yoongi good too.”

“We did?” Jungkook asked. “Namjoon-hyung and I worked really hard on his version of that story. I’m glad it worked.”

Jin reached out, tucking Jungkook’s shaggy hair behind his ear. “Happy Halloween, Jungkookie.”

Jungkook grinned. “Happy Halloween, hyung.” He crawled into the tent, ignoring the complaints and grumbles as he kissed over each member’s cheek.

“Happy Halloween, everyone,” he said when he reached his own sleeping bag. “Don’t let the ghouls get you.”

#networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet #btsguild #btsbookclub #kwritersworldnet #armiesnet #thebtstown #ficswithluv #hyunglinenetwork #thekimlinenet #jinseoknet #ghosts #halloween #halloween fic #2seok #seokjin #poly bts #scary stories #mywriting

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shadowluverworks · 5 years

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Remissionem - Chapter 6 {Finale}

Remissionem: Latin, meaning the cancellation of a debt, charge or penalty; forgiveness of sins.

I hope you all enjoyed!!

Chapter 6: Than Ever Before

The plane slows to a stop in front of McDuck mansion. The landing has to be one of the smoothest anyone can remember, Launchpad taking extra precautions and doing his absolute best not to crash into anything. Even though it went against everything he knew, protecting his employer was at the top of his list of priorities.

Near the entrance to the large home, Mrs. Beakley and Duckworth can be seen patiently waiting, a wheelchair next to them. The pilot had radioed them the situation, not giving all the intimate details, but enough to prepare them. The housekeeper wears a look similar to a parent ready to scold their child, her arms crossed. Duckworth floats a foot off the ground beside her, his typical neutral expression masks the concern he feels growing inside.

They move to the back of the plane and reach it right as the door to the Sunchaser’s belly starts to open. The first thing they can see as the door descends is Launchpad climbing down from the cockpit to the lower level. As it lowers more, Donald and the four ducklings are the next to be seen, all crowding around a pile of blankets on the left side of the plane. Between them, the two can just make out a body sitting there, one a different shade than the rest of them: a red tinge in color.

The spy rolls the wheelchair up the ramp as they enter in the plane. Webby’s head turns at the sound of them ascending, and runs over, giving her grandmother a swift hug, “Granny!”

Mrs. Beakley doesn’t deny the embrace, though she is a bit surprised. Her granddaughter doesn’t hug her after every mission; this experience must have shaken the girl, especially the way she clings exceptionally tight. What disturbs her is the alarming amount of red stains that litter the tiny duckling’s body. The blood is not her own, which both soothes and worries the older duck.

“Webby, fill me in on the details. What are we dealing with here?” Quick to get down to business, the housekeeper and undead butler pause in the plane’s opening to listen to the child before continuing.

The girl’s eyebrows furrow together as she recounts the events, “He was struck by a swinging boulder at least twice his size. After he landed from the initial hit, he slid across the rocky mountainside before falling close to a hundred feet down into the jungle.”

Mrs. Beakley mirrors her granddaughter’s expression.

Duckworth places a hand to his mouth, “Oh dear!” That’s quite an ordeal, especially for someone of their employer’s age.

The spy urges the duckling to continue, “And the injuries?”

Webby’s eyes are staring off at nothing in particular, a troubled and distant look in them, “When we found him...” She’s quick to catch herself. Her grandmother isn’t asking for the story of what happened, only for the necessary information to know how to proceed.

She gives her head a quick shake to clear her mind, a determined look resting on her face, “Head trauma, most likely a concussion. Dislocated shoulder, Dewey already set it. Broken leg that’s also been set. Broken ribs as well as several large lacerations and bruising. No signs of internal bleeding as of now, but I haven’t been able to tell if the broken ribs are stable, and I’m worried about them moving around.”

“Has he lost consciousness?” Duckworth inquiring now.

“Yes. Several times, each lasting longer than the last.”

The woman nods in understanding, and they continue their trek to reach the small group.

The triplets stand at the rich duck’s feet, each varying in the amount of crimson staining on their tiny bodies. They turn at the sound of footsteps and move a few steps back to make room. Launchpad has joined the family, standing on Scrooge’s left while Donald kneels next to him on his right, his sleeves missing and bearing the most red streaks other than his uncle.

The two finally can get a look at their employer, and they don’t like what they see. He sits upright, leaning against a pillow along the plane’s wall, half covered by a white quilt. His left arm is in a sling, and several stitches can already be seen across his opposite arm and forehead. Despite the family having cleaned most of the wounds, his normally white feathers are a red-brown in color, mixed with dirt and blood.

He looks...tired. Undoubtably in a considerate amount of pain, but the way his normally bright and cheerful eyes after an adventure sit halfway closed and drooped, make the entrepreneur look his age. There’s a small smile on his beak at conversing with his family around him in a soft tone, but his employees can see how worn down he is.

Having spent several years living with Scrooge McDuck, they had yet to see him look quite like this. The only instance that came to mind was directly after losing his niece. Self-blame tore him up inside, and he went through a major depressed state for quite a while. Though most of the pain was emotional in that instance, they had yet to see him in such physical turmoil in all the years they spent working for him.

His grin fades at seeing the two come to his side. Mrs. Beakley releases the tight grip she holds on the wheelchair’s handles in favor of placing her fists on her hips, glaring down at him.

Certain he’s going to get an earful of his behavior and how he put the children at risk, Scrooge seeks to at least delay the outburst until he’s had time to rest. Raising his good hand just slightly, his brows furrow together, “22, ah knoo ye have a speech prepared fer me, but just this once, can it wait?”

He doesn’t expect her to listen to him, she never has in the past. She takes a breath, closing her eyes for a moment as her body relaxes with the exhale. When her eyes open again, her scowl has relaxed just slightly, turned down eyebrows lifting and kneading together just a tad to show her concern, “Let’s get you to bed.”

He blinks in pleasant surprise, at both her willingness to drop her anger for the time being, and the worry displayed in her expression. It’s not something he’s accustomed to witnessing.

Beakley pulls the wheelchair closer as Donald removes the blanket covering the injured duck’s legs. She can see the makeshift splint now, and although the leg would need a proper cast, she’s impressed at how well the family has already taken care of him.

The spy and pilot kneel to the floor to assist in lifting the battered body. Scrooge’s right arm is wrapped around his nephew’s neck again as his left leg draws up to help him stand. He’s terribly stiff from the long ride in the same position and is unsure if his injuries are causing the pain he feels or if it’s the arthritis.

Launchpad assists from the left, careful of the wounded arm, and Beakley helps Donald on the right as they lift the old duck off the plane’s floor. The movement makes the pain heighten once again; Scrooge’s face squeezes together, gritting his teeth as a grunt of discomfort escapes him.

Finally, he’s back on his...foot, though the three lifting take most of his weight. Dewey runs to the wheelchair’s handles, ready to move it if need be. Slowly, they ease the avian over to it and sit him down. A cough and breath of air is released as he settles. After moving his feet up on the footrests, the spy wheels him backwards off the padded area and down the ramp of the Sunchaser, his family close behind.

Being home is a relief, though now he wishes he hadn’t made quite so many steps in the mansion. He hadn’t considered stairs being a problem at the time the mansion was being built. Each bump is painful, but eventually they make it to his bedroom on the second floor. There are medical supplies laid out on his bed as well as Duckworth’s briefcase containing his stethoscope and other instruments.

Scrooge is careful in choosing his employees, but especially the ones who live with him. Basic medical training and knowledge is a requirement for the butler and housekeeper. The main reason being the stingy duck refused to go to a hospital unless absolutely required. If he can save a penny and have his own workers care for him, even if it isn’t top of the line, he’d take it in an instant.

Thankfully Duckworth had a small medical background, he isn’t a doctor by any means, but had much of the same knowledge of a nurse. Mrs. Beakley also had received medical training when she first started working for S.H.U.S.H. Together they took care of Scrooge McDuck to the best of their abilities.

The spy has shooed Donald, Launchpad, the triplets, and Webby out of the room, ensuring they would take good care of the old duck. They could visit later after his injuries had been properly dressed, and they could clean themselves up in the meantime. Despite their worry and objection, they have little choice but to oblige as the door is shut in their many faces.

Mrs. Beakley prepares the disinfectant wipes while Duckworth takes his stethoscope from the open case. Being a ghost doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t physically touch or hold objects; it just requires more concentration on his part. By focusing his essence into a particular body part, like his hand, he could easily pick up items as if he were still alive.

With stethoscope and watch in hand, Duckworth floats over to his employer as Scrooge gulps his nerves down.

“I’m going to take your vital signs, Mr. McDuck. It’s imperative we ensure your condition is stable and not in need of urgent medical attention.”

The housekeeper does little to muffle her reply, “Most people would consider this an urgent need.” She’s obviously upset he hasn’t already gone to a hospital.

Scrooge lifts his good arm onto the handle of the wheelchair, palm up, as his butler takes his pulse, “Ah’m fine. Just a wee bit banged up is all.”

