Skeeter's adrenal glands needed to be expressed, and so the gracious vet (she rocks!) had hand sex with him in a room opposite mine. She called me mother. "Mother can wait in here." The drag is his stool has been soft since I've known him. Fiber is low in his food and I was named not mother of the year, but a good doggy mama because of the way I knew he was lacking: he'd reach to eat grass clippings. Not the same, and only good doggy mamas really know, as when a dog eats grass because their stomach is upset.
Skeeter hails from the abandoned wilds of Michigan, and his early story becomes clearer and clearer to me every day. I understand he knew people intermittently. He would have hung around except the person at a time would not come back. Could be he had been around meth users. He surely ran through forest, he's been fed fast food or he's just taken it, and he's ridden in the cab of a truck. All this adventure and away from living in a pack, he ended up a flea bag with round worm. And it's mainly all this backstory that he is still in a situation. No, he isn't poorly or anything. Just his small intestine going into his bladder is needing relief and so hopefully I'll get him to where he can express himself on his own. He won't need a lady vet wearing white and bearing a tube of KY jelly to confound him.
Here we are at play: