Yesterday, driving home from my dog Scampi’s date with destiny — first ever vaccination, due to state law requiring rabies — I felt I had successfully navigated an extremely difficult drama of self-expression, but with a visible wound that will take awhile to heal.

The drama was inherently difficult, first of all, because I am one who, except for eyes (cataract surgery), teeth (still figuring that one out), and orthopedics (two broken bones in 15 years), works with my own health holistically. I strive to get and stay in tune with my own nearly 84-year-old body which always knows what it needs — IF I can stop my mind long enough to listen! For I too, of course, am a scientistic descendent of the culture of Descartes, for whom mind and  body are split — as in “I think, therefore I am” — to which I tend to conclude: “therefore only my thinking is me!”

And secondly, the drama was difficult because, though I don’t have a “primary doctor,” I’ve recently decided I probably need to get one, at least to establish an allopathic baseline at my advanced age. But who? Being so fiscally responsible, I already pay $250 extra per month for insurance beyond what’s covered by social security. I would rather find a doc who’s independent, i.e., not “in the system” (IU Health). And I did find one, only to call this morning, and discover his services are cash only, no insurance — and he charges $500 for just the first consultation!

 

But back to yesterday.

I had finally made my peace with getting Scampi his required vaccination. Went down to where the Monroe County Human Society had scheduled a mobile vet stop, from 1-3 PM, yesterday, at a location I had tremendous trouble getting to, understanding exactly where it was, despite having kind of figured out the address (in a Section 8 Housing complex) beforehand. Because I worried that I’d have to go back on map quest to look, I also brought ipad and iphone along. And, just in case, a tiny note on which I had scribbled directions.

Anyway, enough of that. I finally got to the correct address, by driving round and round the large apartment complex, thinking I had blown it, when suddenly I saw where a tent had been set up and I could make out gobs of people with leashed dogs.

Whew! First obstacle overcome. I found the place! (Somehow I suspected (actually, intuitively knew) beforehand that I would be faced with many obstacles, since I was doing what I did not want to do, but instead obeying the state law.)

Tentatively triumphant, I parked the car, filled out the form that a Humane Society volunteer handed me, and went to get in line. A long long line. A line winding around on a sidewalk until disappearing through the front door of an apartment building. A line which had a single small canopy covering part of the sidewalk, and the rest of the line standing in blazing, extremely humid, hot sun.  All the dogs, and some people had as many as three, were panting of course, since, without sweat glands, the tongue is their only avenue for cooling down.

The line was silent, outwardly polite, owners paying attention to their own dog(s), making sure leashes didn’t get tangled, with some also on their phones; everybody waiting, waiting . . .

I joined the line, asked the obese youngish woman with three large, long-haired, panting dogs (she was obviously suffering more than most humans in the sweltering heat) next to me how long she had been waiting there. “50 minutes,” she responded, her friendly face sweating. Oh boy . . . and this event was only scheduled for 1-3 PM? (I had left the house at about 1:05, took 20 minutes to find the location, and was now finally in line, with Scampi, who at first freaked at the unaccustomed dog melee, but quickly figured it out, and stood patiently by my side.

Within a few minutes, I realized I would need to pee during the wait, and told this same woman. She said, “Oh you can do that. Just go inside.” The kind, sweet-faced young man right behind me who had joined with only one dog agreed to hold Scampi’s leash. I told Scampi and he did not freak, which surprised me.

So I went inside the cool air-conditioned building, where there were lots more people with dogs, plus a few more Humane Society volunteers. Suddenly I realized that one of them was my old veterinarian. The one I had loved! He had retired probably ten years ago, but was now volunteering. Shocked to see him — my ongoing volatile, unpredictable Uranus Return abruptly activated — and utterly thrilled, I went right up to remind him that once when I was there with one of my dogs, he had picked him up, and while holding him gently, said to me, plaintively, “And they say animals don’t have souls?”

I sensed he was a bit embarrassed to hear this tender story from his professional past, in the presence of another woman who was listening. But that didn’t stop me. In fact, from then on I was thoroughly Uranian-ized.

 

What happened next upped the ante:

I had gone into the bathroom, and came out. Then, suddenly realizing I must have left my purse (which I wear draped over my shoulder) there, I hastened back in to get it. Looked around. No purse. What? It wasn’t there. IT WASN’T THERE! (Inside, worming into class-bound consciousness: “This is Section 8 housing: who knows who lives here? Could someone have stolen it that fast?”)