The elderly woman’s eyes squint behind her glasses as she brings her supplies over to him, “Yes, just a ‘wee bit.’ I didn’t realize how much a concussion can affect one’s common sense! You have multiple broken bones, a dislocated shoulder,” she’s stuttering slightly as her rage starts to build again, “Y-you’re too old to be this injured! How you’re still alive is beyond me!”

Scrooge’s eyebrows lower as he hears her accusations. Didn’t she say a few minutes ago this could wait until later?

She holds a small container of wetted gauze and antiseptic solution in hand, separating one piece from the rest before holding it up to the stitched-up laceration over his forehead, “...And yet.”

He winces away at the contact, though without far to go in the wheelchair he has little choice but to accept it as she continues, “...I can’t help but be grateful you are.”

He blinks in surprise, “...Bentina...”

At this angle, she can barely see the dark bruising over his ribcage, and after cleaning the head wound, she gently, yet forcibly, makes him lean the opposite direction to get a better look, moving his arm away. He immediately groans in pain at the stretch in his torso, but she ignores the cry for now. The spy’s eyebrows furrow as she runs a few fingers over it, feeling the bones shift slightly under her touch and ignoring a rather loud bellow, “This is what concerns me the most.”

Sweat runs down his forehead, gritting his teeth and mumbling faint curses in his native dialect, “Curse me kilts, yer just like yer granddaughter!” The injury had actually felt a bit better after being stitched up, but now was aggravated once again, making his body tremble.

To his dismay, his pained exclamations go unheard yet again as his butler floats to the opposite side. At the sight of the damaged ribs, the undead man’s face grows more concerned, “Dear me! That injury is severe, Mr. McDuck, and right along your lungs! If you have any breathing problems, you must inform me straight away!” A groan in acknowledgment is all Scrooge is able to manage.

Finally allowed a moment’s respite, Scrooge is allowed to straighten himself again as Beakley goes back to her cleaning, leaving that particular wound for last. Duckworth places the end of his stethoscope over the rich duck’s chest, listening to his elderly heartbeat as well as breath sounds. Any abnormality heard would be grounds to send Scrooge directly to a hospital, whether he likes it or not. Any internal injuries are far too advanced for himself and Mrs. Beakley to care for themselves.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he moves the cold, round, metal end down to the bruised ribs and along the laceration, a suppressed grunt sounding amplified in his ears. He’s looking for any muffled sounds in the lung where the broken bones are located, indicating the sharp pieces could be puncturing tissues and causing internal bleeding. To his pleasant surprise, he finds none.

Moving along, the butler grabs the thermometer next, “Open your beak, Mr. McDuck.”

A glare meets his gaze; his boss has clearly not lost his temper. The patient speaks, “Duckworth is all this really nec-”

Said undead being takes the opportunity to plunge the thin device into the old duck’s beak, glare ever increasing. For now, he ignores his employer’s anger and retrieves his small flashlight. Focusing his energy into his fingertips, he creates a more solid mass in order to gently lift the cheapskate’s head up by his chin.

Taking the flashlight, Duckworth flashes the device back and forth, in and out of the dark turquoise eyes, testing the pupil reflex. Scrooge stares reluctantly back at him, squinting a bit at the brightness. His employee’s eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, glancing between both eyes.

The thermometer’s alarm sounds, and it’s removed from his beak. The ghost reads it, “You have a fever, and your pupils are not dilating correctly, indicating a possible concussion. Have you had any trouble with your vision?"

Scrooge’s mood has calmed once again to the tired demeanor, further pushing Duckworth to highly suspect a brain injury at the mood swings, “Some. Just...dizzy mainly.”

The butler lists off a few more symptoms, “Headache? Brief memory lapse? Nausea?”

A simple blink in response, confirming his inquiries.

He takes a not needed breath out of habit, placing his hands on his hips, “You have several critical, though so far unfatal, injuries, Mr. McDuck. Your vitals are stable. However, if you want to make sure you remain in the land of the living, you are going to need a lot of rest.”

The housekeeper decides to step in, her eyes boring holes into the old man, “And no adventuring.”

The rich duck slumps in the wheelchair with a hmph, “Ay, ah knoo.”

The spy seems satisfied with his answer, for now, “Good. Then let’s finish cleaning you up and let you get some rest.”

Mrs. Beakley makes quick work of cleaning the rest of the lacerations before promptly bandaging them with gauze and wraps, all but the largest on the side. A wrap around the rich duck’s middle would not be beneficial and could actually cause more harm than good. After cleaning it, ointment is applied to help heal, and nothing more is done.

Duckworth has already made a cast for the broken leg and put it in place, removing the scuffed spats in the process. It feels a bit more enveloping than the makeshift one the boys made, but at least it’s stable. A proper sling also holds his injured arm, providing much more support than the previous ones had.

With Scrooge finally properly bandaged, the spy pushes the wheelchair closer to the bed, turning his back to the wall and facing the door, “You wait here for a moment. I’m going to grab a few things.”

She leaves the room as Duckworth packs up his supplies on the bed. The apparition places everything back in its original space before closing his briefcase and turning to make his leave, “We shall change those bandages in the morning, but for now get some rest, Mr. McDuck. Don’t hesitate to call upon me if you should need any assistance.”

His employer gives a nod, the exhaustion evident on his features, “Thank ye, Duckworth.”

As the phantom leaves, he opens the door for Mrs. Beakley who has returned with a few items in hand: a small tray with a bowl containing what looks like soup, and his pajama shirt fresh from the dryer. She places the tray on the nightstand near his bed, not missing the wary stare sent her way, “I realize you probably don’t have much of an appetite but do try and drink a little broth if you can.”

He can’t bear the thought of eating anything at this moment, his stomach still rolling along with his vision, but he may try and take a few spoonful’s later, after the liquid stops steaming, if it would satiate his caretaker.

The grandmother straightens out the shirt in her hold before bringing it to the injured duck, “Here, I just washed it so it should be nice and warm.” She’s well aware of the amount of blood he had lost, seeing the towels and blankets on the Sunchaser. He will need to drink a lot of fluids to replenish his supply, hence the soup. But in the meantime, a warm, clean shirt and lots of blankets should help the chill running through him. She’d seen him shiver on more than one occasion, but he’s never mentioned anything, though she isn’t surprised.

She helps him slip the shirt over his right arm, assisting him in leaning forward, and then simply drapes it over the opposite shoulder. A pleasant tremor runs through his frame at the warmth the shirt holds, and he’s reminded how much he appreciates his housekeeper.

Beakley then pulls the covers of his bed away, plumping the pillows before turning back to him. He holds out his good arm for her to grip, knowing full well the large woman could carry him easily. She has done so on a few missions in the past, to his embarrassment. But he’s a bit uneasy at being carried like this, afraid of how his body might ache.

Thankfully, she moves to support him instead, and helps him lift out of the chair. His broken body screams in protest at every moment, forcing strained grunts out of him. The younger avian can feel the smaller body trembling in her grip as they turn him to sit on the side of the bed. She helps move him backwards to rest on the pillows before helping ease his legs up. He lets out a groan as his body settles against the softness of his mattress and pillows, Mrs. Beakley covering him with the blankets. He feels a bit more at ease now; hours of trying to hide his pain from the children has only added to his exhaustion.

His caretaker eyes him, trying to remember if there was ever a time she’d seen him in such physical agony on any of their missions. She starts to collapse the wheelchair, “Sitting up a bit more like that might help the pain from your ribs. Think you’ll be able to sleep?”

Scrooge isn’t one to voice his pain, to give it power over him, but he can already tell any sleep would be in vain with the way his body punishes him every motionless second. He slightly shakes his head, so little if Mrs. Beakley hadn’t been looking closely, she wouldn’t have noticed. But she does, he can tell because her eyes grow softer, like when she talks about her granddaughter.

Placing the chair under an arm, her mind is made up, “I’m going to the store to get you some pain medication.” Eyes widen dramatically, and she interrupts him before his complaint begins, “I’ll use my own money. It will be good to have some around the house anyway with this accident-prone family.”

He relaxes just slightly but looks away. The thought of spending money just so he could rest comfortably seems so wasteful. But at least she wouldn’t be putting it on his bill.

No objection is made, and she takes that as his approval, “I’ll be back soon. Your family were taking turns in the shower last I saw them, but they shouldn’t be far away, and Duckworth is here as well if you need anything.” He dips his head, eyes placed directly in front of him as she takes her leave.

Finally, alone. He sighs and reclines further into his pillows, careful of laying completely flat. Eyes open to nothing in particular. The room is just starting to darken as the day begins to end. The family had left very early that morning, but it felt like weeks since he last laid in his bed. His body is cradled perfectly, and normally he’d already be asleep. Eyelids flutter to a close in an attempt, and he sits still for a long while.

The old body twitches and a sharp pain jolts up his side. Scrooge grunts and his eyes open once again. It’s impossible to stay comfortable, the constant throbbing is too much for him to truly relax. A groan mixed with a sigh leaves him in exasperation. Seems he’ll have to wait for Mrs. Beakley to return after all.

