Insufferable Animal Lovers

I saw this post on social media. 

I glanced at it, smiled at the good things that not eating animals does, and then I moved on. I don't get on Facebook very often because there's nothing to see there except ads for stuff I don't want. So when I do hop on The Facebook, I scroll for approximately 45 seconds and then get back to whatever I was doing. Sometimes I even count to 45 to make sure I don't give it a full minute of my time. In this case, I scrolled past the happy reminder and then thought, "Hmm, I don't usually see nice things posted about veganism. I wonder how it was received." 

So then I looked at the comments. 

Out in real life, I don't bother trying to explain veganism to people. I don't usually mention that I don't eat animals and I wouldn't try to explain that I don't eat animals as an economic protest of how we treat the industrially farmed animals, which are the only ones available to buy in grocery stores. It's kind of like choosing not to have kids - people don't actually want the answer. They want me to confirm that I'm weird and selfish so that they can approve of my decision. In the case of not eating animals, they want to hear me claim that I'm better than them, so they can confirm that vegans are brainwashed snobs. (This may not be entirely universal but it's certainly what I thought about vegans....until I actually listened to some.)

In the case of the comments on this post, I became exasperated by the non-vegans' exasperation. First, I don't know why they are offended enough to try to deny the post. It's not about them. What does it have to do with their existence? (Seems like it hit a nerve.) Second, I don't know why they think the post is inaccurate. It's unlikely they have studied the environmental effects of industrial agriculture, so I'm stunned by the willingness to deny unfamiliar information. All of their questions and comments can be answered, not that they want to hear them. Third, why are so many of the sentences incoherent? If I was going to argue on a topic that I haven't studied, I'd at least form complete sentences so that I seem like I had some sense.

So I scrolled through the comments and mulled over what I thought about veganism and environmentalism before I knew anything about it. Growing up, we heard that people concerned about climate change and the planet were "wacky" people. Hippies and freaks and nerds. People that didn't eat meat were trying to be better than other people. They were making a statement about how the laypeople live - or something like that. They definitely weren't any fun and couldn't relate to us normal people. 

I realized I never came up with those thoughts on my own. They were passed down or subliminally tucked into my brain without me ever looking into it. That's fine - that's how a person's entire culture and worldview is created. We don't often question the ideas we are surrounded by. Why would we? Everyone around us says it's true. 

It happens with all the unflattering "isms" we can be carrying around; racism, sexism, ageism. It's not usually blatant statements that make us all a little racist. It happens through a thousand little subtleties; casting choices in movies, folks that prove stereotypes true, having a singular unpleasant experience, etc. So I reckon it was some Peta vegans that marched around with their chins higher than everyone's else's that made us all think that plant-eaters are the worst. (The Peta people are just too much sometimes. Definitely can't relate to us laypeople.) 

As for these Facebook commenters that are mad about the positive outcomes of a plant-based diet and subsequently deny them with grammatically incorrect ravings, well, multiple studies show (not to be snobby) that the folks that get fussy about their right to eat meat, usually do so because they love animals. Isn't that cute? Apparently, the awareness of a vegetarian or vegan person subliminally reminds meat eaters that they are "hurting" animals. And most people don't want to hurt animals. And they aren't "directly" hurting animals, so it feels like a real allegation to lay on their shoulders. It's the people unbothered by plant-eaters that really don't care one way or the other. 

The opposite of this picture post would say, "Everyday as a meat eater: you kill one animal, dump out 5000L of water, ignite 2.7m of forest..." etc. And that isn't true is it? My sweet mama hasn't killed anything besides bugs and would never go to the park with an arm-full of fireworks. She couldn't possibly be one of these seemingly terrible meat-eater people. Right? 

Right. 

Just like the vegans don't save an animal a day or use any of the saved water to control the fires in the Amazon. What the post is saying is, "We've done the math and the average Australian person consumes 220lbs of meat each year. It takes x,y,z, to create 220lb pounds of meat. Therefore, one less person putting economic demand on industrial ag, results in a savings of this many animals lives, this much water, grain, and forest consumed by animals, and this much co2 emitted by animals and degraded land after one years time. Then we divided by 365 days and came up with these approximated numbers." (These are the figures for Australia's industrial agriculture. If you're curious, Americans eat slightly more meat per year.)

