I barged in on my husband while he was in his study yesterday. He jumped in surprise, swung around from his computer and said “What?”. His face was red, so right away I figured he was up to something. Turns out he was reading my blog.
Now, normally it is a matter of pride for him that he doesn’t read my blog. I don’t take it too personally. He is more of a facts and figures kind of guy. My blog isn’t really his kind of thing. He also likes to point out that he hears me go on and on every day, he certainly doesn’t need to read it too. I understand, there’s only so much of me one person can take.
ME: Why are you reading my blog? Have you been reading it secretly?
HIM: No. I was just wondering if you blogged about the duct tape.
ME: No, I didn’t. I think I’m a little too embarrassed on your behalf to do a blog about it.
ME: I'll blog about it if I have your permission.
Well, everybody knows that silence in response to a request for permission equals permission. So here goes the duct tape story.
First a little background to let you understand my husband’s attitude about what constitutes first aid treatment. He was a roofer and re-modeler for the first 18 years of our marriage. Sometimes the need to get a roof covered before a storm comes through overrides everything else…. including trips to the emergency room. He has…
- Pulled a nail out of his thigh that he got from resting a nail gun on his thigh with a heavy leather glove on. Apparently the glove triggered the gun on its own. I think he may have visited the doctor a few days later for a tetanus shot.. but only because I insisted.
- Sewed up a cut on his forearm himself. He said he needed to cover the roof and the blood was getting in his way.
- Closed numerous cuts and wrapped smashed fingers with duct tape in order to keep working.
His need to keep the job rolling (along with being a cheapskate) has driven him to extreme measures. He deems duct tape to be an acceptable alternative to proper bandaging.
Enter the dog… Chance. He has been scratching lately. Took him to the vet a few weeks ago. The vet couldn’t find an explanation (think we need a new vet). Over the Labor Day weekend the stupid dog scratched a raw spot on his shoulder (or are they called flanks in a dog?).
The vet was closed and I had to travel to California on Tuesday, bright and early. I left my husband in charge of making an appt. for the dog… right away. I distinctly remember saying those words.
I call Tuesday night to see how the dog is doing and find out that the vet is out of the office until Thursday. He set the appt. for early Thursday evening. I expressed concern about waiting so long and got my husband to promise to watch the dog carefully, keep cleaning the hot spot and put powder on it. I NEVER UTTERED THE WORDS DUCT TAPE.
Late Wednesday I get a picture from my daughter by cell phone. Apparently, my husband thought it would be a good idea to give the dog a duct tape yoke to keep him from scratching. I kid you not. He put some medicated powder on the sore, covered it with some paper towel and duct taped the whole thing up. He was very upset with my daughter for sending me the picture.
Not having the benefit of being there in person to give him the evil eye, my pleas to remove the tape went unheeded. I rushed home Thursday from the airport to find my poor dejected dog begging me with his eyes to undo the horrific, gooey bandage my husband had put on him. It was not a pretty process. I had to cut his fur in some spots to get it off. Plus he had sweated underneath the duct tape and stank to high heaven.
Dogs don’t talk, but Chance looked at me with his sweet, brown doggy eyes, thanking me for rescuing him and pleading with me never to be left alone with the madman again. I of course called the husband up on his cell to give him a piece of my mind, (not peace). He reported to me later that he had been in a room full of people who heard me yelling through the phone, word for word.
Chance, you ask. Well, he is doing fine. He has a cone on his head, a laundry list of medications and a sock on his foot to keep him from scratching. He will recover and his fur will grow back.
My husband's defense …. “I duct tape myself all the time.”