The mirror across the room catches his eye, and a very tired, elderly duck stares back at him. It takes a moment to realize it’s himself. Lifting his head, he examines the bandages wrapped around his skull and the dark circles under his eyes, one darker than the other. So, this is what his family sees, has seen, of him for the past eight or so hours. What he’s viewing now is the version of him that’s been cared for, cleaned. If this alone disturbs himself, he can’t imagine what terrible image his family must have of him in their minds.

His encounter with the youngest triplet plays back in his head, the boy’s unnerving eyes staring ahead of him, and his words, “...seeing you all...bloody and hurt! That picture’s stuck in my head!” The way his haunted gaze fell on the red stains of his hands and sleeves.

And then his brother, Dewey, muttering Scrooge’s name over and over in what was certainly a nightmare about him. How the boy woke and tried desperately to get his uncle’s blood off the tiny hands.

Even his eldest nephew had returned to calling him Unca Scrooge in the moment they questioned his mortality.

The wealthy duck is ashamed of what he put his own family through. He needs to have a talk with Donald and the boys, about all this, to put their minds at ease, and hopefully make amends with his nephew. Perhaps afterwards the sailor would privilege him enough to keep referring to him as Unca Scrooge. He prefers that.

A thought strikes him. There’s another person in this house that doesn’t call him by his favored name. She was along when the accident happened as well, in fact he remembers the duckling being visibly upset by his side when he first regained consciousness. She hasn’t been truly herself for quite a while, though Webby seemed to be ok after the ordeal, but was she hiding anything? Is she alright?

Scrooge’s eyes focus on himself in the mirror again, and straining himself slightly, he sits up. The girl had been the one to sew up his side; he slides his shirt to the side to see the damage done, moving his bad arm slightly as well. The dark bruise is a bit startling to see firsthand, brows furrowing. The stitch work is what surprises him the most though; it looks like it was done by a professional! A smile reaches his beak in pride, “Not bad, Webbigail!”

“Thanks, Mr. McDuck!”

The sudden reply makes him jump and shout in surprise. Glancing around in confusion, the lass is nowhere to be seen. Had he misheard that? No, he was old, but he still had his wits about him!

A thought hits him and he sends a half-hearted glare to the vent on his ceiling, tone that of a disapproving parent, “Webby, c’mon oot.”

The vent is removed, and the girl jumps to the ground, landing only a few feet from his bedside.

The impressed and prideful feelings he’s having for his niece will have to wait, “What on earth were ye doin’ up there?!”

The duckling has her pajamas on, and her body is clean of the crimson stains that littered it before. She must have showered, as her hair is still damp. She twirls a finger around a piece as she stares at the floor, “Sorry, Mr. McDuck. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just worried; and then Granny left to go to the store. I was afraid of something happening to you when no one was watching. Like, what if your stitches come loose and you start bleeding again? Or if your room gets too cold and you get a chill? Or what if you had to pee and tried to get up but fell?!” Her face now contorted into a face of anxiety and concern.

The girl’s rambling is making Scrooge’s head swirl, and he holds his right hand up to quiet her, “Whoa, whoa, lass! Calm doon!”

She relaxes her posture once again, her gaze dropping to the floor. He doesn’t like seeing her so disheartened, it’s not something that should be on Webby’s face.

Not fighting the small smile that creeps onto his beak, he attempts to cheer her up, “I appreciate yer concern, dear, but ah’m alright.” It doesn’t have the desired effect, her face still fallen.

He blinks, looking up at the ceiling where the vent has been pushed aside. The smile widens, “Though I have tae say, havin’ someone ‘up there’ lookin’ oot fer me is a comfortin’ thought.”

The duckling looks up, beak slightly open and eyes hopeful, yet unsure.

“Almost like a guardian angel of sorts, eh? ‘Spose ah should be thankin’ ye,” a wink in her direction, and a smile climbs to her features once again, it’s a relief to see.

Her tiny body straightens, “Of course! I have to keep a look out and make sure no harm befalls you in my Granny’s place!”

She sees the bowl of broth left behind by her grandmother, now cooled and no longer steaming, “Oh! Do you want some soup? I can help you!”

Before he can resist, she’s picking up the tray and walking it over to him, only a few feet away. He doesn’t have the heart to deny her again, and strains to sit himself up. Seeing his struggle, she sets the tray down at the end of the bed and helps him into a more upright position.

Webby brings the tray back but falters on deciding where to set it. She doesn’t want to put any extra weight on the weak body. But her mind seems to make itself up, and she puts the tray back on the bed for a moment before hopping up next to the old duck and placing the platter on her own lap.

With his arm in a sling, Scrooge wouldn’t be able to hold a bowl in one hand and use a spoon with the other. The duckling is quick to resolve that, scooping up a spoonful and blowing gently to make sure the temperature isn’t too hot.

Already seeing what she’s planning, the rich duck sputters in awkwardness, “W-Webby, ye donnae hav-”

But it’s too late, she’s already offering it to him, along with a “It’s alright, I don’t mind, Mr. McDuck!” in her high, chipper voice.

He hadn’t missed that the first time, but it’s just as grading on him now, the fact that she’s still referring to him as ‘Mr. McDuck.’

His gaze flicks between the spoon held at his beak and the girl’s dark eyes staring back at him. They look empty and sad, though she wears a smile on her face. He knows she wants to be helpful, but he’s still unsure if his stomach can handle anything. Seeing her face turn downtrodden if he turns her away yet again would be too much to bear. He doesn’t like seeing her upset.

He is feeling a bit parched, perhaps some soup would do the trick. Swallowing his pride, he opens his beak and allows her to hand feed him the broth. The warmth is soothing, and not too hot. He swallows as she returns the spoon to the bowl for more.

After a few spoonful’s, he decides now is the time to speak up. They’re alone, it’s time to address what he’s been meaning to for quite a while but has been too anxious to. He swallows any inhibitions along with the soup and asks the question he already knows the answer to, face turning to one of confusion, “Ah’ve bin meanin’ to ask, lass, is there a particular reason why yer callin’ me that?”

A surprised blink meets him as he accepts another spoonful, and she’s a little taken aback. All at once, she’s twirling a finger around her hair again, not meeting his gaze, “O-oh, you mean ‘Mr. McDuck?’”

Her demeanor is instantly different, and he frowns. The soup is forgotten for the time being, and she’s quiet for a moment, as if choosing her words, “...I guess it started again after...that time on the Sunchaser...”

There it is. He knew that was the reason, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to bring it to light.

"This is a family matter; you are not family!" Brows furrow. Disgust with himself as well as shame rises within him. That such a happy child could be affected so much by what he, her hero, had said to her, that the very life in her tiny body seemed to vanish until all that remained was an empty shell.

No words are said. Scrooge McDuck is not one for reconciliation; typically, he avoids such situations at all cost. However, what if such words were the last the duckling ever heard from him on the matter? If he hadn’t survived the accident? Is that how he truly wants her to remember him by, the man she so looked up to and idolized, but could never see her as anything more than his housekeeper’s granddaughter?

Her hands lower to the tray along with her line of vision, and she’s the first to say something, “I know you told me I could call you ‘Uncle Scrooge’ but...after that I just...”

“Ye felt ye didnae have teh right anymore, that ah had taken it from ye,” he finishes for her.

Her violet eyes glance up at him again, but he’s the one not meeting her gaze now. His stare lingers on the blankets covering his body, “...Ah gave ye teh opportunity tae be a part of our family in one moment, and then took it away in teh next.”

Slowly, the old eyes move to meet hers, sincerity in them that the girl had never seen before, “Ah understand. Webby, darlin’...what ah said tae ye back then, was downright disgraceful. Ah’m ashamed it came outta me own beak. Ah’ve no excuse.”

The tiny duck stares unmoving, hope and uncertainty covering her expression. Listening intently, and only blinking when absolutely necessary, she’s taking in every word, every detail, and etching it into her mind. The feel of the expensive sheets beneath her, and the pounding of her own heart against her rib cage, as if trying to break free. From the smell of soup in the air, to the tremble in the man’s voice.

The old avian continues, “And ah was dead wrong. Yer every bit a part of this family as me, Donald, the triplets...ye always have bin. Ah’m...”

A pause, this is unknown territory for him. Is he doing this correctly? Is he saying the right things? He has to be; she’s still here and hasn’t run from the room in tears. He forces himself to press on, “Ah’m sorry.”

He swears he sees her eyes become even more glittery for a split second, and she’s moving the tray aside. Is she making a run for it? Did he mess up again?! He has to finish, has to get everything out, “Can ye ever forgive me?”

The words barely leave him before he’s pushed backwards into the pillows with a grunt, a sudden weight on his chest. A blink as he analyzes the situation: the small body is pressed against his own, careful not to do damage; tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck; a face buried in his good shoulder, and his pajama shirt feels damp underneath it.

This isn’t the outcome he was expecting, but maybe it isn’t a bad one.

His face grows concerned as a muffled sniffle reaches his ear, and a hiccup runs through the tiny body. His good arm wraps around the girl, resting on her back, as he tries to rouse her, “Webby?”

“Yes.”

Another blink, “Hm?”