And if you do the research and the math, it is technically correct. The figures can give a little in either direction depending on the culture and country being illustrated. My one allowance is that an animal life will not be saved each day, however "approximately one less animal will be brought into the system." It's a supply and demand concept, and also, they don't mean a whole cow - it refers to smaller animals including our oceans friends. I understand why the missing context in this image could lead some to wonder, but if you got worked up about it, wouldn't you just google it to find out?

So, when you know a good bit about industrial agriculture, and you read comments like those from Gael and Kyle, you wind up frustrated as well as embarrassed for them. They're so mad they can't control how fast they're typing, so they wind up making a question that can't exist. For example, Kyle asked. "How many crops do we need for animal byproduct loss?" 
You don't need any crops for that, Kyle. Animal byproduct doesn't have anything to do with the amount of crops they ate. Also, "byproduct loss" is kind of an oxymoron. Come on, Kyle!

In conclusion, being that I care an awful lot about animals and the planet, I wish people could forgo the juvenile knee-jerk reaction of having their preferences questioned, and instead, lean in with curiosity. You don't need to walk away with a different mindset. Just do a little listening. 

And if you still don't like it, mutter about it to yourself on your way home to do some research about it. Maybe they ARE actually all wrong. 
Now you possess the knowledge to gently explain it to them next time. 

Writing Prompt #312

The view from my childhood bedroom window was the kind they write into the backgrounds of novels about devastatingly beautiful people who stare through bubbled glass at the rolling countryside while considering their trials. In the movie adaptation, the camera moves from their perfectly painted faces and pans out to the wide, lush world that contains them. I would sit in my window and wonder if anyone would mistake me for a literary heroine. I wondered if I looked beautiful in my window. In reality I looked more like Steve Urkel than Elizabeth Bennet, but that's the power of daydreams; you don't have to be you in your daydreams, and certainly everything would be different if I wasn’t me. 

The view itself was a verdant display of coastal beauty; palmetto trees, hydrangeas, and mossy oaks dotted across a green lawn that gently sloped into the salt marsh. The marsh grass stood tall, bright green or nearly golden depending on the season, and it stretched across iridescent pluff mud and oyster beds until it gave way to Charleston Harbor. I could sit in my bedroom and count the church steeples Downtown or watch cars cross the bridge into Mt. Pleasant. I’ve decided that giving a view like this to a sensitive and imaginative child sets them up for a lifetime of gentle sentiment and nostalgia. My sister’s bedroom window looked out over our hot, tar driveway and she turned out to be a real bruiser. 

Please enjoy this fabulous sky we had a few nights ago.

Because of the window, I did a lot of sitting and thinking. I was six or so, and I created a fantastical inner world that made it hard to relate to the sticky kids I had to hang around at school. I would recoil into myself to think deeply on why they were always so loud and damp. I figured something must be amiss at their homes, and I would complete my assignments while wondering about the unmet needs of my classmates. 

And now that time has passed, I can look back and see that people are mostly already who they will be when they’re still in elementary school, but we have to wait thirty years to be able to turn it into anything. Maybe twenty if we're lucky. I was a squeamish, nervous, introvert in kindergarten, and very few things have progressed from there. My sister was a bossy, impatient, hall-monitor of a kid and she’s still just as frenzied. My dad; a door-to-door bubblegum salesman at five years old. He goes on to dominate in international sales. So it’s all right there in the elementary school squirts. We just have to let them age nicely in temperature-controlled cinderblock institutions until the precise moment of their own clarity.

But back to the view from my window. My formal education was a background character of my childhood. The main character and my real education was my homelife - an ongoing study of the people that were raising me, the potential harms and benefits of my burdensome older sister, the girl next door who I wanted to be just like, my ten cousins, four strange grandparents, and the unnerving people at church on Sunday. Who cares about writing in cursive with so much wonderful chaos to study at home?

A Pre-Fall Report

Have you ever noticed that most of my little blog posts start with either "nothing much going on here" or "wild times over here!" Funny what our brains perceive.

