In today’s episode of whattheheckiswrongnow?, we cover how lack of sleep, a lingering cold, and blatant misogyny turn me into a raving lunatic.

Straw One:

I live on a farm; therefore, I own a tractor. Well, two now with the addition of Blue. Welcome Blue! Lovely to have you. And lifesaving really. Because my faithful Kubota of 30 years is having a bit of a moment. Said moment has been on and off for 2 years, but a moment.

This moment consists of intermittent starting. As in, I could go out every day and my orange baby starts up and runs like the champ she is.

OR

Nothing. No lights no nothing. I tighten the connections to the battery, check all fuses, and make sure the pesky wire that runs to the starter hasn’t slipped off again.

OR

I get lights and no crank. Just an unfulfilling little whine from the starter.

Now, let me please, please, please say, I am not a diesel mechanic, nor do I claim to be an expert on combustion engines. And I will always admit that I know enough to get me in trouble. BUT I do know that if it seems like the starter, and it acts like a textbook starter problem, then most likely the problem is the solenoid or the starter.

So, I watched my baby be towed away hopeful for a brand-new part and a working tractor. Especially when the tow guy agreed that it most likely was the starter. I admit, when she came back, she worked fine. Did I check to see what the service people had done? Nope and that’s my bad.

When a week later she returned to her usual will-she-won’t-she-start antics, I was a bit peeved. Even more so when I couldn’t find any evidence that the service people had done anything! A guy came out when I couldn’t be there, informed my husband that they had replaced a ground wire, and the dang thing started right up for him. FML

Apparently, I have been starting my tractor wrong for 30 years? NOT. Because when I went to try the way he suggested which is the way I’ve been doing it, yep, you guessed it, nada. Nichts. Nothing.

This is where the misogyny comes in. Because when I called the service provider, it was made abundantly clear that I had no idea what I was talking about, and it was just lucky that I’d been able to use a tractor for three decades, because I couldn’t possibly know what I was talking about or be right in my diagnosis of the problem.

Here I am weeks later with a broken tractor, looking up a replacement starter for a ’93 Kubota L2350 and preparing to fix the dang thing myself.

Straw Two:

The never-ending cold. Just a normal upper respiratory virus. You know, the old-fashioned kind. The ones you just pushed through and sounded like Mama Fratelli from The Goonies (and if you don’t know who that is or haven’t seen the movie, go watch it. Like now.) for 10 days. My asthmatic lungs take a bit longer to process the phlegm, and I spent a good part of those 10 days hacking, especially at night.

The Final Straw(s):

Thunderstorms, fireworks, and a neurotic dog. When I wasn’t coughing, I was comforting one of my dogs, who destroyed and escaped her crate with a speed that would have made Houdini proud. Did I learn my lesson from last summer? When neither Benadryl nor a Thunder shirt nor the prescription antianxiety gel worked to ease her fear?

Nope. I’d been lulled into a lovely sense of security by the other nine months of the year when she’s a model pup.

Added to the nighttime hacking, sitting on a tile floor trying to comfort a dog who refuses all comfort isn’t fun.

And when I did finally return to my bed, I worried about her hurting herself trying to escape the crate.

Leaving her loose didn’t help. She paced, whined, and barked incessantly no matter where she was, while her son (my other hound) joined in. For moral support of course.

Being a holiday weekend, I couldn’t go to the vet for more pharmaceutical help. Again, my bad. And what holiday? The one that revels in thunder like noise on the only clear nights of the week.

By day 5 I felt like Mommie Dearest ready to go ballistic over hangers. Or crated dogs. Or breathing dogs. Or tractors. Or husbands. Or horses that walked out sound and were three-legged lame 30 seconds later. (Said horse had the equine equivalent of a stubbed toe and was thankfully fine)

To be clear, I feel terrible for my dog. I know she doesn’t understand. I know she is terrified. But Mommy was tired and sick and just wanted to sleep and everyone at the vet clinic deserved their extra day off, but again tired and sick and ready to sleep in the barn.

Add into this lovely mélange of self-pity and aggravation, the younger hound blew an anal sac abscess. Did he give me any indication that he was having problems back there? Nope. Just started licking one night and looking at me with those big gooey eyes to tell me he had a nasty smelling, oozing owie.

Did I mention I occasionally fill-in at a vet clinic? Or that I was a vet assistant for 10 years? Yeah. Humility thy name is pet ownership.

But like a storm, we got through it. New crate, new medications (for both dogs), and a new appreciation for sleep, we made it through the week.

It’s all sunshine and rainbows from here on out.

Right?

Right?