She moves away just slightly to look at him, tears flowing slowly down her cheeks, but there’s a smile on her face, “Yes, I forgive you.”

His turn to grin, edges of his beak turning up as relief floods him. The light fills her dark eyes once more.

He hadn’t paid much mind to her in all the years she lived in his mansion before the boys returned. Although they shared a home, they had their own lives, and hardly ever crossed paths. Getting to know the girl that he’d seen many a time down the hallway for a brief moment or unabashedly staring up at him in awe with those wide, innocent eyes of hers whenever she had the chance, had been one of the best decisions of his life. Losing her because of his own foolishness would have been too much to accept.

Webby wipes her eyes quickly, the joy and acceptance returning in them; they had been hollow for far too long. She sniffles and forces one last hug on the other, snuggling her face into the crook between his neck and shoulder, “I was so worried today would be our last adventure, that we’d leave things like that, that you’d never wake up. I’m so happy you’re ok, Uncle Scrooge.”

His smile broadens. Bless me dime, how ah’ve missed that. His arm embraces her in return, hand rubbing her small back in his own silent agreement, “Ah’m nae perfect, Webby, but ah promise, ah’ll never deny ye ever again.”

She sits back, life-filled eyes still watering as she smiles at him.

Wiping her face once more, she turns around to the tray of soup again, “Oh, here,” she brings the platter to her lap as she straddles his waist.

Before she can scoop up more, he holds up a hand to stop her, “A-ah’m grateful, lass, but ah donnae think ah can handle much more.” His hand rests on his stomach, indicating the upset.

She blinks at his hand before registering what he means, “Oh, right, the concussion. Sorry,” she smiles meekly up at him, though she’s not offended.

He shakes his head back at her, “’s alright. Thank ye fer takin’ care a me.”

The girl jumps off the bed, taking the tray along with her, “I’m gonna go put this in the fridge for later!” She turns to leave at his approval, closing the door behind her and leaving the old man to smile happily to himself.

Webby walks down the hallway, intent on returning to the other’s side, and nearly runs into a showered Donald who was only a few steps away, “Woah, sorry!”

He’s just as startled as she, and damp feathers shake with their owner’s head, “No, I’m sorry for surprising you."

They stand there for a moment, his hands fiddling together, as if contemplating whether he should ask the question in his head.

Webby watches him closely, “You ok?”

He dodges her question and asks his own, nodding towards the door she’d just exit from, “Is he awake?”

A nod, “Yup, just waiting for Granny to come back from the store with the pain medicine,” she frowns, “He’s still hurting pretty bad.”

Donald mimics her expression.

The girl studies him a bit longer, a smirk tugging to her face; he’s so easy to read. She had been planning on returning to Scrooge’s side until Mrs. Beakley returns, but seeing as someone else would like to pay the old duck a visit, she decides instead to nonchalantly walk past him, “Well, I’m off to the kitchen to put this soup away, see ya!”

Webby knows full well Donald has more on his mind than just a simple visit, and she’s happy to leave the two to it, only upset she wouldn’t be able to witness it herself.

It seems the older duck was hoping to sneak into his uncle’s room unseen, so she leaves to allow him the feeling of obscurity. He’s grateful for her willingness to leave her hero’s side and waits patiently for the girl to turn the corner before facing the door once again.

The avian had been trying to buck up the courage to actually go in for quite some time, pacing around the corridor and kicking himself. But he hadn’t realized that the young duckling was already keeping the injured duck company and is relived he waited so long. Now that Donald knows Scrooge is alone, this is his chance to talk one on one with the other, to make amends.

A hand reaches out and rests on the doorknob, careful not to make a sound. He’s mind is screaming to just rip the door open and get it over with, trying to convince himself it won’t be as bad as he thinks. Is he...trembling? Clearly his anxiety is taking control of the situation. Eyes screw together for a moment as he takes a calming breath, forcing his shoulders to drop in mock relaxation. Finally, his body complies, and he turns the knob.

Scrooge’s eyes open to the sound of the door opening again. Webby is certainly fast when she wants to be, a smile gracing his features at the thought of the girl running to the kitchen as fast as possible to all but throw the soup bowl in the refrigerator before running back, most likely spilling some of the broth along the way.

He glances in the direction of the sound, grin still present on his face, “Back already, Webbiga-?”

The smile is immediately ripped off his appearance. The black figure in the doorway, letting the light in to his dark bedroom, it’s much too tall to be the duckling returning from her errand. Though he can easily recognize the form, and his body is already starting to sit up in his startled state, “Donald?” His voice faulters in pain at the wince running through his broken body, gritting his teeth against it.

The shadow floats into the room, closing the door behind him and shutting out the light once again, leaving them both in darkness, “No, no, don’t get up!” The tone concerned and uneasy as it moves towards the bed.

Scrooge lets out a groan as he eases himself back onto the pillows without a fight. Their eyes adjust to the blackened room, and are able to make out each other’s features, both of equal uncertainty and discomfort.

Donald’s gaze moves about the dressings and bindings covering his wounded uncle, the sight much easier to witness than that of the gory, crimson-filled scene a mere 8 hours ago. The man is more conscious as well, which puts his own psyche at ease. He decides to try some small talk, to ease into the conversation he has in mind, “Looks like Mrs. B and Duckworth did a good job bandaging everything. How’re ya feeling?”

A scowl in response. Scrooge is still trying not to breathe in an attempt to numb the pain from sitting up in such a forceful way. He doesn’t trust his own voice not to give it away, trying desperately not to make a sound. Surely the other can tell that he’s hurting? That simply cleaning the wounds did little help to mask the ensnarement his body is subject to? Perhaps his nephew does know, but is being sarcastic? Still, his own agitation is flaring at the younger duck’s possible naivety, and his gruff voice sounds out in between his silent grunts, “Is that supposed tae be a joke?!"

A flinch. The sailor’s face showing a brief expression of hurt before looking away, one hand coming to scratch behind his head.

The rich duck is left to blink in surprise, his body finally settling against the bed and pain numbing again to a more tolerant level. The logical part of his brain, now able to work properly, realizing Donald did indeed know of his discomfort, but was simply attempting to show his concern. Replaying his reply over in his head, he mentally curses at the harshness of his tone.

A heavy sigh, the old duck frustrated with himself, he offers up an awkward apology, “That’s...nae what ah...a-ah didnae mean...”

His nephew shakes his head to silence the other, still keeping eye contact with anything but the one on the bed, “No, it’s fine. It was a dumb question.”

The subject is dropped just like that, and they sit in silence, avoiding each other’s gaze. The rich duck grips the blankets at his side, fiddling with them in uneasiness. Neither of them is quick to resolve the tension building in the air, and normally now would be the time Scrooge would take his leave, not knowing what else to do or say. Donald would normally be the one left behind as the two would mentally argue at themselves for letting it end like that.

However, the Scottish duck can’t escape in this situation, quite literally trapped in his own home. His nephew shows no signs of abandoning the hope of a decent conversation as he turns and sits on the bed at his uncle’s knees. Clearly this is going to happen, and it’s going to happen now, whether either of them like it or not. Donald’s face is unreadable, starring at his webbed feet on the carpeted floor.

Scrooge contemplates yelling at the other to leave, even if just to relieve the awkwardness of this situation, though he quickly dismisses the thought. He doesn’t truly desire the sailor to leave, just to say what’s on the other’s mind. Why is so hard to talk to his own nephew?

The elderly avian had been waiting for a moment such as this all day to address what had happened that morning; to apologize for what he had said. Although happy to see Donald come through his door, he also felt his own inhibitions surface at having said opportunity suddenly available. He was almost hoping for a bit more time to find the right words and gain the knowledge of how to approach the situation.

Scrooge nearly jumps when the younger of the two abruptly begins the conversation on his own accord, tone unsure and brief, “Look, I...I just wanted to...say thanks.”

A blink, “Eh? Fer what?”

A timid smile, almost invisible to the naked eye, as he glances in the other’s direction, “For saving my life.”

The confused avian’s beak opens slightly in surprise. This is not what the conversation was supposed to be about. But before he can say anything in retaliation, Donald continues on, “If you hadn’t ‘ve pushed me outta the way...”

His gaze on the floor again, his expression turns troubled as the memory runs through his mind. The boulder swinging down the hill at breakneck speed, intent on bloodshed. He remembers staring up at the rocky face as if it would be the last thing he’d ever see, memorizing every detail as it seemed to happen in slow motion. The sailor had been on several dangerous missions in the past, but in that one moment of impending death, when the threat of the future of his nephews could easily have slipped from his fingers, and he could have never sought after reconciliation with the man who had raised him, Donald froze. But he wasn’t ready to die.

Donald had seen Huey, Dewey, and Louie’s first steps, first words, first difference in personalities. He’d been there for potty training, nightmares, and education. But would he live to see their first car? Their first crush? Their graduation? Their children?

And Uncle Scrooge, the old miser who had taken him and Della in when their parents died to raise as his own, the man he had come to know behind the gruff exterior, the hero he had looked up to when growing up; was Donald really going to die and leave the already broken duck behind believing he despised the old man for his sister’s disappearance?