Let's start with Brett's newest hobby. He still goes out surfing in the early mornings - if no one can go with him, I tear myself out of bed and plop into the sand and pretend to read while I closely monitor him from the shore. I don't like folks playing in the water by themselves, especially if you're going to keep slipping and sliding around on a board that might knock you in the head. 
Oh but there is something more dangerous and exciting; hydrofoilng. It's all the fun of surfing but with more things to hold onto and heavier, sharper equipment to split your head open with. He loves it, and I love that he loves it. He does however, come home with a new injury each time he goes and voluntarily went out and purchased a helmet to wear during his excursions. That tells you everything you need to know. Luckily the hydrofoiling is a two man-operation until he gets to being skilled at the endeavor, so I get to act like a cool and indifferent wife when he goes out foiling with friends who will surely do their best to save his life. 

Here he is with our good buddy, George, who got Brett into the aqua sport. On this night George arrived with a milkshake for Brett to drink while they discussed hydro-strategy. I thought it was awfully cute.

We've been soaking up the last of the hot summer days because it's dropped down into the 80's and to us that feels like Fall weather. Pippa has finally been diagnosed with a bowel disease (fun) which is a relief because the poor little squirt is always sick. Now we know how to patch her up and get her back to being a wild-hearted pup. I hosted another Food Lion protest (we've never had a company hold out this long) whereupon someone gave me the finger as they drove by and another told me what I could do with my sign. I don't know why it amuses me so, but it does. The rest of my group finds it sad, so I have to withhold my enjoyment.

Papa Clint and his band played a big show under the Ravenel a couple weekends ago (delightful weather) during which time Mom and I were approached by an 84 year-old man who looked at each of us and then said, "So what do you think?" as though he was a real catch. Mom and I exchanged glances and then she threw me under the bus to go dance with him. Luckily, Clint's song ended and the band took a break in the knick of time, so I spent the rest of the night hiding from that man. 

We had a 10 day stretch with houseguest Erik squatting at our place while his house was rented out for what was going to be his trip to Europe, but his friend over there got a job and subsequently wouldn't have time to play with Erik. So Erik bagged the trip but kept the rental income, and stayed at our place. Erik is a highly unobtrusive house guest. He is easy to entertain because he's happy to just sit wherever there are other humans. If he's not interested in what you're doing, he'll still sit with you but will do his own thing nearby. He carries around a grocery bag of snacks so you never really have to feed him either. He left for a few nights to visit a buddy in NC, and had a few work shifts, so he was in and out in an inconspicuous way.

He was here one night when we hosted the whole Eisenhauer clan. We made the four little boys eat outside -mostly because we didn't have enough space at the table - so they stayed outside and wreaked havoc on our yard for most of the visit. Occasionally one would come inside "to poop" and then go back out again. They all pooped shortly after dinner in-between shoving scuppernongs into August's underwear and balancing on the pieces of board left in the marsh while Brett rebuilds our dock stairs. So they smelled like poop and pluff mud and sweat. Then Jeff made them hug me and Brett goodbye and shake Erik's hand even though all of us insisted it wasn't necessary. They weren't even all the way out the front door when Erik was at the kitchen sink with soap up to his elbows while I was actively gagging while wishing them farewell. Brett looked at the two of us and simply shook his head. 

Also during Erik's visit, we captured two of my stray cats and had them neutered. (It was a big ordeal.) But they had to stay in the guest bathroom to recover, so Erik had to use toilet paper with stray kitty paw prints on it, and shower next to dried flecks of tuna that the cats dispersed around the bathroom in an attempt to escape.

Highly focused poker night for the fellas.

Additionally, I had to have to blood drawn during all of this, and Brett was planning to come along because I come from a long line of squeamish people and sometimes this particular activity makes me woozy. Alas, the night before, Brett found out he had to be in North Charleston at the same time as my appointment, but I thought to myself, "Ah, I'll be fine. I'll just go on my own." 
Then some other part of my brain texted Mom to see if she was free. "Sure thing." So despite being thirty-five years old, my mom drove me to my blood draw... where I promptly passed out and had to be revived by a very nice phlebotomist and some damp paper towels. It was because they took three vials of it and I wasn't expecting that, so each time I became more and more offput. Then I got real hot. I must have had some visual symptoms as well because the phlebotomist looked at me and calmly muttered, "Oh no." Then I saw dark spots. "Can I get some help in here!" they yelled. I remember worrying that the yelling would scare Mom, but then I got real drowsy and took a nap. In the chaos of it I heard Mom's voice say, "I'm her mother, can I go back there with her?" and at some point I opened my eyes to Mom's smiling face while she told the phlebotomist that "her father passed out watching his dog get a vaccine. She comes from a long line of weenies." It seemed to take ages to pull me back out of it again. We shuffled me back to the car and then Mom took us to a breakfast joint for something sugary. I sat in the car feeling very sleepy and frankly, glad I passed out to make all of it worth mom's time.

