Don’t Worry, It’s Curable

It feels a little like the movies and tv have led me to believe calling ex-lovers to tell them about the STD you just found out you had, which is to say, a little dirty. Like we did something wrong when we really didn’t. We’re just reaping what others have sown.

Tsunami has giardia. In the scheme of things, not a huge deal. She needs five days worth of medication and her ass wiped after every poop. It also means kenneling her during the day so that she isn’t walking through her own contaminated poop while chasing a bird in the backyard. No dog park until it clears up. She’s going to be so mad at us.

The dog park is where all this began. We take her there every day so that she can get some much-needed exercise. When she’s there she gets so tired out and we haven’t been able to replicate that with any other form of exercise so we’re there every day. For the most part we know the dogs, which maybe makes this worse. They all share water and roll around in the grass. The grass where other dogs – dogs I don’t know and can’t vouch for – poop. They sniff butts, though we try to stop that because we all know that fecal-oral contamination is huge in the dog world (probably human world, too, but I hardly ever have to tell friends to stay out of my butt).

Tonight I have to go to the park without a dog and tell them all that Tsunami has an intestinal parasite and that they’re dogs should be checked out so that we don’t all keep passing it around. Tsunami can’t be the only dog to have contracted it, considering what goes on out there, but somehow it feels like she’s the one who started it, and by extension myself.

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