No, Donald had too much to live for. He can’t die now. The sailor wasn’t ready to freely give away the fate of the triplets to the next of kin, and he can’t depart this world to leave the wealthy duck like so many had already. But as that stone rushed towards him, and all those thoughts entered his head at once, he found himself stuck in the same spot, unable to move a muscle.

Until hands, ones he was all too familiar with, grabbed ahold of his body and brought him into reality. Though before his own body came back to him, the hands were already pushing against him and he was flying through the air a short distance away. It was then when his body collided with the ground and rolled that he became aware of himself again, and just who had saved him from his certain demise. Instinctually, his head flipped up to see his savior, eyes glued to the scene playing out before them.

Scrooge, the elderly duck who had been visibly in pain that day, surely because of an old arthritic wound, had moved faster than Donald had ever seen him move before. At one moment the entrepreneur had been a good distance away with the children, and the next he was standing in the exact spot the sailor had but a moment before.

His arms were still outstretched before him, panting heavily, body in a pained stance, and expression that of panic. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, Donald’s face contorting into one of terror at the sudden realization of their change in position. The rich duck never once turned to face the oncoming threat; gaze stuck on his nephew.

But the sight that would forever haunt Donald was the second before the rock had struck. As the pair exchanged a look, his uncle’s blue-green eyes glancing over his frame rapidly and intently, as if insuring the other was unharmed, Scrooge’s expression fell into what the sailor could only describe as relief. Relief that his child was ok, and acceptance for his own fate.

Donald’s eyes only grew larger at the sight. The old body seemed to relax for a moment, before the stone connected with its target, and the sickening sound of bones crunching and cracking as the rich duck’s body gave way under the boulder’s weight echoed in the forest and in the minds of the family witnessing.

The sailor shakes his head to clear the trauma from his mind, finally turning to look at the entrepreneur, “Why’d you do it? After this morning and...everything that’s happened...I thought you’d scold me for not getting outta the way in time, but...you haven’t even brought it up.”

Scrooge is watching him closely; eyebrows furrow together at his question. His good arm moves behind him and pushes his painful torso up with a wince, “Donald...lad...”

His nephew is ready to push him back down, when he stops the younger duck with a hand to the cheek, his eyes sincere and concerned, “Do ye really think ah’d let anythin’ happen tae ye?”

The sailor looks at him for a moment, studying the other and contemplating his response, before frowning and turning his head away, out of the other’s reach. As much as he wants to believe that, how can he?

Scrooge’s hand faulters in the air at the rejection, before lowering it to his chest, heart aching at the memory that pries itself back into his mind. He’d be a liar to say he’ll always keep his family safe; he’ll always protect them. How can he so freely speak those words after what happened to Donald’s own twin sister? His gaze lowers to the sheets, shame rising within himself. He won’t meet his nephew’s disappointed eyes.

10 years. It’s been 10 years and they haven’t spoken at all about that day. Their silence is only doing more damage to the relationship the old duck has been trying to repair. This can’t continue; it’s not healthy. The only way to truly mend the bond that was severed is to put them both in a vulnerable spot, to strip away their guards, break down their walls, and really talk.

Scrooge sighs heavily. Relaying his own feelings, let alone talking about them, has never been easy. From a young age he learned to turn off his emotions after being backstabbed time and time again in his search for riches. Becoming a cold-hearted sourdough may have been lonely at times and pushed anyone who tried to get close to him away, but being alone was easier than dealing with the betrayal from anyone using him to get rich themselves.

However, after years of being distant and emotionally cut off, he found it difficult to reverse the effects. When his niece and nephew came to live with him several years ago, he hadn’t realized how harshly he came across. He was certain they had hated him. Though after a long period of time raising the two, something began to stir inside that he’d thought long dead. Money was no longer the only thing that brought joy to his life, smiles weren’t so rare, and laughter not so unnatural.

Scrooge had made huge strides since his days in the Klondike, but that didn’t mean his emotions came as easy as anyone else. They still seemed out of reach most of the time; he’d catch himself being too cold often when it was already too late and trying to find the words to translate his feelings were near impossible.

Clearing his throat, which felt much to dry, he launches head-first into what he can only hope will be a discussion with a positive outcome, “What...What happened back then...”

Donald’s eyes flick to him in their owner’s peripheral vision, arms crossed in uncertainty.

Scrooge’s eyebrows furrow in agitation, “Ah should’ve seen it comin’. Ah raised ye kids fer 20 years! Ah should’ve known she’d take it as soon as ah turned me back!” Because that’s what ah would’ve done.

The sailor almost chokes in surprise, not expecting this to come up now of all times. His uncle must be delirious from his concussion. Why does he want to talk about this now?! Donald hoped they’d never have this conversation, that if they ignored it for long enough, their relationship might still go back to the way it was before.

But he knows that’s ridiculous. He’s had a decade to sort through his own emotions about what happened, but never put much thought into it. The sailor was thrown into parenthood immediately after the incident and had to put his own emotions aside.

Then there was Scrooge, who wallowed in his own self-loathing and blame for the past 10 years. Della had taken the rocket, but he had built it. It wasn’t enough to just lose his niece in that one act, but he also lost his nephew and great nephews too in the same moment. His life, full of happiness and family, suddenly broken and lonely.

Donald had thought many a time of coming back to the mansion, talking things over with his uncle, or even pretending nothing happened and simply moving on. But every time the thought came in his head, he talked himself out of it, still too confused about his own feelings of the situation. Of course, there’s disbelief, disapproval, betrayal, anger, and sadness to name a few. But hatred? No. He doesn’t hate his uncle, nor his sister.

He believes Scrooge shouldn’t have built the rocket at that time, but Della had been the one take it. Their uncle didn’t force his sister to leave, he didn’t even tell her about it. She had been the one to find out and taken it in secret. Was he upset with her? Yes, but that was Della. She was always the risk taker of the two, the adventurous one. He can’t hate her for that.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the injured avian continues in his admission, “...Ah’ve thought it over so many times. Ah knoo ah shouldnae ‘ve encouraged her, not when she was expectin’ three wee ones! Ah should’ve seen past mah own excitement an’ done what was right, not go an’ taunt her with teh world’s greatest adventure in history!”

The wealthy duck’s anger is rising. He’s still not meeting his nephew’s gaze, and his good hand is moving about erratically with him. Gripping the skin between his beak and forehead in exasperation, his voice rising slightly, he all but growls out the words, “Of course she would take it, ah took the blueprints and practically laid it in her lap! She was always good at sniffin’ out surprises, it didnae matter how well ah hid it! Ah shouldnae ‘ve built that blasted rocket in teh first place!” His fist shakes the bed as it connects beside him.

Donald blinks, taken aback by his outburst and now the trembles that have started in his uncle’s body. The feathered head is lowered, but the sailor can still make out the tears welling up in Scrooge’s dark eyes. He’d been listening silently to the old man’s rages, taking in everything said.

Scrooge’s voice struggles to keep steady, “...Ah searched for that accursed Spear for so long...”

He still clearly recalls the day the members of his Board had quite literally dragged him out of the room as he was yet again attempting to make contact with the lost rocket. Too much time had gone by, they had said, there was no hope. But he knows it was the funds that drove them more than anything else to put an end to his desperate search.

Money had been the last thing on his mind, even when his Bin had lowered to levels he hadn’t seen in nearly a century. Every coin; he knew where every coin in that Bin had come from, and the story behind it. It was more than just money, it was his memories, his souvenirs of the past. At one time, they meant more than anything to him. But he had willingly given them away, quite literally burned them in the rockets he sent out to find his lost niece. Money could be made again, and more memories could replace the ones that would be forgotten. It would all be worth it, he kept telling himself, if he could just find her.

He swallows, “...but ah failed."

His head lifts, finally meeting Donald’s own teary-eyed gaze, “When ah saw that boulder comin’ at ye...”

The sailor is reminded of the creaks in the branches at the weight of the stone rushing towards him, the way the world seemed to take pause and hold its breath.

Scrooge’s head shakes just barely back and forth, “Your needed here, Donald.”

The memory of being pushed and meeting the unforgiving ground, sliding and earning scrapes in the process.

“Teh boys need ye, ah-“ he cuts himself off, a bit too soon for the sailor’s liking as he notices Scrooge’s hand trying to gesture to himself. Ah need ye. The pause is short as the wealthy duck’s face grows grim, “Ah can’t fail them...you, a second time.”

The relieved face of his uncle just before the sound of bones snapping haunts Donald’s mind.

He watches in awe as he witnesses the mighty Scrooge McDuck, the Master of the Mississippi, the Buckaroo of the Badlands, the Terror of the Transvaal, the King of the Klondike, the Richest Duck in the World, cry for the first time in his life. Donald had been convinced he physically couldn’t, but stares at the tear that roles down his uncle’s face before dropping onto the blankets below.

His mind is racing, and memories are flooding it, “Donald, ah knoo ye worry fer them, but ye can-” “I can what? Trust you?! I think you’ve made it very apparent that I can’t! Do you know how sad it is that I trust children more than I trust the adult with them?!”