Tried again, and again. Hastening back to the bathroom, then out in the large community room with all the animals and people, muttering frantically: “I can’t find my purse! Anyone seen a purse?”

 

Uranus had erupted into full-blown hysterics. I rushed back outside, muttered loudly to everybody out there, both in the line and at the intro table staffed with volunteers, “I lost my purse! Have you seen my purse!” —  then stopped at my place in the still growing line. Asked the obese woman and the young man if they had seen my purse? Both had said they hadn’t noticed a purse.

I ran to the car, ommigod it was open! It was supposed to be locked! but thank god it’s open. My purse must be in there! But it wasn’t. However, the black case with both my ipad and iphone was in there, in the unlocked car, in a sketchy neighborhood . . .

F.E.A.R. (False Evidence Appearing Real) had taken me by storm. Now what! What can I do! I don’t even have the key to the car; it’s in my purse! — Nor do I have an extra key at home!

I started running from the parked cars back to the line, so desperately that I didn’t notice the iron hitch that the top front of the calf of my left leg suddenly scraped against. After a few feet I stopped, looked down. A bleeding scrape, about three inches long. Went over to my place in line. The friendly obese woman, staring at my bleeding leg, picking up on my hysteria, freaked out: “Was the hitch rusty?? Need a tetanus shot!”

Ohh no . . . not gonna go there. Instead, I ran right into the building and into the bathroom again, and of course, looked again for the missing purse first, then grabbed toilet paper to thoroughly clean the wound with soap and water. Several times, grabbing more toilet paper, rinsing and covering it with soap, rubbing it on the wound to increase, encourage the bleeding in case there was any poison in there.. Tried to pat it dry.

Went back out. But now my leg was very obviously bleeding . . . I went over to the Human Society Volunteer who had checked me in. My purse was not there. Decided to go back inside to clean the scrape again, and maybe get it to stop bleeding? And of course, to look again for the purse.

Did that, but with blood still trickling out, started back, obviously utterly totally desperate, by this time I had caused such a ruckus that the whole crowd was restless . . . when that same volunteer who had signed me in was now standing inside the door.

 

She said to me, authoritatively. “YOU stay here, I will go look.” Repeated this command, several times. “You stay here.”  Then she handed me a large bandaid that would perfectly cover the bleeding wound. Huh?! I gaped in surprise. “I just happened to have it in my pocket,” she muttered softly as she disappeared into the hall for the bathroom.

 

And came back out with the purse! THE PURSE! MY PURSE! I was so astonished and grateful I couldn’t help but hug her, long and hard, everybody watching.

The purse had been on a hook on the back of the door. Somehow I had missed it, twice, three times, four?

So now I could go clean the wound one more time and this time, cover it.

I did that, went outside with my purse, and resumed my place in line with the others, a line that had advanced considerably. All this time Scampi had been waiting patiently, seeming to know what’s up — both what we were doing there in this strange situation with so many people with leashed panting dogs, and what was going on within me.

And, by this time, those in line were beginning to converse with others, “Look at that wonderful puppy!” “Oh wow, what a great dog you have!” etc. I added to the mix by announcing loudly, and humorously every time a dog or dogs with their owners came out of the building, “All right. One more done. Not so many more to go!”

At one point I was under the canopy tent with others and encouraged yet another person to join us there, by moving over slightly. We were all enlivened now, each of us feisty, but normally shy individuals, as a single flowing current, actually having fun, waiting in the sweltering sun.

Once I got Scampi inside, the wait for the volunteer to bring him back to me was not even a minute long.

This Uranian experience, which put me on the side of the law (natal Uranus conjunct Saturn, with transit Uranus now only 2° away from it’s first ever conjunction with natal  Saturn), did truly feel like the “slaying the dragon” part of the “hero’s journey.” I had decided not to be an “outlaw,” at least for now, and in this manner. And had succeeded, while causing a huge Uranian ruckus, thanks to mental hysteria (natal Uranus/Saturn in Gemini), and helped by many others all the while, each one just exactly when I needed him or her.

The entire experience, which felt like a lifetime, lasted only two hours.