Cliques, Cuddles, and Cancer

It turns out that the day-to-day goings-on inside of an animal shelter is golden fodder for storytelling. The place is nuts. It's dramatic, hilarious, disgusting, and heart-meltingly sweet. The collection of humans that choose to work in such an environment vary in states of consciousness from barely finished high-school to veterinary PhD. There's a class system at the shelter, which strikes me as very amusing, what with all of us equally speckled with poop and bruises. Just like in high-school, I belong in no group. I'm too cheerful and healthy for those on the "low" end and too cheerful and simple for those on the "high." So I drift around, being of amusement to all and known by none. In that sense, I've found my place. If it posed no risk, I'd describe the groups of people - how they determine who is like them and what activities are the result of such belonging. It's a riot... but I wouldn't want HR to see my published observations. Instead, I can tell you about the animals (also a class system; ranging from pit-bull to golden-doodle) and the endless antics they create for themselves in a day.

For instance, Bowser and Peaches, a bonded pair with a collective weight of 185 pounds had a twinkle in their eyes when I took them out to the yard. Bowser is a Mastiff/ Great Dane mix, so when he stands on his hind legs, he's taller than me. Peaches is just a big mutt - she's about my size when she stands up. So I let them out one day, and as I headed back to the door, Bowser got the bright idea to stand up and shove me over to Peaches who was already standing up, ready to catch me. She then put her paws on my shoulders and pushed me back over to Bowser. They did this back a forth just twice before I made a bee-line for the door, but they beat me to it. Bowser stood in front of it and hurled me back into Peaches arms. Peach sent me sideways, let me scramble a few feet away and then intercepted me and tossed me to Bowser. I tried to think of an escape plan while they played ping pong with my body. It went on for a full minute, which is a long time to fight to stay upright with what are effectively peers of my weightclass. They weren't trying to hurt me so I wasn't scared, but I was concerned about how to get out of it. I knew if I fell down they might wind up hurting me by accident. I was just preparing to climb the chain link fence when I broke away and threw myself through the gate. I was completely winded and seeing dark spots as I stood in the doorway recovering from what is undoubtedly the most physical wrestling match I've ever been apart of. 

I didn't find it funny until a half hour later. I told my manager about it and she said, "Oh," like she'd just remembered, "Yeah they do that to new people." and then she just went on back to her work.

(Brett's first volunteer day with Theo.)

It also turns out that being understaffed is fairly common, so when my trainer and I wound up being the only two working a 10 hour shift again this week, I called Brett and convinced him to come "volunteer." This had a twofold outcome; we had an extra set of hands, but best of all, Brett got to meet the pups I've been telling him about. He loves to hear what the dogs are up to each day, so he was pretty excited to have wet noses to match up to the stories. (On that day he fell in love with three dogs in particular; Ralph, Tinky, and the undesirably named, Princess.) (He has since come back to actually volunteer, and then fell in love with Roxy and Ian.) (It's very satisfying to watch.) The point is, now I come home from a long shift and say, "Guess what Earl did today?" and Brett will go "Oh gosh..." because he knows all about Earl. Then I'll tell him what Earl did and he'll say, "Well what did Sully and Blu do about it?" because he knows that Sully and Blu are on either side of Earl's kennel. It's tons of fun. 

(Brett's newest love, Roxy.)

At risk of the blog becoming an animal shelter report, I'll just tell you that we had some puppies come in with scabies and mange, a mama and puppy come with kennel cough, and a handful of cats come in with ringworm. In such cases, each ailment gets it's own quarantine, and depending on the spreadability of the condition, we have to "gown up" or "scrub in" before going to tend to those critters. So when I looked in the mirror one morning on a day off and noticed a reddish-brown smudged circle on the end of my nose, I worried I had contracted something gross. The smudge was not there the night before and I hadn't noticed it when I woke up, but I didn't really look in the mirror either. Had it shown up overnight or within the last two hours? I studied the spot in the mirror and then set out Googling what it could be.