His eyebrows furrow together, coming back to the present time. Scrooge had literally sacrificed himself to protect Donald, knowing full well the danger that awaited him. The sailor thinks back, many a time has he seen and been subject to the old man using himself as a shield to protect his family. If the wealthy duck had been on the Spear of Selene when Della had launched it, would he then too have put himself in harm’s way to keep her safe?

After everything he’s witnessed, after his life being saved, can he, does he, trust his uncle?

He does.

Donald would unquestionably put his own life in his uncle’s hands, knowing he would be safe. Scrooge would do anything to protect the one’s he loves.

Tears spring forth in the younger duck’s eyes, falling freely down his face and onto his sleeves. The young duckling that had lived in this very house and spent the majority of his life with his uncle resurfaces, and before the older half of him can put a stop to it, he’s throwing himself at the other in a tight embrace.

A grunt escapes the elder duck as they fall back onto the bed together, landing on the pillows. Scrooge’s body aches and throbs painfully under his nephew’s weight, and the tight hug makes his ribs cry out, but he only returns the embrace with his good arm as a relieved smile forms on his features.

The sailor’s tears wet the both of them as he sniffles out, “You’re needed too. The boys...and I need you. I thought you died today, and it was my fault! Don’t you ever put yourself in danger like that again! I missed ya, Unca Scrooge.”

That’s enough to bring yet another tear down the entrepreneur’s cheek. He’d been afraid he’d never hear that again. His embrace tightens, snuggling his face closer to the younger duck, “...And ah you, lad.”

Donald’s voice is small, timid like a shy duckling, “...ya think, maybe, I can stay in the pool a while longer?”

A grin against his cheek, “Teh longer teh better.”

-----------

Mrs. Beakley sighs as she finally returns to the mansion. The line at the check-out was long, everyone apparently needing something at the same time. Now that she at last had the pain meds, she filled a glass of water and made her way to her employer’s room, passing a living room full of sleeping ducklings along the way.

Reaching the bedroom, she turns the handle quietly, in case the old duck has already fallen asleep. As her eyes adjust, she’s startled at the sight that awaits her: Scrooge McDuck, sleeping on his back, right where she left him. In his right wing, Donald Duck, snuggled up to his uncle’s side, head resting on the elder’s chest and arm draped over him in an embrace, fast asleep.

The spy doesn’t hide the smile that comes to her face. It’s good to see the two have finally made up it seems. Perhaps it wasn’t the rich duck’s pain that kept him awake, but rather his own conscience. Careful to wake the sleeping duo, she pulls the door shut once more, leaving them to their peaceful slumber.

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postgradfeverdream · 5 years

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On bodies and time

There is a 50-60 year gap between my age and those with whom I spend my time at Chateau Lescure. My hosts are 85 and 68 years old respectively, and our gatherings with their friends balance the median between them to a ripe 75.

I do not mind the valley of time between us; in fact, I cherish it. I do not know what to attribute to their voracity for life (magic herb? Everlasting spring at the base of a tree?), but my hosts and their friends seem to command time backwards. They swim endlessly in the lake, bike at breakneck speed down mountains, and canoe standing up. It is as if their golden years never knew how to dull.

Michel enjoys rediscovering medieval trails and organizing group hikes along them. On these hikes, I find myself walking in tandem with another person for stretches of time that invite personal questions: I ask fellow hikers about the first thud of falling in love. What it was like when they knew which career made their heart flutter. How they experienced war. What it was like to hold their first grandchild.

Their eyes always search. Perhaps it takes time to sift through years and years of living. I imagine there is a space in our minds which store the moments worth passing on to prying 20-something year olds. When asked, people usually have something beautiful to share.

I love to hear how a person filled the time between the benchmarks of growing older - those liminal stretches of insignificance that comprise a lifetime. I have hiked alongside a retired French professor at Oxford, an economic analyst for the World Bank, and a restorer of historic wallpaper. I have been the listening ear to a woman who described how Wuthering Heights flung her medical degree offcourse for a career in English literature. At a dinner party, I sat beside a mathematics professor at the University of Chicago who found God in the lines of an equation.

Among the older generations I meet, there is an inescapable awareness of time's steady ticking. One Sunday, we sit around the dinner table with some of my host's friends. Although the meal brims with life and laughter, we dine with arthitis, deafness, memory loss, a brain tumor, and cancer. We treat one another with care as we pass the wine, advice, and braised chicken around the table. We include and we adjust according to each person's ability. This is what must be done for us all to have a seat at the table.

Living here has been an exercise in what I can anticipate about aging and what I cannot. There are the facets of time's passage that are obvious: the paths that each smile will etch around my mouth and eyes, each frown and moment of confusion stored between my eyebrows in sweeping valleys. Freckles will dot my shoulders like constellations. Perhaps stretch marks from motherhood will reach across my belly, hoping to connect to the other side.

It's not that I am afraid of my body's evolution.

I am afraid of forgetting the familiar flight of my fingers on a piano. To laugh with my sister. To walk miles and miles without direction. To lift a child.

Perhaps, one day, my memories will evaporate. I think I am afraid of that most.

Among my elderly friends, I feel my youth more acutely. I appreciate the flexibility of my body, the ease of my tendons, knees, and the dexterity of my fingers unhindered by pain and arthritis. I hear what they can no longer: the telephone ringing inside while we are in the garden, the calls for the other spouse from one side of the house to the other. I remind them of their daily pills at breakfast and carry our basket at the farmer's market, heavy with future meals.

I notice small hills forming at the peaks of my arms, straining from lifting buckets of water each morning and afternoon to sheep and chickens. I now fly up the winding stairs of the tower which once left me panting. I feel happy in my skin.

Concurrently, I am discovering how fragile bodies are: my arms, scratched each evening from wading into rose thorns. The tension stored in my back from hunching over weeds. The nettles which send my skin on fire at the briefest touch.

I am learning about the strengths, flexibility, and fragility of my mind, as well. I notice how my mental wellbeing changes with the influx of fresh vegetables, sunshine, and movement. I observe the simultaneous loneliness of solo travel as well as the need for isolation and learning how to balance the two. I test the limits of my anxiety and forgive myself if the anxiety wins out.

A lot of uninterrupted time passes in my mind here, which is not always a peaceful place to rest. I frequently retreat to the nearby creek to read or skip stones. Sometimes, I sit by a window at the top of the tower and simply hide.

Sophie and Michel's 2 1/2 year old granddaughter, Ellen, arrived a few days ago. Knowing the fragility of my own body makes me aware of hers; perhaps she, too, may wander into nettles and graze rose thorns.

She seems fearless, however; while cautious at first, she now wraps her arms around my legs in a tight hug. We even water the garden together and take turns counting the seconds that it takes to quench the thirst of a stalk of corn.

One, deux, three, quatre, five...

After spending so much time with people a century older than her, her mind's plasticity charms me. The constant changeability of the world enchants her: the flickering of my hands over my face reveals a syncopated raising and lowering of my mouth's corners. Smile, frown, smile, frown. Cue Ellen's ecstatic giggling.

Like Ellen, the world's changeability delights me, too. The beans I planted weeks ago now waver in green, young stems. The rose buds I pruned now blossom and lettuce falls open in concentric circles.

I am filling time here with moments I hope my eyes will search for when I am older, distilled into wisdom to pass onto a curious 20-something year old. Maybe I will be able to recollect the taste of sugar cookies with electrifying sherbert made from the red currants I collected. The nightly task of herding the chickens to their coop to sleep. The solo ten-mile hike when I slurped apricots in the grass overlooking volcanic mountains. The way Ellen spins when I play piano for her and the taste of fresh bread at breakfast. I'll fix these memories in the space I think they are stored and hope that time lets me fall in love with them again.

- Em

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insanityclause · 5 years

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Every day, after lunch, Joan Bakewell has an assignation with a pre-booked bedroom at Durrants Hotel in London. In another time, another life, that might have been the start of a racy anecdote, but the veteran broadcaster, who is filming her television show Portrait Artist of the Year across the street, has distinctly unromantic intentions.

“I have a snooze,” she says happily. “Just 20 minutes. Excellent. We’re on the set at seven and go on until seven at night. What was really touching was that the producers came to me and said, ‘We know how old you are, obviously — what one thing would make your day easier?’ I said, ‘If I was at home, I’d have a snooze.’ They said, ‘OK, done!’ So they’ve provided that for me at their expense. Good man management.”

Bakewell went from thinking-man’s crumpet (the tag that has accompanied her unfailingly since it was given to her in the 1960s by the comedian Frank Muir) presenting the pioneering discussion programme Late Night Line-Up, to a tsar for the elderly about 40 years later. She was appointed by the Labour government in 2008 to give a campaigning voice to those over 60. “I’m known for being old as much as anything these days,” she tells me, looking amused. “When Harriet Harman asked me to be the voice of older people, everybody said, ‘Yes, well she is, so that’s why she’s doing it.’ Bakewell has since stepped down from the role, but was made a Labour peer in 2011 and sits in the House of Lords at least three days a week.

“Do I mind about the perception of me as old? By the time you get to my age, you don’t care, you know,” she says, laughing. “There’s no point in pretending you’re a young chick. Long, long gone. Been old for ever. I’ve been over 60 for 25 years.”

We are sitting in the airy living room of the north London mews house to which she has recently downsized, two-storey walls lined floor to ceiling with books. The garden, glimpsed through the large sliding glass doors, is under construction. Clad in citron sweater and smart navy trousers and shoes (not flat), Bakewell looks nowhere near 85.

She has a casual, beguiling warmth, and it’s no surprise that men fell at her feet. Married twice (first to the radio producer Michael Bakewell and then the theatre director Jack Emery), she famously had an eight-year affair with the playwright Harold Pinter during her first marriage, which inspired his play, and subsequent 1983 film, Betrayal, directed by David Jones. Now contentedly on her own, how important has love been for her?

“It’s been very important,” she says. “It is important. I’ve got loads and loads of friends and had two marriages and make bonds quite easily. The kind of imperative of sexual urges falls away, thank God, and doesn’t torment you like it did once. But close bonds with people are very important to me. I continue to find people attractive and interesting. You know how it is.

“If the producers of the series said that, for instance, Tom Hiddleston was coming in to be a portrait artist, I’d go, “Ooooh, how lovely . . . mmm!” And they’d all go, ‘You’re meant to be past this,’ and I’m not exactly. To that extent I’m not a dead, inert piece of rubbish, I’m still human. He’s wonderful.” She met Richard Madden, the Bodyguard actor, at a wedding. “I hadn’t really registered who he was, but I remember thinking, ‘Who’s that enormously handsome man?’ He was very charming, but I only met him in passing.

“I clocked him, and certainly saw him on TV. Fantastic! I love talent, you see. I don’t want to sound as if I’m a groupie, but if someone is a brilliant actor, it’s tremendously moving, or a painter, or musician. I love the quality that people bring to concentration when they’re not concentrating on me. I quite like lovers concentrating on me, but when they’re concentrating on what they’re doing, I watch with fascination. The creative impulse is enormously attractive in other people, and it brings out something in you, calls for a response, doesn’t it?”

Among the many paintings on the walls, there is one of her by the Scottish artist John Bellany and she must have inspired poetry, surely? But no. “Harold wrote Betrayal, but that was long after our affair was over, and drew on all that information, but it wasn’t to me because he was married to Antonia [Fraser]. Antonia wrote me a very nice letter saying, ‘It’s a very strong play, you mustn’t be upset by it.’ ” That was generous-hearted of her, I say. “Well, we were all friends,” Bakewell states, matter-of-factly. “In the papers it all looked like strange people were offending each other, but that wasn’t the case at all.”

She regards her Sky series (which she calls Bake Off with paint — “People get really hooked on it” — and presents with the actor Stephen Mangan) as a wonderful late godsend. “It has transformed my life.” Her first co-presenter was the comedian Frank Skinner. “In fact, I went to the opera with him last night, we’ve become good friends. He really loves opera and so do I, and I don’t have any close friends who do, so I can say, ‘Hey, Frank, I’ve got tickets!’”

Bakewell has two children, Matthew and Harriet, and six grandchildren. But last year, after 53 years, she decided to sell the house that had been the family home. “The stairs were getting more than I could cope with, and it was too big for me. It was a huge undertaking, a voyage of Ulysses. They say it’s as bad as divorce.” Everything that happened in her adult life had happened while she was living there: “But closing the door on the last day, the family were all there, helping, but we were all too exhausted for it to be poignant.”

Despite the upheaval of moving into the mews house, she is enjoying it. “I’ve embarked on creating something new. The first night I thought, ‘This is the future, I’ve made the right decision.’ I’m going to stay here for ever, I’m not going anywhere else.

“And I knew when you’re 85 you’re going to have to think about when illness strikes. There’s a small bedsit upstairs, which I’ve kitted out with a little oven and a fridge and things, and that’s where the carer will be. It’s a guest room now, but I’m ready.” A care home, even a good one with string quartets and lectures and outings, is, she says, not going to suit her.

“Knowing yourself is probably the secret, isn’t it? I’m enormously convivial, but I like to come home and just be peaceful. Be on my own. It’s in my character to do what I want with my life, say yes to the good things. And life is good. I’m due to have new hearing aids, and I’ve got a metal hip and I’ve got arthritis, and I wear glasses. I mean, it’s falling apart slowly, but I do believe in holding the bits together.

“I don’t look too far ahead, as the route’s getting shorter. What’s next is to concentrate on the things that I enjoy, and if I’m asked to do work, to do it to the best of my ability, to enjoy my friends and family. Enjoy this place I’ve created, getting the garden planted. I’m hoping to take up two new things I’ve never done before: gardening and birdwatching. My daughter has already got me a bird bath. So when I’m really old I shall sit at this window — it slides right open — and watch the birds. I shall grow lots of herbs. New skills. There’s still time, you know. Plenty of people get to 100 years old.”

JOAN BAKEWELL’S PERFECT WEEKEND

Caribbean cruise or skiing in Verbier? Oh, Caribbean cruise

Favourite tipple? A good brandy

Signature dish? Liver and capers, my children’s favourite

Last person you texted? My daughter, we text most days

I couldn’t get through the weekend without . . . Going to a movie. I like the Curzon in Bloomsbury, such an attractive place

Portrait Artist of the Year is on Sky Arts on Tuesdays at 8pm

#I hope she gets tickets to Press Night

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thespringertails · 5 years

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It’s been a year since Millie’s had three legs

okay so it was actually a year at about the twentyth, and i had this big post written out and ready to post, but i clicked save and tumblr decided, nah, not today. :) that’s fun. That doesn’t really matter anymore i just want to give you some photo’s and a little text of Millie progress before Willows birthday tomorrow. Because this little girl, has been cancer free for a full year, she’s learnt how to walk and live again. Although it was very hard in the beginning she’s done so much as she’s always been a strong willed pup who wanted to live and cancer wasn’t going to take that away from her. Neither was having three legs going to slow her down.

If you want to see photo’s of her progress, I’m going to show them below, however the scars from her surgery will be shown and they are quite big and graphic.

Here’s her first night back from surgery, she bled surprisingly less than when she had the initial lump of to discover if it was cancerous. She was completely unable to move, about 4kg over weight, drugged out of her mind. At 2AM that night she ate scrambled egg.

The next morning she had her first post op vet visit, which was difficult as my dad was away, my mam has cerebral palsy down her right hand side so has little muscle. So me and my brother hoisted a 20kg dog in the vets in a blanket. (I could lift her before but i used to put my arm under her shoulder, and i couldn’t touch that anymore). When she returned from the vets, she walked for the first time and urinated for the first time, already perfecting a pee ‘squat’.

About a week later she was able to completely squat enough to poo, but the medication she was on was supposed to make her constipated anyway.

The nights after her operation me and my mam took turns sleeping on the couch next to her, because we’re both light sleepers. She’s always slept downstairs in her basket alone, but she seemed a lot more scared now, understandably.

The year that followed, she gained a new, almost £90 worth harness, learned to walk again, learned to jump up to catch snowballs, to jump up on the couch. She gets lifted up the stairs and in the cars because she does have arthritis, and i don’t think it’s safe for her to climb the stairs by herself. She can climb a small amount of steps, and she can go down by herself (but she’s not allowed).

The big snow storm we got in march was a blessing in a way because it covered all the footpaths so she had a soft landing on her first walks. Also as snowballs are her favorite thing to catch, she pushed herself extra hard and strengthened her back legs to jump for snowballs.

She also gained a little, ‘friend’ to help motivate her, they’ve both had there time in protecting each other even if they don’t always get along, Willow has helped to push Millie to walk further, and Millie has given Willow confidence as she quite a nervous dog alone.

She had a holiday in the lake district in summer, where she truly thrived, we discovered that she could still swim, and she walked for miles. She impressed other tourists and had the time of her life. One of the things we promised Millie when we thought she was going to die was we would take her to the lakes one last time.

Over this year she also lost 3.5kg in weight, and is almost her target weight. She’s developed so much and i’m so proud of her progress, I’m going to add some photo’s below now which show that.

Apologies for the strange structure of this post, and the bad quality of most of the photos, here’s a bonus very recent photo of Millie!

Also if you have any questions on tripod or elderly dog care, please ask, I’ve learned a lot this year and I’d love to share my knowledge with others!

#tripod #dogblr #millie

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redditnosleep · 6 years

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Has Anyone Else Seen This Strange Infomercial?

by crystakat. Warning for child abuse.

February 11th

Let me tell you the secret of the century: being a single parent is hard. Yeah, of course it’s worth it and all, but I’m not sure how anyone does this for eighteen years. Shift at the hospital, hurry home and check on Tommy, four hours of shut-eye tops, then another eight hours working retail, rinse and repeat. It’s awesome.