It wasn't scabies or mange - thank goodness. I wonder if it's cancerous? I took to an image search of cancerous smudges that aren't moles. Nothing looked quite like it, but maybe kind of close? I should probably go to a dermatologist, especially with how rapidly it appeared. I hated that it was on the end of my nose. It was so loud and obvious. I realized I don't own any foundation or flesh-colored goop to hide things under, nor would know how to use it effectively. 

(Brett's least favorite animal, the perpetually happy Ferguson.)

Oh man, do you think it's ringworm? I hesitated to Google image ringworm. I didn't want to see it or have it be true. Would they have to slice worms out of my nose? Don't you poop out ringworm? How does that work? What will my nose look like in the end? I Googled it, and it wasn't a perfect match, but it wasn't totally off. I got that hot feeling you get when something has quietly gone awry and you're the only one that knows about it. It seemed too small to be ringworm... I went back to the cancer idea, did some more Googling and then set out looking for a dermatologist with walk-in availability. (It doesn't exist. You have to wait three months like everyone else being ravaged by cancer.) 

I grabbed a small mirror from a box of forgotten toiletries I keep under the bathroom sink, and went over to the window to study my downfall in the daylight. It looked more orange out here than in the dark bathroom. Kind of a caramel color. I touched it to see if it hurt... no feeling at all. Is it smooth or bumpy? I ran my finger across it, and it wiped right off. 

It left no trace, not on my nose or my finger. It then took less than ten seconds to connect the smudge to the foam from a cappuccino Brett had surprised me with an hour before. I laughed out loud at myself, rolled my eyes at myself, and then ran off to tell Brett what a bumpkin he'd married. He also rolled his eyes and laughed, and in the moment I had endeared myself to both of us. What a hopeless little doofus. 

(Brett's first, truest, and deepest love, Grace.) 

(Pictured here with secondary caretaker and wife.)

The First Day

I've taken a job as a caretaker at the local animal shelter. Long story. 
Someone quit on my first day, leaving just me (a total newbie) and one other person there to do what is usually done by four people. As is my custom, I was too nervous to eat before my TEN HOUR SHIFT so I went in at 7:00am with an empty belly and a huge bruise on my leg from where one of the dogs had bitten me a week earlier during my working interview. This will be fine.

I'll tell you that I came home marinated in slobber, poop, blood, and something of a taffy-like consistency.

Didn't ask what it was. 
I was initially thrilled to be wearing scrubs for this new job. People look smart in scrubs. I see now that it is a kindness to your wardrobe. I only bought two sets of scrubs thinking of them more as a school uniform that I'd wear a few times before washing. That is absolutely incorrect. They also act as an incubator of sorts, so when you're outside in the sun being walked by a hound as tall and heavy as you are, you can really feel the sweat trickling down your back and into your waistband. 

The morning is the more accurate portrayal of a typical day. The animals need breakfast, a trip outside, fresh water, etc. I helped lasso pups to take out, sterilized kennels whose residents couldn't hold it until morning. I cuddled some puppies, was glared at by the dog that bit me, and was head-butted into a cinderblock wall by an excitable pitbull. I packed bags for "doggy day out" volunteers, wheeled around a hotel-sized laundry cart, collected breakfast dishes, and was monitored by a dog named Aurora who they told me not to look directly at, and definitely don't try to pet her. I sat in on the daily "rounds" where the caretakers report on the ailments of residents to the staff veterinarians. The dog crew had nothing to report on but the cat staff had a number of cases of diarrhea and someone with swollen testicles. Then I went home for lunch and sat on the floor until it was time to go back. I thought my scrubs were gross then... just you wait.

After lunch, that one person left/quit and the shelter opened up to the public. The person training me had to go do "meet and greets" with people wanting to adopt animals, so I was left alone to tend to the behind the scenes chaos. Goodbye easy first day activities. I was in the back working out where things are kept when the day went awry. The post-op animals needed to go outside, one at a time for safety reasons. "But don't tend to Bella. She can be dicey." Bus Bus leaped five foot jumps over and over while I tried to get a leash around his neck. "Make sure you double leash him. He'll get away." I was just leaving when the veterinarian came in. "I'm so sorry, when you're done, there's a mess in the clinic."