With a schedule that tight, you think I’d froth at the mouth for the chance to get some extra sleep, but lately my insomnia’s getting real bad. The circles under my eyes are starting to look like a permanent fixture. When Tommy’s crying is ringing in my ears and I feel like I’m about to shatter into little pieces, there’s only one outlet: late-night TV. Infomercials, to be exact. More infomercials than you can count.

Sitting in front of the ghostly blue glow of the screen is just about the only thing that helps distract from a one-year-old’s incessant wailing. Yeah, yeah, before you revoke my “good parenting” card, I’ll have you know Tommy cries over nothing. The kid’s fed and watered, but he’ll scream like it’s the end of the world.

There’s no feeling quite like slipping into a near-fugue state at two in the morning with the words buy now, and we’ll throw in a free pack of refills! ringing around in your head, like ping-pong balls ricocheting in an empty room. At some point, if you’re lucky, you’ll slip into unconsciousness and wake up with your face mashed into the couch.

I’ve pretty much seen them all by now. Catalogued in them head. There’s the blender that promises to make meal prep 5000% more efficient, the hairdryer from heaven, the neck-cushioner that’ll cure your arthritis, the vacuum cleaner that connects to Bluetooth and probably can sleep with your wife. A hundred perky men and women going on about weight loss pills and makeup and kitchen knives and towels that’ll revolutionize your life, no really, we promise or your money back.

Well, all except one. Last night, I saw a new infomercial that I’m still not quite sure if I hallucinated or not. It was maybe 3AM, and my mind was throbbing, pulsing inside my skull. I’d all but given up on sleep. The blonde woman on the screen had just finished her spiel about cubic zirconia jewelry, and then this way-too-catchy jingle was blaring from the TV:

Spleeno! Spleeno all your worries away! Spleeno! Spleeno makes a better today!

It was a chorus of high-pitched voices, I think, something childish like you’d hear in a toy commercial. The lyrics to the jingle flashed across the screen in fat, cartoonish letters.

Next, there was one of those “before” montages. You know, the clips of people cracking eggs onto the floor or groaning about their bad back, before the miracle product swoops in to save them. It was pretty standard: a black-and-white shot of a young woman applying mascara in the mirror, making an exaggerated mess of it by smudging it all over her eyelids. She frowned at the finished result. The camera zoomed in on her clumped-together lashes. The whole time, this glum, almost comically sad tune played in the background.

It transitioned into a full-color scene of the woman beaming into the mirror. The words SPLEENO! hung above her head, and the music was now generically upbeat. Look. I hadn’t slept in around thirty-six hours, and I’d started to feel like my brain was melting out of my ears, so I don’t know what I saw. But it sure as hell looked like this pretty girl brought a pair of tweezers up to her eyelids and began plucking out her lashes, one by one, all with a TV-ready smile splayed across her face. No time lapse or anything. It might have gone on for five minutes or fifteen. When it was finished, she almost looked normal, but if you looked close, you could see her completely bare lids.

The infomercial ended with the SPLEENO! jingle playing again while the woman beamed into the camera. She picked up a tube of mascara, looked at it, then tossed it aside. It was so strange that I figured it had to be a parody, complete with an “after” montage of overacting and smiling. I know this sounds crazy, but afterwards, I felt almost relieved. Like some small weight I didn’t even know was there had been taken off my shoulders.

Then Tommy’s crying started up again, and the feeling was lost.

February 13th

I saw it again last night. Honest to god. I actually did pass out for around an hour before waking up, feeling like absolute crap. I peeled myself off the couch to check on Tommy. He was sleeping for once, and I promptly returned to the living room to tune in to my favorite channel.

I watched the same toaster infomercial twice before it came on again. When the jingle started, my heart sped up: Spleeno! Spleeno all your worries away! Spleeno! Spleeno makes a better today! Whatever this was, it had one hell of a catchy tune. The kind that crops up in your mind at the worst of moments.

Call it morbid curiosity. I wanted to see what was going to play this time. It was too early to be an April Fool’s prank, but maybe it was all a joke by someone with a seriously weird sense of humor, or promo for an upcoming movie.

The jingle ended, and the colors quickly faded to black and white. I watched as a middle-aged man came on screen. He was dressed in his pajamas, his hair tousled in a TV version of a messy bedhead. He stood in front of the mirror and cupped his cheek with a grimace, then opened his mouth to inspect his teeth: they were yellow and crooked, some of them sitting at angles that looked downright painful. I could see black spots of rot on his molars. He poured a cupful of mouthwash and gargled, but his face creased as if he was in agony and he quickly spit it all down the drain.

The scene shifted, and the now-technicolored man was dressed smartly in work clothes, his hair slicked down with gel. SPLEENO! danced across the screen in burning pink letters. The counter was littered with teeth. He looked into his mirror and smiled, revealing a completely toothless mouth with raw, bloody gums. I should have been disgusted, but that reaction never came. Instead I was... fascinated. The man didn’t look to be in pain. He seemed almost elated. And why shouldn’t he be? His pain was gone. I wondered how he felt—light, carefree. I felt a little scared for feeling the way I did, but I couldn’t deny it, either.

Afterwards, I stuck around to watch a mattress commercial, but found that my eyes closed of their own volition, and I finally fell into shallow, dreamless sleep. I woke up feeling unsatisfied, like I’d had some unfinished business in a dream, but couldn’t remember what.

February 17th

I’ve stayed up every night since Tuesday and it hasn’t come on a single time. I know what I saw, but at the same time I’m starting to doubt myself. Maybe I dreamed it all up. Either way, I haven’t slept a minute in three nights.

I almost crashed the car during a milk run for formula and diapers this morning. Tommy is driving me up the wall. I could swear he wakes up and starts sounding off the minute I get home, and shuts up once I’m at work. God, I wish I had the money for a sitter. Just one night of peace and quiet might be enough. Nothing around me seems solid, anymore. It’s like the world is slipping away, and there’s only me, a sack of blood and bones dragging itself to places that feel like hollow imprints. I know I look like shit, but I’m finding it hard to care.

I wonder if this is how people lost in the desert feel, when they see that last mirage of cool water.

February 18th

It came on at 1AM. I can’t explain it, but the moment I heard the first notes to the jingle, I felt a wave of relief crashing down on me. The world felt real again.

I kept my eyes glued to the screen. There was an elderly woman this time, walking down a set of stairs to that same sad tune. With her coiffed gray hair and red sweater, she looked like a character out of a Christmas movie, the sweet old lady about to serve her grandkids chocolate-chip cookies with a smile. She wasn’t smiling now, though. Each time her right foot made contact with the steps, she winced, quickly shifting her weight to her left. Bad knee. Once she got to the bottom, she rested on the banister and caught her breath. The next few clips showed her hobbling around the house—I realized it was the same one the others were shot in—and clutching at her kneecap every few seconds.

Right then, it was as if I could feel the pain shooting up my leg, too. I wanted her to be free of it. I wanted to feel light again. I watched as the TV cut to a close-up shot of the old woman sleeping in bed. Her gray hair was spread out on the pillow like a halo. The camera slowly pulled out, revealing the rest of her nightgown-clad body and the smooth, round stump of her right leg. I noticed it’d been severed just above the knee, and it looked to have healed completely, the skin intact except for a line of white scarring. I examined her face. With her mouth curled into a smile, she was the picture of tranquility. I couldn’t help but smile myself. Her pain was gone now, discarded with the unbearable weight of all that putrid flesh. For the first time in a long time, I felt at ease, perfectly content, even. I kept smiling as the jingle ran again.

Spleeno! Spleeno all your worries away! Spleeno! Spleeno makes a better today!

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, but I kept grinning anyway, enjoying the way those words rolled off my tongue.

February 20th

Yesterday was the best one yet! I didn’t go to work, just in case I’d miss it while I was gone. Tommy was crying as usual, and he was annoying as ever, but I didn’t let him distract me.

I kept my attention on the TV. The infomercial came on around midnight—earlier than usual. It featured a man and his dog. A golden retriever. Even with the grainy quality, I could see that it was a beautiful specimen, its coat sleek and its eyes bright. Too bad it just wouldn’t shut up. Its barking went on and on, all through the night, and my heart clenched with sympathy as the man groaned and clapped his hands over his ears. The barks seemed to grow in volume until it was unbearable. I shook my head as the man tried a pair of earplugs to block out the noise. I knew all too well those didn’t work. Tommy’s cries could penetrate through anything.

I was on the edge of my seat waiting for what came next. The black-and-white gave way to color, and the man went from tired and groggy to well-rested. He got up from bed and stretched, then went to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee, humming the whole time. As a stream of coffee poured into his mug, I noticed a large yellowish mass lying on the kitchen floor. The dog’s body looked broken, and its head was stained with a bloom of red, but the man’s newfound happiness was so infectious that I hardly paid it any attention. The now-familiar SPLEENO! hung above the pair. I realized my face was wet with tears of joy. The man had gotten what he wanted: silence. The tears kept coming even after the screen went black.

Spleeno. It’s a wonderful sound. A wonderful word. It takes all your worries away. It makes you realize you have to hold on, and if something’s standing in the way, then you have to get rid of it.

That night, I slept like a baby.

#creepy #horror story #author: crystakat #child abuse warning

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