Bus Bus bounded through the sunlight with me staggering around behind him. I came back hot and panting and made my way to the clinic. A stray had been dropped off and he did a big nervous job in his cell and then danced in it and smeared it up the walls and between the metals bars of his door. The smell was awful. Four other strays were waiting in cells in the same tiny room. One was an enormous bellowing hound dog who crooned wildly the whole time I was scrubbing poop out of the divots in the concrete walls. Then someone came over the walkie talkie. "Can we have someone from dog staff come to Intake?" I scrambled past the guinea pigs and a rat named Atticus to help relocate a puppy with missing chunks of fur. I finally went back to the post-op dogs. Llyod was ready for his outing, but Johhny Cash had slipped out of his cone of shame. "We need a large collar for a dog that was just dropped off." "Bo pooped in his kennel." "Can you grab some clean towels?" "Can you get someone ready for a doggy day out?" I ran around for hours in all different directions. The were dogs barking, kittens sleeping, Aurora steadily watching me, potential adopters asking me questions I didn't know the answers to. At one point I looked over and there was a cat dangling from the ceiling and another scaling the wall. 

The poo-painting stray created another masterpiece in his cell (someone else cleaned it for me) around the time to start the dinner feedings. "Olive is on a special food for her kidneys. Slate will eat too fast and barf so he needs a slow feeder. Ricardo gets wet food as does Lynn. Everyone else gets scoops based on weight, ok? Oh, and give Jasper some chicken. And don't feed Bella or Aurora. I'll do them." After dinner they go back outside and that's the portion of the day where I walked a dozen dogs who have never walked on leashes before. Cat staff watched through the windows of the air-conditioned Cat Corner as a different dog dragged me to the front door every ten minutes or so. I had one dog left, the giant bellowing hound. "I wouldn't walk him if I was you," the intake manager said. I found the girl "training" me and told her what the manager said. "Why?"

"I don't know. She just said she thinks I shouldn't. What does she know, I wonder?"
The girl thought for a second, "Well, you're going to find out," and then she shoved a second leash in my hand. I suited up the Laura-sized dog and made a point of controlling him as we walked past the intake manager to the door. She was going to think I chose to defy her. 

Once outside, the dog flew me like a kite, like a bit of lint stuck to his back foot. I found that I could overpower him if put all my weight low to the ground so I squat-walked, occasionally grabbing onto small trees to help stop his momentum. My toes crammed into the tips of my new supportive shoes. My black scrubs held onto to every ounce of sunlight. I had managed to eat a small lunch and most of a banana but the hunger was really setting in. I'd had no time to be nervous (great) but also no time to eat much or even drink water. "Just another hour or so until five," I told myself. 

"We're definitely not getting out of here at five today," my trainer blurted as she ran past me in the hallway. "Hey Laura?" someone said, "We need a hand in WAGs." I had to go to the back and look at the layout map to figure out what wags was. Then I watched a stray pup get blood drawn, vaccinated, and microchipped. "I'll be glad to train you in these minor medical things if you're interested," the veterinarian told me. I smiled politely and withheld my queasiness. I threw a few pretzels into my mouth as I helped Bowser and Peaches into the main yard. I kept getting locked out and would have to run around the complex to the front door. Someone had pooped a hug soft poo in the side yard. I tried to pick it up but really just smeared it around. Back inside, two cats were fighting and another was wandering loose in the main thoroughfare.

By about 5:30 everyone had had dinner and been outside for the last time that day. I stood in the hallway between the cat area and the kennels, panting, my hands on my knees. The perfectly coifed and dry cat staff were filing out, getting their things, saying goodbye for the day and clocking out. I waited for my "trainer" to make sure we were done. That's when she came busting out of the dog area, found the manager and said, "That was the worst day ever. I never want to do that again." I hadn't even paid much attention to what she had been doing all day. I felt alarmed about such a confrontation until I realized that she and the manager are good pals. "We were totally understaffed!" Then she looked at me and said, "I've never had a day like this before. This is not normal." I kept waiting for her to tell the manager what an outstanding job I had done, that really, she couldn't have done it without me, but she never did. 

Brett laughed when I came through the door at the end of the day, and snapped this horrendous and entirely accurate photo. What you can't see are the claw marks and fresh bruises scattered all over my thighs and ankles.

I suppose it's nice to know that I've already had the worst possible day available to me, barring the physical injuries that everyone on staff seems to have endured. I got home a little before six, completely filthy with vibrating muscles and a growling stomach. I took a shower, contemplated burning my scrubs, and fought to stay awake until 8:45.

Now, on to day two.